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 :iTERAMY ipUd^UET. 
 
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 -COI/tBUSrllT G- 
 
 Choice Selections, Kos. 1, 1 3 and 4< 
 
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UNIFORM PUBLICATIONS: 
 
 THE SPEAKER'S GARLAND, Vol. I. 
 
 (Containing "100 Choice Selectloni," Noi. I. 2, 3. 4.) 
 
 THE SPEAKER'S GARLAND, VoL IL 
 
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 (Containing "100 Choice Selectloni," Hoi. 20, 3D, 31, 32.) 
 
 E»rlce, per 'Vol-u.m.e, Clotli., ... ffil..'7B. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 . SELECTIONS IN POETRY* 
 
 American Flag, The Joieph Bodman Drake. 
 
 All we ask is to be Let Alone H. J{. BrowneU. 
 
 Absalom H. P. WilUt. 
 
 Asleep Stockton Bates. 
 
 Answer to "The Hour of Death" c. B. IVUson. 
 
 After the Battle 
 
 Atucn of the Rocka, The Rosegarlen. 
 
 Angels of Bueiia VIstii, The John G. WliUlier. 
 
 Antony's Address to the Romans Sluikspeare. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem '. Leigk Hunt. 
 
 Arnold Winkelreid James Montgomery. 
 
 An Appeal to the *'Sextant" for Air 
 
 Augel Terry, The Jl S. Corawett. 
 
 *'Ah-Goo !" Charles FoUen Adams. 
 
 Astonished TipphT, The 
 
 Barbara Frietchie John G. TVliUtier. 
 
 Bachelor's Soliloquy, The 
 
 Bingen on the Ehine Caroline E. Norton. 
 
 E&ttlo of Gettysburg, The Howard Glt/ndon. 
 
 Bridge of Sighs, The , Thomas Hood. 
 
 Bells, The Edgar A. Poe. 
 
 Ballad of Ishmael Day, The 
 
 Black Begiment, The George H. Boker. 
 
 a 
 
 s 
 
 1 
 
 1. 
 
 8 
 
 i. 
 
 lOD 
 
 i. 
 
 133 
 
 ii. 
 
 36 
 
 ii. 
 
 S8 
 
 ii. 
 
 120 
 
 ii. 
 
 109 
 
 i. 
 
 29 
 
 i. 
 
 101 
 
 i. 
 
 1G4 
 
 T. 
 
 22 
 
 V. 
 
 32 
 
 T. 
 
 43 
 
 V. 
 
 85 
 
 V. 
 
 167 
 
 i. 
 
 23 
 
 1. 
 
 45 
 
 i. 
 
 63 
 
 1. 
 
 C4 
 
 i. 
 
 79 
 
 i. 
 
 84 
 
 i. 
 
 104 
 
 i. 
 
 1G7 
 
 •Note. — As each of the four nnnibers (of the "100 Choice Selections" Series) 
 contained in tliis volume is paged independently of the others, the index must 
 necessarily accord therewith. The column of Roman Notation designates 
 the different Numbers of the "Series" (viz., 1, 2 3, 4 ; ) and the figures refer to 
 the page of the corresponding Number. Take, for instance, "Arnold "Winkel- 
 reid," the characters IV. show that it will be found in No. 4, and the figures 
 following give the page. The different Numbers are given at the top of every 
 right-hand page throughout the book. 
 
 fl®^FoR Selections in Prose, see page xii.— Foe Dramas and Dialogues, 
 
 SEE PAGE XIT. 
 
 V 
 
Vr CONTENTS. 
 
 No. Page. 
 
 Lj,!Lle of Lookout Mountain, The George II. Boker. ii. 12 
 
 lleinardo Del Carpio rtlicin Henians. ii. 50 
 
 IJoniardo and King Alphonso John Gibson Lockhart. ii. 52 
 
 Bell of the "Atlantic," The LydUt II. Sigoumey. ii. 76 
 
 Bridget and the Mutiueo Elmer Ruan Coales. ii. 8G 
 
 Brave at Home, The T. Biichanan Head. ii. 98 
 
 Bugle Song Alfted Tennyson, ii. 130 
 
 Brides of Enderby ; or, the High Tide, Tlie Jean Ingelow. ii. 155 
 
 Burning Piairie, The Alice Cary. iii. 9 
 
 Belle of Shandun, The Francis Maltony. iii. 4() 
 
 Betty and the Bear iii. 06 
 
 Burial of Moses, The CecU Francis Alexander, iii. 92 
 
 Brutua over the Dead Liiicretia J. H. Payne, iii. 110 
 
 Beautiful Snow, The Caroline Gristcold. iii. 118 
 
 Baron's Last Banquet, The Alhett G. Gieene. iii. 156 
 
 Bright Side, TJie M. A. Kidder, iv. 8 
 
 Bridal Feast, The , F. C. Long. iv. 36 
 
 Buys, The Oliver Wendell Holmes, iv. 42 
 
 Battle, The SihiUer. iv. 45 
 
 Battle of Fontenoy Thomas Davis, iv. 86 
 
 Bayonet Charge, The Nathan D. Umer. iv. 106 
 
 Bachelor'B Hall iv. 109 
 
 Bible in Harnuny with Tempei-ance, The iv. 150 
 
 Betsy and I are Out Will Carleton. iv. 153 
 
 Betsy Diistroys the Paper iv. 155 
 
 Bclshazzar George Croly. iv. 165 
 
 Blind Men and the Elephant, The John G. Saxe. iv. 172 
 
 Courtin' in the Country H. EUioU McBride. i. 33 
 
 Col. Halpiue'B Poi-ni read at the founding 
 
 of the Gettj'sburg Monument i. 46 
 
 Caty'a Soliloquy Addison, i. 60 
 
 Confession, The B. H. Barhnm. i. 93 
 
 Capital Punishment Myra Toivnaend. i. 110 
 
 Closing Year, The George D. Prentice, i. 323 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey's Soliloquy Shak/ipeare. i. 142 
 
 Cumberland, The llcnry W. Longfellow, ii. 57 
 
 Charge of the Light Brigade Alfred Tenmjsmi. ii. 122 
 
 Closing Scene, The T. Buchanan Read. ii. 135 
 
 Collegian and the Porter, The J. R. Plancke. iii. 95 
 
 Changed Cross, The iii. gg 
 
 Comet, The T7iom(js Hood. iii. 124 
 
 Catiline's Defiance !^.... .George Croly. iii. 152 
 
 Creeds of the Bells, The George W. Bungay, iv. 33 
 
 Civil War Charles D. Shanley. iv. 44 
 
 Courtin*, The James Russell Lowell, iv. 53 
 
 Caoch the Piper J. Keegan. iv. 04 
 
 Children, The Charles M. Dickinson, iv. 118 
 
 Clarence's Di'eam Sltakspeare. iv. 119 
 
 Clerical Wit iv. 141 
 
 CteurDe Lion at the Bier of his Father Felicia Uemans. iv. 147 
 
conti:nts. \ji 
 
 No. Pago. 
 
 Driving Home the Cows Kate P. Oagood. i. 92 
 
 Dumcn and PythiaB William PeUr. i. 94 
 
 Drifting T. Buchanan Head. i. 119 
 
 Deacon Stokes Thomae QuUp. ii. 61 
 
 Disturbed Keverie, A ii. 63 
 
 Death of Slavery, The W. C. Bryant ii. 107 
 
 Dead in the Street iil. 3G 
 
 Dow's Flat BretUarte. iii. 51 
 
 Death of the Old Year Alfred Tennyson, iii. 63 
 
 Drawbridge Keeper, The Henry Abbey, iii. 67 
 
 Death Bed, The Thomas Hood. iii. 163 
 
 Duriua Green and hi* Flying Machine /, T. Trowbridge. iiL 174 
 
 Declaration, The N. P. Willis, iv. 162 
 
 Drummer Boy, The _ _ iv. 1G8 
 
 Excelsior _ _ He^ry W. Longfellow, i, 153 
 
 Extract from the Dedicatory OlIo for the Get jdbiii-g 
 
 National Cemetery, July 1st, 1869 Bayard Taylor, ii. 92 
 
 E. Pluribus Uiium .....George W. OiUter. iii. 7 
 
 Eugene Aram'a Dream Tftomas Hood. iii. 142 
 
 Early Rising „ John G. Sa.ce. iv. 76 
 
 Famine, The _ Henry W. Longfellow, i. 37 
 
 Farmer's Blunder, Tlie L 88 
 
 Field of Waterloo, The Bj/ron. L 144 
 
 Farmer and the CouoBfUor, The ii. 132 
 
 Found Dead....„_ Albert Leighton. ii. 149 
 
 Fire Fiend, The C. D. Gardette. jL 165 
 
 Frenchman's Dinner, A ii. 112 
 
 Fate of Virginia, The - T. B. Macatd2y. iiu 78 
 
 Footsteps on the other Side iiL 82 
 
 Fronchman and the Flea Powder, Tlte iii, 109 
 
 Fireman, The -, Hubert T. Conrad, iii, 113 
 
 Farm- Yard Song J. T. Trowbridge, iv. 12 
 
 Ghost, The -. i. 42 
 
 Great Bell Roland, The Theodore TiUon. i. 68 
 
 General Joseph Reed; or. The Incorruptible 
 
 Patriot Rev. Edward C. Jones. L 137 
 
 Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother Miss Edwards, it 44 
 
 Gouty Merchant and the Stranger, The.. ».... Horace Smith, ii. 85 
 
 Guard Thine Action - Bailie Ada Vance, iii. 29 
 
 Grave of Charles Dickens, The iii. 68 
 
 Ginevra Samuel Rogers, iii. 89 
 
 Going Out and Coming In MoUie E. Moore, iii. 127 
 
 Gates Ajar Anna L. Bidh. iv. 19 
 
 God Derzhavin. iv. 65 
 
 Hail to the Veterans N. K. liichauhion. i. 117 
 
 Hamlet's Soliloquy Shakspeare. i. 109 
 
 Heart of the War, The i- 121 
 
 Hiawatha's Wooing Henry W. Longfellow, i. 147 
 
 flour of Death, The Felicia Hemans. ii. 87 
 
Viri CONTEXTS. 
 
 No. ragp. 
 
 Houaekeeper's Soliloquy, Tlie Frances Dana Gage. ii. 'J7 
 
 How u M.tii Should be Judged ii- U7 
 
 H'-re She Goes and There She Gul-s Jumes A'uft. ii. iJ.-'} 
 
 Hate of the Bowl ii. 1-J 
 
 Horatius at the Bridge T. B. Mucuulay. ii. 14(( 
 
 Hetty McEwen Lucy Hamilton Hooper, ii. 152 
 
 Heaven M. S^iuhie Holmes, iii, 140 
 
 His Eye was Stern and Wild iii. ir>3 
 
 Ilriitheu Chinee, The Bret Harte. iii. 1C9 
 
 Hallowed Ground Tlmmas CampbeU. iv. 13 
 
 IIow the Gates Ciime Aj;ir IMenZ. Busta-i'.-l:. iv. 21 
 
 Heathen Chiuee's Reply, The iv. 127 
 
 Infi'licissime i. 10 
 
 Inquiry, The Charles Mnckay. ii. 170 
 
 Independence Bell, July 4, ]7;G ii. 178 
 
 Irishwoman'a Letter, The ni. 72 
 
 If Wo knew „ iii. 84 
 
 In the Otlier Woild Harriet Beecher Stowe. iii. 110 
 
 Icarus; or. The Peril of Borro\VL-d Plumes John G. Saxe. iii. 173 
 
 In MfiiRiry of Charles Dickens Sue ^[. Remuk. iv. 59 
 
 Irish Picket, The R. H. Nea-eU. iv. 84 
 
 Ifish Brigade at Fouteuoy, The Burlholomew Bowling, iv. 88 
 
 Jack Horner Mm. A. D. T. ^yhitnet/. iii. 77 
 
 Jest*'!- Condemned, The H. Smith, iii. 139 
 
 Jim Bret Harte. iv. 18 
 
 John Bums of Gettysburg Bret Harte. iv. 163 
 
 Kane FUz James O'Brien, i. 19 
 
 Kneel at Xo Human Shrine A. F. Kent. i. 12l> 
 
 King William Thanks his God iv. 55 
 
 Knight's Toast, The iv. 77 
 
 Keeping hiu Word Mrs. Preston. *v. 130 
 
 Lament uf the Irish Emigrant Lady Dufferin. i. 131 
 
 Letters, The Alfred Tennyson, i. 173 
 
 Love, Murder and almost Matrimony , ii. 106 
 
 Little Jim ii, 139 
 
 Look Aloft /, Loicrence. ii. 173 
 
 Loved and Lust, The , iii, 45 
 
 La-;t Journey, The Caroline A. Southey. iii. 47 
 
 Little Beunie Annie C. Ketchum. iii. 53 
 
 Lochinvar's Ride Sir Walter Scott.' iii. 57 
 
 Little Nell's Funeral Charles Dickens, iii. 69 
 
 Lpper, The N. P. Willis, iii. 128 
 
 Lady Clare .l//red Tennyson, iv. 79 
 
 Lnunching of tlie Ship, The Henry W. Longfelloto, iv. 173 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy R. H. Barham. i. 74 
 
 Main Truck ; or, a Leap for Life, Tlie Colton. i. 19 
 
 Modest Wit, The i, ?06 
 
 Maud Muller John G. WhUticr. i. U3 
 
rONTKNTS. IX 
 
 No. I'ago. 
 
 Marco Bozzaris Fitz Greene Hutteck. i. 160 
 
 Meeting Place, The ii. 35 
 
 May Queen, The Alfred Tenmjaon. ii. 64 
 
 Miintleof St. John de Matha, The John G. mdltier. ii. 72 
 
 Masonic Emblems ii. 154 
 
 Modern Cain, The E. Evam Hdwarda. ii. 174 
 
 My Beautiful Child \V. A. H. SUjoumey. iii. 24 
 
 Muderu House that Jack Built, Tlio iii. 27 
 
 Mother and Poet Elizabeth Btrrett Browning, iii. 37 
 
 Miigdalena iii. 166 
 
 Mother and her Child, The iv. 29 
 
 Monsieur Tonson, iv. fiO 
 
 Maniac, The MaUhew Gregory Lewis, iv. 73 
 
 Mormon Widower's Lament, The iv. 102 
 
 Man's Mission Mra. W. It. Wilde, iv, 104 
 
 Ministering Angels Emihj Judson. iv. 123 
 
 Miser Fitly Punished, The Osborne, iv. 124 
 
 My Welcome Beyond Alim Wellinijton. iv. 12*J 
 
 No God *. N. K. Ricliardson. i. 73 
 
 New Year's Eve i. luu 
 
 Nobody's Child Phila H. Case. ii. 15 
 
 New-Born Babe, The Mrs. Morris, ii. 79 
 
 No Sects in Heaven Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleveland, ii. 115 
 
 Not on the Battle-Field John Pierpont. iii. 73 
 
 Nougtongpaw Charles Dibdin. iii. 161 
 
 Nearer Home Phebe Gary. iv. 109 
 
 Nothing to Wenr WUUam Allen Butler, iv. 1S6 
 
 Night Before Execution, The iv. 143 
 
 Oh, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud ? WiUiam Knox. i. 7 
 
 Owed to the Steam Fire Engine i. 22 
 
 On Board the Cumberland George H. Boker. i. 28 
 
 Our Defenders T. Bachajian Read. i. 54 
 
 Ode to My Little Son Thomas Hood. i. 67 
 
 Oath, The T. Buchanan Read. i. 90 
 
 On the Shores of Tennessee E. L. Beers, i. 102 
 
 Opposite Examples Horace Mann. i. 118 
 
 Overthe River Mrs. J. M. Winton. ii. 28 
 
 Our Country's Call \Vi!li-im Cullen Bryant, ii. 38 
 
 Old Clock on the Stairs, The Henry 11'. Lon^feUow. iii. 85 
 
 Out in the Streets .* Thomas Dunn English, iii. 149 
 
 Overthe Hill to the Poor House Will CnrUton. iv. 27 
 
 Old Times and New A. C. Spooner. iv. 96 
 
 Only Waiting iv. 135 
 
 On to Freedom A. J. H. Duganne. iv. 175 
 
 Pawpcr's Death-Bed, The Caroline A. Southey. i. 169 ■ 
 
 Putting up o' the Stove i. 178 
 
 Paul Revere's Ride Henry W. Longfelloto. ii. 8 
 
 Picket Guard, The Lamar Pontine, ii. 26 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 No. rage. 
 
 P.iint6r of Seville, The Susan Wihon. ii. *" 
 
 rsalm of Life, A Uemy W. Longfellow, ii. '^ 
 
 ParrhasiuB and the Captive N. P. Willis, ii. ^^ 
 
 Parody— The Old Oaken Bucket ii. 
 
 Pealm of Marriage, A Pliehe Cary. ii. 
 
 Praying for Rain Peter Pindar. 
 
 l:is 
 161 
 12 
 
 Polish Boy, The ^nji .S. Stephi-ns. iii. 1^ 
 
 Parting Hour, The EiUourd Pollock, iii. It*'' 
 
 Poor Voter on Election Diij, The....* John G. }niuicr. iii. 171 
 
 Pictures of Memory Alice Cart/, iv. HO 
 
 Quaker Widow, The Bayard Taylor, ii. 146 
 
 Raven, The Egoar A. Poe. i. 70 
 
 Rienzi's Address Mart/ Unwell MUford. i. 1G6 
 
 Revolutionary Rising, The T. Buchanan Read. ii. 22 
 
 Read to Sleep Ulavgurel J. Preston, ii. 34 
 
 Hide from Ghent to Aix, The Robert Browning, ii. 58 
 
 Rum Maniac, The Allison, ii. 94- 
 
 Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney, ii. 100 
 
 Ring the Bell Sciftly Dexter Smith, iii. 14 
 
 Romance of Nick Van Stann, Tlie John G. Saxe. iii. 19 
 
 Rum's Maniac T. W. Noa. ill. 21 
 
 Razor Seller, The Peter Pindar, iii. 88 
 
 Ruined Merchant, The ;, Cora M. Eager, iii. 162 
 
 Ring Out, Wild Bells Alfred Tennyson, iii. 165 
 
 Roll Call N. O. Shepherd, iv. 64 
 
 Sleeping Sentinel, The Francis De Haes Janvier, i. 13 
 
 Sir John Franklin George H. Bolter, i. 16 
 
 Student, The i. 25 
 
 Sheridan's Ride T. Buchanan Read. i. 31 
 
 Scott and the Veteran Bayard Taylor, i. 41 
 
 Soliloquy of Arnold, The Rev. Edward C. Jones, i. 66 
 
 Smack in School, The W. P. Palmer, i. 83 
 
 Select Passages in Verse i. 125 
 
 Seminole's Reply, The , G. W. Patten, i. 139 
 
 Song of Sherman's Army, The Charles G. Halpine. i. . 164 
 
 Song of the Decanter i. 1Q3 
 
 Short Poetical Extracts i. j^q 
 
 Shamus O'Brien, The Bold Boy of Glingall Samuel Lover, i. 174 
 
 Socrates Snooks ji_ jj 
 
 Song of the Shirt, The '. Tlmnas Hood. ii. 80 
 
 Somebody's Darling .». {{_ jgQ 
 
 Sally Robert C. V. Meyers, ii. 175 
 
 Shibboleth Elizabeth H. .Joalyn Cleveland, iii. go 
 
 Sailor's Funeral, The Lydia H. Sigoumey. iii. 135 
 
 Shylockto Antonio Shakspeare. iii. 147 
 
 Searching for the Slain '. iji_ |.. 
 
 Star-Spangled Banner, The Fsancie Scott Key. iv. 7 
 
 Seeds !, Aa 
 
CDXTXNTa, XI 
 
 No. Page. 
 
 St. Pierre to Ferrardo J. Sheridan Knowlea. iv. 49 
 
 Song of the Druukard iV. HargreaveB. iv. 71 
 
 Singer, The John G. WhiUier. iv. Ill 
 
 SwoU's Soliloquy on the War, A iv. 122 
 
 Seventh Plague of Egypt, The George Croly. iv. 131 
 
 Softly Woo away her Brieatb Uarry CvruioaU. iv. 170 
 
 Thanatopais WiiUam Ckillen Bryant, i. 116 
 
 There once Was a Toper ii. 66 
 
 Tubal Cain CharlM Mackay. ii. 69 
 
 There's but one pair of Stockings tu Mend tu-iiif$ht ii. Itt3 
 
 Tim Tuflf Edward CapetM. ill. 34 
 
 Through Death to Life Henry Haibamjh. iii. 80 
 
 Twenty Years Ago iii. 126 
 
 Truth in Parentheses Thomas Hood. iv. 146 
 
 To a Skeleton iv. 168 
 
 United States National Authein William Ron Wallace, ii. 7 
 
 Union and Liberty Oliver WendeU Holmes, ii. 114 
 
 Under the Lamplight Annie B. Blonnt. Iii. 132 
 
 Vagabondfl, The J, T. Trovohridge. i. 140 
 
 Vat You Please Wdlkim B. Fowle. ii. 18 
 
 Very Dark iii. Ill 
 
 Valentin*, The Mary D. Brine, iv. 183 
 
 Wood of ChancellorBville, The Delia R. Gti-man. i. 81 
 
 Wounded Rev. W. E. MUler. i. 87 
 
 Will the New Yearcorao to-night Mamma?. ...Mrs. J. M. Winton. ii. 19 
 
 Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay," The Oliver Wendell Holmes, ii. 31 
 
 Wife, The John G. WhitUer. ii. 161 
 
 We Meet upon the Levels and Wo Part upon the 
 
 Square Robert Morris, ii. 171 
 
 Which shall itbe? iii. 55 
 
 Well of St Keyne, The Robei-t Southey. iv. 10 
 
 Which Could I Spare? Frances B. M. Brotherson. iv. 68 
 
 WilUiam the Conqueror Charles Mackay. iv. 144 
 
 Your Mission Ellen H. Gates, ii. 144 
 
 Young Gray Head, The Caroline A. SotUhey. lit 104 
 
 SUPPLEHEIIIABY PaORS. 
 
 Sentiments^ Life Thoughts, Witticisms and Funoy Sayings.^ 
 
CONTKiNia. 
 
 SELECTIONS IN PROSE * 5 
 
 a M 
 
 9 tS 
 
 w (^ 
 
 Artemus Ward's Trip to Richmond C. F. Broiun. i. 61 
 
 Addresd to the Soldiers liev. Jacob M. Manning, i. 63 
 
 Advice to a Fire Compauy i. 97 
 
 AitemUH Ward Ciossiiig Dixie's Line C. F. liioum. i. 122 
 
 Artemua Ward at the Tomb of Shakapeare C. F. Brown, iii. 70 
 
 Adams and JeHeraou*. Daniel Webater. iii. 108 
 
 American Indian, The Charles ^'ague. iv. 151 
 
 Birth-Day of Waahington, The Rn/ut Choate. i. 78 
 
 Bombastic Description of a Midiuglit Murder I. J70 
 
 Ballot Box, The E. H. Chapin. iii. 87 
 
 Brutus on the Death of Co'sar Shaksjpeare. iii. 100 
 
 Bombastic Appeal to a Jury iv. 4G 
 
 Crime its own Detector Duniel TFetsier. i. 49 
 
 Curse of Regulus, The ii. 123 
 
 Cu;sar Passing tho Rubicon J. Sheridan Knowles. iv. 126 
 
 Discoveries of Galileo Edward Everett i. 21 
 
 Death of John Quincy Adams J. E. Holmes, i. 143 
 
 Drunken Soliloquy in a Coal Cellar, A Alfred Burnett, ii. 37 
 
 Death Bed uf Benedict Arnold George Lippard. ii. 103 
 
 Death of Copernicus Edward Everett, ii. 137 
 
 Death of Little Jo Charles Dickeiis. iii. 157 
 
 Death of Morris Sir Walter ScoU. iv. 15 
 
 Death of LitUo Paul Charles Dickens, iv. 56 
 
 Drunkards not all Brutes John B. Govgh. iv. 107 
 
 Death of Hamilton, The l>r. Eliphalet NoU. iv. 121 
 
 Death Penalty, The Ftctor Hugo. iv. 140 
 
 Extmct from a Speech on tho Death of Abraham 
 
 Lincoln Park Godwin, i. 12 
 
 Extract from Senator Baker's Speech, at Union 
 
 Square, N. Y., April 20, IRGl j, 35 
 
 Extract from a Speech at Union Square D. S. Dickinson, i. 84 
 
 Extract from a Sermon on the Desith of Abraham 
 
 Lincoln Henrif Ward Beecher. iii. 25 
 
 Execution of Joan of Arc T/tomas De Quincy. iii. 172 
 
 Fourth of July Oration ii 26 
 
 Foes United in Death.. 
 
 Clorious New England S. S. Pienti'^. 
 
 <lttting in the Wr^ng Rimni CJiarlea Dickeng. 
 
 General Grant to the Array — 1865 U. 8. Grant. 
 
 ♦See Explanatory Not* on page v. 
 
 137 
 
 I06 
 131 
 
CO NT i:\TS. vni 
 
 No. I'ug'-. 
 
 Glass of Cold Wator, A Ptiul Denton, ii. ' Cu 
 
 Ciiuttaii's Kuply tu Mr. Corry Henry GraUan. iii. 94 
 
 Clrizzly Gruiiibler'B Advice iii. lu3 
 
 Iluzckiab Stubbius' Oration i. 55 
 
 Hamlet's Instruction to tlie PUyers ^ tiliukspeare. i. 108 
 
 Hypochoudriac, The ii. 77 
 
 llezekiah Bedott F. M. M'Uiicfier. iii. 114 
 
 lluBband'a Experience iu Cuuking, A iii. _ 1G4 
 
 Ideas the Life of a People George W. Curtis, iii. 18 
 
 Indian Chief tt* the White Settler, The Edward Eoerelt. iv. 74 
 
 Invective AgainsFMr. Flood Henry GraUan. iv. 100 
 
 Irish AUgds Ii. L. Shiel. iv. 140 
 
 Josh Billings on "Courting" H. G. Shaw. i. 146 
 
 Josh Billings on "Mucifeat Destiny" H. G. Shaw. ii. 145 
 
 Joan of Arc TUomas De Qainceij. iii. 10 
 
 Judicial Tribunals Charles Sumner, iii. i!\5 
 
 Joah Billings on '*The District SchooliuaHtcr" H. G. Shuui. iii. 08 
 
 Josh Billings on "Gougrt" H. G. Shaw. iii. 148 
 
 Lecture by Doctor Puff Stuff i. 128 
 
 Liberty and Union H'cbster. i. 138 
 
 Lord Dundreary on *'Pwoverba" ii. 172 
 
 . Last Hours of Webster Edivanl Everett, iii. 108 
 
 Loss of the Arctic Henry Ward BeecJier. iv. 81 
 
 Mra. Caudle's Unibrell;i. Lecture Doitglaa Jerrold, i. 60 
 
 Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma Cliarles Dickens, ii. 45 
 
 Mrs. Caudle's Lecture on "Shirt Buttons" Ikmylaft Jeirold. ii. 7(t 
 
 Mark Twain's Opinion of "Charabermaids" 8. L. Clemera. ii. 167 
 
 Mr. Caudlo has been made a Mason Douglas Jerrold. iii. 83 
 
 Mark Twain's first interview with Artemus Ward....S. L. Clemens, iv. 23 
 
 Mrs. Caudli* urging the Need of Spring Clothing.. .Douj/Itw Jerrold. if. 69 
 
 Mark Twain's Description of European Guides.. .,„... S. L. Clmena. iv. 113 
 
 Mark Twain's "Great Beef Contract" S. L. Clemens, iv. 176 
 
 Newcastle Apothecary George Gotman. i. 99 
 
 National Monument to Washington Robert C. Winthrop. ii. 17 
 
 Napoleon Bonaparte Charles Phillips, iv. 50 
 
 ^Opportunity for Work George E. Rnsselt. i. 44 
 
 On being found Guilty of Treason Jltomas Francis Meagher, iii. 75 
 
 Oration against Catiline Cicero, iii. 150 
 
 President Lincoln's Address at the Dedication of 
 
 Guttysburg Cemetery, November^ I8C4 Abraham Lincoln, ii. 11 
 
 Pledge with Wine ii. 83 
 
 Pretext of Rebellion, The Stephen A. Douglass, ii. 150 
 
 Pres'deut Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address Abraham Lincoln, iii. 32 
 
 Bleading Extraordinary iii. 131 
 
i.IV CONTENTS. 
 
 No. Page. 
 
 Kacy Stump Speech, A i- 13^ 
 
 Railroad Clocks ii- l&'J 
 
 Regulus to the Roman Senate iii. 48 
 
 Reply of Pitt to Walpole Lord Chatham, iv. 9 
 
 Revolutionary Sermon, A Hugh Henry Breckenridge. iv. 159 
 
 Sufferings and Destiny of the Pilgrime." Edward Everett, i. 57 
 
 Spaitacus to the Gladiators at Capua i. 10* 
 
 SpartacuB to the Roman Envoys in Etruiia ii. 29 
 
 Sball we give up the Union D. S. Dickinson, ii. 54 
 
 Stand by the Flag * Joseph Holt. ii. 110 
 
 Sam Weller's Valentine Charles Dickens, iii. 42 
 
 Soldier's Reprieve, The iii. 120 
 
 Two Roads, The Jean Paul Richter. i. 27 
 
 Tribute to our Honored Dead, A Henry Ward Beecher. ii. 24 
 
 Triumph of Faith J. S. Btickminster. iv. -30 
 
 Thiinksjuiving Sermon, A t iv. 133 
 
 Unjust National Acquisitions Thomas Corwin. i. 68 
 
 Unbeliever, The Thtrnias Chalmers, iv. 167 
 
 Verres Denounced Cicero, iv. 40 
 
 Vision of Future Bliss, A Bichard Baxter, iv. 170 
 
 Washington's Sword and Franklin's Staff J. Q.Adams, ii. 95 
 
 Widow Bedott's Poetry, The F. M. WhOcher. iv. 90 
 
 Yorkshire Angling i. 165 
 
 Yankee in Love, A Alfred Burnett, ii. 89 
 
 Supplementary Pages. 
 Sentiments, Life Thoughts, Witticisms and Funny Sayings. 
 
 DRAMAS AND DIALOGUES. 
 
 Art and Artifice i. 215 
 
 Balcony Scene from "Komeo and Juliet" Shakspeare. iii. 212 
 
 Cain, Ancient and Modern Ellen Murray, iv. 208 
 
 D;iy before the Wedding, The Robert C. V. Meyers, iii. 193 
 
 PracticalJokes Robert C. V. Meyers, i. 193 
 
 Queen of Beauty, The iv. 21I 
 
 Scene from * The Rivals" R. B. Sheridan, ii. 210 
 
 Student and his Neighbors, The N. A. Woodward, iv. lyg 
 
 Ugliest of Seven, The Maggie G. Townscml ii. 193 
 
 Where'amy Hat? Robert C. V. Meyers, iv. 193 
 
art Jfirsi 
 
lOO 
 CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 No. 1. 
 
 OH ! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE 
 PROUD 7— William K.vox. 
 
 Oh ! why should tho spirit of mortal be prond ? 
 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
 Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
 Be scattered around, and together be laid ; 
 And the young and the old, and the low and the high 
 Shall molder to dust and together shall lie. 
 
 The infant a mother attended and loved ; 
 The mother that infant's affection who proved ; 
 The husband that mother and infant who blessed, — 
 Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 
 
 The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by ; 
 And the memory of those who loved her and praised 
 Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 
 
 The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne ; 
 The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn ; 
 Tlie eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave. 
 Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. 
 
 Tlie peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
 Tlio herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep ; 
 Tlio beggar who wandered in search of his bread, 
 Haw f.ided away like the grass that we tread. 
 
 The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven ; 
 The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven; 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just. 
 Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 
 
S ONE nUNDRED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed 
 That withers away to let others succeed ; 
 So tlie multitude comes, even those we behold, 
 To repeat every tale that has often been told. 
 
 For we are the same our fathers have been ; 
 We see the same sights our fiithers have seen ; 
 A\'e drink the same stream, and view the same sun, 
 And run the same course our fathers have run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think ; 
 From the death we are shrinking our fathers would .shrink ; 
 To the life we are clinging they also would cling; 
 But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wiiig. 
 
 They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ; 
 They scorned, but tlie heart of the haughty is cold ; 
 They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come ; 
 They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. 
 
 They died, aye ! they died ; and we things that are now, 
 Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 
 Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, 
 Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. 
 
 Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 
 AVe mingle together in sunshine and rain ; 
 And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 
 
 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, 
 From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
 , From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — 
 Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG.— Joseph Eobm.^n Dr.vke. 
 
 AVhen Freedom, from her mountain height, 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 
 She tore the azure robe of night. 
 And set the stars of glory there ! 
 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 
 The milky baldric of the skies. 
 
 And striped its pure celestial white 
 
 AVith streakings of the morning light, 
 
 Then, from his mansion in the sun. 
 
 She called her eagle bearer down, 
 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 
 The symbol of her chosen land ! 
 
NDMBKR ON E. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the teitipest-trumpings loud, 
 And see the lightning lances driven. 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
 Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given 
 
 To guard the banner of tlie free, 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle stroke. 
 
 And bid its blendings shine afar. 
 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 The harbingers of victory I 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
 The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
 AVhen speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on, 
 ICre yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
 Each soldier's eye shall brightly tuni 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn. 
 And as his springing steps advance. 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow. 
 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broadside's reehng rack. 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 FJas of the free heart's hope and home, 
 
 By angel hands to valor given. 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven ! 
 Forever float that standard sheet, 
 
 AVhere breathes the foe but falls before us. 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us 1 
 1* 
 
10 ONE huNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 INFELICISSIME. 
 
 I stand upon the hoarv mountains of old time, 
 God's stern and sleepless sentinels, that loom 
 
 In shadowy dimness, silent and sublime, 
 Through bending clouds of glory and of gloom. 
 
 I see around me shapes of rare device, — 
 Domes, minarets, and towers 
 
 Of nature's own contriving ; and soft bowers 
 
 Of interwoven branches, vines, and flowers, 
 
 Through which trip lightly the impassioned hours. 
 
 I hear the gushing melody of birds,- 
 
 The dash of dancing waters, and the deep, 
 
 Low murmur of the winds, that creep 
 
 Into my soul like music without words ; 
 I stand in Paradise ! 
 
 And lo ! two beings, young, and beautiful 
 Beyond the poet's most enraptured dream. 
 Glide through the mazes : resting now to cull 
 Sweet tinted flowers that fringe a silver stream. 
 Or clustering fruits that in a sunlight gleam ; 
 And all the while their voices fill the air 
 With swelling anthems to the Great Supremo, 
 And all the while, in peace, they wander there, 
 God-loving and beloved, without a grief or care. 
 
 The charm is broken ! from a distant hill, 
 I see the Serpent take his subtile way, 
 To where, all dreamless of the coming ill, 
 The doomed pair in happy converse stray ; 
 And now, with secret art, he holds his prey. 
 And now enfolds them like a tongue of flame ; 
 With charmed words he leadeth them astray, 
 • Till, all forgetful of the Master's claim. 
 They do the deed of sin, and hide themselves in shame. 
 
 I read, in Holy verse, 
 
 Their everlasting curse : 
 "Thou shalt bring forth in pain, 
 And live in sorrow, and toil in vain. 
 And thistles reap, and thorns, instead of grain 
 And down thy brow shall sweat-drops roll like rain." 
 
 That curse has had no death ; we are brought forth in pai n 
 And all the pathway of our checkered years ' 
 
 Is strewn with ashes and remorseful tears. 
 
 Till, in the midst of grief, we yield our breath again. 
 
NUMBER ONE. H 
 
 Yes ! the world is full of sorrow 
 
 And dismay; 
 Joy lives always in to-iTlorrow ! 
 Pain, to-day ! 
 Sweet phantoms rise to cheer our bleak e'xistence, 
 _ And lure us onward with uplifted hands, 
 We follow — and they fade into the <listance, 
 As fades the mirage upon desert sands. 
 
 What boots it, that the earth makes show of joy? 
 
 That roaes bloom, and trees grow green in spring. 
 That the soft grass springs up without annoy. 
 That skies are blue, and birds forever sing? 
 
 Tliere are more weeds than flowers, — 
 
 More sad than sunny hours! 
 
 And though the leaves be musical, 
 
 They all must wither soon, and fall ! 
 
 And though the green grass waves — 
 
 Down under it are graves! 
 
 And, alas ! they have no souls. 
 Those little birds, whose melody so rolls. 
 
 . What boots it, that we ring the merry laugh. 
 
 Sing the song, and crack the jest ; 
 That we seek love — deem kisses more than chaff, 
 
 Or hold pleasure worth the quest? 
 And what boots it, that some glide 
 
 Through the world with little care ? 
 And what boots it, that the bride 
 
 Is so jubilant and fair? 
 
 The pleasure that we follow 
 Like our laugh is hollow — hollow 
 As a bell 
 That now rings us to a wedding — with a chime ; 
 And now buries us in sorrow for a time — 
 With a knell! 
 
 And the jest seldom slips, 
 
 But it strikes a tender chord ! 
 And a kiss was on the lips 
 
 Of the wretch who sold his Lord ! 
 Do you sing? — the sweetest songs 
 Tell of sorrows and of wrongs. 
 Do you love ?— perfect love 
 Only lives in realms above; 
 And the careless are the light, — 
 
 Light of heart, and light of head: 
 And ye robe the bride in white, — 
 
 And, in white, ye shroud the dead. 
 
 — Nassau Magazine. 
 
12 ONE HUNDRED CnOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH OF PARK GODWIN ON 
 THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
 
 The great captain of our cause — Abraham Lincoln — smit- 
 ten by the basest hand ever upraised against human inno- 
 cence, is gone, gone, gone! He who had borne the heaviest 
 of the brunt in our four long years of war, whose pulse beat 
 livelier, whose eyes danced brighter than any others, when 
 
 " The storm drew off, 
 Its scattered tbuuders groaDitig round the hillB," 
 
 in the supreme hour of his joy and glory was struck down. 
 One who, great in himself, as well as by position, has sud- 
 denly departed. There is something startling, ghastly, awful, 
 in the manner of his going oflf. But the chief poignancy of 
 our distress is not for the greatness fallen, but for the good- 
 ness lost. Presidents have died before : during this bloody 
 war we have lost manj' eminent generals— Lyon, Baker, 
 Kearney, Sedgwick, Reno, and others ; we have lost lately 
 our finest scholar, publicist, orator. Our hearts still bleed 
 forthe companions, friends, brotherswho "sleep the sleep that 
 knows no waking," but no loss has been comparable to his, 
 who was our supremest leader, — our safest counsellor — our 
 wisest friend — our dear father. Would you know what Lin- 
 coln was, look at this vast metropolis, covered with the habil- 
 iments of woe ! Never in human history has there been so 
 universal, so spontaneous, so profound an expression of a 
 nation's bereavement. 
 
 Yet we sorrow not as those who are without hope. Our chief 
 is gone, but our cause remains; dearer to our hearts, because 
 he is now become the martyr; consecrated by his sacrifice; 
 more widely accepted by all parties; and fragrant and lovely 
 forevermore in the memories of all the good and the great, 
 of all lands, and for all time. The rebellion, which began in 
 the blackest treachery, to be ended in the foulest assassina- 
 tion ; this rebellion, accursed in its motive, which was to 
 rivet the shackles of slavery on a whole race for all the fu- 
 ture; accursed in its means, which have been "red ruin and 
 the breaking up of laws," the overthrow of the mildest and 
 blessedest governments, and the profuse shedding of brother's 
 blood by brother's hands ; accursed in its accompaniments of 
 violence, cruelty, and barbarism, and is now doubly accursed 
 in its final act of cold-blooded murder. 
 
 Cold-blooded, but impotent, and defeated in its own pur- 
 poses ! The frenzied hand which slew the head of the gov- 
 
NUMBEU ONE. 13 
 
 ernment, in the mad hope of paralyzing its functions, only 
 drew the hearts of the people together more closely to 
 strengthen and sustain its power. All the North once more, 
 without party or division, clenches hands around the com- 
 mon altar: all the North swears a more earnest fidelit)' to 
 freedom ; all the North again presents its breasts as the living 
 shield and bulwark of the nation's unity and life. Oh ! fool- 
 ish and wicked dream, oh ! insanity of fanaticism, oh ! blind- 
 ness of black hate— to think that this majestic temple of hu- 
 man liberty, whfch is built upon the clustered columns of 
 free and independent states, and whose base is as broad as 
 the continent — could be shaken to pieces, by striking off the 
 ornaments of its capital. No! this nation lives, not in one 
 man nor in a hundred men, however eminent, however able, 
 however endeared to us; but in the affections, the virtues, 
 the energies, and the will of the whole American people. 
 
 THE SLEEPING SENTINEL.— Francis Db Haes J.vn-viei!. 
 
 Tho inciflnnts liore woven into vertie relate to William Scott, a young Bolilier 
 from the State of Veniioiit, who, while on duty as a sentinel at night, fell aslee]), 
 and, having been condemned to die, wiis pardoned by the President. They form 
 a brief record of hiB humblo life at home and in the field, and of his glorious death. 
 
 'Twas in the sultry sumrriigr-time, as war's red records show, 
 When patriot armies rose to meet a fratricidal foe — 
 When, from the North and East and West, like the upheav- 
 ing sea. 
 Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free. 
 
 Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows veiled decay — 
 In fetters, on a heap of straw, a youtliful soldier lay : 
 Heart-broken, hopeless, and forlorn, with short and feverish 
 
 breath. 
 He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit's death. 
 
 Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care. 
 He roamed at will, and freely drew his native mountain air- 
 Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a 
 
 woodland f^nt. 
 And waving elms, and grassy slopes, give beauty to Vermont. 
 
 Where, dwelling in a humble cot, a tiller of the soil, 
 Encircled by a mother's love, he shared a father's toil — 
 Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suffering country's cry 
 Fired his young heart with fervent zeal, for her to live or die 
 
 Then left he all : a few fond tears, by firmness half concealed 
 A blessing, and a parting prayer, and he was in the field- -■ 
 
14 ONE IIUNDHED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes war's 
 
 hot breath, 
 Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose husbandman 
 
 is death ! 
 
 Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard ; 
 But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, 
 
 on guard, 
 He sank, exhausted, at his post, and the graj- morning found 
 His prostrate form — a sentinel asleep upon the ground. 
 
 So in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod, 
 Sank the disciples, watching near the suffering Son of God; 
 Yet, Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy eyes, 
 And though betray'd to ruthless foes, forgiving, bade them rise. 
 
 But God is love, — and finite minds can faintly comprehend 
 How gentle mercy, in His rule, may with stern justice blend ; 
 And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify. 
 While war's inexorable law decreed that he must die. 
 
 'Twas night. — In a secluded room, with measured tread, and 
 
 slow, 
 A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to and fro ; 
 Oppressed, he pondered on a land by civil discord rent ; 
 On brothers armed in deadly strife : — it was the President. 
 
 The woes of thirty millions filled hisburdened heart with grief; 
 Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him their 
 
 chief; 
 And vet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry 
 Of that poor soldier, as he lay in prison, doomed to die. 
 
 'Twas morning. — On a tented field, and through the heated 
 haze. 
 
 Flashed back, from lines of burnished arras, the sun's efful- 
 gent blaze ; 
 
 While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge, 
 
 A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a muffled dirge. 
 
 And in the midst, wit h faltering step,and pale and anxious face. 
 In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place. 
 Ayouth— led out to die;— and yet, it was not death, but shame. 
 That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his man- 
 ly frame. 
 
 Still on, before the marshall'd ranks, the train pursued its way 
 Up to the designatetl spot, whereon a coffin lay — 
 His coffin! And with reeling brain, despairing— desolate- 
 He took his station by its side, abandoned to his fate. 
 
 Theacame across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air: 
 licK;LW liis distant miiuntaiii hcime; he^iw his inf)t her there ■ 
 He s:iw his fat her bowi'c I Willi grief, tliro' fist -<le<'liniiig years; 
 He s;iwa namclessgrave; and then, the visicm closed— m tears] 
 
Kl'M UEU ONE. ],") 
 
 Yet once agiiiii. In double file advancing, then, he s:i\v 
 Twelve comrades, sternly set. apart to execute the law— 
 But saw no more; his senses swam — deep darkness settled 
 
 round — 
 And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's sound. 
 
 Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels a])- 
 
 proach. 
 And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coaih. 
 On, ])ast the guards, and through the field, its rapid course 
 
 was bent, , 
 Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President. 
 
 He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair ; 
 And from a tliousand voices rose a shout which rent the air! 
 The pardoned soldier uiuler.stdod the tones of jubilee. 
 And, bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand that made 
 him free. 
 
 'Twas Spring. — Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crys- 
 tal tide 
 Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side— 
 AVhere birds and flowers conibine<l to cheer a sylvan solitude — 
 Two threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defiance stood. 
 
 Two threatening armies! One invoked by injured Liberty — 
 Which bore above its patriot ranks the Symbol of the Free; 
 And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flauntins^ flag of bars, 
 A fragment, torn by traitorous hands, from Freedom's Stripes 
 and Stars. 
 
 A sudden shock which shook the earth, 'mid vapor dense 
 
 and dim. 
 Proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun ; 
 And shot and shell.ath wart the stream with fiendish fury .sped. 
 To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead. 
 
 Then, louder than the roaring storm, jiealed forth the stern 
 
 command, 
 "Charge! soldiers, charge ! " and, at the word, with shouts, a 
 
 fearless band. 
 Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through 
 
 the flood. 
 And upward o'er the rising ground, they marked their way 
 
 in blood. 
 
 The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his post- 
 While, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host ! 
 Then turning as the rallying ranks,with murd'rons fire replied, 
 They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide. 
 
 The fallen ! And the first who fell in that unequal strife, 
 V/as he whom mercy sped to save when justice claimed his 
 Hfe— 
 
 B 
 
16 ONE irUNDRKD CHOICE SELECTIOXS 
 
 The pardon'd soldier! And while yet the conflict raged aroiiiHl, 
 While yet his life-blood ebbed away through every gajjing 
 wound — 
 
 While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death bedimmed 
 
 his eye — ■ 
 He called his comrades to attest he had not feared to die. 
 And in'his last expiring breath, a ])rayerfo heaven was sent. 
 That God, with His unfailing grace, would bless our PresLi <nt. 
 
 SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.— Geoi!gi= H. Bokee. 
 
 The ice was here, the ice was there. 
 The ice was all aroand. — Coleridge. 
 
 "O, whither sail you, Sir John Franklin ?" 
 
 Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. 
 " To know if between the land and the pole 
 
 I may find a broad sea-way," 
 
 " I charge you back, f-ir John Franklin, 
 As you would live and thrive ; 
 For between the land and the frozen pole 
 No man may sail alive." 
 
 But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
 And spoke unto his men : — 
 ** Half England is wrong, if he is right ; 
 Bear off to the westward then." 
 
 "O, whither sail you, brave Englishman?" 
 
 Cried the little Esquimaux. 
 "Between the land and the polar star 
 
 My goodly vessels go." 
 
 " Come down, if you would journey there," 
 
 The little Indian said; 
 " And change your cloth for fur clothing. 
 
 Your vessL'l for a sled." 
 
 But liirhtly laughed the stout Sir John, 
 And the crew laughed with him too; 
 "A sailor to chanj^e from ship to sled, 
 I ween, were something new." 
 
 All through the long, long polar day. 
 
 The vessels westward sped ; 
 And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown 
 
 The ice gave way and fled — ' 
 
 Gave way with many a hollow groan, 
 
 And with many a surly roar; 
 But it murmured and threatened on every side, 
 
 And closed where he sailed before. 
 
NUMBER ONE. 1? 
 
 " Ho ! see ye not, ray raerry men, 
 
 The bioad and oiien sea? 
 Bethink ye what the whaler Said, 
 Think of the little Indian's sled!" 
 
 The crew laughed out in glee. 
 
 "Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold. 
 The scud drives on the breeze, 
 The ice comes looming from the north, 
 The very sunbeams freeze." 
 
 " Bright sujnmer goes, dark winter comes — 
 We cannot rule the year; 
 But long ere summer's sun goes down, 
 Oil yonder sea we'll steer." 
 
 The dripping icebergs dipped and rose. 
 
 And floundered down the gale ; 
 The ships were stayed, the yards were manned, 
 
 And furled the useless sail. 
 
 "Tlie summer's gone, the winter's come, 
 * We sail not on yonder sea; 
 Why sail we not. Sir John Franklin?" 
 A silent man was he. 
 
 " The summer goes, the winter comes — 
 We cannot rule the year ; 
 I ween, we cannot rule the ways, 
 Sir John, wherein we'd steer." 
 
 The cruel ice came floating on. 
 
 And closed beneath the lee. 
 Till the thickening waters dashed no more, — * 
 'Twas ice around, behind, before — 
 
 My God ! there is no sea ! 
 
 " What think you of the whaler now ? 
 What of the Esquimaux? 
 A sled were better than a ship. 
 To cruise through ice and snow." 
 
 Down sank the baleful crimson sun. 
 
 The Northern Light came out. 
 And glared upon the ice-bound ships. 
 
 And shook its spears about. 
 
 The snow came down, storm breeding storm, 
 
 And on the decks was laid ; 
 Till the weary sailor, sick at heart. 
 
 Sank down beside his spade. 
 
 " Sir John, the night is black and long, 
 The hissing wind is bleak, 
 
ONE HUNDRED CHOICK SELECTIONS 
 
 The hard, green ice is strrmg as death ; 
 1 prithee, Captain, speak I " 
 
 " The night is neitlier bright nor short, 
 The singing breeze is cold. 
 The ice is not so strong as liope — 
 The heart of man is bold." 
 
 " What hope can scale this icy wall, 
 High o'er the main flag-stall? 
 Above the ridges the wolf and bear 
 Look down with a patient, settled stare, 
 Look down on us and laugh." 
 
 The summer went, the winter came — 
 
 We could not rule the year; 
 But summer will melt the ice again, 
 And open a path to the sunny main, 
 
 Whereon our ships shall steer. 
 
 The winter went, the summer went, 
 
 The winter came around ; 
 But the hard, green ice was strong as death, 
 And the voice of hope sank to a breath. 
 
 Yet caught at every sound. 
 
 " Hark ! heard you not the noise of guns? 
 
 And there, and there again ? " 
 " 'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar. 
 
 As he turns in the frozen main." 
 
 "Hurrah! hurrah! the Esquimaux 
 Across the ice-fields steal." 
 > " God give them grace for their charity 1 
 Ye pray for I lie hilly seal." 
 
 " Sir John, where are the English fields? 
 And where are the English trees? 
 And where are the little English flowers 
 That open in the breeze ?" 
 
 " Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 
 You shall see the fields again, 
 And smell the scent of the opening flowers, 
 The grass and the waving grain." 
 
 ■' Oh ! when shall I see my orphan child? 
 
 My Mary waits for me." 
 " Oh ! when shall I see my old mother. 
 
 And pray at her trembling knee?" 
 
 " Be si ill, be still, my brave sailors, 
 Think not such thoughts again !" 
 But a tear froze slowly on his cheek ; 
 He thought of Lady Jane. 
 
NUMBKU ONE. ID 
 
 All ! bitter, bittoi- grows llic cold, 
 
 Tlij ice grows more and more ; 
 More settled stare the wolf uiid boar, 
 
 More patient than before. 
 
 "Oh ! think yon, good Sir John Franklin, 
 We'll ever see Ihe land? 
 'Twas crnel to send us here to starve, 
 Without a helping hand. 
 
 " 'Twas cruel to send us here, Sir John, 
 So far from help or home, 
 To starve and freeze on this lonely sea: 
 I ween the Lords of the Admiralty 
 Had rather send than come." 
 
 " Oh ! whether we starve to death alone, 
 Or sail to our own country. 
 We have done what man has never done — 
 The ojien ocean danced in the sun — 
 We passed the Norlheru Sea!" 
 
 KANE.— FiTZ-J.\MES O'BiaEx. 
 
 DIED TEBRUAEY J9, 1S57. 
 
 Aloft upon an old basaltic crag. 
 
 Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the Pole, 
 Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
 Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
 A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag 
 
 Flutters alone, _ 
 
 And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
 
 Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced; 
 Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, 
 But with a rocky purpose in his soul. 
 Breasted the gathering snows, 
 Clung to the drifting floes. 
 By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, 
 Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. 
 
 Not many months ago we greeted him. 
 Crowned with the icy lienors of the North, 
 Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, 
 
 And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. 
 
 His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, 
 Burst from decorous quiet as he came. 
 Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame. 
 
 Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim. 
 
 Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged West, 
 From out his giant breast. 
 
2(D ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Yellsd its frank weloome. And from main to main, 
 Jubilai.'t to the sky, 
 Thundered tlie mighty cry, 
 HoNOE TO Kane ! 
 
 In vain— in vain beneath his feet we flung 
 The reddening roses! All in vain we poured 
 The Kolden wine, and round the shining board 
 Sent tlie toast circling, till the rafters rung 
 AVith the thrice-tripled honors of the feast! 
 Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased 
 Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, 
 Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, 
 
 Faded and faded ! And the brave young heart 
 That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed 
 Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
 For the lost captain, now within his breast 
 
 More and more faintly throbbed. 
 His was the victory : but as his grasp 
 Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, 
 
 Death launched a whistling dart ; 
 And ere the thunders of applause were done 
 His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
 Too late -too late the splendid prize he won 
 In the Olympic race of science and of art! 
 Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, 
 Drifts from the white North to a troi)ic zone, 
 And in the burning day 
 Wastes peak by peak away. 
 Till on some rosy even 
 It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he 
 Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea. 
 And melted into heaven. 
 
 He needs no tears, who lived a noble life ! 
 We will irot weep for him who dic<l so well ; 
 But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 
 The story of his strife. 
 Such homage suits him well ; 
 Better than funeral pomp, or jjassing bel}. 
 
 What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
 Prisoned fimid the fastnesses of ice. 
 
 With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow! 
 
 Night lengthening into months; the ravenous floe 
 Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear 
 Crunches his prey. The insufficient share 
 
 Of loathsome food ; 
 The lethargy of famine: the despair 
 
 Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued ; 
 
 Toil dyne with skinny arms, and faces hued 
 
NUMBER ONE. 2J 
 
 Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
 Uliinuiered the fading embers of a mind. 
 That awful hour, when through the prostrate band 
 Delirium stalked, laying his Burning hand 
 
 Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew; 
 
 The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 
 
 At first, but deepening ever till they grew 
 Into black thoughts of murder: such the throng 
 Of horrors bound the hero. " High the song 
 Should be that hymns the noble part he played! 
 Sinking himself— yet ministering aid 
 
 To all around him. By a mighty wJU 
 
 Living defiant of the wants that kill. 
 Because his death would seal his comrades' fate ; 
 
 Clieering with ceaseless and inventive skill 
 Those Polar waters, dark and desolate. 
 Equal to evei^ trial, every fate. 
 
 He stands, until spring, tardy with relief^ 
 Unlocks the iiy gate. 
 And the pale prisoners thread the world once more. 
 To the steep difis of Greenland's ]ia.storal shore 
 Bearing their dying chief. 
 
 Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold 
 
 From royal hands, who wooed llie knightly state ; 
 The knell of old formalities is tolled, 
 
 And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. 
 No grander episode doth chivalry hold 
 
 In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
 
 Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain. 
 Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold. 
 
 By the good Cliristian knight, Ki j.sii.\ Kane. 
 
 DISCOVERIES OF GALILEO.— Edward Evebett. 
 
 There are occasions in life in which a great mind lives years 
 of rapt enjoyment in a moment. I can fancy the emotions of 
 Galileo when, first raising the newly-constructed telescope 
 to the heavens, he saw fulfilled the grand prophecy of Coper- 
 nicus, and beheld the planet Venus crescent like the moon. 
 
 It was such another moment as that, when the immortal 
 printers of Mentz and Stratburg received (he first copy of the 
 Bible into their hands, the work of theirdivine art ; like tjiat, 
 when ColumVHis, through the gray dawn of the 12th of Octo- 
 ber, 1492, beheld the shores of San Salvador; like that, when 
 the law of gravitation first revealed itself to the intellect of 
 Newton ; like that, when Franklin saw, by the stiffening fibres 
 
22 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTION' S 
 
 of the henipen cord of hio kite, tliat lie held the lifjhiniiig 
 in his grasp; like that, when Leverrier received back fruni 
 Berlin the tidings that the predicted planet was found. 
 
 Yes, noble Galileo, thou art right. "It does move." Bigots 
 may make thee recant it, but it moves, nevertheless. Yes, the 
 earth moves, and the planets move, and the mighty walcrtj 
 move, and the great sweeping tides of air move, and the em- 
 pires of men move, and the world of thought moves, ever on- 
 ward and upward, to higher facts and bolder theories. Tlie 
 Inquisition may seai thy lips, but they can no more stop the 
 progress of the great- truth propounded by Copernicus, and 
 demonstrated by thee, than they can stop the revolvingeartli. 
 
 Close, now, venerable sage, that sightless, tearful eye ; it has 
 seen what man never before saw ; it has seen enough. Hang 
 up that poor little spy-glass; it has done its work. Not Her- 
 schel nor Rosse have, comparatively, done more. Franciscans 
 and Dominicans deride thy discoveries now, but the time will 
 come when, from two hundred observatories in Europe and 
 America, the glorious artillery of science shall nightly assault 
 the skies; but they shall gain no conquests in those glitter- 
 ing fields before which thine shall be forgotten. 
 
 Rest in peace, great Colunmbus of the heavens; — like him, 
 scorned, iiersecnted, broken-lieiirfed ! — in other ages, in dis- 
 tant hemispheres, when the votaries of science, with solemn 
 acts of consecration, shall dedicate their stately edifices to t lie 
 cause of knowledge and truth, thy name shall be mentioned 
 with honor. 
 
 OWED TO THE STEEM FIRE ENGINE.— A. Skwirt. 
 
 Grate ingine ! yon have eradicated fire machines 
 Worked by human mussel. Grate ingine ! You 
 Skwirt on tops of houses where the (lames 
 Protrude, and you immediately eckstinguish. 
 Grate Ingine! — 
 
 Stupenduowus steem pump! You suck. You 
 Draw up, and you skwirt water on the raging 
 And devowring clanient commonly known as 
 Fire. And you suckseat in kwcnching the aforesede. 
 
 Stupendoowns steem pumj)! 
 Mitey destroyer of ignited kombustibuls. When you 
 < id to a cistern, you run your sucktions in. 
 Your cnjinear puts on adishional steem, 
 And you j)rocoed forthwith to darken down calighted matter. 
 
 Mitey destroyer of ignited kombustibuls ! 
 
NUMBER ONE. 
 
 Grand ecksterininator of blaseiiig materinl ! You 
 Must feel proud bekause you have plenty 
 Of water on hand and don't use 
 Spiritous lickers^You don't work much 
 Bekause you have nothing to do. 
 
 Grate exterminator of blaseing material 1 
 
 Wonderful Infantile Water Works ! You have 
 Superseded the laboring etiorts of indi- 
 viduals to perfect hand pumps. And you 
 Now stand out in bass rclievus to the enemy 
 Of tlame. Because you always come out iirst bestl 
 Wonaerful Infantile Water Works! 
 
 Thou spreader of the akweous fluid ! You 
 Know full well, your hundred feet of pipe iu 
 Your biler, big wheals, little waives, 
 &c., are death to the old fire boys and 
 Useful to Insurance Companies. 
 
 Thou spreader of the akweous fluid ! 
 
 Steem Fire Engine — your useful. You 
 Use wood and koal — you make 
 A big noise with your whistle, and 
 You leave a streak of fire behind yon 
 In the streat. But steem Fire Ingine your 
 Usefiil. Your a — u trump — Go on — 
 Go on Sleani Fin; Ingine! 
 
 Go on— Gralo old Skwirt ! 
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE.— John G. Whittiee. 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn. 
 The clustered spires of Frederick etanl, 
 Green-walled by the hills of IVIarylaiid. 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 
 
 Fair as a garden of the Lord, 
 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,. 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, 
 When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 
 Over the mountains winding down, 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 Forty flags with their silver stars. 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars. 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 
 B* 
 
ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
 Bowed with her four score years and ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down. 
 
 In her attic-window the staff she set, 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stouewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 
 He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 
 
 " Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast| 
 " Fii'e ! "—out blazed the rifle-blast. 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and sash. 
 It rent th% banner with seam and gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, 
 Datne Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 
 
 She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head. 
 But spare your country's flag," she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 To life at that woman's deed and word. 
 
 " Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog ! March on 1 " he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 
 
 All day long that free flag tossed 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 
 
 And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
 Shone over it with a warm good-night. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. 
 
 And the rebel rides on his raids no mor6, 
 
 Honor to her ! and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave. 
 Flag of Freedom and Union, wave 1 
 
KUJiBi;n ONE. 25 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Round thy symbol of light and law ; 
 
 And ever the stars abov^look down 
 Ou thy stars below in Frederick towiu 
 
 THE STUDENT. 
 
 "I have seen the pale student, bonding over his written volume, or studying 
 the exhaustless tumofl of nature, until the springii of life were dried up, and — 
 ^ediedj" y 
 
 "Poor fool!" the base and soulless worldling cries, 
 
 "To waste his strength for naught,— to blanch his cheek, 
 
 And bring pale death upon him in his prime. 
 
 Why did he not to pleasure give his days, — 
 
 His nights to rest, — ^iid live while live he might?" 
 
 What i^'t to live ? To breathe the vital air, 
 
 Consume the fruits of earth, and doze away 
 
 Existence? Never! this is living death, — 
 
 'Tis brutish life, — base groveling. K'en the brutes 
 
 Of nobler nature live not lives like this. 
 
 Shall man, then, formed to be creation's lord, 
 
 Stamped with the impress of Divinity, and sealed 
 
 With OoJ's own signet, sink below tlie-brute ? 
 
 Forbid it, Heaven! it cannot, mivd not be! 
 
 Oh! when the mighty God from nothing brought 
 This universe,— when at His word the light 
 Burst forth, — the sun was set in heaven, 
 And earth was clothed in beauty; when the last. 
 The noblest work of all, from dust He framed 
 Our bodies in His image, when He placed 
 Within its temple-shrine of clay, the soul, — 
 The immortal soul,^nfused by His own truth, 
 Did He not show, 'tis this whicli gives to man 
 His high prerogative? Wliy then declare 
 That he who thinks less of his worthless frame, 
 And lives a spirit, even in this vvorkl, 
 Lives not as well, — lives not as long, — as he 
 Who drags out years of life, without one thought, 
 One hope, one wish, beyond the present hour? 
 
 How shall we measure life? Not by the years, — 
 The months, — the days, — the moments that we pass 
 On earth. By him whose soul is raised above 
 Base worldly things, — whose heart is fixed in heaven, — 
 His life is measured by tliat soul's advance. 
 Its cleansing from pollution and from sir, 
 The enlargement of its powers, the expanded field 
 2 
 
2(0 ONE UUXDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Wherein it ranges,— till it glows and burns 
 AVith holy joys, — with high and heavenly hopes. 
 
 When in the silent nighl, all earth lies hushed 
 In slmnlser,— when the glorious stars shine out, 
 Each star a sun) each suji a central light 
 Of some fair system, ever wheeling on 
 In one unbroken round and that again 
 Revolving round another sun, — while all. 
 Suns, stars, and systems proudly roll along 
 In one majestic ever-onward course 
 In space uncircumscribed and limitless, — 
 Oh! think you then the undebased s>oul 
 Can calmly give itself to sleep, — to rest ? 
 
 No! in the solemn stillness of the night, 
 It soars from earth, — it dwells in angels' homes, — 
 It hears the burning song, — the glowing chant. 
 That fills the sky-girt vaults of heaver with joy! 
 It pants, it sighs, to wing its flight fi'om earth, 
 To join the heavenly choirs, and be with God. 
 
 And it is joy to muse upon the written page, 
 
 Whereon are stamped the gushings of the soul 
 
 Of genius; — where, in never-dying light, 
 
 It glows and flashes as the lightning's glare ; 
 
 Or whore it burns with ray more mild, more sure, 
 
 And wins the soul, that half would turn away 
 
 From its more brilliant flashings. These are hours 
 
 Of holy joy — of bliss so pure that earth 
 
 May hardly claim it. Let his lamp grow dim, 
 
 And flicker to extinction ; let his cheek 
 
 Be pale as sculptured marble, and his eye 
 
 Losa its bright lustre, till his shrouded frame 
 
 Is laid iji dust. Himself can never die ! 
 
 His 1/cars, 'tis true, are few, — his lifr is long ; 
 For he has gathered many a precious gem ; 
 Enraptured, he has dwelt where master minds 
 Have poured their own deep musings, and his heart 
 Has glowed with love to Him who framed us thus, 
 "Who placed within this worthless tegument 
 The spark of pure Divinity which shines 
 With light unceasing. 
 
 Yes, his life is long, — 
 Long to the dull and loathsome epicure's, — 
 Long to the slothful man's— the groveling herds' 
 AVho scarcely know they have a soul within,— 
 Long to all those who, creeping on to death. 
 Meet in the grave, the earth-worm's banquet-h.nll, 
 And Icv.ve be'hind no monuments for good. 
 
N U M B li K O N K. 27 
 
 THE TWO ROADS— Jean Paul Riohtkr. 
 
 It was New Year's niaht. An ag^d man was standing at a 
 window. He mournfully raised his eyes towards tlie deep 
 blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on 
 the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the 
 earth, where few more helpless beings than himself were 
 moving towards their inevitable goal — the tomb. Already 
 he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he hiid 
 brought from hi^ourney nothing but errors and remorse. 
 His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart 
 sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort; 
 
 The days of his youth ro.se up in a vision before him, and 
 he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed 
 him at the entrance of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, 
 sunny land, covered witli a fertile harvest, and resounding 
 with soft, sweet songs ; while the other conducted the wan- 
 derer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, 
 'where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents 
 hissed and crawled. 
 
 He looked towards the sky, and cried out, in his anguish : 
 " youth, return ! my father, place me Once more at the 
 crossway of life, that I may choose the better road!" But 
 the days of his youth had passed away, and his parents were 
 with the departed. He saw wandering lights float over dark 
 m.irshes, and then disappear. "Such," he said, "were the 
 days of my wasted life !" He saw a star shoot from heaven, 
 and vanish in darkness athwart the church-yard. "Behold 
 an emblem of myself!" he exclaimed ; and the sharp arrows 
 of unavailing remorse struck him to the heart. 
 
 Then he remembered his early companions, who had en- 
 tered life with him, but who having trod the paths of virtue 
 and industry, were now happy and honored on this New 
 Ye ir's night. The clock in the high church-tower struck, 
 and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled the many tokens 
 of the love of hi.j parents for him, their erring son ; the les- 
 sons they had taught him ; the prayers they had oflerednpin 
 his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no 
 longer look towards that heaven where they dwelt. His 
 darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, 
 he <;ried aloud, " Come back, my early days ! Come back !" 
 
 And his youth i/d return ; for all this had been but a dream, 
 visiting his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still 
 young; his errors only were no dream. He thanked God 
 
23 ONE nUXUKED C HOICK di; LECTIONS 
 
 fervently that time was still his own ; that he had not yet en- 
 tered the deep, dark cavern, but that lit' was free to tread the 
 road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave. 
 Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which 
 path to choose, remember that when years shiril be passed, 
 and your feet shall stumble on the dark mountain, you will 
 cry bitterly, but cry in vain, " O youth, return ! Oh, give me 
 back my early days ! " 
 
 ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND, MARCH 7, 18G2. 
 
 GEORGli H. BOKER. 
 
 "Stand to your guns, men!" Morris .cried ; 
 
 Small need to pass the word ; 
 Our men at quarters ranged themselves 
 
 Before' the drum was heard. 
 
 And then began the sailors' jests: 
 
 " What thing is that, I say ? " 
 "A 'long-shore meeting-house adrift 
 
 Is standing down the bay ! " 
 
 A frown came over Morris' face ; 
 
 The strange, dark craft he knew : 
 " That is the iron Merrimac, 
 
 Manned by a rebel crew. 
 
 " So shot your guns and point them straight: 
 
 Before this day goes by. 
 We'll try of what her metal's made." 
 
 A cheer was our reply. 
 
 " Remember, boys, this flag of ours 
 
 Has seldom left its place ; 
 And where it falls, the deck it strikes 
 
 Is covered with disgrace. 
 
 " I ask but this ; or sink or swim, 
 
 Or live or nobly die, 
 My last sight upon earth may be 
 
 To see that ensign fly ! " 
 
 Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass 
 
 Came moving o'er the wave, 
 As gloomy as a passing hearse, 
 
 As silent as the grave. 
 
 Her ports were closed ; from stem to stern 
 
 No sign of life appeared : 
 Wc wondered, questioned, strained our eyes 
 
 Joked— every thing but feared. 
 
K U M 13 K U ONE. 
 
 She reached our range. Our broadside rang ; 
 
 Our heavy pivots roared ; 
 And shot and shell, a tire of hell, 
 
 Against her side we poured. 
 
 God's mercy ! from her sloping roof 
 
 The iron tempest glanced, 
 As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch. 
 
 And round her leaded and danced; 
 
 Or when against her dusky hull 
 
 We struck a fair, full blow, 
 The mighty, solid iron globes 
 
 Were crumbled up like snow. 
 
 On, on, with fast increasing speed, 
 
 The silent monster came. 
 Though all our starboard battery 
 
 Was one long line of flame. 
 
 She heeded not ; no guns she fired ; 
 
 Straight on our bows she bore ; 
 Through riving plank and crashing frame 
 
 Her furious way she tore. 
 
 Alas ! our beautiful, keen bow, 
 
 That in the fiercest blast 
 So gently folded back the seas. 
 
 They hardly felt we passed. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! my Cumberland, 
 
 That ne'er knew grief before, 
 To be so gored, to feel so deep 
 
 The tusk of that sea-boar ! 
 
 Once more she backward drew apace ; 
 
 Once more our side she rent. 
 Then, in the wantonness of hate, 
 
 Her broadside through us sent. 
 
 The dead and dying round us lay, 
 
 But our foemen lay abeam ; 
 Her open port-holes maddened us, 
 
 We fired with shout and scream. 
 We felt our vessel settling fast ; 
 
 We knew our time was brief: 
 " Ho ! man the pumps ! " But they who worked, 
 
 And fought not, wept with grief. 
 
 " Oh ! keep us but an hour afloat I 
 
 Oh ! give us only time 
 To mete unto yon rebel crew 
 
 The measure of their crime ! " 
 
 From captain down to powder-boy, 
 No hand was idle then : 
 
o'<) ONE lIUXURJiD CUOI'.E SELliCTlONS 
 
 Two soldiers, but by chance aboard, 
 Fought on like sailor men. 
 
 And when a gun's crew lost a hand, 
 Some bold marine stepiied out, 
 
 And jerked his braided jacket off, 
 And hauled the gun about. 
 
 Our forward magazine was drowned. 
 
 And up from the sick-b»y 
 Crawled out the wounded, red with blood, 
 
 And round us gasping lay ; — 
 
 Yes, cheering, calling us by name, 
 
 Struggling with failing breath 
 To kee|) their shipmates at the post 
 
 Where glory strove with death. 
 
 With decks afloat and powder gone, 
 
 The last, broadside we gave 
 From the guns' heated iron lips 
 
 Burst out beneath the wave. 
 
 So sponges, rammers, and handspikes — 
 As men-of-war's men should — 
 
 AVe placed within their i)roper racks. 
 And at our quarters stood. 
 
 " U|i to the spar deck ! save yourselves ! " 
 Cried Selfridgo. '■ Up, my men ! 
 
 God grant that some of us may live 
 To fight yon ship again ! " 
 
 We turned : we did not like to go; 
 
 Yet staying seemed but vain, 
 Knee-deep in water; so we left; 
 
 Some swore, some groaned with pain. 
 
 We reached the deck. There Randall stood: 
 
 "Another turn, men — so!" 
 Calmly he aimed his jiivot gun : 
 
 " Now, Tenny, let her go ! " 
 
 It did our sore hearts good to hear 
 
 The song our pivot sang. 
 As rushing on from wave to wave 
 
 The whirring bomb-shell sprang. 
 
 Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, 
 
 And waved liis cap in sport; 
 " Well done ! well aimed ! I saw that shell 
 
 Go through an open port ! " 
 
 It was oin- last, our deadliest shot ; 
 
 The deck was overflown ; 
 The poor ship staggered, lurched to port, 
 
 And gave a living groan. 
 
N U M B li 11 O N E . 'SI 
 
 Down, down, as iK'adlun;^ tliroujj;li Ihe waves, 
 
 Our gallant vessel rnshed ; 
 A thousand gurgling; watery sounds 
 
 Around my seuses gushed. 
 
 Then I remember little more; 
 
 One look to heaven I gave. 
 Where, like an angel's wing, I saw 
 
 Our spotless ensign wave. 
 
 I tried to eheer. I cannot say 
 
 Whether 1 swam or sank ; 
 A blue miift closed around iny eyes, 
 
 And every thing was blajik. 
 
 When I awoke, a soldier lad. 
 
 All dripping from the sea. 
 With two great tears upon his cheeks. 
 
 Was bending over my. 
 
 I tried to sjieak. He understood 
 
 The wish I could not speak. 
 He turned me. There, thank God ! the flag 
 
 Still fluttered at the peak ! 
 
 And there, while thread shall hang to thread, 
 
 Oh, let that ensign fly ! 
 The noblest constellation set 
 
 Against the northern sky, — 
 
 A sign thiL we who live may claim 
 
 The iiejrage of The brave ; 
 A nionninerit that needs no scroll, 
 
 For those beneath the wave. 
 
 SHERIDAN'S RIDE.— Thomas Buoin.vAN Re.xi. 
 
 XJ)) from the South at break of day, 
 
 Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay. 
 
 The aff'righted air with a shudder ))ore. 
 
 Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, 
 
 The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
 
 Telling the battle was on once more, 
 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 And wider still those billows of war 
 Thundered along the horizon's bar ; 
 And loud.3r yet into Winchester rolled 
 The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
 Making the blood of the listener cold, 
 As he tbou(.dit of the stake in that fiery fray. 
 And Sheridan i iventy miles awaj'. 
 
ij ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 But there is a road from Winchester town, 
 
 A good, liruad highway leading down ; 
 
 And there tliruugli the tiush of the morning light, 
 
 A steed as black as the steeds of night, 
 
 AVas seen to pass, as with eagle flight. 
 
 As if he knew the terrible need. 
 
 He stretched away with his ntmost sjieed; 
 
 Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay. 
 
 With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 
 
 Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, 
 The dust, like smuke from the cannon's moulh ; 
 Or the trail of a comet, srtfeping faster and faster, 
 Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
 The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master 
 Were beating like |irisoners a-ssaulting 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 spurning feet, the road 
 
 Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed. 
 
 And the landscape s]icd away behind 
 
 Like an ocean flying before tlie wind. 
 
 And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 
 
 Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 
 
 But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; 
 
 He is snufl"ing the smoke of the roaring ^ray, 
 
 With Sheridan only five miles away. 
 
 The first that the General saw were the groups 
 
 Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; 
 
 What was done,— what to do,— a glance told him both. 
 
 And strikiug his spurs, with a terrible oath, 
 
 He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, 
 
 And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because 
 
 The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
 
 With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; 
 
 By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, 
 
 He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
 
 " I have brought you Sheridan all the way. 
 
 From Winchester down, to save the day." 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! 
 Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
 And W'hen their statues are placed on high, 
 Under the dome of the Union sky, — 
 The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, 
 There with the glorious General's name 
 Be it said in letters both bold and bright ; 
 " Here is the steed that saved the day 
 By carrying Sheridan into tlie fight. 
 From Winchester,— twenty miles away!" 
 
NUMBER ONE. 3'^ 
 
 C0URT4N' IN THE COUNTRY. -H. Elliott McBride. 
 
 Zekiel gets the "chores" done, 
 He leeds the hens and pigs, 
 Tends to the cows and calves. 
 Then he gets on his " rigs." 
 Young tow-heads around liim 
 Sliouting to the old 'nn, ' 
 
 • Saying they'll bet a cent 
 
 That Zeke's gettin' on his Sunday 
 go-to-in8etins just to go a holdin'. 
 
 Zeke marches to the place ; 
 
 He knocks and hears " Come in ! " 
 They're all glad to see him, 
 
 They take his shawl and pin. 
 Zeke, after looking round. 
 
 Squats on the proffered seat; 
 He hasn't much to say. 
 
 Consequently he doesn't SJiy much : 
 but all the time he keejis a lOokin' at his feet. 
 
 The old gentleman talks 
 
 Of horses and tlfe croi>s ; 
 And the old lady asks 
 
 About his mother's hops. 
 She also friendly asks 
 
 What butter they have churned? 
 Zekiel gets uneasy, 
 
 And he mentally ejaculates; 
 " Hops, butter and things be denied!" 
 
 Old folks keep a talkin' 
 
 Crickets keep a bnzzin', 
 Sally looks at Zekiel, 
 
 Zekiel keeps a fussin' ; 
 Sally tiiinks it's bedtime, 
 
 And Zekiel thinks so too ; 
 Old folks seem tickled 
 
 And keep a looking at each other. 
 and then at Zekie and Sally, as if they ku6w a ihing 
 or two. 
 
 The old man pulls his boots 
 
 And travels off to bed. 
 The old lady's yawning 
 
 And tying up her head. 
 Zekiel's feeling tickled. 
 
 Feeling kinder funny: 
 He thinks the time has come 
 
 For him to pop the question, get a wife, and 
 commence a layin' up the money. 
 
 2> 
 
34 ONE II U N 1) 1! 1! I) CHOI CI! S K L li (. 'l I O N S 
 
 Now tlie old folks are gone,. 
 
 But tSal is still n knittiii' ; 
 Zeke fidgets all around 
 
 And steps on a kitten. 
 She ask.s him why so mum? 
 
 And Zekiel hems and haws: 
 He gives an awful cough, — 
 
 Then he crosses his legs, than hemicrossesthem, 
 and then he says, " Because ! " 
 
 Zekiel clears his throat, 
 
 Then hitches up his chair ; 
 Sally looks slantin' like 
 
 As if she didn't care. 
 Zeke clears his throat asiain, 
 
 Again he hitches near; 
 And Sal, the little pet, 
 
 After knitting to the "middle of the neoille," lays 
 away her stocking and looks as if she wouldn't "skeer." 
 
 Zeke at onoe " pitched right in,'' 
 
 Flung his arms around her : 
 Said that she must be his, 
 
 She'd not get a sounder. 
 Zelie kept a holdin' on 
 
 And swore his fate he'd know ; 
 Wliile S;d could but utter, 
 
 " Zeke Jones, I'll tell you what it is, I can't 
 stand it, and I won't let you hug me so ! " 
 
 But Zeke vowed and declared, 
 
 By all things good and bad, 
 fie never would " leave go," 
 
 Till an answer he had : 
 He declared he loved her. 
 
 And his love was growin'; 
 She modestly replied : 
 
 "Zeke Jones, I would like mighty well tn be- 
 lieve you; but I'm most awfully afraid you're blowinl" 
 
 " I'll be dogged if I am ! " 
 
 Sliouts Zekiel, all in joy; 
 " Do you think I would lie — 
 
 Think I'm a lyin'boy? 
 Oh, won't you have me, Sal, 
 
 I'll tell ycm what it is — 
 If you won't liave me, Sal, 
 
 I'll go right off to the wars, and some day there 
 •will a big cannon ball come along and take ofi' my 
 head, cher biz!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'll have yon Zeke, 
 Can't let you go away ; 
 
NUMBER ONE. 35 
 
 But, Zeke, you'll have to see 
 
 What pa and ma will say." 
 When Zeke this answer got, 
 
 He trotted off " to hum," 
 And tickled was so much, 
 
 He couldn't sleep a wink that night, without 
 dreaming of the good time to couje. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM SENATOR BAKER'S SPEECH AT 
 UNION SQUARE, N. Y., April :i(l, 1861. 
 
 Fellow-citizexs, what is this country? Is it the soil on 
 which we tread? Is it the gathering uf familiar feces? Is it 
 our luxury, and pomp, and i)ride7 Nay, more than these, is it 
 po wer,and might, and majesty alone ? No, our country is more, 
 far more than all these. The country which demands our 
 love, our courage, our devotion, our heart's blood, is more than 
 all these. Our country is the history of our fathers — our 
 country is the tradition of our mothers — our country is past 
 renown — our country is present pride and power — our coun- 
 t ry is future hope and destiny — our country is greatness,glory, 
 truth, constitutional liberty — above all, freedom forever ! 
 These are the watchwords under which we fight; and we will 
 shout them out till the stars appear in the sky, in the stormi- 
 est hour of battle. Young men of New York I Young men 
 of the United States! j'ou are told this is not to bea warof ag- 
 gression. In one sense that is true; in another, not. We have 
 committed aggression upon no man. In all the broad land, 
 in their rebel nest, in their traitor's camp, no truthful man 
 can rise and say that he has ever been disturbed, though it be 
 but for a single moment, in life, liberty, estate, character, or 
 honor. The day they began this unnatural, false, wicked, re- 
 bellious warfare, their lives were more seeure, their property 
 more secure, by us— not by themselves, bnt by us — guarded 
 far more securely than any people ever have had their lives 
 and property secured from the beginning of the world. We 
 have committed no oppression, have broken no compact, 
 have exercised no unholy power ; have been loyal, moderate, 
 constitutional, and just. We are a majority of the Union, and 
 we will govern our own Union, within our own Constitution, 
 in our own way. We are all democrats. AVe are all republi- 
 cans. We acknowledge the sovereignty of the people within 
 the rule of the Constitution ; and under that Constitution and 
 beneath that flag, let traitors beware. I would meet them 
 
36 ONE IIUXDEBD CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 upon the threshold, and there, in the very State of their 
 I)ower,in the very atmosphere of their treason, I propose that 
 the people of this Union dictate to these rebels the terms of 
 peace. It may take thirty millions; it may take three hun- 
 dred millions. What then? We have it. It may cost us seven 
 thousand men; it may cost us seventy-five thousand men in 
 battle ; it may cost us seven hu;'.dred and fifty thousand men. 
 What then? We have them. The blood of every loyal citi- 
 zen of this government is dear to me. My sons, my kins- 
 men, the young men who have grown up beneath my eye 
 and beneath my care, they are all dear to me ; but if the 
 country's destiny, glory, tradition, greatness, freedom, gov- 
 ernment, — written constitutional government, the only hope 
 of a free people — demand it, let them all go. 
 
 Let no man underrate the dangers of this controversy. 
 Civil war, for the b<^st of reasons upon the one side, and the 
 worst upon the other, is always dangerous to liberty — always 
 fearful, always bloody; but, fellow-citizens, there are yet 
 worse things than fear, than doubt and dread, and danger 
 and blood. Dishonor is worse. Perpetual anarchy is worse. 
 States forever commingling and forever severing are worse. 
 Traitors and secessionists are worse. To have star after star 
 blotted out — to have stripe after stripe obscured — to have 
 glory after glory dimmed — to have our women weep and our 
 men blush for shame throughout generations to come — that 
 and these are infinitely worse than blood. When we march, 
 let us not march for revenge. As yet we have nothing to re- 
 venge. It is not much that where that tattered flag waved, 
 guarded by seventy men against ten thousand ; it is not much 
 that starvation effected what an enemy could not compel. 
 We have as yet something to punish, but nothing or very lit- 
 tle to revenge. The President himself, a hero without know- 
 ing it — and I speak from knowledge, having known him from 
 boyhood — the President says : " There are wrongs to be re- 
 dressed, already long enough endured." And we march to 
 battle and to victory because we do not choose to endure this 
 wrong any longer. They pre wrongs not merely against us — 
 not against you, Mr. President — not against me — but against 
 our sons and against our grandsons that surround us. They 
 are wrongs against our Union ; they are wrongs against our 
 Constitution ; thej' are wrongs against human hope and hu- 
 man freedom; and thus, if it be avenged, still, as Burke says: 
 " It is a wild justice at last." Only thus we will revenge 
 them. The national bannSrs, leaning from ten thousand 
 ^ windows in your city to-day, proclaim your affection and 
 
NUMBHMl ONE. 37 
 
 reverence for the Union. You will gather in battalions 
 
 *' Patient of tuil, serene amidst alarmB, 
 * Inflexible in I'aitii, invincible in arnis ; " 
 
 and as you gather, every omen of present concord and ulti- 
 mate peace will surround you. The ministers of religion, the 
 priests of literature, the historians of the past, the illustrators 
 of the present, capital, science, art, invention, discoveries, the 
 works of genius — all these will attend us in otir march, and 
 we will conquer. And if, from the far Pacific, a voice feebler 
 than the feeblest,murmur upon its shore may be heard to 
 give you courage and hope in the contest, that voice is yours 
 to-day; and if a man whose hair is gray, wh(j is w(41-nigb 
 worn out in the battle and toil of life, may pledge himself 
 on such an occasion and in such an audience, let me say, as 
 my last word, that when, amid sheeted fire and flame, I saw 
 and led the hosts of New York as they charged in contest 
 upon a foreign soil for the honor of your flag, so again, if 
 Providence shall will it, this feeble hand shall draw a sword, 
 never yet dishonored — not to fight for distant honor in a 
 foreign land, but to fight for coimtry, fur home, for law, for 
 Government, for Constitution, for right, for freedom, for 
 humanity; and in the hope that the banner of my country 
 may advance, and wheresoever that banner waves, there 
 glory may pursue and freedom be established. 
 
 THE FAMINE.— H. W. Lon'gfisllow. 
 
 Oh the long and dreary winter! 
 Oh 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 
 Tlirough the forest, round the village. 
 Hardly from his buried wigwam 
 Could the hunter force a passage ; 
 With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
 Vainly walked he through the forest. 
 Sought for bird or beast and found none, 
 Saw no track of deer or rabbit. 
 In the snow beheld no footiirints, 
 In the ghastly, gleaming forest 
 Fell, and could not rise from weakness. 
 Perished there from cold and hun^icr. 
 
ONE nUNDRED CHOICE SELKCTIONS 
 
 Oh the famine and the fever! 
 Oh the wasting of the famine! 
 Oh the blasting of the fever! 
 Oh the wailing of the children ! 
 Oh the anguish of the women ! 
 All the earth was sick and famished; 
 Hungry was tlie air around them, 
 Hungry was the sky above them, 
 And the hungry stars in heaveii 
 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, 
 Sat there without word of welcome 
 In the seat of Laughing Water; 
 Looked witli haggard eyes and hollow 
 At the face of Laughing Water. 
 And the foremost said : " Behold inc 1 
 I am Famine, Bukadawin ! " 
 And the other said : " Behold mo ! 
 I am Fever, Ahkosowiti!" 
 And the lovely Minnelmha 
 SImddered as they looked upon her, 
 Shuddered at the words tliey uttered, 
 Lay down, on her bed in silence. 
 Hid her face, but nnde no answer ; 
 Lay there trembling, freezing, Durning 
 At the looks they cast upon her. 
 At the fearful words they uttered. 
 
 Forth into the empty forest 
 Rushed the maddened 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. 
 Wrapped in fnrs and armed for hunting 
 With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
 AVith 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 iluldren food, O Father! 
 Give us food, or we mu t ])crish ! 
 Give me food for Minnehalm, 
 
NUMBRR ONE. S& 
 
 For my dying Miiiiu'halia!" 
 Through the far-resounding forest, 
 'i'hrough the forest vast and vacant 
 lUng that cry of desolation, 
 Uut there came no other answer 
 Than the echo of liis crying, 
 Tlian the echo of the woodlands, 
 
 "MiNNJSUAUa! MiNNBiiAUA!" 
 
 All day long roved Hiawatha 
 In that melancholy forest, 
 Through tile shadow of whusf thickets^ 
 In the pleasant days of summer, 
 Of that ne'er forgotten summer, 
 He had brought his young wife homeward 
 From the laud of the D.uolahs; 
 When the birds sang in the thickets, 
 And the sirenmlets laughed and glihtened. 
 And tiie air was full of fragrance, 
 And the loving 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 watched 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, 
 "'Tisthe night-wind in the pine-trees!" 
 " Look I " she said, " I see my father 
 Standing lonely ijt his doorway, 
 Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
 In the land of the Dacotahs! " 
 "No, my child!" said old Nokomis, 
 " 'Tis the smoke that waves and bed.ons!" 
 "Ah ! '' she said, " the eyes of Pauguii 
 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 Jlinnehaha 
 n 
 
10 ONE IIUNDRKD CHOICE Sri. ECTl OSS 
 
 Calling to him la the darkness, 
 " Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 
 
 Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
 TJiider snow-encumbered branches. 
 Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
 Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
 Heard Nokoniis moaning, wailing; 
 " Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
 Would that I bad perished for yon. 
 Would that I wer« dead as you arei 
 Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 
 And he rushed into the wigwam. 
 Saw the old Nokoniis slowly 
 Eocking to and fro and moaning, 
 Saw hia lovely Minnehaha 
 Lying dead and cold before him. 
 And his bursting heart within him 
 Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
 That the forest moaned and shuddered, 
 Tliat the very stars in heaven 
 Shook and trembled with his anguish. 
 
 Then he sat down still and speechless, 
 On the bed of Minnehaha, 
 At the feet of Laughing Water, 
 . At those willing feet, that never 
 Mure would lightly run to meet him, 
 Never more would lightly follow. 
 With both hands his face he covered, 
 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 ■ 
 Clothed her in her richest garments. 
 Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, 
 Covered her with snow, like ermine : 
 Thus they buried Minnehaha. 
 And at night a fire was lighted. 
 On her grave four times was kindlexi. 
 For her soul upon its journey 
 To the Islands of the Blessed. 
 From hia doorw.iy Hiawatha 
 Saw it burning in the forest, 
 Lighting up the gloomy hemlock.? ; 
 From his sleepless bed uprising, 
 From the bed of Minnehaha, 
 
NUMBER ONE. 41 
 
 Stood and watched it at the doorway. 
 That it might not be extinguished, 
 Miglit not leave her in the darkness. 
 
 " Farewell I " said he, " Minnehaha ; 
 Farewell, O my Laughing Water I 
 All my heart is buried with you, 
 All my thoughts go onward with youl 
 Come not back again to labor. 
 Come not back again to suffer, 
 Where the Famine and the Fever 
 Wear the heart and waste the body. 
 Soon my task will be completed, 
 Soon your footsteps I sliall follow 
 To the Islands of the Blessed, 
 To the Kingdom of Ptmemah, 
 To the Land of the Hereafter! " 
 
 SCOTT AND THE VETERAN.— Bavakd Taylor. 
 
 An old and crippled veteran to the War Department came, 
 He sought the Chief who led him on many a tiuld of fame — 
 The Chiefwho shouted "Forward!" where'er his banner rose, 
 And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes. 
 
 "Have you forgotten. General," the battered soldier cried, 
 "The days of eighteen hundred twelve,whenl was at your side? 
 Have yoTi forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane? 
 'Tis true, I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again." 
 
 " Have I forgotten ?" said the Chief: " my brave old soldier, no! 
 And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so ; 
 But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, 
 
 old, and gray. 
 And we have need of younger armsand fresher blood to-day." 
 
 " But, General," cried the veteran, a flush njion his brow, 
 "The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors now: 
 They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old red, white, 
 
 and bine. 
 And wliile a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true. 
 
 "I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun, 
 To get the range of traitors' hearts,and prick them,one by one. 
 Your Minie rifles and such arms,it ain't worth while to try ; 
 I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my powder dry I" 
 
 "God bless yo>i, comrade ! " said the Chief,— "God bless your 
 
 loyal heart ! 
 But younger men are in the field, and claim to have a part; 
 They'll plant our sacred banner firm, in each rebellious town, 
 And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down !" 
 
VJ ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 ''But, General!" — still persisting, the weeping veteran cried, 
 " I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide ; 
 And some you know, must bite the dust, and that,atleaKt,ianl; 
 So give the young ones \i\m-e to tight, but me a place to die! 
 
 " If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in command 
 Put me upon the rami)art with the flag-stafiFin my hand: 
 No odds howhotthecannon-smoke, or how the shell may flj', 
 I'll hold the Stars and Strijies aloft, and hold them till I die ! 
 
 "I'm ready. General; so youlet a post to me be given. 
 Where Washington can look at me, as he looks down from 
 
 Heaven, 
 And say to Putnam at his side, or. may be, (General Wayne, — 
 ' There stands old Billy Johnson,who fought at Lundy's Lane !' 
 
 "And when the fight is raging hot, before the traitors fly. 
 When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky, 
 If any shot should pierce througli me, and lay me on my face. 
 My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's place !" 
 
 THE GHOST. 
 
 'Tis about twenty years since Abel Law, 
 A short, round-favored, merry 
 Old soldier of the Revolutionary 
 War, 
 
 Was wedded to 
 A most abominable shrew. 
 The temper, sir, of Shakspeare's Catharine 
 Could no more be compared with hers, 
 Than mine 
 With Lucifer's. 
 
 Her eyes were like a weasel's ; she had a harsh 
 Face, like a cranberry marsh, 
 All spread 
 
 With spots of white and red ; 
 Hair of the color of a wisp of straw, 
 And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. 
 The appellation of this lovely dame 
 Was Nancy ; don't forget the name. 
 
 Her brother David was a tall. 
 Good-looking chap, and that w."»s all ; 
 One of your great, big nothings, as we say 
 Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes 
 And cracking them on other folks. 
 Well, David undertook one night to play 
 The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who, 
 He knew. 
 Would be returning from a journey through 
 
NUMBEn ONE. 43 
 
 A grove of forest wood 
 
 Thiit stood 
 
 Below 
 
 The house some distance, — half a mile or so. 
 
 With a long taper 
 Cap of white paper, 
 Just made to cover 
 A wig, nearly as large over 
 As a corn-basket, and a sheet 
 With both ends made to meet 
 Across his br»ist, 
 
 ('I'he way iu wliich ghosts are always dressed,) 
 He took 
 His station near 
 A huge oak-tree. 
 Whence he could overlook 
 The road and see 
 Whatever might appear. 
 
 It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel 
 Had left the table 
 
 Of an inn, where he had made a halt. 
 With horse and wagon, 
 To taste a flagon 
 Of malt 
 
 Liquor, and so forth, which, being done. 
 He went on. 
 
 Caring no more for twenty ghosts. 
 Than if they were so many posts. 
 
 David was nearly tired of waiting j 
 His patience was abating; 
 At length, he heard the careless tones 
 Of his kinsman's voice. 
 And then the noise 
 Of wagon-wheels among the stones. 
 Abel was quite elated, and was roaring 
 With all his might, and pouring 
 Out, in great confusion. 
 
 Scraps of old songs made in- "The Kevolution." 
 His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton ; 
 And jovially he went on. 
 Scaring the whip-poor-wills among the trees 
 With rhymes like these : — [Sings ] 
 
 " See the Yankees leave the hill, 
 
 With baggernetts declining. 
 With lopped-down hats and rusty guns, 
 
 And leather aprons shining. 
 
 See the Yankees— Wh oa ! Why, what is that ? " 
 Said Abel, staring like a cat, 
 
41 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 As slowly on the fearful figure strode 
 Into tlie middle of the road. 
 
 " My conscience, what a suit of clothes ! 
 Some crazy fellow, I supiiose. 
 
 Hallo! friend, what's your name? by the powers of gin, 
 That's a strange dress to travel in." 
 " lie silent, Abel ; f.jr I now have come 
 To read yonr doom ; 
 
 Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. 
 1 am a spirit — " 
 
 " I suppose you are ; 
 But you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell you why: 
 Here is a fact which you can not deny; — 
 All spirits must be either good 
 Or bad, — that's understood, — 
 And be yon good or evil, I am sure 
 That I'm secure. 
 
 If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil, — 
 And I don't know but you may be the Devil, — 
 If that's the case, you'll recollect, I fancy, 
 That I am married to your sister Xaiicy ! " 
 
 OPPORTUNITY FOR WORK.— Qeorge R. Russell. 
 
 Examples of greatness and goodness before us bid us work, 
 and the changing present ofl'crs amj.le opportunity. Around 
 us, everywhere, the new crowds aside the old. Improve- 
 ment steps by seeming perfection. Discovery up.sets theories 
 and clouds over established systems. The usages of one gen- 
 eration become matters of trad' lion, for the amusement of 
 the next. Innovation rises on the site of homes reverenced 
 for early associations. Science can scarcely keep pace with 
 the names of publications, qualifying or abrogating the past. 
 Machinery becomes old iron, as its upstart successor usurps 
 its place. The new ship dashes scornfully by the naval pro- 
 digy of last year, and the steamer laughs at them both. The 
 railroad engine, as it rushes by the crumbling banks of the 
 canal, screams out its mockerj' at the barge rotting piece- 
 meal. The astronomer builds up his liypothesis, and is com- 
 forting himself among the nebulje^ when invention comes to 
 the rescue ; the gigantic telescope points upward, and lo ! the 
 raw material of which worlds are manufactured becomes the 
 centres of systems blazing in the infinite heavens, and the 
 defeated theorizor retreats into space, with his speculations. 
 
NUMBEB ON'E. 4l 
 
 to be again routed, when human ingenuity shall admit us 
 one liair-breadth further into creation. 
 
 There is no effort of science or art that may not be ex- 
 ceeded; no dei)th of philosophy that cannot be deeper 
 sounded ; no flight of imagination that may not be passed 
 by strong and soaring wing. 
 
 All nature is full of unlinown things; earth, air, water, the 
 fathomless ocean, the limitless sky, lie almost untouched be- 
 fore us. What has hitherto given prosperity and distinction, 
 has not been mo^ open to others tliun to us ; to no one, 
 past or pre.sent, more than to the .student going forth from 
 tlie school-room to-morrow. • 
 
 Let not, then, the young man eit with folded hands, call- 
 ing on Hercules. Thine own arm is the demigod. It was 
 given thee to help thyself. Go forth into the world trustful, 
 but fearless. Exalt thine adopted ca'ling or profession. Look 
 on labor as honorable, and dignify the task before thee, 
 whether it be in the study, office, counting-room, work-shop, 
 or furrowed field. There is an equality in all, and the reso- 
 lute will and yiaro heart may ennoble either. 
 
 THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 To wed, or not to wed ; — that is the question .- 
 Whether 'tis nobler in a man to suffer 
 The slings and sorrows of that blind young archer; 
 Or fly to arms against a host of troubles. 
 And at the altar end them. To woo— to wed- 
 No more ; and by this step to say we end 
 The heartache, and the thousand hopes and fears 
 The single suffer — 'tis a consummation 
 Devoutly to be wished. To woo — to wed ; — 
 T(i wed— perchance repent!— ay, there's the rub; 
 For in that wedded state, what woes may come 
 AVheii we have hiunched upon that untried sea 
 Must give us pause. There's the respect 
 Th.it makes Ci'libacy of so long life ; 
 For who would bear the quips and jeers of friends, 
 The husl)and's |)ity, and the coquette's scorn, 
 The vacant hearth, the solitary cell, 
 The unshared sorrow, and the void within, 
 When he himself might his redemption gain 
 With a fair damsel. Who would beauty shun 
 To toil and pi >d over a barran heath ; 
 But that the dread of something yet beyond— 
 
•Ift ONE IIUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 The undiscovered country, from whose bourne 
 
 No bachelor returns — puzzles the will, 
 
 And makes us rather bear those ills we have 
 
 Tluxn fly to others that we know not of! 
 
 Thus forethought does make cowards of us all, 
 
 And thus the native hue of resolution 
 
 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, 
 
 And numberless flirtations, long pursued. 
 
 With this regard, tlieir currents turn awry 
 
 And lose the name of marriage. 
 
 COLONEL HALPINE',< POEM, KEAD AT THE FOUXD 
 ING OF THE GETTYbliUllG MONUMENT. 
 
 As men beneath some pang of grief. 
 
 Or sudden joy will dumbly stand. 
 
 Finding no words to give relief 
 
 Clear, passion-warn>, com|)lete, and brief 
 
 To Ihouglits with which their souls expand, 
 
 So here to-day those trophies nigh. 
 
 No titling words our lips can reach ; 
 
 The liills around, the graves, the sky, 
 
 Tlie silent poem of the eye, 
 
 .Surjjasses all the art of speech ! 
 
 To-day a nation meets to build 
 
 A nation's trophy to the dead. 
 
 Who, living, formed her sword and shield, 
 
 The arms she sadly learned to wield. 
 
 When other hope of peace had fled; 
 
 And not alone for those who lie 
 
 In honored graves beibre us blest. 
 
 Shall our proud cohunn broad atid high, 
 
 Climb upwaril to the blessing sky 
 
 But be for all a monument. 
 
 An emblem of our grief as well 
 
 For others, as for these, we raise ; 
 
 For these beneath our feet who dwell, 
 
 And all who in tlio good cause fell, 
 
 On other tields in other frays. 
 
 To all the self-same love we bear 
 
 Which here for marbled memory strives ; 
 
 No soldier for a wreath would care, 
 
 Which all true comrades inight not share, — 
 
 Brothers in death as in their lives. 
 
 On southern hill-sid^s, parched and brown, 
 In tangled swamps, on verdant ridge. 
 
K U M D E 11 ONE. <:7 
 
 Whore pines and broadening oaks look down 
 And jasmine waves its yellow crown, 
 And trumpet-creepers clothe the hedge, 
 Along the shores of endless sand, 
 Beneath the palms of southern plains, 
 Sleep everywhere, hand locked m hand. 
 The brothers of the gallant band 
 Who here poured life through throbbing veins. 
 
 Around the closing eyes of all. 
 The same red glories glared and flew ; 
 The hurrying flags, the bugle call, 
 The whistle of the angry b.dl, 
 The elbow-touch of comrade true, 
 The skirmish fire, a spattering spray, 
 The long sharp growl of fire by file. 
 The thick'ning fury of the fray 
 When opening batteries get in play. 
 And the lines form o'er many a mile. 
 
 The foeman's yell, our answering cheer, 
 
 lied flashes through the gathering smoke, 
 
 Swift orders, resonant and clear. 
 
 Blithe cric^ from comrades, tried and dear, 
 
 Tlie shell-scream and the sabre stroke, 
 
 The volley fire, from left to right, 
 
 ]'"i-()m right to loft, we hear it swell, 
 
 'i 'le headlong charges, swift and bright, 
 
 1'lie thick'ning tumult of the fight. 
 
 And bursting thunders of the shell. 
 
 Now closer, denser, grows the strife. 
 And here wi' yield, and there we gain; 
 The air with hurtling missiles rife, 
 Volley for volley, life for life ; 
 No time to heed the cries of pain. 
 Panting, as up the hills we charge, 
 Or down them as we broken roll, 
 Life never felt so high, so large. 
 And never o'er so wide a range 
 In triumph swept the kindling soul. 
 
 New raptures waken in the breast, 
 Amid this hell of scene and sound. 
 The barking.batteries never rest. 
 And broken foot, by horsemen pressed, 
 Still stubbornly contest their ground ; 
 rre.'h waves of battle rolling in, 
 T' ) take the place of shattered waves ? 
 Torn lines that grow more bent and ihin, 
 -A blinding cloud, a maddening din, — 
 'xw.is then we tilled these very graves. 
 
ONE UUNDRED ClIOICl; SELECTIONS 
 
 Night falls at length with i)ityiiig veil, 
 
 A moonlit silence, deeji and Iresh. 
 
 These upturned faces, stained and pale, 
 
 Vainly the chill night dews assail ; 
 
 Far colder than the dews their flesh. 
 
 And flickering far, through brush and wood. 
 
 Go searching parties, torch in liand. 
 
 " Seize if you can some rest and food, 
 
 At dawii the fight will be renewed,— 
 
 Sleep on arms !" the hushed command. 
 
 They talk in whispers as they lie 
 
 In line, these rougti and weary men. 
 
 " Dead or but wounded ? " then a sigh ; 
 
 " Xo coffin either? " " Guess will try 
 
 To get those two g>ms back again.'' 
 
 ''We've Ave flags to their one, oho !" 
 
 "That bridge ! 'Twas not there as we passed.' 
 
 " The Colout.'l (lend ? It can't be so. 
 
 Wounded, badly, that I know. 
 
 But he kept his saddle to the last." 
 
 " Be sure to send it, if I fiill." 
 
 "Any tobacco? Bill, have yon?" 
 
 "A trown-haired, blue-eyed laughing doll." 
 
 " Good-night boys, and God keep you all." 
 
 " What, sound asleep ? Guess I'll sleep too." 
 
 "Aye, just about this hour they pray 
 
 For dad." " Stop talking, pass the word." 
 
 And soon as quiet as the clay 
 
 Which thousands will but be next day. 
 
 The long-drawn sighs of sleep are heard. 
 
 Oh ! men, to whom this sketch, though rude. 
 
 Calls back some scene of pain and pride ; 
 
 Oh ! widow, hugging close your brood. 
 
 Oh ! wife, \vi;h happiness renewed, 
 
 Since he again is at your side ;■ 
 
 This trophy that to-day we raise 
 
 Should be a monument for all. 
 
 And on its side no niggard phrase 
 
 Confine a generous nation's praise 
 
 To those who here have chanced to fall. 
 
 But let US all to-day combine 
 Still other monuments to raise ; 
 Here for the dead we bnild a shrine, 
 And now to those who crippled pine 
 Let ns give hope of happier days. 
 I/^t homes of those sad wrecks of war 
 Through all the land with speed arise; 
 
« L 31 B ^ li O N E . ii 
 
 They cry from every gainnjr scar, 
 " Lft not our brother's tomb debar 
 The wounded living from your eyes." 
 
 A noble day, a deed as good, 
 
 A noble scene in which 'tis done, 
 
 The birth-day of our nationhood, 
 
 And here again the nation stood. 
 
 On this same day its life was woul 
 
 A bloom of banners in the air, 
 
 A double calm of sky and soul, 
 
 Triumphaf chant and bugle blare. 
 
 And green fields spreading bright and fair, 
 
 As heavenward our hosannas roll. 
 
 Ilosannas for a land redeemed, 
 Tlie bayonet slieathed, the cannon dumb! 
 P.issed as some liorror we have dreamed, 
 The fiery meteors that here streamed, 
 Threat'ning within our liomes to come! 
 Aurain our banner floats abroad. 
 Gone the one stain that on it fell ; 
 And bettered by his chast'nin<; rod. 
 With streaming ej'es uplift to Ciuil, 
 We say, " Uu doeth all things well." 
 
 CRIME ITS OWN DETECTER.— Daxikl Webster. 
 
 Against the prisoner at tlie bar, as an individual, I cannot 
 have the slightest prejudice. I would not do hiin the small- 
 est injury or injustice. But I do not afiect to be indifferent 
 to the discover}' and the punishment of this deep guilt. I 
 cheerfully share in the opprobrium, how much soever it may 
 be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious 
 concern that all who had a part in planning, or a hand^iu ex- 
 ecuti ug, this deed of midnight assas.si nation , may be brought to 
 answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice. 
 
 Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary case. In some re- 
 spects it lias hardly a precedent anywhere — certainly none in 
 our New England history. An aged man, without an enemy in 
 the world, in his own house, ana in his own bed, is made the 
 victim of a butchery murder, for mere pay. Deep sleep had fal- 
 len on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof A 
 Jiealthfnl old man to whom sleeji was sweet —the fir.st sound 
 slumbers of the night hold him hi their soft but strong em- 
 bra^e. 
 
 The assassin enters through the window, already preparerl, 
 into an unoccupied apartment ; with noiseless foot he paces 
 
06 ONE nuXDKED CilOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 the lonely hall, .half lighted by the moon ; he winds up the 
 ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the cluiinber. 
 Of this he moves the lock,' by soft and continued pressure, 
 till it turns on its hint;cs ; and he enters and beholds his vic- 
 tim before him. Tlie room was uncommonly light. The face 
 of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer; and 
 the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of liis aged 
 temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given, 
 and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from 
 the repose of t-leep to tlie repose of death ! It is the assas- 
 sin's purpose to make sure work ; and he yet plies the dag- 
 ger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the 
 blow of ilie bludgeon. lie even raises the aged arm, that he 
 may not fail mi his aim at the heart, and rei)laces it again 
 over tht wound of the poniard! To finish the picture, he 
 explores t .e wrist for the pulse ! he feels for it, and ascertains 
 that it "leats no longer I It is accomplished ' the deed is done I 
 lie retreats — retraces his steps to the window, i)asses through 
 as He came in, and escapes. He has done the murder ; no 
 eye has seen him, no ear has heard him ; the secret is his 
 own, and it is safe ! 
 
 Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a se- 
 cret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has 
 neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it and 
 say it is s;ife. Not to speak of that eye which glances through 
 all disguises, and beholds everything as in the splendor of 
 noon, — such secrets of guilt are never safe; " murder will out." 
 True it is that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so gov- 
 ern things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by 
 shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in xi voiding discovery. 
 Especially in a case exciting so much attention as this, dis- 
 covery must and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes 
 turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every cir- 
 «';umstance, connected with the time aiid place ; a thousand 
 ears catch every whisper ; a thousand excited minds intently 
 dwell on the scene; shedding all their light, and ready to 
 kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. 
 Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is 
 false to itself — or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of con- 
 science to be true to itself^it labors under its guilty posses- 
 sion, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart 
 was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant; it finds 
 itself preyed onl)y a torment which it dares not acknowledge 
 to (iod or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it asks no 
 eympathy or assistance either from heaven or earth. The 
 
NUMBEK ONK. 51 
 
 secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess 
 him; and hke the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes 
 liim, and leads him wluthersoever it will. He feels it beat- 
 ing at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclos- 
 ure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in 
 his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence 
 of his thoughts. It has become his master ; — it betrays his 
 discretion ; it breaks down his courage ; it conquers his pru- 
 dence. When suspicions from without begin to embarrass 
 him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal 
 secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It 
 must be confessed ; it w'U be confessed ; there is no refuge 
 from confession but in suicide, and suicide is confession. 
 
 ARTEMUS WARD'S TRIP TO RICHMOND. 
 0. F. Brow.se. 
 
 It's putty plane to my mind that we earnt tu have Peas as 
 long as the file goes on. Not much. 
 
 The other day I 'pinted myself a committee ov the Whole 
 to go to Richmond an' see ef I coodent convins J.Davis ov 
 the error of his ways, and persuade liim to jine the Ynuiig 
 Men's Christian Association. Sumthiu' must soon be did to 
 have the War stopt, or by the time it's ended the Northern 
 Sympathizers will have no Southern Brethren, or noConsti- 
 tootion or no Declaration of Injypendence, or no nothing, or 
 anything else. None. Whar cood we procoor G. Washing- 
 tons, J. Quincy Jeffersons, Thomas Adamses, ar.d etsettery, 
 to make another Constitootion and so 4th— the larst especi- 
 ally'' Echo ansers— Whar? That's why the Blacks air taken 
 sich good care ov that instroomei.t-which reminds me ov 
 a little incident, as A. L. observes. 
 
 But, I am goin'to tell you about me trip to the (apitol ov 
 the Southern Conthieveracy. It was a bootiful raornin' that 
 I started; nary a cloud obskewered the Orb ov d;iy, and I 
 rove at the Secesh lines, when a dirty looking Confed. called 
 me " Halt," and pinteil a bagonet at me. He arskt me who I 
 was, an' whar I was gone. 
 
 " My friendly ruff," sez I, "I've just bin up North stealin 
 thing,^ an' sich for Jeff. Me an' him air ole pals." 
 
 He left me pars. 
 
 After traveling a spell, I obsarved a ole house by the road- 
 side, & feelin' faint and thirsty, I entered. The only family 
 
52 OXE IIUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 1 found at home was >x likely lookin' young femail gal, whos» 
 Johnny hud gone for a solger. She was a weepin' bitterly. 
 
 " Jle putty rose-bud," sez I, " why dost thou weep?" 
 
 She made nary answer, but weepedested on. 1 placed me 
 hand onto her hed, brusht back the Snowy ringlets from her 
 pale brow, an kis — an' passyfied her. 
 
 " V/liat cawsed them tears, fare maid?" 1 arskt again. 
 
 " Why," sez .'•he, "brother John promist 2 bring mc home 
 some Yankee boans to make jewelry, but he had to go an' git 
 killd, & now I won't get ary boan, an' — it's 2 bad — boo- 
 hoo-oo-o!" 
 
 Yes, it was mnchly 2 bad— and more too. A woman's 
 te.irs brings the undersined, an' for the time bein' I was a 
 rebel svraiiatliizor. 
 
 "Eniiy. Fathers?" 
 
 "Only one. But he's ded. Mother went over to see Un- 
 kle Reulj." 
 
 " Was John a putty good brother?" 
 
 " Yes, John was so kind. His was the only breast I had 
 to repose these weary head onto." 
 
 I pitied the maid, and hinted that she might repose lier 
 weary head on my Shirt front — an' she reposed. And I was 
 her Brother John for a while, as it were. 
 
 Ere we parted, I arskt for a draught of water to squenc'h 
 me tliirst, an' the damsel tripL gaily out of the door to i)ro- 
 cure it. As she was gone a considirable period, I lookt out 
 tlie winder and saw her hoppin' briskly 4th, accompanied by 
 
 2 secesh cusses, who war armed to the teeth. I begin to 
 smell as many as two mouses. The " putty dear " had dis- 
 covered I was a Yankee, an' was goin' to hev me tooken pris- 
 oner. I frustrated her plans a few — I leapt out the back 
 winder as quick as a Prestidiguretatcrandiscli, an' when she 
 entered the domicil, she found " brother John " non ester, 
 (which is Latin or soraethin',) and be4 1 had proceeded much 
 I found me Timerepeter non ester too. The fair maid, who 
 was Floyd's Neace, had hookt it while reposin' on me weskit. 
 It was a hunky watch— a family hair-loom, an' I woodn't 
 have parted with it fer a dollar & sixty-nine cents ($l.(i9). 
 
 In doo corse ov mail I arrov in Richmond. I unfolded me 
 mission, and was ushered into J. Davis's orgust presents. 
 Bit the result was not as soothintr to weak nerves as my hart 
 conld wish, and I returned to Washington, disgusted with 
 all peas measures. The sympathizers may do their own dirt- 
 ealin' in the footer, as they hev done in the parst. Good-by! 
 Adoo ! Farewell ! 
 
N I' M 3 ;: i: o :; is . 
 
 BINGEN ON THE RHINE.— Caroline E. Noetox. 
 
 fi. soldier of (ho Legion Iny dying in Algiers, 
 
 I'liere was lack of woman's nursing, tliaro was dearth of wo- 
 
 nian'ri tear.s; 
 Hat a comrade stood beside him, while liis life-blood ebbed 
 
 away, 
 And bent, with pifyins; glances, to hear what he might say. 
 The dying soldier Jultort'd, as ho took that comrade's hand, 
 And he said, " I yever more shall see my own, my native land; 
 Take a message, and a token, to some distant fricMids of mine, 
 For I was borii at ISingen — at Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
 "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and 
 
 crowd arolind 
 To hear my mournful story in the ple:isant vineyard ground. 
 That we fought the battle bravely, and when thcday was done, 
 Full manya corse lay ghastly pale, beiiealh the setting sun; 
 And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars. 
 The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many 
 
 scars : 
 But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; 
 And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! 
 
 " Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age. 
 And 1 was iiye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : 
 For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 
 Jly heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and 
 
 wild; 
 And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, 
 1 let them take whate'erthey would but kept my father'ssword 
 And with boyish love 1 hung it where the bright light used 
 
 to shine. 
 On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine! 
 
 "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head. 
 When the troops come marching home again, with glad aiui 
 
 gallant tread ; 
 But to look upon them proudly, withacalmandsteadtiisteye, 
 For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die ; 
 And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name 
 To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ; 
 And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword 
 
 and mine,) 
 For the honor of old Bingen— dear Bingen on the Rhine ! 
 
 "There's another, not a sistev; in the happy days gone by, 
 You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in 
 
 her eye ; 
 Too innocent for coquetry, — too/ond for idle scorning, — 
 Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heavi' 
 
 est mourning! 
 
54 ONE IIUNDUED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Tell her the last night of my life (for ore the moon be risen, 
 My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison,) 
 I dreamed I stood with /ifr-, and saw the yellow sunlight shine 
 On the vine-clad hills of Biugen — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! 
 
 "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, or seemed to 
 hearj 
 
 The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; 
 
 And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 
 
 The echoing chorus sounded, througli the evening calm and 
 still ; 
 
 And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friend- 
 ly talk, 
 
 Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered 
 walk,_ 
 
 And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine: 
 
 But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the 
 Rhine!" 
 
 His voice grew faint and hoarser, — his grasp was childish 
 
 weak,^ 
 His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased to speak: 
 His comrade bent to lift him, but (he spark of life had fled ! 
 The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land— was dead! 
 And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down 
 On the red sandnf the battle-flel(l, with bloody <-orKes strown ; 
 Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to 
 
 shine, 
 As it shone o;i distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine I 
 
 OUR DEFENDERS— T. Buchanan Read. 
 
 Our flag on the land and our (lag on the ocean, 
 
 All angel of p3ace wheresoever it goes : 
 Nobly sustained by Columbia's devotion, 
 The angel of death it shall be to our foesl 
 
 True to its native sky 
 
 Still shall our eagle fly. 
 Casting his sentinel glances "afar ; 
 
 Though bearing the olive-branch. 
 
 Still in his talons staunch 
 Grasi)ing the bolts of the thunders of war ! 
 
 H:irk to the sound ! There's a foe on our border,- 
 
 A foe striding on to th(^ gulf of his doom ; 
 Froomen are rising and marcliiiig in order, 
 Leaving the jilough and the anvil and loom. 
 Rust dims tli'> liarvest-sheeu 
 Of scythe and of sickle keen ; 
 
KUMBKU ONE. bc 
 
 The axe sleeps in peace by the tree it would mar; 
 
 Veteran and youth are out, 
 
 Swelling the battle-shout, 
 Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war ! 
 
 Our brave mountain eagles swoop from their eyrie, 
 
 Our lithe panthers leap from forest and plain ; 
 Out of the West flash the flames of the prairie, 
 Out of the East roll the waves of the main. 
 
 Down from their Northern shores, 
 
 Swift as J^iagara pours, 
 They march, and their tread wakes the earth with its jar; 
 
 Under the Stripes and Stars, 
 
 Each, with the soul of Mars, 
 Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war! 
 
 Spite of the sword or assassin's stiletto. 
 
 While throbs a heart in the breast of the brave, 
 The oak of the North, pr the Southern ])almetto. 
 Shall shelter no foe except in the gravel 
 
 While the Gulf billow breaks. 
 
 Echoing the Northern lakes. 
 And ocean replies unto ocean afar, 
 
 Yield we no inch of land 
 
 While there's a patriot hand 
 Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war! 
 
 HEZEKIAH STUBBINS' ORATION, JULY FOURTH. 
 
 Feller-Citizens of Pine Holler: Fourth of July's come, and 
 we've come to meet him. Here we are, with our cannon, 
 and muskets, and tire-crackers, and squibs, ready to kick U|) 
 a rusty, or pitch slam-bang into any feller that's got a word 
 to say agin onr forefathers, that fit, bled, and died for liberty. 
 (Why don't you cheer me ?) 
 
 Feller-Citizens : In the name of the martyrs of liberty, who 
 fell supportin' the declaration on the bloody fields of Trafal- 
 gar ; in the names of Franklin, Washington, and Bonypar;e, 
 who, hand in hand, fit the bloody British lion at Monterey; 
 in the name of the mighty eagle himself, who now flaps his 
 wings on the top-rail of creation, I tell you something's got 
 to be did. (Cheer me agin.) 
 
 You've got to look at the clock-work of this glorious Union, 
 and seeif there ain't a pegout— a jint loose, or the cogs don't 
 want greasin'. You've got to overhaul the condnctr-r-i y<)u've 
 put on the Union Smoky-lotive, and see if they hain't been 
 
01» ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS • 
 
 plnviii' hob with the machinery, or cabbagin' the funds. 
 You've got to git rid of them pesliy fellers who don't know 
 nothin', and yit go round makin' election speeches, and try- 
 in' to bust this glorious Union; and you've got to elect us 
 fellers that luive got larnin' and know how to protect your 
 rights. (That's the place to cheer me agin.) 
 
 Feller-Citizens: If we've got to stan every thing these lyin' 
 scamps keep tellin' us 'bout how uncommon patriotic they 
 are, and what big hearts they have, and how they love lib- 
 erty, and what a splurge they'll make, and what a rumpus 
 they'll kick up when they get to Congress, aiid what partik- 
 elar fits they'll give the rich monopolers who won't vote for 
 'em ; and what nice things they'll do for us honest, hard- 
 fisted fellows if we'll only elect 'era ; and then, when we put 
 'em through, can't see us over their shirt collars, and don't 
 even know that such beings as Hezekiah Stubbins, or Enoch 
 
 Grimes, or Jedediah Spewkins, or , live upon the face 
 
 of the airth ; if such things are going to be did, what's the 
 use of having Fourth of July's. (Cheer me agin.) 
 
 Wli;it'rt the use of firin' cannon, 
 Sliitotirii^ crackers, buriiin' squibs. 
 It" tluTt,- lias tv 1(0 a man on 
 Every Btump a tellin' fibs. 
 
 Must the heroes of Pine Holler 
 Hear to all the i)izen snakes 
 Try thoir best tu make 'em swallep 
 'Bout the value of tlie sfjikes? 
 
 Louder than the rattlin' thunder. 
 Swifter than the lightnin's flash, 
 S;iy, We'll never knuckle under. 
 Or believe their pesky trash. 
 
 Tes, sir! Tell them nation fellers, 
 
 Prearliin' 'bout the Union dear, 
 
 If they want tn kee[i their smellers 
 
 Out uf danger, keep from here. ( Cheer Ogln.) 
 
 Feller Citizens: Such doins ain't to be stood, and if you 
 don't want them raean, chicken-hearted fellers to bring this 
 country to perdition, let every inui, boy, and yelper, give a 
 shout for Stubbins, liberty, and the dear Union, that shall 
 rouse the bloody British lion from his lair, and send him 
 howliii' o'er the sandy plains of Poj)ocatapeete ; while the 
 Russian bear shall be so skcered, that, sneakin like a whipped 
 spaniel, he shall throw himself kerwhoUop into the gulf of 
 'blivion ; and the glorious .\inerican Eugle, hcarin' the rum- 
 pus, and tlappin' his wings o'er the universal Yankee nation, 
 that stretches from the Bay of IJisiay to Californy, shall thuiu 
 der out Stubbins! Fourth of July! and Yankee Doodlodum 
 forfiver! [Scene closes wlih three cheers.) 
 
NUMBlvR O.VE. 57 
 
 SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 EdWAKD EVEBEIT. 
 
 Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous ves- 
 sel, 'the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freiglited with the pros- 
 pects of a future state, and bound across tlic unknown sc;i. I 
 behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, 
 the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months 
 pass, and wintea surprises tliem on the deep, but brings them 
 not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scanti- 
 ly supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in 
 Iheir ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous 
 route; and now driven in fury before tlic raging tempest, on 
 the high and giddy wave. Tlie awful voice of the storm howls 
 through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from 
 their base; the dism.d sound of the pumps is heard; the ship 
 leaps,as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, 
 and settles with ingulfing floods ovet the floating deck, and 
 beats, with deadening,shivering weight, against the stug^'crcd 
 vessel I see them,escapeil from the.-ie jierils, pursuing their 
 all but desperate undertaking, and lamleil, at last, after a few 
 months' passage, on the ico-clad rocksof Plymouth,— weak and 
 weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, 
 without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 
 
 Shut, now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any prin- 
 ciple of human probability, whiit shall be the fate of this hand- 
 ful of adventurers? Tell me, mm of military science, in how 
 many months were they all swept off' by the thirty savage 
 tribes enumerated within the early limits of Now England? 
 Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on 
 whi(,'h your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish 
 on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the 
 baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned ad- 
 ventures, of other times, and find the parallel of this ! Was it 
 the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of wo- 
 nien and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it 
 disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a 
 blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, 
 in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, be- 
 yond the sea? — was it some or all of t hese united, that hurried 
 this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it 
 possible that neither of these causes, thaf not all combined, 
 were able to blast this bud of hope ! Is it possible that from a 
 beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admira- 
 tion as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a 
 growth so wonderful, an pxpausion so ample, a reality so 
 unportant, a promise, yt.'t to bf fulfilled, so glorious! 
 
 3» 
 
58 8 ONK HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE GREAT BELL ROLAND.-Tiiii.jDoiiE Tilton. 
 
 Toll ! Rolami, toll ! 
 In old St. Bavoii's tower, 
 At midnight hour, 
 The great bell Roland spoke ! 
 All souls that slept in Ghent awoke! 
 What meant the thunder-stroke? 
 Why trembled wife and maid ? 
 •- Why caught each man his blade? 
 Why echoed every street 
 With tramp of thronging feet — 
 
 All flying to the city's wall? 
 
 It was the warning call 
 That Freedom stood in ijcrilof a foe! 
 And even timid hearts grew bold 
 AVhenever Roland tolled, 
 And every hand a sword could hold! 
 
 So acted men 
 
 Like ])atriots then 
 Three hundred years ago! 
 
 Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
 Bell never yet was hung. 
 Between whoso lips there swung 
 So grand a tongue. 
 
 If men be patriots still, 
 At thy first sound 
 True hearts will bound, 
 Great souls will thrill! 
 Then toll, and strike the test 
 Through each man's breast. 
 Till loyal liearfs shall stanil confessed,— 
 And may God's wrath smite all the rest! 
 
 Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
 
 Not now in old St. Bavon's tower — 
 
 Not now at midnight hour— 
 
 Not now from River Scheldt to Zuyder Zee - 
 But here, — this side the sea' — 
 And here, in broad bright day! — 
 For not by night awaits 
 A noble foe without the gates. 
 
 But perjured friends within betray, 
 
 And do the deed at noon ! 
 Toll ! Roland, toll t 
 
 Thy sound is not too soon ! 
 To arms! Ring out the leader's call! 
 
 Re-echo it from east to west 
 
NUMBER ONK. 59 
 
 Till evory hero's breast 
 
 fcjluill swell beneath a soldier's crest ! 
 
 Toll! Roland, toll! 
 Till cottager from cottage wall 
 Snatch pouch and pjwder-horn and gun — 
 'I'lie heritage of sire to son 
 Ere half of Freedom's work was done I 
 
 Toll ! Roland, toll I 
 Till swords from scabbi.rds leap ! 
 
 Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
 What tears can widows weep 
 Less bitter than when brave men fall ! 
 
 Toll! Roland, toll! 
 In shadowed hnt and hall 
 Shall lie the soldier's pall. 
 And hearts shall break while graves are filled ! 
 
 Amen ! so God hath willed! 
 And may His grace anoint us all ! 
 
 Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
 The Dragon on thy tower 
 Stands sentry to this hour. 
 And Freedom so stands safe in Ghent, 
 And merrier bells now ring. 
 And in the land's serene content, 
 Men shout, " God save the King ! " 
 
 Until the skies are rent I 
 So let it be ! 
 A kingly'king is he 
 Who keeps his jieople free. 
 
 Toll ! Roland, toll 1 
 King otit across the sea ! 
 No lonjier they, but we. 
 Have now such need of thee I 
 
 Toll! Roland, toll! 
 Nor ever let thy throat 
 Keep dumb its warning note, 
 Till Freedoms perils be outbraved ! 
 
 Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
 Till Free.lom's flag, wherever waved. 
 Shall shadow not a man enslaved ! 
 
 Toll! Roland, toll! 
 From northern lake to southern strand I 
 
 Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
 Till friend and foe,at thy command, 
 On<:e more shall clasp each other's hand. 
 And shout, one-voiced, " God save the land 1 ' 
 And love the land,that God hatJi saved ! 
 
 Toll! Roland, toll! 
 
GO ONE nUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIOXS 
 
 CAtO'S SOLILOQUY ON niMORTALITY.— Adw-om. 
 
 Cato Bitting in a tlnni^tittiii postnri', witli Platu'e book on the Immortality ol 
 tho-^ul in his hand, uud a drawn sword on thu table by him. 
 
 It must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well ! 
 
 Klse whence this pleasing liope, this fond desire 
 
 This longing after immortaUty ? 
 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
 
 Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul 
 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
 
 Tis the divinity tliat stirs within us; 
 
 'Tis heaven itself, that i)oints out a hereafter. 
 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 
 Eternity! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 
 
 Througli what variety of untried being, 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes must wp pass! 
 
 The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before mn ; 
 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
 
 Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us,— 
 
 And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 
 
 Through all her works, — He must delight in virtue ; 
 
 And that which He delights in must be happy. 
 
 But when ? or where? This world was made for C'a;sar. 
 
 I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end them. 
 
 [Laying his hand on his sword.l 
 
 Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, 
 My bane and antidote, are bolh before nie. 
 Tliis in a moment brings me to my end; 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 The soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
 At the drawn daf;i;er, and defies its point. 
 The stars shall fade away, the sin> himself 
 Grow dim -with age, and Nature sink in years; 
 But thou .shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
 Unhurt amid the war of elements. 
 The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
 
 MKS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE.— D. Jkkrold. 
 
 Bah ! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. 
 W]wt irere !/<ia to i/o.' Why, let him go home in the rain, to 
 be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing abouthim that 
 could spoil. Tab' coldf Indeed! He doesn't look like one of 
 the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold 
 
NUMBE!: ONE. GI 
 
 Ihaii taken our umbrella. Do you hear the rain, I'.Ir. C.-.;:<'.;. ? 
 i aay, do you hear the rain? And, as I am alive, if it i.-ii'* 
 Saint Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the windows? 
 Nonsense, you don't impose ujion me. You can't be asleej* 
 with such a sliowcr as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you 
 do hear it? Well that's a jiretty flood, I thinlt, to last for six 
 weeks; and no stirring all the timeout of the house. Pooli! 
 don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Do:i't insult nic. Jle re- 
 turn, the. umbrella f Anybody would think you were born 
 yoiterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella! 
 There — do ycju heSr it? Worse and worse! Cats and dogs, 
 and for six weeks — always six weeks, — and no umbrella! 
 
 I should like to know how the children are to go to school 
 to-morrow. They shan't go througli sucli weather ; I am de- 
 termined. No! they shall "sto]) at home and never learn any- 
 tliing — ;I;e blessed creatures! — sooner tlian go and get wet. 
 And, when they grow up, I wonder who tlicy'il have to thank 
 for knowing nothing — wlio, indeed, b;;t (Iicir father. P lople 
 who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers. 
 
 But I know wliy you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes ; I know 
 very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-mor- 
 row, — you knew that, — and you did it on jiurpose. Don't 
 tell me ; you hate to have me go there, and take every mean 
 advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. 
 No, sir ; if it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more. 
 No: and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the mo- 
 ney's to come from ? You've got nice high notions at that 
 club of yours. A cab, indeed ! Cost me i-i.-cteeji-pence at 
 least — sixteeri-pence? — tvvij-!ind-eight-pence,fir there's back 
 again ! Cabs, indeed ! I kIiouUI like to know who's to pay for 
 'cm ? 1 can't pay for 'em ; and I'm ! ure you can't if yon go 
 on as you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring 
 your children, buying umbrellas! 
 
 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-morrow, I will, and 
 what's more, I'll walk every step of the w;iy ; and you know 
 that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman ; 
 it's 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 fhall 
 — and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I h.ope there will ! 
 It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I shouldn't 
 wonder if I caught my death ; and that's what you lent youi 
 umbrella for. Of course ! 
 
62 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Nice clothes, I shall Ket,too, traipsing through weather 'ike 
 this. My gown and bonnet will be spoiled, qnite. Nealn't 
 I v)ear 'em then ? Indeed, Jlr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, 
 sir ; I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody 
 else. Gracious knows ! it isn't often that I step over the 
 threshold ; indeed I might as well be a slave at once — better, 
 I should say. But, when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose 
 to go as a lady. Oh! that rain — if it isn't enough to break in 
 the windows. Ugh! I look forward with dread for to-mor- 
 row. How I am to go to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But, 
 if I die, I'll do it. No, sir; I won't borrow an umbrella. No; 
 and you shan't buy one. Mr. Caudle, if you bring home an- 
 other umbrella, I'll throw it into the street. Ha! it wasonly 
 last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if 
 I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone 
 without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other peo- 
 ple to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you, you can 
 go to sleep ! You've no thought of your poor patient wife and 
 your own dear children. You think of nothing but lending 
 umbrellas. Men, indeed ! — call themselves lords of creation ! 
 — pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella! 
 
 I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But 
 that's what you want ; then you may go to your club, and do 
 as you like — and then nicely my poor children will be used ; 
 but then, sir, then you'll be happy. Oh.-don't tell me! I know 
 you will. Else you never would have lent that umbrella ! 
 
 You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and 
 of course you can't go. No, indeed, you don't go without the 
 .umbrella. You may lose the debt for what I care — it won't 
 be so much as spoiling your clothes — better lose it: people 
 deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas. 
 
 And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's with- 
 out the umbrella ? Oh, don't tell me that I said I would go— 
 that's nothing to do with it ; nothing at all. She'll think 
 I'm neglecting her, and the little money we're to have we 
 shan't have at all — because we've no umbrella. 
 
 The children, too! (dear things!) they'll be sopping wet: 
 for they shan't stay at home ; they shan't lose their learning; 
 it's all their father will leave them, I'm sure. B-ut they shall 
 go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't; (you are so 
 aggravating, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an angel!) 
 they shall go to school; mark that! And if they •;et their 
 <leat!is of cold, it's not my fault: I didn't lend Til k V5II!Rell.\. 
 Caudle, are you asleep? \_A loud smin' is hcard.l Oh, what 
 a brute a, man i^;! Oh, dear, dear, d-e-a-r 1 
 
numb:;e one, 63 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SOLDIERS.— Jacod M. Manning. 
 
 Soldiers from the army and navy, once 'soldiers but now 
 again citizens, we hail you to-day as our bL'iiefaclor.s and de- 
 liverers. We welcome you home from the fatigues of the 
 march, the wearisome camp, and the awful ecstasy of battle. 
 Through four terrible years you have looked williout quail- 
 ing on the ghastly visage of war. You have patiently borne 
 the heats of summer and the frosts of winter. You have 
 cheerfully exchanged the delights of homo for the hardships 
 of the campaign or blockade. Not only the armed foe, but the 
 wasting malaria has lurked along your resistless advance. 
 Youknow the agony and the transport cf the deadly encount- 
 er. How many times, standing each man at liis post in the 
 long line of gleaming .snbres and bayonets, every hand clench- 
 ed and every eye distended, you have caught tlie peal of your 
 leader's clarion, and sprung througli the iron storm to the 
 embrace of victory ! But all that has (lassed away. The man- 
 gled forests are putting on an unwonted verdure, the fields 
 once blackened by the fiery breath of war are now covered 
 with their softest bloom, and the vessels of commerce are 
 riding on all the national waters. 
 
 The carnage, the groans, the cries for succor, the fierce 
 onset, and sullen recoil, the thunders of tlie artillery, and 
 the missiles screaming like demons in the air, have given 
 way to pseans, civic processions and songs of thanksgiving. 
 The flag of your country, so Often rent and torn in your grasp, 
 and which you have borne to triumpli again and again, over 
 the quaking earth or through the hurricane of death in river 
 and bay, rolls out its peaceful folds above jou, every star 
 blazing with the glory of your deeds, in token of a nation's 
 gratitude. We come forth to greet you — sires and matrons, 
 young men and maideus, children and those bowed with age ; 
 to own the vast debt which we can never ]iay, and to say, 
 from full hearts, we thank you, — God bless you ! 
 
 But while we thus address you, you are thinking of the 
 fallen. With a soldier's generosity you wish they could be 
 here to share in tlie hard-earned welcome. Possibly they 
 are here from many a grave in which you laid them after 
 the strife; pleased with these festivities, and with the return 
 of joy to the nation, but far above any ability of ours either 
 to bless or to injure. You may tarnish your laurels, or an 
 envious hand may pluck them from you. But your fallen 
 tomradeb are exposed to no such accident. They arc doubly 
 . D 
 
64 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 fortunate, for the same event which crowned them with hon- 
 or has jilaced them beyond the possibihty of losing their 
 crown. Many of them died in the darlsest hours of the re- 
 public ; others iii the early dawn of peace, while the morn- 
 ing stars were singing together. But victory and defeat 
 make no difference to them now. They have uU conquered 
 in the final triumph. Their names will thrill the coming 
 ages, as they are spoken by the tongues of the eloquent ; and 
 their deeds will forever be chanted by inamortal minstrels. 
 They were together " brave men, whu rej>ose in the public 
 monuments, all of whom alike, as being worthy of the same 
 honor, the country buried, not alone the successful or victori- 
 ous ; and justly, for the duty of brave men done by all, their 
 fortune being such as God assigned to each." 
 
 "By feiry hands their knell is rung. 
 By forms unseen their dirge i"; sung; 
 There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
 And Freedom shall awhile repair. 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there." 
 
 THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG.— How aud Gi.yndos. 
 
 Tlie days of June were nearly done ; 
 The fields, with plenty overrun. 
 Were ripening 'neath the harvest sun, 
 
 In fruitful Pennsylvania! 
 Sang birds and children, "All is well ! " 
 When, sudden, over hill and dell. 
 The gloom of coming battle fell 
 
 On peaceful Pennsylvania! 
 Through Maryland's historic land, 
 With boastful tongue, and spoiling hand. 
 They burst— a fierce and famished band- 
 Right into Pennsylvania! 
 In Cumberland's romantic vale 
 Was heard the plundered farmer's wail, 
 And every mother's cheek was pale, 
 In blooming Pennsylvania! 
 With taunt and jeer, and shout and song, 
 Through rustic towns they passed ;;long— 
 A confident and braggart tlirong— 
 
 Through frisjlitened Pennsylvaniiii 
 The tidings startled hill and glen ; 
 Up sprang our hardy Northern men. 
 
NUMBER ONK. Ca 
 
 And there was speedy travel then, 
 All into Peiiiisylvaiiia! 
 
 The foe laughed out in open scorn ; 
 
 For " Union men were coward-born," 
 
 And then — they wanted all the corn 
 That grew in Pennsylvania! 
 
 It was the languid hour of noon, 
 When all the birds were out of tune, 
 And nature in a sultry swoon, 
 
 J,u pleasant Pennsylvania ; 
 
 When, sudden o'er the slumbering plain, 
 Red flashed the battle's flery rain ; 
 The volleying cannon shook again 
 The hills of Pennsylvania ! 
 
 Beneath that curse of iron hail, 
 That threshed the plain willi flashing flail. 
 Well might the stoutest soldier quail. 
 In echoing Pennsylvania! 
 
 Then, like a sudden summer rain, 
 Storm-driven o'er the darlcened plain. 
 They burst upon our ranks and main, 
 In startled Pennsylvania; 
 
 We felt the oldancestral thrill, 
 From sire to son transmitted still. 
 And fought for Freedom with a will, 
 In pleasant Pennsylvania! 
 
 The breathless shock — the maddened toil— 
 Tlie sudden clinch — the sharp recoil — 
 And we were masters of the soil, 
 In bloody Pennsylvania! 
 
 To westward fell the beaten foe ; 
 The growl of battle, hoarse and low, 
 Was heard anon, but dying slow, 
 
 In ransomed Pennsylvania! 
 
 Sou'- westward, with the sinking sun. 
 The cloud of battle, dense and dun, 
 Flashed into fire — and all was won 
 In joyful Pennsylvania ! 
 
 But ah, the heaps of loyal slain ! 
 The bloody toil! the bitter pain ! 
 For those who shall not stand again 
 In pleasant Pennsylvania 1 
 
 Back, through the verdant valley lands, 
 Fast fled the foe, in frightened bands, 
 With broken swords and emptj? hands, 
 Out of fair Pennsvlvania I 
 
GG ONE IIUXDKED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 SOLILOQUY OF ARNOLD— EnwARU C. Jones. 
 
 When he was iiiveateJ with the cunimand of Wedt Puiiit by Washington. Geneml 
 Arnold entered into a secret correspondence with Sir lienry CUliIon, ainl agreed 
 that he would nialte a disposition oflii.sfones which would enable the British Gen- 
 eral to surprise the post under such eircuuistauces that the garrison luusl eithet 
 lay down their urius, or be cut to pieces. 
 
 The plan is fixed ; I fluctuate no more 
 Betwixt despair and hope. As leaves the shore 
 The hard}' mariner, though adverse fate 
 May merge his bark, or cast him desolate 
 Upon a savage coast, so, wrought at last 
 Up to a frenzied purpose, I have passed 
 The Rubicon. Farewell my old renown ! 
 Here I breathe mildew on my warrior crown ; 
 Hei* honor parts from me, and base deceit 
 Steps to the usurper's throne; I cannot meet 
 The withering censure of the rebel band, 
 And, therefore, to the strong I yield this heart and hand. 
 
 What else befits me? I have misapplied 
 The nation's funds, and ever gratified 
 Each vaulting wish, though justice wept the deed; 
 And here, beneath the load of pressing need, 
 I must have gold. How else the (clamorous cry 
 Of creditors appease, and satisfy 
 
 Demands which haunt me more than dreams of blood 
 And claims which chill more than Canadian flood? 
 Stay? My accounts betray the swindler's mark. 
 Go? And my path, though smoolli, like T;irtarus is daik. 
 
 These rocky ridges, how they shelve on high, > 
 Each a stern sentinel in majesty. 
 Yes, 'tis your own (Gibraltar, Washington I 
 And must the strong hold of his hope be won? 
 Won? Twenty thousand scarcely could invest 
 That sure defence, which o'er the river's breast 
 Casts a gigantic shadow ; but my plan 
 Dispenses with the formidable van. 
 And Clinton may my garrison surprise. 
 With few sulphureous clouds to blot these azure skies. 
 
 And ye' a pang comes over me — I see 
 INIyself at Saratoga ; full and free 
 Goes up the peal of noble-hearti'<l men; 
 Among the wounded am I numbered then, 
 And my outgushing feelings cling to thfise 
 AVho periled all to face their country's foes. 
 Ah ! when that wound a soldier's pride increased, 
 And gratulation scarce its pican ce^ised, 
 I thought not then, oh, God! the stamp of shame 
 Would stand imprinted thus upon my hard-earned fame. 
 
 Avaunt, compunction -Conscience, to the wind! 
 Gold, gold I need— gold must Sir Henry find ! 
 
NUMBER ONE. 6J 
 
 A rankling <;nulge is mine, for why not I 
 
 Coiniimndur of tfiuir forces? To the sky 
 
 Ever goes up the peal for Washington. 
 
 Is he a god, Virginia's favored son? 
 
 Why should the incense fume for evermore? 
 
 Must he my skill, my prowess shadow o'er? 
 
 Ere this autumnal moon has tilled its horn. 
 
 His honors must be nipped, his rising glories shorn. 
 
 Ah ! he securely rests upon my faith — 
 Securely, when the spectre dims his path ! 
 How unsuspecting has he ever been ; 
 Above the false, the sinister, the mean ! 
 But hold such eulogy— I will not praise; 
 Mine is the task to tarnish all his bays. 
 West Point, thy rocky ndges seem to say. 
 Be firm as granite, crown the work to-day, 
 Blot Saratoga, hearth and home abjure, 
 Aiulre 1 meet again — the gold I nuist secure. 
 
 ODE TO MY LITTLE SON.— Thomas Hood. 
 
 Thou happy, happy elf! 
 (But stop — first let me kiss away that tear,) 
 
 Thou tiny image of myself ! 
 (My love, he's poking peas into his ear !) 
 
 Thou merry, laughing sprite ! 
 
 With s])irits feather Mght, 
 Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, 
 (Dear me ! the child is swallowing a piil !) 
 
 Thou little, tricksy duck ! 
 With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 
 Light as the sin<xing bird that wings the air, 
 (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) 
 
 Thou darling of thy sire ! 
 (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 
 
 Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
 In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, 
 Thou idol of thy jxirents!— (Drat the boy ! 
 
 TherS goes Iny ink !) 
 
 Thou cherub— but of earth ; 
 Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale. 
 
 In harmless sport and mirtii, 
 (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!) 
 Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
 From every blossom in the world that blows. 
 Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
 (Another tumble — that's his precious nose!) 
 
 Thy father's pride and hope ! 
 
CS ONE HUN'DRED CHOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) 
 With pure heart newly stamped from nature's miut,- 
 ( Where did he learn that squint?) 
 
 Thou young domestic dove .' 
 (He'll have that jug off, with another shove !) 
 
 Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! 
 
 (Are those torn clothes his best?) 
 
 Little epitome of man ! 
 (He'll climb upon the table — that's his plan !) 
 Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, 
 
 (He's got a knife!) 
 
 ■l^hou enviable being! 
 No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing. 
 
 Play on, play on. 
 
 My elfln John ! 
 
 Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, 
 (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) 
 With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down. 
 Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, 
 
 With many a lamb-like frisk, 
 (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !) 
 
 Thou pretty opening rose ! 
 (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) 
 Balmy, and breathing music like the south, 
 (Ho really brings my heart into my mouth!) 
 Fresh as tJie morn, and brilliant as its star, 
 (I wish that window had an iron bar!) 
 iSold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, 
 ( ['11 tell you what, my love, 
 I cannot write, unless he's sent above !) 
 
 UNJUST NATIONAL ACQUISITIONS.— Thos. Corwis. 
 
 Mr. President, the uneasy desire to augment our territory- 
 has depraved the moral sense and blighted the otherwise 
 keen sagacity of our people. Sad, very sad, are the lessons 
 which time has written for us. Through and in them all I 
 see nothing but the inflexible execution of that old law 
 which ordains, as eternal, the cardinal rule, "Thou shalt not 
 covet thy neighbor's goods, nor anything which is his." Since 
 I have lately heard so much about the dismemberment of 
 Mexico, I have looked back to see how, in the course of 
 events, which some call " Providence," it has fared with other 
 nations who engaged in this work of dismemberment. I see 
 that in the latter half of the eighteenth century, three power- . 
 ful nations,— Russia, Austria, and Prussia, — united in the 
 (lisraemberraent of Poland. They said, too, as you sny, " It 
 is our destiny." They " wanted room." Doubtless each of 
 
NUMBEE ONE. &J 
 
 these thought, with his share of Poland, his power was too 
 .strong ever to fear invasion, or even insult. One had his 
 California, another his New Mexico, and the third his Vera 
 Cruz. Did tliey remain untouched and incapable of harm ? 
 Alas! no — far, very far, from it. Eetributive justii« must 
 fulfil its destiny too. A very few years pass off, and we hear 
 of a new man, a Gorsican lieutenant, the self-named "armed 
 soldier of Democracy," Napoleon. He ravages Austria, cov- 
 ers her land with blood, drives the Northern Caesar from his 
 capital, and sleeps in his palace. Austria may now remember 
 how her power trampled upon Poland. Did she not pay 
 dear, very dear, for'her California ? 
 
 But has Prussia no atonement to make? You see this same 
 Napoleon, the blind instrument of Providence, at work there. 
 The thunders of his cannon at Jena proclaim the work of 
 retribution for Poland's wrongs; and the successors of the 
 Great Frederick, the drill-sergeant of Europe, are seen flying 
 across the sandy plains that surround their capital, right glad 
 if they may escape captivity and death. 
 
 But how fares it with the Autocrat of Russia? Is he se- 
 cure in his share of the spoils of Poland ? No. Suddenly we 
 see, sir, sir hundred thousand armed men marching to Mos- , 
 cow. Does his Vera Cruz protect him now? Far from it.\ 
 Blood, slaughter, desolation, spread iibroad over the land ; 
 and, finally, the conflagration of the old commercial metropo- 
 lis of Russia closes the retribution : she must pay for her 
 share in the dismemberment of her impotent neighbor. 
 
 Mr. President, a mind more prone to look for the judg- 
 ments of Heaven in the doings of men than mine cannot 
 fail, in all unjust acquisitions of territory, to See tlie Prov- 
 idence of God. When Moscow burned, it seemed as if the 
 earth was lighted up, that the nations might behold the scene. 
 As that mighty sea of fire gathered and heaved and rolled 
 upward, and yet higher, till its flames licked the stars, and 
 fired the whole heavens, it did seem as though the God of 
 the nations was writing, in characters of flame, on the front 
 of His throne, that doora that shall fall upon the strong na- 
 tion which tramples in scorn upon the weak. 
 
 And what fortune awaits liim, the appointed executor of 
 this work, when it was all done ? He, too, conceived the no- 
 tion that his destiny pointed onward to universal dominion. 
 France was too small, — Europe he thought should bow down 
 before him. But as soon as this idea takes possession of his 
 soul, he too becomes powerless. His terminus must recede 
 too. Right there, while he witnessed the humiliation, and, 
 doubtless, meditated the subjugation of Russia, He who holds 
 the winds in His fist, gathered the snows of the north, and 
 blew them upon his six hundred thousand men. They fled, — 
 they froze, — they perished. 
 
 And now the mighty Napoleon, who had resolved on uni- 
 versal dominion, he too is summoned to aiiswer for the vio- 
 
''O ONE IIUXDr.ED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 lalion of that ancient law, " Thou shalt not covet anyth'ng 
 wliich is thy neighbor's." How is llie mighty fallen ! He, 
 beneath whose ijroud footstep Europe trembled, lie is now 
 an exile at Elba, and, now, tinally ii prisoner on the rock of 
 St. Helena, — and there, on a barren island, in an unfrequent- 
 ed sea, in the crater of an extinguished volcano, then- is the 
 death-bed of the mighty conqueror. All his annexations have 
 come to that ! His last hour i.-i now at hand ; and he, the man 
 of destiny, he who had rocked the world as with the throes 
 of an earthquake, is now powerless, still, — even as the beg- 
 gar, so he died. 
 
 On the wings of a tempest that raged with unwonted fury, 
 up to the throne of the only Power that controlled him while 
 he lived, went the fiery soul of that wonderful warrior, an- 
 other witness to the existence of that eternal decree, that 
 they who do not rule in righteousness shall perish from the 
 earth. He has found "room" at last. And France, she too 
 has found "room." Her "eagles" now no longer scream 
 along the banks of the Danube, the Po.and the Borysthene.s. 
 They have returned home to their old aerie between the 
 Alps, the Uhine, and the Pyrenees. 
 
 So shall it be with yours. You may carry them to the 
 loftiest peaks of the Cordilleras ; they may wave, with inso- 
 lent triumph, in the halls of the Montezumas ; the armed 
 men of Mexico may quail before them : but the weakest hand 
 in Mexiio, uplifted in prayer to the God of justice, may call 
 down against you a Power in the presence of which the iron 
 hearts of your warriors lIuiH be turned into ashes ! 
 
 THE UAVEN.-Edgar A. Poe. 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 
 
 weary. 
 Over many a quaint and lairious volume of forgotten lore, — 
 While I nodded, nearly napping,suddeuly there came a taji- 
 
 pi"g, 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door. 
 "'Tis some visitor," I inutter'd,"tappingat my chamber-door— 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost ui)on the 
 
 floor. 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vaiidy I had sought to borrow 
 Erom my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 
 
 Lenore, — • 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore, — 
 
 Nameless here forevermore. 
 
NU JIBE It ONE. 71 
 
 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, 
 Tlirilledmc, — tilled mo with fantastic terrors never felt before; 
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, 1 stood repeating, 
 " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door, — 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door; 
 That it is, and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer, 
 "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your Ibrgivejiess I imi>lcjre; 
 But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping. 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chain ber-door, 
 That I scarce was»suro I heard you" — here I ojened wide 
 the door : 
 
 Darkness there, and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondcr- 
 
 ing, fearing. 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream 
 
 before ; 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 
 
 " Lenore !" 
 This / whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 
 
 "LbnoueI" 
 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 Bark in to the ch;imber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
 Soon agiin I heard a tapping, something louder than before. 
 'Surely," said I,"surely that is something at my window-lattice; 
 Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery explore, — 
 Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; — 
 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flut- 
 ter, 
 
 In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. 
 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or 
 stayed he ; 
 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber- 
 door,— 
 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door — 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony hitd beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art 
 
 sure no craven ; 
 Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly 
 
 shore, 
 Tell me what thy lordly name ia on the night's Plutonian 
 
 shore ?" 
 
 Quoth the raven. " Nevermore!" 
 
 D* 
 
72 ONE HUNDr.ED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 
 
 plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore ; 
 For we cannot help agreeing tli;ct no living human being 
 Kveryet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door, 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door 
 With such name as " Nevermore !" 
 
 But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 
 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one wor<_ he did outpour. 
 
 Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he flut- 
 tered — 
 
 Till 1 scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have 
 flown before. 
 
 On the morrow /i« will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. 
 Then the bird said, ''Nevermore!" 
 
 Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
 " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store. 
 Caught from some unhappy master,whom unmerciful disaster 
 Follow'd fast and folio w'd faster.till his songs one burden bore, 
 Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, 
 Of — ' Never— nevermore !' " 
 
 But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust 
 
 and door. 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird 
 
 of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore !" 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom'score; 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
 Butwhose velvet violet lining with the lamji-light gloating o'er 
 She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! 
 
 Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an un- 
 seen censer 
 
 Swung by seraphim,whosefoot-fxills tinkled on the tufted floor. 
 
 " Wretch," I cried " thy God hath lent thee— by these angels 
 he hath sent th"e 
 
 Respite — respitcand nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! 
 
 Quaff',oh, quaff thiskindnepenthe.and forget this lost Lenore!" 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" 
 
 ' Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil !— prophet still, if bird or 
 
 devil ! 
 Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 
 
 ashore, 
 
NUJIBEK ONE. 73 
 
 Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— 
 V.i tl>is home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore,^ 
 l«there— i* there balm in GileadV— tell me— tf) I me,I implore!" 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore i" 
 
 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil !— prophet still, if bird or 
 
 deviU 
 By that heaven that bends above us,by that <"tod we both adore, 
 Tell this soul, with sorrow hiden, if, within thedistantAidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden.whom t lie anjjels name Lenore; 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Le- 
 nore i" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore I" 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, 
 
 upstarting, — 
 Get thee bacli into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 
 
 spoken ! 
 Leave ray loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 
 
 olf my door !" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore!" 
 
 And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door; 
 
 And his eyes have all the seeming ofa demon'sthat is dream- 
 ing, 
 
 And. the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow 
 on the floor ; 
 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
 Shall be lifted— NiiVEU.MORii! 
 
 NO GOD— N. K. EicnARDSOM. 
 
 Is there no God? The white rose made reply, 
 My ermine robe was woven in the sky. 
 The blue-bird warbled from his shady bower. 
 My plumage fell from hands that made the flower. 
 
 Is there no God ? The silvery ocean spray 
 At tlie vile question startles in dismay ; 
 And, tossing mad against earth's impious elod, 
 Impatient thunders — yes, there is a God! 
 
 Is there no God? The greedy worm that raves 
 In sportive glee amid the gloom of graves. 
 Proves a Divinity supremely good, 
 For daily morsels sent of flesh and blood. 
 
ONE IIUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Is thoro no God? The flying Christian's hand. 
 Pale willi disease, points to a better land ; 
 And ere his body mingles with the sod, 
 He, sweetly smiling, faintly murmurs — God. 
 
 No God ! Who broke the shackles from the slavu ? 
 Who gave this bleeding nation power to save 
 Its Flag and Union in the hour of gloom. 
 And lay rebellion's spirit in the tomb? 
 
 AVe publish God !— TJie towering mountains cry. 
 Jehovah's name is blazoned on the sky. 
 The dancing streamlet and the golden grain. 
 The lightning gleam, the thunder, and the rain. 
 
 The dew-drop diamond on the lily's breast. 
 The tender leaf by every breeze caressed, 
 The shell, whose pearly bosom ocean laves, 
 And sea- weed bowing to a troop of waves; 
 
 The glow of Venus and the glare of Mars, 
 
 The tranquil beauty of the lesser stars ; 
 
 The eagle, soaring in majestic tiiglit. 
 
 The moriujig bureting from the clouds of night, 
 
 The child's fond prattle and the mother's prayer, 
 Angelic voices floating on the air, 
 Mind, heart, and soul, the ever-restless breath, 
 And all the myriad-mysteries of death. 
 
 Beware ye doubting disbelieving throng, 
 Whose sole ambition is to favor wrong ; 
 There is a God ; remember while ye can, 
 "His Spirit will not always strive with man.'' 
 
 MY LORD TOMNODDY.— R. H. Baru.\m. 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day ; 
 
 It was lialf after two, 
 
 He had nothing to do, 
 So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet. 
 
 Tiger Tim 
 
 Was clean of limb, 
 His boots were polished, his jacket was trim; 
 With a very .smart tie in his smart cravat. 
 And a smart cockade on the top of his hat; 
 Tallest of boys, or shortest of men. 
 He stood in his stockings just four foot ten ; 
 And he a ked as he held the door on the swing, 
 " Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?" 
 
NUMBKR ONE. 75 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his liead, 
 And thus to Ti-ier Tim he said, 
 
 " Malibran'.s dead, 
 
 Duvernay's fled, 
 Taglioiii lias not yet arrived in her stead; 
 Tiger Tim, come tell me trne. 
 What may a nobleman find to do?" 
 
 Tim looked up, and Tim looked down. 
 He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown. 
 And he held up his hat, and he peeped in the crown. 
 He bit his lip, and he scratched his he;\d. 
 He lot go the handle, and thus he said. 
 As the door, released, behind him banged : 
 "An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hanged." , 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy jumped up at the news, 
 " linn to M'P'uze, 
 
 And Lieutenant Tregooze, 
 And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, ot the Blues. 
 
 liupe-dancefs a score 
 
 I've seen before — 
 Madame Sa(^chi, Antonio, and Master Black-more : 
 
 But to see a man swing 
 
 At the end of a string. 
 With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!" 
 
 I\Iy Lord Tomnoddy stepped into his cab — 
 Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab; 
 
 Through street, and through square. 
 
 His high-trotting mare. 
 Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air, 
 Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place 
 Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick i)ace; 
 
 Slie produced some alarm. 
 
 But did no great harm, 
 Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, 
 
 Spattering with clay 
 
 Two urchins at play. 
 Knocking down — very much to the sweeper's dismay — 
 \n old woman who wouldn't get out of the way. 
 
 And upsetting a stall 
 
 Near Exeter Plall, 
 Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall; 
 
 But eastward afar. 
 
 Through Temple Bar, 
 My Lord,Toninoddy directs his car; 
 
 Never heeding their squalls. 
 
 Or their calls, or their bawls. 
 He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls, 
 And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's, 
 " Turns down the Old Bailey, 
 
 Where in front of the gaol, he 
 
76 ONE UUXDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily 
 Cries, '■ What must I I'oric out to-night, my trump, 
 Fur the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?" 
 ***** 
 The dock strikes twelve — it is dark midnight — 
 Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light. 
 
 The parties are met ; 
 
 The tables are set ; 
 There is 'punch," "cold u-Uh-mt," "hot within," "heavy wet," 
 
 Ale-glasses and jugs. 
 
 And rummers and mugs. 
 And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs, 
 
 Cold fowl and cigars, 
 
 Pickled onions in jars, 
 Welsh rnbljits and kidneys — rare work for the jaws, — 
 And very large lobsters, with very large claws; 
 
 And ^here is M'Fuze, 
 
 And Lieutenant Tregooze, 
 And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues, 
 
 All come to see a man " die in his shoes !" 
 
 The clock strikes One ! 
 
 Supper is done. 
 And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun, 
 Singing " Jolly companions every one!" 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy 
 
 Is drinking gin-toddy. 
 And laughing at every thing, and every body. 
 
 The clock strikes Two ! and the clock strikes Three 1 
 — " Who so merry, so merry as we?" 
 
 Save Captain M'Fuze, 
 
 Who is taking a snooze. 
 While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work, 
 blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork. 
 
 The clock strikes Four! 
 
 Round the debtor's door 
 Are gathered a couple of thousand or more ; 
 
 As many await 
 
 At the press-yard gate. 
 Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight 
 ■ The mob divides, and between their ranks 
 
 A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks. 
 
 The clock strikes Five ! 
 
 The Sherifts arrive. 
 And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive ; 
 
 But Sir Carnaby Jenks 
 
 Blinks, and winks, 
 A candle burns down in the socket, and sinks. 
 
 Lieutenant Tregooze 
 
 Is dreaming of Jews, 
 
NUMBHK ONE. 77 
 
 And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse ; 
 My Lord Tomnoddy 
 . Hus drunk all his toddy, 
 And just as dawn is beginning to peep, 
 The whole of the party are fast asleep. 
 
 Sweetly, oh ! sweetly, the morning breaks, 
 
 With roseate streaks, 
 Lil^e the first faint i)lush on a maiden's cheeks ; 
 It seemed that tlie mild and clear blue sky 
 Smiled upon all thiii};s far and nigh, 
 On all — save rtie wretch condemned to die. 
 Alack ! that ever so fair a sun 
 As that which its course has now begun, 
 Should rise on such a scene of misery — 
 Should gild with rays so light and free 
 That dismal, dark -frowning gallows-tree ! 
 
 And hark ! — a sound comes, big with fate ; 
 
 The clock from St. Sei)ulchre's tower strikes — Eight I — 
 
 List to tlial low funereal bell : 
 
 It is tolling, alas ! a living man's knell — 
 
 And see, — from forth that opening door 
 
 They come ! — He steps that threshold o'er 
 
 Who never .-hall tread upon tlireshold more. 
 
 — God I 'tis a fearsome thing to see 
 
 That pale, wan man's mute agony, 
 
 The glare of that wild, despairing eye. 
 
 Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky, 
 
 As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear, 
 
 The path of the Spirit's unknown career; 
 
 Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er 
 
 Shall be lifted again, not even in prayer; 
 
 That heaving chest ! — Enough, — 'tis done ! 
 
 The bolt has fallen ! — the spirit is gone — 
 
 For weal or for woe is known but to One ! — 
 
 — Oh ! 'twas a fearsome sight! — Ah mel 
 
 A deed to shudder at, not to see. 
 
 Again that clock ! 'tis time, 'tis time ! 
 
 The hour is past ; — with ifa earliest chime 
 
 The chord is severed, its !)f<;less clay 
 
 By " dungeon villains" is borne away : 
 
 Nine ! — 'twas the last coniiluding stroke! 
 
 And then — my Lord Toainoddy awoke ! 
 
 And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose, 
 
 And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose: 
 
 And they stared at each other, as much as to say 
 
 "Hollo! Hollo! 
 
 Here's a rimi Go ! 
 Why, Captain ! — my Lord ! — Here's the devil to payj 
 The fellow's been cut down and taken away ! — 
 
J'S OMJi UUNDUED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 What's to be done ? 
 
 We've niisseLl all the fun ! — 
 Why they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the tows 
 Wu are all of us done so uncommonly brown!" 
 
 What was to be done? — 'twas perfectly plain 
 That they could not well hang the man over again. 
 What was to be done I — The man was dead ! 
 Nought could be done — nought could be said ; 
 So— my Lord Tomnoddy went homo to bed ! 
 
 — IngoldsOy Legends. 
 
 THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON.-Rufus Choate. 
 
 The birthday of the '' Father of his Country !" May it ever 
 be freshly remembered by American hearts ! May it ever re- 
 awaken in them a iilial veneration for his memory ; ever re- 
 kindle the fires of patriotic regard for the country which he 
 loved su well, to which he gave his youthful vigor and his 
 youthful energy, during the perilous period of the earlj' In- 
 dian warfare ; to which he devoted his life in the maturity of 
 his powers, in the tield ; to which again he offered the coun- 
 sels of his wisdom and his experience, as president of the con- 
 vention that framed our Constitution ; which he guided and 
 directed while in t he chair of state, and for which the last pray- 
 er of his e.irthly supplication was offered up, when it came the 
 moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. 
 He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His mem- 
 ory is first and most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, 
 till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American 
 heart, his name shall be a s[iell of i)ower and of might. 
 
 YeS, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, 
 which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty, 
 and towering and matchless glory of his life which enabled 
 him to create his country, and at the same time, secure an 
 undying love and regard from the whole American people. 
 ''The first in the hearts of his countrymen !" Yes, first! He 
 has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were 
 brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colo- 
 ny. But the American nation, as a nation, I do not reckon 
 to have begun before 1774. Anil the first love of that Young 
 America was Washington. The first word she lisped was 
 his name. ' Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud 
 ejaculation ; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life! 
 Yes ; others of our great men have been appreciated — many 
 
NUMBER ONE. 
 
 admired by all ;— but him we love ; him we all love. About 
 and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant 
 and disaatislied elements — no sectional prejudice nor bins — 
 no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall 
 assail him. Yes ; when the storm of battle blows darkest 
 and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve 
 every American arm, and cheer every American lieart. It 
 shall relume Ihut Promethean fire, that sublime flame of 
 imtriotism, that devoted love of country which his words 
 havp commeiided,*°which his example has consecrated : 
 
 " Where may the wearied eye repose, 
 
 AVhen gazing <hi the great; 
 Where neither guilty glory glows 
 
 Nor despicable state ? 
 Yes — one — the first, the last, the best, 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate. 
 Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
 To make man blush there was but one." 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. -Thomas Hood. 
 
 One more unfortunate 
 
 Weary of breath. 
 Rashly importunate. 
 
 Gone to her death ! 
 Take her up tenderly. 
 
 Lift her with care; 
 Fashioned so slenderly — 
 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Look at her garments, 
 Clinging like cerements, 
 Wliilst the wave con.stantljr 
 
 Drips from her clothing ; 
 Take her up instantly. 
 
 Loving, not loathing ! 
 
 Touch her not scornfully! 
 Tliink of her mournfully. 
 
 Gently and humanly — 
 Not of the stains of her; 
 All that remains of her 
 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny, 
 Into her mutiny, 
 Kash and undutiful ; 
 
PO ONE nUNDEED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Past all dishonor, 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all s'.ips of hers, — 
 
 One of Eve's family, — 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers. 
 
 Oozing so clammily. 
 Loop up her tresses 
 
 Escaped from the comb,— 
 Her fair auburn tresses, — 
 Whilst wonderment guesses. 
 
 Where was her home? 
 
 Who was her father ? 
 
 Who was her mother? 
 
 Had she a sister ? 
 
 Had she a brother? 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 
 Yet, than all other? 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 'Of Christian charity 
 
 Under the sun ! 
 Oh, it was pitiful ! 
 Near a whole city full, 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly. 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 
 Feelings had changed, — 
 Love, by harsh evidence. 
 Thrown from its eminence; 
 Even (jod's providence 
 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 So far in the river, 
 
 ^With many a light 
 From window and casement, 
 ]''rom garret to basement, 
 She stood, with amazement, 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 
 Made her tremble and shiver ; 
 But not the dark arch. 
 
 Or the black, flowing river; 
 Mid from life's history, 
 Gl;i<l to deatli's mystery, 
 
 Swift to bo hurled — 
 Anywhere, anyuliere 
 
 Out of the world I 
 
NUMBER ONE. 81 
 
 In she ])lunged boldly, — 
 No matter how coldly 
 
 The rough river ran, — 
 Over the brink of it ! 
 Picture it, — think of it 
 
 Dissolute man ! 
 Lave in it, drink of it 
 
 Then, if you can ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 
 Lift her with care ; 
 Fashioned so slenderly, 
 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 Ere her limbs, frigidly. 
 Stiffen too rigidly. 
 
 Decently, kindly, 
 Smootli and compose them; 
 And her eyes, close them, 
 
 •Staring so blindly! — 
 Dreadfully staring 
 
 Through muddy impurity. 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of des])airing 
 
 Fixed on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily, 
 Spurred by contumely 
 Cold inliumanity. 
 Burning insanity, 
 
 Into her rest ! 
 Cross her hands humbly, 
 As if i)raying dumbly, 
 
 Over her breast! 
 Owning her weakness, 
 
 Her evil behavior, 
 And leaving, with meekness 
 
 Her sins to her Saviour I 
 
 THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE. 
 Delia R. German. 
 
 The ripe, red berries of the wintergreen 
 
 Lure me to pause awhile 
 In this deep, tangled wood. I stop and lean 
 
 Down where these wild flowers smile, 
 , And rest me in this shade; for many a mile 
 Through lane and dusty street, 
 I've walked with weary, weary feet; 
 And now I tarry mid this woodland scene, 
 'Mong ferns and mosses sweet. 
 
82 ONE HBNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Here all around me blows 
 
 The pale iiriinrose. 
 
 I wonder if the gentle blossom knows 
 
 The ieolliiir ;it my heart — the solemn grief 
 
 So whelming and so deep 
 That it disdains relief, 
 
 And will not let me weep. 
 1 wonder that the woodbine thrives and grows, 
 And is indifferent to the nation's woes ; 
 Fur while these morjiings shine, these blossoms bloom, 
 Impious rebellion wraps the laud in gloom. 
 
 Nature, thon art nnkind, 
 
 Uiisympafhizin^', blind ! 
 
 Yon lichen, dinging to th' o'erhanging rock. 
 
 Is happy, and each blade of grass 
 . O'er- which unconsciously I pass, 
 Smiles in my face and seems to mock 
 
 Me with its joy. Alas! I cannot find 
 
 One charm in bounteous nature, while the wind 
 That blows upon my cheek bears on each gust 
 The groans of my poor country, bleeding in the dust. 
 The air is musical with notes 
 That gush from winged warblers' throats. 
 And in the leafy trees 
 I hear the drowsy hum of bees. 
 
 Prone from the blinding sky 
 
 Dance rainbow-tinted sunbeams, thick with motes, 
 
 Daisies are shining, and the butterfly 
 Wavers from flower to flower; yet in this wood 
 The ruthless foeman stood. 
 And every turf is drenched with human blood. 
 
 O heartless flowers ! 
 
 O trees, clad in your robes of glistering sheen. 
 
 Put off this canopy of gorgeous green ! 
 These are the hours 
 
 For mourning, not for gladness. While this smart 
 Of treason dire gashes the Nation's heart. 
 Let birds refuse to sing, 
 
 And flowers to bloom upon the lap of spring! 
 Let Nature's face itself with tears o'erflow. 
 In deepest anguish for a people's woe. 
 While rank rebellion stands 
 With blood of martyrs on his impious hands ; 
 Wliile slavery, and chains, 
 
 And cruelty, and. direst hate. 
 
 Uplift their heads, within th' afflicted state. 
 And freeze the blood in every patriot's veins, — 
 Let these old woodlands fair 
 Grow black with gloom, and from its thunder-lair 
 Let lightning leap, and scorch the accursed air. 
 
N U JIB K R O X E . 83 
 
 Until the sufFering earth, 
 
 Uf treason sick, sliuU spew the monster forth, 
 
 And eacli regenerate sod 
 
 Bh cunsecrale anew to i''reedoU) and to God! 
 
 THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.— \V. P. Palmer. 
 
 A district school, not f;tr away, 
 
 'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day, 
 
 Was humininf; with its wonted noise 
 
 Of three-score mingled girls aud boys. 
 
 Some few upon their tasks intent, 
 
 But more on furtive mischief bent. 
 
 Tlie while the master's downward look 
 
 Was fastened on a copy-book ; 
 
 When suddenly, behind his back, 
 
 Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! 
 
 As 'twere a battery of bliss 
 
 Let off in one treniendnns kiss! 
 
 " What's that?" the startled master cries; 
 
 "That, thir," a little imp replies, 
 
 " Wath Wilham Willith, if you pleathe— 
 
 1 thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe !" 
 
 With frown to make a statue thrill. 
 
 The master thundered, " Hither, Will!" 
 
 Like wretch o'ertaken in his track. 
 
 With stolen chattels on his back. 
 
 Will hung his head in fear and shame. 
 
 And to the awful presence came, — 
 
 A great, green, bashful simpleton, 
 
 Tlie butt of all good-natured fun. 
 
 With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, 
 
 The threatener faltered—" I'm amazed 
 
 That you my biggest pupil, should 
 
 Be guilty of an act so rude ! 
 
 Before the whole set school to boot — 
 
 What evil genius put you to't?" 
 
 " 'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, 
 
 " I did not mean to be so bad ; 
 
 But when Susannah shook her curls. 
 
 And whispered I was 'fraid of girls. 
 
 And dursn't ki.ss a baby's doll, 
 
 I couldn't stand it, sir, at all. 
 
 But up and ki.ssed her on the spot ! 
 
 I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not. 
 
 But, somehow, from her looks— boo-hoo — 
 
 1 thought she kind o' wished me to !" 
 
84 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 EXTRACT FROM HON. DANIEL S. DICKINSON'S 
 SPEECH AT UNION SQUARE, N. Y., AprU 20, 1861. 
 
 ■ We are called upon to act. There is no time for liesitation 
 or indecision — no time for haste or excitement. It is a time 
 when the people should rise in the majesty of their might, 
 stretch forth their strong arm and silence the angry waves 
 of tumult. It is time the people should command peace. It 
 is a question between uuiou and anarchy — between law and 
 disorder. All politi(;s for the time being are and should be 
 committed to the resurrection of the grave. The question 
 should be, "Our country, our whole country, and nothing 
 but the country." 
 
 " 'Tia not the whole of life to live, 
 Kor ull uf death to die." 
 
 We should go forward in a manner becoming a great peo- 
 ple. But six months since, the material elements of our 
 country were never greater. To-day, by the fiat of madness, 
 we are plunged in distress and threatened with political ruin, 
 anarchy and annihilation. It becomes us to stay the hand 
 of this spirit of disunion. While I would prosecute this war 
 in a manner becoming a civilized and a Christian people, I 
 would do so in no vindictive spirit. I would do it as Hrutus 
 set the signet to the death-warrant of his son — "Justice is 
 satisfied, and Rome is free." I love my country ; I love this 
 Union. It was the first vision of my early years; it is the 
 last ambition of my public life. Upon its altar I have sur- 
 rendered my choicest hopes. I had fondly hoped that in ap- 
 proaching age it was to beguile my solitary hours, and I will 
 stand by it as long as there is a Union to stand by ; and when 
 the ship of the Union shall crack and groan, when the skies 
 lower and threaten, when the lightnings flash, the thunders 
 roar, the storms beat and the waves run mountain-high, if 
 the ship of state goes down, and the Union perishes, I would 
 rather perish with it than survive its destruction. 
 
 THE BELLS.— Edg.\r A. Poe. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells — 
 Silver bells ! 
 What a world of merriment their melodj' foretells! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 
N V JIB E U O N K . 65 
 
 While the stars that overspriiikle 
 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. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
 Golden bells! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the molten-golden notes. 
 And all in tune. 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To tlie-turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 On the future ! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 Brazen bells! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright 1 
 Too much horrified to speak. 
 They can only shriek, shriek. 
 Out of tune, 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic Ure 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor. 
 Now — now to sit or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 
8G ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 On the bosoin of the palpitating air! 
 Yet tlie far, it fully knows, 
 Bj^the twanging, 
 And the oUmging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 In the jangling 
 And the wrangling, 
 How tlie danf^er sinks and swell ■, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger ox the Ll'Us — 
 Of I he bells— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 In the clamor and tlie clangor of the bells ! 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 Iron bells! 
 AVhat a world of solemn thought their monody compels I 
 In the silence of the night. 
 How we shiver with affright, 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
 for every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple. 
 
 All alone. 
 And who tollins;, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone, 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor liunian — 
 
 They are Ghouls: 
 And their king it is who tolls; 
 And I'.e rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 
 A psean from the bells! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the paean of the bells! 
 A nd he dances and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 III a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the jisean of the bells — 
 Of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells — 
 Ofthebells, bells, bells. 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knolls, knells, knells, 
 
NUMBER ONK, 
 1 
 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the roUing of the bells 
 Oi'the bells, bells, bells. 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells^ 
 Bells, bcsUs, bells, 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 AVOUNDED— WiLi.iAM E. Miller. 
 
 Let me lie down 
 Just here in the shade uf tliis cannon-torn tree, 
 11 'IT, low on the trampled grass, where 1 may see 
 The surge of the combat, and where 1 ni \y 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 : 
 0.1, on, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and dead, 
 With the foe under foot, and our flag overhead : 
 
 Oh, it was grand! 
 
 Weary and faint. 
 Prone on the soldier's courh, ah, how can I rest. 
 With this shot-shattered head and sabre-i)ierced breast? 
 Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be sought. 
 Say I fought till I fdU, and fell where I fought, 
 
 Wounded and faint. 
 
 Oh, that last charge ! 
 Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell, 
 Through without faltering, — clear through with a yeh ! 
 Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom. 
 Like heroes we dashed, at the niindate of doom! 
 
 Oh, that last charge ! 
 
 It was duty ! 
 Some things are worthless, and some others so good 
 Tiiat nations who buy them pay only in blood. 
 For Freedom and Union each man owes his jiart; 
 And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart : 
 
 It is duty. 
 
 Dying at last ! 
 Mv mother, dear mother! with meek tearful eye, 
 Fiirewell ! and God bless you, for ever and aye! 
 Oh that I now lay on your pillnw-ing breast, 
 To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest! 
 
 Dying at last! 
 
 K 
 
3 ONE UUXDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 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 tliat strongly, and then 
 111 try to repeat it, and you'll say, "Ameu !" 
 
 Ah ! I'm no saint. 
 
 Hark ! there's a phout. 
 Raise me up, comrades ! We have conquered, I know !- 
 Up, on my feet, with my face to the foo ! 
 Ah ! there flies the flag, with its star-spangles bright. 
 The promise of glory, the symbol of riglit ! 
 
 Well may they shout ! 
 
 I'm mustered out. 
 O God of our fathers, our freedom prolong. 
 And tread down rebellion, oppression, and wrong! 
 
 land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened sod, 
 
 1 die for the nation, the Union, and God ! 
 
 I'm mustered out. 
 
 THE FARMER'S BLUNDER. 
 
 A farmer once to London went, 
 
 To pay the worthy squire his rent. 
 
 He comes, he knocks ; soon entrance gains, — 
 
 Wlio at the door such guest detains? 
 
 Forth struts the squire, exceediijg smart — 
 
 " Farmer, you're welcome to my heart ; 
 
 You've brought my rent, then, to a hair! 
 
 The best of tenants, I declare!" 
 
 The steward 's called, the accounts made even ,- 
 
 The money paid, the receipt was given. 
 
 " Well," said the squire, " now, you shall stay, 
 
 Ard dine with me, old friend, to-day ; 
 
 I've here some ladies, wondrous pretty. 
 
 And pleasant sparks, too, who will fit ye." 
 
 Hob scratched liis ears, and held his hat. 
 
 And said — " No, znr; two words to that; 
 
 For look, d'ye zee, when I'ze to dine 
 
 With gentlefolks, zo cruel fine, 
 
 I'ze use to make, — and 'tis no wonder, — 
 
 In word or deed, some plaguy blunder. 
 
 Zo, if your honor will permit, 
 
 I'll with your zarvants jnck a bit." 
 
 " Poh !" says the squire, " it shan't be done ;" 
 
 And to the parlor pushed him on. 
 
 To all around he nodsand scrapes; 
 
 Not waiting-maid or butler 'scapes; 
 
NUMBER ONE. 83 
 
 With often bidding takes Iiis seat, 
 
 But at a distance niiglity great. 
 
 Though oflen asked to draw his cliair, 
 
 He nods, nor comes an inch more near. 
 
 By madam served, witli body bended, 
 
 With Itnife and I'orlc and arms extended, 
 
 He reached as far as lie was able 
 
 To plate, that overhangs the table ; 
 
 With little morsels cheats his chops, 
 
 And in the j)assage some he drops. 
 
 To show where most his heart inclined. 
 
 He talked and drank to John, behind. 
 
 When drank to, in a modlih way, 
 
 " Yonr love's snfflcient, zur," he'd say : 
 
 And, to be thought a man of manners. 
 
 Still rose to make his awkward honors. 
 
 " Tush !" says the squire ; " pray keep your sitting ! " 
 
 " No, no," he crie.s, " zur, 'tis not fitting: 
 
 Though I'm no scholar, versed in letters, 
 
 I knows my duty to my betters." 
 
 Much mirth the farmer's ways afford, 
 
 And hearty laughs go round the board. 
 
 Thus, the first course was ended well. 
 
 But at the next — ah ! what befell ? 
 
 The dishes were now timely placed. 
 
 And table with fresh luxury graced. 
 
 When drank to by a neighboring charmer, 
 
 TJp, as usual, starts the farmer. 
 
 A wag, to carry on the joke, 
 
 Thus to his servant softly spoke : — 
 
 " Come hither, Dick ; step gently there, 
 
 And pull away the farmer's chair." 
 
 'Tis done; his conge made, the clown 
 
 Draws back, and stoops to sit him down ; 
 
 But, by posteriors overweighed. 
 
 And of his trusty seat betrayed. 
 
 As ijien, at twigs, in rivers sprawling. 
 
 He caught the cloth to save his falling; 
 
 In vain! — sad fortune! down he wallowed. 
 
 And, rattling, all the dishes followed : 
 
 The fops soon lost their little wits ; 
 
 The ladies squalled — some fell in fits ; 
 
 Here tumbled turkeys, tarts, and widgeons. 
 
 And there, minced pies, and geese, and pigeons, 
 
 Lord ! what a do 'twixt belles and beaux ! — 
 
 Bome curse, some cry, and rub their clothes I 
 
 This lady rave.s, and that looks down. 
 
 And weejis and wails her spattered gown. 
 
 One spark bemoans his greased waistcoat. 
 
 One — '' Rot him ! he has spoiled my laced-coatl" 
 
 Amidst the rout, the farmer long 
 
PO ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Some pudding sucked, and held his tongue ; 
 At length, rubs his eyes, nostrils twang. 
 Then snai)S his fingers, and thus began : 
 "Plague tak'tl I'ze tell you how'd 'twould be; 
 Look ! here's a pickle, zurs, d'ye see." 
 " Peace, brute, begone !" the ladies cry ; 
 The beaux exclaim, " Fly, rascal, fly !" 
 " I'll tear his eyes out !" squeaks Miss Dolly ; 
 " I'll pink his soul out !" roars a bully. 
 At this the farmer shrinks with fear. 
 And thinking 'twas ill tarrying here. 
 Rims off, and cries, "Ay, kill me, then, 
 Whene'er you catch me here again !" 
 
 THE OATH.— TiioM.v. Buchanan Read. 
 
 "Hamlet. — Swear on my sword. 
 
 Ghost (below). — Swear." — Siiakspeare. 
 
 Ye freemen, how long will ye stifle 
 
 The vengeance that justice inspires? 
 With treason how long will ye trifle 
 
 And shame the proud names of your sires? 
 Out, out with the sword and the rifle, 
 
 In defence of your homes and your fires ! 
 The flag of the old Revolution 
 
 Swear firmly to serve and uphold. 
 That no treasonous breath of jiollution 
 
 Shall tarnish one star on its fold. 
 Swear I 
 And hark ! the deep voices replying 
 From graves where your fathers are lying, 
 " Swear ! Oh, swear !" 
 
 In this moment, who hesitates, barters 
 
 The rights which his forefathers won; 
 He forfeits all claim to the charters 
 
 Transmitted from sire to son. 
 Kneel, kneel at the graves of our martyrs, 
 
 And swear on your sword and your gun ; 
 Lay up your great oath on an altar 
 
 As huge and as strong as Stonehenge, 
 And then, with sword, fire, and halter, 
 
 Sweep down to the field of revenge, 
 Swear! 
 And hark ! the deep voices replying 
 From graves where your fathers are lying, 
 " Swear ! Oh, swear 1" 
 
NUMBER ONE. 91 
 
 By the tombs of your sires and brothers, 
 
 The host which the traitors liiive slain, 
 By the tears of your sisters and motliers, 
 
 In sepret concealing their pain ; 
 The Brief wljich the heroine smothers 
 
 Consuming the h^art and the brain ; 
 By the sigli of the penniless widow, 
 
 By the sob of our orphans' despair, 
 Where tlipy sit in tlieir sorrowful shadow, 
 
 Kiieel, kneel, every freeman, and swear 1 
 Jswear ! 
 And ha?k ! the deep voices replying 
 From graves where your fathers are lying, 
 "Swear! Oh, swear!" 
 
 On mounds which are wet with the weeping 
 
 Wherb a nation has bowed to tiie sod, 
 Where the noblest of martyrs are sleeping. 
 
 Let the wind bear your vengeance abroad, 
 And your firm oaths be held in the keeping 
 
 Of your patriot hearts, and your God ; 
 Over Ellsworth, for who)ii the tirst tear rose. 
 
 While to Baker anil Lyon yon look. 
 By Winthrop, a star among heroes. 
 
 By the blood of our murdered McCook, 
 Swear ! 
 And hark ! the deep voices replying 
 From graves wiiere your fathers are lying, 
 "Swear! Oh, swear!" 
 
 THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE— Colton. 
 
 Old Ironsides at anchor lay. 
 
 In the harbor of Mahon ; 
 A dead calm rested on the bay, — 
 
 The waves to sleep had gone ; 
 When little Hal, the Captain's son 
 
 A lad both brave and good. 
 In sport, up shroud and rigging ran. 
 
 And on the main truck stood ! 
 
 A shudder shot through every vein, — 
 
 All eyes were turned on high ! 
 There stood tjie boy, with dizzy brain. 
 
 Between the sea and sky ; 
 No hold had he above, below ; 
 
 Alone he stood in air : 
 To that far height none dared to go, — 
 
 No aid could reach him there. 
 
ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SEI.KCTIOKS 
 
 We gazed, but not ii man could speak, — 
 
 Witli liorror all a<:liast, — 
 In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, 
 
 We watched the quivering mast. 
 The atmosphere grew thick and hot, 
 
 And of a lurid hue ;-5- 
 As riveted unto the spot, 
 
 Stood officers and crew. 
 
 The father came on deck : — he gasped, 
 
 " Oh, God ; thy will be done !" 
 Then suddenly a rifle grasped, 
 
 And aimed it at his son. 
 " Jump, far out, boy, into the wave ! 
 
 Jump, or I fire," he said ; 
 " That only chance your life can save ; 
 
 Jump, jump, boy !" He obeyed. 
 
 He sunk, — he rose, — he lived, — he moved,- 
 
 And for the ship struck out. 
 On board we hailed the lad beloved, 
 
 With many a manly shout. 
 His father drew, in silent joy, 
 
 Those wet arm.-i round his neck, 
 And folded to his heart his boy, — 
 
 Then fainted on the deck. 
 
 DRIVING HOME THE COWS.— Kate P. Osgood. 
 
 Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass. 
 
 He turned them into the river-lane; 
 One after another he let them pass, 
 
 Then fastened the meadow bars again. 
 
 'Under the willows and over the hill. 
 He patiently followed their sober pace ; 
 
 The merry whistle f(ir once was still. 
 And something shadowed the sunny face. 
 
 Only a boy I and his father had said 
 
 He never could let his youngest go: 
 Two already were lying dead 
 
 Under the feet of the trampling foe. 
 
 But after the evening work was done. 
 
 And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, 
 
 Over his shoulder he slung his gun, 
 And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, — 
 
NUMBEI! UNK. 9ii 
 
 Across tile clover and through the wheat, 
 
 With reiulute heart and purpose grim, 
 Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet. 
 
 And the blind bats flitting startled him. 
 
 Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
 And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 
 
 And now, when the cows came back at night, 
 The feeble father drove them home. 
 
 For news had come to the lonely farm 
 
 That three \\{ere lying where two had lain ; 
 
 And the old man's tremulous palsied arm 
 Could never lean on a son's again. 
 
 The summer day grew cool and late ; 
 
 He went for the cows when the work was done; 
 But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
 
 He saw them coming, one by one, — 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 Shaking their horns in the evening wind, 
 
 Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — 
 But who was it following close behind? 
 
 Loosely swung in the idle air 
 
 The empty sleeve of army blue; 
 And worn and pale, frpm the crisping hair, 
 
 Looked out a face that the father knew ; — 
 
 For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
 
 And yield their dead unto life again ; 
 And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
 
 In golden glory at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; 
 
 For the he.art must speak when the lips are dumb, 
 And under the silent evening skies 
 
 Together they followed the cattle home. 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 There's somewhat on my breast, father, 
 
 There's somewhat on my breast ! 
 The live-long day I sigh, father. 
 
 At night I cannot rest; 
 I cannot take my rest, father. 
 
 Though I would fain do so, 
 A weary weight oppresseth me, — 
 
 The weary weight of woe ! 
 
 Tis not the lack of gold, father. 
 Nor lack of worldly gear ; 
 
94 OXE nUXDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 My lands are broad r.nd fair to see. 
 My friends are kind and dear; 
 
 My kin are leal and true, father, 
 They inonrn to see my grief, 
 
 But, oh ! 'tis not a kinsman's hand 
 Can give my heart relief! 
 
 Tis not that Janel's false, father, 
 
 'Tis not that she's unkind ; 
 Though busy flatterers swarm around, 
 
 I know her constant nlind. 
 Tis not the coldness of her heart 
 
 That chills my laborinfj breast, — 
 It's that coiifownded cucumber 
 
 late, und can't digest! 
 
 DAMON AND PYTHIAS ; OR, TRUE FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 William Plter. 
 
 " Here, guards !" pale with fear, Dionysius cries, 
 " Here, guards, yon intruder arrest ! 
 
 'Tis Damon — but ha ! speak, what means this disguise? 
 And the dagger which gleams in thy vest?' 
 "'Twas to free," says the youtb,"th^s dear land from its chains!" 
 " Free the land ! wretched fool, th'ou shalt die for thy pains.'' 
 
 "I am ready to die — 1 ask not to live, — 
 
 Yet three days of respite, jierhaps thou mayst give, 
 
 For to-morrow, my sister will wed, 
 And 'twould damp all her joy, were her brother not there; 
 Then let me, I pray, to her nu|)tials repair, 
 
 While a friend remains here in my stead." 
 
 With a sneer on his brow, and a curse in his breast, 
 
 " Thou shalt have," cries tlie tyrant, "shalt have thy request ; 
 
 To thy sister repair, and her nuptials attend, 
 Enjoy thy three days, but — mark well what I say — 
 Return on the third ; if, beyond that fixed day, 
 There be but one hour's, but one moment's delay, 
 
 That delay shall be death to thy friend !" 
 
 Then to Pythias he went, and he told him his case ; 
 That true friend answered not, but, with instant embrace,' 
 
 Consenting, rushed forth to be bound in his room ; 
 And now, as if winged with new life from above. 
 To his sister he flew, did his errand of love. 
 And, ere a third morning had brightened the grove; 
 
 Was returning with joy to his doom. 
 
 But the heavens interpose. 
 Stern the tempest arose. 
 
N U JI U K It ONE. 9j 
 
 And wlieii the poor ])ikriin arrived at the shore, 
 
 Swollen to torrents, the rills 
 
 Unshed ill fo.iin IVoin the hills, 
 A. id crash went the bridge in the whirlpool'o wild roar. 
 
 Wildly gazing, despairing;, half frenzied he stood ; 
 Dark, dark were (ho skies, and dark was the flood, 
 
 And still darker his lorn heart's emotion ; 
 And he shouted for aid, but no aid was at hand. 
 No boat ventured fortli from the surf-riddeii strand. 
 And the waves spraiiy, like woods, o'er the lessening land, 
 
 And the streanuwas becoming an ocean. 
 
 Now with knees low to earth, and with hands to the skies, 
 "Still the storm, God of might, God of mercy I" he cries— 
 
 "Oil, hush wilh Thy breath this loud sea; 
 The hours hurry by, — the sun glows on high ; 
 And should ho go down, and I reach not yon town, 
 
 My friend — he must perish for nic!" 
 
 Yet the wrath of the torrent still wont on increasing. 
 And waves uiion waves still dissolved without ceasing, 
 
 And hour after hour hurried on ; 
 Then by anguish impelled, hope and fear alike o'er. 
 He, reckless, runlied into the waters deep roar; 
 Kosc— sunk — struggled on — till, at length the wished shore,— 
 
 Thanks to Heaven's outstretched hand- it is won ! 
 
 But new perils await hiin ; scarce 'scaped from tlie Hood 
 
 And i.itcn. o.i redeeming each moment's delay, 
 As onward he sped, lo ! from out a dark wood, 
 
 A band of lieroe robbers encompassed his \v;iy. 
 "What would ye?" ho cried, "save my life, I li.ivo nought ; 
 Nay, that is the king's." -Then swift having c uight 
 A club from the nearest, and swinging it round 
 With might more than man's, ho laid three on the ground. 
 While "the rest hurried off in dismay. 
 
 But the noon's scorching flame 
 
 Soon shoots through liis franco. 
 And he turns, faint and way-worn, to Heaven with a sigh— 
 
 "Ii"rom the flood and the foe, 
 
 Thon'st redeemed me, and oh ! 
 Thus, by thirst overcome, must I effortless lie. 
 And leave him, the beloved of my bosom to die?" 
 
 Scarce uttered the word. 
 
 When startled he hoaril 
 Purling sound.s, sweet as silver's, fall fresh on his ear; 
 
 And lo! a small rill 
 
 Trickled down from the hill ! 
 He heard, and he saw, and, with joy drawing near, 
 Laved his limbs! slaked his thirst, and renewed.his career. 
 
 E* 
 
&(i ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And now the sun's beams through the deep boughs art; glov?- 
 
 And rock, tree, and mountain, their shadows are throwing, 
 
 Huge and grim, o'er the meadow's bright bloom ; 
 An() two travelers are seen coming forth on their way, 
 And just as they pass, he hears one of them say— 
 " 'Tis the hour that was fixed for his doom !" 
 
 Still anguish gives strength to his wavering flight ; 
 On he speeds; audio! now in eve's reddening light 
 
 The domes of far Syracuse blend ; — 
 Theiu Pliilostratus meets him, (a servant grown gray 
 In his lionse,) crying, " Back ! not a moment's dcLiy ; 
 
 No cares can avail for thy friend. 
 
 " No ; nothing can save his dear head from Ihe tomb; 
 
 So think of jiruserving thy own. 
 Myself, I beheld him led forth to his doom ; 
 
 Ere this his brave sjiirit has flown ! 
 With confident soul he stood, hour after hour, 
 
 Thy return never doubting to see; 
 No sneers of the tyrant that faith could o'erpower, 
 
 Or shuke-his assurance in thee !" 
 
 "And is it too late? and can I not save 
 
 His dear life? then, at least, let me share in his grave.. 
 
 Yes, death shall unite us! no tyrant shall say. 
 
 That friend to his friend proved untrue ; he may slay, — 
 
 May torture,— may mock at all mercy and ruth. 
 
 But ne'er shall he doubt of our friendship and truth." 
 
 'Tis sunset : and Damon arrives at the gate. 
 Sees the scaffold and multitudes gazing below ; 
 
 Already the victim is bared for his fat^e. 
 Already tlie deathsman stands armed for the blow; 
 
 When hark ! a wild voice which is echoed aronnd, 
 
 "Stay! — 'tis I — it is Damon, for whom he was bound!" 
 
 And now they sink in each other's embrace, 
 
 And are weeping for joy and despair ; 
 Not a soul, among thousands, but melts at their case, 
 
 AVhich swift to the monarch they bear ; 
 Even he, too, is moved — feels for once as he ought — 
 And commands, that they both to his throne shall be brought. 
 
 Tlion, — alternately gazing on each gallant youth, 
 
 With looks of awe, wonder, and shame ; — 
 'Ye have conquered !" he cries, " yes, I see now that truth,-^ 
 
 Tliat friendship is not a mere name. 
 Gil ; — you're free; but, while life'« dearest blessings you prove, 
 
 Let one prayer of your monarch be heard, 
 That — his past sins forgot — in this union of love 
 
 And of vi-rtne — you make him the third." 
 
NUJIBUU OMi. 97 
 
 ADVICE TO A FIRE COMPANY. 
 
 It having been announced to me, my young friends, that you 
 were about forming a flre-company, I liave called you together 
 togive you such directions as long exjjerience in a first-quality 
 engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment 
 you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run 
 any way, except the right way, — for the furthest way round 
 is tlie nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the 
 top of a wood-pile' so much the better, you can then getagood 
 , view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, 
 "break"foritinimediately ; but be sure you don't jump into a 
 bow window. Keep yelling, all the lime; and, if you can't make 
 night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come 
 across, and set them yelling, too ; 'twill help amazingly. A 
 brace of cats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a "'powerful 
 auxiliary." When you reach the scene pf the fire, do all you 
 can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the 
 fencesin the vicinity. If it 'sa chimney on fire, throw salt down 
 it ; or, if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to 
 jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don't forget to 
 yell, all the while, as it will have a ])rodi<rious effect in fright- 
 ening off the fire. The louder the bettor, of course ; and the 
 more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for "doing it 
 brown." Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good 
 earnest, and make any man "smoke" that interrupts you. If it 
 is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, 
 to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forqct to yell.' 
 Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cow-chains. 
 Never mind the horse, — he'll be alive and kicking; and if his 
 legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as 
 to the hogs; — let them save their own bacon, or smoke for it. 
 AVhen the roof begins to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away 
 tlie stone steps ; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe 
 and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the 
 basement story ; and, if that don't stop the flames, let the 
 chair-boards on the first floor share a similar fate. Should the 
 "devouring element" still pursue the " even tenor of its way," 
 you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the 
 pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time! 
 
 If you find a baby abed, fling it into the second story win- 
 dow of the house across the way ; but let the kitten carefully 
 down in 'a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, 
 and empty their contents out of the back window ; telling 
 
 n 
 
98 ONE IIUNOKED CHOICE SEJ.ECTIONS 
 
 Bomebody below to npset the slop-barrel and rain-water hogs- 
 head at the same tiiiip. Of course, yon will attend to the 
 mirror. The further it can be thrown, the more pieces will 
 be made.' If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do 
 not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs down from the 
 second story ; the full might break its legs, and render the 
 poor thing a crij)ple for life. Set it straddle of your shoul- 
 ilers, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bed clothes care- 
 fully on the floor, and thro w the crockery out of the window. 
 By the time you will have attended to all these things, the 
 fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt doiv:i. 
 In ehher case, your .services will bo no longer needed ; anil, 
 of courtc, yoa require no further directions. 
 
 GLORIOUS NEW EXGL.\ND.— S. S. Prentiss. 
 
 Gloiions New England ! thou art still true to thy ancient 
 fame, and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, 
 have assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birth- 
 day. A thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused 
 by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like 
 sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early 
 life; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gathering 
 mists, the mighty memories of the Revolution ; and, far aw.:y 
 in the horizon of thy past, gleam, like thy own bright nortli- 
 ern lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires! But while 
 we devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, 
 we forgot not that in wliich our happy lot is cast. We exult 
 ia the reflection, that though we count by thousands the 
 )n!les which separate us from our birth-place, still our coun- 
 try is the same. We are no exiles meeting upon the banks 
 of a foreign river, to swell its waters with our home-side 
 tears. Here floats the same banner which rustled above our 
 boyish heads, except that its mighty folds are wider, and its 
 glittering stars increased in number. 
 
 The sons of New England are fou;id in every state of the 
 broad republic! In the East, the South, and the unbounded 
 "West, their blood mingles freely with every kindred current. 
 AVe have but changed our chamber in the paternal mansion ; 
 in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our 
 brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth ; its 
 household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, peculiarly 
 devolves the duty of feeding the fires upon that kindly hearth; 
 of guarding with pious care those sacred household gods. 
 
NUMBEK OKli. CO 
 
 We cannot do with less than the whole Union ; to us it 
 admits of no division. In the veins of our children flouv 
 Northern and Southern blood ;• how shall it be separated?^ 
 Who shall put asunder the best alfections of the heart, the 
 noblest instincts of our nature? We love the land of our 
 adoption : so do we that of our birth. Let us ever be true to 
 both ; and always exert ourselves in maintaining the unity 
 of our country, the integrity of the republic. 
 
 Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the golden 
 cord of union ! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall 
 propose its severanCe ! 
 
 ' But no ! the Union cannot be dissolved. Its fortunes are 
 too brilliant to be marred; its destinies too powerful to bo 
 resisted. Here will be their greatest triumph, their most 
 mighty development. 
 
 And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have 
 filled her golden Ivorns ; — when within her broad-armed port 
 shall be gathered the products of the industry of a hundred 
 millions of freemen ; — when galleries of art and halls of learn- 
 ing shall have miicie classic this mart of trade ; then may 
 the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills 
 of the north, stand up on the banks of the Great River, and 
 exclaim, with mingled pride and wonder, — "Lo! this is our 
 country; — when did the world ever behold so rich and mag- 
 nificent a city — so groat and glorious a republic !" 
 
 THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.— Geokge Colman. 
 
 A member of the ^sculapian line lived at Newcastle-upon- 
 Tyne : no man could better gild a pill, or make a bill, or mix 
 a draught, or bleed, or blister ; or draw a tooth out of your 
 head; or chatter scandal by your bed; or spread a plaster. 
 His fame full six miles round the country ran ; in short, in 
 reputation he was solus : all the old women called him "a fine 
 man !" His name was Bolus. 
 
 Benjamin Bolus, though in trade (which oftentimes will 
 genius fetter), read works of fancy, it is said, and cultivated 
 the "belles lettres." Bolus loved verse ; and took so much 
 delight in't, all his prescriptions he resolved to write in't. 
 No opportunity he e'er let pass of writing the directions on 
 his labels in dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables, or rather 
 like the lines in Hudibras. 
 
 He had a patient lying at death's door, some three miles 
 from the town,— it might be four,— to whom, one evening 
 
100 ONE IIUNDEED CHOICE SELUCTIONS 
 
 B;j1us sent an artide— in pharmacy 1 hat's called cathartical: 
 and on the label of the stulf he wrote this verse, which one 
 would thiiik was clear endugh, and terse, — 
 
 " When trtkeli, 
 
 To bu WL'll ttlinken." 
 
 Next morning early Bolus rose, and to the patient's house 
 he goes, upon his pad. wha a vile trick of stumWing had ; but 
 he arrived, and gave a tap, between a single and a double 
 rap. The servant lets him in, with dismal face, long as a 
 courtier's out of place,— portending some disaster. Jolm's 
 countenance as rueful looke J and grim, as if the apothecary 
 had phvsicked hiui, and not his master. 
 
 "Weil, how's the patient?" Bolus said. John shook his 
 h?ad. "Indeed!— hum!— ha!— that's very odd!— He took 
 the draught?"— Joh.i gave a nod.— "Well? how? what 
 then?— speak out, you dunce!" "Why then," says John, 
 "we shook him once."— " Shook liim!how? how?" friend 
 Bolus stammered out.—" We jolted him about." 
 
 "\Vh;it! shake the patient, man !— why that won't do." 
 " No, sir," quoth John, " and so we gave him two." "Two 
 shakes ! luckless verse ! 'T would make the patient worse !" 
 " It did so, sir, and so a third we tried.''- " Well, and what 
 then ?" — ■■ Then, sir, my master died !" 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 Little Gretchen, little Grctchen wanders up and down the 
 
 street ; 
 The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is at her feet. 
 The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp, 
 By the struggli ng of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp. 
 The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north. 
 But no one cares for Gretchen, and no oie looketh forth. 
 Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright. 
 And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night. 
 
 With the little box of matches she could not sell all day, 
 And tlie thin, thin tattered mantle the wind blows every way, 
 She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom, — 
 There are parents sitting snugly by the- firelight in the room ; 
 And children with grave faces are whispering one another 
 Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother. 
 But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one Iiears her speak. 
 No breath of little whispers comes'warmly to her cheek. 
 
 No little arms are round her: ah me! that there should be. 
 With so much happiness'on earth, so much of misery ! 
 
NUMDliU ONB 101 
 
 Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round. 
 As laden boughs in autunm til ngtiieir ripe fruits to the ground. 
 And the best love man ean otter to tlie God of love, be sure, 
 Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor. 
 Little Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on her way; 
 There's no one looketh out at her, there's no one bids her stay. 
 
 Her home is cold and desolate ; no smile, no food, no fire, 
 But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire. 
 So she sits down in an angle where two great Ikjuscs meet. 
 And she curleth up boiieatii her, for warmth, her little feelj 
 And she lookctlr"on the cold wall, and on the colder sky. 
 And wonders if the little stars are bright fires u[> on high. 
 She hears a clock strike slowly, up in a far church tower, 
 With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour. 
 
 And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell, 
 And of the cradle-songs she .sang, when summer's twilight fell; 
 Of good men and of angol.s, and of the Holy Child, 
 Who was cradled in a manger, when winter was most wild ; 
 Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone. 
 And .she thought the song had told he was over with his own; 
 Aiidall the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his, — 
 " How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this I" 
 
 Colder it grows, and colder, but she does not feel it now. 
 For the pressure at her heart, and the weight upon her brow; 
 But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare, 
 That she might look around her, and see if He were there. 
 The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw 
 It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two ; 
 And she could see folks seated at a table richly spread. 
 With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread. 
 
 She could smell the fragrant savor, she pould hear what they 
 
 did say. 
 Then all was darkness once again, the match had burne(J away. 
 She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see 
 Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree. 
 The branches were all laden with things that children prize. 
 Bright gifts for boy and maiden, she saw them with her eyes, 
 And she almost seemed to touch thetn, and to join the wel- 
 come shout, 
 When darkness fell around her, for the little match was out. 
 
 Another, yet another, she had tried— they will not light ; 
 Till all her little store she took, and struck with all her might : 
 And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare, 
 A nd she dreamed t here stood a little child before her in the air. 
 There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear-wound in 
 
 his side. 
 And cruel nail-prints in hisfeet,and in his hands spread widel 
 
102 ONii uuNUKEU cuou:e selections 
 
 An J lie loukoJ upon her gently, and ^ he felt that ho hail known 
 Pain, hunjjer, cult!, and hoiruw — .,y, eqiul to lier own. 
 
 And he pointed to the laden board ami to the Christmas tree, 
 Tlien up to the cold sky, and said, " Will Ciretthen come 
 
 with me?" 
 The poor child felt her pulises fail, she felt her eyeballs swim, 
 And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's 
 
 hymn : 
 And she folded both her thin white hands, and turned from 
 
 that bright board, 
 And from the golden gifts, and said, " With thee, with thee, 
 
 Lord !" ■ 
 The chilly winter morning hreiiks nji in the dull skies 
 On the city wrapt in vai)or, on the spot where (iretchen lies. 
 
 In her scantand tattered garment, wilh her back against the 
 
 wall. 
 She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. 
 They have lifted herupfearfnlly, they shnddercd as they said, 
 " It was a bitter, bitter niytht ! the child is fr-jze'.i dead." 
 The angelssang their greeting for one mc ire redeem'd from sin; 
 Men said, "It was a bitter night ; would no one let her in':" 
 And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They 
 
 ciinld not see 
 How much of h.ippiness there was after that misery. 
 
 OX THE SlIOUES OF TENNESSEE.- E.L. Bionus. 
 
 " Movemy arm-chair, fiiihfiil Pompey, 
 
 T:i Ih;' sunshine V)righi ai.d s'.ro: g. 
 For this world is fading, Pompey — 
 
 Massa won't be with you lor.g; 
 And 1 fain would hoar the south wind 
 
 lirii'.g on<'e more the sound to me 
 Of the wavelets soflly breaking 
 
 On the shores of Tennessee. 
 
 "Mournful though the ripples murmur, 
 
 As they still the story tell. 
 How no vessels float the banner 
 
 That I've loved so long and well, 
 I shall listen to their music, 
 
 Dreaming that again I see 
 Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop, 
 
 .Sailing up the Tennessee. 
 
 "And, Pompey, while old T\Iassa 's waiting 
 Tor death's last despatch to come. 
 
 If that exiled starry banner 
 Should come jiroudly sailir.g home, 
 
NUMBER ONE. lui 
 
 You shall greet it, slave no longer — 
 
 Voice and hand sjiall both be free 
 That shouts and points to Union colors. 
 
 On the waves of Tennessee." 
 
 " Massa 's berry kind to Pompey ; 
 
 But ole darkey 's happy here, 
 Where he 's tended corn and cotton 
 
 I'or 'ese many a long-gone year. 
 Over yonder Missis 's sleeping — 
 
 No one tends her grave like me; 
 Mebbe she,would miss the flowers 
 
 She useuto love in Tennessee. 
 
 " 'Pears like she was watching Massa, 
 
 If Pouipey should beside liim stay; 
 Mebbe she'd remember better 
 
 How for him she used to pray ; 
 Telling him that-way up yonder 
 
 White as snow his soul would be. 
 If he served the Lord of heaven 
 ■ While he lived in Tennessee." 
 
 Silently the tears were rolling 
 
 Down the poor old dusky face. 
 As he stepped behind his master. 
 
 In his long-accustomed place. 
 Then a silenc^e fell around them, 
 
 As they gazed on rock and tree 
 Pictured in the placid waters 
 
 Of the rolling Tennessee ; — 
 
 Mister, dreaming of the battle 
 
 Where he fought by Marion's side. 
 When he bid the haughty Tarleton 
 
 Stoop his lordly crest of pride ; 
 Man, remembering how yon sleeper 
 
 Once lie held upon his knee. 
 Ere slie loved the gallant soldier, 
 
 Ralph Vervair, of Tennessee. 
 
 Still the south 'wind fondly lingers 
 
 'Mid the veteran's silvery hair; 
 Still the bondman, close beside him. 
 
 Stands behind the old arm-chair. 
 With his dark-hued hand uplifted, 
 
 Shading eyes, he bends to see 
 Where the woodland, boldly jutting, 
 
 Turns aside the Tennessee. 
 
 Thus he watches cloud-born shadows 
 Glide from tree to mountain *rest, ■ 
 
 Softly creeping, aye and ever, 
 To the river's yielding breast. 
 
104 OXK lIUNUUliD CilOlCE Si:Lli;^ Tl I) NS 
 
 Ha ! above the foliage yonder 
 Siimetliiiig flutters wild and free! 
 
 "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! 
 
 Tlie flag's come back to Tennessee I" 
 
 " rompev, hold me on your shoulder, 
 
 Help liie stand on foot once more, 
 That I may salute the colors 
 
 As they pass my cabin door. 
 Here 's the paper signed that frees you ; 
 
 Give a freeman's shout with me— 
 'Gdd and Union !' be our watchword 
 
 Evermore in Tennessee." 
 
 Then the trembling voice grew fainter, 
 Andthe limbs refused to stand ; 
 
 0;ie prayer to Jesus — and the soldier 
 Glided to that better land. 
 
 When the flag went down the river, 
 Man and m;istcr both were free, 
 
 While tlie ring-dove's note was mingled* 
 With the ri,ipling Tenncrsee. 
 
 SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA. 
 
 E. Kellogg. 
 
 Ye call me chief; and-ye do well to call him chief who for 
 twelve long years has met upon the arena every shape of man 
 or beast the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and who" 
 never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who 
 can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions 
 did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be 
 three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, 
 let them come on. And yet I was not always thus, — a hired ' 
 butcher, a savage chief of .still more savage men. j\Iy ancestors 
 came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks 
 and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the 
 brooks by which I sported ; and when, at noon, I gathered 
 the shee^beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's 
 flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in 
 the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and par- 
 took together our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep 
 were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which 
 shaded our cottage^my grandsire, an old man, was telling of 
 Marathon and Leuctra ; and how, in ancient times, a little 
 band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood 
 a whole army. I did not then know what war was ; but my 
 
NUMBER ONE. . 103 
 
 cheeks burned, I know not wliy, and I clasped the knees of 
 that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from 
 off iny forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me 
 go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage 
 wars. That very night the Komans landed on our coast. I 
 saw the breast that had nourished me tram])led by the hoof 
 of the war-horse, — the bleeding body of my father flung 
 amid.st the blazing rafters of our dwelling ! To-day I killed a 
 man in the arena ; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, be- 
 hold ! he was my fjiend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, 
 and died ; — the same sweet smile upon his lips that I'had 
 marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty 
 cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in 
 childish triumph ! I told the prsetorthat the dead man had 
 been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I 
 might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and 
 mourn over its ashes. Ay ! upon my knees, amid the dust and 
 blood 'of the arena, 1 begged that poor boon, while all the as- 
 sembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call 
 Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare 
 sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and 
 tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the prae- 
 tor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said, " Let the 
 carrion rot ; there are no noble men but Romans." And fo, 
 fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, dib like dogs. 
 Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tenderjiurse to me. Ay! thou 
 liast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never 
 knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a 
 heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited 
 mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow 
 ofhisfoe;— to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce 
 Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a langliinggirl! And he 
 shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing 
 wine, and in its deepest ooze thy Hfe-blood lies curdled ! 
 
 Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! The strength of 
 brass is in your toughened sinews, but to-morrow some Ro- 
 man Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, 
 shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his ses- 
 terces upon your blood. Hark I hear ye yon lion roaring in 
 his den ? 'Tis three days since he has tasted flesh ; but to- 
 morrow he shall break his fast upon yours, — and a dainty 
 meal for him ye will be ! If ye are beasts, then stand here 
 like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife ! If ye'aremen, 
 follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, 
 and there do bloody work, as did your sires at old Ther- 
 
106 ONIS liUNDKEU CJIOICE SKLECTIONS 
 
 mopylse! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in 
 your veins, that you do croucli and cower like a belabored 
 hound beneath his master's lash? O comrades! warriors! 
 Thracians! if we must fight, let ns light for ourselves! If we 
 must slaughter, let us sl.uighter our oj^prossor,! ! If we must 
 die, let it be under tlie cle.;r tky, by the bright waters, iii 
 noble, honorable battle ! 
 
 A 5I0DEST WIT. 
 
 A supercilious nabob of the East — 
 
 Haughty, being great — purse-] irpud, being rich — 
 A governor, or general, at the least, 
 
 1 have forgotten which — 
 Had in his family a humble j-onth. 
 
 Who went from England in his patron's suite, 
 An unassuming boy, and in truth 
 
 A lad of dei^nt parts, and good repute. 
 
 This youth had sense and spirit; 
 
 But yet, witli all his sense, 
 
 Excessive diffidence 
 Obscured his merit. 
 
 One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, 
 His honor, proudly free, severely merr^v. 
 
 Conceived it would be vastly line 
 To crack a .joko upon his secretary. 
 
 "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, 
 Did your good fillier gain a livelihood?" — 
 
 "lie was a saddler, .sir," .Modestus said, 
 "And in hi.i time was reckoned good." 
 
 "A saddler, eh ! and taught you Greek, 
 
 Instead of teaching you tx) sew ! 
 Pray, why did not your father make 
 
 A saddler, sir, of you?" 
 
 Ea<'h parasite, then, as in duty bound. 
 
 The joke ai)plauded, and the laugh went round. 
 
 At length Modestus, bowiiig low. 
 Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), 
 
 " Sir, by your leave, I fain would kiiovv 
 Your father's trade !" 
 
 " My father's trade ! Bless me, 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." 
 
NUMBHR ONE. 107 
 
 " Excuse the liberty I take," 
 
 Modestus said, with arcliness on his brow, 
 "Pray, why did not your fiither mal^e 
 
 A gentleman of ymiV" 
 
 HAIL! TO THE VETERANS.— N. K. Kiciiaedson. 
 
 Writton on the reception of General Meade and liU brave aoliliei-s of the Army 
 of the Potomac, in PUihidelptiiu, June, 1805. 
 
 Welcome them, cheer them, crown them witli flowers! 
 
 Flags flutter out from your lofty towers ! 
 
 Maidens throw smiles to them, skies look bright, 
 
 They are tranipiiif! home from a gory (ifjht ! 
 
 Be frantic, earth, with tumultuous glee, 
 
 Till your joyous uote.i strike the distant sea. 
 
 Then ocean will tremble, his billows ari.se, 
 
 In crystal and foam to the glad blue skies, 
 
 And from martyr-spirits enshrined above 
 
 Waft to heroes below, consolation and love! 
 Trumpets of brass with a constant bray. 
 And ringing bells, shall be merry to-day, 
 As they peal and roar,— welcome home from the fray! 
 
 Fragrant breath of the leafy June, 
 
 Carol of birds in their sweetest tune ; 
 
 Branches swaying and bending low, 
 
 Glistening waters in jubilant flow, 
 
 Heaven and earth, ocean and air. 
 
 All things beautiful, all things fair, 
 
 Join us to day in liapi)y accord. 
 
 At the homeward march of the hoists of the Lord ! 
 Trumpets of brass with a constant bray, 
 And ringing bells, shall be merry to-day, 
 As th6y peal and roar, — welcome home from the fray! 
 
 Thundering cannon with heated throats, 
 Shall greet your companions in swelling note.s ! 
 Belching and booming o'er land and sea. 
 Proclaiming to tyrants the home of the Free! 
 Oh ! Glory to God for this blissful hour ! 
 For the steady rise of the nation's power ! 
 Having met the foe, it was not well 
 They should come until slavery writhed in hell ! 
 Trumpets of brass with a constant bray. 
 And ringing bells, shall be merry to-day. 
 As they peal and roar, — welcome home from the fray! 
 
 Beautiful children, your dimpled hands. 
 Must throw kisses to those at whose commands 
 Your country, cemented in blood, shall be 
 The temple of .all who delight to be free! 
 
108 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Spring arches triumphal o'er every street ; 
 
 Place the rose-leaf and laurel 'neath weary feet! 
 
 Oil ! be kind to them, cherish them, nurse them with care, 
 
 With din of a welcome blend music of prayer; 
 
 That souls ripe for heaven in glad review, 
 
 May pass us to-day in the Union blue ! 
 
 Trumpets of brass witli a constant bray, 
 
 And ringing bells, shall be merry to-day, 
 
 As they peal and roar, — welcome home from the fray ! 
 
 HAMLET'S INSTRUCTION TO THE PLAYERS. 
 
 SuAKSPliARB. 
 
 Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, — 
 trippingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of 
 our players do, I had as lief 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, wliirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget 
 a temperance, that may give it smoothness. Oh! it ofl'ends 
 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 show and noise. I would have such 
 a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant : it out-herods 
 Herod. Pray you, avoid it. 
 
 Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be 
 your tutor ; suit the action to the word, the word to the ac- 
 tion ; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the 
 modesty of nature : for anything so overdone is from the pur- 
 {)ose 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 
 overdone 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'erweigh 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 profanely, 
 that, neither having the accent of Cliiistians, nor the gait of 
 Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that 
 I have thought some of natm-e's journeymen had made men, 
 and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abomi- 
 nably. 
 
NUMDin; ONE. 1C3 
 
 HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH— Siiakpeare. 
 
 To be, or not to be,— that is the question : — 
 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
 
 Tlie slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
 
 And, by opposing, end them? — To die, — to sleep, — 
 
 No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end 
 
 The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
 
 That flesh is hey- to, — 'tis a tonsumniation 
 
 Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleep ; — 
 
 To sleep! perchance to dream : — ay, there's the rub; 
 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
 
 Must give us pause : there 's the resi)ect 
 
 That makes calamity of so long life ; 
 
 For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 
 
 The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
 
 The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 
 
 The insolence of office, and the spnrns 
 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes. 
 
 When he himself might his quietus make 
 
 AVith a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, 
 
 To groan and sweat under a weary life. 
 
 But that the dread of something after death, — 
 
 That undiscovered country, from whose bourn 
 
 No traveler returns, — puzzles the will, 
 
 And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
 
 Than fly to others that we know not of? 
 
 Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 
 
 And thus the native hue of resolution 
 
 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; 
 
 And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
 
 With this regard, their currents turn awry, 
 
 And lose the name of action. 
 
 "ALL WE ASK IS TO BE LET ALONE."— H. II. Beownei.l. 
 
 As vonce I valked bv a dismal swamp, 
 There sot an old cove in the dark and damp, 
 And at everybody as passed that road 
 A stick or a stone this old cove throwed. 
 And venever he flung his stick or his stone, 
 He'd set up a song of" Let me alone." 
 
 "Let me alone, for I loves to shy 
 These bits of things at the pa-sser-^by ; 
 
110 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Let me alone, for I've got your tin, 
 
 And lots of other ti-aps snugly in ; 
 
 Let me alone — I ain rigging a boat 
 
 To grab votever you've got afloat ; 
 
 In a veek or so I expects to come, 
 
 And turn you out of your 'ouse and 'ome; 
 
 I'm a quiet old cove," says he, with a groan ; 
 
 "All I axes is, Let me alone." 
 
 Just then came along, on the self-same vay 
 Another old cove, and began for to say : 
 "Let you alone! That's comhi' it strohf;! 
 You've been let alone — a blamed sight too long! 
 Of all the sarce that ever I heerd! 
 Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.) 
 Let go that stone! If you once show light, 
 I'll knock you higher than any kite." 
 
 " You must have a lesson to stop your tricks, 
 And cure you of shying them stones and sticks- 
 And I'll have my hardware back, and my cash. 
 And knock your scow into tarnal smash ; * 
 
 And if ever I catches you round my ranch, 
 I'll string you up to the nearest branch. 
 The best you can do is to go to bed. 
 And keep a decent tongue in your head ; 
 For I reckon, before you and 1 are done, 
 You'll wish you had let honest folks alone.'' 
 
 The old cove stopped and t' other old cove. 
 He sot quite still in his cypress grove, 
 And he looked at his stick, revolvin' slow, 
 Vether 'twere safe to shy it or no ; 
 And he grumbled on, in an injured tone, 
 "All I axed vos. Let me alone." 
 
 CAPITAL PUXISHMENT.-Mvi!A Townsend. 
 
 What! would ye swing your brother's form 
 
 High up in Heaven's free air, 
 And place the image of your God 
 
 .\ dangling victim there ? 
 Who gave you power to read his heart, 
 
 Or know how deep his guilt. 
 Or judge what provocation came , 
 
 Ere blood by him was spilt? 
 Can ye retrace the length of years 
 
 Since he commenied this life, 
 And mark the coursing of events. 
 
 His wrongs, his woes, his strife? 
 
NUMIIUH ONE. Ill 
 
 His battles with untoward fate, 
 
 His blasted hopes and schemes. 
 His longings for the pure and riglit^ 
 
 His visionary dreams? 
 Perliaps, from life's first early dawn 
 
 III. nestled by his side, 
 His teachings may have been in wrong, 
 
 And sin his childhood's guide ; 
 No mother's voice, perhaps, for hini 
 
 Sent up an earnest pr.iyer, 
 No lather at the mercy seat 
 
 Asked his acceptance there; 
 No sister twined arou!id his heart 
 
 A soft and gentle si>ell, 
 "Wliicli made an atmosphere of love 
 
 Wherever he might dwell ; 
 Virtue, jierliaps, to him was known 
 
 But a.s an empty name. 
 And truth and justice but the guise 
 
 Of cowardice and shame; 
 Religion's winning, earnest tones 
 
 May ne'er within his s<iul 
 Have spread their influence divine, 
 
 To purify the whole. 
 Then would ye swing your brother's form 
 
 High up in Heaven's free air. 
 And place the image of your God 
 
 A dying victim there? 
 With all his sins uix)n his head 
 
 Before his destined hour; 
 Is your's the fiat of his days, 
 
 Your's the avenging power?' 
 Did not THAT kve that saw his deed 
 
 Take note when it was done. 
 And rea<l the thought that causetl the act 
 
 Ere yet it was begun ? 
 And could He not with vengeance swift, 
 
 Have laid the culprit low, 
 If, in His wisdom, he had seen 
 
 It meet to deal the blow? 
 Think you His hand less strong than yours? 
 
 Are you more just, more wise, 
 That ye with daring hands unrobe 
 
 The soul that never dies? 
 He whom your God in mercy spared 
 
 No mercy meets in you. 
 And yet we pray — " Forgive us, Lord 
 
 As we all others do." 
 Perhaps no guilt your prisoner knows 
 
 Although for crime arraigned, 
 
 V 
 
112 ONK HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And proofs may cluster thickly round 
 
 By circumstance maintained ; 
 He may be innocent and stand 
 
 Before iiis Maker's sight 
 A spotless one, more pure than you. 
 
 Who THINK you act the right. 
 And can ye give him life again. 
 
 Or mete hin^ right for wrong. 
 If future time should prove the guilt 
 
 May somewhere else belong? 
 Then dare ye swing your brother's form 
 
 High up in Heaven's free air, 
 Wlien time may tell an innocent 
 
 Has been suspended there ? 
 
 Suppose he did it — and suppose 
 
 Your priests around him ])laced> 
 Teaching repentance may atone. 
 
 And sinners may be graced — 
 Suppose he does repent, and lies 
 
 Washed clean before the throne. 
 Becomes a saint, and purified. 
 
 And Heaven he feels his own; 
 With anxious zeal his spirit cravea 
 
 To fill life's little span 
 With calling all to turn, and see 
 
 God's love to guilty man. 
 And who, than he once sunk in sin. 
 
 Can' mpre that love portray? 
 Who preach more truly — sinners turn. 
 
 Crime may be washed away ? 
 Then coul(^ ye hang that saint redeemed 
 
 High up in Heaven's free air? 
 Is earth so full of righteous ones 
 
 That ye have some to spare? 
 And w'here your Father mercy showed. 
 
 Can ye no mercy show? 
 Have ye ne'er sinned, that ye must thus 
 
 Deal the avenging blow ? 
 But if repentance should not come 
 
 Before his hour of doom, 
 If nnregenerate you should send 
 
 Your brother to the tomb. 
 Think you that ye will guiltless stand 
 
 Before your Father's eye ? 
 Did ye not murdkr when ye said 
 
 Your prisoner should die? 
 Or are your prison-houses full ? 
 
 Have ye no room for one ? 
 Is bread so scant ye cannot feed 
 
 'Till life's short course is run ? 
 
NUMBER ONE. ]]3 
 
 Have ye not bolts and bars enough 
 
 To hold the victim fast, 
 When burglars with their thousand wiles 
 
 Are there securely cast? 
 And are ye sure, no changing fate 
 
 May give to you iiis place? 
 Are you so sanctified in good 
 
 Ye cannot fall from grace? 
 Can no temptation have the power 
 
 To urge the hasty blow ? 
 Have ye so conquered evil thoughts 
 
 That sia no more ye know ? 
 Or may not circumstances charge 
 
 Your innocence with crime? 
 Full oft we know it has been thus 
 
 From immemorial time. 
 Then, by the danger all must share 
 
 That his may be our lot, 
 By all the bonds of human kind 
 
 Aid to wipe out this blot ! 
 Cease not from striving, till our law 
 
 Is clear from bloody stain. 
 
 And REFORMATION, — NOT REVENGE, — 
 
 In principle sustain ! 
 
 MA VT> MULLER.— J. G. Whittieb. 
 
 Maud MuUer, on a summer's day. 
 Raked the meadow sweet with liay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
 Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
 
 Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
 The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
 White from its hill-slope looking down, 
 
 The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
 And a nameless longing filled her breast — 
 
 A wish, that she hardly dared to own. 
 For something better than she had known. 
 
 The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
 Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 
 
 He drew his bridle in the shade 
 
 Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 
 
.'14 ONE aUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
 Through the meadow across the road. 
 
 She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
 And filled for him her small tin cup, 
 
 And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
 On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 
 
 "Thanks!" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
 From a fairer hand was never quatfed." 
 
 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
 Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 
 
 Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
 The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 
 
 And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, 
 And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 
 
 And listened, while a pleased surprise 
 Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 
 
 At last, like one who for delay 
 Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away, 
 
 Maud Muller looked and sighed : "Ah, me I 
 That I the Judge's bride might be ! 
 
 "He would dress me up in silks so flue, 
 And praise and toast me at his wine. 
 
 " My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 
 My brother should sail a painted boat. 
 
 " I'd dress my mother so grand and gay. 
 
 And the baby should have a new toy each day. 
 
 "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
 And all sliould bless me who left our door." 
 
 The Judge looked back ns he climbed the hill, 
 And saw Maud JNluller standing still. 
 
 "A form more fair, a face more sweet. 
 Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 
 
 "And her modest answer and graceful air 
 Show her wise and good as she is fair. 
 
 " Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
 Like her, a harvester of hay : 
 
 "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
 Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 
 
 " But low of cattle, and song of birds. 
 And health, and quiet, and loving words.'' 
 
NUMBER ONE. iio 
 
 But ho flionght of liis sisters, proud and cold, 
 And hU mother, vain ofiiur rank and gold. 
 
 So, dosing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
 And Maud was leit in tlje fleld alone. 
 
 But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
 When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 
 
 And the young girl mused beside the well, 
 Till the rain on th(j unralced clover fell. 
 
 He wedded a wife of ricliest dower. 
 Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 
 
 Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
 He watched a picture come and go : 
 
 And sweet Maud Muller's liazel eyes 
 Looked out in tlieir innocent surprise. 
 
 Oft when tlie wine in his glass was red. 
 He longed for the wayside well instead ; 
 
 And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
 To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 
 
 And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, 
 "Ah, that I were free again ! 
 
 " Free as when I rode that day, 
 'Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 
 
 Slie wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
 And many children played round her door. 
 
 But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 
 Left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
 On the new-mown hay in the meavl?w lot, 
 
 And she heard the little spring brook fall 
 Over the roadside, through the wall, 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree again 
 She saw a rider draw his rein, 
 
 And, gazing down with timid grace. 
 She felt liis pleased eyes read her face. 
 
 Sometimes her narftw kitchen walls 
 Stretched away into stately halls ; 
 
 Tlie weary wheel tj a spinnet turned, 
 The tallo.w candle aa astral burned ; 
 
 And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
 Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 
 
110 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 A manly form at lier side she saw, 
 And joy was duty and love was law. 
 
 Then she took up her burden of life again, 
 Saying only, " It might liaye been." 
 
 Alas for maiden, alas for Judfre, 
 
 For rich repiner and household drudge 1 
 
 God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
 Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; 
 
 For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
 
 Tlie saddest are these : " It might have beenr 
 
 Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
 Deeply buried from human eyes ; 
 
 And, in the hereafter, angels may 
 Roll the stone ivom its grave away ! 
 
 THANATOPSIS.— W. C. Bryant. 
 
 To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language: for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
 Into his darker musings with a mild 
 And gentle sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over, thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart. 
 Go forth under the open sky, and list 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and thee 
 The all-beholding siin shall see no more 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, slftU exist 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
 And, lost each humin trace, surrendering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 To mix forever with the elements; 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
 
NUMBER ONE. 117 
 
 Ami to t!ic shiggibli clod, which the rude swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce, thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish 
 Couch more magniiicent. Thou shalt lie down . 
 With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings, 
 The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
 Kock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
 The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 
 That make the raeaddws green ; and, poured round all. 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,*— 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 Of the great tomb of man J The golden sun. 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
 Through the stil", lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That .slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands. 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
 Save his own dashings, — Yet the dead are there! 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 In their last sleep,— the de.id reign there alone! 
 So shalt thou rest; and wlui,t if thou withdraw 
 In silence from the living, and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall come , 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men — 
 The vonth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
 In the fill! strength of years, matron and maid, 
 The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles 
 And beauty of its innocent age cut off— 
 Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side 
 By those who in their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan that moves 
 To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 
118 OXE hu.\'dr:;d choice selkctioxs 
 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approacli thy grave 
 Like one who wraps tlie drapery of liis couch 
 About liiiu, and lies down lo pleasant dreams. 
 
 OPPOSITE EXAMPLES.— Horace Mann. 
 
 I ask Ihe young man who is just forming his habits of V'fc, 
 or just beginning to indulge those habitual trains of thouglit 
 out of which habits grow, to look around him, and mark tlie 
 examples, whose fortune he would covet, or whose fate lie 
 would abhor. Even as we walk the streets, we meet with ex- 
 hibitions of each extreme. Here, Iwhold a patriarch whose 
 stock of vigor three-score years and ten seem hardly to have 
 impaired. His erect form, his firm step, his elastic limbs, 
 and undiramed senses, are so many certificates of good con- 
 duct; or, rather, so. maiiy jewels and orders of nobility with 
 which nature has honored hint for his fidelity to her laws. 
 His fair complexion shows that his blood has never been 
 corrui)ted ; his pure breath, that' he has never yielded his 
 digestive apparatus to abuse ; his e.Kact language and keen 
 apprehension, that his brain has never been drugged or stu- 
 ])efied by the poisons of distiller or tobacconist. Enjoying 
 his appetites to the highest, he has preserved the power of 
 enjoying them. As he drains the cup of life, there are no 
 lees at the bottom. His organs will reach the goal of exis- 
 tence together. Painlessly as a candle burns down in its 
 socket, so will he expire; and a little imagination would 
 convert him into another Enoch, translated from earth to a 
 bett(^r world without the sting oi death. 
 
 But look at an opposite extreme, where an opposite his- 
 tory is recorded. What wreck so shocking to behold as the 
 wreck of dissolute man ;— the vigor of life exhausted, and 
 yet the first steps in an Imnorable career not taken ; in him- 
 .self a lazar-house of diseases; dead, but, by a heathenish 
 custom of society, not buried! Rogues have had the initial 
 letterof their title burnt into the palms of their hands; even 
 for murder, Cain was only branded on the forehead; but 
 over the whole person of the debauchee or the inebriate, the 
 signatures of infamy are written. How nature brands him 
 with stigma and opprobrium ! How she hangs labels all over 
 him, to testify her disgust at his existence, and to admonish 
 
NUMBER ONE. 119 
 
 others to beware of his exumple ! How she loosens all his 
 joiiils, sends tremors along his mnscles, and bends forward 
 lii.s frame, as if to bring him upon all-fours with kindred brutes, 
 or to degrade him to the reptile's crawling! How she disfig- 
 ures his countenance, as if intent upon obliterating all traces 
 of her own image, so that she m.iy swear she never made 
 him ! How she pours rhenm over his eyes, sends foul sjurits 
 to inhabit his breath, and shrieks, as with a trumiiet, from 
 every pore of his body, " Behold a Bkast!" Such a man may 
 be seen in the streets of our cities every day ; if rich enough, 
 he may be found in the saloons, and at the tables of the 
 "upper ten;" but surely, to every man of purity and honor, 
 to every man whose wisdom as well as whose heart is unblem- 
 ished, the wretch who comes cropped and bleeding from the 
 pillory, and redolent with its ajipropriate perfumes, would 
 be a guest or a companion far less offensive and disgusting. 
 
 Now let the young man,rejoicing inhumanly proportions, 
 and in his comeliness, look on 'this picture, and on th-s, and 
 then say,after the likeness of vvhich model he intends bis owu 
 erect stature and sublime countenance shall be conligu-ed. 
 
 DRIFTING— T. Buchanan Read. 
 
 My soul to-day 
 
 Is far away, 
 Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; 
 
 My winged boat, 
 
 A bird afloat. 
 Swims round the purple peaks remota: 
 
 Round purple peaks 
 
 It sails, and seeks 
 Blue inlets and their crj'stal creeks, 
 
 Where high rocks throw, 
 
 Through deeps below, 
 A duplicated golden glow. 
 
 Far, vague, and dim. 
 The mountains swim ; 
 
 While on Vesuvius' misty brim. 
 With outstretched hands. 
 The gray smoke stands 
 
 O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 
 
 Hero Ischia smiles 
 O'er liquid miles; 
 
 F* 
 
120 ONE HUNDSED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And yonder, 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; — 
 
 Witli dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Under the walls of Paradise. 
 
 UnJJer 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. 
 
 Th^ay, so mild. 
 
 Is Heaven's own child. 
 With earth and ocean. reconciled; — 
 
 The airs 1 feel 
 
 Around me steal 
 Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 
 
 Over the rail 
 
 My hand 1 trail 
 Within the siiadow of the sail, 
 
 A joy intense. 
 
 The cooling sense 
 G'ides down my drowsy indolence. 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Whe.'e summer sings and never dies, — 
 
 O'erveiled with vines, 
 
 £he glows and shines 
 Among he? future oil and wines. 
 
 Her children, hid 
 
 The cliffs amid, 
 Are gamboling with the gamboling kid ; 
 
 Or down the walls, 
 
 With tipsy calls, 
 Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 
 
 The fisher's child, 
 
 Witli tresses wild, 
 Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled. 
 
 With glowing lips 
 
 Sings as she skips. 
 Or gazes at the far off ships. 
 
KUMBER ONE. 121 
 
 Yon deep bark goes 
 
 Where traffic blows, 
 From lands of sun to lands of snows; - 
 
 This happier one, 
 
 Its course is run 
 From lauds of snow to lands of sun. 
 
 happy ship. 
 
 To rise and dip, 
 With the blue crystal at your lip! 
 
 O hajipycrew, 
 
 JMy heart with you 
 Sails, and sails, and sings anew! 
 
 No more, no more 
 
 Tlie worldly shore 
 Upbraids me witli its loud uproar! 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Under tlie walls of Paradise ! 
 
 THE HEART OF THE WAR.— J. G- Houjum. 
 
 Peace in the clover-scented air. 
 
 And stars within the dome; 
 And, underneath, in dim repose, 
 
 A plain New England home. 
 Within, a murmur of low tones 
 
 And sighs from hearts oppressed. 
 Merging in prayer at last, that brings 
 
 The bahn of silent rest. 
 
 I've closed a hard day's work, Marty- 
 
 The evening chores are done ; 
 And you are weary with the house. 
 
 And with the little one. 
 But he is sleeping sweetly now, 
 
 With all our pretty brood ; 
 So come and sit upon my knee, 
 
 And it will do me good. 
 
 O Marty ! T must tell you ail 
 
 The trouble in my heart, 
 , And you must do the best you can 
 
 To take and bear your part. 
 You've seen the shadow on my face, 
 
 You've felt it day and night; 
 For it has filled our little home, 
 
 And banished all its light. 
 
122 ONE HUNDRED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 I did not mean it should be so, 
 
 And yet I might have known 
 .That hearts tliat live as close as ours 
 
 Can never kee(> their own. 
 But we are fallen on evil times 
 
 And, do whate'cr I may. 
 My heart grows sad about the war. 
 
 And sadder every day. 
 
 I think about it when I work. 
 
 And when I try to rest. 
 And never more than when j'our head 
 
 Is pillowed on my breast ; 
 For then I see the camp-fires blaxe. 
 
 And sleeping men around, 
 Who turn their faces towards their homes, 
 
 And dream upon the ground. 
 
 I think about the dear, brave boys, 
 
 My mates in other years. 
 Who pine for home and those they love, 
 
 Till 1 am choked with tears. 
 With shouts and cheers they marched away 
 
 On glory's shining track, 
 Jjut, ah ! how long, how long they stay ! 
 
 How few of them come back 1 
 
 One sleeps beside the Tennessee, 
 
 And one beside the James, 
 And one fought on a gallant ship. 
 
 And perished in its flames. 
 And some, struck down by fell disease, 
 
 Are breathing out their life; 
 And others, maimed by cruel wounds, 
 
 Have left the deadly strife. 
 
 Ah, Martyr Marty f only think 
 
 Of all the boys have done 
 And suffered in this weary war! 
 
 Brave heroes, every one '. 
 Oh, often, often in the night, 
 
 I hear their voices call : 
 ' Come on and help us ! Is it right 
 
 That we should bear it all ?" 
 
 And when I kneel and try to pray. 
 
 My thoughts are never free, 
 But cling to those who toil and fight 
 
 A nd die for you and me. 
 And when I pray for victory. 
 
 It seems almost a sin 
 To fold my hands and ask for what 
 
 I will not help to win. 
 
NUMBER OXE. 11:5 
 
 Oh, do not cling to me and cry, 
 
 For it will break my heart ; 
 I'm sure you'd rather have me die 
 
 Than not to bear my part! 
 You think that some should stay at home 
 
 To care for those away ; 
 But still I'm helpless to decide 
 
 If I should go or stay. 
 
 For, Marty, all the soldiers love. 
 
 And all are loved again ; 
 And I am Joved, and love perhaps, 
 
 No more than other men. 
 I cannot tell — I do not know — 
 
 Which way my duty lies, 
 Or where the Lord would havj me build 
 
 My fire of sacrifice. 
 
 I feel — I know — I am not mean; 
 
 And though I seem to boast, 
 I'm sure that I would give my life 
 
 To tho.«e who need it mo.st. 
 Perhaps the Spirit will reveal 
 
 That which is fair and right ; 
 So, Marty, let us humbly kneel 
 
 And pray to Heaven for light. 
 
 Peace in the clover-scented air, 
 
 And stffrs within the dome; 
 And, underneath, in dim repose, 
 
 A plain New England home. 
 Witliin, a widow in her weeds, 
 
 From whom all joy is tiown, 
 Who kneels among her sleeping babes, 
 
 And weeps and prays alone! 
 
 THK CLOSING YEAR— Gimrge D. Prentice. 
 
 'Tis midnight's holy hour, — and silence now 
 
 Is brooding like a irentle spirit o'er 
 
 The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds 
 
 The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 'tis the knell 
 
 Of the departed year. No funeral train 
 
 Is sweeping past ; yet, on the stream and wood, 
 
 AVith melancholy light, the moon-henms rest 
 
 Like a pale spotless shroud ; the air is stirred 
 
 As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud 
 
1?4 ONE IIUNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 * 
 
 That floats so still and placidly through heaven, 
 
 The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — 
 
 Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, 
 
 And Winter with his aged looks, — and bteathe 
 
 In mournful cadences that come abroad 
 
 Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 
 
 A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, 
 
 Gone from the Earth forever. 
 
 'Tis a time 
 For memory and for tears. Within the deep, 
 Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 
 Whose tones are like the wizard voice of time 
 Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
 And solemn fijiger to the beautiful 
 And holy visions that have passed away. 
 And left no shadow of their loveliness 
 On tlie dead waste of life. That spectre lifts 
 The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love, 
 And, bending mournfully above the pale. 
 Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 
 O'er what has passed to nothingness. 
 
 The year 
 Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng 
 Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow. 
 Its .shadow in each heart. In its swift course. 
 It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, — 
 And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
 Upon the strong man^and the haughty form 
 Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
 It trod tlie hall of revelry, where thronged 
 The briglit and joyous, — and the tearful wail 
 Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song 
 And reckless shout resounded. 
 
 It passed o'er 
 The battle-plain, where .«word, and spear, and shield, 
 Flashed in the light of raid-day,— and the strength 
 Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 
 Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 
 The crushed and moldering skeleton. It came. 
 And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 
 Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air. 
 It heralded its millions to their home 
 In the dim land of dreams. 
 
 Remorseless Time! 
 Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power 
 Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
 His iron heart to pity? On, still on 
 He presses, and forever. The proud bird. 
 The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
 
KU.MBEli ONE. ICJ 
 
 Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
 The fury of the northern hurricane, 
 And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home. 
 Furls his broiid wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
 To rest upon his mountain crag, — but time 
 Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, 
 And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 
 His rushing pinions. 
 
 Revolutions sweep 
 O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
 Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and siiriv 
 Like bubbles tfii the water, — fiery isles 
 Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back 
 To their mysterious caverns,— mountains rear 
 To heaven their bald and blackened cliH>, and bow 
 Their tall heads to tlie plain, — new empires rise, 
 Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
 And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, 
 Startling the nations, — and the very stars. 
 Yon bright and burning blazonry of (iod. 
 Glitter awhile in their eternal depths, 
 And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 
 Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away 
 To darkle in the trackless void, — yet, time, 
 Time, the tomb-ljuilder, holds his fierce career, 
 Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
 Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, 
 To sit and muse, like other conquerors 
 Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 
 
 SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE. 
 
 TELL ON SWITZERLAND.— J. S. KnOWLES. 
 
 Once Switzerland was free ! With what a pride 
 I used to walk these hills, — look up to Heaven, 
 And bless God that it was so ! It was free 
 From end to end, from cliff to lake .'twas free ! 
 Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks. 
 And plough our valleys, without asking leave; 
 Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow 
 In very presence of the regal sun ! 
 How happy was I in it, then ! I loved ' 
 Ita very storms. Ay, often have I sat 
 In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake. 
 The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge 
 The wind came roaring, — I have sat and eyed 
 The thunder breaking frbm his cloud, and smiled 
 To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, 
 
12& ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Aiid'tliink I had no master save his own. — 
 
 You know the jutting cliff, round wliicli a track 
 
 Up hither winds, wliose base is but the brow 
 
 To such another one, witli scanty room 
 
 For two abreast to pass? O'ertaken (here 
 
 By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along. 
 
 And while gust followeil gust more furiously, 
 
 As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, 
 
 And 1 have thought of other lauds, whose storms 
 
 Are summer flaws to those of mine, and jnst 
 
 Have wished j»e there ; — the thought that mine was free 
 
 Has checked tliat wish, and I have raised my head, 
 
 And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, 
 
 Blow on ! This is the land of liberty ! 
 
 The honey-bee that wanders all day long 
 The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er, 
 To gather in his fragrant winter store. 
 Humming jn calm content his quiet song, 
 Sucks not alone the rose's glowing breast, 
 The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips. 
 But from all rank and noisome weeds he sips 
 The single drop of sweetness ever pressed 
 Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we 
 Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet 
 111 all the varied human flowers we meet. 
 In the wide garden of humaidty. 
 And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear, 
 Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there. 
 
 seeing and not seeing. — Trans, by C. T. Brooks. 
 Two travelers through the gateway went 
 To the glorious Alpine world's ascent; 
 The one, he followed fashion's behest, 
 The other felt the glow in his breast. 
 
 A;id when the two came home again. 
 Their kin all clustered round the men : 
 'Twas a buzz of questions on every side, 
 "And what have you seen? do tell!" they cried. 
 
 The one with yawning made reply : 
 
 " What hijve we seen ?— Not much have I ! 
 
 Trees, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams, 
 
 Bine sky and clouds, and sunny gleams." 
 
 The other, smiling, said the same ; 
 
 But with face tran.sfigured and eye of flame : 
 
 "Trees, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams! 
 
 Blue sky and clouds, and sunny gleams I " 
 
NUMBEn OME. 
 TIME NOT TO BE JJECALLED. 
 
 Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air,— 
 
 How it out-ruiis the following eye! 
 
 Use all persuasions now, and try 
 If thou canst call it back, or stay it there. 
 
 That way it went, but thou shalt find 
 
 No track is left behind. 
 
 Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou. 
 
 Of all the time thou 'st shot away 
 
 I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday, 
 And it shall be too hard a task to do. " 
 
 Besides repentance, wliat canst find 
 
 That it hath left behind? 
 
 REASONS FOR HUMILITY. — BeATTIE. 
 
 One part, one little part, we dimly scan. 
 Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream 
 Yet dare arraijjn the whole stupendous plan, 
 If but thai little part inconi;ruous seem; 
 Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem. 
 Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise: 
 Oh ! then renounce that impious self-esteem 
 That aims to trace the secrets of the skies ; 
 For thou art but of dust, — be humble and be wise 
 
 DIFFERENT TASTES. 
 
 A Boston publisher has issued an illustrated edition of the beautiful ).Apn te 
 the beginning of this booli, entitled, "Oh, why should tlie spirit of nu rot) La 
 proud?" and also a companion volume, of the hymn, " Nearer, my God, to T'lee." 
 A lady, on a Christmas day, sent to her friend a copy of the first-named Iiook. an'l, 
 on New Tear's d.ay, received from her friend a copy of the l^t-namcd, witn the 
 following explanatory lines: 
 
 " Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" 
 
 It shouldn't if always kept under a cloud 
 
 Like that which hangs over and in and around 
 
 Your volume of verse of lugubrious sound. 
 
 That I've carefully placed in a cold, clammy nook, 
 
 Just fitted to hold such a dolorous book ; 
 
 And out of a sweet, sunny corner I've brought 
 
 A volume for you, full of crystalline thought. 
 
 Cast away the dull dogmas of fear and distress. 
 
 And behold the bright world in its hoHday dress; 
 
 Knjoy the grand life by Omnipotence given, — 
 
 And, with faith, hope, and charity, drawn nearer heaven, — 
 
 As your days of earth's sojourn in cheerfulness flee. 
 
 Live " nearer, oh, nearer, my God, unto Thee." 
 
128 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS ' 
 
 THE DYING GLADIATOR.— LoKD BvRON. 
 
 I see before ine the Gladiator lie : 
 
 He leans upon his hand, — his manly brow 
 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
 
 And his drooped head sinks gradually low, — 
 
 And through liis side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 
 From tlie red g.ish, fall heavy, one by one. 
 
 Like tlie first of a thunder-shower: and now 
 
 The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
 
 Kre ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who 
 
 won. 
 He heard it, but he heeded not: his eyes 
 AVere witli his heart, and that was far away; 
 He recked not of the life he lost nor prizs. 
 But wlicre his rude hut by the Danube Liy, 
 There were his young barbarians all at play, 
 There was his Dacian motlier, — he, their sire, 
 Butchered to make a Roman holiday, — 
 All this rushed with his blood.— Shall he expire, 
 And unavenged ?— Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire. 
 
 A LECTURE ON PATENT MEDICINES.— Dr. Puff Stuff 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen : — My name is Puff Stuff, the phy- 
 sician to that great and mighty Han Kann, Emperor of all 
 lli^ Chinas; I was converted to Christianity during the em- 
 bassy of the late Lord Macartney, and left that there country, 
 and came to this here, which may be reckoned the greatest 
 blessing that ever happened to Europe, for I've brought with 
 me the following nnijaralleled, inestimable, and never-to-be 
 matclied medicines: the first is called the great Parry Man- 
 dyron Rapskianum, from Whandy Whang Whang — one drop 
 of which, poured into any of your gums, if you should have 
 the misfortune to lose your teeih, will cause a new set to 
 ,s;>rout out, like mushrooms from a hot-bed ; and if any lady 
 should happen to be troubled with that unpleasant and re- 
 dundant exuberance, called a beard, it will remove it in three 
 applications, and with greater ease than Packwood's razor 
 strops. 
 
 I'm also very celebrated in the cure of eyes ; the late Em- 
 peror of China had the misfortune to lose his eyes by a cata- 
 ract. 1 very dexterously took out the eyes of his Majesty, 
 and after anointing the sockets with a particular glutinous 
 aii))lication.l placed in twoeyorsfrom the head of a living lion, 
 which not only restored his Mujcsty's vision, but made him 
 
NCMBER ONE. 12Q 
 
 dreailfiil to all his enemies and beholders. I beg leave to say, 
 that I have hyes from diflerent hannimals, and to suit all 
 your different faces and professions. This here bottle which 
 I holds in my 'and, is called thegreat-elliptical-asiatical-pan- 
 ticurial-nervous cordial, which cures all the diseases incident 
 to humanity. I don't like to talk of myself, ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, because the man that talks of himself is a Hegotist; 
 but this 1 will venture to say, that I am not only the greatest 
 physician and philosopher of the age, but the greatest genius 
 that ever illuminated mankind — but you know I don't like to 
 talk of myself : you should only read one or two of my lists 
 of cures, out of the many thousands I have by me ; if you 
 knew the benefits so many peojile have received from my 
 grand -elliptieal-asiatical-panticurial-nervous cordial, that 
 cures all diseases incident to humanity, none of you would be 
 such fools as to be sick at all. I'll just read one or two. 
 (Reads several letters.) "Sir, I was jammed to a jelly in a lin- 
 seed-oil mill ; cured with one bottle." " Sir, I was cut in 
 half in a saw-pit; cured with one bottle.'' " Sir, I was boiled 
 to death in a soap-manufactory ; cured with half a bottle." 
 Now comes the most wonderful of all. 
 
 "Sir, venturing too near a i)ovvder-mill at Faversham, I 
 was, by a sudden explosion, blown into a million of atoms ; 
 by this unpleasant accident, I was rendered unfit for my busi- 
 ness, (a banker's clerk); but, hearing of your grand-elliptical- 
 asiatical-panticurial-nervous cordial, I was persuaded to make 
 essay thereof; the first bottle united my strayed particles ; 
 the second animated my shattered frame ; the tliird effected 
 a radical cure ; the fourth sent me home to Lombardy street, 
 to count guineas, make out bills for acceptance, and recount 
 the wonderful effects of your grand-elliptical-asiatical panti- 
 curial-nervous cordial, that cures all diseases incident to hu- 
 manity." 
 
 KNEEL AT NO HUM.VN SHRINE.— A. F. Ke.nt. 
 
 " Must then that peerless form. 
 Which love and admiration cannot view. 
 Without a beating of the heart ; those veins 
 That steal like streams along a field of snow, 
 
 That lovelv outline that is fair 
 
 As breathing marble, perish?" Shelley. 
 
 Kneel not, oh ! friend of mine, before a shrine, 
 That bears the impress of humanity ; 
 6* 
 
130 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Have tliouno idol; lest those hopes of thine, 
 
 Prove i)ul false lifjlits upon a ircacherous sea. 
 Know'st thou that clouds freighted with stonii and rain, 
 Will overspread with darkest gloom again, 
 
 Yon azure sky ? 
 Know'st thou that rose that blooms beside thy door, 
 Will waste upon the gale its fragrant store, 
 
 And fade and die? 
 Know also that the loved and tried for years, 
 The cynosure of all thy hopes and fears, 
 
 May i)ass thee by. 
 
 Maiden ! upon whose fair unclouded brow, 
 
 Half hid by ui.uiy a curl of clustering hair, 
 I m.irk the buds of promise bursting now, 
 
 Unmiugled with a thought of future care, — 
 Thou, for whoso sake the bridal wreath is made. 
 For whom the rose, in spotless white arrayed, 
 
 Expands its leaf, — 
 Oh ! let ni9 teach thee, as a sister may, 
 A lesson thou .should'st bear in mind alway. 
 
 That life is brief; 
 That bridal flowers have decked the silent bier. 
 And smiles of joy been melted with the tear 
 
 Of burning grief. 
 
 Mfither! who gazeth with a mother's joy, 
 
 And all a mother's changeless love and ])ride. 
 Upon the noble forebe;;d of thy boy. 
 
 Who stands in childish beauty by thy side, 
 And gazing through the mists of coming time. 
 Beholds him standing in the verdant prime 
 
 Of manhood's day ; 
 I warn thee! build no castles in the air. 
 That form, so full of life— so matchless fair. 
 
 Is only clay! 
 That bud just bursting to a perfect flower. 
 May, like the treasures of thy garden bower 
 
 Soon pass away. 
 
 Father! whose days though in "the yellow leaf," 
 Have golden tints from life's rich sunset thrown. 
 
 Whose heart, a stranger to the Jiangs of grief. 
 Still suns itself witliin the loves of home, 
 
 Who with thy dear companion by thy side. 
 
 Hast felt thy barque adown life's current glide 
 With peaceful breeze. 
 
 Burn thou no incense here I hast thou not seen 
 
 The forest change its summer robe of green. 
 For leafless trees? 
 
 Relieve me, all who breathe the vital breath. 
 
NUMBER ONB. 131 
 
 Are subject to the laws of life and death, 
 And so are these. 
 
 Ah, yes! beneath the church-yard's grassy mound, 
 
 Too many an early smitten idol lies, 
 Too many a star of promise has gone down 
 
 The soul's horizon, never more to rise, 
 For thou to safely rear thy temple here. 
 And fancy while the storm-cloud hovers near, 
 
 It stands secure^— 
 Oil, trust it net ! That flash of brilliant light, 
 Will only fronj the thorny path of night, 
 
 Tliy steps alhire. 
 One arm that never fails, that never tires, 
 That moves in harmony the Heavenly choirs. 
 Alone is sure." 
 
 Be this thy spirit's anchor ; that when all 
 
 Most near and dear to thee shall pass away, 
 When pride, and power, and human hope sh.dl fall, 
 
 A faith in God*sha!l be thy shield and stay. 
 Lay up thy treasures, where the hand of time. 
 The storms and changes of this fickle clime, 
 
 Shall seek in vain ; 
 Where the bright dreams of youth shall know no blight. 
 The days of love and joy, no starless night. 
 
 And life no pain, — 
 And where thou yet shalt find, when cares are o'er. 
 The loved and lost ones who have "gone before," 
 
 Are thine again. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.-Lady Dufferin, 
 
 I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, 
 
 - Where we sat side by side 
 
 On a bright May morning, long ago, 
 
 When first you were my bride ; 
 The corn was springing fresh and green, 
 
 And the lark sang loud and high ; 
 And the red was on your lip, Mary, 
 
 And the love-light in your eye. 
 
 The place is little changed, Mary, 
 
 The day as bright as then : 
 The lark's loud song is in iny ear. 
 
 And the corn is green again ; 
 But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 
 
 And your breath warm on my cheek ; 
 And I still keep listening for the words 
 
 You never more will speak. 
 
132 ONE UUNDBEO CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 
 
 And tlie little church stands near — 
 The church where we were wed, Mary ; 
 
 I see the spire from here. 
 But the graveyard lies between, IMary, 
 
 And my step might break your rest — 
 For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 
 
 With your baby on your breast. 
 
 I'm very lonely now, Mary, 
 
 For the poor make no new friends ; 
 But, Oh ! they love the better still 
 
 Tlie few our Father sends! 
 And you were all I had, Mary — 
 
 My blessing and my pride; 
 There's nothing left to care for now, 
 
 Since my poor Mary died. 
 
 Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 
 
 That still kept hoping on, 
 "When the trust in God had left my sonl. 
 
 And my arm's young strength was gone; 
 There was comfort ever on your lip. 
 
 And the kind look on your brow — 
 I bless you, Mary, for that same, 
 
 Tho' you cannot hear me now. 
 
 I thank you for the patient smile 
 
 When your heart was fit to break — 
 When the hunger i)ain was gnawing there, 
 
 And you did it for my sake ; 
 I bless you for the pleasant word, 
 
 When your heart was sad and sore — 
 Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 
 
 Where grief can't reach you more 1 
 
 Tm bidding you a long farewell. 
 
 My Mary — kind and true ! 
 But I'll not forget you darling. 
 
 In the land I'm going to ; 
 They say there's bread and work for all, 
 
 And the sun shines always there — 
 But I'll not forget old Ireland, 
 
 Were it fifty times as fair ! 
 
 And often in those grand old woods 
 
 I'll sit, and shut my eyes. 
 And my heart will travel back again 
 
 To the place where Mary lies; 
 And I'll think I see the little stile 
 
 Where we sat side by side. 
 And the springing corn, and the bright May morn 
 
 When first you were my bride. 
 
Munnci! ONE. 133 
 
 ABSALOM— N. P. Willis, v 
 
 The -waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low 
 On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled 
 Their glassy rings beneath if, like the still, 
 Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 
 The reeds bent down the stream : the willow leaves 
 With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 
 Forgot the lifting winds: and the long stems 
 Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nui-se 
 Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 
 And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest. 
 How strikingly the course of nature tells 
 By its light heed of human sulfering, 
 Tiiat it was fashionfed for a happier world. 
 
 King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 
 From far, Jerusalem: and now he stood 
 With his faint people, for a little space, 
 Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
 Of morii was stirring, and he bared his brow, 
 To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
 The mourner's covering, and had not felt 
 That he could see his people until now. 
 They gathered round liim on the fresh green bank 
 And spoke their kindly words: and as the sun 
 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there. 
 And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 
 Oh ! when the heart is full, — when bitter thoughts 
 Come crowding thickly up for utterance, 
 And the poor common words of courtesy, 
 Are such a very mockery — how much 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! 
 He prayed for Israel : and his voice went up 
 Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those, 
 Whose love had been his shield : and his deep tones 
 Grew tremulous. But, oh I for Absalom, — 
 For his estranged, misguided Absalom, — 
 The proud bright being who had burst away 
 In all his princely beauty, to defy 
 The heart that cherished him — for him he poured 
 In agony that would not be controlled 
 Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
 Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 
 
 « * * » » * « 
 
 The pall was settled. He who slept beneath, 
 Was straightened for the grave : and as the folds 
 Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed 
 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
 His hair was yet unshorn, and i-ilUeu curls 
 
vol ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SBLECTIOXS 
 
 Were floating round the tassels as they swayed 
 
 To tlie admitted air, as flossy now 
 
 As when, in liours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
 
 The snowy fingers of Jndea's girls. 
 
 His heha was at his feet : his banner soiled 
 
 With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, 
 
 Reversed, beside him: and the jeweled hilt 
 
 Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, 
 
 Rested like mockery on his covered brow. 
 
 The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, 
 
 Clad in the garb of battle; and tiieir chief, 
 
 The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier. 
 
 And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly. 
 
 As if he feared the slumberer miglit stir. 
 
 A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade 
 
 As if a trviirapet rang: but the bent form 
 
 Of David entered, and he gave command 
 
 In a low tone to his few follower.?. 
 
 And left him with his dead. The King stood still 
 
 Till the last echo died; then, throwing off 
 
 The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
 
 The pall from the still features of his child. 
 
 He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
 
 111 the resistless eloquence of woe : 
 
 "Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die, — 
 Tlion who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
 
 That death should settle ii^ thy glorious eye, 
 And leave his stillness in this clustering hair — 
 
 How could he mark thee for the silent tomb. 
 My proud boy, Absalom! 
 
 " Cold is thy brow, my sou ! and I am chill 
 As to my bosom I have tried to press Ihee — 
 
 How was I wont to feel my i)ulses thrill. 
 Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee — 
 
 And hear thy sweet ' My father,' from these dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom! 
 
 " The grave hath won thee. I shall liear th€ gusli 
 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 fiung, — 
 
 But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
 "And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 
 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
 To sec thee, Absalom ! 
 
NUMBER OS£. 13,") 
 
 "And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, 
 With death so like a gentle slumber on tlioe ; 
 
 And thy dark sin— oh ! I could drink the cu|» 
 If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 
 
 May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, 
 My lost boy, Absalom !" 
 
 He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
 A moment on his child : then giving him 
 A look of melting tenderness, lie clasped 
 His hands convulsively, as if in pr.iycr: 
 And as if strength were given him of God, 
 He rose up calmly and coniposed tlie pall 
 Firmly and decently,— and left him there, 
 As if his rest had been a breathing tsleej). 
 
 A RACY STUMP SPEECH. 
 
 Vriends and fellow-citizens, of this conflictuous commu- 
 nity: — I'se riz to give you warnin', and make a political 
 speech, and tell you what I'se goin' to talk about and allude" 
 to — "now, I'd like to have you pay particular attention;" 
 (as the preachersays, when the boys arc pitchin' bcansat his 
 nose,) I say a crisis has arrived ; — the wheels of government 
 is stopped; — the rudder 's unshipped; — the biler busted; — 
 and we're afloat and the river risin ; — our glorious Ship of 
 State, that like a bobtailed gander has so peacefully gHded 
 adown the current of time, has had its harmony disturbed ; 
 and is now driftin' with fearful rapidity towards the shoal.s 
 and quicksands of disunion, threatenin' tu bust everything 
 into flinders, and pick itself up in the end, "a gone gosliii." 
 Hearken no longer ye worthy denizens of Goose Hollow, 
 Terrapin Neck, Possum Swamp, and adjacent regions, to tiio 
 siren voice that whispers in your ear the too dehisive sound 
 of peace, peace; — for peace has sloped, and flowed to other 
 lands: — or div to the depths of the mighty deep; — or in the 
 emphatic language of recuraphsorum : 
 
 "Gone flickerin' through tlio frogs of other clinics, 
 To aiil the miser watciier in his fiimes." 
 
 or like the great Alexander, who at the battle of Hunker's 
 Bill, in the agony of despair frantically shrieked out: — "O. 
 gravy! peace has gone like my skule-boy days, and I don't 
 
 caro a ." (He was a whole boss and team, sure.) 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen : The great bird of American libertv 
 has flown aloft, and soarin' on the wings of the aurore-burti- 
 
130 ONE UUNDEEX) CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 alis, is now hoverin' high o'er the cloud-capped peaks of (he 
 Rockagany mountains : — and when he shall have penetrated 
 into the " unknown regions of unlimited space," and then 
 shall have stooped down, and lit on daddy's wood-pile, I 
 shall be led to exclaim in the language of Paul, the hosle^ 
 " root pork, or die." 
 
 Fellow-citizens, and gals too: In our halls of legislation, 
 confusion runs riot and anarchy reigns supremest ; rise up, 
 then, like pokers in a tater-patch, and fall into ranks; sound 
 the tocsin, blow the drum, and beat the tin-horn — till the 
 startled echoes, reverberatin' from hill-lop to hill-top, and 
 from gopher-hill to gopher-hill, shall reach the adamantine 
 hills of New England, and the ferruginious disporitions of 
 Missouri, and the auriferous particles of California, to pick 
 up their ears, and in whisperedraccents, inquire of her valors, 
 " what's out ? " 
 
 Fellow-citizens and the winimin : I repeat it, to your posts, 
 and from the topmost peak of the Ozark Mountains bid de- 
 fiance to the hull earth, by hoUerin "who 's afeard," in such 
 thunderin' tones, that quakin' with fear, you'll forget what 
 danger is. Doii your rusty regimentals, and wipe the flints 
 of j'our old guns; beat up your scythes and make swords of 
 them, put on your huntin' shirts, mount your bosses, and 
 " save the nation, or bust." 
 
 My dear hearers, and the rest of the boys : time 's critical — 
 and every man that 's got a soul as big as the white of a "cul- 
 led pusson's" eye, will tight, bleed, and die for his country. 
 Theiri's the times you want men in the council of the nation 
 you can depend on — that's me — elect mo to Congress, and I'll 
 stick to you throu,:^'h thick and thin, like a lean tick to a 
 nigger's shin. You all know me, I've been fetched up among 
 ye; — already, on the wings of top-lifted imagination, I fancy 
 I can see you marcliing up to the polls in solid phalanx, and 
 with shouts that make the earth ring. Hurrah ! for Jim 
 Smith; — comedown on my opponent like a thousand of brick 
 on a rotten pumpkin. 
 
 But, my devoted constituency, I'm not going to make an 
 clectioneerin' si)eech. Id scorn the act from the lowest 
 depths of my watch fob,— words are inadequate to fully por- 
 tray my feelings towards you, and my love of office. Ali I ask 
 is your votes, and leave everything else witli the people — con- 
 cluding in the touchin' words of (hat glorious old martyr iu 
 the wax flgger bizness : — "Be virtuous and you'll be happy." 
 
NUMDEH ONE. 137 
 
 GENERAL JOSEPH REED; OR, THE INCORRUPTIBLE 
 PATRIOT— EuwAUi) C. Jones. 
 
 Governor Johnstone is saiii to have offered Gen. Joseph Reed £10,000 sterling, it 
 ho woulij try to re-unite the colonies to the niotlier country. Said he, "I am not 
 worth purchasing; but, such as 1 am, the King of Great Britain is not rich enough 
 to buy me." 
 
 I spurn your gilded bait, oh. King ! my faith you cannot buy ; 
 Go, tamper with some craven lieart, and dream of victory; 
 My honor never shall be dimmed by taking such a bribe; 
 The iiouest man ciyi look above the mercenary tribe. 
 
 Carlisle and Eden may consort to bring about a peace ; 
 Onr year of jubilee will be llie year of our release. 
 Until your fleets and armies arc all remanded back. 
 Freedom's avenging angel will keep upon your track. 
 
 What said our noble Laurens? What answer did he make? 
 Did he accept your overtures, and thus our cause forsako? 
 No ! as his country's mouth-piece, he spoke the burning words, 
 "Off with conciliation's terms — the battle is the Lord's!" 
 
 Are ye afraid of Bourbon's libuse? And do ye now despair, 
 Because to shield the perishing the ann of France is bare? 
 Tiiat treaty of alliance, which mr.kes a double strife. 
 Has, like the sun, but warmed afresh your viper brood to life. 
 
 A nd art thou, Johnstone, art thou, pray ,upon this mission sen t. 
 To keep at distance,by thy craft ,t he throne's dismemberment ? 
 Dismemberment! — ah, come it must, for union is a sin. 
 When parents' hands the furnace heat,and thrust the chil- 
 dren in. 
 
 AVhy, English hearts there are at home, that pulsate with 
 
 our own ; 
 Voices beyond Atlantic's waves send forth a loving tone ; 
 Within the Cabinet are men who would not offer gold. 
 To see our country's liberty, iike chattel, bought and sold. 
 
 Yon say that office shall be mine if I the traitor play; 
 
 Cm office ever compensate for honesty's decay? 
 
 Ten tliousand i)Oimds! ten thousand pounds! Shall I an Esau 
 
 prove. 
 And for a mess of pottage sell the heritage I love? 
 
 If you can blot out Bunker Hill, or Brandy wine ignore, 
 Or Valley Forge annihilate, and wipe away its gore; 
 If you can make the oriihans' tears forget to plead with God, 
 Then you may find a patriot's soul that owiisa monarch's nod. 
 
 ThelCingof England cannot buy the faith which fills my heart; 
 IMy truth and virtue cannot stand in traffic's servile mart; 
 Fi)r till your fleets and armies are all remanded back, 
 Freedom's avenging angel will keep upon your track. 
 
13S ONE ]iu:.dui;d choice selections 
 
 LIBERTY AXD UNION, 1830.— Webster. 
 
 I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to liave kept steadily 
 hi view the prosperity and honor of the wliole country, and 
 the preservation of our federal union. It is to that union 
 we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity 
 abroad. It is to that union that we are chiefly indebted for 
 wliatever makes us most proud of our country. That union 
 wi) reached only by the discipline of our virtues in the severe 
 school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of 
 disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. 
 Under its benign influences these great Interests immedi- 
 ately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with new- 
 ness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with 
 fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings; and although our 
 territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our pojjula- 
 tion spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its 
 protection or its beneflts. It has been to us all a cojuous 
 fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. 
 
 I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the union, to 
 see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have 
 not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when 
 the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I 
 have not accustomed myself to hang over the precijiice of dis- 
 union, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the 
 depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe 
 counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts 
 pliould be mainly bent on considering, not how the union 
 should be preserved, but how tolerable might be the condi- 
 tion of the people, when it shall be broken up and destroyed. 
 
 While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying 
 prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Be- 
 yond that, I seek not. to penetrate the veil. God grant that 
 in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God grant that 
 on my vision never may be opened what lies behind. When 
 my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun 
 ill heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and 
 dishonored fragments of a once glorious union ; on states dis- 
 severed, discordant, belhgerent; on a land rent with civil 
 feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood 1 Let their 
 last feeble and lingering glance, rather, behold the gorgeous 
 ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout 
 the earth, still full high advanced, its amis and tro;Oiics 
 f;'!-earaing in their original lustre; not a stripe erased or [lui- 
 
NUMBEIl ONE. 133 
 
 hilod, not a single star obscured, — bearing for its motto, no 
 sucli miserable interrogatory as. What is all this worth ? nor 
 those other words of delusion and folly : Liberty first, and 
 union afterwards ; but everywhere, spread all over in rhar- 
 lero of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float 
 over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the 
 jvhole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true 
 Ameriran heart, — Liberty and union, now and forever, one 
 aii'> inseparable ! 
 
 THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY— G. W. Patten. 
 
 Blaze, with your serried columns! 
 
 1 will not bend the knee! 
 The sliaclcles ne'er again shall bind 
 
 The arm which now is free. 
 I've mailed it witli the thunder. 
 
 When the tempest muttered low; 
 And where it falls, ye well may dread 
 
 The lightning of its blow ! 
 
 I've seared ye in the city, 
 
 I've scalped ye on the plain ; 
 Go, count your chosen, where they fell 
 
 Beneath my leaden rain I 
 I scorn your proffered treaty ! 
 
 The pale-fixce I defy ! 
 Eevenge is stamped upon my spear, 
 
 And blood my battle cry! 
 
 Some strike for hope of booty, 
 
 ijjome to defend their all, — 
 I battle for the joy I have 
 
 To see the white man fall : 
 I love, among the wounded, 
 
 To hear his dying moan, 
 And catch, while chanting at his side, 
 
 The music of his groan. 
 
 Ye've trailed me through the forest, 
 
 Ye've tracked me o'er the stream; 
 And struggling through the everglade. 
 
 Your bristling bayonets gleam ; 
 But I stand as should the warrior, 
 
 Witli hisrifleand his spear; 
 The scalp of vengeance still is red, 
 
 And warns ye — Come not herel 
 
 I loathe ye in my bosom, 
 I scorn ye with mine eye, 
 
no ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, 
 
 And fight ye till Idle! 
 I ne'er will ask ye quarter, 
 
 And I ne'er will be your slave ; 
 But I'll swim the sea of slaughter 
 
 Till I sink beneath its wavel 
 
 THE VAGABONDS— J. T. Tuowbeidgk. 
 
 We are two travelers, Roger and I. 
 
 Uoger's my dog:— come here, you scamp! 
 Jump for the gentlemen, — mind your eye ! 
 
 Over the table, — look out for the lamp! — 
 The rogue is growing a little old ; 
 
 Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, 
 And slept out-doors when niglits were cold, 
 
 And ate and drank — and starved together. 
 
 We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! 
 
 A bed on the fluor, a bit of rosin, 
 A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellosv ! 
 
 The paw he hokls up there's been frozen,) 
 Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 
 
 (This out-door business is bud for strings,) 
 Then a few nice buckwheats hot fi-oin the griddle, 
 
 And Roger and 1 set up for kings! 
 
 No, thank ye, sir, — I never drink ; 
 
 Ko;;er and I are exci'edingly moral, — 
 Aren't we, Roger? — see him wink !— 
 
 Well, something hot, then, — we won't fjuarrel. 
 He's thirsty, too, — see him nod his head? 
 
 What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ! 
 He understands every word that's said, — 
 
 And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. 
 
 The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 
 
 I've been so sadly given to grog, 
 I wonder I've not lost the respect 
 
 (Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. 
 But he sticks by, through thick and thin ; 
 
 And this old coat, with its empty pockets, 
 And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 
 
 He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 
 
 There isn't another creature living 
 
 Would do it, and prove, ihrough every disaster, 
 So fond, 'SO faithful, and so forgiving. 
 
 To such a miserable, thankless master ! 
 No, sir! — see him wag his tail and grin ! 
 
 By George ! it makes my old eyes water ! 
 
NUMBER ON B. Ill 
 
 That is, lliore 's something; in this gin 
 Xliat cliokesa fellow. Hut no mutter! 
 
 We'll have some music, if you're willing, 
 
 And li(jycr ( liem ! wliat a plague a cough is, sir !) 
 Shall march a little.— Start, you villain! 
 
 .Stand straiglit! 'Bout face! Salute your officer! 
 Put up that paw I DresaJ Tul^e your rifle! 
 
 (Some dojrs have arms, you sec!) Now hold yoUr 
 Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, 
 
 To aid a poor old patriot soldier! 
 
 Miircli ! Halt! Now show how Ihe rebel shakes, 
 
 When lie stands up to liear his sentence. 
 Now tell us how many drams it takes 
 
 To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
 Five yelps, — that''s five ; he 's mighty knowing! 
 
 The night's before us, (511 the glasses!— 
 Quick, sir! I'm ill, — my brain is going! — 
 
 aonae brandy !— thank you! — there! — it passes! 
 
 Wliy not reform ? That's easily said ; 
 
 But I've gone through such wietciied treatment. 
 Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread. 
 
 And scarce remembering what meat meant. 
 That my poor stomacli 's past reform ; 
 
 And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
 I'd sell out heaven for something warm 
 
 To prop a horrible inward blinking. 
 
 Is there a way to forget to think? 
 
 At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
 A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink ; — 
 
 Tlie same old story ; you know how it endsu 
 If you could have seen these classic featuies, — 
 
 You needn't hiugli, sir ; they were not then 
 Such a burning libel on (jod's creatures; 
 
 I was one of your haivdsome meni 
 
 If you had seen her, so fair and young, 
 
 Whose head was liappy on this breast! 
 If you could have heard the songs I sung 
 
 Wlien the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed 
 That ever I, sir, should be straying 
 
 From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
 Ragged and penniless, and pla^'ing 
 
 To you to-night for a glass of grog! 
 
 Slie's married since,— a parson's wife: 
 
 'Twas better for her that we should part, — 
 
 Better the soberest, prosiest life 
 Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
 
 I liave seen her? Once : I was weak and spent 
 On tlie dusty road, a carriage stopped : 
 
U2 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 But little she dreamed, as on she went, 
 
 Who kissed the coin that her lingers dropped! 
 
 You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry; 
 
 It makes me wild to think of the change! 
 What do you care for a lii';;^ar's story? 
 
 Is it amusing? you tind it strange? 
 I had a mother so proud of me ! 
 
 'Twas well she died before Do you know 
 
 If the happy sjiirits in heaven can see 
 
 The ruin and wretchedness here below? 
 
 Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
 
 This pain ; then Rosier and I will start. 
 I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 
 
 Aihint; thing, in place of ii heart? 
 He is sad somelijnts, and would weep, if he could. 
 
 No doubt, remembering things that were, — 
 A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 
 
 And himself a sober, respectable cur. 
 
 I'm better now ; tlrat glass was warming, — 
 
 You raSL-il ! liu>ber your lazy feet ! 
 We must be fiddling and performing 
 
 For supper and bjd, or starve in the street. — • 
 Not a very gay life to lead, you tl\ink? 
 
 liut soon we shall gcwln're lodgings are free. 
 And the sleepers need' neitlier victuals nor drink ;- 
 
 The sooner, the better for Iiog.er and me ! 
 
 CARDINAL WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY KIN'i 
 
 HENRY VIII.— tJHAKSPEAKE. 
 
 Nay, then, farewell '. 
 
 1 have touched the highest point of all my greatness, 
 
 And, from that full meridian of my glory, 
 
 I haste now to my setting: I shall fall 
 
 Like a bright exlialation in the evening, 
 
 And no man see n>e more. 
 
 So farewtll to the little good you bear me. 
 Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! 
 j'liis is th.^ state of in m : to-day he puts forth 
 The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow, blossoms, 
 And bearrf liis blushing honors thick upon him: 
 The third day conies a frost, a killing frost ; 
 And, when l>e thinks— good, easy man— full surely 
 His greatness is a ripening, nips his root. 
 And tlien he falls, as I do. I have ventured. 
 Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders. 
 These many summers in a sea of glory ; 
 
NUMBER ONE. HI 
 
 But far beyond iriy deptli : my liigli-blowii pride 
 At length broke under me; and now has left me, 
 Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
 Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 
 
 Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ! 
 I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched 
 Is that poor man that liangs on princes' favors! 
 There i*, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, 
 That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruiu, 
 More pangs and fears than wars or women have. 
 And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
 Never to hope ?igaiu ! 
 
 Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
 
 In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me. 
 
 Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
 
 Let 's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
 
 And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 
 
 And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
 
 Of me must more be. heard of, — say, then, 1 taught thee,— 
 
 Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, • 
 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, 
 
 Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
 
 A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 
 
 Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me! 
 
 Cromwell, 1 charge thee, fling away ambition ! 
 
 By that fin fell the angels: how can man, then, 
 
 Tiie image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? 
 
 Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee, — 
 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty; 
 
 Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
 
 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. 
 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. 
 
 Thy God's, and truth's : then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 
 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! Serve the king ; 
 
 And, — '■ Prithee, lead me in : 
 
 There, take an inventory of all I have, 
 
 To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, 
 
 And my integrity to heaven, is all 
 
 I dare now call mine own. Cromwell, Cromwell] 
 
 Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
 
 I served my king, he would not, in mine age, 
 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies! 
 
 DEATH OF JOHN Q. ADAMS.— I. E. Hoi-mes. 
 
 Mr. Speaker: The mingled tones of sorrow, like the voice 
 of many waters, have come unto us from a sjster state — Mas- 
 sachusetts, wee]iing for her honored son. The sttite I 'inv« 
 
t41 ONE aUNDIIED LlIOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 tl'.o honor in part to represent once endured, with yours, a 
 common suffering, b:ittled for a common cause, and rejoiced 
 in a common triumph. Surely, then, it is meet, that iu this 
 tlie day of your affliction, we should mingle our griefs. 
 
 When a great man fulls, the nation mourns ; wheji a patri- 
 arch is removed, the people weep. Ours, my assoiuates, is no 
 common bereavement. The chain which linked our hearts 
 with the gifted spirits of former times has been suddenly 
 snapped. The lips from which flowed those living and glo- 
 rious truths that our fathers uttered are clo.-ed in death. Yes, 
 my friends, Death has been among us! He has not entered 
 the humble co'tage of some unknown, igaoble peasant ; he 
 has knocked audibly at the palace of a nation ! His footstep 
 ' has been heard in the halls of state! He has cloven down 
 his victim in the mid.jt of the councils of a people. He has 
 borne in triumph from among you the gravest, wisest, most 
 reverend he '(1. All! he lias taken him as a trophy who was 
 once chie/ over many statesmen, adorned with virtue, and 
 learning, and truth ; he has borne.at his chariot wheels a 
 renowned one of the earth. 
 
 How often we have crowded into that aisle, and clustered 
 around that now vacant desk, to listen to the counsels of wis- 
 dom as they fell from the lips of tlie venerable sage, we can 
 all remember, for it was but yesterday. But what a change! 
 How wondrous! how sudden ! 'Tislikea vision of the night. 
 That form which we beheld but a few days since is now cold 
 in death ! 
 
 But the last Sabb.ith, and in this hall, he worshiped with 
 others. Now his Sfirit mingles with the noble army of mar- 
 tyrs and the just made perfect, in the eternal adoration of the 
 living God. With him, "this is the end of earth." He sleeps 
 the sleep that knows no waking. He is gone — and forever! 
 The sun that nsh-jrs in the morn of that next holy day, while 
 it gilds the lofty dome of the capitol, shall rest with soft and 
 mellow light upon the consecrated spot beneath whose turf 
 forever lies the Patriot Fathek and the Patriot Sage. 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.— Byron. 
 
 Stop ! for thy tread is on an empire's dust ; 
 
 An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below; 
 Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? 
 
 Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
 
 None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. 
 
NU.MBi: R O.VE. Uj 
 
 As the ground was before, thus let it be. 
 
 How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! 
 And is this all the world has gained by thee, 
 Thou first and last of fields, king-juaking victory? 
 
 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 went nftrry as a marriage-bell. 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knelll 
 
 Did ye not hear it? No ; 'twas but the wind, 
 
 Or tlie car rattling o'er thu stony street : 
 Oji witli the dance! let joy be unconflned! 
 
 No sleep till morn when youth and jileasure meet 
 
 To chase the glowing 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 foted chieftain ; he did hear 
 
 That sound the first amid the festival, 
 
 And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear: 
 And when they smiled because he deemed it near. 
 
 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: 
 'le 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; 
 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 
 Which ne'er miirht 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, 
 
 Tlie mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
 
 And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 
 Boused up the soldier ere the morning-star ; 
 T 
 
146 ONE HUNDRED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! they come! they 
 come I" 
 
 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 marnhaling in arms — the day, 
 
 Ijattle's miignilicently stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it; whi<di, when rent. 
 
 The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
 AVhich her own cl.iy shall cover, heaped and pent, 
 Eider and horoC, friend, foe, in one red burial blent. 
 
 JOSn EILLIN(5S ON COURTING. 
 
 Courtinff is a luxury, it is sallad. It is ise water, it is a bev- 
 eridge, it is the pla spell ov the soul. The man who has 
 never courted haz lived in vain : he haz bin a blind man 
 amung landskapes and waterskapes; he has bin a deff man 
 in the land ov hand organs, and by the side ov murmuring 
 canals. Courting iz like 2 littl^ springs ov soft water that 
 steal out from under a rock at the fut ov a mountain and run 
 down the hill side by side singing and dansing and spatering 
 each Kt her, eddying and frothing and kaskading, now hiding 
 under bank, now full ov sun, and now full of shadder, till 
 bimeby tha jine and then tha go slow. I am in faver ov long 
 courting ; it gives the parties a chance to find out each uth- 
 er's trump kards, it is good exercise, and is jist as innersent 
 as 2 murino lambs. Courting is like strawberries and cream, 
 wants to bo did slow, then yu git the flaver. I hav saw folks 
 gitackquaintcd,fiUlin luv, git m.irried,jsettel down and git tew 
 wurk, in three weeks from date. This is jist the wa sum folks 
 larn a trade, and akounts for the grate number ov almitey 
 mean mechauicks wo hav, and the poor jobs tha turn out. 
 
 Perhaps it is best i shud state sum good advise tew yung 
 men, who are about tew court with a final view to matrimony, 
 az it waz. In the first plase, yung man, yu want to git yure 
 system awl rite, and then find a yung woman who iz willing 
 few be courted on the square. The nex thing is tew find out 
 how old she is, which yu kan dew bi asking her and she will 
 sa that she is 19 years oid, and this yu will find won't be far 
 from out ov the wa. The next best thing iz tew begin mod- 
 erate; say onse every nitein the week for the fust six months, 
 increasing the dose as the pasheint seems to require it. It is 
 a fust rate wa tew court tlie girl's mother a leettle on the 
 
XUMCKK ONE. 147 
 
 start, for there Iz one thing a woman never despizes, and that 
 iz, a leettle good courting, if it is dun strikly on the square. 
 After the fust year yu will begin to be wellackquainted and 
 will begin tew like the bizzness. Thare is one thing I alwus 
 advise, and that iz not to swop fotograflfs oftener than onse 
 in 10 daze, unless yu forgit how the gal looks. 
 
 Okasionally yu want tew look sorry and draw in yure wind 
 az tho yu had pain, this will set the gal tew teazing yu tew 
 find out what ails yu. Evening meetings are a good thing tu 
 tend, it will keep your religgion in turie ; and then if the gal 
 happens to be thare.bi acksident, she kan ask yu tew go hum 
 with her. 
 
 As a ginral thinp; i wouldn't brag on nther gals mutch when 
 i waz courting, it mite look az tho yu knu tew mutch. If yu 
 will court 3 years in this wa, awl the time on the square, if 
 yu don't sa it iz a leettle the slikest time in your life, yu kau 
 git measured for a hat at my expense, and pa for it. Don't 
 court for munny, nor buty, nor relashuns, theze things are 
 jitt about az onsartin as tlie kerosene ile rotining bissness,' 
 liabel tew git out ov rep.air and bust at enny minnit. 
 
 Court a gal for fun, for the luv yu bear her, for the vartue 
 and bissness thare is in her; court her for a wife and for a 
 mother, court her as yu wud court a farm— for the strength 
 ov the sile and the parfeckshun ov t lie title ; court her as 
 tho she wasn't a fule, and yu a nuther ; court her in the kitch- 
 en, in the parlor, over the wash-tub, and it the pianner; court 
 this wa, yung man, and if yu don't git a good wife and she 
 don't git a good hustband, the fait won'^ be in tlie courting. 
 
 Yung man,yu kan rely upon Josh Billings, and if you kun^. 
 make these rules wnrk jist send for hin? and he will sho yu 
 how the thing is did, and it shant kost yu a cent. 
 
 HIAWATHA'S WOOING.— H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 "As unto the bow the oord is, 
 
 So unto the man is woman. 
 
 Though she bends him, she obeys him, 
 
 Though she draws him, yet slie follows. 
 
 Useless each without the other!" 
 
 Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
 Said within himself and pondered, 
 Much perplexed by various feelings. 
 Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
 Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
 
148 ONE nUXDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
 111 the land of the Dacotahs. 
 
 "Wed a maiden of your people," 
 AVarning said the old Kukomis ; 
 "Go not eastward, go not westward, 
 For a stranger, whom we know not 1 
 Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 
 Is a neighbor's homely daughter, 
 Like the starlight or the moonlight 
 Is the handsomest, of strangers !" 
 
 Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
 And my Hiawatha answered 
 Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, 
 Very pleasant is the firelight, 
 But I like the starlight better. 
 Better do I like the moonlight!" 
 
 Gravely then said old Nokomis: 
 " Bring not here an idle maiden, 
 Bring not here a useless woman, 
 Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; 
 Bring a wife with nimble fingers. 
 Heart and hand that move together. 
 Feet that run on willing errands!" 
 
 Smiling answered Hiawatha: 
 " In the land of the Dacotahs 
 Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, 
 Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
 Handsomest of all the women. 
 I will bring her to your wigwam. 
 She shall run upon your errands, 
 Be your starlight, moonliglit, firelight. 
 Be the sunlight of my people !" 
 
 Still dissuading said Nokomis: 
 " Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
 From the land of the Dacotahs! 
 Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
 Often is there war between us. 
 There are feuds yet unforgotten. 
 Wounds that ache and still may open!" 
 
 Laughing answered Hiawatha : 
 " For that reason, if no other. 
 Would I wed the foir Dacotah, 
 That our tribes might be united. 
 That old feuds might be forgotten, 
 And old wounds be healed forever!" 
 
 Thus departed Hiawatha 
 To the land of the Dacotahs, 
 To the land of handsome women; 
 
KIMBEK ONE. 140 
 
 Striding over moor and meadow, 
 Through interminable forests, 
 Tlirough uninterrupted silence. 
 
 With his moccasins of magic, 
 At each stride a mile he measured ; 
 Yet the way seemed long before him, 
 And his heart outrun his footsteps; 
 And he journeyed without resting, 
 Till he heard the cataract's laughter, 
 Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
 Calling to him through the silence. 
 " Pleasant is the sound !" he murmured, 
 " Pleasiint is the voice that calls me !" 
 
 On the outskirts of the forest, 
 'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
 Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 
 But they saw not Hiawatha; 
 To his bow he whispered, " Fail not!" 
 To his arrow whispered, "iSwerve uotl" 
 Sent it singing on its errand. 
 To the red heart of the roeljuck ; 
 Threw the deer across his shoulder, 
 And sped forward without pausing. 
 
 At the doorway of his wigwam 
 Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
 In the land of the Dacotahs, 
 Making arrow-heads of jasper, 
 Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
 At his side, in all her beauty, 
 Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
 Sat his daughter. Laughing Water, 
 Plaiting mats of flags and rushes; 
 Of the past the old man's thoughts were. 
 And the maiden's of the future. 
 
 He was thinking, as he sat there. 
 Of the days when with such arrows 
 He had stru'k the deer and bison. 
 On the Mnskoday, the meadow ; 
 Shot the wild goose, flying southwara. 
 On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; 
 Thinking of the great war-parties. 
 How they came to buy his arrows, 
 Could not fight without his arrows. 
 Ah, no more such noble warriors 
 Could be found on earth as they were ! 
 Now the men were all like women. 
 Only used tlieir tongues for weapons! 
 
 She was thinking of a hunter. 
 From another tribe and country, 
 
150 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Young and tall and very handsome, 
 Who one morning, in the Spring-time, 
 CaniL' to buy lier father's arrows. 
 Sat and rested in the wigwam, 
 Lingered long about the doorway. 
 Looking back as he departed. 
 She had heard her father praise Iiim, 
 Praise his courage and his wisdom; 
 AVould he come :i;jain f(jr arrows 
 To the Falls of JMiuiiehaha? 
 On the mat her hands lay idle, 
 Aiid her cjes were very dreamy. 
 
 Tlirongh their thoughts they heard Si footstep, 
 Heard a rustling in the br.ini'hes. 
 And with glowing cheek and forehead, 
 With the deer upon his shoulders, 
 Suddenly from out the woodlands 
 Hiawatha stood before thein. 
 
 Straight the ancient Arrow-maker 
 Looked up gravely from his labor, 
 Laid aside the unfinished arrow. 
 Bade him enter at the doorway, 
 Saying^ as he ruse to meet him, 
 " Hiawatha, you are welcome !" 
 
 At the feet of Laughing AVater 
 Hiawatha laid his burden. 
 Threw the red deer from his shoulders; 
 And the maiden looked up at him. 
 Looked up from her mat of rushes. 
 Said with gentle look and accent, 
 " Yuu are welcome, Hiawatha!" 
 
 Very spacious was the wigwam. 
 Made of deer-skin dressed and wliitened, 
 With the Gods of the Dacotahs 
 Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
 And so tall the doorway, hardly 
 Hiawatha stooped to enter. 
 Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
 As he entered at the doorway. 
 
 Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
 From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
 Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
 Brought forth food and set before them, 
 Water brought them from the brooklet. 
 Gave them food in earthen vessels. 
 Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
 Listened while the guest was speaking. 
 Listened while her father answered. 
 
K f M B E n ONE. 
 
 liut not oiioc her lips she opened, 
 Kot a single word slie uttered. 
 
 Yes, as in a dream she listened 
 To the words of Hiawatha, 
 As he talked of old Nokomis, 
 Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
 As he fold of liis companions, 
 C'liihiahos, the musician. 
 And the v-ery strong man, Kwasind, 
 And of happiness and [ilenty 
 111 tlie lajul of the Ojibways, 
 In the pleasiint land ajid peaceful. 
 
 "After many years of warfare. 
 Many ye.irs of strife and bloodshed, 
 There is i)euce between the Ojibways 
 And the tribe of the Dacotahs:" 
 Thus oo:i;i!uiud Hiawatha, 
 Anil then added, .speaking slowly, 
 "Tliat this peace may last forever. 
 And our hands be clasped more closely, 
 A:id o.ir hearts be more united. 
 Give niQ as my wife this maiden, 
 Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
 Loveliest of Dacotah women !" 
 
 And tlie ancient Arrow-maker 
 Paused a moment ere he answered, 
 Smoked a little while in silence, 
 Looked at Hiawatha ))rondly, 
 Fondly looked at Laugliing \Vater, 
 And made answer very gravely : 
 " Yes, if Minnehaha wislies ; 
 Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" 
 
 And the lovely Laughing Water 
 Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, 
 Neither willing nor reluctant. 
 As she wciit to Hiawatha, 
 Softly took the seat beside him, 
 "Whiie -he said, and blushed to say it,. 
 "I will follow you, my husband!" 
 
 This was Hiawatha's wooing! 
 Thus it was he won the daughter 
 Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
 In the land of the Dacotahs! 
 
 From the wiccwam he departed, 
 Leading with him Laughing Water; 
 Hand in hand they went together, 
 Thrnuirh the woodland and the me:^dow, 
 Left the old man standing lonely 
 
153 ONE IIUNUHED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 At the doorway of his wigwam, 
 Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
 Calling to them from the distance, 
 Crying to them from afar off, 
 "Fare thee well, Alinnehaha!" 
 
 And the ancient Arrow-maker 
 Turned again unto his labor, 
 Sat down by his sunny doorway. 
 Murmuring to himself and saying: 
 "Thus it is our daughters leave us. 
 Those we love, and those who love us! 
 Just when they have learned to hel|) la. 
 When we are old and lean upon them, 
 Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
 AViHi his flute of reeds, a stranger 
 AViinders piping through the village, 
 Beckons to the fairest maiden,. 
 And she follows where he leads her, 
 Leaving all things for the stranger!" 
 
 Pleasant was the journey homeward 
 Through interminable forests, 
 Over meadow, over mountain, 
 Over river, hill, and hollow. 
 Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
 Though they journeyed very slowly. 
 Though his i)ace he checked and slackened 
 To the steps of Laughing Water. 
 
 Over wi<le and rushing rivers 
 In his arms he bore the maiden ; 
 Light he thought lier as a feather, 
 As the plume upon his head-gear; 
 Cleared the tangled pathway for her. 
 Bent aside the swaying branches. 
 Made at night a lodge of branches. 
 And a bed with boughs of hemlock. 
 And a fire before the doorway 
 With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 
 
 All the traveling winds went with them, 
 O'er the meadow, through the forest; 
 AH the stars of night looked at tham. 
 Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber ; 
 From his ambush in the oak-tree 
 Peered the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
 Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; 
 And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
 Scampered from the path before them, 
 Peeping, peeping from his burrow. 
 Sat erect upon his haunches. 
 Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 
 
NUMBER ONE. I'll 
 
 Pleasant was the jonvney homeward I 
 All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
 Songs of happiness and heart's-eabe ; 
 Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
 " Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
 Having such a wife to love you !" 
 Sang the robin, the 0|)ediee, 
 " Happy are you, Lauj^liing Water, 
 Having such a noble husband !" 
 
 From the sky the sun benignant 
 LookeJ upon them through the branches, 
 baying to them, "O my children, 
 Love is sunshine, liate is shadow, 
 Life is checkered shade and sunsliine. 
 Rule by love, O Hiawatha!" 
 
 From the sky the moon looked at thfem, 
 Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, 
 Whispered to them, "O my children, 
 Day is restless, night is quiet, 
 Man imperious, woman feeble ; 
 Half is mine, although I follow ; 
 Kule by patience, Laughing Water!" 
 
 Thus it was they journeyed homeward 
 Thus it was that Hiawatha 
 To the lodge of old Nokomis 
 Brought the moonlight, starhght, firelight, 
 Brought the sunshine of his iieojile, 
 Alinnehaha, Laughing Water, 
 Handsomest of all the women 
 In the land of the Dacotahs, 
 lu the land of handsome women. 
 
 EXCELSIOR.— H. W. Lo.ngfeixow, 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast. 
 As through an Alpine village passed 
 A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, 
 A banner with the strange device, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 His brow was sad ; his eye, beneath, 
 Flashed like a falchion from its sheath; 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 The accents of that unknown tongue, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 
 Of household fires gleam warm and bright : 
 
^y>> ONi; HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Above, the spectral glaciers shone; 
 And from liis lips uscaijed a groan, 
 
 lOxcclsior! 
 "Try not the pass!" the old man said; 
 " Ua'rk lowers the lemi)est overhead, 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"— 
 And loud that clarion voice replied, 
 
 Kxcelsior ! 
 "Oh! stav," the maiden said, "and rest 
 Thy weary head npoii this breast!" 
 A tear stood in his l)right blue eye ; 
 But still he answered, with a sigh, 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 "Beware the jiine-tree's withered branch! 
 Bi'ware the awful avalanche!' 
 This was the peasant's last good-i.ight;— 
 A voice rejilied, far up the height. 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 The pious monks of St. Bernard 
 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
 A voice cried, through the startled air, 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 A traveler,— by the faithful hound. 
 Half buried in the snow, was found, 
 Still grasping, in his hand of ice. 
 That banner with the strange device, 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 There, in the twilijiht cold and gray, 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 A voice fell, like a falling star, — ■ 
 Excelsior! 
 
 "HE SONG OF SHERMAN'S AllMY.— C. G. HAjn^B. 
 
 A pillar of fire by night, 
 A pillar of smoke by day. 
 Some hours of march— then a halt to fight, 
 And so we hold our way ; 
 Some hours of march — then a halt to fight, 
 As on we hold our way. 
 
 Over mountain and jilain and stream. 
 To some bright Atlantic bay, 
 With our arms nflash in the morning beam. 
 We hold our festal way ; 
 With our arms aflash in the morning beam, 
 We hold our cheekless way ! 
 
N U M B E U O N K . 155 
 
 There is terror wherever we come, 
 Tliere U terror iiiid wild di>iiiay 
 When they see the Old FUig mid ho.ir uie drum 
 A.iiiouiR'e us oil the way; 
 When tliey wee tlie Old flag and hear the drum 
 Beating time to our onward way; 
 
 Never iinUniber a gun 
 For those villauous lines in gray, 
 Draw sabres I and at 'ein upon the run! 
 'Tis thus we clear our way, 
 Draw sabres, and soon you \\'ill see them run, 
 As we hold our conquering way. 
 
 The loyal, who long have been dumb, 
 Are loud in their checiB to-day ; 
 And the old men out on their crutches come, 
 To see us hold our way ; 
 And the old men out on their crutches come, 
 To bless us on our way. 
 
 Around us in rear and flanks, 
 Their futile squadrons play, 
 With a sixty-mile front of steady rank.i. 
 We hold our che, kless way ; 
 With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks, 
 Our banner clears the way. 
 
 Hear the spattering fife that starts 
 From the woods and cojjses gray, 
 There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts 
 
 As we frolic along the way ! 
 ^ There is just enough fighting to warm our heartSj 
 As we rattle along the way. 
 
 Upon different roads abreast 
 The heads of our columns gay. 
 With fluttering flags, all forward pressed. 
 Hold on their conquering way. 
 With fluttering flags to victory pressed, 
 We hold our glorious way. 
 
 Ah, traitors! who bragged so bold 
 In the sad War's early day, 
 Did nothing predict you should ever behol(J 
 The Old Flag come this way? 
 Did nothing predict yon should yet behold 
 Our banner come back this way ? 
 
 By heaven ! 'tis a gala march, 
 'Tis a pic-nic or a play ; 
 Of all onr long war 'tis the crowning arch, 
 Hip, hip! for Sherinan'sway ! 
 Of all our long war this crowns the arcn— 
 For Sherman and Grant, hurrah j 
 
156 ONE IIUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 GETTING IN THE WRONG ROOM.— Chaklks Dicke.vs. 
 
 " Dear me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting 
 here. 1 shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick !" 
 
 At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus 
 rang the bell for the chambermaid ; and the striped bag, the 
 red bag, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, 
 having been cuuveyed to his bed-room, he retired in com- 
 pany witli a japanned candlestick to one side of the house, 
 while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned candle.stick, were 
 conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to an- 
 other. 
 
 "This is your room, sir," said the chambermaid. 
 
 " Very well," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It 
 was a tolerably large double bedded room, with a fire ; upon 
 the wliole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than Jlr. 
 Pickwick's short experience of the accommodations of the 
 Great White Horse had led him to expect. 
 
 " Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course," said Mr. Pick- 
 wick. 
 
 "Oh, no, sir." 
 
 " Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot 
 water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not 
 want him any more to-night." 
 
 " Yes, sir." And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the 
 chambermaid retired, and left him alone. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the^r?, 
 and fell into a train of rambling meditations. First bethought 
 .of his friends, and wondered when they would join him ; then 
 his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell ; and from that 
 lady it wandered by a natural process, to the dingy counting- 
 house of Dodson an(i Fogg. From Dodson and Fogg's it flew 
 off" at a tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer 
 client : and then it came back to the Great White Horse at 
 Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick 
 that he was falling asleep; so he roused himself, and began 
 to undress, when he recollected he had left his watch on the 
 table down stairs. 
 
 Now this watch was a special favorite with Mr. Pickwick, 
 bavins been carried about, beneath the shadow of his waist- 
 coat for a greater number of years than we feel called upon 
 to state, at jireseiit. The possibility of going to sleep, unless 
 it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in his watch- 
 pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick's brain. 
 
KUMBliK ONE. 137 
 
 So ,13 it was iiretty late now, and he was uiiwilliiip; to ring his 
 bell at that hour of the night, lie slii>i)cd on his toat, of whicli 
 he had just divested himself, and taking tlie japanned can- 
 dlestick in his h:ind, walked quietly down stairs. 
 
 The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, tlie more stairs 
 there seemed to be to descend, and again and again, 
 when Mr. Picliwick <;ot into some narrow passage, and began 
 to congratulate himself on having gained the ground-lioor, 
 did another fligUt of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. 
 At last he readied a stone hall, which he remembered to 
 have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage 
 did he explore ; room after room did he peep into ; at length, 
 just as he was on the point of giving up the search in ilespair, 
 he opened the door of the identical room in which he had 
 spent the evening, and belield his missing property on the 
 table. 
 
 Mr. Piikwick S9iz2d the watch in trium ;)li,and proceeded 
 to retrace his steps to his bed-chamber. If liiii progress down- 
 wards liad bej:i attended with difficulties and uncertainty, 
 his journey back was mlinitely niore'perjdexing. Rows ui 
 doors garnished with bouts of every shape, make, and size, 
 branched off in every jiossible direction. A dozen times did 
 he softly turn the handle of some bed-room door, which re- 
 sembled his own, when a gruff cry from wi liin, of " Who the 
 devil 's that?" or " What do you want here ?" caused him to 
 steal away, on tiptoe, with a marvelous celerity. He was re- 
 duced to the verge of despair, when an open door attracted 
 his attention. He peeped in — right at last. There were the 
 two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the 
 fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first 
 received it, had flickered away in the drafts of air through 
 which he had passed, and sunk into the socket, just as he 
 closed the door after him. " No matter," said Mr. Pickwick, 
 " I can undress myself ju.st as well by the light of the fire.'' 
 
 The bedsteads stood ,one on each side of the door : and on the 
 inner side of each was a little i)ath, terminating in anish-bnt- 
 tomed chiir, just wide enough to admit of a person's getting 
 into or out of bed, on that side, if he or she thought jiroper. 
 naving carefully drawn the curtains of liis bed on the out- 
 side, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed chair, and 
 leisurely divested himself of his shoe.j and gaiters. He then 
 to ik off and folded up his coat, waistcoat, and neck-clcth, 
 and slowly drawing on his tasseled night-cap. secured it 
 firmly on his head, by tying beneath his cliin. the strings 
 which he had always attached to that article of dress. It was 
 
158 ONE aUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewilder- 
 ment struck upon his mind; and throwing himself back in 
 the rush-bottomed chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself 
 so heartily, that it would have been quite delightful to any 
 man of well-constituted mind to have watclied the smiles 
 ■which expanded his amiable features as they shone forth 
 from beneath the night-cap. 
 
 " It is the best idea," said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smil- 
 ing till he almost cracked the night-cap sirings — "It is (lie 
 best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering 
 about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll, 
 very droll." Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader 
 smile than before, and was about to continue the process of 
 iindrrssing, in the best possible humor, when ho was sud- 
 denly stopped by a most unexpected interruption : to wit, the 
 entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, 
 after locking the door, advanced -to the dressing-table, and 
 set down the light upon it. 
 
 The smile th.-it i)layed on Mr. Pickwick's features, was in- 
 stantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and 
 wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever it was, had 
 come in so suddenly and with so little noise, that Mr. Pick- 
 wick had no time to call out, or o]>pose their entrance. Who 
 could it be? A robber! Some evil-minded person who had 
 seen him come up stairs with a handsome watch m his hand, 
 perhaps. What was he to do? 
 
 The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse 
 of his mysterious visitor with tlie least dange^of being seen 
 himself, was by creeping on to the bed, and jieepingout from 
 between the curtains on (he opposite side. To this mantc!-.- 
 vre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully 
 closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could ho 
 seen than his face and night-cap, and putting on his specta- 
 cles, he mustered up courage, and looked out. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. 
 Standing before the dressing glass was a middle-aged lady in 
 yellow cnrl-papevs, busily enriagod in brushing what ladies 
 call their "txick hair." Howevi>r the unconscious middle- 
 aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she 
 contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had 
 brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praise- 
 worthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a bnsiri 
 on the floor, wheiv it w.is glimmerin- a\v;;y like a gigantic 
 b,T:hthonse, in a particularly small piece of water. 
 ■•BJuis my soul," thought Mr. Pick wick,'ho w very dreadful '" 
 
NUMBER ONE. 159 
 
 " Hem !" said the lady ; and in went Jlr. Pickwick's head 
 widi automaton-like rapidity. 
 
 " I never met with anything so awful as this,"— thought 
 poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops 
 upon his night-cap. " Never. This is fearful," 
 
 It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see 
 what was going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick's head 
 ngain. The prospect was worse than before. The middle- 
 i.ged lady had fliiished arranging her h:iir, and carefully en- 
 veloped it in a muslin night-cap with a small jjlaited border, 
 and was gazing pensively on the fire. 
 
 " This matter is growing alarming" — reasoned Mr. Pick- 
 wick with himself. " I can't allow things to go on in this 
 way. By the self-iX)Ssession of that lady, it 's clear to me 
 that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out, 
 she'll alarm the house, but if I remain here, the consequence 
 will be still more frightful !" 
 
 Mr. Pickwick, it is quite necess.ary to say, was one of the 
 most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea 
 of exhibiting his night-cap to a lady, overpowered him, but 
 he had tied these confounded strings in a knot, and do what 
 he would, he couldn't get it off. The disclosure must be 
 made. There was only one other way of doing it. He shrunk 
 behind the curtains, and called out very loudly: — 
 
 " Ha— hum." 
 
 That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evi- 
 d mt, by her falling up against the rush-light shade; that 
 she persuaded herself it must have been the effect of imagi- 
 nation was equally clear, for when Mr. Pickwick, under the 
 impression that she had fainted away, stone-dead from fright, 
 ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the 
 fire as before. 
 
 "Most extraordinary female this," thought Mr. Pickwick, 
 popping in again. " Ha — hum." 
 
 These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform 
 us, the ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of ex- 
 pressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were 
 too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the workings of 
 fancy. 
 
 "Gracious Heaven!" said the middle-aged lady, "what's 
 that!" 
 
 " It 's— it 's— only a gentleman, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick 
 from behind the curtains. 
 "A gentleman !" said the lady with a terrific scream. 
 " It s all over," thought Mr. Pickwick. 
 
160 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 "A strange man," shrieked the lady. Another instant and 
 the liouse would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she 
 rushed towards the door. 
 
 " Ma'am " — said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in 
 the extremity of his desperation, " Ma'am." 
 
 Now although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any defi- 
 nite object in putting out his liead, it was instantaneously 
 productive of a good eflFect. The lady, as we have already 
 stated, was near the door. She must p'ass it to reach the 
 staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so, by 
 this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick's 
 night-cap driven her back, into the remotest corner of the 
 apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, 
 while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her. 
 
 " Wretch," — said the lady, covering her eyes with her 
 hands, " what do you want here ?" 
 
 " Nothing, Ma'am — nothing whatever. Ma'am ;" said Mr. 
 Pickwick earnestly. 
 
 " Nothing !" said the lady, looking up. 
 
 "Nothing, Ma'am, upon my honor," said Mr. Pickwick, 
 nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his night- 
 cap danced again. " I am almost ready to sink. Ma'am, be- 
 neath the confusion of addressing a lady in my night-cap 
 (here the lady hastily snatched off her's), but I can't get it off. 
 Ma'am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof 
 of the statement). It is evident to me. Ma'am, now, that I 
 have mistaken this bed-room for my own. I had not been 
 here five minutes, Ma'am, when you suddenly entered it." 
 
 " If this improbable story be really true, sir," — said the 
 lady, sobbing violently, " you will leave it instantly." 
 
 " I will. Ma'am, with the greatest pleasure "—replied Mr. 
 Pickwick. 
 
 " Instantly, sir," said the lady. 
 
 "Certainly, Ma'am," interposed Mr. Pick wick, very quickly. 
 "Certainly, Sla'am. I— I — am very sorry Ma'am," said ;\Ir. 
 Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, 
 "to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emo- 
 tion ; deeply sorry Ma'am." 
 
 The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of 
 Mr. Pickwick's character was beautifully displayed at this 
 moment under the most trying circumstances. Although he 
 had hastily put on his hat over his night-cap, after the man- 
 ner of the old patrol ; although he carried his shoes and gai- 
 ters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm, 
 nothing could subdue his native politeness. 
 
NUMBER ONE. 161 
 
 " I am exceedingly sorry, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, bow- 
 ing very low. 
 
 " If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room," said the 
 lady. 
 
 " Iniiyediately, Ma'am ; this instant, Ma'ilm," said Mr. 
 Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes 
 with a loud crash in so doing. 
 
 " 1 trust. Ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his 
 shoes, and turning round to bow again, " I trust, Ma'am, that 
 my unblemished character, and the devoted respect I en- 
 tertain for your ^ex, will plead as some slight excuse for 
 this" — but before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, 
 the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and 
 bolted the door behind him. — PichvAck Papers. 
 
 MARCO BOZZ.VRIS.— Fitz-Greene Halleck. 
 
 Marco Bozzaris, the Epafninondiisof modern Grpore, fell in a night attack upon 
 the Turkish camp at Laspi, tlie Kite of the iiiicicnt Pl!ita>a, August 20, 1823, and 
 expired in tJie moment of victory. His luat words were : " To die for liberty is a 
 pleasure, and nut a pain." 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent. 
 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
 
 Should tremble at his power ; 
 In dreams through camp and court he bore 
 The trophies of a conqueror ; 
 
 In dreams, his song of triun\ph heard ; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet ring; 
 Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king : 
 As wild liis thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden bird. 
 
 At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. 
 True as the steel of their tried blades, 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
 Tliere had the glad earth drunk their blood, 
 
 On old Platsea's day ; 
 And now there breathed that haunted air 
 The sons of sires who conquered there, 
 ; With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
 
 As quick, as far, as they. 
 
 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 I the Greek !" 
 
1C2 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 He woke— to die midst flame, and smoke, 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 
 
 And deatii-shots falling thick and fast 
 As lightnings (rum the mountain cloud; 
 And lieard, vvitli voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band : 
 "Strike— till the last armed foe expires! 
 Strike — for your altars and your fires! 
 Strike — for tlie green graves of your sires, 
 
 God, 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 i)roud hurrah, 
 
 And the red field was won; 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close. 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose. 
 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal chamber. Death! 
 
 Come to the mother's, when she feels. 
 For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 
 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 That close the pestilence are broke. 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
 Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
 The earthquake shoclc, the ocean storm; 
 Come when the heart beats high and warm 
 
 With banquet song and dance and wine, — 
 And thou art terrible : — the tear, 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier. 
 And all we know, or dream, or fear 
 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 
 Has won the battle for the free. 
 Thy voice sounds like a proi)hot's word, 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 
 Bozzaris! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time. 
 Rest thee : there is no prouder grave. 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 
 We tell thy doom without a sigh ; 
 For thou art freedom's now, and fame's, — 
 One of the few, the immortal names 
 
 That w^ere not born to die. 
 
NUMBER ON K. lt)3 
 
 SONG OF THE DECANTER. 
 
 There was an old decanter, 
 and its mouth was gaping 
 wide ; the rosy wine 
 had ebbed away 
 and left 
 its crys- 
 tal side ; 
 and the wind 
 * went hninming, 
 humming; 
 up and 
 down the 
 sides it flew, 
 and through the 
 reed-like, 
 hollow neck 
 the wildest notes it 
 blew. I placed it in the 
 window, where the blast was 
 blowing free, and fancied that its 
 pale mouth sang the queerest strains 
 to me. "Thej' tell me — puny con- 
 querors! — the Plague has slain his ten, 
 and War his hundred thousands of the 
 very best of men; but I" — 'twas thus 
 the bottle spoke — "but I have con- 
 quered more than all your famous con- 
 querors, so feared and famed of yore. 
 Then come, ye youths and maidens, 
 come drink from out my cup, the bev- 
 erage that dulls the brain and burns 
 the spirit up ; that puts to shame 
 the conquerors that slay their 
 scores below ; for this has del- 
 uged millions with the lava tide 
 of woe. Though, in the path 
 of battle, darkest waves of 
 blood may roll ; yet while 
 I killed the body; I have 
 damned the very soul. 
 The cholera,the sword, 
 such ruin never wrought, 
 as I, in mirth or malice, on 
 the innocent have brought. 
 And still I breathe upon them, 
 and they .shrink before my breath ; 
 and year by year my thousands tread 
 
 THE TERRIBLE ROAD TO DEATH. 
 
,'Oiii ONE IICXDKED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE BALLA.D OF ISHMAEL DAY. 
 
 One summer morning a daring band 
 
 Of rebels rode into Maryland, 
 Over the prosperous peaceful farms, 
 Sending terror and strange alarms. 
 The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arras. 
 
 Fresh from the South, where the hungry pine, 
 They ate like Pharaoh's starving kiue; 
 They swept the land like devouring surge, 
 And left their path, to its furthest verge. 
 Bare as the track of the locust-scourge. 
 
 " The rebels are coming," far and near 
 Rang the tidings of dread and fear; 
 
 Some paled, and cowered, and sought to hide; 
 
 Some stood erect in their fearle.ss pride ; 
 
 And women shuddered, and children cried. 
 
 But others — vipers in human form, 
 Stinging the bosom that kept them warm — 
 Welcomed with triumph the thievish baud, 
 Hurried to offer the friendly hand. 
 As the rebels rode into Maryland, — 
 
 Made them merry with food and wine. 
 Clad them in garments rich and line, — 
 For rags and hunger to make amends, — 
 Flattered thera, praised them with selfish ends: 
 " Leave us scatiiless, for we are friends !" 
 
 Could traitors trust a traitor? No ! 
 
 Little they favored friend or foe. 
 But gathered the cattle the farms across, 
 Flinging back, with a scornful toss, 
 " If ye are friends, ye can bear the loss !" 
 
 Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey. 
 
 They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day, 
 
 A sturdy old veteran, gray and old, 
 
 With heart of a patriot, firm and bold. 
 
 Strong and steadfast — unbribed, unsold. 
 
 And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare. 
 His white locks tossed by the morning air, 
 Fearless of danger, or death, or scars. 
 Went out to raise, by the farm-yard bars, 
 The dear old flag of the Stripes and Stars. 
 
 Proudly, steadily, up it flew, 
 
 Gorgeous with crimson, and white, and blue: 
 
NUMBER ONE. 165 
 
 His withered hand as he shook it freer, 
 May liave trembled, but not with fear, 
 While, shouting, the rebels drew more near. 
 
 " Halt!" They had seen the hated sign 
 Floating free from old Ishmael's line— 
 
 " Lower that rag !" was their wrathful cry. 
 
 " Never!" rung Ishmael Day's reply ; 
 
 " Fire, if it please you— I can but die !" 
 
 One, with a loud, defiant laugh, 
 
 Left his comrades! and neared the staff. 
 
 " Down !" came the fearless patriot's cry — 
 
 " Dare to lower that flag, and die ! 
 
 One must bleed for it — you or I !" 
 
 But caring not for the stern command. 
 He drew the halliards with daring hand; 
 
 Ping! went the rifle-ball — down he came 
 
 Under the flag he had tried to shame — 
 
 Old Ishmael Day took careful aim 1 
 
 Seventy winters and three had shed 
 
 Their snowy glories on Ishmael's head; 
 
 But th(jugh cheeks may wither, and locks grow gray, 
 His fame shall be fresh, and young alway — 
 Honor be to old Ishmael Day! 
 
 YORKSHIRE ANGLING. 
 
 It happened once that a young Yorkshire clown, but newly 
 come to far-famed London town, was gaping round at many 
 a wondrous sight, grinning at all he saw, with vast delight^ 
 attended by his terrier Tyke, who was as sharp as sharp may 
 be : and thus the master and the dog, d'ye see, were very 
 much alike. 
 
 After wandering far and wide, and seeing every street and 
 square, — the parks, the plays, the Queen, and the Lord 
 Mayor.withallin which your "Cockneys "place their pride; — 
 and being quizzed by many a city spark for coat of country 
 cut and red-haired pate, he came at length to noisy Billings- 
 gate. He saw the busy scene with mute surprise, opening 
 his ears and wondering eyes at the loud clamor, and the 
 monstrous fish, hereafter doomed to grace full many a dish. 
 
 Close by him was a turbot on a stall, which, with stretched 
 mouth, as if to pant for breath, seemed in the agonies of 
 death. Said Lubin, "What name, zur, d'ye that fish call?" 
 
166 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 "A turbot," answered the sarcastic elf ; "a flat, you see — so 
 something like yourself." " D'ye think," said Lubin, " tluit 
 he'll bite?" "Why," said the fishman, with a roguish grin, 
 "his mouth is open ; put your finger in and then you'll know." 
 " Why, zur," replied the wight, " I shouldn't like to try ; but 
 there 's my Tyke shall put his tail there, an' you like." 
 "Agreed," rejoined the man, and laughed delight. 
 
 Within the turbot's teeth was placed the tail, and the fish 
 bit with all its might. The dog no sooner felt the bite, than 
 off he ran, the dangling turbot holding tight. The astonished 
 man began most furiously to bawl and rail ; but, after numer- 
 ous escapes and dodgings, Tyko safely got to Master Lubin 's 
 lodgings. Thither the fishmonger in anger flew. Says Lu- 
 bin, " Lunnon tricks on me won't do ! I'ze come from York 
 to queer such flats as you ; and Tyke, my dug, is Yorkshire, 
 too!" , Then, laughing at the mi' n, who sneaked away, he 
 had the fish for dinner that same /lay. 
 
 RIENZrS ADDRESS.— M. E. Mitfoed. 
 
 Friends : I come not here to talk I Ye know too well 
 
 Tlu! story of our thraldom ; — we are slaves! 
 
 The bright snn rises to his course, and lights 
 
 A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam 
 
 Falls on a slav.e!— not such as, swept along 
 
 By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads 
 
 To crimson glory and undying fame ; 
 
 But base, ignoble slaves — slaves to a horde 
 
 Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords, 
 
 Rich in some dozen paltry villages. 
 
 Strong in some hundred spearmen — only great 
 
 In that strange spell, a name ! Kach hour, dark fraud, 
 
 Or open rapine, or protected murder, 
 
 Cries out against them. But this very day. 
 
 An honest niLUi, my neighbor — there he stands — 
 
 Was struck — struck like a dog — by one who wore 
 
 The badge of Ursiiii ! because, forsooth. 
 
 He tossed not high his ready cap in air. 
 
 Nor lifted up Iiis voice in servile shouts. 
 
 At sight of lliat great ruffian ! Be we men. 
 
 And suffer such dislionor? Jlen and wash not 
 
 The stain away in blood? Such shames are common. 
 
 I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to you, 
 
 I had a brother once, a gracious boy. 
 
 Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope. 
 
 Of sweet and quiet joy ; there was the look 
 
NUMBKU ONE. IGi 
 
 Of heaven upon his face, which Hmners give 
 
 To the beloved disciple. How I loved 
 
 Tliat gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, 
 
 Brother at once and son ! He left my side, 
 
 A summer bloom on his fair clieeks, a smile 
 
 Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour. 
 
 The pretty, harmless boy was slain ! I saw 
 
 The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried 
 
 For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! rouse, ye slaves! 
 
 Have ye brave sons? Look, in the next fierce brawl, 
 
 To see them die ! Have ye fair daughters? Look 
 
 To see tliem life, torn from your arms, distained, 
 
 Dishonored ! and if ye dare call for justice, 
 
 Be answered by the lash ' Yet this is Rome, 
 
 That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne 
 
 Of beauty, ruled the world ! Yet wo are Romans! 
 
 Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman 
 
 Was greater than a king I — and once again — 
 
 Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 
 
 Of either Brnlus! — once again I swear, 
 
 The eternal city shall be free! her sons 
 
 Slu-.ll walk with princes! 
 
 THE DL.VCK REGIIMENT. Port Hudson, May 27, 1863. 
 
 George H. Boker. 
 
 Dark as the clouds of even, 
 Ranked in the western heaven, 
 Waiting the breath that lifts 
 All the dread mass, and drifts 
 Tempest and falling brand 
 Over a ruined land ; — 
 So still and orderly. 
 Arm to arm, knee to knee, 
 Waiting (he great event 
 Stands the black regiment, 
 
 Down the long dusky line 
 Teeth gleam and eye-balls shine; 
 And the bright bayonet. 
 Bristling, and firmly set, 
 Flashed with a purpose grand, 
 Long ere the sharp command 
 Of the fierce rolling drum 
 Toid them their time had come— 
 Told them what work was sent 
 For the black regiment, 
 n* 
 
iOS ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " Now," the flag-sergeant cried, 
 
 " Though deatli and hell betide. 
 
 Let the whole nation see 
 
 If we are fit to be free 
 
 In this land ; or bound 
 
 Down, like the whining hound, — 
 
 Bound with red stripes of pain 
 
 In our told chains again !" 
 
 Oh ! what a shout there went 
 
 From the black regiment ! 
 
 "Charge!" Trump and drum awoke; 
 Onward the bondmen broke: 
 Bayonet and Siibre stroke 
 Vainly opposed their rush. 
 Through the wild battle's crush, 
 With but one thought aflush, 
 Driving their lords like chafli'. 
 In the guns' mouths they laugh; 
 Or at the slippery brands 
 Leaping with open hands, 
 Down they tear man and horse, 
 Down m their awful course ; 
 Trampling with bloody heel 
 Over the crashing steel, — 
 All their eyes forward bent, 
 Rushed the b'ack regiment. 
 
 " Freedom !" their battle-cry, — 
 " Freedom ! or leave to die !" 
 Ah! and they meant the word, 
 Not as with us 'tis heard. 
 Not a mere party shout : 
 They gave their spirits out; 
 Trusted the end to God, 
 And on the gory sod 
 Rolled in triumphant blood. 
 Glad to strike one free blo^. 
 Whether for weal or woe ; 
 Glad to breathe one free breath, 
 Though on the lips of death. 
 Praying — alas! in vain ! — 
 That they might fall again, 
 So they could once more see 
 That burst to liberty ! 
 This was what "freedom " lent 
 To the black regiment. 
 
 Hundreds on hundreds fell ; 
 But they are resting well ; 
 Scourges and shackles strong 
 Never shall do them wrong. 
 
N U M B E R O N E . I l3J 
 
 Ob, to the living few, 
 Soldiers, be just and true ! 
 Hail them as comrades tried ; 
 Fight with them side by side ; 
 Never in tield or tent. 
 Scorn tlie black regiment. 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.-C. B. Southev 
 
 Tread softly — bow the head; 
 
 In reverent silence bow; 
 No passing bell doth toll, 
 Yet an immortal soul 
 
 Is passing now. 
 
 Stranger ! however great, 
 
 With lowly reverence bow; 
 There 's one in that poor shed. 
 One by that paltry bed, 
 
 Greater than thou. 
 
 Beneath that beggar's roof, 
 
 Lo ! Death doth keep his state ; 
 
 Enter — no crowds attend; 
 
 Enter — no guards defend 
 This palace gate. 
 
 That pavement, damp and cold. 
 
 No smiling courtiers tread; 
 One silent woman stands. 
 Lifting with meagre hands 
 
 A dying head. 
 
 No mingling voices sound — 
 
 An infant wail alone; 
 A sob suppressed — again 
 That short, deep gasp, and then 
 
 The parting groan. 
 
 Oh, change! — Oh, wondrous change!— 
 
 Burst are the prison bars — 
 This moment there, so low. 
 So agonized, and now 
 
 Beyond the stars! 
 
 Oh, change — stupendous change I 
 
 There lies the soulless clodl 
 The sun eternal breaks — 
 The new immortal wakes — 
 
 Wakes with his God! 
 
170 ONE UUKDEED CllOICK SELECTIONS 
 
 -BOMBASTIC DESCRIPTION OF A MIDNIGHT MURDER. 
 
 'Twas night! the stars were shrouded in a veil of mist; a 
 clouded canopy o'erhuiig the world ; the vivid lightnings 
 flashed and shook their fiery darts upon the earth ; the deep- 
 toned thunder rolled along the vaulted sky; the elements 
 were in wild commotion ; the storm-spirit howled in the air; 
 the winds whistled; the hail-stones fell like leaden balls; 
 the huge undulations of the ocean dashed upon the rock- 
 bound hhore, and torrents leaped from mountain-tops; when 
 the murderer sprang from his sleepless couch with vengeance 
 on las brow, — murder in his heart, — and the fell instrument 
 of destruction in his hand. 
 
 The storm increased ; the lightnings flaslied with brighter 
 glare ; the thunder growled with deeper energy ; the winds 
 whistled with a wilder fury; the confusion of the hour was 
 congenial to his soul, and the stormy piissions which raged 
 in his bosom. He clenched his weapon with a sterner grasp. 
 A demoniac smile gathered on his lip ; he grated his teeth ;, 
 raised his arm ; sprang with a yell of triumph upon his vic- 
 tim and relentlessly killed— «a Musquito! 
 
 SHORT POETICAL EXTRACTS. 
 
 Oh, man, boast not thy " lion heart!" 
 
 Tell not of jjroud heroic deed ! 
 Have we not seen thy vaunted art 
 
 Fail ill the deepest hour of need? 
 But woman's courage I 'tis more <k'op, 
 
 More strong, than heart of man can feel, — 
 To save her little ones that sleep, 
 
 She bares her bosom to the steel ! 
 
 S. F. Stkeeter. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll! 
 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin— his control 
 
 Stops with tlie shore; — upon the watery jilain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 
 .V shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 AVlien, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depth's with bubbling groan. 
 Without a grave, unknclled, uncofHned, and unknown, 
 
NUJIBEK ONE. 171 
 
 Thou glorious mirror i where the Almighty's form 
 
 Glassi's itself ill tempests; in all time, 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 
 loing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark heaving;— boundless, endless, and sublime— 
 
 The imageof eternity— the throne 
 Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goesi forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
 Jjykon. 
 
 Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again ! 
 1 hold to you the hands you first beheld, 
 To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 
 A 8])irit in your echoes answer me. 
 And bid your tenant welcome to his home 
 Again ! O sacred forms, how jiroud you look ! 
 How high 3'ou lift your heads into the sky ! 
 How huge you are ! how mighty, and how free ! 
 
 J. S. Knowi.es. 
 
 Hush ! 'tis a holy hour! the quiet room 
 Seems like a tem[)lo, while yon soft lamp sheds 
 
 A faint and starry radiance through the gloom. 
 
 And the sweet stillness, down on bright yoimg heads, 
 
 With all their clustering locks untouched by care. 
 
 And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer. 
 
 B. Baktox, 
 
 The auctioneer, then, in his labor began ; 
 
 And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 
 
 " How much for a bachelor? Who wants to buy?" 
 
 In a»twink, every maiden responded, " I — 1 1" 
 
 In short, at a hugely extravagant price. 
 
 The bachelors 'all were sold off in a trice. 
 
 And forty old maidens — some younger, some older — 
 
 Each lugged an old Dachelor home on her shoulder. 
 
 Live and love, — ' 
 Doing both nobly, because lowlily ; 
 Live and work, strongly — because patiently! 
 And for the deed of death, trust it to God, 
 That it be well done, un repented of, 
 Ajiid not to loss. And thence with constant prayers 
 Fasten yonr souls so high, that constantly 
 'The smile of your heroic cheer may float 
 Above all floods of earthly agonies, 
 Purification being the joy of pain ! Mrs. Brownixct 
 
172 ONE IIUKDBED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Let each man think himself an act of God, 
 His mind a thought, his life a hreath of God; 
 And let each try, by great thoughts and good deeds, 
 To show the most of Heaven he liath in him. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 Fail — yet rejoice ; because no less 
 The failure which makes thy distress 
 May teach another full success. 
 
 "It may be that in some great need 
 Thy life's poor fragments are decreed 
 To help build up a lofty deed. 
 
 Miss Procter. 
 
 And this, O Spain ! is thy return 
 
 Fur the new world I gave! 
 Chains! — this the recompense I earn I 
 
 The fetters of the slave ! 
 Yon sun that sinketh 'iieath the sea, 
 
 Kises on realms I found for thee. 
 
 ^ Miss Jewsbcry. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
 
 We carved not a line, we raised not a stone — 
 But we left him alone in his glory ! Wolfe. 
 
 Life! we've been long together. 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy weather: 
 'Tis hard to iiart when friends are dear; 
 Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
 Then steal away, give little warning, 
 Choose thine own time. 
 Say not good night, but in some brighter clime 
 Bid me good morning. 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld. 
 
 Thought is dee|)er than all speech; 
 
 Feeling deeper than all thought ; 
 Souls to souls can never teach 
 
 What unto themselves is taught. 
 
 C. P. Cranch. 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts; 
 
 Of friends, however humble, scorn not one: 
 The daisy, by the shadow that it casts. 
 
 Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
NUMBER ONE. 1-73 
 
 So should we live that every hour 
 
 May die, as dies the natural flower, 
 
 A Helfieviviiig thing of power: 
 
 Tluit every thought and every deed, 
 
 Miiy hold within itself the seed 
 
 Ui future good and future meed ; 
 
 Esteeming sorrow, whose employ 
 
 Is to develop, not destroy, 
 
 Far better than a barren joy. R. M. Milnes. 
 
 So stately her bearing, so proud her array. 
 
 The main she^ill traverse, forever and aye. 
 
 Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mastf! 
 
 — Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last! 
 
 THE LETTERS.— Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 Still on the tower stood the vane ; 
 
 A black yew gloomed the stagnant air; 
 I peered athwart the chancel pane. 
 
 And saw the altar cold ipd bare. 
 A clog of lead was 'round my feet, 
 
 A band of i)ain across my brow ; 
 " Cold altar. Heaven and earth shall meet, 
 
 Before you hear my marriage vow." 
 
 I turned and hummed a bitter song 
 
 That mocked the wholesome human heart; 
 And then we met in wrath and wrong, 
 
 We met, but only meant to part. 
 Full cold my greeting was, and dry ; ^ 
 
 She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; 
 I saw with half-unconscious eye 
 
 She wore the colors 1 approved. 
 
 She took the little ivory chest — 
 
 With half a sigh she turned the key; 
 Then raised her head with lips comprest, 
 
 And gave my letters back to me. 
 And gave the trinkets and the rings. 
 
 My gifts when gifts of mine could please; 
 As looKS a fnther on the things 
 
 Of his dead son, I looked on these. 
 
 She told me all her friends had said ; 
 
 I raged against the public liar. 
 She talked as if her love were dead ; 
 
 But in my words were seeds of fire. 
 
174- ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " No more of love ; — your sex is known : 
 I never will be twice deceived. 
 
 HeiicefiirOli I trust the man alone — 
 The women cannot be believed ! 
 
 " Through slander, meanest spawn of hell, 
 
 (And woman's slander is the worst), 
 And yon whom once I loved so well, 
 
 Tlirough you my life must be accurst!" 
 I spoke with heart, and heat, and force, 
 
 1 shook her breast wi(h vague alarms — 
 Like torrents from a mountain source, 
 
 We rushed into each other's arms. 
 
 "We ps»rted. Sweetly pleamed the stars, 
 
 And sweet the vapor-braided blue ; 
 Low breezes fanned the belfry bars. 
 
 As homeward by the church 1 drew. 
 The very graves appeared lo tniile, 
 
 So fresh they ro.-e in shadowed swells; 
 "Dark porch," I said, "and silent aii^le, 
 
 There comes a sound of marii.ige bells.'' 
 
 SILVMUS O'BRIEN, THE BOLD BOY OE GLINGALL. 
 
 Samuel LovEfS. 
 
 Jist afther the war, in the j'ear '98, 
 As soon as the boys wor all scaltered and bate, 
 'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got, ' 
 To hang him by thrial — barrin' sich as was shot. 
 There was thrial by jury goin' on by daylight, 
 And the martial-law hangin' the lavins by night. 
 It 's them was hard times for an honest gossoon : 
 If he missed in the judges — he'd meet a dragoon; 
 An' whether the sodger.s or judges gev sentence, 
 The divil a much time they allowed for repentance. 
 An' it's many 's the fijie boy was then on his keepin' 
 Wid small share iv restiii', or atin', or sleepin'. 
 Ail' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it, 
 A jirey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet, — 
 Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, 
 With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay; 
 An' the bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all 
 Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv (ilingall. 
 His limbs were well set, an' his body was light, 
 An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white; 
 But his face was as pale as the face of the dead. 
 And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red; 
 An' for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye, 
 
KU.MBER ONE. ITJ 
 
 For the divil himself couldn't blaze wiih his eye, 
 
 So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright, 
 
 Like a fire-flash that crosses the dei)th of the night! 
 
 A.n' he was the best mower that ever has been, 
 
 An' the illigantest hurler that ever was seen. 
 
 An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare, 
 
 An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare; 
 
 An', by gorra, the whole world gev it into him there. 
 
 An' it 's he was the boy that was hard to be caught, 
 
 An' it 's often he run, an' it 's often he fought. 
 
 An' it's many the one can remember right well 
 
 The quare things he"clone : an' it 's often I heerd tell 
 
 Ilow he lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four. 
 
 An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore. 
 
 But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest, 
 
 An' treachery jirey on the blood iv the best; 
 
 Afther many a brave action of power and pride. 
 
 An' many a liard night on the mountain's bleak side, 
 
 An' a thousand great daniicrs and toils overpast. 
 
 In the darkness of night he was taken at last. 
 
 Now, Shamns, look back on the beautiful moon, 
 For the door of the prison nnist close on yon soon. 
 An' take your last look at her dim, lovely light. 
 That foils on the mountain and valley this night; 
 One look at the village, one look at the flood, 
 An' one at the shelthering, far-distant wood ; 
 Farewell to the forest, farewill to the hill. 
 An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still; 
 Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake, 
 And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake! 
 An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail. 
 An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail; 
 Tlie fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound, 
 An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison ground. 
 An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there 
 As gentle an' .soft as the sweet summer air; 
 An' happy remembrani'es crowding on ever. 
 As fast as the fpam-flakes dhrift down on the river. 
 Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by. 
 Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. 
 But the tears didn't f.dl, for the pride of his heart 
 Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start; 
 An' he sprang to liisi feet in the dark prison cave, 
 An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave. 
 By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the brave,. 
 That when he was mouldering in the cold grave 
 Ilis enemies never should have it to boast 
 His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost; 
 His bosom might bleed, but his check shonld bo dhry, 
 For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die. 
 
176 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 AVcll,'aa soon as a few weeks was over and gone, 
 The terrible day iv the thrial kem on ; 
 There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, 
 An' sodgers on guard, an' dhragoons sword in liand ; 
 An' tlie court-house so full that the people were bothered 
 An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered; 
 An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, 
 An' the jury sittin up in their box overhead ; 
 An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big. 
 With his gown on his back, and an illegant new wig; 
 An' silence was called, an the minute it was said 
 The court was as still as the heart of the dead. 
 An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, 
 An' Sliamus O'Brien kem into the dock. 
 For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, 
 An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong. 
 An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, 
 A chance to escape, n<jr a word to defend ; 
 An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, 
 As calm and as cold as a statue of stone ; 
 And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste. 
 An' Jim didn't understand it, nor mind it a taste; 
 An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, 
 "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?" 
 
 An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, 
 An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said: 
 " My lord, if you ask me, if in my life-time 
 I thought any treason, or did any crime 
 That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, 
 The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear. 
 Though I stood by the grave. to receive my death-blow. 
 Before (lod and the world I would answer you, no ! 
 But if you would ask me, as I think it like, 
 If in the rebellion I carried a pike. 
 An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close, 
 An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, 
 I answer you, yes ; and I tell you again. 
 Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory Jhat then 
 In her cause I was willing my veins should rim dhry. 
 An' that now for her sake I am ready to die." 
 
 Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright. 
 An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; 
 By my sowl, it 's himself was the crabbed ould chap' 
 In a twinklin' he pulled on his ngly black cap. 
 Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by, 
 Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry: 
 " O judge ! darlin', don't, oh, don't sajf the word I 
 The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord; 
 He wa.j foolish, he didn't know what he was doin' 
 You don't know him, my lord, — oh, don't give him to ruin! 
 
NUMBER OKE. 177 
 
 He 's th9 kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted ; 
 Don't part us forever, we that 's so long parted. 
 Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, 
 An' (iod will forgive you— oh, don't say the word!" 
 That was the first minute tliat O'Brien was shaken, 
 Wlien he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken ; 
 An' down his pale cheeks, at tlie^word of his mother, 
 The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other; 
 An' two or three times he endeavored to spake. 
 But the sthrong, manly voice used to falther and break ; 
 But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride. 
 He conquered and uiasthered his grief's swelling tide, 
 "An',' says he, " mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart 
 For sooner or later, the dearest must part ; 
 And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear 
 On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, 
 To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast, 
 From thought, labor, and sorrow forever shall rest. 
 Then, mother, my darlin', don't crj^any more. 
 Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour; 
 For I wish, when my liead's lyin' undhcr the raven. 
 No thrne man can say that I diod like a craven !" 
 Then towards the judge Shanins bent down his head. 
 An' tliat minute the solemn death-sentince was said. 
 
 The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, 
 An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky; 
 But why are the men standin' idle so late?' 
 An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street? 
 What come they to talk of? what come Ihcy to see? 
 An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree? 
 O Shamus O'Brien ! pray fervent and fast. 
 May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last ; 
 Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, 
 When, sthrong, proud, an' great as' you are, you must die. 
 An' fasther an' fasther the crowd gathered there, 
 Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair; 
 An' whiskey was sellin', an' cussamuck too. 
 An' ould men and young women enjoying the view. 
 An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark. 
 There wasn't sich a sightsince the time of Noah's ark. 
 An' be gorry, 'twas thrue for him,.for divil sich a scrngo, 
 Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge, 
 For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, 
 Waitin' till such time as the hangin' id come on. 
 
 At last they threw open the big prison gate. 
 An' out came tlie sheriffs and sodgers in state. 
 An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it, 
 Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. 
 A.n' as soon as the people saw Shnmns O'Brien, 
 Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryui', 
 
178 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 A wild wailiii" sound kem on by degrees, 
 
 Like the sound of the lonesome wind bio win' through trees. 
 
 On, on to the gallows the sherilfs are goiie. 
 
 An' the Ciirt an' the sodgers go steadily on ; 
 
 An' at every side swelliu' around of the cart, 
 
 A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. 
 
 Now under the gallows the^cart takes its stand, 
 
 An' the han>,'m in gets up with the rope in his hand; 
 
 An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, 
 
 An' iSlianius O'Brien tlirows one last look around. 
 
 Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew si ill, 
 
 Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill ; 
 
 An' the rope bein' ready,' his neck was made bare. 
 
 For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare; 
 
 An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last j)rayei- 
 
 But the good priest done more, for his hands he unboui.d, 
 
 And with one during spring Jim has leaped on the ground; 
 
 Bang! bang! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres; 
 
 He 'snot down! he's alive still! now stand to him neighbors! 
 
 Through the smoke and the horses he 's into the crowd, — 
 
 By the heavens, he 's free ! — than thunder more loud, 
 
 By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken, — 
 
 Oiie shout that the dead of the world might awaken. 
 
 The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, 
 
 An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; 
 
 To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, 
 
 An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in. 
 
 Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, 
 
 But if you want hangin', it 's yourself you must hang. 
 
 He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be 
 In America, darlint, the land of the free. 
 
 PUTTING UP 0' THE STOVE. 
 
 OR, THE EIME OF THE ECONOMICAL HOUSEHOLDER. 
 
 The melancholy days have come that no householder loves, 
 Days of the taking down of blinds and jjutting up of st(jves; 
 The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in the shadow of the she<l, 
 Dinged out of symmetry they be and all with rust are red ; 
 The husband gropes amid tlie muss that he placed there anon, 
 And swears to find an elbow-joint and eke a leg are gone. 
 
 So fared it witli good iMister Brown, when his spouse re- 
 marked : " Behold ! 
 
 Unless you wish us all to go and catch our deaths of cold. 
 
 Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their storing place 
 conveyed, 
 
 And to black-lead and set them up, lo ! I will lend my aid." 
 
NUMBER ONE. 179 
 
 This, Mr. Brown he treiribling heard, I trow his heart was sore, 
 For he was married many years and liad been there before, 
 And timidly lie said, " lUy love, perch-ince the better plan 
 'Twere to hie to the tinbuiith's sliop and bid him bend a man?" 
 
 His spouse replied indignantly : "So you would have me then 
 To waste our substance upon riotous tinsmith's journeymen ? 
 'A penny saved is twopence ffiirjied,' rasli prodigal of pelf: 
 Go I false one, go! and 1 will black and set it uji myself." 
 When thus she spoke the husband knew that she had sealed 
 
 his doom : 
 " Fill high the boWl with Haniian lead and gimme down that 
 
 broom," 
 He cried ; then to the outhouse marched. Apart the dooi-s 
 
 he hove 
 And closed, in deadly conflict with his enemy, the stove. 
 
 Hound 1. — They faced each other; Brown to get an opening 
 
 sparred 
 Adroitly. His antagonist was cautions — on its guard. 
 Brown led ofi' with his left to where a length of stove-pipe 
 
 stood 
 And nearly cut his fin'.rers off. 'Tlir store allowed Virtt LlnDil.) 
 Round 2. — Brown came up swearing, in Grteco-Koman style 
 Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove at it a weary 
 
 while ; 
 A.t last the leg he held gave way ; flat on his back fell Brown, 
 A.nd the stove fell on top of him and claimed the First Knock- 
 down. 
 
 * * * The fight is done and Brown has won ; his hands 
 are rasped and sore, 
 
 And per.s|)iration and black lead stream from his every pore ; 
 
 Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a ibove, 
 
 He cries, " Where, my good angel, shall I pal this blessed 
 stove?" 
 
 And calmly Mrs. Brown to him she indicates the spot. 
 
 And bids him keep his temper and remarks that he looks hot. 
 
 And now comes in the s'veet o' the day ; the Brown holds in 
 his gripe 
 
 \nd .strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five-inch pipe ; 
 
 He hammers, dinges, bend8,ajid shakes, while his wife scorn- 
 fully 
 
 Tells him how she would manage it if only she were he. 
 
 At last the joints are joined, they rear a pyramid in air, 
 A tub upon the table^nd upon the tub a chair. 
 And on chair and supporters are the stovepipe and the Brown, 
 Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for the crown ; 
 While Mistress Brnwn she cheerily says fn him, " I expec' 
 Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall and break your 
 neck." 
 
180 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTION: ' 
 
 Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was aware 
 Of what might be called "a" miscellaneous music in the air," 
 And in wild crash and confusion upon the floor rained down 
 Chairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathemas and — Brown. 
 
 There was a moment's silence — Brown had fallen on the cat ; 
 She was too thick for a book-mark but too thin for a mat, 
 And he was all wounds and bruises from his head to his foot, 
 And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the soot. 
 
 "0 wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a thing thou art !" 
 
 Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw him fall- 
 ing, start. 
 
 And shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did her inmo.st heart- 
 strinj»s gripe, 
 
 "Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and smashed 
 that pipe ?" 
 
 Then fiercely starts that Mister Brown, as one that had been 
 wode. 
 
 And big his bosom swelled with wrath and red his visage 
 glowed ; 
 
 Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice was sharp 
 and shrill), 
 
 " I have not, madam, but, bjr— by— by the nine gods, I will !" 
 
 He swung the pipe above his head, he dashed it on the floor. 
 
 And that stove-pipe, as a stove-pipe, it did exist no more ; 
 
 Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face was 
 stern and wan. 
 
 As in a hoarse, changed voice lie hissed: "Send for that tin- 
 smith's manl" 
 
art ^econU. 
 
JEacTt of the. Foixr JSTizmbers of 
 " lOO Cltozce, Selections" corttairtedL 
 in. tJxis voltLine is paged sepoLroLtely, 
 (xndL the, IndLez is mcide to corres- 
 pond. tKere^vitK, See EXPLAN.ITION on 
 
 first page of Contents. 
 
 TKe entire hook contccins nearly 
 10 OO pages. 
 
100 
 
 CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 'No. 2. 
 
 UNITED STATES NATI(J^'AL ANTHEM. 
 William Eoss Wallace. 
 
 God of the free ! upon thy breath 
 Our flag is for the ri^ht unrolled, 
 
 As broad and brave as when its stars 
 First lit the hallowed time of old. 
 
 For duty still its folds shall fly ; 
 
 For honor still its glories burn, 
 Where truth, religion, valor, guard 
 
 The patriot's sword and martyr's urn. 
 
 No tyrant's impious step is ours ; 
 
 No lust of ])ower on nations rolled; 
 Our flag — for friends, a starry sky, 
 
 For traitors, storm in every fold. 
 
 Oh, thus we'll keep our nation's life, 
 Nor fear the bolt by despots hurled ; 
 
 The blood of all the world is here, 
 And they who strike us strike the woild! 
 
 God of the free ! our nation ble.'s 
 In its strong manhood as its birth; 
 
 And make its life a star of hope 
 For all the struggling of the earth. 
 
 Theit shout beside thine oak, North ! 
 
 South ! wave answer with thy paiAi , 
 And in our Union's heritage 
 
 Together sing the nation's psalm. 
 
 I " 7 
 
ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTI0K3 
 
 PAUL BEVERE'S RIDE— H. W. Longpeli.ow. 
 
 Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
 
 Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
 
 On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five; 
 
 Hardly a man is now alive 
 
 Who remembers that famous day and year. 
 
 He said to his friend — " If the British march 
 By land or sea from the town to-night. 
 Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arcli 
 Of the North Church tower, as a signal-light, — 
 One if by land, and two if by sea ; 
 And I on the opposite shore will be,^ 
 Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
 Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
 For the country-folk to be up and to arm." 
 Then he said good-night, and witli muffled oar 
 Silently rowed to the Charlestown sliore. 
 Just as the moon rose over the bay. 
 Where swinging wide at h^r moorings lay 
 The Somerset, British man-of-war: 
 
 \ phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
 
 Vcross the moon, like a prison-bar. 
 And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified 
 By its own reflection in the tide. - 
 
 Meanwliile, his friend, through alley and street, 
 Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
 Till in the silence around him he hears 
 The muster of men at the barrack-door. 
 The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
 And the measured tread of the grenadiers 
 Marching down to their boats on the shore. 
 
 Then he climbed to the tower of the church, 
 Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread. 
 To the belfry-chamber overhead. 
 And startled the pigeons from their perch 
 On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
 Masses and mnving sliapes of shade — 
 Up the trembling ladder, stoep and tall. 
 To the highest window in the wall. 
 Where he paused to listen and look down 
 A moment on the roofs of the town. 
 And the moonlight flowing over all. 
 
NUMBER TWO. » 
 
 Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead 
 
 In their night-encampment on the hill, 
 
 Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
 
 That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread 
 
 The watchful night-wind as it went 
 
 Creeping along from tent to tent, 
 
 And seeming to whisper, "All is well ! " 
 
 A moment only he feels the spell 
 
 Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 
 
 Of the lonely bel^y and the dead ; 
 
 For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
 
 On a shadowy something far away. 
 
 Where the river widens to meet tlie bay, — 
 
 A line of black, that bends "and floats 
 
 On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 
 
 Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
 Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride. 
 On the opposite shore walked Paul Reverer 
 Now he patted his horse's side, 
 Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
 Then impetuous stamped the earth, 
 And turned a,nd tightened his saddle-girth ; 
 But mostly he watched with eager search 
 The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 
 As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
 Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, apd still. 
 And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height, 
 A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
 He springs to the siddle, the bridle he turns, 
 But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
 \. second lamp in the belfry burns. 
 
 A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 
 
 A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. 
 
 And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 
 
 Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: 
 
 That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light, 
 
 The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
 
 And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. 
 
 Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 
 
 It was twelve by the village clock 
 When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
 He heard the crowing of the cock 
 1* 
 
10 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELKCrlONS 
 
 And the barking of the farmer's dog, 
 
 And felt the damp of the river fog, 
 
 That rises after the sun goes down. 
 
 It was one by the village clock. 
 
 When he galloped into Lexington. 
 
 He saw the gilded weatliercock 
 
 Swim in the moonlight as he passed. 
 
 And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 
 
 Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 
 
 As if they alreaily stood aghast 
 
 At the bloody work th«y would look upon. 
 
 It was two by the village clock, 
 
 When he, came to the bridge in Concord town. 
 
 He heard the bleating of the flock, 
 
 And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
 
 And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
 
 Blowing over the meadows brown. 
 
 And one was safe and asleep in Ids bed 
 
 Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
 
 Who that day would be lying dead, 
 
 Pierced by a British musket-ball. 
 
 You know the rest. In the books ynn have read 
 How the British regulars fired and fled ; 
 Huw the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
 From behind ^ach fence and farm-yard wall ; 
 Chasing the red-coat& down the lane, 
 Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
 Under the trees at the turn of the road. 
 And only pausing to fire and load. 
 
 So through the night rode Paiil Revere; 
 
 And so through the night went his cry of alarm 
 
 To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
 
 A cry of defiance, and not of fear, 
 
 A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 
 
 And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 
 
 For, borne on the night-wind of the past. 
 
 Through all our history, to the last. 
 
 In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need, 
 
 The people will waken and listen to hear 
 
 The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed, 
 
 And the midnight-message of Paul Kovere. 
 
NUMBEa TWO . n 
 
 PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S ADDRESS AT THE DEDI- 
 CATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY.— Nov. 1864. 
 
 Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth 
 upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and 
 dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. 
 Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether 
 that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, 
 can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that 
 war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final 
 resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that 
 nation might live. 
 
 It is altogether fitting and pioper that we should do this. 
 But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot con- 
 secrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, 
 living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it 
 far above our power to add or detract. The world will little 
 note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never 
 forget what they did here. 
 
 It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the 
 unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. 
 It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task 
 remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take 
 increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the 
 last full measure of devotion; that we heie highly resolve 
 that these dead shall not have died in vain, that the nation 
 shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that 
 the government of the people, by the people, and for the 
 people, shall not perish from the earth. 
 
 SOCRATES SNOOKS. 
 
 Mister Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, 
 
 Tlie second time entered the married relation. 
 
 Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand. 
 
 And they thought him the happiest man in the land. 
 
 But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head. 
 
 When one morning, to Xantippe, Socrates said, 
 
 ■' I think, for a man of my standing in life. 
 
 This house is too small, as I now have a wife ; 
 
 So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey 
 
 Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy." 
 
i'2 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied, 
 
 " I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; 
 
 Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, 
 
 Say, our cow-house, our barn-yard, our pig-pen." 
 
 ■' By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please 
 
 Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." 
 
 " Say 'Our,'" Xantippe exclaimed in a rage, 
 
 " I wont, Mrs. Snooks, thougn you ask it an age ! " 
 
 woman ! though only a part of man's rib, 
 If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib, - 
 
 Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you, 
 You are certain to prove the best man of the two. 
 In the following case this was certainly true ; 
 For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe, 
 And laying about her, all sides at random, 
 The adage was verified — Xil desperandum. 
 
 Mister Socrates Snooks — after trying in vain 
 To ward off' the blows which descended like rain. 
 Concluding that valor's best part was discretion — 
 Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian ; 
 But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid, 
 Converted the siege into a blockade. 
 
 At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate. 
 
 He concluded 'twas useless to strive against fate ; 
 
 And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, 
 
 Said, " My dear, may we come out from under our bed? " 
 
 " Ha! ha!" she exclaimed, " Mr. Socrates Snooks, 
 
 1 perceive you agree to my terms by your looks. 
 Now, Socrates — hear me — from this happy hour. 
 If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 
 
 'Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to church. 
 He chanced for a clean pair of trousers to search. 
 Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches, 
 " My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches?" 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. (1863.) 
 George H. Boker. 
 
 " Give me but two brigades, " said Hooker, frowning at for- 
 tified Lookout, 
 
 " And I'll engage to sweep yon mountain clear of that mock- 
 ing rebel rout ! " 
 
NUMBER TWO. 13 
 
 At early morning came an order that set the general's face 
 
 aglow : 
 " Now," said he to his staff, " draw out my soldiers. Grant 
 
 says that I may go ! " 
 
 Hither and thither dashed each eager colonel to join his 
 
 regiment, 
 While a low rumor of the daring purpose ran on from tent 
 
 to tent ; 
 For the long-roll was sounding through the valley, and the 
 
 keen trumpet's bray, 
 And the wild laugltter of the swarthy veterans, who cried, 
 
 " Wefight to-day !" 
 
 The solid tramp of infantry, the rumble of the, great jolting 
 
 gun. 
 The sharp, clear order, and the fierce steeds neighing, 
 
 " Why's not the fight begun ? " 
 All these plain liarbingers of sudden conflict brofie on the 
 
 startled ear ; 
 And, last, arose a sound that made your blood leap, — the 
 
 ringing battle-cheer. 
 
 The lower works were carried at one onset. Like a vast 
 
 roaring sea 
 Of steel and Are, our soldiers from the trenches swept out 
 
 the enemy ; 
 And we could see the gray-coats swarming up from the 
 
 mountain's leafy base, 
 To join their comrades in the higher fiistness — for life or 
 
 death the race 1 
 
 Then our long line went winding round the mountain, in a 
 
 huge serpent track, 
 And the slant sun upon it flashed and glimmered, as on a 
 
 dragon's back. 
 Higher and higher the column's head pushed onward, ere 
 
 the rear moved a man ; 
 And soon the skirmish-lines their straggling vollej'S and 
 
 single shots began. 
 
 Then the bald head of Lookout flamed and bellowed, and 
 
 all its batteries woke. 
 And down the mountain poured the bomb-shells, pufling 
 
 into our eyes their smoke ; 
 And balls and grape-shot rained upon our column, that 
 
 bore the angry shower 
 As if it were no more than that soft dropping which scarcely 
 
 stirs the flower. 
 
14 ONE HUNDRED CIlOIl E SELECTIONS 
 
 Oh, glorious courage that inspires the hero, antl runs through 
 
 all his men 1 
 The heart that failed beside the Rappahannoi;k, it was 
 
 itself again! 
 The star that circumstance and jealous faction shrouded in 
 
 envious night, 
 Here shone with all the splendor of its nature, and with 
 
 a freer light ! 
 Hark ! hark ! there go the well-known crashing volleys, the 
 
 long-continued mar, 
 That swells and falls, but never ceases wholly, until the 
 
 tight is o'er. 
 Up towards the crystal gates of heaven ascending, the mor- 
 tal tempests beat. 
 As if they sought to try their cause together before God's 
 
 very feet! 
 We saw our troops had gained a footing almost beneath tha 
 
 topmost ledge, 
 And back and forth the rival lines went surging upon the 
 
 dizzy edge. 
 We saw, siiiiK'tiraes, our men fall backward slowly, and 
 
 groaned in our despair ; 
 Cr clieered when now and then a stricken rebel plunged 
 
 out in open air, 
 Down, down, a thousand empty fathoms dropping, his God 
 
 alone knows where ! 
 
 At eve, thick haze upon the mountain gathered, with rising 
 
 smoke stained blaek, 
 And not a glimpoo of the contending armies shone through 
 
 the swirling rack. 
 Night fell o'er all ; but still they flashed their lightnings 
 
 and rolled their thunders loud, 
 Though no man knew upon which side was going that battle 
 
 in the cloud. 
 
 Night — what a night ! — of anxious thought and wonder, but 
 
 still no tidings came 
 From the bare summit of the trembling mountain, still 
 
 wrapped in mist and flame. 
 But towards the sleepless dawn, stillness, more dreadful 
 
 than the fierce sound of war. 
 Settled o'er nature, as if she stood breathless before the 
 
 morning star. 
 
 Ab the sun rose, dense clouds of smoky vapor boiled from 
 
 the va'ley's deei).". 
 IJraggma their t.jrn ana raggea edges slowly up through the 
 
 tree-clad steeps, 
 
NUiMJJEK TWO. 
 
 And rosfj and rose, till Lookout, like a vision, ab'.?.! us 
 
 grandly stood, 
 And over his bleak crags and storm-blanched headlands 
 
 burst the warm, golden flood. 
 
 Thousands of eyes were fixed upon the mountain, and thou- 
 sands held their breath, 
 
 And the vast army, in the valley watching, seemed touched 
 with sudden death. 
 
 High o'er us soared great Lookout, robed in purple, a glory 
 on his face, 
 
 A human meaning in his hard, calm features, beneath that 
 heavenly grace. 
 
 Out on a crag walked something — What? an eagle that 
 
 treads yon giddy height ? 
 Surely no man ! But still he clambered forward into the 
 
 full, rich light ; 
 Then up he started, with a sudden motion, and from the 
 
 blazing crag 
 Flung to the morning breeze and sunny radiance the dear 
 
 old starry flag ! 
 
 Ah! then what followed? Scarred and war-worn soldiers, 
 like girls, flushed through their tan, 
 
 And down the thousand wrinkles of the battles a thousand 
 tear-drops ran ; 
 
 Men seized each other in returned embraces, and sobbed 
 for very love ; 
 
 A spirit which made all that moment brothers seemed fall- 
 ing from above. 
 
 And, as we gazed, around the mountain's summit our glit- 
 tering files appeared ; 
 
 Into the rebel works we saw them marching ; and we — we 
 cheered, we cheered ! 
 
 And they above waved all their flags before us, and joined 
 our frantic shout. 
 
 Standing, like demigods, in light and triumph, upon theii 
 own Lookout ! 
 
 NOBODY'S CHILD.— Phila H. Case. 
 
 Alone, in the dreary, pitiless street. 
 With my torn old dress and bare, cold feet, 
 All day I have wandered to and fro. 
 Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go; 
 The nk'ht's coming on in darkness and dread, 
 And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head; 
 I* 
 
ONE HUNDR^n CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Oil ! Tvhy does the wind blow upon me so wild? 
 Is it because I am nobody's child? 
 
 Just over the way there's a flood of light, 
 And warmth and beauty, and all things bright ; 
 Beautiful children, in robes so fair, 
 Are caroling songs in rapture there. 
 I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, 
 Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 
 Wandering alone in the merciless street. 
 Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat. 
 
 Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes down 
 
 In its terrible blackness all over the town? 
 
 Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, 
 
 On the cold hard pavement alone to die, 
 
 When the beautiful children their prayers have said, 
 
 And mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed? 
 
 For dear mother on me ever smiled — 
 
 Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child? 
 
 No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
 In all the world loves me ; e'en the little dogs run 
 When I wander too near them ; 'tis wondrous to see. 
 How everything shrinks from a beggar like me ! 
 Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but sometimes, when I lie 
 Gazing far up in the dark blue sky. 
 Watching for hours some large, bright star, 
 I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, 
 
 And a host of white-robed, nameless things, 
 
 Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings ; 
 
 A hand that is strangely soft and fair 
 
 Caresses gently my tangled hair. 
 
 And a voice like the carol of some wild bird — 
 
 The sweetest voice that was ever heard — 
 
 Calls me many a dear pet name. 
 
 Till my heq,rt and spirit are all aflame ; 
 
 They tell me of such unbounded love. 
 And bid me come up to their home above; 
 And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise. 
 They look at me with their sweet blue eyes. 
 And it seems to me, out of the dreary night, 
 I am going up to that world of light. 
 And away from the hunger and storm so wild — 
 I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. 
 
KUMDEII TWO. 17 
 
 NATIONAL MONUMENT TO WASHINGTON* 
 
 ROBEKT C. WiNTHROP. 
 
 Fellow-citizens: Let us seize this occasion w renew to 
 each other our vows of allegiance and devotion to the 
 American Union, and let us recognize in our common title 
 to the name and the fame of Washington, and in our com- 
 mon veneration for his example and his advice, the all-suffi- 
 cient centripetal power, which shall hold the thick clustering 
 stars of our confedft'acy in one glorious constellation forever ! 
 Let the column which we are about to construct be at once 
 a pledge and an emblem of perpetual union ! Let the foun- 
 dations be laid, let the superstructure be built up and 
 cemented, let each stone be raised and riveted, in a spirit of 
 national brotherhood ! And may the earliest ray of the 
 rising sun — till that sun shall set to rise no more— draw 
 forth from it daily, as from the fabled statue of antiquity, a 
 strain of national harmony which shall strike a responsive 
 chord in every heart throughout the republic ! 
 
 Proceed then, fellow-citizens, with (he work for which 
 you have assembled. Lay the corner-stone of a monument 
 which shall adequately bespeak the gratitude of the whole 
 American people to the illustrious father of his country ! 
 Build it to the skies ; you cannot outreach the loftiness of his 
 principles ! Found it upon the massive and eternal rock ; 
 you cannot make it more enduring than his fame ! Construct 
 it of the peerless Parian marble; you cannot make it purer 
 than his life ! Exhaust upon it the rules and principles of 
 ancient and of modern art ; you cannot make it more pro- 
 portionate than his character. 
 
 But let not your homage to his memorj' end here. Think 
 not to transfer to a tablet or a column the tribute which is 
 due from yourselves. Ju3t honor to Washington can only be 
 rendered by observing his precepts and imitating his ex- 
 ample. SiiniUludine decoremm. He has built his own monu- 
 ment. We, and those who come after us in successive 
 generations, are its appointed, its privileged guardians. The 
 wide-spread republic is the future monument to Washing- 
 ton. Maintain its independence. Upht)ld its constitution. 
 Preserve its union. Defend its liberty. Let it stand before 
 
 ♦From an oralion delivered in Washingtwu, July 4, 1848. 
 
18 ONE IIUNDISED CUOiDE SELECTIONS 
 
 the workl in all its original strength and beauty, securing 
 peace, order, equality, and freedom, to all within its boumi- 
 aries, and shedding; iij;ht and hope and joy upon the path- 
 way of human liberty throughout the world— and Washing- 
 ton needs no other monument. Other structures may fully 
 testify our veneration for him ; this, this alone can adequate- 
 ly illustrate his services to mankind. 
 
 Nor does he need even this. The republic may perish ; 
 the wide arch of our ranged Union may fall ; star by star 
 its glories may expire; stone by stone its columns and its 
 capitol may moulder and crumble ; all other names which 
 adorn its annals may be forgotten; but as long as human 
 hearts shall anywhere pant, or human tongues anywhere 
 plead, for a true, rational, constitutional liberty, those Hearts 
 shall enshrine the memory, and those tongues prolong the 
 fame, of George Washington. 
 
 YAT YOU PLEASE.— Wm. B. Fowijl 
 
 Two Frenchmen, who had just come over, 
 
 Half starved but always gay, 
 
 (No weasels ere were thinner,) 
 Trudged up to town from Dover, 
 Their slender store exhausted on the way, 
 
 Extremely puzzled how to get a dinner. 
 From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve, 
 
 Our Frenchmen wandered on their expedition ; 
 Great was their need, and sorely did they jirieve, 
 
 Stomach and pocket in the same condition. 
 At length by mutual consent they parted. 
 And different ways on the same errand started. 
 
 Towards night, one Frenchman at a tavern door 
 
 Stopped, entered, all the preparation saw ; 
 
 The ready waiter at his elbow stands: 
 
 " Sir, will you favor me with your commands. 
 
 Roast goose or ducks, sir, choose you that or these ? " 
 
 "Sure, you are very kind, gare, vat you please." 
 
 It was a glorious treat, pie, pudding, cheese and meat ; 
 
 At last the Frenchman, having eaten his fill, 
 
 Prepared to go, when : " Here, sir, is your bill ! " 
 
 "Oh, you are Bill— Veil, Mr. Bill, good-day!" 
 
 " My name is Toin, sir, — you've this bill to pay." 
 
N U JI B r. It TWO. 19 
 
 "Pay, pay, mafoi! 
 
 I call for nolting sare, pardonnez moi ! 
 
 You show to me the pooding, goose and sheeze, 
 
 You, ask me vat I eat — I tell you vat you please." 
 
 The waiter, softened by his queer grimace, 
 
 Could not help laughing in the Frenchman's face, 
 
 And generously tore thejbill in two, 
 
 Forgave the hungry trick, and let him go. 
 
 Our Frenchman's appetite subdued. 
 
 Away he chassi^ed in a merry mood. 
 
 And, turning round the corner of a street. 
 
 His hungry countryman perchanced to meet, 
 
 When, with a grin, 
 
 He told iiow he had taken John Bull in. 
 
 Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops. 
 
 Makes his cong6, and seeks this shop of shops. 
 
 Entering, he seats himself as if at ease — 
 
 " What will you have, sir ? " " Vat you please." 
 
 The waiter saw the joke, and slyly took 
 
 A whip, and with a very gracious look 
 
 Sought instantly the Frenchman's seat: 
 
 •' What will you have, sir? " venturing to repeat. 
 
 Our Frenchman, feeling sure of goose and cheese, 
 
 With bow and smile, quick answers : " Vat you please/" 
 
 But scarcely had he let the sentence slip, 
 
 When round his shoulders twines the pliant whip. 
 
 "Sare! sare! ah misericorde ! parbleu! 
 
 Oh dear, monsieur, what for you strike me ? huh! 
 
 Vat for is dis f "—"Ah, don't you know ? 
 
 That's Vat I please exactly ; now, sir, go ! 
 
 Youf friend, although I paid well for his funning. 
 
 Deserves the goose he gained, sir, by his cunning ; 
 
 But you, monsieur, without my dinner tasting. 
 
 Are goose enough — and only want a basting." 
 
 WILL THE NEW YEAR COME TO-NIGHT 
 MAMMA?— Mrs. J. M. Winton. 
 
 Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? I'm tired of 
 
 waiting so ; 
 My stocking hung by the chimney-side full three long days 
 
 ago; 
 
20 ONE IIUNDl'.ED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 I run to peep within the door by morning's early li^ht— 
 'Tis empty still; oh, say, mamma, will the New Year come 
 to-night ? 
 
 Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? the snow is 
 
 on the hill. 
 And the ice must be two inches thick upon the meadow's 
 
 rill. 
 I heard you tell papa, last night, his son must have a sled, 
 (I didn't mean to hear, mamma,) and a pair of skates, you 
 
 saiil. 
 
 I prayed for just those things, mamma. Oh, I shall be full 
 of glee, 
 
 And the orphan boys in the village school will all be envy- 
 ing me ; 
 
 But I'll give them toys, and lend them books, and make 
 their Xew Year glad, 
 
 For God, you say, takes back his gifts when little folks are 
 bad. 
 
 And wont you let me go, mamma, upon the New Year's 
 
 day. 
 And carry something nice and warm to poor old Widow 
 
 Gray ? 
 I'll leave the basket near the door, within the garden gate — 
 Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? It seems so 
 
 long to wait. 
 
 The New Year comes to-night, mamma, I saw it in my 
 
 sleep ; 
 My stocking hung so full, I thought — mamma, what makes 
 
 you wee]i? 
 But it only held a little shroud, — a shroud, and nothing 
 
 more ; 
 And an open coffin, made for me, was standingon the floor! 
 
 It seemed so very strange, indeed, to find such gifts, instead 
 ' Of all the toys I wished so mnch, the story-books and sled ; 
 And while I wondered what it meant, you came with tear- 
 ful ,ioy, 
 And said," Thou'lt find the New Year first; God calleth 
 thee, my boy ! " 
 
 It is not all a dream, mamma, I know it must be true ; 
 But have I been so bad a boy, God takef-h me from you? 
 I don't know what papa will do, when I am laid to rest; 
 And you will have no Willie's head to fold upon your 
 breast. 
 
NUIIRER TWO. 21 
 
 The New Year comes to-night, mamma; place your dear 
 
 hand on my cheek, 
 And raise my head a little more, — it seems so hard to speak. 
 I shall not want the skates, mamma, I'll never need the 
 
 sled ; 
 But wont you give them both to Blake, who hurt me on my 
 
 head'.' 
 He used to hide ray books away, and tear the pictures, too, 
 But now he'll know that I forgive, as then 1 tried to do. 
 
 And, if you please, mamma, I'd like the storybooks and 
 
 slate 
 To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you wouldn't let mo 
 
 hate ; 
 And, dear mamma, you won't forget, upon the New Year's 
 
 day, 
 The basketful of something nice for poor old Widow Gray? 
 
 The New Year comes to-night, mamma, it seems so very 
 
 soon; 
 I think God didn't hear me ask for just another June. 
 I know I've been a thoughtless boy, and made you too 
 
 much care, 
 And, maybe for your sake, mamma, God doesn't hear my 
 
 prayer. 
 
 There's one thing more : my pretty pets, the robin and the 
 
 dove, 
 Keep for yourself and dear papa, and teach them how to love. 
 The garden rake, the little hoe — you'll find them nicely 
 
 laid 
 Upon the garret floor, mamma, the place where last I played. 
 I thought to need them both so much when summer comes 
 
 again, 
 To make my garden by the brook that trickles through the 
 
 glen ; 
 It cannot bs ; but you will keep the summer flowers green, 
 And plant a few, — don't cry, mamma, — a very few I mean, 
 Where I'm asleep ; I'll sleep so sweet beneath the apple-tree, 
 Where you and robin, in the morn, will come and sing to 
 
 me. 
 
 The New Year comes — good-night, mamma — "'I lay me down 
 
 to sleep, 
 I pray the Lord" — tell dear papa — "my precious 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. 
 
22 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE BELECTIONS 
 
 THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING. 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 Out of the North the wild news came, 
 Far flashing on its wings of flame, 
 Swift as the boreal light which flies 
 At midnight through the startled skies. 
 And there was tumult in the air. 
 
 The life's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, 
 And through the wide land everywhere 
 
 The answering tread of hurrying feet ; 
 While the first oath of freedom's gun 
 Came on the blast from liCxington ; 
 And Concord roused, no longer tame, 
 Forgot her old baptismal name, 
 Jlade bare her patriot arm of power. 
 And swelled the discord of the hour. 
 
 Within its shade of elm and oak 
 
 The church of Berkley Manor stood ; 
 There Sunday found the rural folk. 
 
 And some esteemed of gentle blood. 
 
 In vain their feet with loitering tread 
 Passed mid the graves where rank is naught; 
 All could not read the lesson taught 
 
 In that republic of the dead. 
 
 How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk. 
 
 The vale with peace and sunshine full. 
 Where all the happy people walk. 
 
 Decked in their homespun flax and wool ; 
 
 Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom; 
 And every maid, with simple art, 
 Wears on her breast, like her own heart, 
 
 A bud whose depths are all perfume ; 
 While every garment's gentle stir 
 Is breathing rose and lavender. 
 
 The pastor came ; his snowy locks 
 
 Hallowed his brow of thought and care ; 
 
 And, calmly as shepherds lead their flocks. 
 Ho led into the house of prayer. 
 
 Then soon he rose ; the prayer was strong; 
 
 The psalm was warrior David's song ; 
 
 The text, a few short words of might : 
 
 " 2he Lord of hosts shall arm the right/" 
 
NUMBE3 TWO. 23 
 
 He spoke of wrongs too long endured, 
 Of sacred rights to be secured ; 
 Then from his patriot tongue of flame 
 The startling words for freedom came. 
 The stirring sentences he spake 
 Compelled the heart to glow or quake, 
 And, rising on his theme's broad wing, 
 
 And grasping in his nervous hand 
 
 The imaginary battle-brand, 
 In face of death he dared to fling 
 Defiance to ^ tyrant king. 
 
 Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed 
 In eloquence of attitude. 
 Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; 
 Then swept his kindling glance of fire 
 From startled pew to breathless choir ; 
 When suddenly his mantle wide 
 His hands impatient flung aside, 
 And, lo 1 lie met their wondering eyes 
 Complete in all a warrior's guise. 
 
 A moment there was awful pause — 
 
 When Berkley cried," Cease, traitor! cease, 
 
 God's temple is the house of peace! " 
 
 The other shouted, " Nay, not so, 
 When God is with our righteous cause ; 
 His holiest places then are ours, 
 His temples are our forts and towers 
 
 That frown upon the tyrant's foe; 
 In this, the dawn of freedom's day, 
 There is a time to fight and pray ! " 
 
 And now before the open door— 
 
 The warrior priest had ordered so — 
 The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar 
 Bang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, 
 
 Its long reverberatiijg blow. 
 So loud and clear, it seemed the ear 
 Of dusty death must wake and hear. 
 
 And there the startling drum and fife 
 Fired the living with fiercer life ; 
 While overhead, with wild increase. 
 Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, 
 
 The great bell swung as ne'er before. 
 It seemed as it would never cease ; 
 
24 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And every word its ardor flung 
 
 From off its jubilant iron tongue 
 
 Was, "War! War! WAE!" 
 
 " Who dares? " — this was tlie patriot's cry, 
 As striding from the desk he came ; 
 " Come out with me, in freedom's name, 
 For her to live, for her to die ? " 
 A hundred hands flung up reply, 
 A hundred voices answered, "I! " 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO OUR HONORED DEAD. 
 Henry Ward Beechkr. 
 
 How bright are the honors which await those who with 
 sacred fortitude and patriotic patience have endured all 
 thin^rs that they might save their native land from division 
 and from the power of corruption. The honored dead ! 
 They that die for a good cause are redeemed from death. 
 Their names are gathered and garnered. Their memory 
 is precious. Each place grows proud for them who were 
 born there. There is to be, ere long, in every village, and 
 in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred 
 iKToes. Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall 
 renew their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements 
 efface thfin ; and the national festivals shall give multi- 
 tudes of precious names to the orator's lips. Children shall 
 grow up under more sacred inspirations, whose elder broth- 
 ers dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored 
 and inspired all who bore it. Orphan children shall find thou- 
 sands of fathers and mothers to love and help those whom 
 dying heroes left as a legacy to the gratitude of the public. 
 
 Oh, tell nie not that they are dead,— that generous host, 
 that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud 
 of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet 
 speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal lan- 
 guage? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that 
 yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler 
 motives and more heroic patriotism? 
 
 Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It 
 was your son, but now he is the nation's. He made your 
 household bright: now his example inspires a thousand 
 
NUMBER TWO. 25 
 
 households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now 
 brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he 
 was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you; now he is 
 aUgniented, set free, and given to all. Before he was yours: 
 he is ours. He has died from the family that he might live 
 to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected ; 
 and it shall by-and-by be confessed of our modern heroes, 
 as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for this country 
 by his death than by his whole life. 
 
 Neither are thfey less honored who shall bear through life 
 the marks of wounds and sufferings. Neither epaulet nor 
 badge is so honorable as wounds received in a good cause. 
 Many a man shall envy him who henceforth limps. So 
 strange is the transforming power of patriotic ardor, that 
 men shall almost covet disfigurement. Crowds will give 
 way to hobbling cripples, and uncover in the presence of 
 feebleness and helplessness. Buoyant children shall pause 
 in their noisy games, and with loving reverence honor 
 those whose hands can work no more, and whose feet are 
 no longer able to march except upon that journey which 
 brings good men to honor and immortality. Oh, mother of 
 lost children ! sit not in darkness nor sorrow for those whom a 
 nation honors. Oh, mourners of the early dead! they shall 
 Jive again, and live forever. Your sorrows are our gladness. 
 The nation lives because you gave it men that love it better 
 than their own lives. And when a few more days shall 
 have cleared the perils from around the nation's brow, and 
 she shall sit in unsullied garments of liberty, with justice 
 upon her forehead, love in her eyes, and truth upon her 
 lips, — she shall not forget those whose blood gave vital cur- 
 rents to her heart, and whose life, given to her, shall live 
 with her life till time shall be no more. 
 
 Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, 
 every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and 
 every lake shall cherish its honored register; and till the 
 mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow, and 
 till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the 
 springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, — shall their 
 names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are in- 
 scribed upon the book of national remembrance. 
 
26 ONE aUNDBED CHOICE SELECTtONS 
 
 FOURTH OF JULY ORATION. 
 
 Fellow-citizens: This is the ever adorable, commemora- 
 ble, and patriotic Fourth of July. Tliis ain the day' upon 
 which tlie American Eagle 13r.st chawed up its iron cage, and, 
 with a Yankee Doodle scream, pounced upon its affrighted 
 tyrants and tore up their despotic habiliments into a thou- 
 sand giblets. 
 
 This, fellow-citizens, am the Fourth of July, — a day worthy 
 to be the first day of the year, and a day which will be em- 
 blazoned by our latest posterity, wlicn all other days have 
 sunk into oblivious non compos mentis. 
 
 This, fellow-citizens, am the day when our ancestral 
 progenitors unanimously fought, bled, and died, in order 
 that we and our children's children might cut their own 
 vine and fig tree without being molested or daring to make 
 any one afraid. 
 
 This am the Fourth of July, fellow-citizens, and who is 
 there that can sit supinely downward on this prognostic 
 anniversary, and not revert their mental reminiscences to the 
 great epochs of the Revolution— the blood bespangled plains 
 of Bunker Hill, Monmouth, and Yorktown— and follow the 
 heroic heroes of those times through trackless snows, and 
 blood-stained deserts, to the eternal mansions of frte trade 
 and sailor's rights; to the adorable enjoyments of the 
 privileges and prerogatives, which falls like heavenly dew 
 upon every American citizen, from the forests of Maine to 
 the everglades of Florida, and from the fiKhe"ies of the 
 Atlantic coast to the yellow banks of California, where the 
 jingling of the golden boulders mixes up with the screams 
 of the catamount, and the mountain goat leaps from rock to 
 rock — and — and where — and — and — I thank you, fello'-v- 
 citizens, for your considerable attention. 
 
 THE PICKET GUARD.— Lamak Fontaine, 
 
 " All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 
 " Except now and then a stray picket 
 
 Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, 
 By a rifleman off in the thicket." 
 
NUMB EI! TWO. 27 
 
 'Tis nothing,— a private or two, now an.l tlien, 
 Will not count in the news of the battle; 
 
 Not an officer lost, only one of the men 
 Moaning out, all dlone, the death-rattle. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
 
 Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 
 Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn mo n, 
 
 Or the light of the watchfires, are gleaming. 
 A tremuloi^s sigh, as the gentle night- wind. 
 
 Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping; 
 While stars up above, with their glitterhig eyei!, 
 
 Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 
 
 There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 
 
 As he trataps from the rock to the fountain, 
 And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 
 
 Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
 His musket falls slack ; his faae, dark and grim, 
 
 Grows gentle with memories tender. 
 As he mutter.i a prayer for the children asleep; 
 
 For their mother — may Heaven defend her ! 
 
 The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 
 
 That night, when the love yet unspoken 
 Leaped up to his lips; when low-murmured vows 
 
 Were pledired to be ever unbroken. 
 Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes. 
 
 He dashes oflf tears that are welling, 
 And gathers his pun cldser up to its place 
 
 As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 
 
 He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree; 
 
 The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
 Yet onward he goes, through the broail belt of light, 
 
 Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
 Hark! was it night-wind that rustled the leaves? 
 
 Was it moonliffht so wondrously flashing? 
 It looked like a rifle—" Ah ! Mary, good-by ! " 
 
 And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night. 
 
 No sound save the rush of the river ; 
 While soft falls the (low on the face of f.ho dead — 
 
 The picket's ofif duty forever. ' / 
 
28 ONE HUNDRED CIIOICK SELECTIONS 
 
 OVER THE EIVER.— Mks. J. M. Winton. 
 
 Over the river they beckon to me, 
 
 Loved ones vcho crossed to the other side ; 
 The gleam oftlieir snowy robes 1 see, 
 
 But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. 
 There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
 
 And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
 He crossed in the twilight gray and cold. 
 
 And the pale ini>t hid him from mortal view. 
 We saw not the angels that met him there; 
 
 Tlie gate of the city we could not see ; 
 Over the river, over the river, 
 
 My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 
 
 Over the river the boatman pale 
 
 Carried another, the household pet ; 
 Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 
 
 Darling Minnie! I see her yet I 
 She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
 
 And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
 We watched it glide from the silver sands. 
 
 And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 
 We know she is safe on the further side. 
 
 Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 
 Over the river, the mystic river, 
 
 My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 
 
 For none return from those quiet shores, 
 
 Who'cross with the boatman cold and pale; 
 We hear the dip of the golden oars. 
 
 And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; 
 And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts,- 
 
 They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
 We ;nay not sunder the vail apart 
 
 That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
 We only know that their barks no more 
 
 Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
 Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 
 
 They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 
 
 And I sit and think when the sunset's gold 
 Is flashing on river, and hill, and shore, 
 
 I shall one day stand by the waters cold 
 And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. 
 
NUMBER TWO. 29 
 
 I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 
 
 I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
 I shall pass from siglit with the boatman pale 
 
 To the better shore of the spirit-land. 
 I shall know the loved who have gone before, 
 
 And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
 When over the river, the peaceful river. 
 
 The angel of death shall carry me. 
 
 SPARTACUS TO THE ROMAN ENVOYS IN 
 ETRURIA. 
 
 Envoys of Rome, the poor camp of Spartacus is too much 
 honored by your presence. And does Rome stoop to parley 
 with the L'.icapod gladiator, with the rebel ruffian, for whom 
 heretofore no slight has been too scornful ? You have come, 
 with steel in your right hand, and with gold in your left. 
 What heed we give the former, ask Cossinius; ask Claudius; 
 ask Varinius; ask the bones of your legions that fertilize the 
 Lucanian plains. And for your gold,— would ye know what 
 we do with that,— go ask the laborer, the trodden poor, the 
 helpless and the hopeless, on our route ; ask all whom Roman 
 tyranny had crushed, or Roman avarice plundered. Ye 
 have seen me before ; but ye did not then shun my glance 
 as now. Ye have seen me in the arena, when I was Rome's 
 pet ruffian, daily smeared with blood of men or beasts. One 
 day — shall I forget it ever ?— ye were present ; I had fought 
 long and well. Exhausted as I was, your munerator, your 
 lord of the games, bethought him it wore an equal match 
 to set against me a new man, younger and lighter than I, 
 but fresh and valiant. With Thracian sword and buckler, 
 forth he came, a beautiful defiance on his brow ! Bloody 
 and brief the fight. " He has it ! " cried the people ; "habct / 
 habet ! " But still he lowered not his arm, until, at length, I 
 held him, gashed and fainting, in my pt>wer. I looked 
 around upon the Podium, where sat your senators and men 
 of State, to catch the signal of release, of mercy. But not a 
 thumb was reversed. To crown your sport, the vanquished 
 man must die ! Obedient brute that I was, 1 wa^; about to 
 slay him, when a few hurried words— rather a welcome to 
 death than a plea for life— told me he was a Thracian. I 
 stood transfixed. The arena vanished. I v,as in Thrace, 
 upon my native hills ! The sword dropped from my hands. 
 
30 ONE HUSDRKD CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 I raised the dying youth tenderly in my arms. Oh, the 
 magnanimity of Koine ! Your haua;hty leaders, enraged at 
 being cheated of their death-show, hissed their disappoint- 
 ment, and shouted, " Kill ! " I heeded them as I would 
 heed the howl of wolves. Kill him?— They might better 
 have asked the mother to kill the babe, smiling in her face. 
 Ah! he was already wounded unto death; and, amid the 
 angry yells of the spectators, he died. That night I was 
 scourged for disobedience. I shall not forget it. Should 
 memory fail, there are scars here to quicken it. 
 
 Well ; do not grow impatient. .Some hours after, finding 
 myself, with seventy fellow-gladiators, alone in the amphi- 
 theatre, the laboring thought l)roke forth in words. I said — 
 I know not what. I only know that when I ceased, my 
 comrades looked eaih other in the face — and then burst 
 forth the simultaneous cry: "Lead on! lead on, O Sparta- 
 cus! " Forth we rushed— seized what rude weapons chance 
 threw in our way, and to the mountains speeded. There, 
 day by day, our little band i:icreased. Disdainful Rome 
 sent after u>4 a hamlful of her troops, with a scourge for the 
 slave Spartacus. Their weapons soon were ours. She sent 
 an army ; and down from old Vesuvius we poured, and 
 slew three thousand. Now it was Spartacus, the dreaded 
 rebel ! A larger arniy, headed by the Prjetor, was sent, and 
 routed; then another still. And always I remembered that 
 fierce cry, riving my heart, and calling me to " kill ! " In 
 three pitched battles, have I not obeyed it? And now 
 affrighted Rome sends her two consuls, and puts forth all 
 her strength by land and sea, as if a Pyrrhus or a Hannibal 
 were on her borders ! 
 
 Envoys of Rome! To Lentulus and Gellius bear this mes- 
 sage : " Their graves are measured! " Look on that narrow 
 stream, a silver thread, high on the mountain's side ! 
 Slenderly it winds, but soon is swelled by others meeting it, 
 until a torrent, terrible and strong, it sweeps to the abyss, 
 where all is ruin. So Spartacus comes on ! So swells his 
 force, — small and despised at first, but now resistless! On, 
 on to Rome we come ! The gladiators come ! Let Opulence 
 tremble in all his palaces! Let Oppression shudder to 
 think the oppressed may have their turn ! Let cruelty turn 
 pale at thought of redder hands than his ! Oh ! we shall not 
 forget Rome's many lessons. She shall not f\nc\ her training 
 was all wasted upon indocile pupils. Now begone! Prepare 
 the Eternal City for our games! 
 
NUMBER TWO. 3) 
 
 THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY."— 0. W. Holjies. 
 
 Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
 
 That was built in such a logical way 
 
 It ran a hundred years to a day, 
 
 And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, 
 
 I'll tell you what happened, without delay ; 
 
 Scaring the parson into tits. 
 
 Frightening people out of their wits — 
 
 Have yowever heard of that, 1 say ? 
 
 Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, 
 Georgius Sccundus was then alive,— 
 Snutfy old drone from the German hive. 
 That was the year when Lisbon town 
 Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
 And Braddock's army was done so brown, — 
 Left without a scalp to its crown. 
 It w^s on the terrible earthquake-day 
 That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 
 
 Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what. 
 
 There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — 
 
 In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 
 
 In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 
 
 In screw, bolt, thoroui.'hbracf — lurking still; 
 
 Find it somewhere you riiust and will, 
 
 Above or below, or within or without; 
 
 And that's the reason, laeyond a doubt, 
 
 A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. 
 
 But the deacon swore (as deacons do. 
 With an " I dew vum " or an " I tell yeou.") 
 He would build one shay to beat the taown 
 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 
 It should be so built that it couldn' break daown — 
 "Fur," said the deacon, " 't's miiihty plain 
 Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain, 
 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, 
 
 Is only jest 
 To make that place uz stronsr uz the rest." 
 
 So the deacon inquired of the village folk 
 Where he could find the strongest oak. 
 That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke— 
 ' K 
 
32 ONE HUNDEFD OriOlCE SELECTIONS 
 
 That was for spokes, and floor, and sills ; 
 
 He sent for lancewood, to make the thills ; 
 
 The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; 
 
 The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, 
 
 But lasts like iron for things like these ; 
 
 The hubs from logs from the " Settler's ellum," 
 
 Last of its timber, they couldn't sell 'em ; 
 
 Never an ax had seen their chips. 
 
 And the wedges flew from between their lips, 
 
 Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; 
 
 Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw. 
 
 Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too, 
 
 Steel >of the finest, bright and blue ; 
 
 Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; 
 
 Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide. 
 
 Found in the pit where the tanner died. 
 
 That was the way he " put her through." 
 
 " There ! " said the deacon, " naow she'll dew !" 
 
 Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 
 
 She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 
 
 Colts grew horses, beards turned gray. 
 
 Deacon and deaconess dropped away, 
 
 Children and grandchildren— where were they? 
 
 But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, 
 
 As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day 1 
 
 Eighteen hundred : — it came, and found 
 The deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
 Eighteen hundred. Increased by ten : — 
 " Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. 
 Eighteen hundred and twenty came : — 
 Kunning as usual, much the same. 
 Thirty and forty at last arrive ; 
 And then came fifty— and fifty-five. 
 
 Little of all we value here 
 
 Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 
 
 Without both feeling and looking queer. 
 
 In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth. 
 
 So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 
 
 (This is a moral that runs at large ; 
 
 Take it, you're welcome. No extra charge.) 
 
 First of November — the earthquake-day: — 
 There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay. 
 
NUMBER TWO. 33 
 
 A general flavor of mild decay, 
 
 But nothing local, as one may say. 
 
 There couldn't be— for the deacon's art 
 
 Had made it so like in every part 
 
 That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 
 
 For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, 
 And the floor was just as strong as the siljs, 
 And the panels just as strong as the floor, 
 And the whipple-tree neither less nor more. 
 And the back crossbar as strong a? the fore, 
 And spring, and axle, and hub encore. 
 And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
 In another hour it will be worn out ! 
 
 First of November, 'flfty-flve ! 
 
 This morning the parson takes a drive. 
 
 Now, small boy«, get out of the way ! 
 
 Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
 
 Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
 
 " Huddup I " said the parson. Off went they. 
 
 The parson was working his Sunday text — 
 Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 
 At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
 All at once the horse stood still. 
 Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 
 First a shiver, and then a thrill, 
 Then something decidedly like a spill ; 
 And the parson was sitting upon a rock. 
 At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, — 
 Just the hour of the earthquake shock ! 
 
 What do you think the parson fouhd. 
 When he got up and stared around ? 
 The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
 As if it had been to the mill and ground I 
 You see, of course, if you're not a dunce. 
 How it went to pieces all at once, — 
 All at once, and nothing first. 
 Just as bubbles do when they burst. 
 End of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
 Logic is logic. That's all I say. 
 2* 
 
ONE IIUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 READ TO SLEEP— Margaret J. Pkebton. 
 
 For threescore years and ten, 
 
 Burdened with tare and woe, 
 She had traveled the weary ways of men, — 
 
 She is tired and wants to go. 
 
 ^t has been so hard to live ; 
 
 And even her stinted store, 
 It seemed as if fate had grudged to give, 
 
 And she wishes her need was o'er. 
 
 So musing, one afternoon. 
 
 With her knitting upon her lap, 
 
 She hears at her door a drift of tune, 
 And a quicli familiar tap. 
 
 In flashes a child's fresh ffi,ee. 
 And her bird-like voice sounds gay. 
 
 As she asks, " Shall I find you a pretty place, 
 And read you a psalm to-day?" 
 
 "Aye, read me a psalm, — 'The Lord 
 
 Is my shepherd,' — soft, not fast; 
 Then turn the leaves of the Holy Word, 
 
 Till you come to the very last, — 
 
 '• Where it tells of the wondrous walls. 
 
 Of jacinth and sapphire stone, 
 And the shine of the crystal light that falls 
 
 In rainbows about the throne ; 
 
 " Where there never are any tears, — 
 You see how the verse so saith.— 
 
 Nor pain nor crying through all God's years. 
 Nor hunger, nor cold, nor death ; 
 
 " Of the city whose streets are gold ; 
 
 Ah ! here it was not my share 
 One single piece in my bands to hold. 
 
 But my feet shall tread on it there ! 
 
 " Yes, read of it all ; — it lifts 
 
 ]My soul up into the light. 
 And I look straight through the leaden rifts, 
 
 To the land where there's no more night." 
 
NUMBER TWO. 33 
 
 Rising, she nearer stepped ; 
 
 How easy it all had been ! 
 The gates had unclosed as the sleeper slept, 
 
 And an angel had drawn her in. 
 
 THE MEETING PLACE. 
 
 Where the faded flower shall freshen. 
 
 Freshen never more to fade ; 
 Where the shaded sky shall brighten, 
 
 Brighten never more to shade ; 
 Where the sun-blaze never scorches ; 
 
 Where the star-beams cease to chill ; 
 Where no tempest stirs the echoes 
 
 Of the wood, or wave, or hill; 
 Where the morn shall wake in gladness, 
 
 And the moon the joy prolong ; 
 Where the daylight dies in fragrance 
 
 Mid the burst of holy song, — 
 
 Brother, we shall meet and rest 
 Mid the holy and the blest. 
 
 Where no shadow shall bewilder ; 
 
 Where life's vain parade is o'er ; 
 Where the sleep of sin is broken. 
 
 And the dreamer dreams no more; 
 Where the bond is never severed, — 
 
 Partings, claspinga, sobs, and moan ; 
 Midnight waking, twilight weeping, 
 
 Heavy noontide — all are done. 
 Where the child has found its mother, 
 
 Where the mother finds the child; 
 Where dear families are gathered 
 
 That were scattered on the wild, — 
 Brother, we shall meet and rest 
 Mid the holy and the blest. 
 
 Where the hidden wound is healed ; 
 
 Where the blighted love re-blooms ; 
 Where the smitten heart, the freshness 
 
 Of its buoyant youth resumes ; 
 Where the love that here we lavish 
 
 On the withering leaves of time. 
 Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on. 
 
 In an ever spring-oright clime; 
 
36 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Where we find the joy of loving, 
 
 As we never loved before ; 
 Loping on unchilled, unhindered, 
 Loving once and evermore,^ 
 
 Brother, we shall meet and rest 
 Mid the holy and the blest. 
 
 Where a blasted world shall brighten 
 
 Underneath a bluer sphere, 
 And a softer, gentler sunshine 
 
 Shed its healing splendor here ; 
 Where earth's barren vales shall blossom. 
 
 Putting on their robe of green, 
 And a purer, fairer Eden 
 
 Be where only wastes have been ; 
 Where a King, in kingly glory 
 
 Such as earth has never known, 
 Shall assume the righteous sceptre, 
 
 Claim and wear the heavenly crown, — 
 Brother, we shall meet and rest 
 Mid the holy and the blest. 
 
 ASLEEP.— Stockton Bates. 
 
 Hush ! lightly tread ; the weary eyes now close ; 
 
 The little hamls unclasp the cherished toy ; 
 And in that blest elysium ol repose 
 
 Sleeps peacefully the darling household joy. 
 
 No grief or wearing care in furrows deep 
 Has set its mark upon that fair young brow; 
 
 In peace it slumbers with a dreamless sleep, 
 As only childhood's innocence knows how. 
 
 Remembered are its childish woes no more ; 
 
 The toys that pleased its happy waking hours 
 Lie scattered in confusion on the floor. 
 
 While sleep restores its young and budding powers. 
 
 Years hurry by upon their rapid wings — 
 Sleep comes, but not as in the vanished past — 
 
 Woe, want, or misery a shadow flings. 
 That sits a horrid incubus at last. 
 
 Again, tread lightly ! close the sunken eye ! 
 
 Asleep? Yes, in death's cold and rigid guise; 
 Toys that have pleased the riper years now lie 
 
 For other hands to fondle, hearts to prize. 
 
NUMB Ell TWO, 37 
 
 A DRUNKEN SOLILOQUY IN A COAL CELLAR. 
 Alp Buenett. 
 
 Let's see, where am I ? This is coal I'm lying on. How'd 
 I get here? Yes, I mind now; was coming up street; met 
 a wheelbarrow wot was drunk, coming t'other way. That 
 wheelbarrow fell over me, or I fell over the wheelbarrow, 
 and one of us fell into the cellar, don't mind now which ; 
 guess it must ha^^ been me. I'm a nice young man ; yes, I 
 am ; tight, tore, drunk, shot I Well, I can't help it ; 'taint 
 my fault. Wonder whose fault it is? Is it Jones's fault? 
 No! Is it my wife's fault? Well it an't! Is it the wheel- 
 barrow's fault? N-o-o-o! It's whisky's fault ! ! Whisky! 
 who's whisky? Has he got a large family ? Got many re- 
 lations? All poor, I reckon. I won't own him any more; 
 cut his acquaintance. I have had a notion of doing that for 
 the last ten years ; always hated to, though, for fear of hurt- 
 ing his feelin's. I'll do it now for I believe liquor is injurin' 
 me; it's spoilin' my temper. Sometimes I gets mad and 
 abuses Bets and the brats. I used to call 'em Lizzie and the 
 children ; that's a good while ago, though. Then, .when I 
 come home, she used to put her arms around my neck and 
 kiss me, and call me " dear William ! " When I come home 
 now she takes hev pipe out of her mouth, puts the hair out 
 of her eyes, and looks at me and says, " Bill, you drunken 
 brute, shut the door after you ! We're cold enough, bavin' 
 no fire, 'thout lettin' the snow blow in that way." Yes, 
 she's Bets and I'm Bill now; I an't a good bill neither; I'm 
 counterfeit; won't pass— a tavern without goin' in and 
 getting a drink. Don't know wot bank I'm on; last San- 
 day was on the river bank, at the Corn Exchange, drunk ! 
 I stay out pretty late,— sometimes out all night, when Bets 
 bars the door with a bed-post ; fact is, I'm out pretty much 
 all over, — out of friends, out of pocket, out at elbows and 
 knees, and out— raseously dirty. So Bets says, but she's no 
 judge, for she's never clean herself. I wonder she don't 
 wear good clothes? 5Iaybe she an't got any ! Whose fault 
 is that? 'Taint mine! It may be whisky's. Sometimes I'm 
 in; I'm in-toxicated now, and in somebody's coal cellar. 
 I've got one good principle : I never runs in debt — 'cause no 
 
38 ONE UUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 body won't trust me. One of my coat tails is gone ; got tore 
 off, I expect, when I fell down liere. I'll have to get a new 
 suit soon. A feller told me t'otiier day I'd make a good 
 sign for a paper-mill. If he hadn't been so big I'd licked 
 him. I've had this shirt on nine days. I'd take it off, but 
 I'm 'fraid I'd tear it. Guess I tore the window-shutter on 
 my pants t'other night, when I sot on the wax in Ben Snifl's 
 shoe-shop. I'll have to get it mended up or I'll catch cold. 
 I an't very stout neither, though I'm full in the face ; as the 
 boys say, " I'm fat as a match, and healthy as the small- 
 pox.'' IMy hat is standin' guard for a window-pane that 
 went out the other day at the invitation of a brickbat. It's 
 getting cold down here; wondei how I'll get out? I an't 
 able to climb. If I had a drink, think I could do it. Let's 
 see, I an't got three cents ; wish I was in a tavern, I could 
 sponge it then. When anybody treats, and says, "Come 
 fellers!" I always thinks my name is fellers, and I've too 
 good manners to refuse. I mast leave this place, or I'll be 
 arrested for burglary, and I an't come to that yet ! Anyhow, 
 it was the wheelbarrow did the harm, not me ! 
 
 OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.— W. C. Bhyant. 
 
 Lay down the axe. flino; by the spade ; 
 
 Leave in its track the toiling plough ; 
 The rifle and the bayonet-blade 
 
 For arms like yours are fitter now ! 
 And let the hands that ply the pen 
 
 Quit the light task, and learn to wield 
 The horseman's crooked brand, and rein 
 
 The charger on the battle-field. 
 
 Our country calls ; nway ! away ! 
 
 To where the blood-stream blots the green ; 
 Strike to defend the gentlest sway 
 
 That time in all his course lias seen. 
 Sec, from a thousand coverts, — see, 
 
 Spring the armed foes that haunt her track ; 
 They rush to smite her down, and we 
 
 Must beat the banded traitors back. 
 
N U M B K R T VV . 39 39 
 
 Ho ! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, 
 
 And moved as soon to fear and flight; 
 Men of the glade and forest, leave 
 
 Your woodcraft for the field of fight! 
 The arms that wield the axe must pour 
 
 An iron tempest on the foe ; 
 His serried ranks shall reel before 
 
 The arm that lays the panther low. 
 
 And ye who breast the mountain storm 
 
 Byfrassy steep or highland lake. 
 Come, for the land ye love, to form 
 
 A bulwark that no foe can break. 
 Stand, like your own gray cliflfs that mock 
 
 The whirlwind ; stand in her difence! 
 The blast as soon sliall move the rock. 
 
 As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. 
 
 And ye, whose homes are by her grand 
 
 Swift rivers, rising far away, 
 Come from the depth of her green land 
 
 As mighty in j'our march as they ; 
 As terrible as when the rains 
 
 Have swelled them over bank and bourne, 
 With sudden floods to drown the plains 
 
 And sweep along the woods uptorn. 
 
 And ye who throng beside the deep, 
 
 His ports and hamlets of the strand, 
 In number like the waves that leap 
 
 On his long murmuring marge of sand, 
 Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim, 
 
 He rises, all his floods to pour. 
 And flings the proudest barks that swim, 
 
 A helpless wreck against his shore. 
 
 Few, few were they who.se swords of old. 
 
 Won the fair land in which we dwell; 
 But we are many, we who hold 
 • The grim resolve to guard it well. 
 Strike for that broad and goodly land, 
 
 Blow after blow, till men shall see 
 That mi^ht and right move hand in hand, 
 
 And glorious must their triumph be ! 
 
 K* 
 
40 ONB HUNDRED CHOIIB SELSCTIONS 
 
 THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE— Susan Wilson. 
 
 Sebastian Goiuez, better kuuwu by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, waa 
 one of the most celebrated puintefd of S|Min. There ni;iy yet be seen in the 
 clmrches of Seville the Cflehrated picture which lie was found painting, Iiy liis 
 niiistcr, alsii St. Anne, and a holy .Joseph, wiiich are extremely beautiful, and 
 others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1030. 
 
 'Twas morning in Seville ; and brightly beamed 
 
 The eariy sunlight in one chamber there; 
 Showing, where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, 
 
 Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where 
 MuriUo, the famed painter, came to share 
 
 With young aspirants his long-cherished art, 
 To prove how vain must be the teacher's care, 
 
 \\ ho 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 almost seemed that there were given 
 To glow before his dazzled sight. 
 
 Tints and expression warm from heaven. 
 'Tw xs but a sketch — the Virgin's head — 
 Yet was unearthly beauty shed 
 Upon the mildly beaming face. 
 The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, 
 Had separate, yet blended grace — 
 
 A poet's brightest dream was there I 
 
 ■ Murillo entered, and amazed. 
 On the mysterious painting gazed. 
 " Whose work is this? — speak, tell me 1 — he 
 
 Who to his aid such power can call," 
 Exclaimed the teacher eagerly, 
 
 " Will yet be master of us all. 
 Would I had done it !— Ferdinand I 
 Isturitz ! Mendez I — say, whose hand 
 Among ye all ? " With half-breathed sigh, 
 Each pupil answered, —" 'Twas riot 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, 
 
NUMBEK TWO. 41 
 
 Who trembled at the stern rebuke 
 
 His master gave. 
 For, ordered in that room to sleep, 
 And faithful guard o'er all to keep, 
 jyiurillo 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'ou ! " 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 ! " 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 ; 
 See that to-night strict watch you keep, 
 Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep. 
 
 If oji 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 lamji, a dim uncertain ray 
 
 Within Muriilo'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 slavft. 
 
 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 1 " he said. 
 
 *' The lash, if I refuse to tell 
 
ONE HUNDRED CHOICE- S ELECTI ONS 
 
 Who sketched those figures; if I do, 
 
 Perhaps e'en more,— the dungeon-cell 1 " 
 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. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Grazing enraptured on the sight, 
 He cried, "Shall I efiaceit? No! 
 
 Tliat breathing lip, that beaming eye ! 
 
 Efface them ? I would rather die 1 " 
 
 The terror of the humble slave • 
 
 Gave place to the o'erpoweiing flow 
 Of the high 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. 
 
NUMIiER TWO. 13 
 
 Speechless, bewildered, for a space 
 They gazed upon that perfect face, 
 
 Each with arj artist's joy ; 
 At length Murillo silence broke, 
 And with afi'ected sternness spoke : 
 
 " Who is your master, boy ? " 
 "You, Senor," said the trembling slave. 
 " Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, 
 Before that Virgin's head you drew?" 
 Again he^nswered, " Only you." 
 " I 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 kneltr. 
 
 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. 
 To soothe his overpow'ring dread. 
 He scarcely heard, till some one said, 
 
 " Sebastian, asli,— 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 ! " 
 
44 ONE HUNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " Him and thyself, my noble boy 1" 
 
 Warmly the paintei^cried ; 
 Raising Sebastian from his feet, 
 
 He pressed hiui to his side. 
 " Tliy 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. 
 
 GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER. 
 
 Miss Edwards. 
 Give me three grains of corn, mother. 
 
 Only three grains of corn ; 
 It will keep the little life I have. 
 
 Till the coming of the morn. 
 I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, 
 
 Dying of hunger and cold, 
 And half the agony of such a death 
 
 My lips have never told. 
 
 It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother, 
 
 A wolf that is fierce for blood, 
 All the livelong day, and the night beside. 
 
 Gnawing for lack of food. 
 I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, 
 
 And the sight was heaven to see — 
 I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, 
 
 But you had no bread for me. 
 
 How could T look to you, mother. 
 
 How could I look to you. 
 For bread to give to your starving boy, 
 
 When you were starving, too? 
 Fori read the famine in vour cheek. 
 
 And in yonr eye so wild. 
 
N I' M B E K T W O . 45 
 
 And I felt it in your bony hand. 
 As you laid it on your child. 
 
 Tlie queen has lands and gold, mother, 
 
 The queen has lands and gold, 
 While you are forced to your empty breast 
 
 A skeleton babe to hold,— 
 A babe that is dying of want, mother. 
 
 As I am aying now, 
 With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, 
 
 Aod famine upon its brow. 
 
 What has poor Ireland done, mother. 
 
 What has poor Ireland done. 
 That the world looks on, and sees us starve, 
 
 Perishing, one by one? 
 Do the men of England care not, raofher, 
 
 The great men and the high. 
 For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, 
 
 Whether they live or die? 
 
 There is many a brave heart here, mother. 
 
 Dying of want and cold. 
 While only across the channel, mother, 
 
 Are many that roll in gold. 
 There are rich and proud men there, mother, 
 
 With wondrous wealth to vi«w, 
 Aivd the bread they fling to their dogs to-night, 
 
 Would give life to me and you. 
 
 Come nearer to my side, mother. 
 
 Come nearer to my side, 
 And hold me fondly, as you held 
 
 My father when he died, 
 t^uick, for I cannot see j'ou, mother, 
 
 My breath is almost gone ; 
 Motlier! dear mother! ere I die, 
 
 (jive me three grains of corn. 
 
 ME. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA.— Charles Dickens. 
 Mr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell street, although on 
 a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable 
 description, but peculiaily adapted for the residence of a 
 man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was 
 the first floor front, his bed-room was the second floor front; 
 
46 ONE HUNDRED CIIOrCK SELKfTIONS 
 
 and thus, whether he was sitting at his desk in the parlor, 
 or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, he 
 had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature 
 in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more 
 populous than popular thoroughfare. 
 
 His landlady, Mrs. Bardell— the relict and sole executrix 
 of a deceased custom-house offlcer— was a comely woman of 
 bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural 
 genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice 
 into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no ser- 
 vants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a 
 large man and a small boy ; the first a lodger, the second a 
 production of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always at 
 home precisely at ten o'clock at night, at which hour he 
 regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish 
 French bedstead in the back parlor; and the infantine 
 sports and gymnastic exerc ises of Master Bardell were ex- 
 clusively c(3nfined to the neighboring pavements and gutters. 
 Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house ; and in 
 it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. 
 
 To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic 
 economy of the establishment, and conversant with the ad- 
 mirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance 
 and behavior, on the morning previous to that which had 
 been fixed upon for the journey to Eatansville, would have 
 been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the 
 room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of 
 the window at intervals ol about three minutes each, con- 
 stantly referred to his watch, and exhibited icany other 
 manifestations of impatience, very unusual with him. It 
 was evident that something of great importance was in 
 contemplation; but what that something was, not even Mrs. 
 Bardell herself had been able to discover. 
 
 " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amia- 
 ble female approached the termination of a prolonged dust- 
 ing of the apartment. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. "Your little 
 boy is a very long time gone." " Why, it's a good long way 
 to the borough, sir,'' remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. " Ah," said 
 Sir. Pickwick, " very true ; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed 
 into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. 
 
NUMBEU TWO. 4/ 
 
 " Mrs. Bardejl," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a 
 few minutes. " Sirj" said Mrs. Bardell again. " Do you 
 think it's a much greater expense to keep two people, than 
 to keep one?" "La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, 
 coloring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she 
 observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her 
 lodger ; " La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question ! " " Well, but 
 dn you?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. "That depends," said 
 Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. Pick- 
 wick's elbow, which was planted on the table; "that de- 
 pends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick ; 
 and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir.'' "That's 
 very true," said Mr. Pickwick; "but the_person I have in 
 my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell), I think 
 possesses these qualities ; and has, moreover, a considerable 
 knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mr.s. 
 Bardell, which may be of material use to me." 
 
 " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising 
 to her cap-border again. " I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing 
 energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which 
 intere.stod him. " I do, indeed ; and to tell you .the truth, 
 Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind." " Dear me, sir," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. " You'll think it not very strange 
 now,'' said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humored 
 glance at his companion, " that I never consulted you about 
 this matter, and never mentioned it, till I sent your little 
 boy out this morning — eh ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long 
 worshiped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, 
 ail at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and 
 most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. 
 Pickwick was going to propose, — adeliberate plan, too,— sent 
 her little boy to the borough to get him out of the way — 
 how thoughtful, how considerate ! " Well," said Mr. Pick- 
 wick, •' whal do you think ? " " Oh, Mr. Pickwick," said 
 Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, " you're very kind, 
 sir." " It will save you a great deal of trouble, wont it? " 
 said Mr. Pickwick. " Oh, I never thought anything of the 
 trouble, sir,'' replied Mrs. Bardell ; " and of course, I should 
 take more trouble to please you then than ever ; but it is so 
 
48 ONE HUNDRED 'CHOICE SELKCTIO MS 
 
 kind of you, Mr Pickwick, to have so mucrti consideration 
 for my loneliness." 
 
 " Ah, to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick ; " I never thought of 
 that. When I am in town, you'll always have somebody to . 
 sit with you. To be sure, so you will." "Pm sure I ought 
 to be a very happy woman," said Mrs. Bardell. " And your 
 little boy—" said Mr. Pickwick. " Bless his heart," inter- 
 posed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. " He, too, will 
 have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, " a lively one, 
 who'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week, than 
 he would ever learn in a year." And Mr. Pickwick smiled 
 placidly. 
 
 " Oh you dear— "said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. 
 " Oh you kind, good, playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell ; and 
 without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her 
 arms around Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears, 
 and a chorus of sob.s. " Bless ray soul," cried the astonished 
 Mr. Pickwick. " Mrs. Bjfrdell, my good woman— dear me, 
 what a situation 1 — pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, don't — if 
 any'oody should come—" " Oh, let them come," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Bardell, frantically ; " Pll never leave you— dear, kind, 
 good soul ; " and, with these words, Mrs Bardell clung the 
 tighter. 
 
 " Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, 
 " I hear somebody coming )ip the stairs. Don't, don't, there's 
 a good creature, don't." But entreaty and remonstrance 
 were alike unavailing; for Mrs. Bardfll had fainted in Mr 
 Pickwick's arms ; and before he could gain time to deposit 
 her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering 
 in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Pick- 
 wick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with 
 his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the coun- 
 tenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at rec- 
 oi;nition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at him ; 
 and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody. 
 
 The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, 
 and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that 
 they might have remained in exactly the same relative 
 situation until the suspended animation of the lady was 
 restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching 
 
NUMBER TWO. 49 
 
 expression of filial aflfection on the part of her youthful son. 
 Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons 
 of a very considerable size, lie at first stood at tlie door as- 
 tounded and uncertain ; but, by degrees, the impression that 
 his niotlier must have suffered some personal damage, per- 
 vaded his partially developed mind, and considering Mr. 
 Pickwick the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi- 
 earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head, 
 commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the 
 back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength 
 of his arm, and the violence of his excitement allowed. 
 
 " Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. 
 Pickwick, " he's mad." " What is the matter?" said the 
 three tongue-tied Pickwickians. " I don't know,'' replied 
 Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. " Take away the boy — (here Mr. 
 Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and strug- 
 gling, to the farther end of the apartment.) Now help me 
 to lead this woman down stairs." "Oh, I'm better now," 
 said .Mrs. Bardell, faintly. " Let me lead you down stairs,'' 
 said the ever gallant Mr. Tupman. " Thank you, sir, thank 
 you," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysterically. And down 
 stairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her aflfection- 
 ate son. 
 
 " I cannot conceive," said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend 
 returned, " 1 cannot conceive w^at has been the matter 
 with that woman. I merely announced to her my intention 
 of keeping a man-servant, when she fell into the extraordi- 
 nary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary 
 thing." " Very," said his three friends. " Placed me in such 
 an extremely awkward situation," continued Mr Pickwick. 
 " Very ; " was the reply of his followers, as they coughed 
 slightly, and looked dubiously at each other. 
 
 This behavior was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He re- 
 marked their incredulity. They evidently suspected him. 
 " There is a man in the passage now,'' said Mr. Tupman. 
 " It's the man that I spoke to you about," said Mr. Pickwick, 
 " I sent for him to the borough this morning. Have the 
 goodness to call him up, Snodgrass.'' 
 
50 ONE IIUN-nRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 BERNARDO DEL C^RPIO.— Felicia Hemans. 
 
 King Alphotisn of Astiiriiis hail iiiiprisuneil the Count Saldanaalinost from the 
 time of BiTii.u-tlns birtli. TIk' liltpr at last toolc up arms in dtspair. Asa 
 ciimproiiiine tli.- iviii,' oltBii'il Bernardo poosessioii of his lather's pel-son, Iti ex- 
 ehaiise for hi-i castle of C.irpio with nil his captives. The cruelty of this offer is 
 related in the ballad. 
 
 The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart 
 
 of fire, 
 And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; 
 " I bring tliee here "my fortress-keys, I bring my captive 
 
 train, 
 I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord !— oh ! break my 
 
 father's chain !" 
 "Bise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man 
 
 this day ; 
 Jlount thy good horse ; and thou and I will meet him on 
 
 his way." 
 
 Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, 
 And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. 
 And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering 
 
 band. 
 With one that midst them stately rode, as leader in the 
 
 land : 
 " Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very truth, is he. 
 The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to 
 
 see." 
 
 His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's 
 hue came and went ; 
 
 He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dis- 
 mounting.', bent ; 
 
 A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took — 
 
 What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? 
 
 That hand was cold, — a frozen thing, — it dropped from his 
 like lead ! 
 
 He looked up to the face above, — the face was of the dead ! 
 
 A plume waved o'er the noble brow, — the brow was fixed 
 and white. 
 
 He met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them was no sight ! 
 
 Up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but who could 
 
 paint that gaze ? 
 They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and 
 
 amaze. 
 They might have chained him, as before that stony form he 
 
 stood, 
 For the ]iower was strii'ken from his arm, and from his lip 
 
 the blood. 
 
NUMBER TWO. 51 
 
 " Fathrr ! " at length he murmured low, and wept like child- 
 hood then ; 
 
 Talk not of ij;rief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men ! 
 
 He thought on all his glorious hoped, and all his young 
 renown ; 
 
 He flunt; the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. 
 
 Then covering witli his steel-gloved hands his darkly mourn- 
 ful brow: 
 
 " No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for 
 now; 
 
 My king is false, mjr hope betrayed, my father — oh, the worth. 
 
 The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth ! 
 
 I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside 
 thee, yet ! 
 
 I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil 
 had met ! 
 
 Thou wouldsthave known my spirit then; — for thee my 
 fields were won ; 
 
 And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst 
 no son ! " 
 
 Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the 
 
 monarch's rein, 
 Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train ; 
 And, with a tierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse 
 
 led. 
 And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead : 
 "Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to 
 
 kiss ? 
 Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me what is 
 
 thisY 
 The voice, the glance, the heart I sought— give answer, 
 
 where are they? 
 If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through 
 
 this cold clay! 
 Into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine 
 
 ire; 
 Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my 
 
 sire. 
 Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood 
 
 was shed I 
 Thou canst not? — and a king! — his dust be mountains on 
 
 thy head." 
 
 He loosed the steed — his slack hand fell ; upon the silent 
 
 face 
 He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from 
 
 that sad place. 
 His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial 
 
 strain; 
 His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills ofSpain. 
 
52 ONIS HUNDRED CHOICB 8ELECTIOS3 
 
 BERNARDO AND KING ALPHONSO.— J. G. Lockhaet. 
 
 With some good ten of his chosen men, 
 
 Bernardo hath appeared, 
 Before them all in the palace hall, 
 
 The lying king ti i heard ; 
 With cap in hand and eye on ground, 
 
 He came in reverend guise, 
 But ever and anon he frowned, 
 
 And tlanie broke from his eyes. 
 
 "A curse upon thee," cries the king, 
 
 " Who com'st unbid to me I 
 But what from traitor's blood should spring 
 
 Save traitor, like to thee? 
 His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart — 
 
 Perchance our champion brave 
 May think it were a pious part 
 
 To share Don Sancho's grave." 
 
 "Whoever told this tale, the king 
 
 Hath rashness to repeajt," 
 Cries Bernard, " here my gage I fling 
 
 Before Ihe liar's feet ! 
 No treason was in Sancho's blood. 
 
 No stain in mine doth lie : 
 Below the throne what knight will own 
 
 The coward calumny ? 
 
 "The blood that I like water shed, 
 
 AVhen Roland did advance,' 
 By secret traitors hired and led, 
 
 To make us slaves of France • 
 The life of king Alphouso 
 
 I saved at Roncesval — 
 Your words, lord king, are recompense 
 
 Abundant for it all. 
 
 " Your horse was down, your hope was flown ; 
 
 I saw the falchion shine 
 That soon had drunk your royal blood 
 
 Had I not ventured mine ; 
 But memory soon of service done 
 
 Deserteth the ingrate ; 
 You've thanked the son for life and crown 
 
 By the father's bloody fate. 
 
NUMBEK TWO. 53 
 
 "Ye swore upon your kingly faith 
 
 To set Don Sancho free ; 
 But, curse upon your paltering breath! 
 
 The light he ne'er did see ; 
 He died in dungeon cold and dim, 
 
 By Alphonso's base decree ; 
 And visage blind and stiflFened limb, 
 
 Were all they gave to me. 
 
 " The king that swerveth from his word. 
 
 Hath stained his purple black; 
 No Spanish lord will draw the sword 
 
 Behind a liar's back ; 
 But noble vengeance shall be mine, 
 
 An open hate I'll show; 
 The king hath injured Carpio's lin3, 
 
 And Bernard is his foe ! " 
 
 "Seize, seize him ! " loud the king doth scream: 
 
 "There are a thousand herel 
 Let his foul blood this instant stream 
 
 What ! caitiffs, do ye fear? 
 Seize, seize the traitor ! " But not one 
 
 To move a finger dareth ; 
 Bernardo standeth by the throne, 
 
 And calm his sword he bareth. 
 
 He drew the falchion from the sheath, 
 
 And held it up on high ; 
 And all the hall was still as death. 
 
 Cries Bernard, " Here am I ! 
 And here's the sword that owns no lord. 
 
 Excepting Heaven and me ; 
 Fain would I know who dares its point, — 
 
 King, Conde, or Grandee." 
 
 Then to his mouth the horn he drew, — 
 
 It hung below his cloak, — 
 His ten true men ttle signal knew, 
 
 And through the ring they broke: 
 With helm on head, and blade in hand. 
 
 The knights the circle brake, 
 And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, 
 
 And the false king to quake. 
 
 " Ha ! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, 
 " What means this warlike guise? 
 
64 ONE HnNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Ye know full well I jested, 
 
 Ye know your worth I prize ! " 
 
 But Bernard turned upon his heel, 
 And, smilinjj:, passed away. 
 
 Lonj; rued Alphonso and his realm 
 The jesting of that day ! 
 
 SHALL WE GIVE UP THE UNION?— D. S. Dickinsox. 
 
 Extract from ji aiieech delivered at New York, May 2U, 1861. 
 Shall we then surrender to turbulence, and faction, and 
 rebellion, and give up the Union with all its elements of 
 good, all its holy memories, all its hallowed associations, all 
 its blood-bought history 7 
 
 No ! let thfi eagle change hia plume, 
 The leaf it:] hue, the flower 11$ bloom — 
 
 But do not give up the Union. Preserve it to " flourish in 
 immortal youth," until it is dissolved amid " the wreck of 
 toattcr and the crush of worlds.'' Let the patriot and states- 
 man stand by it to the last, whether assailed by foreign or 
 domestic foes, and if he perishes in the conflict, let him fall 
 like Rienzi, the last of the Tribunes, upon the same stand 
 where he has preached liberty and equality to his country- 
 men. 
 
 Preserve it in the name of the fathers of the Revolution; 
 preserve it for its great elements of good ; preserve it in the 
 sacred name of liberty ; preserve it for the faithful and de- 
 voted lovers of the Constitution in the rebellious States, — 
 those who are persecuted for its support, and are dying in 
 its defence. Rebellion can lay down its arms to Govern- 
 ment, — (iovernment cannot surrender to rebellion. 
 
 Give up the Union ! — '' this fair ami fertile plain, to batten 
 on that moor!" Divide the Atlantic so that its tides shall 
 beat in sections, that some spurious Neptune may rule in an 
 ocean of his own ; draw a line upon the f.un's disc, that it 
 may cast its beams upon earth in divisions; let the moon, 
 like Bottom in the play, show but half its face; separate 
 the constellation of the Plei:i<les and sunder the bands of 
 Orion — but retain flio Union! 
 
 Give up the Union, with its glorious flag, its stars and 
 
NUMBBE TWO. 5o 
 
 stripes, full of proud and pleasinj; and honorable recollec- 
 tions, for the spurious invention with no antecedents but tlio 
 history of a violated Constitution and of lawless ambition? 
 No! let us stand by the emblem of our fathers: 
 
 " Flag of the free heart's hope iind home, 
 By uugel hiuids to valor givuii. 
 Thy stars have tit the welkin doiii", 
 And all thy hues were h^rii iu heaven." 
 
 Give up the Union ? Never! The Union shall endure, and 
 its praises shall be heard,when its IViends and its foes, thosH 
 ■who support and those who assail, those who bared their 
 bosoms in its defence, and those who aim their dai^gers at 
 its lieart, shall all slcfp in the dust together. Its name shall 
 bo hi'ard with veneration amid the roar of Pacific's waves, 
 away upon the rivers of the north and cast, where liberty is 
 divided from monarchy, and be wafted in gentle breezes 
 upon the Rio Grande. It shall rustle in the harvest and 
 wave in the standing corn, on the extended prairies of tlie 
 West, and be heard in the bleating folds and lowing herds 
 upon a thousand hills. It shall be with those who delve in 
 mines, and shall hum in the manufactories of New England, 
 and in the cotton-gins of the South. It shall be proclaimed 
 by the stars and stripes iu every sea of the earth, as the 
 American Union, one and indivisible; upon the great 
 thoroughfares, wherever steam drives and engines throb and 
 shriek, its greatness and perpetuity shall be hailed with 
 gladness. It shall be lisped in the earliest words, and ring 
 in the merry voices of childhood, and r well to heaven upon 
 the song of maidens. It shall live in the stern resolve of 
 manhood, and rise to the mercy-seat upon woman's gentle, 
 availing prayer. Holy men shall involve its perpetuity at 
 the altars of religion, and it shall be wliis|)cre(l in the last 
 accents of expiring age. Thus shall survive and be perpetu- 
 ated the American Union, and when it shall be proclaimed 
 that time shall be no more, and tlie curtain shall fall, and 
 the good shall be gathered to a more perfect union, still may 
 the destiny of our dear land recognize the conception, that 
 
 "Perfnnie.s as of Kden, flowed sweetly alonj^, 
 And a voice, as of angels, awoki' tin.- glad song. 
 Columbia, Ctilumbia, to glm-y arise. 
 The queen of the world, and the child of the skies I " 
 U 
 
5G ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SEI.ECTIOX8 
 
 THERE ONCE WAS A TOPER. 
 
 There once was a toper — I'll not tell his name — 
 
 "Who had for his comfort a scolding old dame ; 
 
 And often and often 'he wished himself dead, 
 
 For if drunk he came home, she would beat him to bed. 
 
 He spent all his evenings away from his home, 
 
 And when he returned, he would sneakingly come 
 
 And try to walk straightly, and say not a word, — 
 
 Just to keep his dear wife from abusing her lord ; 
 
 For, if he dared say his tongue was his own, 
 
 'Twould set her tongue going, in no gentle tone, 
 
 And she'd huff him, and cuff him, and call him hard names; 
 
 And he'd sigh to be rid of all scolding old dames. 
 
 It happened, one night, on a frolic he went. 
 
 He staid till his very last penny was spent, 
 
 But how to go home, and get safely to bed, 
 
 Was the thing on his heart that most heavily weighed. 
 
 But home he must go; so he caught up his hat. 
 
 And off he went singing, by this and by that, 
 
 " I'll pluck up my courage, I guess she's in bed, 
 
 If she aint, 'tis no matter, I'm sure : who's afraid ? " 
 
 He came to his door; he lingered until 
 
 He peeped, and he listened, and all seemed quite still ; 
 
 In he went, and his wife sure enough was in bed ! 
 
 ' Oh ! " says he, " it's just as I thought : who's afraid ? " 
 
 He crept about softly, and spoke not a word. 
 
 His wife seemed to sleep, for she never,, e'en stirred ! 
 
 Thought he, " For this night, then, my fortune is made ! 
 
 For my dear scolding wife is asleep ! Who's afraid? " 
 
 But soon, he felt thirsty ; and slyly he rose, 
 
 And groping around, to the table he goes. 
 
 The pitcher found empty, — and so was the bowl, 
 
 The pail and the tumblers; she'd emptied the whole! 
 
 At length in a comer, a vessel he found ; 
 
 Says he, " Here's something to drink, I'll be bound ! " 
 
 And eagerly seizing, be lifted it up — 
 
 And drank it all off, in one long hearty sup ! 
 
 It tasted so queerly ; and, what it could be. 
 
 He wondered : — it neither was water, nor tea ! 
 
 Just then a thought struck him and filled him with fear. 
 
 " Oh ! it must be the poison for rats, I declare 1 " 
 
NUMBER TWO. 57 
 
 And loudly he called on his dear sleeping wife, 
 
 And begged her to rise, " lor," said be, " on my life, 
 
 i fear it wad powon, the bowl did contain; 
 
 Oh, dear! yes, — it was poison, I now feel the pain ! " 
 
 " And what made you dry, sir?" the wife sharply cried; 
 
 " 'Twould serve you just right if from poison you died ! 
 
 You've done a fine job, and you'd now better march. 
 
 For just see, you bride, you have drank all my starch ! " 
 
 THE CUMBERLAND— H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 
 
 On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; 
 And at times from the fortress across the bay 
 The alarum of drums swept past, 
 Or a bugle-blast 
 From the camp on the shore. 
 
 Then far away to the South uprose 
 
 A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
 And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
 Was steadily steering its course 
 To try the force 
 Of our ribs of oak. 
 
 Down upon us heavily runs, 
 
 Silent and sullen, the floating fort; 
 Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns. 
 And leaps the terrible death. 
 With fiery breath, 
 From each open port. 
 
 We are not idle, but'send her straight 
 
 Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
 As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
 Rebounds our heavier hail 
 From each iron scale 
 Of the monster's hide. 
 
 " Strike your flag I " the rebel cries, 
 
 In hii arrofrantold plantation strain. 
 "Never! " our gallant Morris replies; 
 " It is better to sink than tb yield!" 
 And the whole air pealed 
 With the cheers of our men. 
 3* 
 
5S ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Then, like a kraken huge and black, 
 
 She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! 
 Down went the Cumberland all u wrack, 
 With a sudden shudder of death, 
 And the cannon's breath 
 For her dying gasp. 
 
 Next morn as the sun rose over the bay. 
 
 Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 
 Lord, how beautiful was thy day ! 
 Every waft of the air 
 Was a whisper of prayer. 
 Or a dirge for the dead. 
 
 Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 
 
 Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. 
 Ho ! brave land, with hearts like these. 
 Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
 Shall be one again. 
 And without a seam ! 
 
 THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX.-Robert Browning. 
 
 I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 
 
 I galloped, Dirck galloped, we (.'alloped all three; 
 
 " Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; 
 
 " Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through ; 
 
 Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
 
 And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 
 
 Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 
 Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place ; 
 I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
 Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
 Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit— 
 Nor galloped less steadily Roland, a whit. 
 
 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near 
 
 Lokeren, the cocks crow and twilight dawned clear; 
 
 At Hoorn, a great yellow star came out to see ; 
 
 At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
 
 And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime. 
 
 So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time ! " 
 
 At Aersohot, up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
 
 And against him the cattle stood black every one. 
 
NUMBEIt TWO. 59 
 
 To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 
 And 1 saw my stout galloper Roland, at last, 
 AVith resolute shoulders, each butting away 
 The haze, as some blutf river headland its spray ; 
 
 And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
 For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; - 
 And one eye's black intelligence,— ever that glance 
 O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ; 
 And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon 
 His tierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 
 
 By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, •' Stay spur ! 
 Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her. 
 We'll remember at Aix"— for one heard the quick wheeze 
 Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, 
 And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 
 As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 
 
 So we were left galloping, Joris and 1, 
 
 Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky, 
 
 The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
 
 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubole like chaflf ; 
 
 Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 
 
 And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! " 
 
 " How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment his roan 
 Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
 And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
 Of the news which albne could save Aix from her fate, 
 AVith his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
 And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 
 
 Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall. 
 
 Shook off' both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. 
 
 Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 
 
 Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; 
 
 Clapped my hands, laughed and sang — any noise, bad ot 
 
 good— 
 Till at length into Aix, Roland galloped and stood.. 
 
 And all I remember is, friends flocking round 
 As I sate with his head 'twixt mv knees on the ground. 
 And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
 As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine. 
 Which (the burgesses voted by common consent,) 
 Was no more than his due who brought good news from 
 Ghent. 
 
CO ONE HUNDRED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 A GLASS OF COLD WATER— Paul Denton. 
 
 Paul Dentiin, a Methodist preacher in Texas, advertised a bjirbecue, with bot- 
 tei- liquor than was ever furnished. When the people were assembled, a de6i>er- 
 ado in the crowd crii-d out: "Mr. Paul Dentuu, your K«vereuce has Hed. You 
 promised us not only a good barbecue, but better liquor. Where is the liijuor?" 
 
 "There ! " answered the mis:jiouary, in tones of thunder, pointing his niotion- 
 1 .Si fliiger at the matchless Double Spring, gushini; up in two strong columns, 
 with afiound like a sliout of joy, from the busum of the earth. " There ! " lie 
 repeated, with a look terrible as the lightning, while his enemy actually trem- 
 bled on his feet, " There is 'the liquor, which God, the Eternal, brews for all his 
 cliildruu 1" 
 
 Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires, choked with 
 poisonous gases, and surrounded with the stench of sickening 
 odors and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven 
 prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water, but 
 in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wan- 
 ders, and the child loves to play, there God brews it ; and 
 down, low down in the deepest valleys where the fountains 
 murmur and the rills sing ; and high up on the tall moun- 
 tain-tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the 
 sun, where the storm-cloud broods and the thunder-storms 
 crash ; and away far out on the wide, wild sea, where the 
 hurricane howls m^sic, and the big waves roar the chorus, 
 sweeping the march of God,— there he brews it, that bever- 
 age of life, health-giving water. And everywhere it is a 
 thing of beauty ; gleaming in the dew-drop ; singing in the 
 summer rain ; shining in the ice-gem, till the trees all seem 
 turned to living jewels ; spreading a golden veil over the 
 setting sun, or a white gauze around the midnight moon ; 
 sporting in the cataract ; sleeping in the glacier ; dancing in 
 the hail shower; folding its bright snow-curtains softly 
 about the wintry world ; weaving the many-colored iris, 
 that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop 
 of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all decked 
 with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction. 
 Still always it is beautiful, — that blessed life-water ! No poi- 
 son bubbles on its brink ; its foam brings not madness and 
 murder ; no blood stains its liquid glass ; pale widows and 
 starving orphans weep not burning tears in its depths; no 
 drunkard's shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in words 
 of eternal despair 1 Speak out, my friends! would you ex- 
 change it for the demon's drink, Alcohol? 
 
NUMBEE TWO. 01 
 
 DEACON STOKES.— Thomas Quilp. 
 
 There once lived one Asa Stokes, 
 
 One ot those men whom everything provokea, 
 
 A surly-tempered, evil-minded, bearish, 
 
 Ill-natured kind of being; 
 
 He was the deacon of the parish, 
 
 And had the overseeing 
 
 Of some- small matters, such as the ringing 
 
 Of the church-bell, 'and tuok the lead in singing. 
 
 Well. Deacon Stokes-had gone to bed, one night, 
 
 About eleven oi before, 
 
 'Twas in December, if my memory's right, in '24. 
 
 'Twas cold enough to make a Eussian shiyer ; 
 
 I think I never knew one 
 
 Colder than this — in feith it was a blue one! 
 
 As by the almanac foretold, 'twas ' 
 
 A real Lapland night. Oh, dear! how cold 'twas! 
 
 There was a chap about there named Ezekiel, 
 
 A clever, good-for-nothing fellow, 
 
 Who very often used to get quite mellow, 
 
 Of whom the deacon always used to speak ill ; 
 
 For he was fond of cracking jokes 
 
 On Deacon Smokes, to show on 
 
 What terms he stood among the women folks, and so ok. 
 
 It came to pass that on the night I speak oS, 
 
 Ezekiel left the tavern bar-room, where 
 
 He spent the evening, for the sake of 
 
 Drowning his care, by partaking 
 
 Of the merry-making and enjoyment 
 
 Of some good fellows there, whose sole employment 
 
 Was, all kinds of weather, on every night. 
 
 By early candle-light, to get together 
 
 Reading the papers, smoking pipes and chewing. 
 
 Telling long yarns, and pouring down the ruin. 
 
 Pretty well corned, and up to anything. 
 
 Drunk as a lord, and happy as a king. 
 
 Blue as a razor, from his midnight revel. 
 
 Nor fearing muskets, women, or the devil; 
 
 With a light heart,— much lighter than a feather,- 
 
 With a light soul that spurned the freezing weather, 
 
 And with a head ten times as light as either, 
 
G2 ONE naNDHED CHOICE SliLKCriONS 
 
 And a purse, perhaps, a.-, light as all together, 
 On went Ezekiel, with a great expansion 
 Of thought, until he brought 
 Up at a post before the deacon's mansion. 
 
 With one arm around the post, awhile he stood 
 
 In thoughtful mood, with one eye turned 
 
 Up toward the window where, with feeble glare, 
 
 A candle burned ; 
 
 Then with a serious face, and a grave, mysterious 
 
 Shake of the head, Ezekiel said — 
 
 (His right eye once more thrown upon the beacon 
 
 That from the window shone,) " I'll start the deacon'" 
 
 Rap, rap, rap, rap, went Deacon Stokes's knocker. 
 
 But no one stirred ; ra]i, rap, it went again ; 
 
 " By George, it must be after ten, or 
 
 They must take an early hour for turning in." 
 
 Kap, rap, rap, rap -" i\ly conscience, how they keep 
 
 A fcUuw waiting —patience, how they sleep I" 
 
 The deacon then began to be alarmed. 
 And in amazement threw up the casement; 
 And with cap on head, of fiery red. 
 Demanded what the cause was of the riot, 
 That thus disturbed his quiet. 
 
 " Quito cool this evening. Deacon Stokes," replied 
 
 The voice below. " Well, sir, what is the matter?" 
 
 " Quite chilly, Deacon ; how your teeth do chatter!" 
 
 " You vagabond, a pretty time you have chosen 
 
 To show vour wit; for I am almost frozen ; 
 
 Be (iff, or' I will put the lash on ! " 
 
 " Why bless you, Deacon, don't be in a passion'.* 
 
 'Twas all in vain to speak again. 
 
 For with the deacon's threat about the lash, 
 
 Down went the sash. 
 
 Kap, rap, rap, rap, the, knocker went again. 
 
 And neither of them was a very light rap; 
 
 Thump, thump, acrainst the door went p]zekiel's cane. 
 
 And that once more bniuiht Deacon Stokes's night-cap. 
 
 " Very cold weather, Deacon Stokes, to-night!" 
 
 " P.i'uone, you vile, insolent dog, or I'll , 
 
 Give you a warming that sh: II serve you right; 
 
 You villain, it is time to end the hoax ! " 
 
 " Why bless your soul and body. Deacon Stokes, 
 
NU.MUmi TWO, 03 
 
 Don't be so cross when I've come here, in this severe 
 Night, which is cold enough to kill a horse. 
 For your advice upon a very difficult and nice 
 Question. Now, Ijless you, do make haste and dress you." 
 
 " Well, well, out with it, if it must be so; 
 
 Be quick about it, for I'm very cold." 
 
 " Well, deacon, I don't doubt it. 
 
 In a few words the matter can be told; 
 
 Deacon, the case is this ; I want to know 
 
 If this cold weather lasts all summer here, 
 
 What time will green peas come along next year 7" 
 
 A DISTURBED REVERIE. 
 
 Lying supine on the soft, matted grasses, 
 
 Gazing up laaly into the blue 
 Of the sky, when the wandering wind as it passes 
 
 Opens the branches for me to look through, 
 Idly I ponder, and ponder, and ponder, 
 
 Thinking of nothing, yet happy and free ; 
 Careless of everything, idly I wonder 
 
 At the immensity opened to me. 
 
 Looking up listlessly, thoughtlessly dreaming, 
 
 Mind a vacuity, life full of joy. 
 All the dull world seems with happiness teeming. 
 
 With nothing to worry, or fret, or annoy. 
 
 Earth seeras a paradise. Why should I trouble 
 
 Or toil to win heaven? AVhy, heaven is here ! 
 Fortune is worthless, and fame but a bubble : 
 
 I scorn them both, looking into the clear 
 Deep blue of the sky, while the wild bees are humming, 
 
 .\bove and around me, in harmony deep. 
 And over the meadows the breezes are coming 
 
 To fan me, and soothe me, and lull me to sleep. 
 
 This, this is happiness, perfect, unmeasured ; 
 
 Long shall this day without blemish or fleck 
 Stay in my memory, lovingly treasured — 
 
 Great Scott! There's a wasp down the back of my neck! 
 
64 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN.— Alfred Tennyson. 
 You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 
 To-morrow''ill be the happiest time of all the glad New- 
 Of all the glad New- Year, mother, the maddest, merriest 
 
 For I'm to'be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 
 o' the May. 
 There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so 
 
 bright as mine ; . 
 
 There's Margaret and JIary, there's Kate and Caroline ; 
 But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say ; ^ 
 So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o 
 
 the JSIay. 
 I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake 
 If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break ; 
 But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands 
 
 gay, , 
 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o 
 
 the May. 
 
 As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see 
 
 But Kobin, leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 
 
 He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yester- 
 day^ 
 
 But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May, 
 
 He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white. 
 And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
 They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say. 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May. 
 
 They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be ; 
 They say his heart is breaking, mother, — what is that to me ? 
 There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the May. 
 
 Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 
 And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the queen ; 
 For the shepherd lads on ever)' side 'ill come from far away. 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the May. 
 
N I M 11 E :i T vv o . 65 
 
 The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy 
 
 bowers ; 
 And by the meadow-trenches blow the feint sweet cuckoo- 
 
 liowers ; 
 And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps 
 
 and hollows gray, 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 
 o' the May. 
 
 The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow 
 
 grass, « 
 
 And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they 
 
 pass; 
 There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong 
 
 day, 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 
 o' the May. 
 
 All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 
 And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 
 And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and 
 
 play, 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 
 the May. 
 
 So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 
 dear; 
 
 To-morrow 'ill be tte happiest time of all the glad New- 
 Year ; 
 
 To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, 
 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May. 
 
 If you're waking, call me e&rly, call me earlv, mother dear, 
 For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- Year. 
 It is the last New- Year that I shall ever see, 
 Then you may lay me low i' tfie mould, and think no more 
 of me. 
 
 To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind 
 
 The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of 
 
 mind ; ' 
 And the New- Year's coming up, mother, but I shall never 
 
 see 
 The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 
 
 Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry 
 
 day; 
 Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made m6 Queen 
 
 of May ; 
 
G6 ONE hundred,choh.:e selections 
 
 And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse, 
 TiUX'harles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney- 
 tops. 
 
 There's not a flower on all the hills ; the frost is on the 
 
 pane. 
 I only wish to live till the snowdrops oome again ; 
 I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on liigh ; 
 I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 
 
 The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 
 
 And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
 
 And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the 
 
 wave, 
 But I sh^U lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 
 
 Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
 In the early, early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
 Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
 When von are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is 
 
 still. 
 When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning 
 
 li^'ht. 
 You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; 
 When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
 On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in 
 
 the pool. 
 
 You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn 
 
 And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly 
 
 laid. 
 I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you 
 
 With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant 
 
 grass. 
 I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; 
 You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go: 
 Nav, nav, vou ninst not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
 You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 
 
 If r can I'll come again, mother from out my resting-place; 
 Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your 
 
 face ; 
 Though I cannot speak a word, I shall ^hearken what you 
 
 sav. 
 And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 
 
 Good-night, good-night; when I have said good-night for- 
 
 evermore, 
 And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door. 
 
NUMBKR TWO. 07 
 
 Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing 
 
 green : 
 She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 
 
 She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor : 
 
 Let her take 'em, they are hers; I shall never garden 
 
 more ; 
 But tell Jier, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I 
 
 ■set 
 About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette. 
 
 Good-night, sweet mother ; call me before the day is born. 
 .AH night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; 
 But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-Year, 
 So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 
 
 I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
 And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 
 How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! — 
 To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 
 
 Oh, sweet is the new violet that comes beneath the skies. 
 And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot 
 
 rise. 
 And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that 
 
 blow, 
 And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 
 
 It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
 And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet. His will be 
 
 done! 
 But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
 And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of 
 
 peace. 
 Oh, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair! 
 And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me 
 
 there ! 
 Oh, blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head! 
 A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 
 
 He taught me all-the mercy, for he showed me all the sin ; 
 Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let 
 
 me in ; 
 Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be. 
 For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 
 
 I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death watch 
 
 beat, , . , 
 
 There came a sweeter token when the night and mornmg 
 
 meet. 
 
68 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
 And Kffle on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 
 
 All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call; 
 
 It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over 
 
 all; 
 The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. 
 And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul. 
 
 For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effle dear ; 
 I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
 With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt re- 
 signed. 
 And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 
 
 I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed. 
 And then did something speak to me, — I know not what 
 
 was said ; 
 For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. 
 And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 
 
 But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It's not for them ; it's 
 
 mine." 
 And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
 And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
 Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the 
 
 stars. 
 
 So now I think my time is near : I trust it is. I know 
 The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
 And for myself, indeed, I care not if 1 go to-day, 
 But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am passed away. 
 
 And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
 There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
 If I had lived— I cannot tell — I might have been his wife; 
 But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of 
 life. 
 
 Oh, look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 
 He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
 And there I move no longer now, and there his light may 
 
 shine— 
 AVild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 
 
 Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is 
 
 done, 
 The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun. 
 Forever and forever with those just souls and true — 
 And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such 
 
 ado? 
 
NUMBER TWO. 69 
 
 Forever and forever, all in a blessed home ! 
 And there to wait a little while till you and Eflie come ; 
 To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast, — 
 And the wicked cease from trou bling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 TUBAL-CAIN.— Charles Mackay. 
 
 Tubal-cain, an instructor of every artificer in brasB and iron." Gen. IV, 22. 
 
 Old Tubal-cain was a man of might 
 
 In the days when the earth ivas young; 
 
 By the fierce red light of his furnace bright, 
 
 The strokes of his hammer rung ; 
 
 And he lifted high his brawny hand 
 
 On the iron glowing clear. 
 
 Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers 
 
 As he fashioned the sword and spear. 
 
 And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork ! 
 
 Hurrah for the spear and sword ! 
 
 Hurrah for the hand that shall wield'th'em well 1 
 
 For he shall be king and lord." 
 
 To Tubal-cain came many a one. 
 
 As he wrought by his roaring fire. 
 
 And each one pratyed for a strong steel blade. 
 
 As the crown of his desire ; 
 
 And he made them weapons sharp and strong, 
 
 Till they shouted loud in glee, 
 
 And gave him gifts of pearls and gold, 
 
 And spoils of forest, free. 
 
 And they sang, " Hurrah for Tubal-cain, 
 
 Who hath given us strength anew ! 
 
 Hurrah for the smith ! hurrah for the fire 
 
 And hurrah for the metal true ! " 
 
 But a sudden change came o'er his heart 
 
 Ere the setting of the sun. 
 
 And Tubal-cain was filled with pain 
 
 For the evil he had done. 
 
 He saw that men, with rage and hate. 
 
 Made war upon their kind ; 
 
 That the land was red with blood they shed 
 
 In their lust for carnage blind. 
 
 And he said, " Alas, that ever I made. 
 
 Or that skill of mine should plan 
 
 The spear and the sword, for men whose joy 
 
 Is to slay their fellow-man 1 " 
 
70 ONE HUNDRED C HOICK SELliCTIONH 
 
 Ami for many a day old Tubal-cain 
 
 Sat broodint; o'er his woe ; 
 
 And his hand forbore to smite the ore, 
 
 Ant' his furnace smouldered low ; 
 
 But he rose at last with a cheerful face, 
 
 And a bright, courageous eye, 
 
 And bared his strong right arm for work. 
 
 While the quick flames mounted high ; 
 
 And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork ! " 
 
 And the red sparks lit the air — 
 
 " Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made! "- 
 
 And he fashioned the first ploughshare. 
 
 And men, taught wisdom from the past, 
 
 In friendship joined their hands, 
 
 Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall. 
 
 And ploughed the willing lands; 
 
 And sang, " Hurrah for Tubal-cain ! 
 
 Our stanch good friend is he ; 
 
 And, for the ploughshare and the plough, 
 
 To him our praise shall be. 
 
 But while oppression lifts its head, 
 
 Or a tyrant would be lord, 
 
 Though we may thank him for the plough. 
 
 We'll not forget the sword." 
 
 MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS. 
 Douglas Jekeold. 
 
 There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper 
 than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to 
 whistle ; people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like 
 you ; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I 
 used to say you were the best creature living; now, you get 
 quite a fiend. Do lei you rest ? No, I won't let you rest. It's 
 the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. 
 I'm put upon all day long ; it's very hard if I can't sj)eak a 
 word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, good- 
 ness knows ! 
 
 Because once in 3'our lifetime your shirt wanted a button, 
 you must almost swrar the roof off the house. You didn't 
 swear ? Ha, Jlr. Caudle ! you don't know what you do when 
 you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wer'n't you? 
 Well, then I don't know what a passion is ; and 1 think I 
 
NUMBEU TWO. ' 71 
 
 outrht by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. 
 Caudle, to know that. 
 
 It's a pity you liaven't soni; tiling worse to complain of 
 than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you 
 would, I know. I'm sure I'm never withont a needle-and- 
 thread in my hand ; what with you and the children, I'm 
 made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if 
 once in your life a button's off your shirt— what do you say 
 "iih" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, 
 at most. I'm sure^ Caudle, no man's buttons in the world 
 are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept 
 the shirts you had when you were first married ! I should 
 like to know where were your buttons then ? 
 
 Yes it is worth talking of I But that's how you always try 
 to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only 
 try to speak, you wont hear me. That's how you men 
 always will have all the talk to yourselves; a poor woman 
 isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a 
 wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's 
 buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you liave of marriage. 
 Ha ! if poor women only knew what they had to go through ! 
 What with buttons, and one thing and another, they'd 
 never tie themselves up to the best man in the world, I'm 
 sure. What would thfy do, ^\T.Ca,\id\e'i Why, do much bet- 
 ter without you, I'm certain. 
 
 And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the 
 shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might 
 have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating 
 enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it's 
 very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm 
 sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons 
 than I am. I only say it's very odd. 
 
 However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm 
 worn to death with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a 
 great while. Ha, you may laugh ! And I dare say you 
 would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's 
 your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I 
 say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how 
 your second wife will look after your buttons ! You'll find 
 out the difl'erence, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, 
 then ; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button 
 to your back. 
 
73 ONE nUXDBED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE HATHA. 
 John G. WunTiER. 
 
 A LEGEND OP "THE HED, WHITE, AND BLUE." A. D. 1154-1SG4 
 
 A strong and mighty angel, 
 
 Calm, terrible and bright, 
 The cross in blended red and blue 
 
 Upon his mantle white ! 
 
 Two captives by him kneeling, 
 
 Each on his broken chain, 
 Sang praise to God who raiseth 
 
 Thii dead to life again ! 
 
 Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, 
 
 " VVear this," the angel said ; 
 "Take thou, O freedom's priest, its sign,— 
 
 The white, the blue, and red." 
 
 Then rose up John de Matha 
 In the strength the Lord Christ gave. 
 
 And begged through all the land of France 
 The ransom of the slave. 
 
 The gates of tower and castle 
 
 Before him open flew^. 
 The drawbridge at his coming fell, 
 
 The door-bolt backward drew. 
 
 For all men owned his errand, 
 
 And paid his righteous tax ; 
 And the hearts of lord and peasant 
 
 Were in his hands as wax. 
 
 At last, outbound from Tunis, 
 His bark her anchor weighed, 
 
 Freighted with seven score Christian ecule 
 Whose ransom he had paid. 
 
 _ But, torn by Paynim hatred. 
 Her sails in tatters hung; 
 And on the wild waves rudderless, 
 A shattered hulk she swung. 
 
 " God save us! " cried the captain, 
 
 " For naught can man avail : 
 Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks 
 
 Her rudder and her sail ! 
 
NUMBER TWO. 73 
 
 "Behind us are the Moormen ; 
 
 At sea we sink or strand ; 
 There's death upon the water, 
 
 There's death upon the land ! " 
 
 Then up spake John de Matha : 
 
 " God's errands never fail ! 
 Take thou the mantle which I wear, 
 
 And make of it a sail." 
 
 They raised the cross-wrought mantle, 
 
 The blue, the white, the red ; 
 And straight before the wind off-shore 
 
 'I'he ship of freedom sped. 
 
 "God help us!" cried the seamen, 
 
 " For vain is mortal skilly 
 The good ship on a stormy sea 
 
 Is drifting at its will." 
 
 Then up spake John de Matha : 
 
 " My mariners, never fear ! 
 The Lord whose breath has tilled her sail 
 
 May well our vessel steer ! " 
 
 So on through storm and darkness 
 
 They drove for weary hours ; 
 And Ip! the third gray morning shone 
 
 On Ostia's friendly towers. 
 
 And on the walls the watchers 
 
 The ship of mercy knew, — 
 They knew far off its holy cross, 
 
 The red, the white, and blue. 
 
 And the bells in all the steeples 
 
 Rang out in glad accord. 
 To welcome home to Christian soil 
 
 The ransomed of the Lord. 
 
 So runs the ancient legend 
 
 By bard and painter told ; 
 And lo ! the cycle rounds again, 
 
 The new is as the old ! 
 
 With rudder foully broken. 
 
 And sails by traitors torn. 
 
 Our country on a midnight sea 
 
 Is waiting for the morn. 
 i 
 
ONE IIUNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Before her, nameless terror ; 
 
 Behind, the pirate foe; 
 The clouds are black above her. 
 
 The sea is white below. 
 
 The hope of all who suffer, 
 The dread of all who wrong, 
 
 She drifts in darkness and in storm, 
 How long, O Lord! how long? 
 
 But courage, O my mariners ! 
 
 Ye shall not sutler wreck. 
 While up to God the freed man's prayers 
 
 Are rising from your deck. 
 
 Is not your sail the banner 
 Which God hath blest anew, 
 
 The mantle that de Matlia wore, 
 The red, the white, the blue? 
 
 Its hues are all of heaven, — 
 
 The red of sunset's dye, 
 The whiteness of tlie moonlit cloud, 
 
 The blue of morning's sky. 
 
 Wait cheerily, then, O mariners, 
 
 For daylight and for land ; 
 The breath of God is on your sail. 
 
 Your rudder is His haod. 
 
 Sail on, sail on, deep freighted 
 With blessings and with hopes; 
 
 The saints of old Avith shadowy hands 
 Are pulling at your ropes. 
 
 Behind ye, holy martyrs 
 
 Uplift the palm and crown; 
 Before ye, unborn ages send 
 
 Their bene<lictions down. 
 
 Take heart from John de Matha! — 
 
 (iod's errands never fail ! 
 Swce]i on through storm and darkness, 
 
 The thunder and the hail! 
 
 Sail on! The morning cometh, 
 
 The port ye yet shall win ; 
 And all the bells of God shall ring 
 
 The good ship bravely in! 
 
NUMBER TWO. 75 
 
 A PSUM OF LIFF.-H. W. Loxgfee.low. 
 
 Tell nie not, in mournful numbers, 
 Life is but an empty dream ! 
 
 For the soul is dead tliat slumbers, 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real ! life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 "DuslTthou art, to dust returncst," 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hea'ts, though stout and brave, 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle I 
 
 Be a hero in tlie strife ! 
 
 Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ; 
 
 Let the dead past bury its dead I 
 Act,— act in the living present I 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead. 
 
 Lives of great men all remind' us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time; 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 Still achieving, .still pursuing. 
 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
7(> ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE BELL OF THE "ATLANTIC'-Lydia H. Sigouunby. 
 
 The steamboat Atlantic, plying between Norwich, Conn. Nov. 26, 184G. and 
 New York, was wrecked un an island near New London, Many of the passengcre 
 were on their way to join in the celebration of the annual Thanksgiving in Ni*w 
 England. The bell of this boat, supported by a portion of the wreck, continued 
 for many days and nights to toll as if in mournful requiem of the lost. 
 
 Toll, toll, toll! 
 
 Thou bell by billows swung. 
 And, night and day, thy warning words 
 
 Repeat with mournfiil tongue ! 
 Toll for the queenly boat, 
 
 Wrecked on yon rocky shore I 
 Sea-weed is in her palace halls, 
 
 She rides the surge no more. 
 
 Toll for the master bold. 
 
 The high-souled and the brave, 
 Who rilled her like a thing of life 
 
 Amid the crested wave ! 
 Toll for the hardy crew. 
 
 Sons of the storm and blast. 
 Who long the tyrant ocean dared ; 
 
 But it vanquished them at last. 
 
 Toll for the man of God, 
 
 Whose hallowed voice of prayer 
 Eose calm above the stifled groan 
 
 Of that intense despair ! 
 How precious were those tones. 
 
 On that sad verge of life. 
 Amid the fierce and freezing storm 
 
 And the mountain billow's strife ! 
 
 Toll for the lover, lost 
 
 To the summoned bridal train; 
 Bright glows a pi<'ture on his breast, 
 
 Beneath th' unfathomed main. 
 One from her casement gazeth 
 
 Long o'er the misty sea ; 
 He Cometh not, pale maiden. 
 
 His heart is cold to thee ! 
 
 Toll for the absent sire, 
 
 Who to his home drew near 
 To bless a glad, expecting group, — 
 
 Fond wife, and children dear ! 
 
NU JIBES TWO . 77 
 
 They heap the blazing hearth. 
 
 The festal board is spread, 
 But a fearful guest is at the gate ■,-~ 
 
 Room for the sheeted dead ! 
 
 Toll for the loved and fair, 
 
 The whelmed beneath the tide, — 
 The brolien harps around wifiose strings 
 
 The dull sea-monsters glide ! 
 Mother and nursling sweet, 
 
 Kefc from the household throng ; 
 There's Ritter weeping in the liest 
 
 Where breathed their soul of song. 
 
 Toll for the hearts that bleed 
 
 'Neath misery's furrowing trace; 
 Toll for the hapless orphan left. 
 
 The last of ail his race ! 
 Yea, with thy heaviest knell, 
 
 From surge to rocky shore, 
 Toll for the living— not the dead, 
 
 Whose mortal woes are o'er. 
 
 Toll, toll, toll ! 
 O'er breeze and billow free ; 
 
 And with thy startling lore instruct 
 Each rover of the sea. 
 
 Tell how o'er proudest joys 
 May swift destruction sweep, 
 
 And bid him build his hopes on high- 
 Lone teacher of the deep ! 
 
 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 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 earache 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've 
 had the worst kind of a narvous headache ; it has been so 
 bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. 
 Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most qfiSiotsdeft, 
 human that ever lived. 
 
 Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, 
 
78 ONE HUNnRED CHOICE SELKCTIONS 
 
 that I have haJ every winter for the last fifteen year, has 
 began to pester me agin. {Coughs.) Doctor, do you tliiiili 
 you can give ine 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.) 
 
 Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost 
 every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them 
 seem to understarfd my case. I have trted 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 ! You 
 know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of 
 deacon Jones' saw mill ; it's getting to be very troublesome 
 just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the 
 sciatica in my right knee, 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 crit- 
 ter, she kept a-backing and backing on till she backed me 
 right up agin the colter, and knocked a piece of skin oflf 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 latelj', 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 risk it anyhow\ So 
 I went out, picked up a few chunks of stove-wood and was a- 
 coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipped 
 from urtder me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been 
 shot. Some of the wood lit upon my fece, broke down the 
 bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knocked out three 
 of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully 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. ( Cough.s.) 
 Oh, dear! but that aint all, doctor, I've got fifteen corns on 
 my toes — and I'm afeard I'm a-going to have the "yallar 
 jandcr.s." (Couijhs.) 
 
NUMBEK TWO. 79 
 
 THE NEW-BORN BABE.— Mrs. Morris. 
 
 Into our home one blessed day 
 
 A wee sweet babe had found its way, 
 
 V\i hile through the luist of tear.s and paim 
 
 Sunlight fell on ouj- hearts againJ 
 
 There it lay in its tender grace, — 
 
 The wee babe in its resting place. 
 
 The father's eye with pride and joy 
 
 Beamed*as it rested on his In ly ! 
 
 He saw, as the years roli s»ift away. 
 
 And time had blanched his kicks to gray, 
 
 A strong young figure guitle his feet 
 
 On until life and death .shoulil meet, 
 
 And when his daysou earth should close. 
 
 The loved one lay hiui to rej>o.se ! 
 
 But wliat the voice « ithin her ear, 
 
 The mother, — in wJio.se eye a tear ' 
 
 Glistens and fells upon the brow 
 
 Of the babe resting by her now? 
 
 She lifts her heart and siin])ly says, 
 
 " O God ! I thank thee, ^vc thee ijraise!" 
 
 She hears a voice within her-e.'ir 
 
 That breathes this lesson, low, but clear; 
 
 " Mother, to thee this day is given 
 
 A soul to keep and fit for heaven. 
 
 Oh, watch and lead the little feet 
 
 Through the day's toil and jiain and heat, 
 
 Lest from the path they go astray. 
 
 And wander from God's fold away ! 
 
 And guide the hands that they may know 
 
 No other will than His below. 
 
 And train the heart so pure, so mild, 
 
 Into the likeness of the child 
 
 Who came into a world of sin 
 
 And gave his life our souls to win! 
 
 Heed well the charge! nor hope to plead 
 
 Thou couldst not know, thou didst not heed!" 
 
 The mother bowed her head in thought, 
 
 And then for guidance meekly sought 
 
 Then from her lips arose this prayer; 
 
 " Do Thou, O Lord, my soul prepare 
 
 To do Thy will, and yield to Thee 
 
 This child, at last, all stainlessly ! " 
 
 M 
 
80 ONE HCNDEED CriOlCE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT— Thomas Hood. 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
 And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch. 
 
 She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 While the cock is crowing aloof! 
 And work — work — work I 
 
 Till the stars shine through the roo£ 
 It's oh, to be a slave 
 
 Along with tlie barbarous Turk, 
 Where woman has never a soul to save. 
 
 If this is Christian work ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim ! 
 Work — work — work I 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 
 Seam, and gusset, and band. 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
 
 And sew them on in my dream ! 
 
 "Oh, men with sisters dear! 
 
 Oh, men with mothers and wives I 
 It is not linen you're wearing out. 
 
 But human creatures" lives ! 
 Stitch— stitch — stitch ! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread; 
 
 A shroud as well -as a shirt ! 
 
 " But why do I talk of death, 
 
 That phantom of grisly bone ? 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape. 
 
 It seems so like my own, 
 It seems so like my own, — 
 
 Because of the fast I keep: 
 O God I that bread should be so dear,' 
 
 And flesh an^ blood so cheap ! 
 
NUMBER TWO . 8^ 
 
 " Work — work — work I 
 
 My labor never flags; 
 And what are iU wages? A bed of straw, 
 
 A crust of bread, and rags ; 
 A shattered roof, and this naked floor ; 
 
 A table, a broken chair, 
 And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 
 
 For sometimes falling there ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 From weary chime to chime ; 
 Work — work— work ! 
 
 As prisoners work for crime! 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, 
 
 Seam, and gusset, and band. 
 Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, 
 
 As well as the weary band ! 
 
 " Work — work— work ! 
 
 In the dull December light; 
 And work — work — work ! 
 
 When the weather is warm and bright ; 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 The brooding swallows cling. 
 As if to show me their sunny backs, 
 
 And twit me with the spring. 
 
 " Oh, but to breathe the breath 
 
 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet I 
 With the sky above my head. 
 
 And the grass beneath my feet ; 
 For only one short hour 
 
 To feel as I used to feel. 
 Before I knew the woes of want. 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal I 
 
 "Oh, but for one short hour, 
 
 A respite, however brief! 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope. 
 
 But only time for grief! 
 A little weeping would ease my heart, 
 
 But in their iDriny bed 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 Hinders needle and thread ! " 
 
 With fingers weary and worn. 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 
82 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELUCTIONEt— 
 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 Plying her needle and thread. 
 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 
 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch— _ 
 
 Would that its tone could reach the rich I — 
 She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
 PLEDGE WITH WINE* 
 
 " Pledge with wine— pledge with wine ! " cried the young 
 and thoughtless Harry Wood. " Pledge with wine," ran 
 through the brilliant crowd. 
 
 The beautiful bride grew pale; the decisive hour had 
 come. She pressed her white hands together, and the leaves 
 of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow ; her breath 
 came quicker, her heart beat wilder. 
 
 " Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said 
 the judge, in a low tone, going towards his dajighter, " the 
 company expect it; do not so seriously infringe upon the 
 rules of etiquette ; in your own house act as you please, 
 but in mine, for this once, please me." 
 
 Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. INIarion's 
 principles were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, 
 but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, 
 the difference in his habits— and to-night they watched him 
 to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a wom- 
 an's opinion so soon. 
 
 Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting 
 smiles toward Marion. She was very pale, though more 
 composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, she 
 gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her 
 lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand was 
 arrested by her piercing exclamation of " Oh, how terrible ! " 
 " What is it?" cried one and all, throngint; together, for she 
 had slowly carried the dass at arm's length, and was fixedly 
 regarding it as though it were some hideous object. 
 
 " Wait," she answered, while an inspired litrht slione from 
 
 *Th" Hiinie nrnrv in verse, entitled " Tlu- Urilil Wiuf Cup," will be fuunj iu 
 No. 1 uf tliia Series. 
 
NUMBBlt TWO. 83 
 
 her dark eyes, " wait and I will tell you. I see," she added, 
 slowly pointing one jeweled finger at the sparkling ruby 
 liquid, "a sight that beggars all description ; and jet, listen ; 
 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 grow to 
 the water's edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun 
 seeks vainly to pierce ; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to 
 the airy motion of4he birds ; but there, a group of. Indians 
 gather ; they fl.it to and fro with something like sorrow upon 
 their dark brows ; and in their midst lies a manly form, but 
 his cheek, how deathly ! his eye wild with the fitful fire of 
 fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, 1 should say 
 kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast. 
 
 " Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy looking brow! Why 
 should death mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws 
 the damp curls; see him clasp his hands; hear his thrilling 
 shrieks for life ; mark how he clutches at the form of his 
 companion, imploring to be saved. Oh ! hear him call pite- 
 ously his father's name ; see him twine his fingers together 
 as he shrieks for his sister — his only sister, the twin of his 
 soul — weeping for him in his distant native land. 
 
 "See!" she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank 
 back, the untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp 
 and the judge fell, overpowered, upon his seat ; " see ! his 
 arms are lifted to heaven ; he prays, how wildly, for mercy ! 
 hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him 
 is weeping: awe-stricken, the dark men move silently, and 
 leave the living gnd dying together." 
 
 There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by 
 what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. 
 The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears 
 stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful 
 arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled 
 red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. 
 She spoke again ; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, 
 faint, yet awfully distixict ; she still fixed her sorrowful glance 
 upon the wine-cup : 
 
 " It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, 
 and her beams lie gently on his forehead. He moves not ; 
 
84 ONE UUNDKED CHOIOE SELECTIONS 
 
 liis eyes are set in their sockets; dim are tlieir piercing 
 glances; in vain his friend whispers the name of father 
 and sister — death is there. Death ! and no soft hand, no 
 gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back ! 
 one convulsive shudder — he is dead I" 
 
 A groan ran through the assembly ; so vivid was her de- 
 scription, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, 
 that what she described seemed actually to have taken place 
 then and there. They noticed also, that the bridegroom 
 hid his face in his hands and was weeping. ^ 
 
 " Dead ! " she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and 
 faster, and her voice more and more broken; "and there 
 they scoop him a grave ; and there, without a shroud, they 
 lay him down in the damp reeking earth. The only son of 
 a proud father, tha only idolized brother of a fond sister! 
 And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with "no stone 
 to mark the spot. There he lies - my father's son — my own 
 twin brother ! a victim to this deadly poison. Father,'' she 
 exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down 
 her beautiful cheeks, " father, shall I drink it now? " 
 
 The form of the old judge was convulsed with agony. He 
 raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered— "No, 
 no, my child, in God's name, no.'' 
 
 She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall 
 to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a 
 tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously, 
 every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on 
 which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the 
 fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying: 
 " Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril 
 my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my 
 resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste thai terrible 
 poison. And he to whom I have given my hand ; who 
 watched over my brother's dying form in that last solemn 
 hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in 
 that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. 
 AVill you not, my husband ? " 
 
 His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer. 
 
 The judge left the room, and when an hour later he re- 
 t"'-aed and with a more subdued manner took part in the 
 
NUMBER TWO. 8j 
 
 entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read 
 tiiat he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and 
 forever from his princely rooms. 
 
 Those who were present at that wedding, can never forpet 
 the impression so solemnly made. Many from tliat hour 
 forswore the social glass. 
 
 THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER. 
 Horace Smith. 
 
 In Broad street buildings on a winter night. 
 
 Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight 
 
 Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing 
 
 His feet, rolled "up in fleecy hose. 
 
 With t'other he'd beneath his nose 
 
 The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing, 
 
 He noted all the sales of hops, 
 
 Ships, shops, and slops; 
 Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin. 
 Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin ; 
 When lo! a decent personage in black, 
 Entered and most politely said : 
 
 " Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track 
 
 To the King's Head, 
 And left your door ajar, which I 
 Observed in passing by, 
 
 And thought it neighborly to give you notice." 
 Ten thousand thanks!" the gouty man replied; 
 " You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm tied ; — 
 
 Ten thousand thanks; how very few do get, 
 In time of danger, 
 
 Such kind attentions from a stranger 1 
 Assuredly, that fellow's throat is 
 Doomed to a final drop at Newgate ; 
 He knows, too, the unconscionable e\t, 
 Tliat there's no soul at home except myself." 
 
 " Indeed," replied the stranger, looking grave, 
 
 "Then he's a double knave: 
 He knows that rogues and thieves by scores 
 Nightly beset unguarded doors; 
 And see, how easily might one 
 
 Of these domestic foes, 
 
 Even beneath your very nose, 
 
86 oxE iiuxDnED CHOICE selections 
 
 Perforin his knavish tricks: 
 
 Enter your room as I have done, 
 
 Blow out your t-aiidles— thus— and thus — 
 
 Pocket your silver candlesticks: 
 
 And-walk off— thus." - 
 So said, so done ; he made bo more remark. 
 Nor waited for replies, 
 But marched off with his prize, 
 Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. 
 
 BRIDGET ANI> THE MATINEE.— Ei,mer RuIn CkiATES. 
 
 " Well, Bridget, we've been talking, and 
 
 We think you're good and true; 
 My husband says he's never found 
 
 An Irish maid like i/om. 
 
 " We see you're' not the giddy girl 
 
 That, favors quickly spcri). 
 And we- agree that pleasure should 
 
 Be blended with yoiw toil. 
 
 "Now, Bridget, here are fifty cents — 
 
 Dress inatijly way, 
 Tlien go to N"inth and Walnut, and 
 
 You'll see a matinee." 
 
 Jliss Bridget thanked her, dressed and went, 
 
 And in a half an hour 
 Home she came, and threw a smile 
 
 With ail her fervent power. 
 
 " Why, Bridget Leary, how is this? 
 
 Some wrong has surely come ! 
 What have you seen ? " " The matinee, 
 
 As you directed, mum." 
 
 "Tha matinee, and back so soon? 
 
 You haven't had the time." 
 "Indeed I have, and 'pon my soul, 
 
 I think it was sublime. 
 
 " I tell yez, mum, it was a take ; 
 
 Such water, wood and sky ! 
 It must be fifty feet acro.ss, 
 
 And, maybe, forty high. 
 
N U M D E n TWO. 
 
 "And then the fiu Idles and the horns, 
 
 And something like the bells; 
 You should have heard the boys up stairs — 
 
 Their stamping and their yells. 
 
 " I've not been very long, I know. 
 
 But truf as true can be, 
 There's nothing 'bout the matinee 
 
 That Bridget didn't tee." 
 
 "And only .half an hour gone! 
 
 Why, little girl, explain." 
 " I'll do most anything to keep 
 
 The truth upon my name. 
 
 "The boys kept up their fearful noise, 
 
 The faddles wouldn't play,' 
 And then they rolled it out of sight." 
 
 "Rolled what?" "The matinee. 
 
 " Then on a platform came a man, 
 
 Anfl a woman tall and shpare ; 
 I quickly saw their fam'ly fuss 
 
 Was none of my affair. 
 
 "So up I jumped and started home, 
 
 And let me truly say: 
 I thank yez for the money, and 
 
 That charming matinee." 
 
 THE HOUR OF DEATH.— Felici.\ Hemans. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall. 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath. 
 
 And stars to set— but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! 
 
 Day is for mortal care. 
 Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 
 
 JS^ight for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer — 
 But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 
 
 The banquet hath it's hour. 
 Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; 
 
 There comes a day for grief g^ o'erwhelming power, 
 A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 
 
88 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Youth and the opening rose 
 May look Hke things too glorious for decay, 
 
 And smile at thee —but thou art not of those 
 That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
 
 And stars to set— but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 
 
 We know when moons shall wane, 
 AVhen summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, 
 
 When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain — 
 But who shall teach us when to look for thee? 
 
 Is it when spring's first gale 
 Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 
 
 Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? 
 They have one season— all are ours to die ! 
 
 Thou art where billows foam, 
 Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 
 
 Thou art around us in our peaceful home. 
 And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 
 
 Thou art where friend meets friend. 
 Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; 
 
 Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
 The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath. 
 
 And stars to set— but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 
 
 ANSWER TO "THE -HOUR OF DEATH." 
 Mrs. Cornwall Baron Wilson. 
 
 True, all we know miist die. 
 Though none can tell the exact appointed hour; 
 
 Nor should it cost the virtuous heart a sigh. 
 Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening 
 flower. > 
 
 The Christian is prepared. 
 Though others tremble at the hour of gloom! 
 
 His soul is always ready on his guard ; 
 His lamps are lighted 'gainst the bridegroom come. 
 
N U M B E K TWO. 89 
 
 It matters not the time 
 Wlien we shall end our pilgrimage below ; 
 
 Whether in youth's bright morn, or manhood's prime, 
 Or when the frost of age has whitened o'er our brow. 
 
 The child has blossomed fair, 
 And looked so lovely on its mother's breast, 
 
 The source of many a hope, and many a prayer, 
 Why murmur that it sleeps, when all at last may rest? 
 
 Snatched from a world of Woe, 
 Where they must buffer most who longest dwell, 
 
 It vanished like a flake of early snow, 
 That melts into the ses^ i)ure as from heaven it feU. 
 
 The youth whose pulse beats high, 
 Eager through glory's brilliant course to run. 
 
 Why should w? shed a tear or breathe a sigh. 
 That the bright goal is gained, — the prize thus early won 1 
 
 Unstained by many a crime, 
 Which to maturer years might owe their birth. 
 
 In summer's earliest bloom, or morniufr's prime, 
 How blest are they who quit this checkered scene of earth ! 
 
 And shall no tear be paid 
 To her, the new-made bride, — the envied fair. 
 
 On whose fond heart death's withering hand is laid. 
 Checking each pulse of bliss Hymen has wakened there? 
 
 , Joy scattered roses, while 
 
 "The happy slumberer sank in calm repose 
 
 In death's embrace, e'er love withdrew his smile ; 
 And 'scaped those chilling blights the heart too often knows. 
 
 Yes ! all we know must die. , 
 
 Since none can tell the exact appointed hour, 
 
 AVhy need it cost the virtuous heart a sigh. 
 Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening 
 flower ? 
 
 A YANKEE IX LOVE.— Alf Burnett. 
 
 One day Sail fooled me; she heated the poker awful hot, 
 
 then asked me to stir the fire. I seized hold of it mighty 
 
 quick to oblige her, and dropped it quicker to oblige myself. 
 
 Well, after the poker scrape, me and Sail only got on mid- 
 
JO ONE HUNDRED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 dlin' well for some time, till I made up my mind to pop the 
 question, for I lovud her harder every day, and I had au 
 idee she loved me or had a sneaking kindness for me. But 
 how to do the thing up nice and right pestered me orful. I 
 bought some love books, and read how the fellers git down 
 outer their knees and talk like poets, and how the girls 
 would gently-like fall in love with them. But somehow or 
 other that way didn't kinder suit my notion. I asked mam 
 how she and dad courted, but she said it had been so long 
 she had forgotten all about it. Uncle Jo said mam did all 
 the courting. 
 
 At last-I made up my mind to go it blin<l, for this thing 
 was fairly consumin' my mind; so I goes over to her dad's, 
 and when I got there I sot like a fool, thinkin' how to begin. 
 Sail seed somethin' was troublin' me, so she said, "says she, 
 " An't you sick, Peter? " She said this mighty soft-like. "Yes; 
 No ! " sez I ; " that is, I an't zaclcly well. I thought I'd come 
 over to-night," sez I. I tho't that was a mighty purty begin- 
 nin' ; so I tried agin. " Sail," sez I - and by this time I felt 
 kinder fainty about the stommuck and shaky about the 
 knees— "Sail," sez I. " What?" sez she. " Sail," sez I agin. 
 'What?" sez she. I'll get to it arter awhile at this rate, 
 thinks I. '■ Peter," says she, " there's suthin' tro\iblin' you ; 
 'tis mighty wrong for you to keep it from a body, for an 
 inard sorrer is a consumin' fire." She said this, Oie did, the 
 sly critter. She knowcd what was the matter all the time 
 mighty well, and was only tryin' to fish it out, but I was so 
 far gone I couldn't see the point. 
 
 At last I sorter gulped down the big lump a-risin' in my 
 throat, and sez I, sez I, "Sail, do you love anybody?" 
 " Well," sez she, "there's dad and mam," and a-countin' of 
 her fingers all the time, with her eyes sorter shet like a 
 feller shootin' off a gun, "and there's old Pide (that were 
 their old cow), and I can't think of anybody else just now," 
 says she. Now, this was orful for a feller ded in love; so 
 arter awhile I tried another shute. Sez I, " Sail," sez I, "I'm 
 powerful lonesome at home, and sometimes think if I only 
 had a nice, pretty wife to love and talk to, move, and have 
 my bein' with, I'd be a tremendous feller." Sez I, "Sail, 
 do you know any i^al would keer for me?" 
 
KUMBEU TWO. 91 
 
 With tliat sho begins, and names over all the gals for five 
 miles around, and never onee came nigh naming of herself, 
 and sed 1 oiij^hter git one of them. This sorter got my dan- 
 der up, so I hitched my cheer up close to her, and shet my 
 eyes and sed, " WALL, you are the vkry gal I've been hank- 
 ering arter for a long time. 1 love you all' over, from the sole 
 of your head tothe crown of your foot, and I don't care who 
 knows it, and if yuu say so we'll be jined together in the holy 
 bonds of hemlock, Epluribusunum, world without end, 
 j,mea! " sez 1 ; and then I felt like I'd throwed up an alli- 
 gator, I felt so relieved. 
 
 With that she fetched a sorter scream, and artei' awhile 
 sez, sez she, "Peter!" "What, Sally?" sez I. "YES!" 
 sez she, a-hidin' of her face behind her hands. You bet a 
 heap, I felt good. " Glory ! glory ! " sez I, " I must holler. 
 Sail, or I shall bust. Hurrah for hooray ! I can jump o\ er 
 a ten-rail fence ! " 
 
 With that I sot right down by her and clinched the bar- 
 gain with a kiss. Talk about your blackberry jam ; talk 
 about your sugar and merlasses; yon wouldn't a got me 
 nigh 'em — they would all a been sour arter that. On, these 
 pals! how good and bad, how high and low they make a 
 feller feel ! If Sail's daddy hadn't sung out 'twas time all 
 honest folks was abed, I'd a sot there two hours longer. 
 
 You oaghter seed me when I got home ! I pulled dad 
 out of bed and hugged himl I pulled mam out of bed and 
 hugged her! I pulled aunt Jane out of bed and hugped 
 her! I larfed and hollered, I crowed like a rooster, I danced 
 round there, and I cut up more capers than you ever heerd 
 tell on, till dad thought I was crazy, and got a rope to tie me 
 with. 
 
 "Dad," sez I, "I'm goin' to be married!" "Married!" 
 bawled dad. "Married!" squalled mam. "Married!" 
 screamed aunt Jane. "Yes, married," sez I; "married all 
 over, married for sure, married like a flashy-joined in wed- 
 lock, hooked on for life, for worser or for better, for life and 
 for death — to Salt.. I am that very thing- me ! Peter 
 Sorghum EHuriREV 
 
 With that I ups and tells 'em all about it from Alfer to 
 Ermeger! They was all mighty well pleased, and I went to 
 bed as proud as a young rooster with his first spurs. 
 
92 ONE HLNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE DEDICATORY ODE FOR 
 
 TtlE GETTYSBURG NATIONAL CEMETERY, 
 
 July 1, 1869.— Bayakd Taxloe. 
 
 After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake 
 
 Here, from the shadows of impending death, 
 
 Those words of solemn breath. 
 
 What voice may fitly break 
 
 The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him? 
 
 We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim, 
 
 And as a nation's litany, repeat 
 
 The phrase his m<i.rtyrdom has made complete, 
 
 Noble as then, but now more sadly-sweet : 
 
 " Let us, the living, rather dedicate 
 
 Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they 
 
 Thus far advanced so nobly on its way. 
 
 And save the periled state ! 
 
 Let us, upon this field where they, the brave, 
 
 Their last full measure of devotion gave. 
 
 Highly resolve they have not died in vainl 
 
 That, under God, the nation's later birth 
 
 Of freedom, and the people's gain 
 
 Of theif own sovereignty, shall never wane 
 
 And perish from the circle of the earth ! " 
 
 From such a perfect text, shall song aspire 
 
 To light its faded fire. 
 
 And into wandering music turn 
 
 Its virtue, simple, soirowful and stern? 
 
 His voice all elegies anticipated ; 
 
 For whatsoe'er the strain. 
 
 We hear that one refrain : 
 
 " We consecrate ourselves to them, the conir^^-rated! '• 
 
 After the thunder-storm our heaven is blue; 
 
 Far ofi", along the borders of the sky. 
 
 In silver folds the clouds of battle lie. 
 
 With soft copsoling sunlight shining through; 
 
 And round the sweeping circle of your hills 
 
 The crashing cannon-thrills 
 
 Have faded from the memory of the air; 
 
 And summer pours from unexhausted fountains 
 
 Her bliss on yonder mountains; 
 
 The camps are tenantless, the breastworks bare ; 
 
 Earth keeps no stain whore hero-blood was poured. 
 
NU.MBUR TWO. 93 
 
 The hornets, humming on their wings of lead, 
 Have ceased to sting, their angry swarms are dead; 
 And, harmless in its scabbard, rusts the sword ! 
 
 Oh, not till now, — oh, now we dare, at last, 
 To give our heroes fitting consecration ! 
 Not till the soreness of the strife is past, 
 ♦ And peace hath comforted the weary nation. 
 So long her sad, indignant spirit held 
 One keen rqgret, one throb of pain, unequaled, 
 So long the land about her feet was waste, 
 The ashes of the burning lay upon her. 
 We stood beside their graves with brows abased, 
 Waiting the purer mood to do them Konor! 
 They, through the flames of this dread holocaust, 
 The patriot's wrath, the soldier's ardor lost : 
 They sit above us and above our passion. 
 Disparaged even by our human tears — 
 Beholding truth our race, perchance, may fashion 
 In the slow judgment of the creeping years. 
 We saw the still reproof upon their faces ; 
 We heard them whisper from the shining spaces: 
 "To-day ye grieve : come not to us with sorrow! 
 Wait for the glad, the reconciled to-morrow! 
 Your grief but clouds the ether where we dwell ; 
 Your anger keeps your souls and ours apart ; 
 But come with peace and pardon, all is well ! 
 And come with love, we touch you, heart to heart ! 
 
 This they have done for us, who slumber here, — 
 
 Awake, alive, though now so dumbly sleeping; 
 
 Spreading the board, but tasting not its cheer, 
 
 Sowing, but never reaping ; — 
 
 Building, but never sitting in the shade 
 
 Of the strong mansion they have made ; 
 
 Speaking their word of life with mighty tongue, 
 
 But hearing not the echo, million-voiced. 
 
 Of brothers who rejoiced. 
 
 From all our river-vales and mountains flung. 
 
 So take them, heroes of the songful past ! 
 
 Open your ranks, let every shining troop. 
 
 Its phantom banners droop. 
 
 To hail earth's noblest martyrs, and her last. 
 
 Take them, Fatherland ! 
 
94 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Who, dying, conquered in thy name ; 
 
 And, with a grateful hand, 
 
 Inscribe their deeds who took away thy blame — 
 
 Give, for their grandest all, thine insufficient fame ! 
 
 Take them, God ! our brave. 
 
 The glad fulfillers of thy dread decree ; 
 
 Who grasped the sword for peace, and smote to save, 
 
 And, dying here for freedom, died for thee ! 
 
 THE RUM maniac-Allison. 
 
 " Say, doctor, may I not have rum. 
 To quench this burning thirst within ? 
 Here on this cursed bed I lie. 
 And cannot get one drop of gin. 
 I ask not health, nor even life — 
 Life ! what a curse it's been to me 1 
 I'd rather sink in deepest hell, 
 Than drink again its misery. 
 
 " But, doctor, may I not have rum ? 
 One drop alone is ail I crave ; 
 Grant this small boon, I ask no morel 
 Then I'll defy — yes e'en the grave; 
 Then, without fear, I'll fold my arms. 
 And bid the monster strike his dart, 
 To haste me from this world of woe, 
 And claim his own, — this ruined heart. 
 
 "A thousand curses on his head 
 Who gave me first the poisoned bowl. 
 Who taught me first this bane to drink, 
 Drink — death and ruin to my soul. 
 My soul! oh, cruel, horrid thought! 
 Full well I know thy certain fate ; 
 With what instinctive horror shrinks 
 The spirit from that awful state ! 
 
 " Lost — lost — I know forever lost! 
 To me no ray of hope can come : 
 
 Jly fate is sealed ; my doom is 
 
 But give me rum ; I will have rum. 
 But, doctor, don't you see him there? 
 Ill that dark corner low he sits; 
 See! how he sports his fiery tongue. 
 And at me burning brimstone spits! 
 
NUMBER TWO. 9a 
 
 "Say, don't you see this demon fierce? 
 Does no one hear? will no one come? 
 
 Oh save me — save me — I vt'ill give 
 
 But rum ! I must have, will have rum ! 
 Ah ! now he's gone ; once more I'm free: 
 He,^the boasting knave and liar, — 
 He said that he would take me off 
 Down to But there ! my bed's on fire! 
 
 "Fire! water! help! come, haste — I'll die; 
 
 Come, talte me from this burning bed : 
 
 The smoke — I'm choking — cannot cry ; 
 
 There now — it's catching at my head ! 
 
 But see ! again that demon's come ; 
 
 Look ! there he peeps through yonder crack, 
 
 Mark how his burning eyeballs flash ! 
 
 How fierce he grins! what brought him back? 
 
 " There stands his burning coach of fire ; 
 He smiles and beckons me to come. 
 What are those words he's written there ? 
 ' In hell, we never want for rum ! ' " 
 One loud, one piercing shriek was heard ; 
 One yell rang out upon the air; 
 One sound, and one alone, came forth, — 
 The victim's cry of wild despair. ' 
 
 " Why longer wait? I'm ripe for hell; 
 A spirit's sent to bear me down : 
 There, in the regions of the lost, 
 I sure will wear a fiery crown. 
 Damned, I know, without a hope! 
 One moment more, and then I'll come! 
 And there I'll quench my awful thirst 
 With boiling, burning, fiery rum!" 
 
 WASHINGTON'S SWORD AND FRANKLIN'S STAFF. 
 J. Q. Adams. 
 The sword of Washington ! The staff" of Franklin ! Oh, 
 sir, what associations are linked in adamant with these 
 names ! Washington, whose sword was never drawn but in 
 the cause of his country, and never sheathed when wielded 
 in his country's cause ! Franklin, the philosopher of the 
 thunderbolt, the printing-press, and the ploughshare! 
 
'Jj ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 What names are these in the scanty catalogue of the bene- 
 factors of human kind ! Washington and Franklin ! What 
 other two men, whose lives belong to the eighteenth century 
 of Christendom, have left a deeper impression of themselves 
 upon the age in which they lived, and upon all after time? 
 
 Washington, the warrior and the legislator ! In war, con- 
 tending, by the wager of battle, for the independence of his 
 country, and for the freedom of the human race, — ever mani- 
 festing, amidst its horrors, by precept and by example, his 
 reverence for the laws of "peace, and for the tenderest sym- 
 pathies of humanity ; in peace, soothing the ferocious spirit 
 of discord, among liis own countrymen, into harmony and 
 union, and giving to tliat very sword, now presented to his 
 country, a charm more potent than that attributed, in an- 
 cient times, to the lyre of Orpheus. 
 
 Franklin ! The mechanic of his own fortune ; teaching, 
 in early youth, under the shackles of indigence, the way to 
 wealth, and, in the shade of obscurity, the path to greatness ; 
 in the maturity of manhood, disarming the thunder of its 
 terrors, the lightning of its fatal blast ; and wresting from 
 the tyrant's hand the still more afflictive sceptre of oppres- 
 sion : while descending into the vale of years, traversing the 
 Atlantic Ocean, braving in the dead of winter, the battle and 
 the breeze, bearing in his hand the charter of Independence, 
 which he had contributed to form, and tendering, from the 
 self-created nation to the mightiest monarchs of Europe, the 
 olive-branch of peace, the mercurial wand of commerce, and 
 the amulet of protection and safety to the man of peace, on 
 the pathless ocean, from the inexorable cruelty and merci- 
 less rapacity of war. 
 
 And, finally, in the last stage of life, with fourscore winters 
 upon his head, under the torture of an incurable disease, 
 returning to his native land, closing his days as the chief 
 magistrate of his adopted commonwealth, after contributing 
 by his counsels, under the Presidency of Washington, and 
 recording his name, under the sanction of devout prayer, 
 invoked by him to God, to that Constitution under the 
 authority of which we are here assembled, as the Repres- 
 entatives of the North American People, to receive, in their 
 name and for them, these venerable relics of the wise, the 
 valiant, and the good founders of our great confederated 
 
NUMBER TWO. 97 
 
 Republic, — these sacred symbols of our golden age. May 
 they be deposited among the archives of our government! 
 And may every American, who shall hereafter behold them, 
 ejaculate a mingled offering of praise to that Supreme Ruler 
 of the Universe, by whose tender mercies our Union has 
 been hitherto preserved through all the vicissitudes and 
 revolutions of this turbulent world; and of prayer for the 
 continuance of these blessings, by the dispensations of Provi- 
 dence, to our belwved country from age to age, till time 
 Bhall be no more! 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Frances Dana Gage. 
 Here's a big washing to be done, — 
 
 One pair of hands to do it, — 
 Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats and pants, 
 
 How will I e'er get through it? 
 
 Dinner to get for six or more, 
 
 No loaf left o'er from Sunday ; 
 And baby cross as he can live — 
 
 He's always so on Monday. 
 
 'Tis time the meat was in the pot. 
 
 The bread was worked for baking. 
 The clothes were taken from the boil— 
 
 Oh dear! the baby's waking! 
 Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh-sh! 
 
 I wish he'd sleep a little, 
 Till I could run and get some wood. 
 
 To hurry up the kettle. , 
 
 Oh dearT oh dear ! if P conies home, 
 
 And finds things in this pother, 
 He'll just begin and tell me all 
 
 About his tidy mother ! 
 How nice her kitchen used to be. 
 
 Her dinner always ready 
 Exactly when the noon-bell rang— 
 
 Hush, hush, dear little Freddy ! 
 
 And then will come some hasty words. 
 Right out before I'm thinking— 
 
 They say that hasty words from wives 
 Set sober men. to drinking. 
 
93 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELICCTIONS 
 
 Now, is not that a great idea, 
 That men should take to sinning, 
 
 Because a weary, iialf-sick wife, 
 Oau't always smile so winning? 
 
 When I was young I used to earn 
 
 My living without trouble, 
 Had clothes and pocket money, too, 
 
 And hours of leisure double. 
 
 I never dreamed of such a fate. 
 When I, a-lass! was courted, — 
 Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, housekeeper, cham- 
 bermaid, laundress, dairy-woman, and scrub generally, 
 doing the work of six. 
 
 For the sake of being supported! 
 
 THE BRAVE AT HOME.— T. Buchanan Read. 
 
 The maid who binds her warrior's sash. 
 
 With smile that well her pain dissembles, 
 The while beneath her drooping lash 
 
 One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, 
 Though heaven alone records the tear, 
 
 And fame shall never know the story. 
 Her heart has shed a drop as dear 
 
 As e'er bedewed the field of glory. 
 
 The wife who girds her husband's pword, 
 
 Mid little ones wlio weep or wonder, 
 And bravely speaks the cheering word. 
 
 What though her heart be rent asunder; 
 Doomed nightly in her dreams<lo hear 
 
 The bolts of death around hira rattle. 
 Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er 
 
 Was poured upon a field of battle ! 
 
 The mother who conceals her grief, 
 
 While to her breast her son she presses. 
 Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 
 
 Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
 With no one but her secret God 
 
 To know the pain that weighs upon her. 
 Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 
 
 Received on freedom's field of honor! 
 
NUMBER TWO . 99 
 
 PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.— N. P. Willis. 
 
 " Parrhiieiua, a painter of AtheuB, among those olynthi-iii CHptives Pliilip of 
 Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very nlil man; and whi-'n he had 
 liini at his house, put hini to death with extreme torture and torment, tlie better 
 tty hia e.\aoiple, to express the pains and passions of ills " Proiuetlieus,"wliom 
 he was then about to paint. —Burlvn's AniUumy of Mduncholi/. 
 
 There stood an unsold captive in the mart, 
 
 A gray-haired and majestical old man, 
 
 Chained to a pillar. It was almost night. 
 
 And the last seller from his place had gone, 
 
 And not a sound was heard but of a dog 
 
 Crunching beneath the stall a refuse hone ; 
 
 Or the dull echo from the pavement rung. 
 
 As the faint captive changed his weary feet. 
 
 He had stood there since morning, and had borne 
 
 From every eye in Athens the cold gaze 
 
 Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted*him 
 
 For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came 
 
 And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, 
 
 And touched his unltealcd wounds, and with a sneer 
 
 Passed on ; and when, with weariness o'erspent, 
 
 He boweJ his head in a forgetful sleep. 
 
 The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats 
 
 Of torture to his children, summoned back 
 
 The ebbing blood into his imllid face. 
 
 'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun 
 
 Tipped with a golden fire the many domes 
 
 Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere 
 
 Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street 
 
 Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up 
 
 With a stout heart that long and weary day, 
 
 Haughtily patient of his many wrongs; 
 
 But now he was alone, and from his nerves 
 
 The needless strength departed, and he leaned 
 
 Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts 
 
 Throng on him as they would. 
 
 Unmarked of him, 
 Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood. 
 Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek 
 Flu.shed as he measured with a jiainter's eye 
 The moving picture. The abandoned limbs, 
 Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins 
 Swollen to purple fulness ; the gray hair, 
 
100 ONB HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes; 
 And as a thought of wilder bitterness 
 Rose in his memorj', his lips grew white, 
 And the fast workings of his bloodless face 
 Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. 
 * * * * 
 
 The golden light into the painter's room 
 Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole 
 From the dark pictures radiantly forth, 
 And in the soft and dewy atmosphere 
 Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. 
 The walls were hilng with armor, and about 
 In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms 
 Of Cytheris, and Man, and stern Jove, 
 And from the casement soberly away 
 Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, 
 And, like a vatl of filmy mellowness, 
 The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. 
 
 Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 
 Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, 
 •Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus— 
 The vulture at his vitals, and the links 
 Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; 
 And as the painter's mind felt through the dim, 
 Eapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth 
 With its far-reaching fancy, and with form 
 And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye. 
 Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl 
 Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip. 
 Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight. 
 
 " Bring me the captive now ! 
 My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift 
 From my waked spirit airily and swift, 
 
 And I could paint the bow 
 Upon the bended heavens, — around me play 
 Colors of such divinity to-day. 
 
 ' ' Ha ! bind him on his back ! 
 Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here ! 
 Quick — or he faints! stand with the cordial near! 
 
 Now — bend him to the rack ! 
 Press down the poisoned links into his flesh I 
 And tear agape that healing wound afresh '. 
 
NUMDEU TWO. 
 
 "So— let him writhe! How long 
 Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now I 
 What a fine agony works upon his brow '. 
 
 Ha! gray-haired, and so strong! 
 How fearfully he stifles that short moan I 
 Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan I 
 
 "'Pity' thee! So I do! 
 I pity the dumb victim at the altar. 
 But does the robed priest for his pity falter? 
 
 I'd rack thee, though I knew 
 A thousand lives were perishing in thine — 
 What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? 
 
 "'Hereafter!' Ay— hereafter / 
 A whip to keep a coward to his track ! 
 What gave death ever from his kingdom back 
 
 To check the skeptic's laughter ? 
 Come from the grave to-morrow with that story 
 And I may take some softer path to glory. 
 
 " No, no, old man ! we die 
 Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away 
 Our life upon the chance wind, even as they ! 
 
 Strain well thy fainting eye — 
 For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, 
 The light of heaven will never reach thee more. 
 
 " Yet there's a deathless name ! 
 A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn. 
 And like a steadfast planet mount and burn ; 
 
 And though its crown of flame 
 Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, 
 By all the fiery stars, I'd bind it on 1 
 
 " Ay — though it bid me rifle 
 My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst; 
 Th(»ugh every life-strung nerve bo maddened first; 
 
 Though it should bid me stifle 
 The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 
 And taunt its mother till my brain went wild, — 
 
 " All— 1 would do it ail- 
 Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot, 
 Thrust foully into earth to be forgot ! 
 
 Oh heavens !— but I appall 
 
 Your heart, old man ! forgive ha ! on your lives 
 
 Let him not faint! — rack him till he revives! 
 
\02 ONE HUNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 "Vain — vain — give o'er! His eye 
 Glazes apace. He does not feel you now-- 
 ritand back! I'll paint the death-dew on hiiibrowl 
 
 Gods ! if he do not die 
 But for one moment — one— till [ eclipse 
 Conception with the scorn of those calm lips! 
 
 "Shivering! Hark! he mutters 
 Brokf.nly now —that was a difficult breath. 
 Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death! 
 
 Look, how his temple flutters ! 
 Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head I 
 He shudders -gasps — Jove help him ! -so — he's dead." 
 
 How like a mounting devil in the heart 
 
 Rules the unreined ambition ! Let it once 
 
 But play the monarch, and its haughty brow 
 
 Glows with a beauty that bewilders tliought 
 
 Anil unthrones peace forever. Putting on 
 
 The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns 
 
 The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 
 
 Left in the bosom for the spirit's liji, 
 
 We look upon our splendor and forget 
 
 The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life 
 
 Many a falser idol. There are hopes 
 
 Promising well; and love-touohed dreanii for some', 
 
 And passions, many a wild onr: ; and fair schemes 
 
 For gold and pleasure— yet will only this 
 
 Balk not the soul ; ambition only gives, 
 
 Even of bitterness, a beaker full ! 
 
 Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, 
 
 Troubled at best; love is a lamp unseen, 
 
 Burning to waste, or, if its light is found, 
 
 Nursed for an iille hour, then idly broken; 
 
 Gain is a groveling care, and folly tire.s, 
 
 And quiet is a hunger never fed ; 
 
 /-nd from love's very bosom, and from gain, 
 
 Or folly, or a frii'nd, or from repose^ 
 
 From all but keen ambition — will the soul 
 
 Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness 
 
 To wander like a restless child away. 
 
 Oh, if there were not better hopes than these; 
 AVere there no palm beymid a fcvi'risl\ fame ; 
 If the jir^Mid wealth flung back upon tiit' heart 
 Must canker in its coH'crs; if the links 
 
N U M B K R TWO. 103 
 
 Falsehood hath broken will unite no more ; 
 
 If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found 
 
 Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears; 
 
 If truth, and fervor, and devotedness. 
 
 Finding no worthy altar, must return 
 
 And die of their own fullness; if beyond 
 
 The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air 
 
 The spirit may find room, and in the love 
 
 Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart 
 
 May spend itself— what iiiuice-mocked fools are wbI 
 
 DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 GHOIIGE LiPPARI). 
 
 Fifty years ago, in a rude garret, ncartlic loneliest su'burbi 
 of the city of London, lay a dyinf; man. He was but half 
 dressed, though his k'fjs were concealed in long military 
 boots. An aged minister stood beside the rough couch. 
 The form was that of a strong man grown old through care 
 more than age. Ihere was a face that you might look upon 
 but once, and yet wear it in your memory forever. 
 
 Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face. A bold 
 forehead seamed by one deep wrinkle visible between the 
 brows; long locks of dark hair, sprinkled with gray; lips 
 firmly set, yet quivering, as though they had a life separate 
 from the life of the man; and then, two large eyes, — viviJ, 
 burning, unnatural in their steady glare. Ay, there was 
 something terrible in that face, something so full of unnat- 
 ural loneliness, unspeakable despair, that the aged minister 
 started back in horror. But look ! those strong arms are 
 clutching at the vacant air ; the death-sweat stands in drops 
 on that bold brow — the man is dying. Throb— throb — 
 throb— beats the death-watcli in the shattered wall. "Would 
 you die in the faith of the Christian ? " faltered the preacher, 
 as .he knelt there on the damp floor. 
 
 The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but 
 made no sound. Then, with the strong agony of death upon 
 him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first time he 
 spoke. "Christian!" he echoed in that deep tone whicli 
 thrilled the preacher to the heart, " Will thai faith give me 
 
104 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 back my honor? Come with me, old man, come with me, 
 far over the waters. Ha! we are there ! This is my native 
 town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood ; 
 yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But 
 another flag waves yonder, in-place of the flag that waved 
 when I was a child. 
 
 " And listen, old man, were T to pass along the streets, as 
 I passed when but a child, the very babes in their cradles 
 would raise their tiny hands, and cur.se me 1 The graves in 
 yonder churchyard would shrink from my footsteps; and 
 yonder flag would rain a baptism of blond upon my head ! " 
 
 That was an awful deiith-bed. The minister had watched 
 " the last night" with a hundred convicts in their cells, but 
 had never beheld a scene so terrible as this. Suddenly the 
 dying" man arose; he tottered along the floor. With those 
 white fingers, whose nails were blue with the death-chill, 
 he threw open a valise. He drew from thence a faded coat 
 of blue, faced with silver, and the wreck of a battle-flag. 
 
 "Look ye, priest! This faded coat is spotted with my 
 blood!" he cried, as old memories seemed stirring at his 
 heart. "This cDat I wo''e, when I first heard the news of 
 Lexington ; this coat I wore, when I planted the banner of 
 the stars on Ticonderoga; that bullet-hole was pierced in 
 the fight of Quebec; and now, I am a — let me whisper it in 
 your ear ! " He hissed that single burning word into the 
 minister's ear. "Now help me, priest! help me to put on 
 this coat of blue ; for you see "—and a ghastly smile came 
 over his face— "there is no one here to wipe the cold drops 
 from my brow : no wife, no child. I must meet death alone ; 
 but I will meet him, as I have met him in battle, without a 
 fear ! " 
 
 While be stood arraying his limbs in that worm-eaten 
 coat of blue and silver, the good minister spoke to him 
 of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that great faith, which pierces the 
 clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back from the face of 
 God. "Faith!" echoed that si range man, who stood there, 
 erect, with the death-dull on his brow, " Faith ! Can it give 
 me back my honor? Look ye, priest! tlierc, over the waves, 
 sits George Washington, telling to his comrades the pleasant 
 story of the eight years' war ; there, in his royal halls, sits 
 
NUMBEE TWO. 105 
 
 George of England, bewailing, in his idiotic voice, the loss 
 of his colonies! And here am 1,-1 who was the first to 
 raise the flag of freedom, the first to strike a blow against 
 that king— here" am 1, dying! oh, dying like a dog! " 
 
 The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look^f 
 the dying man, while throb— throb— throb— beats the death- 
 watch, in the shattered wall. "Hush! silence along the 
 lines there!" he muttered, in that wild, absent tone, as 
 though speaking to the dead; "silence along the lines! not 
 a word-nota wor(i) on peril of your lives! Hark you, Mont- 
 gomery! we will meet in the centre of the town; we will 
 meet there in victory, or die!— Hist! silence, my men— not 
 a whisper, as we move up those steep rocks! Now on, my 
 boys— now on ! Men of the wilderness, we will gain the 
 town! Now up with the banner of the stars — up with the 
 flag of freedom, though the night is dark, and the snow falls ! 
 Now I now, one more blow, and Quebec is ours! " 
 
 And look ! his eye grows glassy. With that word on his 
 lips, he stands there — ah ! what a hideous picture of despair ; 
 erect, livid, ghastly : there for a moment, and then he falls 
 — he is dead ! Ah, look at that proud form, thrown cold and 
 stiff' upon the damp floor. In that glassy eye there lingers, 
 even yet, a horrible energy, a sublimity of despair. Who 
 is this strange man lying here alone, in this rude garret; 
 this man, who, in all his crimes, still treasured up that 
 blue uniform, that faded flag? ^Vho is this being of horrible 
 remorse,— this man, whose memories seem to link something 
 with heaven, and more with hell? 
 
 Let us look at that parchment and flag. The aged minis- 
 ter unrolls that faded flag ; it is a blue-banner gleaming with 
 thirteen stars. He unrolls that parchment; it is a colonel's 
 commission in the Continental army addressed to Benedict 
 Arnold ! And there, in that rude hut, while the death-watch 
 throbbed like a heart in the shattered wall ; there, unknown, 
 unwept, in all tlje bitterness of desolation, lay the corse of 
 the patriot and the traitor. 
 
 Oh that our own true Washington had been there, to sever 
 that good right arm from the corse ; and, while the dishon- 
 ored body rotted into dust, to bring home that noble arm. 
 and embalm it among the holiest memories of the past. For 
 
 5* 
 
lOG ONE HUNDRED CHOlCi: SELECTIONS 
 
 that right arm struck many a gallant blow for freedom: 
 yonder at Ticonderoga, at Quebec, Champlain, and Saratoga— 
 that arm, yonder, beneath the snow white mountains, in the 
 deep silence of the river of the dead, first raised into light 
 tUk Banner of the Stars. 
 
 LOVE, MURDER, AND ALMOST MATRIMONY. 
 
 In Manchester a maiden dwelt. 
 Her name was Phoebe Brown, 
 Her cheeks were red, her hair was black, 
 And she was considered by good judges to be, 
 by all odds, the best-looking girl in town. 
 
 Her age was nearly seventeen. 
 
 Her eyes were sparkling bright, 
 A very lovely girl she was. 
 And for a year and a half there had been a 
 good-looking young man paying his attentions to her, by 
 the name of Reuben White. 
 
 Now Reuben was a nice young man, 
 
 As any in the town ; 
 And Phoebe loved him very dear, 
 
 But on account of his being obliged to work for 
 a living, he never could make himself agreeable to Mr. and 
 Mrs, Brown. 
 
 Her parents were resolved that 
 
 Another she should wed, — 
 A rich old raiser in the place ; 
 And old Brown frequently declared that rather 
 than have his daughter marry Reuben White he'd knock 
 him on the he^d. 
 
 But Phoebe's heart was brave and strong; 
 
 She feared no parent's frowns ; 
 And as for Reuben White so bolfl, 
 I've heard him say more than fifty times, that 
 with the exception of Phoebe, he didn't care a cent for the 
 whole race of Browns. 
 
 Now Phoebe Brown and Reuben White 
 Determined they would marry ; 
 
NUMBEIt TWO. 107 
 
 Thrt'o weeks ago last Tuesday night 
 They started for old Parson Webster's, with the 
 fixed determination to be united in the holy bonds of wed- 
 lock, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the 
 very old Harry. 
 
 But Captain Brown was wide awake, 
 
 He loaded up hi.s gun, 
 And then pursued the loving pair — 
 And overtook 'em when they'd got about half 
 way to the parson's, when Reuben and Phoebe started upon 
 a run. 
 
 Old Brown then took a deadly aim, 
 
 Toward young Reuben's head ; 
 But, oh ! it was a bleeding shame. 
 For he made a mistake, and shot his only daugh- 
 ter, and had the unspeakable anguish of seeing her drop 
 down stone dead. 
 
 Then angnish filled young Reuben's heart, 
 
 And vengeance crazed his brain — 
 He drew an awful jaok-knife out. 
 And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or 
 sixty times, so that it was very doubtful about his ever com- 
 ing to again. 
 
 The briny drops from Reuben's eyes 
 
 In torrents poured down ; 
 He yielded up the ghost and died — 
 And in this melancholy and heart-rending man- 
 ner terminates the history of Reuben and Phoebe, and like- 
 wise of old Captain Brown. 
 
 THE DEATH OF SLAVERY.— W. C. Bryant. 
 
 O thou great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years 
 Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield 
 The scourge that drove the laborer to the field, 
 And look with stony eye on human tears. 
 Thy cruel reign is o'er ; 
 Thy bondmen crouch no more , 
 
 In terror at the menace of thine eye ; 
 For he who marks the bounds of guilty power. 
 
lOS ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Long-suflfering, hath heard the captive's cry, 
 
 And touched his shackles at the appointed hour, 
 And lo! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled 
 Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled. 
 
 A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent ; 
 
 Ti n thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks; 
 
 Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks 
 Send up hosaiinas to the firmament. 
 
 Fields, where the bondman's toil 
 No more shall trench the soil, 
 Seem now to bask in a serener day ; 
 
 The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs 
 Of heaven with more caressing softness play, 
 
 Welcoming man to liberty like theirs. 
 A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, 
 For the great land and all its coasts are free. 
 
 Within that land wert thou enthroned of late. 
 And they by whom the nation's laws were made, 
 And they who filled its judgment-seats, obeyed 
 
 Thy mandate, r^d as the will of fate. 
 Fierce men at thy right hand. 
 With gesture of command. 
 
 Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay; 
 And grave and reverend ones, who love(i thee not, 
 
 Shrank from thy presence, and, in blank dismay, 
 C!hoked down, unuttered, the rebellious t)\ought ; 
 
 While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train, 
 
 Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign. 
 
 Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to sbore. 
 
 The wrath of God o'ertook thee in thy pride ; 
 
 Thou sitt'st a ghastly shadow; by thy side 
 Thy once strong arms hang nerveless evermore. 
 And they who quailed but now 
 Before tliy lowering brow 
 Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, 
 
 And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art. 
 And they who ruled in thine imperial name, 
 
 Subdued, and standing sullenly apart. 
 Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign, 
 And shattered at a blow the prisoner's chain. 
 
 WelVwas thy doom deserved; thou didst not spare 
 Ijife's tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part 
 Husband and wife, and from the mother's heart 
 
NUMBER TWO. 103 
 
 Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer; 
 Thy inner lair became 
 The haunt of guilty shame ; 
 Thy lash dropped blood ; the murderer, at thy side, 
 
 Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance due. 
 Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide, 
 
 A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, 
 Until the measure of thy sins at last 
 Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast. 
 
 « 
 Go then, accursed of God, and take thy place 
 With baleful memories of the elder time, 
 AVith many a wasting pest, and nanielesK crime. 
 And bloody war that thinned the human race ; 
 With the Black Death, whose way 
 Through wailing cities lay ; 
 Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built 
 
 The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught 
 To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt, — 
 
 Death at the stake to those that held them not. 
 Lo, the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom 
 Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room. 
 
 I see the better years that hasten by 
 Carry thee back into that shadowy jiast, 
 Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast, 
 
 The graves of those whom thou hast murdered lie. 
 The slave-pen, through whose door 
 Thy victims pass no more, 
 
 Is there, and there shall tho grim block remain 
 At which the slave was sold ; while at thy feet 
 
 Scourges and engines of restraint and pain 
 Moulder and rust by thine eternal seat. 
 
 There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes, 
 
 Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times. 
 
 RAIN ON THE ROOF.— Coates Kinney. 
 
 When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres, 
 And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, 
 'Tis a, joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed. 
 And listen to the patter of the suft rain overhead. 
 Every tinkle on the shingles has an ech<i in the heart. 
 And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start; 
 
110 ONE HUMDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into 
 
 woof, 
 As 1 listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof. 
 
 There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone, 
 To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn. 
 I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain 
 Wliich is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. 
 
 Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving 
 
 hair, 
 And her bright-eyed, cherub brother — a serene, angelic 
 
 pair- 
 Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild 
 
 reproof, 
 As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof. 
 
 And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue. 
 I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue. 
 I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again. 
 And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the 
 rain. 
 
 There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a 
 spell, 
 
 In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy pas- 
 sions swell. 
 
 As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain. 
 
 Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain 1 
 
 STAND BY THE FLAG.- Joseph Holt. 
 
 Letter to Keiitucldaos, written from Washington, May 31, 1861. 
 
 Let us twine each thread of the glorious tissue of our 
 coiftitry's flag about our heart strings, and looking upon our 
 homes and catching the spirit that breathes upon us from 
 the battle-fields of our fathers, let us resolve that, come 
 ■weal or woe, we will in life and in death, now and forever, 
 stand by the Stars and Stripes. They have floated over our 
 cradles; let it be our prayer and our struggle that they shall 
 float over our graves. They have been unfurled from the 
 snows of Canada to the plains of New Orleans, to the halls 
 of the JNIontezumas, and amid the solitude of every sea, and 
 everywhere, as the luminous symbol of resistless and benef- 
 icent power, they have led the brave and the free to victory 
 and to glory. 
 
NlMnEK TV.-O. Ill 
 
 It has been my fortune to look upon this flag in foreign 
 lands, and amid the gloom of an Oriental despotism, and 
 right well do I know, by contrast, how bright are its stars 
 and how sublime its inspirations! If this banner, the em- 
 blem for us of all that is grand in human history, and of all 
 that is transporting in human hope, is to be sacrificed on 
 th3 altars of a Satanic ambition, and thus disappear forever 
 amid the night and tempest of revolution, then will I feel— 
 and who shall estimate the desolation of that feeling?— 
 that the sun has indeed been stricken from the sky of our 
 lives, and that henceforth we shall be wanderers and out- 
 casts, with naught but the bread of sorrow and of penury 
 for our lips, and with hands ever outstretched in feebleness 
 and supplication, on which, in any hour, a military tyrant 
 may rivet the fetters of a despairing bondage. May God in 
 his infinite mercy save you and me, and the land we so 
 much love, from the doom of such a degradation. 
 
 No contest so momentous as this has arisen inhuman his- 
 tory, for, amid all the conflicts of men and of nations, the 
 life of no such government as ours has ever been at stake. 
 Our fathers won our independence by the blood and sacri- 
 fice of a seven years' war, and we have maintained it against 
 the assaults of the greatest power upon the eartli ; and the 
 question now is whether we are to perisli by our own hands, 
 and have the epitaph of suicide written upon our tomb. 
 The ordeal through which wc are passing must involve im- 
 mense suffering and losses for us all, but the expenditure of 
 not merely hundreds of millions, but of billions, will be well 
 made, if the result shall be the preservation of our institu- 
 tions. 
 
 Could my voice reach every dwelling in Kentucky, I 
 would implore its inmates— if they would not have the 
 rivers of their prosperity shrink away, as do unfed streams 
 beneath the summer heats— to rouse themselves from their 
 lethargy, and fly to the rescue of their country before it is 
 everlastingly too late. Man should appeal to man, and 
 neighborhood to neighborhood, until the electric fires of 
 patriotism shall flash from heart to heart in one unbroken 
 current throughout the land. It is a time in which the 
 workshop, the ofiice, the counting-house and the field may 
 
112 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 well be abandoned for the solemn duty that is upon us, for 
 all these toils will but bring treasure, not for ourselves, but 
 for the spoiler, if this revolution is not arrested. We are 
 all, with our every earthly interest, embarked in mid-ocean 
 on the same common deck. The howl of the storm is in 
 our ears, and " the lightning's red glare is painting hell on 
 the sky," and while the noble ship pitches and rolls under 
 the lashings of the waves, the cry is heard that she has 
 sprung aleak at many points, that the rushing waters are 
 mounting rapidly in the hold. The man who, at such an 
 hour, will not work at the pumps, is either a maniac or a 
 monster. 
 
 A FRENCHMAN'S DINNER. 
 
 A Monsieur from the Gallic shore. 
 
 Who, though not over rich, wished to appear so; 
 Came over in a ship with friends a score — 
 
 Poor emigrants, whose wealth, good lack! 
 
 Dwelt only on their ragged backs — 
 Who thought him rich, they'd heard him oft declare so 
 
 For he was proud as Satan's self. 
 
 And often bragged about his pelf. 
 And as a proof — the least 
 
 That he could give — he promised when on land, 
 At tlie first inn, in style so grand, 
 
 To give a feast ! 
 
 The Frenchmen jumped at such an offer; 
 Monsieur did not forget his proffer ; 
 
 But at the first hotel, on shore. 
 They stopped to lodge and board. 
 The Frenchman ordered in his way, 
 A dinner to' be done that day. 
 
 But here occurred a grievous bore ; 
 Monsieur of English knew but little, 
 Of French, the host knew not a tittle ; 
 In ordering dinner, therefore, 'tis no wonder. 
 That they both shoulil make a blunder. 
 
 For, all that from the order he could trace. 
 
 Was—" Monsieur Bull, you lette me have, I say, 
 Vich for vid money, I shall you pay : 
 
 Pifieen of tliose md vich de sheep do run ! " 
 
NUMBEU TWO. 113 
 
 From which olij Tapps could only understand/ 
 What Monsieur deslreil with air so grand, 
 Was, fifteen legs of mutton I 
 
 They seemed a set of hungry curs. 
 And so without more bother or demurs, 
 Tapps to his cook his orders .soon expressed, 
 And fifteen legs of mutton soon were dressed; 
 And now around the table all elate, 
 The Frenchman's friends the dinner doth await; 
 Joy sparkled in each hungry urchin's eyes. 
 When they b«held, with glad surprise, 
 lapps quick appear with leg of mutton hot, 
 Smoking and just ejected from the pot! 
 Laughed, stared, and chuckled more and mone, 
 When two they saw, then three, then four! 
 And then a fifth I their eager glances blessed, 
 And then a sixth ! larger than all the rest! 
 
 "Mon Dieu! Monsieur, vy for you make 
 
 Dis vera great blundare and mistake? 
 
 Vy for you bring to me so several mouton legs?" 
 
 Tapps, with a bow, his pardon begs— 
 
 "I've done as you have ordered, sir," said he, 
 
 " Did you not order ^/itefn legs of me? 
 
 Six of which before your eyes appear. 
 
 And nine besides are nearly done down-stairs! 
 
 Here, John!" 
 " Sacre ! You Jean ! you fool ! you ass ! 
 You one great clown to bring me to dis pass; 
 Take vay dis meat for vich I shall no pay, 
 
 I did no order dat! " 
 " What's that you say ? " 
 
 Tapps answered with a frown and with a stare, 
 " You ordered fifteen legs of me, I'll swear. 
 Or fifteen, things with which the sheep do run. 
 Which means the same ; I'm not so easy done! " 
 
 "Parbleu! Monsieur, vy you no eorajjrehend? 
 You may take back de legs unto de pot; 
 
 I tell you, sare, 'tis not de legs I vant — 
 
 But dese here littel tings rid which de sheep do trot ! " 
 
 " Why hang it ! " cried the landlord in a rage. 
 
 Which ^Monsieur vainly tried to assuage, 
 
 " Hang iti " said he, as to the door he totters: 
 " Now after all the trouble that I took, 
 These legs of mutton, both to buy and cook, 
 
114 ONE HUNDBED CHOlCli SELKCTIONS 
 
 It seems, instead of fifteen legs, 
 You merely wanted fifteen poor'sheep's trotters!" 
 "Oui, Monsieur!" the Frenchman quickly said. 
 At which John seemed very much dismayed, 
 And to the kitchen, he with horror totters, 
 To blow up cook about the fifteen trotters. 
 
 UNION AND LIBERTY— O. W. HoLMEa 
 
 Flag of the heroes who left us their glory, 
 
 Borne through their battle-fields' thunder ajid flame, 
 Blazoned in song and illumined in story. 
 VV^ve o'er us all who inherit their fame! 
 
 Up with our banner bright. 
 
 Sprinkled with starry light, 
 Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore. 
 
 While through the sounding sky 
 
 Louil rings the Nation's cry — 
 Union AND Liberty! One Evermore! 
 
 Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, 
 Pride of her children, and honored afar. 
 
 Let the wide beams of thy full constellation 
 Scatter each cloud that would darken a star! 
 
 Empire unsceptred I what foe shall assail thee, 
 
 Bearing the standard of liberty's van? 
 Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee. 
 
 Striving with men for the birthright of man! 
 
 Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, 
 
 Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw, 
 
 Then with the arms to thy millions united, 
 Smite the bold traitors to freedom and law ! 
 
 Lord of the universe! shield us and guide us, 
 
 Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun! 
 Thou hast united us, who shall divide us? 
 Keep us, oh keep us the Many in One! 
 
 Up with our banner bright. 
 
 Sprinkled with starry light. 
 Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore. 
 
 While through the sounding sky 
 
 Loud rings the Nation's cry — 
 Union AMD Libkrty! One Evermore! 
 
N U M B E R T W O . 1 i j 
 
 NO SECTS IN HEAVEN* 
 
 Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleaveland. 
 
 Talking of sects quite late one eve, 
 What one and another of saints believe, 
 That night I stood in a troubled dream 
 By the side of a darkly-flowing stream. 
 
 And a "churchman " down to the river came. 
 When I heard a strange voice call his name, 
 " Good Father, stop ; when you cross this tide 
 You must lea*re your robes on the other side." 
 
 But the aged father did not mind, 
 And his long gown floated out behind 
 As down to the stream his way he took. 
 His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book. 
 
 " I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm there 
 I shall want my book of Common Prayer, 
 And though I put on a starry crown, 
 I should feel quite lost without my gown.'' 
 
 Then he fixed his eye on the shining track. 
 But his gown was heavy and held him back. 
 And the poor old father tried in vain, - 
 A single step in the flood to gain. 
 
 I saw him again on the other side. 
 But his silk gown floated on the tide. 
 And no one asked, in that blissful spot, 
 If he belonged to " the church " or not. 
 
 Then down to the rivei- a Quaker strayed; 
 His dress of a sober hue was made, 
 " My bat and coat must be all of gray, 
 I cannot go any other way." 
 
 Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin 
 And staidly, solemnly, waded in. 
 And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight 
 Over his forehead, so cold and white. 
 
 But a strong wind carried away his hat. 
 And he sighed a few moments over that, 
 And then, as he gazed to the farther shore 
 The coat slipped off and was seen no more. 
 
 *This very beautiful poem waa wi-itten in 1860, and havitig been so extensively 
 circulated has undergone considerable change and mutilation. The following 
 is printed from a copy furnished by the author. 
 
116 ONI! HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray 
 
 Is quietly sailing— away — away, 
 
 But thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow, 
 
 Whether thy brim be broad or narrow. 
 
 Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms 
 
 Tied nicely up in his aged arms, 
 
 And hymns as many, a very wise thing, 
 
 That the people in heaven, " all round," might sing. 
 
 But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, 
 As he saw that the river ran broad and high. 
 And looked rather surprised, as one by one. 
 The psalms and hymns in the wave went down. 
 
 And after him, with his JISS., 
 
 Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness. 
 
 But he cried, " Dear me, what shall I do? 
 
 The water has soaked them through and through." 
 
 And there, on the river, far and wide, 
 
 Away they went on the swollen tide, 
 
 And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, 
 
 Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. 
 
 Then gravely 'walking, two saints by name, 
 Down to the stream together came, 
 But as they stopped at the river's brink, 
 I saw one saint from the other shrink. 
 
 " Sprinkled or plunged — may I ask you, friend. 
 
 How you attained to life's great end?" 
 
 " T/iHS, with a few drops on my brow ;" 
 
 " But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now. 
 
 " And I really think it will hardly do, 
 As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you. 
 you're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, 
 But you must go that way, and I'll go this." 
 
 And straightway plunging with all his might. 
 Away to the left— his friend at the right. 
 Apart they went from this world of sin, 
 But how did the brethren "enter in?" 
 
 And now where the river was rolling on, 
 
 A Presbyterian church went down ; 
 
 Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng, 
 
 But the men I could count as they passed along. 
 
NUMBERTVVO. U7 
 
 And concerning the road they could never agree, 
 The old or the new way, which it could be; 
 Nor ever a moment paused to think 
 That both would lead to the river's brink. 
 
 And a sound of murmuring long and loud 
 
 Came ever up from the moving crowd, 
 
 " You're in the old way, and I'm in the new, 
 
 That is the false, and this is the true;" 
 
 Or, " I'm in the old way, and you're in the new, 
 
 Ihat is the false, and this is the true." 
 
 But the brethren only seemed to speak, 
 Modest the sisters walked, and meek, 
 And if ever one of them chanced to say 
 What troubles she met with on the way. 
 How she longed to pass to the other side, 
 Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 
 A voice arose from the brethren then, 
 " Let no one speak but the ' holy men,' 
 Foi have ye not heard the words of Paul? 
 ' Oh let the women keep silence all.' " 
 
 I watched them long in my curious dream, 
 
 Till they stood by the border of the stream, 
 
 Then, just as I thought, the two ways met. 
 
 But all the brethren were talking yet. 
 
 And would talk on, till the heaving tide 
 
 Carried them over, side by side ; 
 
 Side by side, for the way was one. 
 
 The toilsome journey of life was done. 
 
 And priest and Quaker, and" all who died, 
 
 Came out alike on the other side ; 
 
 No forms or crosses, or books had they. 
 
 No gowns of silk, or suits of gray. 
 
 No creeds to guide them, or MSf^., 
 
 For all had put on-" Christ's righteousness." 
 
 HOW A MAN SHOULD BE JUDGED. 
 
 Who shall judge a man from nature? 
 
 Who shall know him by his dress? 
 Paupers may be fit for princes, 
 
 Princes fit for something less. 
 Crumpled shirt and dirty jacket 
 
 May beclothe the golden ore 
 
113 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Of the deepest thought and feeling — 
 Satin vest could do no more. 
 
 There are springs of crystal nectar 
 
 Ever swelling out of stone ; 
 There are purple buds and golden, 
 
 Hidden, crushed, and overgrown. 
 God, who counts by souls, not dresses. 
 
 Loves and prospers you and me ; 
 While He values thrones the highest 
 
 But as pebbles iu the sea. 
 
 Man upraised above his fellows 
 
 Oft forgets his fellows then ; 
 Masters, rulers, lords, remember 
 
 That your meanest hands are men! * 
 Men of labor, men of feeling. 
 
 Men of thought and men of fame, 
 Claiming equal rights to sunshine 
 
 In a man's ennobling name. 
 
 There are foam-embroidered oceans, 
 
 There are little weed-clad rills, 
 There are feeble, inch-high saplings, 
 
 There are cedars on the hills; 
 God, who counts by souls, not stations, 
 
 Loves and prospers you and me ; ' 
 For to him all vain distinctions 
 
 Are as pebbles in the sea. 
 
 Toiling hands alone are builders 
 
 Of a nation's wealth and fame; 
 Titled laziness is pensioned. 
 
 Fed, and fattened on the same; 
 By the sweat of other's foreheads, 
 
 Livinifonly to rejoice. 
 While the poor man's outraged freedom 
 
 Vainly lifteth up its voice. 
 
 Truth and justice are eternal. 
 
 Born with loveliness and light ; 
 Secret wrong shall never prosper 
 
 While there is a starry night. 
 God, whose world-heard voice is singing 
 
 Boundless love to you and me, 
 Sinks oppression with its tilles, 
 
 As the pebbles in the sea. 
 
NUIIBHU TWO. IIJ 
 
 ARTEMUS WARD CROSSING DIXIE'S LINE. 
 C. F. Browx. 
 
 The train of cars in which I was to trust my walerable 
 life was the scaliest, rickytiest lookin' lot of consarns that I 
 ever saw on wlieels afore. " What time does this string of 
 second-hand coffins leave ? " I inquired of the depot master. 
 He said direckly, and 1 went in and sot down. I hadn't 
 more'n fairly squaftered -afore a dark lookin' man with a 
 swinister expression on his countenance entered the cars, 
 and lookin' very sharp at me, he axed me what was my 
 principles? 
 
 " Sesesh ! " I answered, " I'm a Dissoluter. I'm in favor 
 of Jeff. Davis, Bowregard, Pickens, Capt. Kidd, Bloobeard, 
 Monro Edwards, I\Irs. Cunningham, and all the rest of 'em." 
 
 "You're in favor of the war?" 
 
 "Certingly. By all means. I'm in favor of this war, and 
 alpo of the next war. I've been in favor of the next war for 
 over sixteen years." 
 
 At the first station a troop of sojers entered the cars and 
 inquired if " Old Wax Works " was on board. That was 
 the disrespective stile in which they referred to me. " Be- 
 cawze if Old Wax Works is on board," sez a man with a face 
 like a doublc-brested lobster, "we're going to hang Old Wax 
 Works!" 
 
 " My illustrious and patriotic Bummers!" sez I, a-gittin' 
 up and takin' orf my shappo, "if you allude to A. Ward, 
 it's my pleasin' dooty to inform you that he's ded. He saw 
 tlie error of his ways at 15 minits past two yesterday, and 
 stabbed hisself with a sled-stake, dying in five beautiful 
 tabloos to slow music." 
 
 " And who be you ? " 
 
 "I'm a stoodent in Senator Benjamin's law-oflSs. I'm 
 going up North to steal some spoons and things for the 
 Soutliern army." This was satisfactory, and the intossicated 
 tioopers went orf. 
 
 .\t the next station I didn't get orf so easy. I was dragged 
 out of the cars, and rolled in the mud for several minits^ 
 for the purpose of " tak ing the conseet out of me," as Scsesher 
 kindly stated. 
 
120 ■ ONE HUMDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 I was let up finally, when a powerful large Sesesher came 
 up and embraced me, and to show that he had no hard feel- 
 in's agin me, put his nose into my mouth. I returned the 
 compliment by placin' my stummick suddenly agin his 
 right foot, when he kindly made a spittoon of his able-bodied 
 face. Actooated by a desire to see whether the Sesesher 
 had been vaxinated, I then fastened my teeth onto his left 
 sleeve, and tore it to the shoulder. We then vilently 
 bunied our heads together for a few minits, danced round a 
 little, and sot down in a mud-puddle. We riz to our feet 
 agin, and by a sudden and adroit movement I placed my 
 left eye agin the Sesesher's fist. Saw stars and other loom- 
 inaries. Got down on the ground to see if he had dropt 
 suthin'. 
 
 I riz, and we embraced agin. Soonly I sent home a 
 sledge-hammer blow on Sese.?her's whisky orifice, which 
 started 83 ov his grinders on a voyage down his throat, 
 while he planted his left mawler in my baskit. I also re- 
 ceived a slight crack onihe jugoolar. By another dexterous 
 movmint I got Sesesher's cokonut in the Court of Chancery, 
 and played sooperbly on his nob. A man in a cockt hat 
 then cum up, and sed he felt as though an apology was due 
 to me. The crowd had taken me for another man. 
 
 I was rid on a rale the next day, a bunch of blazin' fire- 
 crackers bein' tied to my coat tales. It was a fine spectycal 
 in a dramatic pint of view, but I didn't enjoy it. I had 
 other adventurs of a startlin' kind, but why continner? why 
 lasserate the public boozum with these here things? SufTysit 
 to say I got across Mason and Dixie's line safe at larst. 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 The drums are all muffled, the bugles are still ; 
 There's a pause in the valley, a halt on the hill ; 
 And bearers of standards swerve back with a thrill 
 
 Where sheaves of the dead bar the way ; 
 For a great field is reaped, heaven's garners to fill. 
 
 And stern Death holds his harvest to-day. 
 
 There's a voice in the wind like a spirit's low cry ; 
 'Tis the muster-roll sounding — and who shall reply 
 
NUMBER TWO. 121 
 
 For those whose wan faces glare white to the sky, 
 With eyes fixed so steadfast and dimly, 
 
 As they wait the last trump, which tlioy may not defy, 
 Whose hands clutch the sword-hilt so grimly. 
 
 The brave heads late lifted are solemnly bowed, 
 
 As the riderless chargers stand quivering and cowed; 
 
 As the burial requiem is clianted aloud, 
 
 The groans of the death-stricken drowning, 
 While victory Jooks on like a queen pale and proud 
 
 Wlio awaits till the morning her crowning. 
 
 There is no mocking blazon, as clay sinks to clay; 
 Tlie vain pomps of peace-time are all swept away 
 In the terril)lc face of the dread battle-day; 
 
 Nor coflius uor shroudings arc here ; 
 Only relics that lay where thickest the fray, — 
 
 A rent.casque and a headless spear. 
 
 Far away, tramp on tramp, sounds the march of the fo*. 
 Like a storm- wave retreating, spent, fitful and slow ; 
 With sound like their spirit-i that faint as they go 
 
 By the red-glowing river, whoso waters 
 Shall darken with sorrow the land where they flow, 
 
 To the eyes of her desolate daughters. 
 
 They are fled— they are gone ; but oh ! not as they came ; 
 In the pride of those numbers they staked on the game. 
 Never more shall they stand in the vanguard of fame, 
 
 Never lift the stained sword which they drew ; 
 Nevermore shall they boast of a glorious name, 
 
 Never march with the leal and the true. 
 
 Where the wreck of our legions lay stranded and torn, 
 They stole on our ranks in the mist of the morn ; 
 Like the giant of Gaza, their strength it was shorn 
 
 Ere those mists have rolled up to the sky ; 
 From the flash of the steel a new day-break seemed born. 
 
 As we sprang up to conquer or die. 
 
 The tumult is silenced ; the death lots are cast. 
 And the heroes of battle are slumbering their last: 
 Do you dream of yon pale form that rode on the blast? 
 
 Would ye see it once more, O ye brave ! 
 Ye^^the broad road to honor is red where ye passed, 
 
 And of glory ye asked — but a grave ! 
 
122 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 
 Alfbkd Tenkyson. 
 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 Half a league onward, 
 
 All in the valley of death 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 "Forward, the Light Brigade! 
 
 Charge for the guns ! " he said. 
 
 Into the valley of death, 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
 "Was there a man dismayed? 
 Not (hough the soldiers knew 
 
 Some one had blundered. 
 Theirs not to make reply. 
 Theirs not to reason why, 
 Theirs but to do and die : 
 Into the valley of death, 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them. 
 Cannon to left of them. 
 Cannon in front of them. 
 
 Volleyed and thundered ; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well: 
 Into the jaws of death, 
 Into the mouth of hell. 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Flashed all their sabers bare. 
 Flashed as they turned in air, 
 Sab'ring the gunners there. 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wondered; 
 Plunged in the battery smoke, 
 Right throuch the line they broke: 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reeled from the saber-stroke. 
 
 Shattered and sundered. 
 Then they rode back — but not, 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
NUMBER TWO. 123 
 
 Cannon to right of thein, 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon behind them, 
 
 Volleyed and thundered ; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 While horse and hero fell, 
 They that had fought so well, 
 Came through the jaws of death, 
 Back from the mouth of hell, 
 All that was left of them, 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 When can their glory fade? 
 Oh, the wild charge they made! 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Honor the charge they made! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred ! 
 
 TIIIC CURSE OF REGULUS. 
 
 The palaces and domes of Carthage were burning with the 
 splendors of noon, and the blue waves of her harbor were 
 rolling and gleaming in the gorgeous sunlight. An attentive 
 ear could catch a low murmur, sounding from the centre of 
 the city, which seemed like the moaning of the wind before 
 a tempest. And well it might. The whole people of Car- 
 thage, startled, astounded by the report that Regulus had re- 
 turned, were pouring, a mighty tide, into the great square 
 before the Senate House. There were mothers in that 
 throng, whose captive sons were groaning in Roman fetters ; 
 maidens, whose lovers were dyinjf in the distant dungeons 
 of Rome; gray-haired men and matrons, whom Roman steel 
 had made childless; men, who were seeing their country's 
 life crushed out by Roman power ; and with wild voices, 
 cursing and groaning, the vast throng gave vent to the rage, 
 the hate, the anguish of long years. 
 
 Calm and unmoved as the marble walls around him, stood 
 Regulus, the Roman ! He stretched his arm over the surg- 
 ing crowd with a gesture as proudly imperious, as though he 
 stood at the head of his own gloaming cohorts. Before that 
 silent Cfjmmand the tumult ceased, the half-uttered execra- 
 
12-1 ONE HpNDREI) CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 tion died upon the Up; so intense wa^ the silence, that the 
 clank of the captive's brazen manacles smote sharp on every 
 ear, as he thus addressed them : 
 
 " Ye doubtless thought, judging of Roman virtue by your 
 own, that I would break my plighted faith, rather than by 
 returning, and leaving your sons and brothers to rot in 
 Boman dungeons, to meet your vengeance. Well, I could 
 give reasons for this return, foolish and inexplicable as it 
 seems to you; I could speak of yearnings after immortality; 
 of those eternal principles in whuse pure light a patriot's 
 death is glorious, a thing to be desired ; but, by gr^t Jove ! 
 I should debase myself to dwell on such high themes to you. 
 If the bright blood which feeds my heart were like the slimy 
 ooze that stagnates in your veins, I should have remained 
 at Rome, saved my life and broken my oath. If, then, you 
 ask, why I have come back, to let you work your will on 
 this poor body which I esteem but as the rags that cover 
 it — enough reply for you, it is because I am u, Roman ! As 
 such, here in your very capital I defy you! What I have 
 done, ye never can undo ; what ye may do, I care not. Since 
 first my young arm knew how to wield a Roman sword, have 
 I not routed your armies, burned your towns, and dragged 
 your generalsat my chariot wheels? And do ye now expect 
 to see me cower and whine with dread of Carthaginian ven- 
 geance? Compared to that fierce mental strife which my 
 heart has just passed through at Rome, the piercing of this 
 flesh, the rending of these sinews, would be but sport to me. 
 
 " Venerable senators, with trembling voices and out- 
 stretched hands, besought me to return no more to Carthage. 
 The generous people, with loud wailing, and wildly-tossing 
 gestures, bade me stay. "The voice of a beloved mother — 
 her withered hands beating her breast, her gray hairs stream- 
 ing in the wind, tears flowing down her furrowed cheeks, 
 praying me not to leave her in her lonely and hi^lpless old 
 age — is still sounding in my ears. Compared to anguish like 
 this, the paltry torments you have in store is as the murmur 
 of the meadow brook to the wild tumult of the mountain 
 storm. Go! bring your threatened tortures! The woes I 
 see impending over this fated city will be enough to sweeten 
 death, though every nerve .should tingle with its agony. I 
 die — but mine shall be the triumph, yours the untold dea- 
 
NUMBEil TWO. 13.3 
 
 olation. For every drop of blood that falls from tny veins, 
 your own shall pour in torrents ! Wo, unto thee, O Carthage ! 
 I see thy homes and temples all in flames, thy citizens in 
 terror, thy women wailing for the dead. Proud city! thou 
 art doomed! the curse of Jove, a living, lasting curse is on 
 thee ! The hungry waves shall lick the golden gates of thy 
 rich palaces, and every brook run crimson to the sea. Kome, 
 with bloody hand, shall sweep thy heart-strings, and all thy 
 homes shall howl in,wild response of anguish to her touch. 
 Proud mistress of the sea, disrobed, uncrowned and scourged 
 — thus.again do I devote thee to the infernal gods! 
 
 " Now, bring forth your tortures I Slaves ! while ye tear 
 this quivering flesh, remember how often Regulus has beaten 
 your armies and humbled your pride. Cut as he would have 
 carved you! Burn deep as his curse! " 
 
 HERE SHE GOES— AND THERE SHE GOES. 
 
 James Nack. 
 
 Two Yankee wags, one summer day. 
 Stopped at a tavern on their way ; 
 Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, 
 And woke to breakfast on the best. 
 
 The breakfast over, Tom and Will 
 
 Sent for the landlord and the bill ; 
 
 Will looked it over; "Very right — 
 
 But hold ! what wonder meets my sight? 
 
 Tom ! the surprise is quite a shock ! " 
 
 "What wonder? where?" "The clock! the clock I 
 
 Tom and the landlord in amaze . 
 
 Stared at the clock with stupid gaze. 
 
 And for a moment neither spoke ; 
 
 At last the landlord silence broke : 
 
 " You mean the clock that's ticking there ? 
 
 I see no wonder, I declare ; 
 
 Though may be, if the truth were told, 
 
 'Tis rather ugly— somewhat old ; 
 
 Yet time it keeps to half a minute. 
 
 But, if you please, what wonder's in'it?" 
 
 " Tom, don't you recollect," said Will, 
 " The clock in Jersey near the mill. 
 
1263 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 The very image of this present, 
 
 With- which I won the wager pleasant?" 
 
 Will ended with a knowing wink. 
 
 Tom scratched his head, and tried to think. 
 
 " Sir, begging pardon for inquiring," 
 
 The landlord said, with grin admiring, 
 
 '■ What wager was it ? " 
 
 '■ You remember, 
 It happened, Tom, in last December, 
 In sport I bet a Jersey Blue 
 ' That it was more than he could do, 
 To make his finger gu and come 
 In keeping with the pendulum, 
 Repeating, till one hour should close. 
 Still, here slie goes — and there she goes. 
 He lost the bet in half a minute." 
 
 " Well, if I would, the deuce is in it! " . 
 Exclaimed the landlord ; " try me yet. 
 And fifty dollars be the bet." 
 " Agrecil, but we will play some trick 
 To make you of tlic bargain sick! " 
 
 "I'm up to that!" 
 
 " Don't make us wait ; 
 Begin, the clock is striking eight." 
 He seats himself, and left and right 
 His finger wags with all his might. 
 And hoarse his voice, and hoarser grows. 
 With " Here she goes — and there she goes!" 
 
 "Hold" said the Yankee, "plank the ready!" 
 Tli'e landlord wagged his fingers steady 
 While his left hand, as well as able, 
 Conveyed a purse upon the table. 
 
 " Tom, with the money let's be off! " 
 
 This made the landlord only scoff; 
 
 He heard them running down the stair, 
 
 But was not tempted from his chair; 
 
 Thought he, "The fools! I'll bite them yet! 
 
 So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet." 
 
 And loud and Ipud the chorus rose 
 
 Of " Here she gop< — and there she goes ! " 
 
 While right and left his finger swung, 
 
 In keeping to his clock and tongue. 
 
NUJjBEl! TWO. 127 
 
 His mother happeneii in to see 
 
 Her daughter; " Where is Mrs. B , 
 
 When will she come, as you suppose? 
 Sun:" 
 
 " Here she goes — and there she goes!" 
 
 " Here! where? " — the lady in surprise 
 His finger follu wed with her eyes; 
 " Son, why that steady gaze and sad ? 
 Those words — l^at motion — are ) ou mad? 
 But here's your wife — perhaps she knows, 
 And"— 
 
 " Here she goes — and there she goes ! " 
 
 His wife surveyed him witli alarm, 
 
 And ru-!hed>to him and seiz3 1 his arm; 
 
 He sho:)k her off, and to and fro 
 
 His finger persevered to go, 
 
 Wliile curled his very nose with ire, 
 
 That she against him should conspire, 
 
 And with more furious tone ai jse 
 
 The "Here she goes— and there she goes!" 
 
 " Lawks I " screamed the wife, " I'm in a whirl I 
 Run down and bring (he little girl ; 
 She is his darling, and who knows 
 But "— 
 . " Here she goes — and there she goes ! " 
 
 " Lawks ! he is mad ! What made him thus? 
 Good lack! what will beeo:ii' of ns? 
 Kun for a doctor — run — run — run — 
 For Doctor Brown, and Doctor Duii, 
 And Doctor Black, and Doctor White, 
 And Doctor Grey, with all your might. 
 
 The doctors came, and looked and wondered, 
 And shook their heads, and paused and pondered, 
 Till one proposed he should be hied, 
 '■ No — leeched you meauj" the other said. 
 " Clap on a blister," roared another, 
 " No — cup him" — " No— trepan him, brother! " 
 A sixth would recommend a purge, 
 The next would an emetic urge. 
 The eighth, just come from a dissection, 
 His verdict gave for an injection ; 
 o 
 
123 ONE HUNDRED CU01C3 SELECTIONS 
 
 The last produced a box of pills, 
 
 A certain cure for earthly ills ; 
 
 " I had a patient yesternight," 
 
 Quoth he, " and wretched was her plight, 
 
 And as the only means to save her. 
 
 Three dozen patent pills I gave her. 
 
 And by to-morrow, I suppose 
 
 That "— 
 
 " Here she goes — and there she goes! " 
 
 " You all are fools," the lady said, 
 
 " The way is, just to shave his head, 
 
 Run, bid the barber come anon " — 
 
 '■Thanks, mother," thought her clever son, 
 
 " You. help the knaves that would have bit me, 
 
 But all creation sha'n't outwit me ! " 
 
 Thus to himself, while to and fro 
 
 His finger perseveres to go. 
 
 Anil from his lips no accent flows 
 
 But heie she goes — ami there she goes! 
 
 The barber came — "Lord help him! what 
 
 A queer customer I've got ; 
 
 But we must do our best to save him^ 
 
 So hold him, gemmen, while 1 shave him!" 
 
 But here the doctors interpose — 
 
 " A woman never " — ' 
 
 •' There she goes ! " 
 
 " A woman is no judge of physic, 
 
 Not even when her bab)' is sick. 
 
 He must be bled "^" No — no — a blister;" 
 
 " A purge you mean " — " I say a clyster ; " 
 
 "No — cup him" — " Leech him"— " Pills! pills! pills ;■ 
 
 And all the house the uproar fills. 
 
 AVhat means that smile ? What means that shiver 7 
 
 The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver. 
 
 And triumph brightens up his face — 
 
 His finger yet shall win the race ! 
 
 The clock is on the strike of nine, 
 
 And up he starts—" 'Tis mine ! 'tis mine ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "I mean the fifty I 
 I never spent an hour so thrifty ; 
 
NUMBER TWO. 
 
 But you, who tried to make me lose, 
 (jo, burst with envy, if you choose! 
 But how is this 1 Where are they ? " 
 
 "Who?" 
 "The gentlemen— I mean the two 
 Came yesterday -are they below ? " 
 " They galloped off an hour ago." 
 " Oh, purge me ! blister ! shave and bleed I 
 For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed ! " 
 
 129 
 
 HATE OF THE BOWL. 
 
 The answer of a young ludy who wua told tbat she v/aa a mooomaniac In her 
 hatred of alcoholic liquors. 
 
 Go, feel what I have felt, 
 
 Go, bear what I have borne ; 
 Sink 'neath the blow a father dealt. 
 
 And the cold, proud world's scorn. 
 Thus struggle on from year to year, 
 Thy sole relief the scalding tear. 
 
 Go, weep as T have wept 
 
 O'er a loved father's fall ; 
 See every cherished promise swept. 
 
 Youth's sweetness turned to gall ; 
 Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way 
 That led me up to woman's day. 
 
 Go, kneel as I have knelt ; 
 
 Implore, beseech, and pray, 
 Strive the besotted heart to melt. 
 
 The downward course to stay ; 
 Be cast, with bitter curse, aside, — 
 Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. 
 
 Go, stand where I have stood. 
 
 And see the strong man bow ; 
 With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood. 
 
 And cold and livid brow ; 
 Go, catch his wandering jrlance, and see 
 There mirrored, his soul's misery. 
 
 Go, hear what I have heard, — 
 The sobs of sad despair, 
 
 6* 
 
130 ONE HUNDBED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, 
 
 And its revealings there 
 Have told him what he might have been 
 Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. 
 
 Go to my mother's side, 
 
 And her crushed spirit cheer ; 
 Thine own deep anguish hide, 
 
 Wipe from her cheek the tear; 
 Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, 
 The gray that streaks her dark hair now. 
 The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, 
 And trace the ruin back to him 
 Whose plighted faith, in early youth. 
 Promised eternal love and truth, 
 But who, forsworn, hath yielded up 
 This promise to the deadly cup, 
 And led her down from love and light, 
 FroDi all that made her pathway bright, 
 And chained her there mid want and strife, 
 That lowly thing, — a drunkard's wife ! 
 And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild, 
 That withering blight, — a drunkard's child ! 
 
 Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know 
 All that my soul hath felt and known, 
 
 Then look within the wine-cup's glow; 
 See if its brightness can atone ; 
 
 Think if its flavor you would try, 
 
 If all proclaimed, — 'Tis drink and die. 
 
 Tell me I hate the bowl, — 
 
 Hate is a feeble word ; 
 I loathe, abhoj, my ve'-y soul 
 
 By strong disgust is stirred 
 Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell 
 Of that dark beverage of belli 
 
 BUGLE SONG— Alfred Tknnyson. 
 
 Hie splendor falls on castle walls 
 And snowy summits old in story ; 
 
 The long light shakes across the lakes, 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 
NUMBEl! TWO. 131 
 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying : 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying,- dying. 
 
 Oh hark, oh hear ! how thin and clear. 
 And thinner, clearer, further going ; 
 Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 * 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky. 
 
 They faint on hill or field or river: 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
 And grow forever and forever: 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 GENERAL GRANT TO THE ARMY.-1865. 
 
 S«-tdiers of the Armies of the United States ! By your 
 patriotic devotion to your country in the hour of danger and 
 alarm, your magnificent fighting, bravery, and endurance, 
 you nave maintained the supremacy of the Union and the 
 Constitution, overthrown all armed opposition to the en- 
 forcement of the laws, and of the proclamations forever 
 abolishing Slavery — the cause and pretext of the rebellion 
 — and opened the way to the rightful authorities, to restore 
 order and inaugurate peace on a permanent and enduring 
 basis on every foot of American soil. Your marches, sieges, 
 and battles, in distance, duration, resolution, and brilliancy 
 of results, dim the luster of the world's past military achieve- 
 ments, and will be the patriot's precedent in defence of 
 liberty and the right in all time to come. In obedience to 
 your country's call, you left your homes and families and 
 volunteered in its defence. 
 
 Victory has crowned your valor and secured the purpose 
 of your patriotic hearts ; and with the frratitude of your 
 countrymen and the highest honors a great and free na- 
 tion can accord, you will soon be permitted to return to 
 your homes and families, conscious of having discharged 
 the highest duty of American citizens. To achieve these 
 
132 ONE HUNDRED CnOICB SELECTIONS 
 
 glorious triumphs, and to secure to yourselves, your country- 
 men, andposterity, the blessings of free institutions, tens of 
 thousands of your gallant comrades have fallen and sealed 
 the priceless legacy with their lives. The graves of these a 
 grateful nation bedews with tears, honors their memories, 
 and will ever cherish and support their stricken families. 
 
 THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. 
 
 A counsel in the " Common Pleas,'' 
 
 Who was esteemed a mighty wit. 
 
 Upon the strength of a chance hit, 
 Amid a thousand flippancies, 
 And his occasional bad jokes, 
 
 In bullying, bantering, browbeating, 
 
 Ridiculing and maltreating 
 Women, or other timid folks, 
 In a late cause, resolved to hoax 
 A clownish Yorkshire farmer, — one 
 
 Who, by his uncouth look and gait, 
 
 Appeared expressly meant by fate 
 For being quizzed and played upon. 
 
 So having tipped the wink to those 
 
 In the back rows. 
 Who kept their laughter bottled down, 
 
 Until onr wag should draw the cork, 
 He smiled jocosely on the clown, 
 
 And went to work. 
 
 " Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at York?" 
 
 " Why— not, sir, as they do wi' you ; 
 
 But on four legs instead of two." 
 " Officer," cried the legal elf, 
 Piqued at the laugh against himself, 
 
 "Do, pray, keep silence down below there I 
 Now look at me, clown, and attend, 
 . Have I not seen you somewhere, friend ? " 
 
 " Yees, very like, I often go there." 
 
 " Our rustic's waggish, quite laconic," 
 The counsel cried, with grin sardonic, 
 I wish I'd known this prodigy. 
 
NUMBEB TWO. 
 
 This genius of the clods, when I 
 
 On circuit was at York residing. 
 Now, farmer, do for once- speak true, ' 
 Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you 
 Who doubtless think yourself so clever, 
 Are there as many fools as ever 
 In the West Riding?" 
 
 " Why no, sir, no ! we've got our share, 
 But not so nj^ny as when you were there.' 
 
 THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND 
 TO-NIGHT. 
 
 An old wife sat by her bright fireside, 
 
 Swaying thoughtfully to and fro 
 In an easy chair, whose creaky craw 
 
 Told a tale of long ago ; 
 While down by her side, on the kitchen floor, 
 Stood a basket of worsted balls — a score. 
 
 The good man dozed o'er the latest news 
 Till the light in his pipe went out; , 
 
 And, unheeded, the kitten with cunning paws 
 Rolled and tangled the balls about; 
 
 Yet-still sat the wife in the ancient chair. 
 
 Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare. 
 
 But anon, a misty tear drop came 
 
 In her eyes of faded blue. 
 Then trickled down in a furrow deep 
 
 Like a sintrle drop of dew ; 
 So deep was the channel — so silent the stfara — 
 That the good man saw naught but the dimmed e'«> hpq>)\, 
 
 Yet marveled he much that the cheerful ligbt 
 
 Of her eye had heavy grown, 
 And marveled he more at the tangled balls. 
 
 So he gaid in a gentle tone : 
 " I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow. 
 Conceal not from me thy sorrows now." 
 
 Then she spoke of the time when the basket there 
 
 Was filled to the very brim ; 
 And now, there remained of the goodly pile 
 
 liut a single pair—for him ; 
 
134 ONE HUNDItED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 "Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, 
 There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night. 
 
 " I cannot but think of the busy feet, 
 Whose wrappings were wunt to lay 
 In the basket, awaiting the needle's time — 
 Now wandering so far away ; 
 How the sprightly steps to a mother dear, 
 Unheeded fell on the careless ear. 
 
 " For each empty nook in the basket old 
 By the hearth there's a vacant seat; 
 
 And I miss the shadows from off the wall, 
 And the patter of many feet ; 
 
 'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight. 
 
 At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night. 
 
 " 'Twas said that far through the forest wild, 
 
 And over tlie mountains bold, 
 Was a land wliose rivers and darkening caves 
 
 Were gemmed witli the rarest gold; 
 Then my first-born turned from the oaken door— 
 And I knew the shadows were only four. 
 
 " Another went forth on the foaming wave. 
 
 And diminished the basket's store; 
 But his feet grew cold — so weary and cold, 
 
 Theyll never be warm any more. 
 And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me 
 To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea. 
 
 " Two others have gone toward the setting sun, 
 And made them 3 home in its light, 
 
 And fairv fingers have taken their share 
 To mend by the fireside bright ; 
 
 Slime other basket their garments will fill — 
 
 But mine, ah, mine is emptier still. 
 
 "Another — the dearest, the fairest, the best — 
 
 ^Vas taken by angels away, 
 And clad in a garment that waxeth not old, 
 
 In a land of continual (lay ; 
 Oh I wonder no mfire at the dimmed eye-light. 
 When I mend the one pair of stockings 10 night." 
 
NU.MBEK TWO. 13.) 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE.— T. Buchanan Read. 
 
 T!'6 fullowing is prunoiincud by the Westmiaister Bevietv tube uuquustiouably 
 the lluutit Amuriciiu poulu evur wi'itton. 
 
 Within his sober realm of leafless trees, 
 
 Tlie russet year inhaled the dreamy air, 
 Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, 
 
 When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 
 
 The gray barns looking from their hazy hills 
 O'er the dim waters widening in thu vales, 
 
 Sent down the air a greeting to the mills. 
 On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 
 
 All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued. 
 The hills seemed fartliL-j- and the streams sang low ; 
 
 As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
 His winter log with many a muffled blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, 
 Their banners bright with every martial hue, 
 
 Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old, 
 Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 
 
 On slumbrous wings the vulture tried his flight. 
 The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint, 
 
 And, like a star slow drowning in the light. 
 The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 
 
 The sentinel-cock upon the hill-side crew. 
 Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before; 
 
 Silent till some replying wanderer blew 
 His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 
 
 •Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest 
 
 Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young; 
 
 And where the oriole hung her swaying nest 
 By every light wind like accuser swung; 
 
 Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves. 
 
 The busy swallows circling ever near. 
 Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes. 
 
 An early harvest and a plenteous year ; 
 
 Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 
 Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 
 
136 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 To warn the reaper of the rosy east — 
 All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. 
 
 Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail. 
 And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; 
 
 Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
 Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 
 
 There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; 
 
 The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; 
 The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
 
 Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 
 
 Amid all this, in this most cheerless air. 
 And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch 
 
 Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there 
 Firing the floor with his inverted torch, — 
 
 Amid all this, the centre of the scene. 
 
 The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, 
 Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
 
 Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. 
 
 She had known sorrow, — he had walked with her. 
 Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust; 
 
 And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
 Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 
 
 While yet her cheek was bright with summer YKocm, 
 Her country summoned, and she gave her ah ; 
 
 And twice war bowed to her his sable plume — 
 Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. 
 
 Re-gave the swords — but not the hand that qiww, 
 
 And struck for liberty its dying blow ; 
 Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
 
 Fell, mid the ranks of the invading foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
 Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
 
 Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 
 Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous" tuna 
 
 At last the thread was snapped— her head was bowed: 
 Life dropped the distaff' through his hands serene; 
 
 And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud — 
 While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 
 
KUMBlili TWO. 137 
 
 THE DEATH OF COPERXICUS.— Edward Everett. 
 
 At length he draws near his end. He is seventy-three 
 years of age, and he yields his work on " The Revolutions of 
 the Heavenly Orbs " to his friends fur publication. The 
 day at last has come on which it is to be ushered into the 
 world. It is the twenty-fourth of May, 1543. 
 
 On that day — the efiect, no doubt, of the intense excite 
 ment of his minfl, operating upon an exhausted frame — an 
 effusion of blood brings him to the gates of the grave. His 
 last hour has come ; he lies stretched upon the couch from 
 which he will never rise. 
 
 The beams of the setting sun glance through the Gothic 
 windows of his chamber; near his bedside is the armillary 
 sphere which he has contrived to represent his theory of 
 the heavens ; his picture painted by himself, the amusement 
 of his earlier years, hangs before him ; beneath it are his 
 astrolabe and other imperfect astronomical instruments; 
 and around him are gathered his sorrowing disciples. 
 
 The door of the apartment opens; the eye of the depart- 
 ing sage is .turned "to see who enters: it is a friend who 
 brings him the first printed copy of his immortal treatise. 
 He knows that in that book he contradicts all that has ever 
 been distinctly taught by former philosophers; he knows 
 that he has rebelled against the sway of Ptolemy, which the 
 scientific world has acknowledged for a thousand years; he 
 knows that the popular mind will be shocked by his innova- 
 tions ; he knows that the attempt will be made to pre.ss even 
 religion into the service against him ; but he knows that his 
 book is true. 
 
 He is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth as his dying 
 bequest to the world. He bids the friend who has brought 
 it place himself between the window and his bedside, that 
 the sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and he 
 may behold it once more before his eye grows dim. He 
 looks upon it, takes it in his hands, presses it to his breast, 
 and expires. 
 
 But no, he is not wholly gone. A smile lights up his dy- 
 ing countenance ; a beam of returning intelligence kindles 
 in his eye; his lips move; and the friend who leans over 
 
138 ONE HUNUUED CHOICE SELECIIONS 
 
 him, can hear him faintly murmur the beautifill sentiments 
 wliich the Christian lyrist of a later age has so finely ex- 
 pressed in verse : 
 
 " Ye gulden lamps of heaven, farewell, with all your fcfble light ; 
 
 Farewell, thou ever-chjmging n)ooii. pale empress of the night; 
 
 And thuu, etiulgeiit orb of day, in laii^liter rtames arrayed. 
 
 My soul, wiiieh sprin^n beyond tliy spliere, uo more demands thy aid. 
 
 Ye stars arc but the nliining dust of my divinu abode. 
 
 The pavement of those heavenly courts where 1 shall reign with God.'* 
 
 So died the great Columbus of the heavens. 
 
 PARODY— THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 
 
 How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
 
 WIn'ii fond recollection presents them to view! 
 The cheese-press, the goose-pond, the pi^rs in the wild-wood 
 
 .\nd every iild ntump that my infancy knew. 
 The big linkum-basswood, with wide-spreading shadow, 
 
 The horses that grazed where my grandmother fell. 
 The sheep on tlie mountain, ihe calves in the meadow, 
 
 And all the young kittens we drowned in the well, — 
 The meek little kittens, the milk-loving kittens. 
 The poor little kittens, we drowned in the well. 
 
 I remember with pleasure my grandfather's goggles, 
 
 Which rode so majestic astraddle his nose ; 
 And the harness, oftmendeil with tow-string and "toggles," 
 
 That belonged to old Dolly, now free from her woes. 
 And fresh in my heart is the long maple wood-pile. 
 
 Where often I've worked with beetle and wedge. 
 Striving to whack up enough to last for a good wl ile. 
 
 And grumbUni; because my old axe had no eilge. 
 And there was tlie kitchen, and the pump that stood nigh it. 
 
 Where we sucked up the drink through a quill in the spout ; 
 And the hooks where we hung up the pumpkin to dry it; 
 
 And the old eider pitcher, " no doing without: " 
 The brown earthen pitcher, the nozzle-cracked pitcher. 
 
 The pain-easing, pitcher, " no doing without." 
 
 And there was the school-house, away from each dwelling, 
 Where school-ma'ams would govern with absolute sway ; 
 
 Who taught me my " 'rithmetio," reading, and spelling, 
 And " whaleil me like blazes," about everj' day ! 
 
 [ remember the ladder that swung in the passage, 
 Which led to the loft in the peak of the house :• 
 
NUMBER TWO. 139 
 
 Where my grandmother hung up her "pumpkin and sau- 
 sage," 
 
 To keep them away from the rat and the mouse. 
 But now, far removed from that nook of creation, 
 
 Emotions of grief big as tea-kettles swell. 
 When fancy rides back to my old habitation. 
 
 And thinks of the kittens we drowned in the well, — 
 The meek little kittens, the milk-loving kittens, 
 The poor little kittens we drowned in the well. 
 
 LIITLE JLM. 
 
 The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, 
 But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean; 
 The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild. 
 As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child ; 
 A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim : 
 It was a collier's wife and child, they called him little Jim. 
 
 And oh I to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her 
 
 cheek, 
 As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to 
 
 speak. 
 Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her 
 
 life; 
 For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's <vife. 
 With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's 
 
 bed, 
 And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself 
 
 instead. ' ^ 
 
 She gets her answer from the child ; soft fall the words from 
 
 him, 
 " Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim, 
 I have no pain, dear mother, now. but oil ! I am so dry. 
 Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you 
 
 cry." 
 With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip; 
 He smiled to thank her, as he took each little, tiny sip. 
 
 " Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night 
 
 to him. 
 And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas, poor little Jim ! 
 She knew that he was dying ; that the child she loved so 
 
 dear, 
 flad uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear. 
 The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard. 
 The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word. 
 
140 ONE HUNDRED CHOIi:E SELECTIONS 
 
 He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, 
 He took the candle in his hand and walked toward the bed; 
 His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain conceai, 
 And see, his wife has joined liim— the stricken couple kneei : 
 With hearts bowed down by sadness, Ihey humbly ask of 
 
 Him, 
 In heaven once, more to meet again their own poor little 
 
 Jim. ^ 
 
 HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.— T. B. Macaulay. 
 
 ADAPTED FOR KECITATIOS. , 
 
 Lars Porsena of Clusium by the Nine Gods he swore 
 That the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more. 
 By the Nine Gods, he swore it, and named a trysting day. 
 And bade his messengers ride forth, to summon his array. 
 
 East and west and south and north the messengers ride fast. 
 And tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's 
 
 blast. 
 Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home 
 When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome. 
 
 The horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amain, 
 Froin many a stately market-place ; from many a fruitful 
 
 plain ; 
 From many a lonely hamlet, which, hid by beech and pine, 
 Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest of purple Apennine. 
 
 The harvests of Arretium, this year, old men shall reap; 
 This year, young boys in Umbro shall plunge the struggling 
 
 sheep ; 
 And in the vats of Luna, this year, the must shall foam 
 Round the white feet of laughing girls, whose sires have 
 
 marched to Rome. 
 
 And now hath every city sent up her tale of men ; 
 
 The foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thousands ten. 
 
 Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array. 
 
 A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting day. 
 
 But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright: 
 
 From all the spacious champaign to Rome men took their 
 
 flight. 
 A mile around the city, the throng stopped up the ways ; 
 A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and 
 
 days. 
 
NUMBKR TWO. 141 
 
 Now from the rock Tarpeian, could the wan burjihers spy 
 The line of blazing villages red in the midnight sky. 
 The Fathers of the City, they sat all night and day, 
 For every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay. 
 
 I wis, in all the Senate, there was no heart so bold, 
 
 But sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was 
 
 told. 
 Forthwith up rose the Consul, up rose the Fathers all ; 
 In haste they girded up their gowns, and hied them to the 
 
 wall. ' 
 
 They held a council standing before the River-Gate ; 
 
 Short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or de- 
 bate. 
 
 Out spake the Consul roundly: "The bridge must straight 
 go down ; 
 
 For, since Janiculum is lost, naught else can save the town." 
 
 Just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear: 
 "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul ; Lars Porsena is here." 
 On the low hills to westward the Consul fixed his eye, 
 And saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky. 
 
 .But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was 
 
 low. 
 And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. 
 " Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down ; 
 And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the 
 
 town?" 
 
 Then out spoke brave Horatius, the captain of the gate: 
 " To every man upon this earth death cometh, soon or late. 
 And how can man die belter than facing fearful odds. 
 For the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods. 
 
 Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye 
 
 may; 
 I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. 
 In yon straight path a thousand may well be stopped by 
 
 three. 
 Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge 
 
 with me?" 
 Then out spake Spurius Lartius,— a Eamnifin proud was he,— 
 " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge 
 
 with thee." 
 And out spake strong Herminius,— of Titian blood was he,— 
 " I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with 
 
 thee." 
 
142 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE BELliCTIOKS 
 
 " Horatius," quoth the Consul, " as thou sayest, so let it be." 
 And straight against that great array, forth went the daunt- 
 less three. 
 For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold, 
 Nor son nor wife, nor liuib nor life, in the brave days of old. 
 
 Now while the three were tightening their harness on their 
 
 backs. 
 The Consul was the foremost man to take in hand an axe ; 
 And Fathers mixed with Commons seized hatchet, bar, and 
 
 crow. 
 And smote upon the planks above, and loosed the props 
 
 below. 
 
 The three stood calm and silent and looked upon the foes, 
 And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose; 
 And forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep arl-ay ; 
 To earth they sprang, their swords they drew to win the 
 narrow way. 
 
 Stout Lartius hurled down Annus into the stream beneath ; 
 Herminius struck at Seius, and clove liiin to the teeth; 
 At Picus brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust; 
 And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms clashed in the 
 bloody dust. 
 
 But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see 
 
 On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless 
 
 three. 
 And from the ghastly entrance, where thope bold Romans 
 
 stood. 
 The bravest shrank like boys who rouse an old bear in the 
 
 wood. 
 
 But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been pHed, 
 And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boilinj' tide. 
 " Come back, come back, Horatius ! " loud cried the Fathera 
 
 all: 
 "Back, Lartius! back, HerminiusI back, ere the ruin fall!" 
 
 Back darted Spurius Lartius ; Herrainius darted back ; 
 And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers 
 
 crack ; 
 But when tliey turned their faces, and on the farther shore 
 Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed 
 
 once more. 
 
 But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam, 
 And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the 
 stream ; 
 
NL-MBEU TWO. 143 
 
 And a Ion"; shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, 
 * 8 to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam 
 
 And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein. 
 The furious river struggled hard, and tossed hfs tawny 
 
 mane. 
 And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free, 
 And battlement, and plank, and' pier, whirled headlong 'to 
 
 tiie sea. 
 
 Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind ; 
 
 Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad fiood be- 
 hind. 
 
 " Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, with a smile on his 
 pale face. 
 
 " Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, " now yield thee to 
 our grace." 
 
 Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to 
 
 see; 
 Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus naught spake 
 
 he; 
 But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home. 
 And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of 
 
 Rome. 
 
 "O Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, 
 
 A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this 
 
 day ! " 
 So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his 
 
 side. 
 And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the 
 
 tide. 
 
 No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank ; 
 But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, stood gazinj; where 
 
 he sank ; 
 And when above the surges they saw his crest appear, 
 •Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany could scarce forbear to 
 
 cheer. 
 But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of 
 
 rain ; 
 And fast his blood was flowing ; and he was sore in pain. 
 And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows. 
 And oft they thought him sinking— but still again he rose. 
 
 Never, 1 ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, 
 
 Struggle through such a raging fiood safe to the landing 
 
 place ; 
 But his limbs were borne up bra/ely by the brave heart 
 
 within. 
 And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin. 
 
144 ONE IIUXUKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " Curse on him ! " quoth false Sextus ; " will not the villain 
 
 drown? 
 But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the 
 
 town ! " 
 " Heaven help him ! " quoth Lars Porsena, " and" bring him 
 
 safe to shore ; 
 For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before." 
 
 And now he feels the bottom ;— now on dry earth he stands ; 
 Now round him throng the Fatb.ers to press his gory hands. 
 And, now \\ith shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping 
 
 loud, 
 He enters through the River-Gate, borne by the joyous 
 
 crowd. 
 
 They gave him of the corn-land that was of public right 
 As much as two strong oxen could plough from morn till 
 
 night ; 
 And they made a molten image, and set it up on high, 
 And there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie. 
 
 It stands in the Comitium, plain for all folk to see ; 
 
 Horatius in his harness, halting upon one knee : 
 
 And underneath is written, in letters all of gold, 
 
 Hoiv valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old. 
 
 YOUR MISSION. 
 
 If you cannot on the ocean 
 
 Sail among the swiftest fleet, 
 Rocking on the highest billows. 
 
 Laughing at the storms you meet, 
 You can stand among the sailors. 
 
 Anchored 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 tliey may forget the singer, 
 
 They will not forget the song. 
 
NUMBEn TWO. 145 
 
 If you have not gold and silver 
 
 Ever ready to command, 
 If you cannot towards the needy 
 
 Bea,;h 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 yeu cannot in the conflict. 
 
 Prove yourself a soldier true, 
 If where fire and smoke 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. 
 
 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 field of labor. 
 
 You can find it anywhere. 
 
 JOSH BILLINGS ON "MANIFEST DESTINY." 
 
 Manifess destiny iz the science ov going lew bust, or enny 
 other place before yu git thare. I may be rong in this cen- 
 timent, but that iz the way it strikes nie, and i am so put to- 
 gether that when enny thing strikes me i immejiately strike 
 back. Manifess destiny mite perhaps be blocked out agin 
 az the condishun that man and ihings find themselfs in 
 with a ring in their nozes and sumboddy hold ov the ring. 
 I may be rong agin, but if i am, awl i hav got tew sa iz, i 
 don't kno it, and what a man don't kno aint no damage tew 
 enny boddy else. The tru way that manifess destiny had 
 better be sot down iz. the exact distance that a frog kan 
 jump down hill with a striped snake after him ; i don't kno 
 but i may be wrong onst more, but if the frog don't git 
 ketched the destiny iz jist what he iz a looking for. 
 
146 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 AVhen a man falls into the bottom ov a well and makes 
 up hiz minde tew stay thare, that aint manifess destiny 
 enny nioru than having yure hair cut short iz ; but if he 
 abuoste gits out and then falls down in agin 16 foot deeper 
 and brakes off his neck twice in the same plase and dies and 
 iz buried thare at low water, that iz manifess destiny on the 
 square. Standing behind a cow in fly time and gitting 
 kicked twice at one time, must feel a good deal like manifess 
 destiny. Being about JO seckunds tew late tew git an 
 express train, and tlien chasing the train with yure wife, 
 and an umbreller in yure hands, in a hot day, and not get- 
 ting az near tew the train az you waz when yu started, looks 
 a leetle like manifess destiny on a rale rode trak. Going 
 into a tempranse house and calling for a little old Bourbon 
 on ice, and being told in a mild way that " the Bourbon iz 
 jist out, but they hav got sum gin that cost 72 cents a gallon 
 in Paris," sounds tew me like the manifess destiny ov moste 
 tempranse houses. 
 
 Mi dear reader, don't beleave in manifess destiny until yu 
 see it. Thare iz such a thing az manifess destiny, but when 
 it occurs it iz like the number ov rings on the rakoon's tale, 
 ov no great consequense onla for ornament. Man wan't 
 made for a machine, if he waz, it waz a locomotiff machine, 
 and manifess destiny must git oph from the trak when the 
 bell rings, or git knocked higher then the price ov gold. 
 Manifess destiny iz a disseaze, but it iz eazy tew heal ; i hav 
 seen it in its wust stages cured bi sawing a cord ov dri 
 hickory wood. I thought i had it onse, it broke out in the 
 shape ov poetry ; i sent a speciment ov the disseaze tew a 
 magazine, the magazine «ian wrote me nex day az follers : 
 
 "DearSur: Yu may be a phule, but yu are no poeck. 
 Yures, in haste." 
 
 THE QUAKER WIDOW.— Bayard Taylor. 
 
 Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah — come in! 'Tis kind 
 
 of thee 
 To wait until the friends were gone, who came to comfort 
 
 me; 
 The still and quiet company a peace may give, indeed, 
 But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. 
 
NVMBER TWO . 147 
 
 Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench where Beniarain 
 
 would sit 
 Oil First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows 
 
 lilt; 
 He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant 
 
 bees 
 Go humming round the Hlacs and through the apple trees. 
 
 I think he loved the spring: not tliat he cared for flowers; 
 
 most men 
 Think such things foolishness— but we were first acquainted 
 
 then, ' ^ 
 
 One spring; the next he spoke his mind; the third I was 
 
 his wife. 
 And in the spring (it happened so) our cliildren entered life. 
 
 He was but seventy-five: I did not think to lay him yet 
 In Ke.nnett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we 
 
 met. 
 The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better 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 fether 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 la.-t she spoko again, 
 " The Lord incline thee to the right! "—and "Thou shall have 
 
 him, Jane!" 
 My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not the least of 
 
 shocks, 
 For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox. 
 
 I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Kuth 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 hireling 
 
 priest — 
 Ah, dear ! the cross was ours ; her hfe's a happy one, at 
 
 least. 
 Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I— 
 Would thee believe it, Hannah ? once I felt temptation nigh ! 
 
148 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE 8ELKCTI0NS 
 
 My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for iny taste : 
 I wanted lace around the neck, and a 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 my bashfulness 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 into leaf, the meadows full of flow- 
 ers; 
 
 The neighbors met us in the lane, and every face was kind — 
 
 'Tis strange how lively everything comes bac^ 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 Dinah Passmore helped us both — 'twas she stood up 
 
 with nie, 
 And Abner Jones with Benjamin — and now they're gone, 
 
 all three! 
 
 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 sadl^ off, 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." 
 
NUMBER TWO. 1 iO 
 
 And dress may be of less account; the Lord 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 daughter should, I know. 
 'Tis hard to change so late in life,but we must be resigne'J ; 
 The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. 
 
 FOUND DEAD. — Albert Leighton. 
 
 Found dead, — dead and alone, 
 There was nobody near, nobody near 
 When the outcast died on his pillow of stone, 
 No mother, no brother, no sister dear. 
 Nor a friendly voice to soothe or cheer; 
 Not a watching eye or a pitying tear. 
 Found dead, — dead and alone. 
 In the roofless street, on a pillow of stone. 
 
 Many a weary day went by, 
 
 While wretched and worn he begged for bread. 
 
 Tired of life and longing to lie 
 
 Peacefully down with the silent dead. 
 
 Hunger and cold and scorn and pain, 
 
 Had wasted his form and seared his brain, 
 
 Till at last on a bed of frozen ground. 
 
 With a pillow of stone was the outcast found. 
 
 Found dead, — dead and alone, 
 
 On a pillow of stone in a roofless street. 
 
 Nobody heard his last faint moan. 
 
 Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat. 
 
 No murmur lingered with tears or sighs. 
 
 But the stars looked down with pitying eyes, 
 
 And the chill winds passed with a wailing sound, 
 
 O'er the lonely spot where his form was found. 
 
 Found dead— yet not alone; 
 
 There was somebody near, somebody near, 
 
 To claim the wanderer as his own. 
 
 And find a home for the homeless here. 
 
 One, when every human door 
 
 Is closed to children, accursed and poor, 
 
 Who opens the heavenly portal wide ; 
 
 Ah ! God was there when the outcast died/ 
 
150 on £ HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE PRETEXT OF REBELLION.— Stephen A. Douglas. 
 
 If war must come — if the bayonet must be used to main- 
 tain the Constitution— I can say, before God, my conscience 
 is clear. I have struggled long for a peaceful solution of the 
 difficulty. I have not only tendered those States what was 
 theirs of right, but I have gone to the very extreme of mag- 
 nanimity. The return we receive is war, armies marched 
 upon our Capital, obstructions and danger to our navigation, 
 letters of marque to invite pirates to prey upon our com- 
 merce, a concerted movement to blot ot^t the United States 
 of America from the map of the globe. The question is, 
 Are we to be stricken down by those who, when they can 
 no longer govern, threaten to destroy?' What cause, what 
 excuse do disunion ists give us for breaking up the best gov- 
 ernment on which the sun of heaven ever shed its rays? 
 They are dissatisfied with the result of a Presidential elec- 
 tion. Did they never getbsaten before? Are we to resort to 
 the sword when we get defeated at the ballot-box? I un- 
 derstand that the voice of the people expressed in tlie mode 
 appointed by the Constitution mustcomnuind the obedience 
 of every citizen. They assume, on the election of a particu- 
 lar candidate, that their rights are not safe in the Union. 
 What evidenie do they present of this? I defy any man to 
 show any act on which it is based. What act has been 
 omitted or been done? I appeal to these assembled thou- 
 sands, that, so far as the constitutional rights of the Southern 
 States — I will say the constitutional rights of slaveholders— 
 iire concerned, nothing has been done, and nothing omitted, 
 of which they can complain. 
 
 There has never been a time, from the day that Washing- 
 ton was inaugurated first I'resident of these United States, 
 when the rights of the Southern States stood firmer under 
 the laws of the land than they do now; there never was a 
 time when they had not as good a cause for disunion as they 
 have to-day. What good cause have they now that has not 
 existed under every administration? If they say the 
 territorial question —now, for the first time, there is no a;-t 
 of Congress proljibitin;; slavery anywhere. If itlje the non- 
 enforcement of the laws, the only com'iiaints that I have 
 
N U M B I! R TWO. 15X 
 
 heard have been of the too vigorous and faithful fulfillment 
 of the Fugitive Slave Law. Then what reason have they? 
 The slavery question is a mere excuse. The election of 
 Lincoln is a mere pretext. The present .secession movement 
 is the result of an enormous conspiracy formed more than a 
 year since, — formed by leaders in the f^outhern Confederacy 
 more than twelve months ago. They use the slavery ques- 
 tion as a means to aid the accomplisliment of their ends. 
 They desired the ejection of a Nonhern cauditlate, by a sec- 
 tional vote, in order to show that the two sections cannot 
 live together. When the history of the two years from the 
 Locompton charter down to the Presidential election shall 
 be written, it will be shown that tlie scheme was deliberate- 
 ly made to brcali up tLis Union, Tlicy desired a Northern 
 Eepublican to be elected by a purely Northern vote, and 
 now assign this fact as a reason wliy the sections may not 
 longer live together. If the disunion camlidate in the late 
 Presidential contest had carried the liuifed South, their 
 scheme was, the Northern candidate suiiessful, to seize the 
 Capital last spring, and, by a united Snulh and divided 
 North, hold it. That scheme was defeated in the defeat of 
 the disunion candidate in several of the Southern States. 
 The conspiracy is npw known. Armies have been raised, 
 war is levied to accomplish it. Theie are only two sides to 
 the question. Every man must be for the United States or 
 against them. Tliere can be no neutralj in this war : only 
 patriot* or traitors. 
 
 PSALM OF MARRIAGE.— Phedk Carv. 
 
 Tell me not in idle jingle, 
 " Marriage is an empty dream ! " 
 
 For the girl is dead that's sin<;le, 
 And girls are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real I I-ife is earnest! 
 
 Single blessedness a tib ! 
 " Man thou art, to man returnest! " 
 
 Has been spoken of the rib. 
 
 Kot enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 Is our destined end or way; 
 p 
 
1j2 one HUNDRt:D CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 But to act that each to-morrow 
 X Finds us nearer marriage day. 
 
 Life is long, and youth is fleeting, 
 And our hearts, though light and gay, 
 
 Still like pleasant drums are beating 
 Wedding marches all the way. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle. 
 
 In the bivouac of life. 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 
 
 Be a heroine, — a wife ! 
 
 Trust no future, howe'er pleasant. 
 Let the dead past bury its dead! 
 
 Act— act in the living present! 
 Heart within and hope ahead ! 
 
 Lives of married folks remind us 
 We can live our lives as woU, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Such examples as shall " tell." 
 
 Such example that another, 
 Wasting time in idle sport, 
 
 A forlorn, unmarried brother. 
 Seeing, shall take heart and coui-t. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 With a heart on triumph set; 
 
 Still contriving, still pursuing, 
 And each one a husband get. 
 
 HETTY JIcEWEN.— LrcY Hamilton Hooper. 
 
 AN INCIDe'nT of THE OCCUPATION OF NASHVILLE. 
 
 O Hetty McEwen ! Hetty McEwen ! 
 What were the angry rebels doing. 
 That autumn day, in Nashville town? 
 They looked aloft with oath and frown, 
 And saw the Stars and Stripes wave high 
 Against the blue of the sunny sky ; 
 Deep was the oath, and diiik the frown. 
 And loud the shout of " Tear it down ! " 
 
 For over Nashville, far and wide, 
 Eebel banners the breeze defied, 
 
NUMBER TWO. 
 
 Staining heaven with crimson bars; 
 Only the one old "Stripes and Stars" 
 Waved, where autumn leaves were strewing, 
 Kound the home of Hetty McEwen. 
 
 Hetty McEwen watched that day 
 Where her son on his death-bed lay ; 
 She heard the hoarse and angry cry — 
 The blood of" 76 " rose high. 
 Out-flashed her eye, her cheek grew warm, 
 Uprose her aged stately form ; 
 From her window, with steadfast brow, 
 She looked upon the crowd below. 
 
 Eyes all aflame with angry fire 
 
 Flashed on her in defiant ire, 
 
 And once more rose the angry call, 
 
 " Tear down that flag, or the house shall fall! " 
 
 Never a single inch quailed she, 
 
 Her answer rang out firm and free : 
 
 " Under the roof where that flag flies, 
 
 Now my son on his death-bed lies; 
 
 Born where that banner floated high, 
 
 'Neath its folds he shall surely die. 
 
 Not for threats nor yet for suing 
 
 Shall it fall," said Hetty McEwen. 
 
 The loyal heart and steadfast hand 
 Claimed respect from the traitor band; 
 The fiercest rebel quailed that day 
 Before that woman stern and gray. 
 They went in silence, one by one, — 
 Left her there with her dying son, 
 And left the old flag floating free 
 O'er the bravest heart in Tennessee, 
 To wave in loyal splendor there 
 Upon that treason-tainted air, 
 Until the rebel rule was o'er 
 And Nashville town was ours once more. 
 
 Came the day when Fort Donelson 
 Fell, and the rebel reign was done ; 
 And into Nashville, Buell, then, 
 Marched with a hundred thousand men, 
 With waving flags and rolling drums 
 Past the heroine's house he comes; 
 7* 
 
 153 
 
154 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 He checked his steed and bared his head, 
 "Soldiers! salute that flag," he said; 
 "And cheer, boys, cheer! — give three times three 
 For the bravest woman in Tennessee I 
 
 MASONIC EMBLEMS. 
 
 You wear the square, but do you have 
 
 That thing the square denotes ? 
 Is there within your inmost soul 
 That principle which should control 
 All deeds, and words, and thoughts? 
 The square of virtue, — is it there, 
 O you that wear the Mason's square? 
 
 You wear the compass ; do you keep 
 
 Within that circle due 
 That's circumscribed by law divine, 
 Excluding hatred, envy, sin, 
 Including all that's true ? 
 The compass, — does it trace that curve 
 Inside of which, no passions swerve? 
 
 You wear the type of Deity, 
 Ah! brother have a care; 
 He whose all-seeing eye surveys 
 Your inmost thoughts with open gaze, 
 He knows what thoughts are there! 
 Oh, send no light, irreverent word, 
 From sinful man to sinless God. 
 
 You wear the trowel ; do you have 
 
 That mortar old and pure. 
 Made on the recipe of God, 
 ■Recorded in his ancient Word, 
 Indissoluble, sure? 
 And do you spread with master's care, 
 The precious mixture here and there? 
 
 You wear the cross ; it signifies 
 
 The burdens Jesus bore — 
 Who staggering, fell, and bleeding, rose. 
 And bore up Calvary the woes 
 Of all who'd gone before; 
 The cross/ oh let it say "Forgive, 
 Father, forgive," to all that live! 
 
NUMBEli TWO. 155 
 
 My brothers, if you will display 
 
 These em blems of our art, 
 Let the great moral that they teach 
 Be engraven, each for each, 
 Upon your honest heart ! 
 (So they will tell to God and man, 
 Our ancient, holy, perfect plan. 
 
 THB BRIDES OF ENDERBY; OR, THE HIGH 
 TIDE (I5ri).-JEAN Ingelow. 
 
 The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
 The ringers rang by two, by three; 
 
 " Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 
 Good ringars, pull your best," cjuoth he. 
 
 " Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells I 
 
 Ply all your changes, all your swells. 
 Play uppe ' The Brides of Enderby.' " 
 
 Men say it was a stolen tyde — 
 The Lord that sent it, He knows all; 
 
 But in myne ears doth still abide 
 The message that the bells let fall : 
 
 And there was naught of strange, beside 
 
 The flight of mews and peewits pied 
 By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. 
 
 I sat and spun within the doore. 
 My thread brake ofl", I raised myne eyes; 
 
 The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
 Lay sinking in the barren skies. 
 
 And dark against day's golden death 
 
 She moved where Lindis wandereth, 
 
 My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 
 
 "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" caUing 
 Ere the early dews were falling, 
 Farre away I heard her song. 
 "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; 
 Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 
 
 Floweth, floweth, 
 From the meads where melick groweth 
 Faintly came her milking song: 
 
153 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 "Cusha! Ousha! Cusha!" calling, 
 " For the dews will soone be falling; 
 Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
 
 Mellow, mellow; 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; 
 Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Ligbtfoot, 
 Quit tbe stalks of parsley hollow. 
 
 Hollow, hollow ; 
 Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
 From the clovers lift your bead ; 
 Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Ligbtfoot, 
 Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
 Jetty, to the milking shed." 
 
 If it be long, ay, long ago, 
 
 When 1 beginne to think howe long, 
 
 Againe I hear tbe Lindis flow. 
 Swift as an arrowc, sharp aiid strong; 
 
 And all the aire, it seemeth mee. 
 
 Bin full of floating bells (sayeth sbee), 
 
 That ring the tune of Enderby. 
 
 Alle fresh the level pasture lay. 
 And not a shadowe mote be seene. 
 
 Save where full fyve good miles away 
 The steeple towered from out the greene ; 
 
 And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 
 
 AVas heard in all tbe country side 
 
 That Saturday at eventide. 
 
 The swanherds where there sedges are 
 Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
 The sbepherde lads I heard afarre. 
 And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
 Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
 Came downe that kindly mes^^age free, 
 The" Brides of Mavis Enderby." 
 
 Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
 And all along where Lindis flows 
 
 To where the goodly vessels lie. 
 And where the lordly steeple shows. 
 
 They sayde, " And why should this thing be? 
 
 What danger lowers by land or sea? 
 
 They ring the tune of Elnderby ! 
 
 " For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
 Of pyrate galleys warping downe ; 
 
NUMBEE TWO. Ij'/ 
 
 For shippcs ashore beyond the scorpe, 
 
 They have not spared to wake the towne; 
 But while the west bin red to see, 
 And storms be none, and pvrates flee, 
 Why ring ' The Brides of Eaderby?'" 
 
 I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 
 Came riding down with might and main: 
 
 He raised a sliout as he drew on, 
 TiJl all tiie w^slkin rang again, 
 
 "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 
 
 (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 
 
 " The old sea wall (he eried) is downe. 
 
 The rising tide comes on apace. 
 And boats adrift in yonder towne 
 
 Go sailing uppe the matTfe^place." 
 He shook as one that looks on death : 
 " God save you, mother ! " strait he saith, 
 " Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" 
 
 "Good Sonne, where Lia^is winds away, 
 With her two bairns I marked her long: 
 
 And ere yon bells beganne to play 
 Afar 1 heard her milking song." 
 
 He looked across the grassy lea. 
 
 To right, to left, " Ha, Enderby ! " 
 
 They rang " The Brides of Enderby ! " 
 
 With that he eried and beat his breast; 
 
 For, lo! along the river's bed 
 A mighty eygre reared his crest. 
 
 And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
 It swept with thunderous noises loud; 
 Shaped like a. curling snow-white cloud. 
 Or like a demon in a shroud. 
 
 And rearing Lindis backward pressed. 
 Shook all her trembling bankes atnaine, 
 
 Then madly at the eygre's breast 
 
 Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
 
 Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — 
 
 Tht-n beaten foam flew round about — 
 
 Then all the mighty floods were out. 
 
 Ho farre, so fast the eysre drave. 
 The heart had hardly time to beat, 
 
158 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELLCTIONa 
 
 Before a shallow seething wave 
 
 Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. 
 The feet had hardly time to flee 
 Before it brake against the knee, 
 And all the world was in the sea. 
 
 Upon the roofe we sat that night, 
 The noise of bells went sweeping by; 
 
 I marked the lofty beacon hght 
 Stream from the church tower, red and high,- 
 
 A lurid mark and dread to see ; 
 
 And awesome bells the)' were to mee, 
 
 That in the dark rang " Enderby." 
 
 They rang the sailor lads to guide 
 From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 
 
 And I — my Sonne was at my side, 
 And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 
 
 And yet be moaned beneath his breath, 
 
 " Oh, come in life, or come in^death! 
 
 Oh, lost! my love, Elizabeth." 
 
 And didst thou visit him no more? 
 
 Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; 
 The waters laid thee at his doore, 
 
 Ere yet the early dawn was clear ; 
 Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace. 
 The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
 Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 
 
 That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
 That ebbo swe|it out the flocks to sea; 
 
 A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! 
 To manye more than myne and me : 
 
 But each will mourn his own (she saithj. 
 
 And swseter woman ne'er drew breath 
 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 
 
 I shall never hear her more 
 By the reedy Lindis shore, 
 "Cusha! Ciisha! Cusha!" calling 
 Ere the early dews be falling; 
 I shall never hear her song, 
 "Cusha! Cusha!" all along. 
 Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 
 
 (roeth, floweth ; 
 From the meads where melick groweth, 
 
NUMBEK TWO. 159 
 
 When the water winding down, 
 Onward fioweth to the town. 
 
 I shall never see her more 
 
 Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 
 
 Shiver, quiver; 
 Siand beside the sobbing river, 
 Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
 To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
 I shall never hear her calling, 
 " Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
 
 Mellow, mellow ; 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
 Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; 
 Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 
 
 Hollow, hollow; 
 Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; 
 
 Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
 From your clovers lift the head; 
 Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
 Jetty, to the milking-shed." 
 
 RAILROAD CLOCKS. 
 
 He stood at the- ticket window, slowly unrolling an old- 
 fashioned leather wallet, while a dozen impatient men stood 
 behind him, driven to madness by the shouting of the gen- 
 tleman calling their trains. After he got about a yard and 
 a half of wallet unrolled, he suddenly stopped and said to 
 the ticket agent : " Is that clock right ? " 
 
 " No, sir," promptly replied the agent. 
 
 '"Tain't," shouted the startled passenger, stooping down 
 and making a sudden clutch at a lean and hungry bag. 
 " 'Tain't right? Well, what in the name of common sense 
 do ye have it stuck up there for then?" 
 
 "To fool people," calmly replied the ao;ent; "that's what 
 we're here for, — to fool people and misdirect them." 
 
 " Well, by gol," said the passenger, hurriedly rolling up 
 his wallet; "then I've missed my train. I'll report you, I will." 
 ' "Won't do any good," replied the ajrent ; "it's the company's 
 orders. They pay a man eighty-five dollars a month to go 
 around every morning to mix and muddle up all the clocks, 
 so that not one of them will be right, and no two of them 
 alike." p* 
 
160 ONB HUNDKKD CHOIt'E SELECTIONS 
 
 The passenger gasped twice or thrice, but could not say 
 anything. The ticket-seller went on : 
 
 "It's the superintendent's idea. He is fond of fun, enjoys 
 a joke, and it does him good to see a man piance around and 
 hear him jaw when he buys a ticket and then finds his train 
 has been gone two hours. It saves him the expense of go- 
 ing to the circus." 
 
 " Which way is that clock wrong," the passenger asked in 
 despairing accents, " fast or slow .' " 
 
 " Don't know," replied the agent. " That's part of the fun 
 not to let anybody in the building know anything about the 
 right time. All that I know is that it's about ninety min- 
 utes wrong one way or the other." 
 
 With a hollow groan the passenger dropped his carpet-bag 
 and wallet, and maile a rush for the door, upsetting every 
 man who got in his way. In about two minutes he came 
 back, crestfallen and meek, and took his place at the end of 
 the line. When once more he walked up to the window, he 
 said, as he named his station and bought his ticket like a 
 sane man : 
 
 " What made you talk to me like a liar ? " 
 
 " What made you ask questions like a fool?" answered 
 the ticket man, and they glared at each other for a second, 
 and theij the passenger went his way, a madder, but prob- 
 ably not a wiser man. For although the time pieces at a 
 railway station are always as nearly accurate as care and 
 electricity can make thom, and all the trains come and go 
 by them, yet there are thousands of men and women in this 
 land of free schools, who, whenever they travel, never fail 
 to ask the ticket-seller, station-master, usher, and gate-man, 
 one after another, if " that clock is right ? " 
 
 SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 
 
 Into a ward of the whitewashed hall, 
 Where the dead and the dying lay, 
 
 Wounded by bayonet, shell, and ball, 
 Somebody's darling was borne one day,— 
 
 Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, 
 Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, 
 
NUMBHR TWO. 161. 
 
 Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, 
 The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 
 
 Matted and damp are the curls of gold, 
 
 Kissing the snow of the fiiir young brow ; 
 Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 
 
 Somebody's darling is dying now. 
 Back from his beautiful blue- veined brow, 
 
 Brush all the wandering waves of gold ; 
 , Cross his hands on his bosom now— 
 
 Somebody's darling is still and cold. 
 
 Kiss him once for somebody's sake, 
 
 Murmur a prayer both soft and low; 
 One bright curl from its fair mates take, 
 
 They were somebody's pride, you know; 
 Somebody's hand hath rested there — 
 
 Was it a mother's, soft and white? 
 And have the lips of a sister fair 
 
 Been baptized in their waves of light? 
 
 God knows best ! he was somebody's love ; 
 
 Somebody's heart enshrined him there; 
 Somebody wafted his name above, 
 
 Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. 
 Somebody wept wlien he marched away, 
 
 Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; 
 Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay. 
 
 Somebody clung to his parting hand. 
 
 Somebody's waiting and watching for him. 
 
 Yearning to hold him again to her heart; 
 Anil there he lies with liis blue eyes dim. 
 
 And the smiling, child-like lips apart. 
 Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 
 
 Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; 
 Carve in tho wooden slab at his head, 
 
 "Somebody's darling slumbers here." 
 
 THE WIFE.— John G. Whittiee. 
 
 AN IDYL OP BRARCAMP WATER. 
 
 From school, and ball, and rout, she came. 
 
 The city's fair, pale dauahter. 
 To drink the wine of mountain a.ir 
 
 Beside the Bearcamp Water. 
 
1G2 ONE HUSDHED CHOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 Her step grew firmer on the hills 
 That watch our homesteads over; 
 
 On cheek and lip, from summer fields, 
 She caught the bloom of clover. 
 
 For health comes sparkling in the streams, 
 From cool Chocorua stealing, 
 
 There's iron in our northern winds, 
 Our pines are trees of healing. 
 
 She sat beneath the broad-armed elms 
 That skirt tlie mowing-meadow, 
 
 And watched the gentle west-wind weave 
 The grass with shine and shadow. 
 
 Beside her, from the summer heat 
 To share her grateful screening, 
 
 AVith forehead bared, the farmer stood. 
 Upon his pitchfork leaning. 
 
 Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face 
 Had nothing mean or common, — 
 
 Strong, manly, true, the tenderness 
 And pride beloved of woman. 
 
 She looked up, glowing with the health 
 The country air had brought her, 
 
 Anil, laughing said : " You lack a wife. 
 Your mother lacks a daughter. 
 
 " To mend your frock and bake your bread 
 
 You do not need a lady ; 
 Be sure among these brown old homes 
 
 Is some one waiting ready, — 
 
 " Some fair, sweet girl witi skillful hand 
 And cheerful heart for treasure. 
 
 Who never played with ivory keys, 
 Or danced the polka's measure." 
 
 He bent his black brows to a frown, 
 He set his white teeth tightly. 
 
 '"Tis well," he said, " for one like yoa 
 To choose for me so lightly. 
 
 "You think, because my life is rude^ 
 I take no note of sweetness; 
 
 I toll you love has naught to do 
 With mectness or unmeetness. 
 
NUMBEU TWO. 103 
 
 " Itself its beet excuse, it asks 
 
 No leave of pride or fashion, 
 When silken zone or homespun frock 
 
 It stirs with throbs of passion. 
 
 "You think me deaf and blind; you bring 
 
 Your winning graces hither, 
 As free as if from cradle-time. 
 
 We two had played together. 
 
 " You tempt me with your laughing eyes, 
 
 Your chtieks of sundown's blushes, 
 A motion as of waving grain, 
 
 A music as of thrushes. 
 
 " The plaything of your summer sport, 
 
 The spells you weave around me, 
 You cannot at your will undo. 
 
 Nor leave me as you found me. 
 
 " You go as lightly as you came, 
 
 Your life is well without me ; 
 What care you that these hills will close 
 
 Like prison- walls about me? 
 
 " No mood is" mine to seek a wife. 
 
 Or daughter for my mother ; 
 Who loves you loses in that love 
 
 All power to love another ! 
 
 " I dare your pity or your scorn. 
 
 With pride your own exceeding; 
 I fling my heart into your lap 
 
 Without a word of pleading." 
 
 She looked up from the waving grass 
 
 So archly, yet so tender : 
 " And if I lend you mine," she said, 
 
 " Will you forgive the lender? 
 
 " Nor frock nor tan can hide the man; 
 
 And see you not, my farmer, 
 How weak and fond a woman waits 
 
 Behind this silken armor? 
 
 " I love you : on that love alone, 
 
 And not my worth, presuming. 
 Will you not trust for summer fruit 
 
 The tree in May-day blooming? " 
 
164 ONE HUNDRED CUOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 Alone the hangbird overhead, 
 His hair-swung cradle straining, 
 
 Looked down to see love's miracle, — 
 The giving that is gaining. 
 
 And so the farmer found a wife, 
 His mother found a daughter ; 
 
 There looks no happier home than hers 
 On pleasant Bearcamp Water. 
 
 Flowers spring to blossom where she walks 
 
 The careful ways of duty ; 
 Our hard, stiff lines of life with her 
 
 Are flowing curves of beauty. 
 
 Our homes are cheerier for her sake, 
 Our door-yards brighter blooming, 
 
 And all about, the social air 
 Is sweeter for her coming. 
 
 AVe send the squire to General Court; 
 
 He takes his young wife thither; 
 No prouder man election-day 
 
 Rides through the sweet June weather. 
 
 So spake our landlord as we drove 
 Beneath the deep hill-shadows. 
 
 Below us wreaths of white fog walked 
 Like ghosts the haunted meadows. 
 
 Until, at last, beneath its bridge. 
 We heard the Bearcamp flowing, 
 
 And saw across the mapled lawn 
 The welcome home-lights glowing ;— 
 
 And, musing on the landlord's tale 
 'Twere well, thought I, if often 
 
 lb rugged farm-life came the gift 
 To harmonize and soften; 
 
 If more and more we found the troth 
 
 Of fact and fancy plighted. 
 And culture's charm and labor's strength 
 
 In rural homes united ; 
 
 The simple life, the homely hearth, 
 With beauty's sphere surrounding. 
 
 And blessing toil where toil abounds 
 With graces more abounding. 
 
NUMBEn TWO. 165 
 
 THE FIRE-FIEND.— C. D Gardette. 
 
 A NIGHTMARK. 
 
 The author of this was challenged to produce a poem, in the uinnner of **The 
 Raven^" which should L>e accepted by the general critic us a geuuiue composi- 
 tion of JUr. Poe's, and '• The Fire-Fiend" was the result. It was printed as 
 "from an unpublished MSS. of the late Edgar A, Pue," and the hoax proved snlh- 
 ciently successful to deceivo a number of critics in this country, and also in 
 England. 
 
 In the deepest dearth of midnight, while the sad and solemn 
 swell * 
 
 Still was floating, faintly echoed from the forest chapel 
 bell,— 
 
 Faintly, falteringly floating o'er the sable waves of air 
 
 That were throu2;h the midnight rolling, chafed and bil- 
 lowy with the tolling, — 
 
 In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire-light's fitful gleam- 
 ing. 
 
 And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart fore- 
 doomed to care! 
 
 As the last long lingering echo of the midnight's mystic 
 
 chime — 
 Lifting through the sable billows to the thither shore of 
 
 time. 
 Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace — 
 In a quivering sigh departed, from my cou-ch in fear I 
 
 started ; 
 Started to my feet in terror, for my dream's phantasmal error 
 Painted in the fitful fire, a frightful, fiendish, flaming face! 
 
 On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a blazing knot of 
 
 oak, 
 Seemed to gibe and grin this phantom when in terror I 
 
 awoke, 
 And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to the 
 
 floor. 
 Still in that dread vision seeming, turned my gaze toward 
 
 the gleaming 
 Hearth, and — there!— O God! I saw it! and from out its 
 
 flaming jaw it 
 Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gur^ng stream 
 
 of gore ! 
 
 Speechless, struck with stony sirlence, frozen to the floor I 
 stood, 
 
 Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bub- 
 bling blood ; 
 
108 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SEL!!CT10N8 
 
 Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those lambent 
 
 lips; 
 Till the demon seemed to name me,— then a wondrous calm 
 
 o'ercaTme me, 
 And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp stiff 
 
 and gluey. 
 And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse ! 
 
 Then, as in death's seeminij shadow, in the icy pall of fear 
 I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous umrmur to my 
 
 ear, — 
 Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their 
 
 sleep, 
 Muttering, "Higher! higher! higher! I am demon cf the 
 
 fire! 
 1 am arch-fiend of the fire I and each blazing roofs my pyre, 
 And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims 
 
 weep ! 
 
 "How I revel on the prairie! How I roar among the pines! 
 
 How I laugh when from the village o'er the snow the red 
 flame shines, 
 
 And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a life in every breath ! 
 
 How I scream with lambent laughter as I hurl each crack- 
 ling rafter 
 
 Down the fell abyss of fire, until higher! higher! higher! 
 
 Leap the high-priests of my altar in their merry dance of 
 death ! 
 
 " I am monarch of the fire ! I am vassal-king of death ! 
 World-encircling, with the shadow of its doom upon my 
 
 breath ! 
 AVith the symbol of hereafter flaming from my fatal face! 
 I command the eternal fire! Higher! higher! higher! 
 
 higher! 
 Leap my ministering demons, like phantasmagoric lemans 
 Hugging universal nature in their hideous embrace ! " 
 
 Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn, shrouded sleep, 
 And I slumbered, like an infant in the " Cradle of the Deep," 
 Till the belfry in the forest quivered with the matin stroke, 
 And the martins, from the edges of its lichen-lidded ledges, 
 Shimmered through the russet arches where the light in 
 
 torn files marches, 
 Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks of 
 
 oak. 
 
 Through my ivy-fretted casement filtered in a tremulous 
 
 note 
 From the tall and stately linden where a robin swelled his 
 
 throat, — 
 
NUMBER TWO. ]fj7 
 
 Querulous, Quaker-breasted robin, calling quaintly for Lis 
 
 mate ! 
 Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber night-mare 
 
 ridden. 
 With the memory of that dire demon in my central fire, 
 On my eye's interior mirror like the shadow of a fate ! 
 
 Ah! the fiendish fire had smouldered to a white and form- 
 
 I'esM heap, 
 And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep; 
 But around its very centre, where the demon face had shone, 
 Forked shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral 
 
 finder 
 To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carved and olden — 
 And I bowed, and said, "All jiower is of God, of Uod alone I " 
 
 MARK TWAIN'S OPINION OF CHAMBERMAIDS. 
 
 Against all chambermaids, of whatsoever age or national- 
 ■ ity, I launch the curse pf bachelordom ! Because : 
 
 They always put the pillows at the opposite end of the 
 bed from the gas-burner, so that while you read and smoke 
 before sleeping (as is the ancient and honored custom of 
 bachelors), you have to hold your book aloft, in an uncom- 
 fortable position, to keep the light from dazzling your eyes. 
 
 When they find the pillows removed to the other end of 
 the bed in the morning, they receive not the suggestion in 
 a friendly spirit ; but, glorying in their absolute sovereignty, 
 and unpitying your helplessness, they make the bed just as 
 it was originally, and gloat in secret over the pang their 
 tyranny will cause you. 
 
 ' Always after that, when they find you have transposed 
 the pillows, they undo your work, and thus defy and seek 
 to embitter the life that God has given you. 
 
 If they cannot get the light in an inconvenient position 
 any other way, they move the bed. 
 
 If you pull your trunk out six inches from the wall, so 
 that the lid will stay up when you open it, they always 
 shove that trunk back again. They do it on purpose. 
 
 If you want the spittoon in a certain spot, where it will be 
 handy, they don't, and so they move it. 
 
133 ONE HUNDRED CllOICIi SELECTION'S 
 
 They always put your other boots into inaccessible places. 
 They chiefly enjoy depositing them as far under the bed as 
 the wall will permit. It is because this compels you to get 
 down in an undignified attitude and make wild sweeps for 
 them in the dark with the boot-jack, and swear. 
 
 They always put the match-box in some other place. 
 They hunt up a new place for it every day, and put up a 
 bottle, or other perishable glass thing, where the box stood 
 before. This is to cause you to break that glass thing, grop- 
 ing in the dark, and get yourself into trouble. 
 
 They are forever and ever moving the furniture. When 
 you come in, in the night, you can calculate on finding the 
 bureau where the wardrobe was in the morning. And 
 when you go out in the morning, if you leave the slop-buck- 
 et by the door, and the rocking-chair by the window, when 
 you come in at midnight, or thereabouts, you will fall over 
 that rocking-chair, and you will proceed toward the window 
 and sit down in that slop-tub. This will disgust you. They 
 like that. 
 
 No matter where you put anything, they are not goiijg to 
 let it stay there. They will take it and move it the first 
 chance they get. It is their nature. And, besides, It gives 
 them pleasure to be mean and contrary this way. They 
 would die if they couldn't be villains. 
 
 They always save up all the old scraps of printed rubbish 
 you throw on the floor, and stack them up carefully on the 
 table, and start the flre with your valuable manuscripts. If 
 there is any one particular old scrap that you are more down 
 on than any other, and which you are gradually wearing 
 your life out trying to get rid of, you may take all the pains 
 you possibly can in that direction, but it won't be of any 
 use, because they will always fetch that old scrap back and 
 put it in the same old place again every time. It does them 
 good. 
 
 And they use up more hair-oil than any six men. If 
 charged with purloining the same, they lie about it. What 
 do they care about a hereafter? Absolutely nothing. 
 
 If you leave your key in the door for convenience sake, 
 they will carry it down to the office and give it to the 'clerk. 
 They do this under the vile pretense of trying to protect 
 
NUMBER TWO. IGJ 
 
 your property fro'n thieves; but actually they do it because 
 they want to make you tramp back down-stairs after it 
 when you come home tirt'd, or put you to the trouble of 
 sending a waiter for it, which waiter will expect you to pay 
 him something. In which case I suppose the degraded 
 creatures divide. 
 
 They keep always trying to make your bed before you get 
 up, thus destroying your rest and inflicting agony upon you; 
 but after yoi»get up, they don't come any more till next 
 day. 
 
 They do all the mean things they can think of, and they 
 do them just out of pure cussedness, and nothing else. 
 
 Chambermaids are dead to every human instinct. 
 
 I have cursed them in behalf of outraged bachelordom. 
 They deserve it. If I can get a bill through, the Legislature 
 abolishing chambermaids, I mean to do it. 
 
 THE AMEN OF THE ROCKS.— Roseg arte v. 
 
 Though blind with age, forth Beda went with zeal 
 The tidings of salvation to proclaim. 
 Through town and hamlet, guided by a boy, 
 The pious father wandered, full of love. 
 And preached to dying men the word of life. 
 
 The boy once guided him into a vale 
 O'erstrewn with rooks and empty heaps of stone, 
 And there in wantonness, not malice, said: 
 " Most rev'rend father, many men are here. 
 And wait to hear the word of gospel truth." 
 
 The blind old man arose with joyful haste. 
 
 Chose him a text, explained it and applied. 
 
 Exhorted, warned, rebuked and comforted 
 
 So loving that the tears rolled down his cheeks 
 
 And gently hid themselves in his gray beard. 
 
 When in conclusion then, as it is fit, 
 
 He prayed the prayer the Saviour taught, an 1 said : 
 
 " Thine is the kin'^dora, thine the povver, and thine 
 
 The glory unto all eternity." 
 
 Then burst from out the vale a mighty shout : 
 
 "Amen, most rev'rend father," and "Amen!" 
 
170 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 The boy was frightened ; kneeling down, with shame 
 He to the holy saint confessed the sin. 
 "S5n," said the father, "iiast thou never read, 
 When men are silent rocks and stones will cry ? 
 Mock nevermore, son, the word of God ! 
 A two-edged sword it is, and quick, and sharp, 
 And powerful. And if tlie heart of nian 
 Should turn t.j stone, defying truth and love. 
 The rock with human heart will throb aloud." 
 
 Tramlation from the Germmi. 
 
 THE INQUIRY.— Charles Mackay. 
 
 Tell me, ye winged winds, tliat round my pathway roar. 
 Do ye not know some spot where mortals weep no more ? 
 .Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the west, 
 Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest? 
 The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low. 
 And sighed for pity as it answered— 'No." 
 
 Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round "me play, 
 Know'st thou some favored spot, some island far away, 
 Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs. 
 Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies? 
 The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow. 
 Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer— "No." 
 
 And thou, serenest moon, that, with such lovely face. 
 Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace, 
 Tell me, in all thy round, hast thou not seen some spot. 
 Where miserable man might find a happier lot? 
 
 Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, 
 And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded — "No." 
 
 Tell me, my secret soul ;-oh ! tell me, Hope and Faith, 
 Is there no resting place from sorrow, sin, and death ? 
 Is thera no happy spot, where mortals may be blessed, 
 Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest ? 
 
 Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given. 
 Waved their bright wings, and whispered— "Yes, ix 
 Heaven!" 
 
NUMBER TWO. 171 
 
 WE MEET UPON THE LEVEL AND WE PART 
 UPOX THE SQUARE *—RoBEKT Morris. 
 We meet upon the level, and \vu part upon the square, — 
 What words of precious meaning tliose words Masonic are! 
 Come, let us contemplate them, — they are wortiiy of a 
 
 thought ; 
 With the highest and the lowest and the rarest they are 
 fraught. 
 
 We meet upon the level, though from every station come, — 
 The king from out his palace, and the poor man from his 
 
 home; 
 For the one must leave his diadem without the Mason's 
 
 door. 
 And the other finds his true respect upon the checkered 
 
 floor. 
 
 We act upon the plumb, — 'tis our Master's great command, 
 We stand upright in virtue's way and lean to neither hand; 
 The All-Seeing Eye that reads the heart will bear u.s witness 
 
 true. 
 That we' do always honor God and give each man his due. 
 
 We part upon the square, for the world must have its due; 
 We mingle with its multitude, — a cold, unfriendly crew ; 
 But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green. 
 And we long, upon the level, to renew the happy scene. 
 
 There's a world where all are equal, — we are journeying 
 
 toward it fast; 
 We shall meet upon the level there when the gates of death 
 
 are past, 
 We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be 
 
 there 
 To tiy the blocks we offer by his own unerring square. 
 
 We shall meet upon the level there, but never thence depart; 
 There's a mansion— 'tis all ready for each zealous, faithful 
 
 heart ; 
 There's a mansion and a welcome, and a multitude i-i there 
 Who have met upon the level, and been tried upon the 
 pqiiare. 
 
 ♦Tills poera, written in August, 18J4, li.is Ik-i-u subjected to various alterations 
 during its many yeare of active use. It is given here as found in the autlior's 
 collected poems, entitled " The Poetry of Freemasonry." 
 
 George Oliver, D. D., eminent above all oHiers in English Masonry, and the 
 Maaonic historian for all time, said of the poem : " Brother Morris has compasiil 
 many fervent, eloquent, and highly poetic compositions, songs that will not din, 
 but in 'The Level and the Square' he has breathed out a depth of feeling, fer- 
 vency and pathos, with brilliancy and vig.ir of language, and e.\presstid due faitb 
 In the immortal life beyond the gravo." 
 
172 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Let US meet upon the level, then, while laboring patient 
 
 here; 
 Let us meet and let us labor, though the labor seem severe. 
 Already, in the western sky, tlie signs bid us prepare 
 To gather up our working tools, and part upon the square. 
 
 Hands round, ye faithful Ghiblimites, the bright, fraternal 
 
 chain ; 
 We part upon the square bslow to meet in heaven again. 
 Oh, what words of precious meaning those words Masonic 
 
 are, — 
 We meet upon the level, and we part upon the square! 
 
 LORD DUNDREARY ON "PWO VERBS." 
 
 A fellah once told me that another fellah wrote a book 
 before he was born — I mean before the first fellah was born, 
 (of course the fellah who wrote it must have been born, else, 
 how could he have written it?) that is, a long time ago — 
 to pwove that a whole lot of pwoverbs and things that 
 fellahs are in the habit of quoting were all nonsense. 
 
 I should vewy much like to get that book. I — I think if 
 I could get it at one of those spherical— no— globular — no, 
 that's not the word — circle — circular— yes, that's it — circula- 
 ting libwawies (I knew it was something that went round) — 
 I think if I could just borrow that book from a circulating 
 libwawy — I'd — yes, upon my word now— I'd twy and wead 
 it. A doothed good sort of book that, I'm sure. I — I al- 
 ways did hate pwoverbs. In the first place they, they're so 
 howwibly confusing — I — I always mix 'em up together — 
 somehow, when I twy to weckoniember them. And besides, 
 if evewy fellah was to wegulatehislifeby a lot of pwoverbs, 
 what — what a beathly sort of uncomfortable life he would 
 lead! 
 
 I remoleckt — I mean remember— when I was quite a little 
 fellah— in pinafores — and liked wasbewwy jam and — and a 
 lot of howwid things for tea— there was a sort of collection 
 of illustwated pwoverbs -hanging up in our nursery at home; 
 They belonged to our old nurse — Sarah, I think — and she 
 had 'em fwamed and glazed. " Poor Richard's," I think she 
 called 'em - and she used to say — poor dear — that if evewy 
 
NUMBER TWO. 173 
 
 fellah attended to evewy thing Poor Richard wrote, that huM 
 gcH ve.wy wich,,and I-live and die— happy ever after. How- 
 ever — it — it's vewy clear to me that — he couldn't have at- 
 tended to them — hivvielf, else, how did the fellah come to be 
 called Poor Eichard? I — I hate a fellah that pweaches 
 what he doesn't pwactice. Of courlh, if what he said was 
 twue, and he'd stuck to it — he — he'd have been called — 
 Rich Richard— stop a minute — how's that? Rich Richard ? 
 Why that would have been too rich. Pwaps that's the rea- 
 son he pweferred being poor. How vewy wich ! 
 
 But, as I was saying, these picture pwoverbs were all hung 
 up in our nursery, and a more uncomfortable set of mak- 
 thims — you never wead. For instance, there was one vewy 
 nonthensical pwoverb which says: 
 
 "A B-BIIM) [S THIC HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH.'' 
 
 Th-the man who invented that pwoverb must have been 
 a b-born idiot. How the dooth can he t-tell the welative 
 v-value of poultry in that pwomithcuous manner? Suji- 
 pothe I've got a wobbing wed-bweast in my hand— (I nearly 
 had the other morning — but he flew away — confound' him !) 
 —well — suppothe the two birds in the bush are a bwace of 
 partwidges — you —you don't mean to t-tell me that that 
 wobbin wed-bwejtst would fetch as m-rauch as a bwace of 
 partwidges? Abthurd! P-poor Richard can't gammon me 
 in that sort of way. 
 
 LOOK ALOFT.— J. Lawrence. 
 
 In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale 
 Are around and above, if thy footiii;.' should fail. 
 If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,— 
 " Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. 
 
 If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow, 
 With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe. 
 Should betray thee when sorrows, like clouds, are arrayed, 
 " Look aloft " to the friendship which never shall fade. 
 
 Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, 
 Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly. 
 Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, 
 " Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set. 
 
174 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Should they who are nearest and dearest thy heart — 
 Thy friends and conipanions— in sorrow depart, 
 " Look aloft " from the darkness and dust of the tomb, 
 To that soil where "aflection is ever in bloom." 
 
 And, oh, when death comes in his terrors, to cast 
 His fears on the future, his pall on the past. 
 In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, 
 And a smile in thine eye, "Look alopt," and depan! 
 
 THE MODERN CAIN— E. Evans Edwards. 
 
 " Am I my brother's keeper .' " 
 
 Loni; 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-born lay, 
 Slain by tlie 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 baffled wear and washing. As he fled 
 
 A voice pursued him to the wilderness, 
 
 " Where is thy brother, Cain?" 
 
 " Am I my brother's keeper? " 
 
 Oh, black impiety that seeks to shun 
 
 The dire responsibility of sin ; 
 
 Thatcrieth with the ever warninR 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 wiii/c 
 Will ever wail this question in thy ear : 
 
NUMBER TWO. 175 
 
 " 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 cursed 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, 
 Bushed forth into the streets, — home lia.l lie none, — 
 Staggered an4 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 evenin;; came 
 To pray by that unhallowed mound ; no hand 
 Planted sweet flowers above his placo 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 liis. 
 His Mary loved him, and around him played 
 His smiling children. Oh, a dream of joy 
 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'er, 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 fetal bolt 
 Fell from that cloud. The towering tree 
 Was shivered by thelightninij's vengeful stroke, 
 And laid its coronal of glory low. 
 A happy home was ruined ; want and woe 
 Played with his children, and the joy of youth 
 Left their sweet feces no more 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, ilary died 
 
170 ONE HUXDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 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 slirank 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 brothernow? 
 Lives he still — if dead, still where is he? 
 Where? In heaven? Go read the sacred page: 
 " No drunkard ever shall inherit theie." 
 Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down ? 
 Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled 
 While yet the hellish work went on ? Who grasped 
 His gold — his health — his life — his hope— his all? 
 Who saw Jiis Mary fade and die? Who saw 
 His beggared children wandering in the streets? 
 Speak- coward —if thou hast a tongue. 
 Tell why witli 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. 
 
 SALLY.— Robert C. V. Meyeks.* 
 
 Written expressly for thi» CoUeetiou. 
 
 Down in Coomer's Alley 
 
 Lives my little Sally, 
 Mid all the shame and misery she's like a ray of light. 
 
 Years back she lost her mother, 
 
 So she takes care of her brother 
 And her father whom she often leads home late at night. 
 
 ♦Author of "Jamie,*" ** Brother Ben," -'Gabe'a Christmas Eve," "Eunice,"' 
 "The Maaque," *'Grandtlad's Polkn," &c. — found in other Numbers of this Se- 
 ries. Also, "The Day before tire Wedding," " Did you ever see a Ghost," " The 
 Top Lauding," aud other Comedies and Farces, in the Dramatic Supplements. 
 
NCMBER TWO. 177 
 
 Somehow in Coomer's Alley 
 
 They all look up to Sally, 
 The men don't swear so hard when she is seen coming by, 
 
 And the women stop their brawling 
 
 And ugly names a-calling, 
 When Sally comes with pleasant words, a smile in each blue 
 eye. 
 
 She works from morn to even. 
 
 From seven o'clock to seven, — 
 She sews for a fich firm that gives just a beggar's hire, • 
 
 But somehow Sally's penny 
 
 Goes thrice as far as any 
 In Coomer's Alley, and complaint will ne'er her neighbora 
 tire. 
 
 'Tis pretty hard in winter 
 
 When frost begins to splinter 
 The hard mud in the alley, and hands are numb and blue, 
 
 And often Sally's sewing 
 
 Trembles while she's blowing 
 Her warm breath on her fingers that most refuse to do. 
 
 In winter when her father 
 
 And her brother are most bother, 
 When work is slack, and beer is not, 'and they have too 
 much trust. 
 
 Sometimes meat is not plenty, 
 
 And coal is rather scanty, 
 But Sally goes on smiling and her needle knows no rust. 
 
 Though she'll hide her father from me 
 When he comes home rather rummj', 
 
 And she'll say he's not so well to-day; her brother, when 
 he's bad. 
 
 She'll say is weak, like many, 
 But God'U make him strong, if any 
 
 Strength there be in man, for now he's nothing but a lad. 
 
 But in spring when all the heaven 
 
 Is bright— say just 'bout seven, 
 When work is done and sparrows chirp up in the ruined eaves. 
 
 I go to Coomer's Alley 
 
 To fetch my little Sally 
 To take a walk along the streets where there are trees with 
 leaves. 
 
 8* 
 
J78 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 She comes forth emiling sweetly, 
 
 Her frock and hat made neatly, 
 A little flower in her hand I bought along the way, 
 
 And we walk and talk and chatter, 
 
 And I hear her feet's soft patter. 
 And I feel her arm touch mine as on we go at fall of day. 
 
 She likes the scent of clover 
 
 That comes from fields clear over 
 The great tall city houses from far, far away, 
 
 And she'll say, " It must be pretty 
 
 In the country. What a pity 
 All the poor folks are not here to smell the smell of hay." 
 
 Then we walk the streets of riches. 
 And pick out houses — which is 
 Mine, which hers, what we would do if we should live like 
 that — 
 
 Sally'd give her brother 
 . A brand new coat, another 
 Not so good, to work in ; her father a new hat. 
 
 "And what'd you give me, Sally ? " 
 
 I ask— "all Coomer's Alley? " 
 She turns her blue eyes on me. " I could not give," says she, 
 
 " More than I have already. 
 
 All that I have, my Teddy; 
 Although all that I have to give, is only just poor me." 
 
 And then we go home slowly 
 
 To Coomer's Alley lowly. 
 When my wages raise a little we'll be married then — 
 
 But we wait, both hopeful, Sally 
 
 Stitching in Coomer's Alley, 
 And I, the young ship-joiner, the happiest of men. 
 
 INDEPENDENCE BELL. JULY 4, 1776. 
 
 When the Declaration of Independence was adopted by Congress, the event 
 was announced by rineing the old State-House bell, which bore the Inscription 
 " Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof 1 " The 
 old bellman stationed his little grandson at the door of the hall, to await the 
 instructions of the door-keeper when to riug. At the word, the young patriot 
 rushed out, and clapping his hands, shouted :~"Ilmg I Emo 1 KING I " 
 
 There was a tumult in the city 
 
 In the quaint old Quaker town. 
 And the streets were rife with people 
 
 Pacing restless up and down, — 
 
NUMBliR TWO. 179 
 
 People gathering at the corners, 
 Where they whispered each to each, 
 
 And the sweat stood on their temples 
 With the earnestness of speech. 
 
 As the bleak Atlantic currents 
 
 Lash* the wild Newfoundland shore, 
 So they beat against the State-House, 
 
 So they surged against the door ; 
 And the mingling of their voices 
 
 Made'a harmony profound, 
 Till the quiet street of Chestnut 
 
 Was all turbulent with sound. 
 
 " W ill they do it ? " " Dare they do it ? " 
 
 " Who is speaking? " " What's the news ? " 
 "What of Adams ? " " What of Sherman ? " 
 
 " Oh, God grant they wont refuse 1 " 
 " Make some way there ! " " L<8t me neare.- 1 " 
 
 " I am stifling ! " " Stifle, then I 
 When a nation's life's at hazard. 
 
 We've no time to think of men ! " 
 
 So they surged against the State House, 
 
 While all solemnly inside 
 Sat the " Continental Congress," 
 
 Truth and reason for their guide. 
 O'er a simple scroll debating. 
 
 Which, though simple it might be. 
 Yet should shake the clifis of England 
 
 With the thunders of the free. 
 
 Far aloft in that high steeple 
 
 Sat the bellman, old and gray; 
 He was weary of the tyrant 
 
 A nd his iron-sceptered sway. 
 So he sat, with one hand ready 
 
 On the clapper of the bell, 
 When his eye could catch the signal, 
 
 The long-expected news, to tell. 
 
 See ! See ! The dense crowd quivers 
 
 Through all its lengthy line. 
 As the boy beside the portal 
 
 Hastens forth to give the sign ! 
 VVith his little hands uplifted. 
 
 Breezes dallying with his hair. 
 
180 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Hark ! with deep,' clear intonation, 
 Breaks his young voice on tlie air : 
 
 Hushed the people's swelling murmur, 
 
 Whilst the boy cries joyously : 
 "Ring!" he shouts, " Ring ! grandpapa, 
 
 Ring! oh, ring for liberty ! " 
 Quickly, at the given signal 
 
 The old bellman lifts his hand, 
 Forth he sends the good news, making 
 
 Iron music through tlie land. 
 
 How they shouted ! What rejoicing ! 
 
 How the old bell shook the air, 
 Till the clang of freedom ruffled 
 
 The calmly gliding Delaware! 
 How the bonfires and the torches 
 
 Lighted up the night's repose. 
 And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix, 
 
 Our glorious liberty arose ! 
 
 That old State-House bell is silent. 
 
 Hushed is now its clamorous tongue ; 
 But the spirit it awakened 
 
 Still is living, — ever young ; 
 And when we greet the smiling sunlight 
 
 On the fourth of each July, 
 We will ne'er forget the bellman 
 
 Who, betwixt the earth and sky. 
 Rung out, loudly, " Independence ; " 
 
 Which, please God, shall never die! 
 
art C|irb. 
 
EcLcTh of the Foixr JSTu-mhers of 
 " lOO Choice SeZectzorts " contcLineci 
 irt this volizme is -paged, separcttely , 
 and. the Jnde:s: is made to corres- 
 pond therewith. See EXPLANATION on 
 first page of Contents. 
 
 The entire hook contains nearly 
 lOOO pages. 
 
100 
 
 CHOI€E SELECTIONS. 
 
 No. 3. 
 
 E PLURIBUS UNUM. -George W. CniTER. 
 
 Though many and bright are the stars that appear 
 
 In that tlag by our country unfurled, 
 And the stripes tliat are swelling in majesty there, 
 
 Like a rainbow adorning the world, — 
 Their light is unsullied as those ift the sky, 
 
 By a deed that our fathers have done. 
 And they're linked in as true an<l as holy a tie, 
 
 In their motto of" Many in One." 
 
 From the hour when those patriots fearlessly flung 
 
 That banner of starlight abroad. 
 Ever true to themselves, to that motto they clung 
 
 As they clung to the promise of God. 
 By the bayonet traced at the midnight of war. 
 
 On the fields where our glory was won — 
 Oh! pdrish the heart or the hand that would mar 
 
 Our motto of " Many in One." 
 
 'Mid the smoke of the conflict, the cannon's deep roar. 
 
 How oft it has gathered renown I 
 While those stars were reflected in rivers of gore. 
 
 Where the cross and the lion went down ; 
 And though few were their lights in the gloom of that hour, 
 
 Yet the hearts that were striking below 
 Had God for their bulwark, and truth for their power, 
 
 And they stopped not to number their foe. 
 
 Q* 7 
 
i ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 From where our green mountain-tops blend with the sljy. 
 
 And the giant Saint Lawrence is rolled, 
 To the waves where the balmy Hesperides lie, 
 
 Like the dream of some prophet of old. 
 They conquered, and, dying, bequeathed to our care 
 
 Not this boundless dominioil alone. 
 But that banner whgse loveliness hallows the air, 
 
 And their motto of " Many in One." 
 
 We are many in one, while there glitters a star 
 
 In the blue of the heavens above. 
 And tyrants shall quail, 'mid their dungeons afar, 
 
 When they gaze on that motto of love. 
 It shall gleam o'er the sea, 'mid the bolts of the storm, 
 
 Over tempest, and battle, and wreck, — 
 And flame where our guns with their thunder grow warm, 
 
 'Neath the blood on the slippery deck. 
 
 The oppressed of the earth to that standard shall fly, 
 
 Wherever its folds shall be ispread, 
 And the exile shall feel 'tis his own native sky. 
 
 Where its stars shall wave over his head: 
 And those stars shall increase till the fulness of time 
 
 Its millions of cycles have run, — 
 Till the world shall have welcomed their mission sublime, 
 
 And the nations of earth shall be one. 
 
 Though the old Alleghany may tower to heaven. 
 
 And the Father of Waters divide. 
 The links of our destiny cannot be riven 
 
 While the truth of those words shall abide. 
 Oh! then, let them glow on each helmet and brand, 
 
 Though our blood like our rivers should run ; 
 Divide as we may in our own native land, 
 
 To the rest of the world we are one. 
 
 Then, up with onr flag!— let it stream on the air; 
 
 Though our fathers are cold in their graves. 
 They had hands that could strike, they had souls that could 
 dare, 
 
 And their sons were not born to be slaves. 
 Up, up with that banner! — where'er it may call, 
 
 Our millions shall rally around. 
 And a nation of freemen that moment shall fall, 
 
 When its stars shall be trailed on the ground. 
 
N U M n E K THREE. 
 
 THE BURNING PRAIRIE.— Alice Gary. 
 
 The prairie stretched as smooth as a floor. 
 
 As far as the eye could see, 
 And the settler sat at his cabin door, 
 
 With his little girl on his knee; 
 Striving her letters to repeat. 
 And pulling her apron over her feet. 
 
 His face was \yrinkled but not old, 
 
 For he bore an upright form. 
 And his shirt sleeves back to the elbow rolled. 
 
 They showed a brawny arm. 
 And near in the grass with toes upturned. 
 Was a pair of old shoes, cracked and burned. 
 
 A dog with his head betwixt his paws, 
 
 Lay lazily dozing near, 
 Now and then snapping his tar black jaws 
 
 At the fly that buzzed in his ear; 
 And near was the cow-pen, made of rails, 
 And a bench that held two milking pails. 
 
 In the open door an ox-yoke lay. 
 
 The mother's odd redoubt. 
 To keep the little one, at her play 
 
 On the floor, from falling out; 
 While she swept the hearth with a turkey wing. 
 
 And filled her tea-kettle at the spring. 
 
 The little girl on her father's knee. 
 
 With eyes so bright and blue, 
 From A, B, C, to X, Y, Z, 
 
 Had said her lesson through ; 
 When a wind came over the prairie land. 
 And caught the primer out of her hand. 
 
 The watch dog whined, the cattle lowed 
 
 And tossed their horns about, 
 The air grew gray as if it snowed, 
 ' "There will be a storm, no doubt," 
 So to himself the settler said ; 
 " But, fiither, why is the sky so red?" 
 
 The little girl slid ofif his knee, 
 
 And all of a tremble stood ; 
 "Good wife," he cried, "come out and see. 
 
 The skies are as red as blood." 
 IT* 
 
lO ONE UtTNDRED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " God save us !" cried the settler's wife, 
 "The prairie's a-fire, we must.run for life!" 
 
 She caught the biiby up, " Come, 
 Are you mud? to your heels, my man •" 
 
 He followed, terror-stricken, dumb, 
 And so they ran and ran. 
 
 Close upon tlieni was the snort and swing 
 
 Of bufikloes madly galloping. 
 
 The wild wind, like a sower, sows 
 
 The ground with sparkles red; 
 And the flapping wings of the bats and crows. 
 
 And the ashes overhead. 
 And the bellowing deer, and the hissing snake, 
 What a swirl of terrible sounds they uiake. 
 
 No gleam of tlie river water yet, 
 
 And the flames leap on and on, 
 A crash and a fiercer whirl and jet, 
 
 And the settler's house is gone. 
 The air grows hot; "This fluttering curl 
 "Would burn like flax," said the little girL 
 
 And as the smoke against her drifts. 
 
 And the lizird slips close by her. 
 She tells how the little cow uplifts 
 
 Her speckled face from the fire ; 
 For she cannot be hindered from looking back 
 At the fiery dragon on their track. 
 
 They hear the crackling grass and sedge, 
 
 The flames as tliey whir and rave, 
 On, on ! they are close to the water's edge, — 
 
 They are breast-deep in the wave; 
 And lifting their little one high o'er the tide, 
 "We arc saved, thank God, we are saved!" they cried. 
 
 JO.VN OF ARC— TnoMAsDEQuiNCEY. 
 
 What is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of 
 the poor shepherd-girl from the hills and forests of Lor- 
 raine, that, like the Hebrew shepherd-boy from the hills 
 and forests of Jiidea, rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of 
 the safety, out ot the religions inspiration, rooted in deep 
 pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, and 
 
NUM BERT II REE. 11 
 
 to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? 
 The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an ad, 
 by a victorious act, such as no man could deny. But so did 
 the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by 
 those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to 
 the boy as no pretender : but so they did to the gentle girl. 
 Judged by the voices of all who saw them from a station of 
 good-mil, both were found true and loyal to any promises in- 
 volved in their^first acts. Enemies it was that made the 
 difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose, 
 — to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and 
 public, that rang through the records of his people, and be- 
 came a by-word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, 
 until the sceptre was departing from Judah. The poor, for- 
 saken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that 
 cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never 
 sang together with the songs that rose in her native Doni- 
 remy, as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She 
 mingled not in the festal dances of Vancouleurs, which 
 celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No! for 
 her voice was then silent. No ! for her feet were dust. 
 
 Pure, innocent, noble hearted girl! whom, from earliest 
 youth, ever I believed in as full of truth and self-sacrifice, 
 this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy side, that 
 never once — no, not for a moment of weakness— didst thou 
 revel in the vision of coronets and honor from man. Cor- 
 onets for thee? Oh, no! Honors, if they come when all 
 is over, are for those that share thy blood. Daughter of 
 Domremy, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken 
 thon wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, king 
 of France, but she will not hear thee ! Cite her by thy ap- 
 paritors to come and receive a robe of honor, but she will 
 be found en contumace. When the thunders of universal 
 France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the grand- 
 eur of the poor shepherd -girl that gave up all for her conn- 
 try, thy ear, young shepherd-girl, will have been deaf for 
 five centuries. 
 
 To suflTer and to do, that was thy portion in this life : to 
 du,— never for thyself, always for others; to 8u/er,— nevei 
 in the persons of generous champions, always in thy own ; 
 
12 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 that was thy destiny, and not for a moment was it hidden 
 from thyself. "Life," thou saidst, "is short, and the sleep 
 which is in the grave is long. Let me use tjjat life, so tran- 
 sitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to 
 comfort the sleep which is so long.'' 
 
 Pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self-inter- 
 est, even as she was pure in senses more obvious, never once 
 did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her be- 
 lief in the darkness that was traveling to meet her. She 
 might not prefigure the very manner of her death ; she saw 
 not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaf- 
 fold, the spectators without end, on every road, pouring 
 into Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the vol- 
 leying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye 
 that lurked but here and there until nature and imperish- 
 able truth broke loose from artificial restraints ; these might 
 not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future, 
 but the voice that called her to death, that she heard forever. 
 
 Great was the throne of France even in those days, and 
 great was he that sat upon it ; but well Joan knew that not 
 the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her ; but, on the 
 contrary, that she was for them : not she by them, but they 
 by her, should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies 
 of France, and for centuries -had the privilege to spread 
 their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, 
 the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but 
 well Joan knew, early at Domremy she had read that bit- 
 ter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no gar- 
 land for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever 
 bloom for her. 
 
 PRAYING FOR RAIN.— Peter Pixdar. 
 
 How difficult, alas! to please mankind ! 
 
 One or tlie other every moment mutters; 
 This wants an eastern, that a western wind; 
 
 A third, petition for a southern utters. 
 Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow, 
 How can heaven suit all palates?— I don't know. 
 
K UMBER THREE. IJ 
 
 Good Lamb, the curate, much approved. 
 Indeed, by all his flock beloved, 
 
 Was one dry summer begged to pray for raiji , 
 The parson most devoutly j)rayed ; — 
 The powers of prayer were soon displayed ; 
 
 Immediately a torrent drenched the- plain. 
 
 It chanced that the church-warden, Robin Jay, 
 Had of his meadow not yet saved the hay : 
 
 Thus was his hay to health quite past restoring. 
 It happened foo that Robin was from home; 
 But when he heard the story, in a foam 
 
 He sought the parson, like a lion roaring. 
 
 "Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what hi>ve vou been Aoing? 
 A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing! 
 
 What ! pray for rain before I save;! my hay ! 
 Oh! you're a cruel and ungrateful man ! 
 I, that forever help you all I can. 
 
 Ask you to dine with me and Mi^itress Jay 
 AVhenever we have something on the spit, 
 Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit; 
 
 "Send you a goose, a pair of chicken, 
 Whose bones you are so fond of picking; 
 
 And often too, a keg of brandy ; 
 You, that were welcome to a treat. 
 To smoke and chat, and drink and eat; 
 
 Making my house so very handy! 
 
 " You, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick ! 
 Zonnds! you must have tlie bowels of Old Nick. 
 What ! bring the flood of Noah from the skies. 
 With my fine field of hay before your eyes! 
 A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware, — 
 Hang me ! but I had stopped your pretty prayer !'' 
 " Dear Mister Jay," quoth Lamb, " alas ! alas ! 
 I never thought upon your field of grass." 
 
 "Oh! parson, you're a fool, one might suppose,— 
 Was not the field just underneath your nose? 
 This is a very pretty losing job !" 
 "Sir," quoth the cura.te, " know that Harry Cobb, 
 
 Your brother warden joined to have the prayer." 
 " Cobb! Cobb ! why this for Cobb was only sport ; 
 What doth Cobb own that any rain can hurt?" 
 
 Roared furious Jay, as broad as he could staro. 
 
1 14 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 "The fellow owns, as far as I can lam, 
 
 A few old houses only, and a barn ; 
 
 As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to him? 
 
 Not Noah's flood could make his trumpery swim. 
 
 Besides, why could you not for drizzle pray? 
 
 Why force it down in buckets on the hay? 
 
 Would I have played with your hay such a freak? 
 
 No • I'd have stopped the weather for a week." 
 
 " Dear Mister Jay, I do protest 
 I acted solely for the best ; 
 
 I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed. 
 Your anger for this once restrain, 
 I'll never bring a drop again 
 
 Till you and all the parish are agreed." 
 
 RING THE BELL SOFTLY.— Dexter Smith. 
 
 Some one has gone from this strange world of ours, 
 No more to gather its thorns with its flowers ; 
 No more to linger where sunbeams must fade. 
 Where on all beauty death's fingers are laid; 
 AVeary with mingling life's bitter and sweet. 
 Weary with parting and never to meet, 
 Some one has gone to the bright golden shore; 
 King the bell softly, there's crape on the door! ■ 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door! 
 
 Some one is resting from sorrow and sin, 
 
 Happy where earth's conflicts enter not in. 
 
 Joyous as birds when the morning is bright, 
 
 When the sweet sunbeams have brought us their light. 
 
 Weary with sowing and never to reap. 
 
 Weary with labor, and welcoming sleep. 
 
 Some one's departed to heaven's bright shore; 
 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door! 
 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door! 
 
 Angels were anxiously longing to meet 
 One who walks with them in heaven's bright street; 
 Loved ones have wliisperfd tbat some one is blest, — 
 Free from earth's trials and taking sweet rest. 
 Yes! there is one more in angelic- bliss, — 
 One less to cherish and one less to kiss; 
 One more departed to heaven's bright shore; 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door! 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door I 
 
NUMBER TIIKEE. 15 
 
 THE POLISH BOY— Ann S. Stephens. 
 
 Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, 
 
 That cut, like blades of steel, the air. 
 Causing the creeping blood to chill 
 
 With the sharp cadence of despair? 
 Again 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 altai, raised for private prayer, 
 
 Now forms the warrior's marble bed 
 
 AVho 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. 
 
 With pallid lip and stony brow 
 She murmurs forth her anguish now. 
 But hark 1 the tramp of heavy feet 
 Is heard along the bloody street; 
 Nearer and nearer yet they come, 
 With clanking arms and noiseless drum. 
 Now whispered curses, low and deep. 
 Around the holy temple creep; 
 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 clasped her child; 
 
IG ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, 
 
 Shouted witli fearful energy, 
 
 " Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread 
 
 Too near tlie body of my dead; 
 
 Nor touch the living boy; I stand 
 
 Between him and your lawless band. 
 
 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 )iale boy from her side, 
 
 And in his ruffian grasp he bore 
 
 His victim tD the temple, door. 
 
 "One moment!" shrieked the mother; "onel 
 
 Will land or gold redeem my son? 
 
 Take heritage, take name, take all, 
 
 But leave him free from Russian thrall; 
 
 Take these!" and her white arms and hands 
 
 She stripped of rings and diamond bands, 
 
 And tore from braids of long black hair 
 
 The gems that gleamed like starlight there; 
 
 Her cross of blazing rubies, last, 
 
 Down at the Russian's feet she cast. 
 
 He stooped to seize the glittering store; — 
 
 Up springing from the marble floor, 
 
 The mother, with a crj' of joy. 
 
 Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. 
 
 But no! the Russian's iron grasp 
 
 Again undid the mother's clasp. 
 
 Forward she fell, with one long cry 
 
 Of more than mortal agony. 
 
 But the brave 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 yet so bright. 
 Seems kindled 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 turned upon the wondering band: 
 
NUMBER THREE. 17 
 
 "Ye hold me not! no! no, nor car. ; 
 This hour lias made the boy a man ; 
 I knelt before 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, 
 Hath done the work of years for me!" 
 
 He drew aside his broidered vest, 
 
 And there* like shinibering serpent's crest, 
 
 The jeweled haft of poniard bright 
 
 Glittered a moment on the sight. 
 
 "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knavol 
 
 Think ye my noble father's glaive 
 
 Would drink the life-blood of a slave? 
 
 The pearls that on the hanille flame 
 
 Would blush to rubies in their shame; 
 
 The blade would quiver in thy breast 
 
 Ashamed of such ignoble rest. 
 
 No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain. 
 
 And fling him back a boy's disdain!" 
 
 A moment, and the funeral light 
 Flashed on the jeweled weapon briciht; 
 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 freel 
 Tlie choice was death or slavery. 
 Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! 
 His freedom is forever won ; 
 And now he waits one holy kiss 
 To bear his father home in bliss, 
 One last embrace, one blessing,^ono! 
 To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. 
 Wliat! silent yet? Canst thou not feel 
 My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? 
 Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! 
 What! silent still? Then art thou dead! 
 
 Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I 
 
 Rejoice with thee,— and thus— to die." 
 
 One long, deep breath, and his pale head 
 Lay on his mother's bosom, — dead. 
 
OXE UUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS. 
 
 IDEAS THi ^Ib'K OF A PEOPLK— George W. Cortis. 
 
 The leaders of our Revolution were men of whom the 
 simple truth is the highest praise. Of every condition in 
 life, they were singularly sagacious, sober, and thoughtful. 
 Lord Chatham spoke only the truth when he said to Frank- 
 lin, of the men who composed the first colonial Congress: 
 "The Congress is the most houorahle assembly of statesmen 
 since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the most 
 virtuous times." Given to grave reflection, they were neither 
 dreamers nor visionaries, and they were much too earnest 
 to be rhetoricians. It is a curious fact, that they were gen- 
 erally men of so calm a temper that they lived to extreme 
 age. With the exception of Patrick Penry and Samuel 
 Adams, they were most of them profound scholars, and 
 studied the history of mankind that they might know men. 
 They were so familiar with the lives and thoughts of the 
 wisest and best minds of the past thataclassic aroma hangs 
 about their writings and their speech; and they were pro- 
 foundly convinced of what statesmen always know, and 
 "the adroitest mere politicians never perceive, — that ideas 
 are the life of a people; that the conscience, not the pocket, 
 is the real citadel of a nation, and that when you have 
 debauched and demoralized that conscience by teaching 
 that there are no natural rights, and that therefore there 
 is no moral right or wrong in political action, you have 
 poisoned the wells and rotted the crops in the ground. 
 
 The three greatest living statesmen of England knew this 
 also. Edmund Burke knew it, and Cliarles James Fox, 
 and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. But they did not 
 speak for the King, or Parliament, or the English nation. 
 Lord Gower spoke for them when he said in Parliament: 
 "Let the Americans talk about their natural and divine 
 rights; their rights as men and citizens; their rights from 
 God and nature! I am for enforcing these measures." My 
 lord was contemptuous, and the King liircd the Hessians, 
 but the truth remained true. The Fathers saw the scarlet 
 soldiers swarming over the sea, but more steadily they saw 
 that national progress had been secure only in the degree 
 
NUMBER THREE. 19 
 
 that the political system had conformed to natural justice. 
 They knew the coming wreck of property and trade, but 
 they knew more surely that Rome was ni'ver so rich as 
 when she was dying, and, on the other hand, the Nether- 
 lands, never so i)owerful as when they were poorest. Far- 
 ther away, they read the names of Assyria, Greece, Egypt. 
 They had art, opulence, splendor. Corn enough grew in 
 the valley of the Nile. The Syrian sword was as sharp as 
 any. They wei;p merchant princes, and the clouds in the 
 sky were rivaled by their sails upoji the sea. They were 
 soldiers, and their frown frightened the world. 
 
 "Soul, take thine ease," those empires said, languid with 
 excess of luxury and life. Yes: but you remember the 
 king who had built his grandest palace, and was to occupy 
 it upon the morrow; but when the morrow came the palace 
 was a pile of ruins. " Woe is me !" cried the King, " who is 
 guilty of this crime?" "There is no crime," replied the 
 sage at his side ; but the mortar was made of sand and water 
 only, and the builders forgot to put in the lime." So fell 
 the old empires, because the governors forgot to put justice 
 into their governments. 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.— Johm G. Saxe. 
 
 1 cannot vouch my tale is true, 
 Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new; 
 But true or false, or new or old, 
 I think j'ou'U find it fairly told. 
 A Frenchman, who had ne'er before 
 Set foot upon a foreign shore. 
 Weary of home, resolved to go 
 And see what Holland had to show. 
 He didn't know a word of Dutch, 
 But that could hardly grieve him much ; 
 He thought, as Frenchmen always do, 
 That all the world could " parley-voo." 
 At length our eager tourist stands 
 Within the famous Netherlands, 
 And, strolling gaily here and there. 
 In search of something rich or rare, 
 A lordly mansion greets his eyes: 
 "How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries, 
 
20 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIOXS 
 
 And, bowing to the man who sate 
 
 In livery at the garden gate, 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please. 
 
 Whose very charming grounds are these? 
 
 And, pardon me, be pleased to tell 
 
 Who in this splendid house may dwell?" 
 
 To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man 
 
 Eeplied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann."* 
 
 "Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste 
 
 Is equally superb and chaste ; 
 
 So fine a house, upon my word. 
 
 Not even Paris can afford. 
 
 With statues, too, in every niche; 
 
 Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich, 
 
 And lives, I warrant, like a king,— 
 
 Ah! wealth must be a charming thing!" 
 
 In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets 
 
 A thousand wonders in the streets. 
 
 But most he marvels to behold 
 
 A lady dressed in silk and gold ; 
 
 Gazing with rapture on the dame, 
 
 He begs to know the lady's name, 
 
 And hears, to raise his wonder more, 
 
 The very words he heard before! 
 
 "Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life, 
 
 Milord has got a charming wife; 
 
 'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann 
 
 Must be a very happy man." 
 
 Next day our tourist chanced to pop 
 His head within a lottery shop. 
 And there he saw, with staring eyes, 
 The drawing of the mammoth prize. 
 "Ten millions! 'tis a pretty snm; 
 I wish I had as much at home : 
 I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner. 
 What lucky fellow is the winner?" 
 Conceive our traveler's amaze 
 To hear again the hackneyed phrase. 
 "What? no! not Nick Van Stann again? 
 Faith! he's the luckiest of men. 
 You m;xy be siire we don't advance 
 
 Wo rapidly as that in France: 
 
 »Kicht Terstehen,— I don't undeistand. 
 
NUMBEIt TItKEE. 21 
 
 A house, the finest in the land; 
 
 A lovely garden, nicely pWnned; 
 
 A perfect angel of a wife, 
 
 And gold enough to last a life; 
 
 There never yet was mortal man 
 
 Ho blest as Monsieur ISiick Van Stann! 
 
 Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet 
 
 A pompous funeral in the street; 
 
 And, asking one who stood close bj' 
 
 What noblSman had pleased to die, 
 
 Was stunned to hear the old reply. 
 
 The Frenchman sighed and shook his head, 
 
 "Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead; 
 
 With such a liouse, and such a wife, 
 
 It must be hard to part with life; 
 
 And then, to lose that mammotli prize, — 
 
 He wins, and, pop, — the winner dies! 
 
 Ah, well! his blessings came so fast, 
 
 I greatly feared they could not last : 
 
 And thus, we see, the sword of Fate 
 
 Cuts down alike the small and great. 
 
 BUM'S MANIAC— T. W. Nott. 
 
 Why am I thus? the maniac cried, 
 Confined mid crazy people? Why? 
 
 1 am not mad, — knave, stand aside! 
 I'll have my freedom, or I'll die; 
 
 It's not for cure that here I've come; 
 
 I tell thee, all I want is rum, — 
 I must hj,ve rum I 
 
 Sane? yes, and have been all the while; 
 
 Why, then, tormented thus? 'Tis sad : 
 Why chained, and held in duress vile? 
 
 The men who brought me here were mad; 
 I will not stay where spectres come ; 
 Let me go home ; I must have rum,— 
 I must have rum! 
 
 'Tis he! 'tis he! my aged sire! 
 
 What has disturbed thee in thy grave? 
 Why bend on me that eye of fire? 
 
 Why torment, since thou canst not save? 
 
22 ONE HUNBEED CHOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 Back to the cliurch-yard whence you've corns I 
 Eeturn, return! but send me ruin, — 
 Oh, send me rum! 
 
 Why is my mother musing there, 
 
 On that same consecrated spot 
 Where once she taught me words of prayer? 
 
 But now she hears, she heeds me not. 
 Mute in her winding-sheet she stands; 
 Cold, cold, I feel her icy hands, — 
 Her icy hands! 
 
 She's vanished; but a dearer friend,— 
 
 I know her by her angel smile, — 
 Has come her partjier to attend. 
 
 His hours of misery to beguile; 
 Haste, haste! loved one, and set me free; 
 'Twere heaven to 'scape from hence to thee, — 
 From hence to thee. 
 
 She does not hear; away she flies. 
 
 Regardless of the chain I wear, 
 Bark to her mansion in the skies, 
 
 To dwell with kindred spirits there. 
 Why lias she gone? Why did she come? 
 
 OGod, I'm ruined! Give me rum. 
 Oh, give me rum! 
 
 Hark, hark ! for bread my children crj', 
 
 A cry that drinks my spirits up; 
 But 'tis in vaiu, in vain to try; 
 
 Oh, give me back the drunkard's cup! 
 My lips are parched, my heart is sad ; 
 This cursed chain! 'twill make me mad, — 
 'Twill make me mad! 
 
 It won't wash out, that crimson stain ! 
 
 I've scoured those spots, and made them white; 
 Blood reappears again, again. 
 
 Soon as the morning brings the light! 
 When from my sleepless couch I come, 
 To see, to feel, — oh, give me rum ! 
 I must have rum. 
 
 Twas there I heard his piteous cry. 
 
 And saw liis last imploring look, 
 But steeled my heart, and bade him die, 
 
 Then frouihim golden treasures took; ■ 
 
N U M li r. 11 THREE. 23 
 
 Accursed treasure I stinted sum! 
 Kuw.ird of guilt! Give, give ine rum! 
 Oil, give me mm! 
 
 llurli ! still I hear that piteous wail ; 
 
 JJefore my ej'es his spectre stands; 
 And when it frowns on me I quail! 
 
 Oh, I would fly to other lands; 
 But, that pursuing, there 'twould come; 
 There's no escape! Oh, give mu rum, — 
 Oh, give^me rum! 
 
 Guard, guard those windows! bar that door! 
 
 Yonder I armed bandits see! 
 They've rubbed my house of till its store, 
 
 And now return to mnnler nic; 
 
 TlK'y're breaking in; dojj't let them come! 
 Drive, drive them hence! but give me rum, — 
 Oh, give me rum! 
 
 See how that rug those reptiles soil; 
 
 They're crawling o'er me in my bed; 
 I feel their clammy, snaky coil 
 
 On every limb, — around my head; 
 With forked tongue I see them play; 
 I hear them hiss; — tear them away, — 
 Tear them away! 
 
 A fiend! a fiend, with many a dart, 
 
 (ilares on me with his bloodshot eye. 
 And aims his missiles at my heart, — 
 
 Oh! whither, whither shall I fly? 
 Fly? No, it is no time for flight; 
 Fiend! I know thy hellish purpose well; 
 Avaunt! avaunt, thou hated sprite, 
 
 And hie thee to thy native hell! 
 
 He's gone, he's gone! and I am free: 
 
 He's gone, the faithless, braggart liar; 
 He said he'd come to summon me — 
 
 See there again, my bed's on fire! 
 Fire! water! help! Oh haste, 1 die! 
 
 The flames are kindling round my head! 
 This smoke!— I'm strangling!— cannot fly! 
 
 Oh! snatch me from this burning bed! 
 
 There, there, again! that demon's therv, 
 Crouching to make a fresh attack ; 
 R 
 
24 ONE HDNDUED CUOICB SELECTIONS 
 
 See how his flaming eyeballs glare! 
 
 Thou fiend of fiends, what's brought thee back? 
 Back in thy car? for whom? for where? 
 
 He smiles, he beckons me to come : 
 Wliat are tliose words thou'st written there? 
 
 " In hell they never want for rum !" 
 
 Not want for rum? Read that again! 
 
 I feel the spell! haste, drive me down 
 Where rum is free, where revtiers reign 
 
 And I can wear the drunkard's crown. 
 
 Accept thy proffer, fiend? I will; 
 
 And to thy drunken banquet come ; 
 Fill the great cauldron from thy still 
 
 With boiling, burning, fiery rum. 
 There will I quench this horrid thirst; 
 
 With boon companions drink and dwell; 
 Nor plead for rum, as here I must, — 
 
 There's liberty to drink in hell. 
 
 Tims raved that maniac rum had made; 
 
 Then, starting from his haunted bed, 
 Oil, on ! j'e demons, on ! he said. 
 
 Then silent sunk, — his soul had fled. 
 
 MY BEAUTIFUL CHILD.— W. A. H. Sigocknet. 
 
 Beautiful child! by thy mother's knee, 
 
 In the golden future what wilt thou be? 
 
 Angel or demon, or god sublime. 
 
 Upas of evil, or flower of time? 
 Dashing, flashing, madly down, 
 Weaving of horror a fairy crown; 
 
 Or gliding on in a shining track. 
 
 Like the kingly sun that ne'er looks back? 
 • Daintiest dreamer that ever smiled! 
 
 What wilt thou be, my beautiful child? 
 
 Beautiful child ! in my garden bowers. 
 Friend of the butterflies, birds, and flowers; 
 Crystal and pure as the sparkling stream, 
 Goodness and truth in thy features beam. 
 Brighter, whiter soul than thine 
 Never was seen in a mortal shrine. 
 
NUMBERTimEE. 25 
 
 "My liearl tliou liast gladdeneJ (wo sweet years, 
 With rafiibows of liope suffused my tears; 
 Wherever thy sunny smile dolli fall, 
 The glory of God beams over all. 
 
 Beautiful child ! to thy look is given 
 A purity less of earth than heaven, 
 With thy tell-tale eyes and ])ratlling tongue, 
 I wish thou couldst ever thus be young. 
 
 Tripping, skipping, humming bird, 
 
 Everywhere thy voice is heard ; 
 In the garden nooks thou oft art found. 
 With flowers thy bosom and neck around ; 
 And wlien at thy prayers, with figure quaint, 
 Oh! how I love thee, my infant saint! 
 
 Beautiful child! what thy fate shall be 
 
 Is wisely hidden, perchance, from nje. 
 
 A fallen star thou mayst leave ray side. 
 
 And sorrow and shame may thee betide: 
 Shivering, quivering, through the street. 
 Wretched, down-trampled, cursed, and beat; 
 
 Ashamed to live, and afraid to die. 
 
 No home, no friend, and a frowning sky. 
 
 Mer'.;iful Father! my brain grows wild; 
 
 Good angels guard my beautiful child! 
 
 Beautiful child! thou mayst soar above, 
 
 A warbling cherub of joy and love; 
 
 A wave on eternity's mighty sea; 
 
 A blossom on life's immortal tree; 
 Flowering, towering, evermore, 
 'Mid vernal airs of the golden shore. 
 
 Oh! as I gaze on thy sinless bloom, 
 
 And thy radiant face that laughs at gloom, 
 
 I pray God keep thee thus undefiled; 
 
 I pray Heaven bless my beautiful child. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A SERMON ON THE DEATH OP 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN.— Henry Waed Beecher. 
 
 Republican institutions have been vindicated in this px- 
 
 perieni'e as they never were before; and the whole history 
 
 of the last four years, rounded up by this cruel stroke, seems, 
 
 in the providence of God, to have been clothed, now, with 
 
 18 ■ 
 
2G ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 an illustration, with ii sympathy, wi!h an aptness, aiid with 
 a sigiiiflcance, sucli as we never could have expected nor 
 imagined. God, 1 think, has said, by the voice of tliis event, 
 to all nations of the earth: "Republican liberty, based upon 
 true Christianity, is firm as the foundation of the globe." 
 
 Even he who now sleeps has, by this event, been (■l<Mhed 
 with new influence. Dead, he speaks to men who now 
 willingly hear what before they refused to listen to. Now 
 his simple and weighty words will be gathered like those 
 of Washington, and your children, and your children's chil- 
 dren, shall be taught to ponder the simplicity and deep 
 wisdom of utterances which, in their time, passed, in party 
 heat, as idle words. Men will receive a new impulse of 
 patrioti.sni for his sake, and will guard with zeal the whole 
 country which he loved so well. I swear you, on the altar 
 of his memory, to bo more faithful to the country for which 
 he has perished. They will, as they follow his hearse, swear 
 a new hatred to that slavery against which he warred, and 
 which, in vanquishing him, has made him a martyr and a 
 conqueror. I swear you, by the memory of this martyr, 
 to hate slavery with an unappeasable hatred. They will 
 admire and imitate the firmness of this man, his inflexible 
 conscience for the right ; and yet his gentleness, as tender 
 as a woman's, his moderation of sjiirit, which not all the 
 heat of party could inflame, nor all the jars and disturban- 
 ces of this country shake out of its place. I swear you to 
 an emulation of his justice, his moderation, and his mercy. 
 You I can comfort ; but how can I speak to that twilight 
 million to whom his name was as the name of an angel of 
 God? There will be wailing in places which no minister 
 shall be able to reach. When, in hovel and in cot, in wood 
 and in wilderness, in the field throughout the South, the 
 dusky children, who looked upon him as that Moses whom 
 God sent before them to lead them out of the land of bond- 
 age, learn that he has fallen, who who shall comfort ttem? O 
 thou Shepherd of Israel, that didst comfort thy people of 
 old, to thy care we commit the helpless, the long-wronged, 
 an<l grieved. 
 
 And now the martyr is .moving in triumphal march, 
 mightier than when alive. The nation rises up at every stage 
 
NUMBEK THREE. 27 
 
 of III;; coming. Cities and states are hid pall-bearors, and 
 tliu cannon beats tliu hours wilh solemn prot;ression. Dead, 
 dead, DKAi), he yet speaketh. Is Washington dead? Is 
 Hampden dead? Is David dead? Is any man that ever 
 was fit to live dead? Disenthralled of flesh, ~and risen in 
 the unobstructed sphere where passion never comes, he 
 begins his inimitable work. His life now is grafted upon 
 the infinite, and will be fruitful as no earthly life can be. 
 Pass on, thou that Jiast overcome ! 
 
 Your sorrows, O people, are his peace! Your bells, and 
 bands, and muffled drums sound triumph in his ear. Wail 
 and weep here; God makes its echo joy and triumph there. 
 Pass on ! 
 
 Four years ago, O Illinois! we took from your midst an 
 untried man, and from among the people. We return him 
 to you a mighty conqueror. Not thine any more, but the 
 nation's; not ours, but the world's. Give him place, ye 
 prairies! 
 
 In the midst of this great continent his dust shall rest, 
 a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine 
 to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that 
 move over the mighty places of the West, chant his requi- 
 em I Ye people, behold a martyr whose blood, as so many 
 articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for liberty ! 
 
 THE MODERN HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT. 
 
 Behold the mansion reared by dsedal Jack. 
 See the malt, stored in many a plethoric sack, 
 In the proud cirque of Ivan's bivouac. 
 Mark how the rat's felonious fangs invade 
 The golden stores in John's pavilion laid. 
 Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides, 
 Subtle grimalkin to his quarry glides,.— 
 Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent 
 Whose tooth insidious Johann's sackcloth rent. 
 Lo! now the deep-mouthed canine foe's assault, 
 That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt; 
 Stored in the hallowed precincts of the hall 
 That rose complete at Jack's creative call. 
 Here stalks the impetuous cow, with crumpled horn, 
 Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn. 
 
28 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast, that Blew 
 The rat predacious, wliose keen fangs ran through 
 The textile fibres that involved the grain 
 That lay in Hans' inviolate domain. 
 Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue, 
 Lfictiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who' drev,', 
 Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn 
 Tossed to the cl»uds, in fierce vindictive scorn, 
 The harrowing hound, whose braggart bark and stir 
 Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fnr 
 Of puss, that with verminicidal claw 
 Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw. 
 Lay reeking malt, that erst in Ivan's courts we saw 
 Robed in senescent garb, that seemed, in sooth. 
 Too long a prey to Clirones' iron tooth. 
 Behold the man whose amorous lips incline, 
 Full with young Eros' osculative sign. 
 To the lorn maiden, whose lact-albiu hands 
 Drew albu-lactic wealth from lacteal glands 
 Of the immortal bovine, by whose horn 
 Distort, to realm ethereal was borne 
 The beast catulean, vexer of that sly 
 Ulysses quadrupedal who made die 
 The old mordacious rat, that dared devour 
 Antecedaneous ale in John's domestic bower. 
 Lo! here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct 
 Of saponaceous locks, the priest who linked 
 In Hymen's golden bands the torn unthrift. 
 Whose means exiguous stared from many a rift. 
 Even as he kissed the virgin all forlorn. 
 Who milked the cow with implicated horn. 
 Who in fine wrath the canine torturer skied, 
 That dared to vex the insidious murricide. 
 Who let the auroral eflBuence through the pelt. 
 Of the sly rat that robbed the palace Jack had built. 
 The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last, 
 Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclewast. 
 Who sealed the vows of Hymen's sacrament 
 To him who, robed in garments indigent, 
 Exosculates the damsel lachrymose. 
 The emulgator of that horned brute morose 
 That tossed the dog that worried the cat that hilt 
 The rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that 
 Jack Luilt. 
 
NUMBER TIinEI!. 2J 
 
 GUAED THINE ACTION.— Sallie Ada Vance, 
 
 When you meet with one suspected 
 
 Of some secret deed of shame. 
 And for this, by all rejected 
 
 As a thing of evil fame, 
 Guard thine every look and action; 
 
 Speak no heartless word of blame; 
 For the slanderer's vile detraction 
 
 Yet may spoil thy goodly name. 
 
 When you meet a brow that's awing 
 
 With its wrinkled lines of gloom, 
 And a haughty step that's drawing 
 
 To a solitary tomb, 
 Guard thine action; some great sorrow 
 
 Made that man a spectre grim. 
 And the sunset of to-morrow 
 
 May have left thee like to him. 
 
 When you meet with one pursuing 
 
 Paths the lost have entered in. 
 Working out his own undoing 
 
 M'ith his recklessness and sin. 
 Think, if placed in his condition. 
 
 Would a kind word be in vain? 
 Or a look of cold suspicion 
 
 Win thee back to truth again? 
 
 There are spots that bear no flowers, — 
 
 Not because the soil is bad. 
 But that summer's gentle showers 
 
 Never made their bosoms glad- 
 Better have an act that's kindly. 
 
 Treated sometimes with disdain, 
 Than, by judging others blindly. 
 
 Doom the innocent to pain. 
 
 THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.— John G. Whittiet!. ^ 
 
 At the terrible fight of Buena Vista, Mexican women were seen hoTcring uear 
 the field of death, fur the purpose of giving aid and anccur to the wounded. 
 One puor woman was found surrounded by the maimed and sufi'ering of both 
 ■Lrmiea, ministering to the wanti of Americans as well as Mexicans with im- 
 partial tenderness. 
 
 Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away. 
 O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, 
 
30 ONE IIUNUKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Who iy losing? who is winning? are tliey f.,r or come 
 
 tliey near? 
 Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm 
 
 we hear. • 
 
 " Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle 
 
 rolls ; 
 Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on 
 
 their souls!" 
 Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over 
 
 plain, 
 I see but smoke of cannon, clouding through the mouni,- 
 
 ain rain.'' 
 Holy Mother, keep our brothers! Look Ximena, look 
 
 once more: 
 "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before. 
 Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot 
 
 and horse, 
 Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its 
 
 mountain course." 
 Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has 
 
 rolled away; 
 And I see the northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of 
 
 gray. 
 Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of 
 
 Minon* wheeU; 
 There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at 
 
 their heels. 
 
 "Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now ad- 
 vance ! 
 Eight against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charg- 
 ing lance! 
 Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot 
 
 together fall; 
 Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them jjloughs 
 the Northern ball." 
 
 Nearer came the storm, and nearer, railing fast and fright- 
 ful on. 
 
 Speak, Ximena, speak, and tell us who has lost_and who 
 has won : 
 
 " Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall ; 
 
 O'er the dying rush the living; pray, my sisters, for them 
 
 alU '_ 
 
K U M D r. K T II K E K. ?>1 
 
 "Lo! the wind the smoko is lifting; Blessed MoUior, save 
 
 my brain! 
 I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from liuups of 
 
 slain ; 
 Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and 
 
 strive to rise ; 
 Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before 
 
 our eyesl 
 
 " Oh, my heart's love ! oh, my dear one 1 lay thy poor head 
 
 on my knee; 
 Dost thou knov the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear 
 
 me? Canst thou see? 
 Oh, my husband, brave ana gentle ! oh, my Bernal, look 
 
 once more 
 On the blessed cross before thee 1 Mercy; mercy! all is o'er."' 
 
 Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down 
 
 to rest ; 
 Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his 
 
 breast. 
 Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses 
 
 said; 
 To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. 
 
 Close beside her, f.untly moaning, fair and young, a sol- 
 dier lay, 
 
 Torn with shot and jjierced with lances, bleeding slow 
 his life away ; 
 
 But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, 
 
 She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt. 
 
 With a stifled crj' of horror straight she turned away her 
 head ; 
 
 With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her 
 dead; 
 
 But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his strug- 
 gling breath of pain. 
 
 And she raised the cooling water to his parched lips again. 
 
 Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and 
 faintly smiled ; 
 
 Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch be- 
 side her child? 
 
 All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart 
 supplied ; 
 
 With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured 
 he and died. 
 
 R» 
 
32 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth 
 From some gentle, sad-eyed motlier, weeping lonely, in 
 
 the North !" 
 Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with 
 
 her dead, ' 
 
 And turned to soothe the living still, and bind the wounds 
 
 which bled. 
 
 Look forth once more, Ximena : " Like a cloud before the 
 wind 
 
 Eolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and 
 death beliiiid ; 
 
 Ah! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the wounded 
 strive ; 
 
 Hide your faces, holy angels! O, thou Christ of God, for- 
 give." 
 
 Sink, Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray 
 
 shadows fall ; 
 Dying bmthers, fighting demons, — drop thy curtain over 
 
 all! 
 Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the 
 
 battle rolled, 
 In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew 
 
 cold. 
 
 But the nobis Mexic women still their holy task pursued, 
 Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn, and faint, 
 
 and lacking food ; 
 Over weak and suflTering brothers with a tender care they 
 
 hung, 
 And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and 
 
 Northern tongue. 
 
 Not wholly lost, Father! is this evil world of onrs; 
 Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the 
 
 Eden flowers; 
 From its smoking hell of battle Love and Pity send their 
 
 prayer, 
 And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air. 
 
 PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S SECOND INAUGURAL AD- 
 DRESS. — March 4th, 1865, — Abkaham Lincoln. 
 
 Fellow CocNTRYMEv : — At this second appearing to take 
 the oath of the presidential offlce, there is less occasion for 
 an extended address than there was at the first'. Then, a 
 
N n M B E R THREE. ii 
 
 statement, somewhat in detail, of a course to be pursiieil 
 seemed very fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of 
 four years, during which public declarations have constanlly 
 been called forth on every point and phase of the great con- 
 test which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the 
 energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. 
 
 The progress of our arms, upon which all else cliieiiy de* 
 pends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it 
 is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. 
 With high hope«for the future, no prediction in regard to 
 it is ventured. On the occasion corresponding to this four 
 years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an im- 
 pending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avoid it. 
 While the inaugural address was being delivered from this 
 place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, 
 insurgent agents were in the (ity seeking to destroy it with- 
 out war, seeking to dissolve the Union, and divide the ef- 
 fects by negotiation. 
 
 Both parties deprecated war; but one of them would 
 make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other 
 would accept war rather than let it perish ; and the war 
 came. 
 
 One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, 
 not distributed generally over the Union, but located in 
 the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar 
 and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was 
 somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, 
 and extend this interest was the object for which the insur- 
 gents would rend the Union by war, while government 
 claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial 
 enlargement of it. Neither party expected the magnitude 
 or the duration which it has already attained. Neither an- 
 ticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease even 
 before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an 
 easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astound- 
 ing. Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same "God, 
 and each invokes his aid against the other. It may seem 
 strange that any man should dare to ask a just God's as- 
 sistance in wringing his bread from the sweat of other men's 
 faces. 
 
34 ONE UUNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 But let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayer 
 of both should not be answered. That of neither has beeji 
 answered fully. The Ahniglity has his own purposes. 
 "Woe unto the world because of offences, for it must needs 
 be that offences como; but woe unto that man by whom 
 the offence cometh." 
 
 If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of these 
 offences, which, in the providence of God, must needs come, 
 but which, having continued through his appointed time, 
 he now wills to remove, and that he gives to both North 
 and South this terrible war as the woe due to tliose by whum 
 the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure 
 fi-oiu those divine attributes which the believers in a living 
 God always ascribe to him? 
 
 Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, tliat thia mighty 
 scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills 
 that it continue until all the wcaltli piled by the bondman's 
 two hundred and fif y years of unrequited toil shall be 
 sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash 
 shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said 
 three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, that the 
 judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. 
 
 With malice towards none, with charity for all, with firm- 
 ness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us 
 strive on, to finish the work we are in, to bind up the na- 
 tion's wound, to care for him who shall have borne the 
 battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to do all which 
 may achieve and cherish a jast and a lasting peace among 
 ourselves and with all nations. 
 
 TIM TUFF.— Edward Capekn. 
 
 Did you ever hear tell of old Timothy Tuff, 
 
 And the bargain he struck with Sir Peregrine Aluff? 
 
 If not, give an ear, and you'll very soon smile 
 
 At.a very sharp trick of a cunning old file. 
 
 Our Tim was a very good fellow, they say. 
 
 For making a "deal" in his own sort of way; 
 
 So |)lacid in manner, so smooth-tongued and civil, 
 
 That he seldom fell out with the very old "divil" ' 
 
Nf JIDEE Til rtKi;. 35 
 
 No matter whatever tlie business or job, 
 
 Or whether he cheated a beggar or " nob," 
 
 His father or brother, or "dear cousin John," 
 
 So lon^ as he minded his great number one. 
 
 Tim's conscience, you see, seldom knew any twitches, 
 
 Since that was as tough as his bnifleathL'i' l)reeches. 
 
 And now, peradventure, you'd like me to draw 
 
 His portrait, as Tim in the market I saw. 
 
 First, then, to begin, he had squinting pig's eyes, 
 
 A pug turn-up nose, and a mouth of huge size; 
 
 Not pleased with one chin, Tinuny always showed two; 
 
 And the old wig lie wore he once bought of a Jew, — 
 
 At a very long credit, if rumor be true. 
 
 Now Tim was not short, and Tim was not tall, 
 
 No giant in girth, and yet not very small; 
 
 A very long coat 'neatli a very broad hat, 
 
 And a waistcoat once black, but now snuffy and fat. 
 
 With a pair of old top-boots once worn by the squire, 
 
 Was tlje "rig"' of bald Timmy, the puffer and liar. 
 
 Just a word about Timothy's trade: 'twas a robber, 
 
 Or somet'hing much like it, a run-about jobber. 
 
 When pigs were in danger of losing their life 
 
 Tim saved the poor creatures by using the knife; 
 
 And if an old "jibber" e'er fell in his way, 
 
 Tim "chopped" an old "kicker," and made his man pay. 
 
 No sheep, howe'er "cawded," no lean "skentered" cow, 
 
 ('Tis true, I declare, what I'm telling you now,) 
 
 But turned him in cash as good mutton or beef. 
 
 And honest men sold all they could to the thief. 
 
 Sir Peregrine Muff was out riding one day, 
 
 On a sweet little pony, a dark colored bay; 
 
 With a sugar-loaf hat, and a vest of bright yellow, 
 
 And a pair of " white ducks," when he met with the fellow, 
 
 Tim saw, by Sir Peregrine's cut of the coat. 
 
 And the tuft that he wore on his chin, like a goat. 
 
 By the rings on his fingers, his necktie and jiin. 
 
 That the dandy young swell was a thing to take in. 
 
 So, eying Sir Peregrine Muff for a while, 
 
 "Good mornin'. yer honor," said Tim, with a smile. 
 
 Sir Peregrine made him a very low bow, 
 
 And asked htm the price of his "nwice-wooking cwow." 
 
 " I'm twi'd of this pwony," Sir Peregrine said, 
 
 "And I thwink I sha' kweep a mwilch cwow in his stwaad. 
 
 What mwilk will she gwive neow, a-day, if I shwop?" 
 
 "Eight quarts," chuckled Tim, "ef he gees orra drop." 
 
36 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Sir Peregrine thouglit, as lie looked at each feature, 
 
 Tliat Criiiupli! appeared such a beautiful creature, 
 
 He offered to give Tim the pony he strode 
 
 If lie would but agree then and there on the road. 
 
 Tim's eyes, like the stars on a cold frosty night. 
 
 Soon twinkled with joy, and quoth he to the knight, 
 
 " 'Tiri hardly enu', yet ef off ee wuU zlip. 
 
 And," greedily eying a silver-knobbed whip, 
 
 " Let me ha'e the bridle and zaddle to boot. 
 
 And the crittur is yours, and as cheap as the 'groot.' 
 
 And, zir, as ez want vor tu git along quick. 
 
 Your whip'll du better, ez thinks, than a stick." 
 
 The bargain was struck, and away galloped Tim, 
 
 And lauglied in his sleeve at Sir Peregrine's whim; 
 
 But as for the baronet, he, in his pride. 
 
 Was driving his cow when his maid he espied. 
 
 Sir Peregrine's brain, ever given to dream. 
 
 Was feasting away on rich visions of cream, 
 
 Wiien thus to his dairymaid, "Ma-awy," said he, 
 
 "Aw vewy fwine cweature indweed, isn't she? ^ 
 
 You'll mwilk her each mworn and you'll mwilk her eacK eve, 
 
 Take cware of her Ma-awy, for neow I must leave."' 
 
 "Gude lawks!'' screamed the dairymaid; "zir, tez a hoj," 
 
 "Dwear me" drawled Sir Peregrine; "hang the old fox." 
 
 DEAD IN THE STREET. 
 
 Under the lamp-light, dead in the street, 
 
 Delicate, fair, and only twenty, 
 There she lies. 
 Face to the skies. 
 
 Starved to death in a city of iilenty. 
 Spurned by all that is pure and sweet, 
 Passed by busy and careless feet ; 
 Hundreds bent upon folly and pleasure. 
 Hundreds with plenty of time and leisure,- 
 Leisure to speed Christ's mission below, 
 
 To teach the erring and raise the lowly. 
 Plenty in Charity's name to show 
 
 That life has something divine and holy. 
 
 Boasted charms, classical brow. 
 Delicate features, look at them now ; 
 
KUMDER TUBEE. S7 
 
 Look at her lips,— once they could smile; 
 Eyes, — well, nevermore shall they beguile ; 
 Nevermore, nevermore words of hers 
 
 A blush shall bring to the saintliest face. 
 She had found, let us hope and trust, 
 
 Peace in a higher and better place. 
 
 And yet, despite "Of all, still I ween 
 Joy of some hearth she must have been. 
 Some fond mother, fond of the task, 
 
 Has stodged to finger the dainty curl; 
 Some proud father has bowed to ask 
 
 A blessing for her, his darling girl. 
 Hard to think, as we look at her there, 
 Of all the tenderness, love, and care, 
 
 Lonely watching, and sore heart-ache, — 
 All the agony, burning tears, 
 Joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, 
 
 Breathed and suffered for her sweet sake. 
 
 Fancy will picture a home afar. 
 Out where the daisies and buttercups are. 
 Out where life-giving breezes flow. 
 Far from those sodden streets, foul and low; 
 Fancy will picture a lonely hearth, 
 And an aged couple, dead to mirth. 
 Kneeling beside a bed to pray, 
 Or lying awake o' nights to hark 
 For things that may come in the rain and dark,— > 
 A hollow-eyed woman with weary feet: 
 
 Better they never know 
 
 She whom they cherished so 
 
 Lies this night lone and low, — 
 Dead in the street. 
 
 MOTHER AND POET.— Elizabeth B. Browning. 
 
 LAURA 8AVIO, OF TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GABTA, 1861, 
 
 Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, 
 And one of them shot in the west by the sea, 
 
 Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast, 
 And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
 Let none look at me! 
 
38 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIUNS 
 
 Yet I was a poetess only last year, 
 
 And good at my art, for a woman, men said; 
 
 But this woman, this, who is agonized here. 
 The east sea and west sea rhyme on in lier head 
 Forever, instead. 
 
 What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain ! 
 
 What art w she good at, but hurting her breast 
 With the milli teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain ? 
 
 Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, 
 And /proud, by that test. 
 
 What art's for a woman? To hold on herltnees 
 Both darlings; to feel all their arnid round her throat 
 
 Cling, strangle a little; to sew by degrees 
 And broider the long clothes and neat little coat; 
 To dream and to doat! 
 
 To teach them . . It stings there! /made them, indeed. 
 Speak plain the word country, /taught them, no doubt, 
 
 Th.it a country's a thing men should die for at need, 
 /prated of liberty, rights, and about 
 The tyrant cast out. 
 
 And when their eyes flashed . . O my beautiful eyes! . . 
 
 /exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels 
 Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise 
 
 When one sitsquite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels! 
 God, how the house feels! 
 
 At first happy news came — in gay letters, moileJ 
 With my kisses — of camp-life and glory, and how 
 
 They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled. 
 In return would fan off every fly from my brow 
 With their green laurel bough. 
 
 Then was triumph at Turin. Ancona was free ! 
 
 And some one came out of the cheers in the street, 
 With a face pale as stone, to say something to me: 
 
 My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet. 
 While they cheered in the street. 
 
 I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime 
 As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 
 
 To be leaned on and walked with, recalling the time 
 When the first fxrcw immortal, while botli of us strained 
 To the height he had gained. 
 
N UMnER TIIUEE. 39 
 
 And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, 
 Writ now but in one hand: 1 was not to faint, — 
 
 One loved mo for two, — would be with me ere long; 
 And, " Viva l' Italia! he died for, — our saint, — 
 Who forbids our complaint." 
 
 My IJanni would add: he was safe, and aware 
 Of a presence that turned oflf the balls, — was impressed 
 
 It was Guida himself, who knew what I could bear, 
 And how 'twaH impossible, quite dispossessed, 
 To live on for the rest. 
 
 On which, without pause, up the telegraph line 
 Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — Shot. 
 
 Tell his mother. Ah, ah, " his," " their" mother, not " mine ;" 
 No voice says "My mother" again to me. What! 
 You think Guide forgot? 
 
 Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, 
 They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? 
 
 I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
 Through that Love qnd Sorrow which reconciled so 
 The Above and Below. 
 
 O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark 
 To the face of thy Mother! consider, I pray. 
 
 How we common mothers stand desolate, mark 
 Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away. 
 And no last word to say. 
 
 Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all 
 
 Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 
 
 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall ; 
 And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done 
 If we have not a son? 
 
 Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken what then? 
 
 When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport 
 Of the fire-balls of death, crashing souls out of men ? 
 
 When the guns of Cavilli, with final retort. 
 Have cut the game short? 
 
 When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, 
 When your flag takesall heaven for its white.green, and red, 
 
 When you have a country from mountain to sea. 
 And King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
 (And I have my dead) — 
 
40 ONE HUNDRED CTIOICB SELECTIONS 
 
 What then? Do not mook me. Ah, ring your bells low, 
 And burn your lights faintly ! My country is tlieie, 
 
 Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow ; 
 My Italy's therb, with my brave civic pair, 
 To disfranchise despair ! 
 
 Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, 
 And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn ; 
 
 But the birth-pangs of nations will wring'us at length 
 Into wail such as this; and we sit on, forlorn, 
 When the man-child is born. 
 
 Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, 
 And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 
 
 Both, both my boys! If, in keeping the feast, 
 You want a great song for your Italy free, 
 Let none look at me! 
 
 THE BELLS OF SHANDON.— Fka.ncis Mahosy. 
 
 With deep affection 
 And recollection 
 I often think of 
 
 Those Shandon bells. 
 Whose sounds so wild would. 
 In the days of childhood. 
 Fling round my cradle 
 
 Their magic spells. 
 
 On this I ponder 
 Where'er I wander. 
 And thus grow fonder, 
 
 Sweet Cork, of thee,— 
 With thy bells of Hhandon, 
 That sound bo grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells chiming 
 Full many a rlime in, 
 Toliiiior sublime in 
 
 Cathedral shrine; 
 While at a glib rate 
 Brass tongues would vibrate; 
 
NUMBER TIIRKE. 41 
 
 But all their iiuisic 
 
 Spoke naught like thine. 
 For memory, dwelling 
 On each proud swelling 
 Of the belfry, knelling 
 
 Its bold notes free, 
 Made the bells c>f Shaiidon 
 Sound far more grand, on 
 The pleasant waters 
 • Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells tolling 
 Old Adrian's Mole in, 
 Their thunder rolling 
 
 From the Vatican ; 
 And cymbals glorious 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets 
 
 Of Notre Dame ; 
 
 But thy sounds were sweeter 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, 
 
 Pealing solemnly. 
 Oh! the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand, on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 There's a bell in Moscow; 
 While on tower and kiosk O 
 In Saint Sophia 
 
 The Turkman gets. 
 And loud in air 
 Calls men to prayer. 
 From the tapering summits 
 
 Of tall minarets. 
 
 Such empty phantom 
 I freely grant them ; 
 But there's an anthem 
 
 More denr to me; 
 'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand, on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
42 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE.— Charles Dickens. 
 
 "I've done now," said Sura, with sliglit embarrassnienit ; 
 "I've been n xvritin'." 
 
 " So I see," rejilied Mr. Weller. " Not to any young 'ooman, 
 I hope, Saminy." 
 
 "Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. "It's a 
 walentine." 
 
 "A what?" exdaimed Mr. Weller, apparently hormr- 
 stricken by the word. 
 
 "A walentine," replied Sam. 
 
 "Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful ac- 
 cents, "I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' 
 you've had o' your fatlier's wicions propensities; arter all 
 I've said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally 
 seein' and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-1 iw, 
 vich I should ha' thought was a moral lesson as no man 
 could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' day! I didn't thii.k 
 you'd ha' done it, Samm)', I didn't think you'd ha done it." 
 These reflections were too much for the good old man ; he 
 raised Sam's tumbler to liis lips and drank off the conten's. 
 
 " Wot's the matter now?" said S.im. 
 
 "Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, "it'll be a wery 
 agonizin' trial to me at my time o' life, but I'm pretty tough, 
 that's vun consolation, as tlie wery old turkey remarked 
 ven the farmer said lie vos afeerd he should be obliged to 
 kill him for the London market." 
 
 " Wot'll be a trial?" inquired Sam. 
 
 "To see you married, Sammy; to see j'ou a deluded wic- 
 tim and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery cajii- 
 tal," replied Mr. Weller. " It's a dreadful trial to a father's 
 feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Sam, " I ain't a goin' to get married, 
 don't you fret yourself about I hat. I know you're a judge o' 
 these things ; order in your pipe, and I'll read you the letter, 
 —there !" 
 
 Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any cor- 
 rections, and besan with a very theatrical air — 
 
 "'Lovely '" 
 
NUMP. i;n TiinKE. 43 
 
 "Stop," said Mr. Wcller, ringing the bell. "A double 
 glass o' the iawariiible, my dear." 
 
 " Very well, sir,'' replied the girl, who with great quick- 
 ness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappiared. 
 "They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam. 
 "Yes," replied his tn.her, "I've been here before, in my 
 time. Go on, Sammy." 
 " 'Lovely creetur',' " repeated Sam. 
 "'Taint in Rpetry, is it?" interposed the father. 
 " No, no," replied Sam. 
 
 "Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. AVcller. "Poetry's un- 
 nat'ral. No man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on 
 boxin' day, or Warren's blackin' or Ilowliuul's oil, or some 
 o' them low fellows. Never you let yourself down to talk 
 poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy." 
 
 Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and 
 Sam once more commenced and read as follows: 
 " 'Lovely creetur' i feel myself a damned' " — 
 "That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from 
 his mouth. 
 
 "No: it ain't damned," observed Sam, holding the letter 
 up to the light, "it's 'shamed,' there's a blot there; 'i feel 
 myself ashamed.' " 
 " Wery good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on." 
 "'Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir — .' I forget 
 wot this 'ere word is, " said Sam, scratching his head with 
 the pen, in vain attempts to remember. 
 "Why don't you look at it, then?" inquired Mr. Weller. 
 "So I am a lookin' at it," replied Sam, " but there's another 
 blot: here's a 'c,' and a 'i', and a 'd.' " 
 "Circumwented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller. 
 " No, it ain't that," said Sara : " ' circumscribed,' that's it." 
 "That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," 
 Bai<l Mr. Weller, gravely. 
 "Think not?" said Sam. 
 "Nothin' like it," replied his father. 
 "But don't you think it means more?" inquired Sam. 
 " Veil, p'rhaps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, 
 aftei- a few moments' reflection. " Go on, Sammy." 
 " ' Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in 
 
44 ONE IIUNDRKD CHOICE SELUCTIOXS 
 
 a dressiii' of you, for you are a niue gal and iiothhi' but il."' 
 
 "Tliat's a wery i>retty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Wei- 
 ler, removing his pipe to make way for the remark. 
 
 "Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly 
 flattered. 
 
 " Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin','' said the elder 
 Mr. Welter, "is, that there ain't no callin' names in it, — no 
 Wenuses, nor nothin'. o' that kind; wot's the good o' callin' 
 a young 'oomaii a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?" 
 
 "Ah! what indeed?" replied Sam. 
 
 "You might just as veil call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or 
 a king's arms at once, which is wery veil known to be a col- 
 lection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller. 
 
 "Just as well," replied Sam. 
 
 " Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. 
 
 Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows: 
 his father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of 
 wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying. 
 
 "'Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.' " 
 
 "So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parentheti- 
 cally. 
 
 " 'But now,' " continued Sam, " 'now i find what a re^'lar 
 soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip i must ha' been, for there 
 ain't nobody like you, though i like you better than nothin' 
 at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said 
 Sam, looking up. 
 
 Mr. Weller nodded approvinglv, and Sam resumed. 
 
 " ' So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as 
 the gen'lem'u in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sun- 
 day, — to tell you that the first and only time i see you your 
 likeness wos took on my hart in much quicker time and 
 brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken by the profeel 
 macheen (wich p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my 
 dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and 
 glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by, 
 and all in two minutes and a quarter.' " 
 
 " I am afeerd that werges on the jioetiaal, Sammy," said 
 Mr. Weller, dnbiously. 
 
 "No it don't," replied Sara, reading on very quickly to 
 avoid contesting the point. 
 
NVMUEli TIIREB. 4S 
 
 "'Except of me Mary my dear as your walentint!, a, id 
 think over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now con- 
 clude.' That's all," said Sam. 
 
 "That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy?" in- 
 quired Mr. Weller. 
 
 "Not a bit on it," said Sam: "she'll vish there wos more, 
 and that's the great art o' letter writin'." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that: and 
 I wish your mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersa- 
 tion on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to 
 sign it?" 
 
 "That's the difficulty," said Sam; "I don't know what to 
 sign it." 
 
 " Sign it— Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of 
 that name. 
 
 "Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with 
 your own name." 
 
 "Sign it Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller; "it's a wery 
 good name, and a easy one to spell." 
 
 "The wery thing," said Sam. " I could end with a werse: 
 what do you think 1" 
 
 "I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never 
 know'd a respectable coSchman as wi»3te poetry, 'cept one 
 as made an aflFectin' copy o' werses the night afore lie woa 
 hung for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell 
 man, so even that's no rule." 
 
 But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea 
 that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter, — 
 " Your love-sick 
 Pickwick." 
 
 THE LOVED AND LOST, 
 
 "The loved and lost !" Why do we call them lostT 
 
 Because we miss them from our onward road. 
 God's unseen angel o'er our pathway crossed. 
 Looked on us all, ami, loving them the most, 
 Straightway relieved them from life's weary load. 
 
46 ONE IIUNDUED CHOICE SELT-CTIu^S 
 
 They arc not lost; they are within the door 
 Tliat shuts out loss and every hurtful thing, — 
 
 With angels tiriglit, and loved ones gone before, 
 
 In the Redeemer's presence evermore, 
 And God himself, their Lord their Judge and King. 
 
 And this wo call a loss! O selfish sorrow 
 
 Of selfish liearts ! O we of little fiiith ! 
 Let US look round, some argument to borrow. 
 Why we in patience should await the morrow 
 
 That surely must succeed the night of death. 
 
 Aye, look upon this dreary, desert path, 
 
 The thorns and thistles wheresoe'er we turn; 
 AVhat trials and what tears, what wrongs and wrath, 
 What struggles and what strife the journey hath! 
 They have escaped from these; and lol we mourn. 
 
 Ask the poor sailor, when the wreck is done, 
 
 Who, with his treasure, strove the shore to reach, 
 While with the raging waves he battled on. 
 Was it not joy, where every joy seemed gone. 
 To see his loved ones landed on the beach? 
 
 A poor wayfarer, leading by ^he hand 
 
 A little child, had halted by the well 
 To wash from off her feet the olinging sand, 
 And tell the tired boy of that bright land 
 
 Where, this long journey past, they longed to dwell ; 
 
 When lo ! the Lord, who many mansions had, 
 Drew near, and looked upon the suffering twain ; 
 
 Then, pitying, spake, "Give me the little lad; 
 
 In strength renewed, ami glorious beauty clad, 
 I'll bring him with me when I come again." 
 
 Did she make answer, selfishly .and wrong, 
 
 "Nay, but the woes I feel he too must share?" 
 Or, rather, bursting into grateful song, 
 She went her way rejoicing, and made strong 
 To struggle on, since he was freed from care! 
 
 We will do likewise; Death hath made no breach 
 In love and sympathy, in hope and trust ; 
 
 No outward sign or sound eur ears can reach, 
 
 I?\it there's an inward, spiritual speech 
 Tli.it greets us still, though mortal toiigues be dust. 
 
NUMBER Til", r.E. 4.7 
 
 It bids us do the work that they laid down, — 
 
 Take up the song where they broke off the strain; 
 So journeying, till we reach the heavenly tow^n. 
 Where are laid up our treasure and our crown, 
 And our lost loved ones will be found again. 
 
 THE LAST JOURNEY.-Caiioi.jnk A, Soutukv. 
 
 Slowlys witli measured tread. 
 Onward we bear the dead 
 
 To his lone home; 
 Short grows the homow.ird road; 
 On with your mortal load J 
 
 O gravel we come 
 
 Yet, yet, — ah ! hasten not 
 Past each remembered spot 
 • Where he hath been, — 
 Where late he walked in gl««. 
 These from henceforth to be 
 Never more seen. 
 
 Rest ye; set down the bier! 
 One he loved dwolleth here; 
 
 Let the dead lie 
 A moment that door besidw. 
 Wont to fly open wide 
 
 Ere he drew niglu 
 
 Hearken ! he speaketh yet! 
 "O friend! wilt th6u forget 
 
 (Friend, — more than brother') 
 How hand in Jiand wo've gone, 
 Heart with heart linked in one,— 
 
 All to each other? 
 
 "0 friend! I go from thee, 
 Where the worm feasteth free. 
 
 Darkly to dwell, 
 Giv'st thou no parting kiss? 
 Friend! is it come to this? 
 
 O friend, farewell !" 
 
 Uplift your load again ; 
 Take up the mourning strais* 
 Pour the deep wail! 
 
 S 
 
48 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Lo! the expected one 
 To his place passeth on ; 
 Grave, bid him hail ! 
 
 Yet, yet, — ah slowly move! 
 Bear not the form we love 
 
 Fast from our sight ; 
 Let the air breathe on hiro. 
 And the sun beam on liin;t 
 
 Last looks of light. 
 
 Here dwells his mortal foe; 
 Lay the departed low. 
 
 Even at his gate I 
 Will the dead speak again. 
 Uttering pi-oud boasts, antl vain 
 
 Last words of hate ? 
 
 Lo! the cold lips nnrlose, — 
 
 List ! list ! what sounds are tbose^ 
 
 Plaintive and low? 
 " O thou, mine enemy. 
 Come forth and look on me. 
 
 Ere hence 1 go. 
 
 "Curse not thy foeman now, — 
 Mark ! on his pallid brow 
 
 Whose seal is set I 
 Pardoning I pass thy way; 
 Then wage not war with clay, — 
 
 Pardon,— forget !" 
 
 Now all his labor's done? 
 Now, now the goal is won! 
 
 O, grave, we come ! 
 Seal up the precious dust ; — 
 Land of the good and just. 
 
 Take the soul home! 
 
 REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 
 
 Ill does it become me, O Senators of Rome, — ill does it 
 
 become Regulus, after having so often stood in this venei- 
 
 • able assembly clothed with the supreme dignity of the Re- 
 
NUMBER THREE. 49 
 
 public, to stand before you a captive,— the captive of Car- 
 thage, Tliough outwardly I am free, though no fetters 
 encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh,— yet the heaviest of 
 chains — the pledge of a Roman Consul— makes me the 
 bondsman of the Carthaginians. They have my promise 
 to return to them, in the event of the failure of this, their 
 embassy. My life is at their mercy. My honor is my own ; 
 — a possession which no reverse of fortune can jeopard; a 
 flame which imprisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, 
 death cannot extinguish. 
 
 Of the train of disasters which followed close on the un- 
 exampled successes of oar arms, — of the bitter fate which 
 swept off the flower of our soldiery, and consigned me, your 
 General, wounded and senseless, to Carthaginian keeping, 
 — I will not speak. For five years, a rigorous captivity has 
 been my portion. For five years, the society of family and 
 friends, the dear amenities of heme, the sense of freedom, 
 «nd the sight of country, have been to me a recollection 
 and a dream, — no more. But during that period Rome has 
 retrieved her defeats. She has recovered under Metellus 
 what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She 
 bas taken unnumbered prisoners. She has struck terror 
 «nto the hearts of the Carthaginians, who have now sent 
 me hither with their ambassadors, to sue for peace, and to 
 propose that, in exchange for me, your former Consul, a 
 thousand common prisoners of war shall be given up. Yon 
 have heard the ambassadors. Their intimations of some 
 unimaginable horror, I know not what, impending over 
 myself, should I fail to induce you to accept their terms, 
 have strongly moved -your sympathies in my behalf. An- 
 other appeal, which I would you might have been spared, has 
 lent force to their suit. A wife and children, threatened 
 with widowhood and orphanage, weeping and despairing, 
 have knelt at your feet on the very threshold of-the Sen- 
 ate-chamber: — Conscript Fathers ! shall not Regulus be saved? 
 Must he return to Carthage to meet the cruelties which the 
 ambassadors brandish before our eyes? With one voice 
 you answer, No! 
 
 Countrymen! Friends! For all that I have sufiered, — 
 for all that I may have to sufler, — I am repaid in the com- 
 
 19 
 
50 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELKCTIOXS 
 
 jionsation of tliis moment! Unfortunate j-ou may huld me; 
 but oh, not undeserving! IJour confidence in my lionor sur- 
 vives all the ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. You 
 have not forgotten the past. Republics are not ungrateful. 
 May the thanks 1 cannot utter bring down blessings from 
 the Gods on you and Rome I 
 
 Conscript Fathers! There is but one course to be pur- 
 sued. Abandon all thought of peace. Reject tiie overtures 
 of Carthage. Reject them wholly and unconditionally. 
 AVhat! give back to her a thousand able-bodied men, and 
 receive in return this one attenuated, war-worn, fever-wasted 
 frame, — this weed, whitened in a dungeon's darkness, pale 
 and sapless, which no kindness of the sun, no softness of 
 the summer breeze, can ever restore to health and vigor? 
 It must not, — it shall not be! Oh! were Regulus what he 
 was once, before captivity had unstrung his sinews and en- 
 ervated his limbs, he might pause,— he might proudly think 
 he were. well worth a thousand of the foe; he might say, 
 "Make the exchange! Rome shall not lose by it!" But 
 now, alas! now 'tis gone, — that impetuosity of strength, 
 which could once make him a leader indeed, to penetrate a 
 phalanx or guide a pursuit. His very armor would be a 
 burden now. His battle-cry would be drowned in thejlin 
 of the onset. His sword would fill Ininnkhs on his oppo- 
 nent's shield. But, if he cannot live, he can at least die, for 
 his country. Do not deny him this supreme consolation. 
 Consider: every indignity, every torture, which Cartilage 
 shall heap on his dying hours, will be better than a trum- 
 pet's call to your armies. They will remember only Reg- 
 ulus, their fellow-soldier and their leilder. They will forget 
 his defeats. They will regard only his services to the Re- 
 public. Tunis, Sardinia, Sicily, — every well-fought field, 
 won by his blood and (/leirs,— will flash on their remem- 
 brance, and kindle their avenging wrath. And so shall 
 Regulus, though dead, fight as he never fought before, a- 
 gainst the foe. 
 
 Conscript Fathers ! There is another theme. Jly familj', 
 — forgive the thought! To you and to Rome I confide them. 
 I leave them no legacy but my name, — no testament but 
 my example. 
 
M U M B E K T II K E E. 51 
 
 Ambassadors of Carthage! I have spoken, though not us 
 you expected. I am your captive. Lead me back to what- 
 ever fate may await nie. Doubt not that you sliall find, to 
 Roman hearts, country is dearer than life, and integrity 
 more precious tiian freedom ! 
 
 DOW'S FLAT 1856.— F. Bret Harte. 
 
 Dow's flat. That's its name, 
 
 And I reckon that you 
 Are a stranger? The same? 
 Well, I thought it was true, 
 For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at 
 firfet view. • 
 
 It was called after Dow, — 
 
 Which the same was an ass, — 1 
 And as to the how 
 That the thing came to pass,-^ 
 Just tie up your boss to that buckeye, i?nd sit ye down here 
 in the grass: 
 
 You see this yer Dow 
 
 Hed the worst kind of luck; 
 He slipped up somehow 
 On each thing thet he struck. 
 Why, ef he'd ha' straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing 
 'ed get up and buck. 
 
 He mined on the bar 
 
 Till he couldn't pay rates; 
 He was smashed by a car 
 When lie tunneled with Bates; 
 And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five 
 kids from the States. 
 
 It was rough, — mighty rough; 
 But the boys they stood by, 
 And they brought him the stuflf 
 For a house on the sly; 
 And the old woman, — W|ell, she did washing, and took on 
 when no one was nigh. 
 
OJ 0>fE H UNDltED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 But thisyer luck o' Dow's 
 
 Was so powerful mean 
 That the spring near his house 
 Dried right up on the green ; 
 And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to 
 bo seen. 
 
 Then the bar petered out, 
 
 And the boys wouldn't stay : 
 And the chills got about, 
 And his wife fell away ; 
 But Dow, in his well, kei>t a peggin' iu his usual ridikilous 
 way. 
 
 One day, — it was June, 
 
 And a year ago, jest, — 
 This Dow kem at noon 
 To his work, like thorest, 
 With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a Derringer 
 hid in his breast. 
 
 He goes to the well. 
 
 And he stands on the brink, 
 And stops for a spell. 
 Just to listen and think ; 
 For the sun in his eyes, ( jest like this, sir,) you see, kinder 
 made the cuss blink. 
 
 His two ragged gals 
 
 In the gulch were at play. 
 And a gownd that was Sal's 
 Kinder flapjied on a bay; 
 Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, — as I've heard 
 the folks say. 
 
 And,— th.it's a pert hoss 
 
 Tliet you've got, ain't it now? 
 What might be her cost? 
 Eh ? Oh !— Well, then , Do w,— 
 Let's see, — well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that 
 day, anyhow. 
 
 For a blow of his pick 
 
 Sorter caved in the side. 
 And he looked and turned sick. 
 Then he trembled and cried. 
 For you see the dern cuss hed struck — "Water?" — beg your 
 parding, young man, there you lied. 
 
NUMBER THREE. 53 
 
 It was gold, in the quartz, 
 
 And it ran all alike; 
 And Z reckon five oughts 
 Wus the worth of that strike; 
 And that house with the coopilow's his'n — which the same 
 isn't bad for a Pike. 
 
 Thet's why it's Dow's Flat; 
 
 And the thing of it is 
 That he kinder got that 
 
 Through sheer contrairiness; 
 For ''twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck 
 made him certain to miss. 
 
 Thet's so, Thar's your way 
 
 To the left of yon tree; 
 But — a — look h\vur, say! 
 Won't you come up to tea? 
 NaT Well then, the next time you're passin'; and mak. 
 after Dow, — and thet's me. 
 
 LITTLE BENNIK— Annik C. Ketohuji. 
 
 I had told him, Christmas morning. 
 
 As he sat upon my knee. 
 Holding fast his little stockings, 
 
 Stufi'ed as full as full can be. 
 And attentive listening to me. 
 
 With a face demure and mild. 
 That old Sscnta Claus, who tilled them. 
 
 Did not love a naughty child. 
 
 "But we'll be good, won't we, moder?" 
 
 And from off ray lap he slid. 
 Digging deep among the goodies 
 
 In his crimson stockings hid. 
 While I turned me to my taUe, 
 
 Where a tempting goblet stood. 
 Brimming high with dainty custard, 
 
 S,ent me by a neighbor good. 
 
 But the kitten, there before me, 
 With his white paw, nothing loth, 
 
 Sat, by way of entertainment, 
 Lappinp: off the shining froth; 
 
 And, in not the gentlest humor 
 At the loss of such a treat. 
 
54 ONE nuXDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 I coiifess I rather rudely 
 Thrust hiiu out into the street. 
 
 Then liow 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 
 
 Spra^ig ho 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 n>y candy wabbit;" 
 
 But the door was fastened tight. 
 So he stood, abashed and silent. 
 
 In the center 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 high and higher. 
 In a brave, clear key he shouted, 
 
 Like some lordly little elf, 
 "Santa Kaus, come down the chimney. 
 
 Make my moder 'have herself." 
 
 "I will be a good girl, Bennre," 
 
 Said I, feeling the reproof; 
 And straightway recalled poor Harney, 
 
 Mewing on the gallery roof. 
 Soon the anger was forgotten, 
 
 Laughter chased away the frown. 
 And they gamboled 'neath the live oaks, 
 
 Till the dusky night came down. 
 
 In my dim, fire-lighted chamber 
 
 Harney purred beneath my chair, 
 And my play-worn boy beside me 
 
 Knelt to say his evening prayer: 
 " God bess fader, Go<l bess moder, 
 
 God bess sister," then a pause. 
 And the sweet young lips devoutly 
 
 Murmured, "God bess Santa Kaus." 
 
NUMBER TIIBEE. 55 
 
 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; O undeflled! 
 For a woman's crown of glory, 
 
 For thablfsisiiig of a child. 
 
 WHICH SHALL IT BE? 
 
 The ''allowing beautiful home-circle poem is founded upon an incident where 
 a r'ch "eighbor oifcn-il to m.ike ii poor family comtortablo, and provide for the 
 cb"u, i/one of the seven wero given to him. 
 
 " Wliich sliall it be? which shall it be?" 
 I looked at Joliii, — John looked at me. 
 (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet 
 As well as though my locks were jet.) 
 And when I found that I must speak. 
 My voice seemed strangely low and weak ; 
 "Tell me ag.iin what Robert said;" 
 And then I listening bent my head. 
 " Tliis is his letter: 
 
 ' I will give 
 A house and land while you shall live, 
 If, in return, from out your seven. 
 One child to me for aye is given.' " 
 
 I looked at John's old garments worn, 
 
 I thought of all that John had borne 
 
 Of poverty, and work, and care. 
 
 Which I, though willing, could not share; 
 
 Of seven hungry mouths to feed, 
 
 Of seven little children's need. 
 
 And then of this. 
 
 "Come John," said I, 
 "We'll I'hoose among them as they lie 
 Asleep;" so walking hand in hand, 
 Dear John and I surveyed our band. 
 
 First to the cradle lightly stepped, 
 Where Lilian, the baby slept; 
 Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, 
 A jjlory 'gainst the pillow white; 
 
 S* 
 
5G ON E U UNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Softly her father stooped to lay 
 
 His rough hand down in loving way, 
 
 When dream or whisper made her stir. 
 
 And huskily he said, "Not her." 
 
 We stoojjed beside the trundle-bed, 
 
 And one long ray of lamp-light shed 
 
 Athwart the boyish faces there, 
 
 In sleep so pitiful and fair. 
 
 I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek 
 
 A tear uudried ; ere John could speak, 
 
 "He's but a baby too," said I, 
 
 And kissed him as we hurried by. 
 
 Pale, i)atieiit Robby's angel face 
 
 Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace; 
 
 " No, for a thousand crowns, not him," 
 
 He whispered, while our eyes were dim. 
 
 Poor Dick ! sad Dick ! our wayward son, 
 
 Turbulent, reckless, idle one, — 
 
 Could he be spared? "Nay, he who gave 
 
 Bids us befriend him to the grave ; 
 
 Only a mother's heart can be 
 
 Patient enough for such as he ; 
 
 j^iid so," said John, " I would not dare 
 
 To send him from her bedside prayer." 
 
 Then stole we softly up above. 
 
 And knelt by Mary, child of love; 
 
 " Perhaps for her 'twould better be," 
 
 I said to John. Quite silently 
 
 He lifted up a curl, that lay 
 
 Across her cheek in wilful way, 
 
 And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee;" 
 
 The while my heart beat audibly. 
 
 Only one more, our eldest lad. 
 
 Trusty and truthful, good and glad, — 
 
 So like his father: "No, John, no; 
 
 I cannot, will not, let him go !" 
 
 And so we wrote, in courteous way, 
 We could not give one child away; 
 And afterward toil lighter seemed. 
 Thinking of that of which we dreamed; 
 Happy, in truth, that not one face 
 We missed from its accustomed place; 
 Thankful to work for all the seven, 
 Trusting then to one in heaven. 
 
NUMnEK TUIiEE. 
 
 LOCHINVAR'S RIDE— Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Oh young Loch invar is come out of the West! 
 Through all the wide border his steed was the best; 
 And save his good broadsword he weapons had none; 
 He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 
 
 He staid not for brajce, and he stopped not for stone ; 
 
 He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 
 
 But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
 
 The bride had consented,— the gallant came late; 
 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 
 
 Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all. 
 
 Then spoke' the bride's father, his hand on his sword, — 
 
 For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — 
 
 "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. 
 
 Or to dance at our bridal, y^ung Lord Lochinvar?" 
 
 "I long wooed your daughter; — my suit you denied: 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; 
 And now I am come, with this lost love of mine 
 To lead but one measure, — drink one cup of wine. 
 There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far. 
 That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; 
 He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup ; 
 She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
 With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye ; 
 He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar ; — 
 " Now tread we a measure !" said young Lochinvar. 
 
 So stately his form and so lovely her face, 
 That never a hall such a galiiard did grace ; 
 AVhile her mother did fret, and her father did fume. 
 And the bride^'room stood dangling his bonnet and plume, 
 ,\nd the bridemaidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far. 
 To have matched our fair cousin with young Locliinvar." 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. 
 When they reached the hall door, where the charter stood 
 near; 
 
58 ONE nUXDUED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 
 
 So light to the siiUUle before her ho sprung ; — 
 
 "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; 
 
 They'll have fleet steedsthat follow !" quoth young Lochin vat. 
 
 There w.is mounting 'niong Graemes of the Netherby dan ; 
 
 Fi Titers, Fen wicks, and Mnsgraves, they rode and they ran; 
 
 There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea. 
 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in war; 
 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like youijg Lochinvar? 
 
 BILLINGS ON "THE DISTRICT SCHOOLMASTER." 
 H. G. Shaw. 
 
 There iz one man in this basement world, that I alwuz 
 look upon with niixt feelings of pity and respect. 
 
 Pity and respect, az a general mixthr, don't mix well. 
 
 You will find them both traveling around among folks, 
 but not often growing on the same bush. 
 
 When they do hug each other they mean sumthing. 
 
 Pity, without respect, hain't got much more oats in it than 
 disgust liaz. 
 
 I had rather a man would hit me on the side of the head 
 than tew pity me. 
 
 But tliere iz one man in this world to whom I alwuz take 
 oph my hat, and remain uncovered until he gets safely by, 
 and tluit iz the distrikt skoolmaster. 
 
 When I meet him I look upon him az a martyr just re- 
 turned from the stake, or on his way there tew be cooked. 
 
 He leads a more lonesum and single life than an old bach- 
 elor, and a more anxious one than an old maid. 
 
 He iz remarked just about as long and as affectionately 
 az a gide board iz by a traveling pack peddler. 
 
 If he undertakes tew make his skollars luv him, the 
 chances are he will neglekt their laming; and if he don't 
 lick them now and then pretty often, they will soon lick 
 him. 
 
 The distrikt skoolmaster hain't got a friend on the flat 
 side of earth. The boys snow-ball him during recess; the 
 girls put water in hiz hair die; and the skool committee 
 
N UMBER Til UEE. 59 
 
 makes him work for half the money a bartender gets, and 
 board him around tlie naberhood, where they give him I'hy 
 coffee, sweetened with molasses, tew driiik, and kodfish 
 bawls three times a day for vittles. 
 
 And with all this abuse, I never heard ov a distrikt skool- 
 master swearing anything louder than condemn it. 
 
 Don't talk to me about the pashunce ov anshunt Job. 
 Job had pretty plenty ov biles all over him, no doubt, but 
 they were all ov oiie breed. 
 
 Every young one in the distrikt skool iz a bile ov a dif- 
 ferent breed, and each one needs a different kind ov poul- 
 tis to get a good head on them. 
 
 A distrikt skoolmaster, who duz a square job, and takes 
 his codfish bawls reverently, iz a better man to-day, tew 
 hav lieing around loose, than Solomon would be, arrayed in 
 all ov hiz glory. 
 
 Solomon wuz better at writing proverbs and managing a 
 large family than he would be tew navigate a distrikt skool- 
 hous. 
 
 Enny man who haz kept a distrikt skool for ten years, 
 and boarded around the naberhood, ought to be made a 
 mager gineral and have a penshun for the rest ovhisnat'ral 
 days, and a boss and waggin tew du his going around in. 
 
 But as a general consequence,a distrikt skoolmaster hain't 
 got any more warm friends than an old blind ox haz. 
 
 He iz just about az welkum az a tax-gatherer iz. 
 
 He iz respekted a good deal az a man to whom we owe a 
 debt ov 50 dollars to, and don't want tew pay. 
 
 He goes through life on a back road, az poor az a wood 
 sled, and finally iz missed; but what ever bekums ov hiz 
 remains I kan't tell. 
 
 Fortunately he iz not often a sensitive man ; if he waz he 
 couldn't enny more keep a distrikt skool than he could file 
 a krosscut saw. 
 
 Why iz it that these men and women, who pashuntly and 
 •with crazed brain teach our remorseless brats the tejus mean- 
 ing ov the alphabet, who take the fust welding heat on thir 
 destiny, who hav tu lay the stepping stones and enkurrage 
 them to mount upwards, who have done more hard work 
 and mean jobs than enny klass on the footstool, who have 
 
60 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 prayed over the reprobats, strengthened the timid, restrained 
 the outragious, and flattered the imbecile; who liave lived 
 on kodfish and vile coflFee, and hain't been heard to swear, 
 — why is it that they are treated like a vagrant fiddler, dan- 
 ced to for a r.ight, paid oph in the morning, and eagerly 
 forgotten? 
 
 I had rather burn a coal-pit, or keep the flys out ov a 
 butcher's shop in the month ov August, than meddle with 
 the skool bizzness. 
 
 SHIBBOLETH— E. H. J. Cleveland. 
 
 ** T)ien said they unto him: 'Say now Shibboleth >* and he said 'Sibholeth/ 
 Then they tuck liini, and slew him at the passages of Jordan : and tliere fell at 
 that time, of the Eptirainiites, forty and two thousand." Judges, xii. G. 
 
 Down to tlie stream they flying go; 
 Rigl\t on the border stand the foe, — 
 Stand the foe, and this threat they make : 
 Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take. 
 
 Up to his desk the good man goes, 
 Down in the pews they sit, his foes, — 
 Sit his foes, and this threat they make: 
 Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take. 
 Say: Remember the Sabbath day, 
 In it ye neither shall work nor play; 
 Say it commences on Saturday night, 
 Just about early candle-light; 
 Or, to make it a little surer .still. 
 When the sun goes down behind the hill; 
 And if the sun sets at half- past four. 
 Close the shutters, and bar the door; 
 Tell the strangers your gates within. 
 That to do otherwise is a sin ; 
 And at half past four on the following day, 
 Take out j-onr knitting, and work or play; 
 For the Lord allows, in his law sublime, 
 Twenty-four hours for holy time ; 
 Thus yon must speak our Shibboleth. 
 Nothing daunted, the good man saith, 
 Ye must remember the Sabbath day. 
 In it ye neither shall work nor play. 
 Tell the strangers your gates within. 
 That to do otherwise is a sin ; 
 
NUMBER THREE. CI 
 
 Eut at twelve o'clock it begins, I'm sure, 
 Not on Saturday at half-past four, 
 And at twelve o'clock at night it ends; 
 This is the fourth command, my friends. 
 
 Down sits the parson in his seat, 
 Up rise his enemies from the pit; 
 Off with his head, they wrathful say. 
 How he abuses our Sabbath day ! 
 
 Up conges another to take his place, 
 
 Heated and panting from the chase, 
 
 And again the foe their menace make, 
 
 Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take. 
 
 Say that tlie Lord made bond and free. 
 
 Slavery's a:i evil, not siil per se; 
 
 Slaves there have been, from the first man's falv 
 
 And a righteous God ni)holds it all. 
 
 This is the pass-word, speak it plain ; 
 
 And the good man answers back again : 
 
 I know that the Lord made bond and free 
 
 All of one blood, and cursed is he, 
 
 S.tith a righteous God in his holy ire, 
 
 AVho useth service and giveth no hire. 
 
 This man will never our Shibboleth say 
 
 Thus cry the foe, as they eager Liy 
 
 Their violent hands on the clerical crown, 
 
 He is not one of us, — hew him down. 
 
 And again to the next in the sacred desk, 
 
 They look from below, and propound this text: 
 
 Say tliat we fell in Adam's fall. 
 
 And that in Adam we sinned all ; 
 
 Say that in him we all are dead, 
 
 Else you'll oblige us to take your head. 
 
 A moment they wait to hear the word, 
 But shout as soon as his voice is heard. 
 Oh, hear ye now what this rebel saith? 
 Sibboleth only,— not Shibboleth. 
 
 Another cry in the stifled air. 
 Another head with its gory hair 
 By the rolling stream, and another threat 
 The dire assassins are making yet: 
 Shibboleth say, and the stream shall flow 
 Right and left, as you onward go ; 
 
02! ONE lIUNDnHU CHOICE SELECTIOXS 
 
 Sibboletli say, and your head shall fall 
 
 Ei^lit in the pass, as fell they all. 
 
 Say that our sins we must all forsake, 
 
 That the yoke of Christ we must willing take; 
 
 Our tongues from evil we must restrain, 
 
 And from the alluring cup abstain ; 
 
 Cut we have made an amendment fair, 
 
 And a due allowance, here and there. 
 
 For sueh as have but a little grace,-=^ 
 
 Dvcry one understands the case; 
 
 Wo who are young in grace must grow, 
 
 Diit still in the ways of folly go; 
 
 We must have our pleasures, and perchance 
 
 Amuse ourselves in a little dance ; 
 
 And we, who are somewhat older grown, — . 
 
 Though our lips arc the Lord's, and not our osvn,- 
 
 Must now and then be allowed to speak. 
 
 Though our words be truly not over meek ; 
 
 And should we happen to speak "in a hurry," 
 
 Why surely the parson needn't worry,— 
 
 Not even though we should blast his fame. 
 
 For the poor churrh members are not to blame; 
 
 And though wo are not inclined to drink 
 
 Of the sparkling cup, yet we surely think 
 
 It will never answer to fully put down 
 
 The sale of the article in our town. 
 
 Those things wo willingly, freely tell, 
 
 That you may learn our Shibboleth well. 
 
 Tims do we all of our sins forsake, 
 
 Ar.iL the yoke of Christ thus easy take. 
 
 For hath ho not called the burden ligluf 
 
 Shibboleth say, as we indite. 
 
 But "Be ye holy," he calmly gaith; 
 
 Brethren, this is my Sibboleth. 
 
 A sudden cry, and a sudden gleam 
 
 Of a glancing sword by the crimson stream. 
 
 And "Off with his head.'" thi>y vengeful cry, 
 
 lie is an ICphraimite, — let him die; 
 
 And quick dispatch hijn with all their might, 
 
 Just as another one comes in sight. 
 
 Glad welcojne give to the next who stands 
 
 With the "bread of life" in his pious hands. 
 
 In his pious hands, and they hoar him through 
 
 We believe it all, and so do you; 
 
NUMBER TIIKEE. (iii 
 
 But this it is not enough to say, 
 
 We must have it said in a particular way. 
 
 Say that the sinner carCt repent, 
 
 Without the spirit is on him sent; 
 
 To the small word can't, have a due regard, 
 
 Else things will be apt to go very hard. 
 
 But the good man says: He ca% but won't; 
 
 I know that my danger is imminent. 
 
 And they quick reply : We're sorry to make 
 
 Such a very small word as this, to take 
 
 Yonr head from your shoulders, — thus, — etitire, 
 
 Cut you have incurred our holy ire; ' 
 
 The meaning of both is the same, 'tis true. 
 
 But such an excuse will never do; 
 
 'Tis a very important word, my friend. 
 
 You will please to perceive you are near yonr end 
 
 Forty-two thousand fell that day, 
 
 Forty-two thousand bodies lay. 
 
 Of the Ephraimites, in the narrow way 
 
 That led to tlie running river. 
 Forty-two thousand more will fall. 
 For when they accept the "unanimous rail," 
 They may be assured they have staked their all 
 
 By the theological river. 
 For still to the crossing do they hie, 
 And still the "Sliibboleth" eager try, 
 But stop in the narrow pass to die. 
 
 And go not over the river. 
 
 DEATH OF THE OLD VEAR.— Alfueu Ten.nysox. 
 
 Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
 
 And the winter winds are wearily sighing: 
 Toll ye the church bell, sad and slow, 
 And tread softly and speak low, 
 For the old year lies a-dying. 
 Old year, you must not die; 
 You came to us so readily. 
 You lived with ua so steadily; 
 Old year, you shall not die. 
 
 He lieth still; he doth not move; 
 lie will not see tlio dawn of day; 
 
C> ONE UUNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 He hath no other life above ; 
 He gave me a friend, and a true, true love, 
 And the new year will take them away. 
 
 Old year, you must not go ; 
 So long as you have been with us. 
 Such joy as you have seen with us, — 
 
 Old year, you shall not go. 
 
 He frothed his bumpers to the brim; 
 
 A jollier year we shall not see; 
 But though his eyes are waxing dim, 
 And though his foes speak ill of him, 
 He was a friend to me. 
 
 Old year, you shall not die ; 
 We did so laugh and cry with you, 
 I've half a mind to die with you. 
 Old year, if you must die. 
 
 He was full of joke and jest; 
 
 But all his merry quips are o'er. 
 To see him die, across the waste 
 His son and heir doth ride post haste, 
 Bnt he'll be dead before. 
 
 Every one for his own ; — ^ 
 The night is starry and cold, my friend. 
 And the new )'ear blithe and bold, my friend, 
 Comes up to take his own. 
 
 How hard he breathes! over the snow 
 
 I heard just now the crowing cock ; 
 The shadows flicker to and fro, 
 Tlie cricket chirps, the light burns low, — 
 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 
 
 Shake hands before you die; 
 Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. 
 What is it we can do for you? — 
 Speak out before you die. 
 
 His face is growing sharp and thin ; — 
 
 Alack ! our friend is gone. 
 Close up his eyes, tie up his chin, 
 Stop from the corpse, and let him in 
 \Vho standeth there alone. 
 And waiteth at the door. 
 There's a new foot on the floor, my friend. 
 And a new face at the door, my friend, 
 A new face at the door. 
 
KUMB RR Til REE. 65 
 
 JUDICIAL TRIBUNAES.-Charles Sumner. 
 
 Let me here say that I hold judges, and especially the 
 Supreme Court of the country^ in much res]>ect; but I am 
 too familiar with the history of judicial proceedings to re- 
 gard them with any superstitious revereuce. Judges are 
 but men, and in all ages have shown a full share of frailty. 
 Alas! alas! the worst crimes Of history have been perpe- 
 trated under their sanction. The blood of martyrs and of pa- 
 triots, crying from the ground, summons them to judgment. 
 
 It was a judicial tribunal which condemned Socrates to 
 drink the fatal hemlock, and which pushed the Saviour 
 barefoot over the pavements of Jerusalem, bending beneath 
 his cross. It was a judicial tribunal which, against the tes- 
 timony and entreaties of her father, surrendered the fair 
 Virginia as a slave; which arrested the teachings of the 
 great apostle to the Gentiles, al'id selit him in bonds from 
 Judea to Rome; which, in the name of the old religion, ad- 
 judged the saints and fathers of the Christian Church to 
 death, in all its most dreadful forms; and which afterwards, 
 in the name of the new religion, enforced the tortures of 
 the Inquisition, amidst the shrieks and agonies of its vic- 
 tims, while it compelled Galileo to declare, in solemn de- 
 nial of the great truth he had disclosed, that the earth did 
 not move round the sun. 
 
 It was a judicial tribunal which, in France, during the 
 long reign of her monarchs, lent itself to be the instrument 
 of every tyranny, as during the' brief reign of terror it did 
 not hesitate to stand forth the unpitying accessory of the 
 unpitying guillotine. Ay, sir, it was a judicial tribunal in 
 England, surrounded by all the forms of law, which sanc- 
 tioned every despotic caprice of Henry the Eighth, from the 
 unjust divorce of his queen to the beheading of Sir Thomas 
 More; which lighted the fires of persecution, that glowed 
 at Oxford and Smithfield, over the cinders of Latimer, Rid- 
 ley, and John Rogers; which, after elaborate argument, up- 
 held the fatal tyranny of ship money against the patrietic 
 resistance of Hampden ; which, in defiance of justice and 
 humanity, sent Sydney and Russell to the block; which 
 
66 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 persistently enforced the laws of conformity that our Pu- 
 ritan Fatliers pei'sWAtly refused to obey ; and wWch after- 
 wards, with Jeff^-ies oiv the bench, crimsoned the pages of 
 English history with piassacre and murder, — even with the 
 blood of innocent \ypman. . ^ 
 
 Ay, sir, and it w^.a.j.udicial tribunal in our country, sur- 
 rounded by all tl\^ forins of law, which hung witches at 
 8alem, which affirmed the constitutionality of the Stamp 
 Act, while it admonished, "jurors and the people" to obey; 
 and which now, in our day, has lent its sanction to the un- 
 utterable atrocity of the Fugitive Slave Bill. 
 
 BETTY AND THE BEAR. 
 
 In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, 
 
 A great big blacli grizzly trotted one day, 
 
 And seated himself on the hearth, and began 
 
 To lap the contents of a two-gallon pan 
 
 Of milk and potatoes, — 4(i exc(^llent meal, — 
 
 And then looked about to see what he could steal. 
 
 The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, 
 
 And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep 
 
 Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, 
 
 And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear. 
 
 So, he screamed in alarm to hfs slumhering frow, 
 
 "Thar's a bar in the kitchijig as big's a cow!" 
 
 "A what?" " Why a bar!" "Well, murder him, Ihen!" 
 
 "Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in." 
 
 So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized, 
 
 While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed. 
 
 As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows, — 
 Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, — 
 Her man through the keyhole kept shouting within, 
 " Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin, 
 Now a rap on the ribs, now a knock on the snout. 
 Now poke with the poker and poke his eyes out." 
 So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty, alone, 
 At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. 
 
 NSw when the old man saw the bear was no more, 
 He ventured to poke his nose out of the door. 
 And there was the grizzly, stretched on the floor. 
 
KUMBKn TltKKE. 67 
 
 Then off to the neighbors h& haste.n.ed, to lell 
 All the wonderful things that that morjiing befell; 
 And he published the marvelous story afar, 
 How "me and my Betty jist slaughtejed'a bar! 
 Oh yes, come and see, all the neighbors hev sid it, 
 Come see what we did, mk and Betty, we did it." 
 
 THE DKAW-BKIDGE KEEPER— Henry Abbey. 
 
 History and poetry celebnite no suljlimer net of devotion than that of Albert 
 G. Drecicer, tile watrliniim of tlie I'.uiSiiic River Uraw-bridge, on the N<t\v Yorls 
 and Newarlt Railroad. The train was dnc, and he was closing the draw wiien 
 his little child fell into f'e deep water. It would have been easy enougii to 
 rescue him, if tlie father could have taken the time, but ali'eady tiie tlinudering 
 tr.iin was at liand. It was a cruel agony. His child could be saved only at the 
 cost of other lives committed to his care. The brave man did his duty, but the 
 child was drowned. The pass at Thermopylffi was not more heroically kept. 
 Sir Philip Sydney, giving the cup of cold water to tlie' dynig soldier, is not ft 
 nobler figure than that of All>ert G. Drecker, keeping the Passaic bi-idge, 
 
 Drecker, the draw-bridge keeper, opened wide 
 The dangerous gate, to let the vessel through; 
 
 His little son was standing by his side, 
 Above Passaic river, deep and blue; 
 
 While in the distance, like a moan of pain. 
 
 Was heard the whistle of the coming train. 
 
 At once brave Drecker worked to swing it back, — 
 The gate-like bridge, that seeras a gate of death; 
 
 Nearer and nearer, on the slender track. 
 Came the swift engine, puffing its white breath. 
 
 Then, with a shriek, the loving father saw 
 
 His darling boy fall headlong from the draw. 
 
 Either at once down in the stream to spring 
 And save his-soii, and let the living freight 
 
 Rush oil to death, or to his work to cling. 
 
 And leave his boy unhelped to meet his fate; 
 
 Which should he do? AVere you, as he was, tried, 
 
 Would not your love outweigh all else beside? 
 
 And yet the child to him was full as dear 
 As yours may be to yon, — the light of eyes, 
 
 A presence like a brighter atmosphere. 
 The household star that shone in love's mild skies,— 
 
 Yet side by side with duty, stern and grim, 
 
 Even his child became as nought to him. 
 
6S ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 For Drecker, being great of soul, and true, 
 Held to his work, and did not aid his boy. 
 
 Who in the deep, dark water sank from view. 
 Then from the father'^ life went forth all joy; 
 
 But, as he fell back, pallid with his pain. 
 
 Across the bridge, in safety, passed the train. 
 
 And yet the man was poor, and in his breast 
 Flowed no ancestral blood of king or lord ; 
 
 True greatness needs no title and no crest 
 To win from men just honor and reward; 
 
 Nobility is not of rank, but mind, — 
 
 And is Inborn, and common in our kind. 
 
 He is most noble whose humanity 
 Is least corrupted. To be just and good 
 
 The birthright of the lowest born may be ; 
 Say what we can, we are one brotherhood, 
 
 And, rich or poor', or famous or unknown, 
 
 True hearts are noble, and true hearts alone. 
 
 THE GRAVE OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 At the funeral, a crown of green leaves and white roses rested upon the coffin, 
 and many who came to look into the grave, while it remained open, threw flow- 
 ers into it. Tlie closing stanza of the poem alludes to this beautiful incident. 
 
 He sleeps as he should i-leep, — among the great 
 
 In the old Abbey; sleeps amidst the few 
 Of England's famous thousands whose high state 
 
 Is to lie with her monarchs, — monarchs too. 
 
 Monarchs, who men's minds 'neath their sway could brings 
 
 By might of wit and humor, wisdom, lore; 
 Music of spoken line or sounded string, — 
 
 Of Art that lives when artists are no more. 
 His grave is in this heart of England's heart. 
 
 This shrine within her shrine; and all around 
 Is no name but, in Letters or in Art, 
 
 Sounds as the names of the immortal sound. 
 Of some, the ashes lie beside his dust; 
 
 Of some, but marble forms and names are here; 
 But grave or cenotaph, — remains or bust. 
 
 They will find place for thee, their latest peer. 
 Make room, tuneful Handel, at thy feet ; 
 
 Make room, O witty Sheridan, at thy head; 
 
NUMBER T MKEE. 60 
 
 Shift, Jolinson, till thou leave him grave space meet ; 
 Giirrick, whose art he loved, press to him dead. 
 
 Macaulay, many-sided miiidr receive 
 By thine the frame that housed a mind as keen 
 
 To take an impress, or an impress leave, 
 
 From things, or on things, read, or heard, or seen. 
 
 Welcome, O Addison, with calm, wise face, 
 
 iiis coming, who has peopled English air 
 With types of humor, tenderness, and grace, 
 
 Than which thine 'own are less rich and more rare. 
 
 Thou, too, his brother of our time, last lost, — 
 Thackeray,— bend thy brow with kindly cheer 
 
 On him, thy comrade, wave-worn, tempest-tossed, 
 Who, from life's voyage, comes to harbor here. 
 
 All the more welcome that he seeks his rest 
 Without the pomps that follow great ones' ends; 
 
 No mourners, save the natural ones that pressed 
 About the father's coffin, or the friend's; 
 
 No sable train, with plume, and plate, and pall ; 
 
 No long parade of undertaker's woe, 
 Scarfed mutes, and feathered hearse, and coursers tall,— • 
 
 All that bemocks the grave with hollow show. 
 
 Humbly they brought him in the summer morn, 
 Humbly and hopefully they laid him down, 
 
 And on the plate that tells when dead, when born, 
 His children's love, like England's lays a crown. 
 
 LITTLE NEEL'S FUNERAL.— Charles Dickens. 
 
 In it»i most jiathetic and bpautifnl paasageB, the prose of Dickeiia mns easily 
 and naturally into rhyme and meter, and shows him to be a poet no less than a 
 novelist, of high order This tendency of his writing is very vividly illustrated 
 by the account uf thef^ineral of Little Nell, in the "Old Curiosity Shop," wliicli 
 is appeiKltMi exactly as it stands in the book, with the exception of a few slight 
 yerbal alterations. 
 
 And now the bell,— the bell 
 She had so often heard by night and day, 
 And listened to with solemn pleasure, 
 E'en as a living voice, — 
 Bung its remorseless toll for her 
 So young, so beautiful, so good. 
 
70 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Decrepit age, and vigorous life, 
 And blooming youth, and helpless infancy, 
 Poured forth, — on crutches, in the pride of strength 
 And health, in the full blush 
 Of promise, the mere dawn of life, — 
 To gather round her tomb. Old men were there, 
 Whose eyes were dim 
 And senses failing,— 
 Grandames, who might have died ten years ago, 
 And still been old, — the deaf, the blind, the lame, 
 
 The palsied, 
 The living dead in many shapes and forms, 
 To see the closing of this early grave. 
 
 What was the death it would shut in. 
 To that which still could crawl and keep above it! 
 
 Along the crowded path they bore her now; 
 
 Pure as the new fallen snow 
 That covered it; whose day on earth 
 
 Had been as fleeting. 
 Under that porch, where she had sat when Heaven 
 In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, 
 She passed again, and the old church 
 Received her in its quiet shade. 
 
 They carried her to one old nook, 
 Where she had many ana many a time sat musing. 
 And laid their burden softly on the pavement. 
 The light streamed on it through 
 The colored window, — a -vindow where the boughs 
 Of trees were ever rustling 
 In the summer, and where the birds 
 Sang sweetly all day long'. 
 
 ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 C. F. Brown. 
 
 I've been lingerin by the Tomb of the lamentid Shak- 
 speare. 
 
 It is a success. 
 
 I do not hes'tate to pronounce it as such. 
 
 You may make any use of this opinion that you see fit. 
 If you think its publication will subswerve the cause of lit- 
 eratoor, you may publicate it. 
 
NUMBEK TIIBEB. 71 
 
 I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I should go 
 to the birthplace of the orthur of Olhdler and other Plays. 
 She said that as long as 1 kept out of Newgate she didn't 
 care where I went. "But," I said, "don't you know he was 
 the greatest Poit that ever lived ? Not one of these com- 
 mon poits, like that young idyit who writes verses to our 
 daughter, about the Roses as growses, and the breezes as 
 blowses — but a Boss poit— also a philosopher, also a man 
 who knew a great deifl about everything." 
 
 Yes. Pve been to Stratford onto the Avon, the Birth- 
 place of Shakspeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He's been 
 dead over threb hundred (300) years. The people of his 
 native town are justly proud of liiin. They cherish his 
 meni'ry, and them as sell pictur.s of liis birthplace, &c., make 
 it pnif tible cherisliin it. Almost everyboJy buys a pictur to 
 put into their Albiom. 
 
 "And this," I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at 
 Stratford, beside a Tombstone, "this marks the spot where 
 lies William W. Shakspeare. Alars! and this is the spot 
 where — " 
 
 "You've got the wrong grave," said a man, — a worthy 
 villager; " Shakspeare is buried inside the church.'' 
 
 " Oh," I said, " a boy told me this was it." The boy larfed 
 and put the shillin I'd given him into his left eye in a in- 
 glorious manner, and commenced moving backwards to- 
 wards the street. 
 
 I pursood and captered him, and afier talking to him a 
 spell in a skarcastic stile, I let liira went. 
 
 William Shakspeare was born in Stratford in ]564. All 
 the commentaters, Shaksperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed 
 on this, which_is about the only thing they are agreed on 
 in regard to him, except that his mantle hasn't fallen onto 
 any poet or dramatist hard enough to hurt said poet or 
 dramatist much. And there is no doubt if these commen- 
 tators and persons continner investigatin Shakspeare's ca- 
 reer, we shall not, in doo time, know anything about it at 
 all. When a mere lad little William attended the Grammar 
 School, because, as he said, the Grammar School wouldn't 
 attend him. This remarkable remark, coming from one so 
 young and incxperunced, set people to thinkin there might 
 
a ONE UU.Mjk;;D tHOlCE SELECTIONS 
 
 be something in tliis lad. He subsequently wrote Hamlet 
 and Oeorge Barnwell. When his kind teacher went to Lon- 
 don to accept a position in the offices of the Metropolitan 
 Railway, little William was chosen by his fellow pupils to 
 deliver a farewell address. " Go on, sir," he said, " in a 
 glorus career. Be like a eagle, and soar, and the soarer you 
 get the more we shall all be gratified ! That's so." 
 
 THE lEISHWOilAN'S LETTER. 
 
 And .shure, I was tonld to come in till yer honor, 
 To see would ye write a few lines to me Pat, 
 
 He's gone for a soger, is Misther O'Conner, 
 
 Wid a sthripe on his arm, and a band on his hat. 
 
 And what 'ill ye tell him? shure it must be aisy 
 For the likes of yer honor to sjiake wid the pen, 
 
 Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy, 
 (The baby, yer liop.or,) is better again. 
 
 For when he wint off, so sick was tl^e crayther 
 She never hilt up her blue eyes till his face; 
 
 And when I'd be cryin' he'd look at me wild like, 
 And ax '■ would I wish for the counthry's disgrace." 
 
 So he left her in danger, and me sorely gravin,' 
 And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy ; 
 
 An<l it's often I drame of the big drums a batin,' 
 A)id a bullet gone straight to the heart of me boy. 
 
 Tell him to sind us a bit of his money. 
 
 For the rint and the docther's bill due in a wake. 
 
 And— shure there's a tear on your eyelashes, honey, 
 I' faith I've no right wid .such fradom to spake. 
 
 I'jn over much thriflinz, I'll not give ye trouble, 
 I'll find some one wiUia' — oh, what can it be? 
 
 What's that in the newspaper folded up double? 
 Yer honor, don't hide it, but rade if toine. 
 
 Oead! Patrick O'Conner! O Ood, it's some itlier, 
 Shot dead! shnre 'tis a waUe scarce gone by, 
 
 4.nd the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin' mother, 
 It hasn't had time yet, yer honor, to dhry. 
 
NU M BEll TIIEEE. 73 
 
 Duad! ile;id! O God, urn I crazy? 
 
 Sluire it's brakiu' my heart ye are, tellin' me so, 
 And what en the world will I do wid poor Daisy? 
 
 Oh what can I do? Oh where can I go? 
 
 This room is so dark I'm not seein' yer honor; 
 
 I think I'll go home. And a sob, hard and dry. 
 
 Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner, 
 
 But never a tear drop '.veiled up to her eye. 
 
 NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIKLI).— John Piekpont. 
 
 Oh no, no, — let m: lie 
 Not on a field of battle, when I die. 
 
 Let not tlie iron tread 
 Of the mad war-horse crush my litlmed head; 
 
 Nor let the reeking knife, 
 That I have drawn against a brother's life, 
 
 Be in my hand when death 
 Thunders along, and tramples mo beneath 
 
 His heavy squadron's heels, 
 Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. 
 
 From such a dying bed. 
 Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, 
 
 And the bald eagle brings 
 The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings, 
 
 To sparkle in my sight, 
 Oh, never let my spirit take her flight! 
 
 I know that beauty's eye 
 Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, 
 
 And brazen helmets dance, 
 And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance; 
 
 I know that bards have sung, 
 And people shouted till the welkin rung. 
 
 In honor of the brave 
 Who on the battle-field have found a grave. 
 
 I know thato'er their bones 
 Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. 
 
 Some of those piles I've seen: 
 The one at Lexington, upon the green 
 
 Where the first blood was shed. 
 And to my country's independence led; 
 
71 ONE JIUXDUED CHOICE SLLiiCTXONS 
 
 And others on our shore, 
 Tho "Battle Jlominient" at Baltimore, 
 And that on Bunker's Hill. 
 
 Ay, and abroad a few more famous still : 
 
 Thy "tomb" Themistocles, 
 That looks out yet U])on the Grecian seas. 
 
 And which Ihc waters kiss 
 That issue from the gulf of Salamis; 
 
 And thine loo have I seen, — 
 Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green. 
 
 That like a natural knoll, 
 Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll. 
 
 Watched by some turbaned boy, 
 CJpcn the margin of the jila'in of Troy. 
 
 Such honors grace the bed, 
 I know, whereon the warrior lays his head. 
 
 And hears, as life ebbs out, 
 The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout. 
 
 But, as his eye grows dim. 
 What is a column or a mound to him? 
 
 What, to the parting soul. 
 The mellow note of bugles? What the roll 
 
 Of drums? No, let mo die 
 Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovi:;gly, 
 
 And the soft summer air, 
 As it goes by me, stirs mj' lhin,-vvhite hair, 
 
 And from my forehead dries 
 The death damp as it gathers, and the skies 
 
 Seem waiting to receive 
 My soul to their clear depths. Or let me leave 
 
 The world, when round my bed 
 Wife, children, weeping friends, are gathered, 
 
 And the calm voice of prayer 
 And holy hymning shall my soul prepare, 
 
 To go and be at rest 
 With kindred spirits, — spirits who have blessed 
 
 The human brotherhood 
 By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. 
 
 In my dying hour. 
 When riches, fame, and honor, have no power. 
 
 , To bear the spirit up, 
 Or from my lips to turn aside the cup 
 
That all must drink at last, 
 Oil, lot me draw refreshment from the past I 
 
 Then let my soul run back. 
 With peace and joy, along my earthly track, 
 
 And see that all the seeds 
 That 1 have scattered there, in virtuous deeds, 
 
 Have sprung up, and have given, 
 Already, fruits of which to taste in heaven. 
 
 And though no grassy mound 
 Or granite pile says 'tis heroic ground 
 
 Wh'ere my remains repose. 
 Still will I ihope — vain hope, perhaps — that those 
 
 Whom I have striven to bless — 
 The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless^ 
 
 May stand around my grave, 
 With the ])oor prisoner and the lowest slave, 
 
 A^id breathe an humble prayer. 
 That they may die like him whose bones are mouldering there. 
 
 ON BEING FOUND GUILTY OF TREASON. 
 T. F. Meagher. 
 
 A jury of my countrymen have found me guilty of the 
 crime for which I stood indicted. For this I entertain not 
 the slightest feeling of resentment towards them. Influ- 
 enced, as they must have been, by the charge of the lord 
 chief justice, they could have found no other verdict. Wh;it 
 of that charge? Any strong observations on it I feel hir.- 
 cerely jvould ill befit the solemnity of this scene; but I 
 would earnestly beseech of you, my Lord,^you \Vho preside 
 on that bench, — when the passions and prejudices of this 
 hour have passed away, to appeal to your own conscience, 
 and to ask of it, was your charsre as it ought to have been, 
 impE^rtial and indifferent between the subject and the crown ? 
 
 My Lords, you may deem this language unbecoming in 
 me, and perhaps it will seal my fate. But I am here to 
 speak the truth, whatever it may cost ; I am here to regret 
 nothing I have ever done, — to retract nothing I have ever 
 said. I am here to crave, with no lying lin, the life I con- 
 secrate to the liberty of my country. Far from it, even 
 
76 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 liere — here, where the thief, the libertine, the murderer, 
 have left their footprints in the dust ; here on this spot, 
 where the shadows of death surround me, and from which 
 I see my early grave in an unanointed soil opened to receive 
 me, — even here, encircled by the.se terrors, the hope which 
 ' has beckoned me to the perilous sea upon which I have 
 been wrecked, still consoles, animates, enraptures me. 
 
 No ; I do not despair of my poor old country, — her peace,, 
 her liberty, her glory. For that country, I can do no more 
 than bid her hoj>o. To lift this island up; ^o make her a 
 benefactor to humanity, instead of being the meanest beg- 
 gar in the world ; to restore her to her native pow ers and 
 her ancient constitution, — this has been my ambition, and 
 tliis ambition has been my crime. Judged by the law of 
 England, I know this crime entails the penalty of death; 
 but the history of Ireland explains this crime,<nnd justifies 
 it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal, — I deserve 
 no punishment. Judged by that history, the treason of 
 which I stand convicted loses all its guilt, is sanctioned as a 
 duty, will be ennobled as a sacrifice. With these senti- 
 ments, my Lord, I await the sentence of the court. 
 
 Having done what I felt to be my duty, having spokeji 
 what 1 felt to be the truth, — as I have done on every other 
 oocasion of my short career, — I now bid farewell to the 
 country of my birth, my passion,- and my death ; the country 
 whose misfortunes have invoked my sympathies; whose 
 factions 1 have sought to still ; whose intellect I have prompt'. 
 ed to a lofty aim; whose freedom has been my fatal dream. 
 I offer to that country, as a proof of the love I bear her, and 
 the sincerity with which I thought and spoke and struggled 
 fir her freedom, the life of a young heart, and with that 
 life all the Jiopes, the honors, the endearments, of a happy 
 and an honored home. Pronounce, then, my Lords, the 
 sentence which tlie laws direct, and I will be prepared to 
 hear it. I trust I shall be prepared to meet its execution. 
 I hope to be able, with a pure heart and perfect composure, 
 to appear before a higher tribunal, a, tribunal where a judge 
 o" infinite goodness as well as of justice will preside, and 
 wliere, my Lords, many, many of tl>e judgments of this world 
 SviU bo reversed. 
 
NUMBi:U T 111! KB. 
 
 JACK HOENER.— Mr.s. A. D. T. Whitney. 
 
 " Little Jack Horner «at in a corner. 
 
 Eating a Cljristnias pie: 
 He put in hia thnmb and pulled out a plum, 
 
 Aud flaid, ' Wliata great boy am IJ'" 
 
 Ah ! the world has many a Momcr, 
 
 Who, seated in his corner, 
 Finds a Christmas pie provided for his thumb; 
 
 And cries out with exultation. 
 
 When successful exploration 
 Doth discover the predestinated plum. 
 
 Little Jack outgrows his sire, 
 
 And becometh John, Esquire, 
 And he finds a monstrous pasty ready-made, 
 
 ytufl'ed with notes, and bonds, and bales, 
 
 With invoices and sales. 
 And all the mixed ingredients of trade. 
 
 And again it is his luck, 
 
 To be just in time to pluck. 
 By a "clever operation," from the pie 
 
 An unexpected plum; 
 
 So he glorifies his thumb. 
 And says, proudly, " Wliat a. mighty man am I!" 
 
 Or, perchance, to science turning, 
 
 And, with weary labor, iearning 
 All the formulas and phrases that oppress her. 
 
 For the fruit of others baking, 
 
 So a fresh diploma taking, 
 Comes he forth a full accredited professor. 
 
 Or, he's not too iiice to mix 
 
 In the dish of politics; 
 And the dignity of office he puts on; 
 
 And he feels as big again 
 
 As a dozen nobler men, 
 While he writes himself the " Honorable John." 
 
 Not to hint at female Horners, 
 
 Who, in their exclusive corners, 
 Think the world is only made of upper crust, 
 
 And in the funny pie 
 
 That we call society, 
 Do their dainty fingers delicately thrust. 
 
78 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Till it sometimes comes to pass, 
 
 In the spiced and sugared mass, 
 One may compass (don't Ihey call it so?) a catch; 
 
 And the gratuUitioii jriven, 
 
 Seems as if the very heaven 
 Had outdone itself in making such a match. 
 
 Oh, the world keeps Christmas day 
 
 In a queer perpetnal way ; 
 Shouting always, " What a great big boy am I !" 
 
 Yet how many of the crowd. 
 
 Thus vociferating loud, 
 And all its accidental honors lifting high, 
 
 Have really, more than Jack, 
 
 With all their lucky knack. 
 Had a finger in the making of the pie. 
 
 —Mother Goose for Grown Folks. 
 
 THE FATE OF VIRGINIA.— T. B. Macadlay. 
 
 Tho first BIX lines of tllo following poem are not in the original, Init liave 
 tMcn added as an introduction and to make the commencement less abrupt: 
 
 "Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in 
 
 Rome?" 
 "Claimed as a slave, a froc-born maid is dragged here from 
 
 her home. 
 On fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of blight; 
 The tyrant's creature, Mnrcns, asserts an owner's right, 
 Oh,shameon Rcmian manhood! Wasever jilotniore cle.ar? 
 But look! the maiden's father comes! Behold Virginius 
 
 here !" 
 
 Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside, 
 To where the recking shambles stood, piled up with horn 
 
 and hide. 
 Hard by, a butcher on a block hiid laid his whittle down,— 
 Virginius caught tho whittle up, and hid it in his gown. 
 And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to 
 
 swell. 
 And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet 
 
 child, farewell! 
 The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,— 
 The house thp' envied not the wealth of Capua's marble 
 
 halls. 
 
KU.Mii;;u "11 1:1;:;. 7'J 
 
 Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal 
 
 gloom, 
 And for the music of thy voice, the silence of tne toiijb. 
 
 "Tlue time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this 
 
 way ; 
 See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the 
 
 prey ; 
 Witli all his wit he little deems (hat, spurned, betrayed, be- 
 reft, , 
 Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refnge left; 
 He little deems that, in this hand, I clntch what still can 
 
 save 
 Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the i)ortion of the 
 
 slave ; 
 Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow, — 
 Foul outrage, which thou knowest not, — which thou shalt 
 
 never know. 
 Then clasp mo round the neck once more, and give me one 
 
 more kiss ; 
 And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but 
 
 this!" 
 With that, he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the 
 
 side, 
 And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she 
 
 died. 
 
 Then, for a little moment, all people held their brealh; 
 And through the crowded Forum wasstilkiess as of death ; 
 And in another moment break forth from one an<l all 
 A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall ; 
 Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered 
 
 iiig'i, 
 And stood before the judgment seat, and lield the knife 011 
 
 high: 
 "O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, 
 By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain ; 
 And e'en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine. 
 Deal you by Appius Clai?dius and all the Claudian line !" 
 So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went his 
 
 way ; 
 But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay. 
 And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then, with 
 
 steadfast feet, 
 Strode right across (he market-place unto the Sacred Street, 
 
00 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead! 
 To:i thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings liis 
 head!" 
 
 1 Fc looked upon his clients, —but, none would work his will ; 
 He looked upon his lictors, — but they trembled and stood 
 
 still. 
 And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft^ 
 Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left; 
 And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home, 
 And tliere ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done 
 
 in Kome. 
 
 THROUGH DEATH TO LIFE.— Hf.nky HARnAUGH. 
 
 Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant. 
 
 Away in the sunny clime? 
 By humble growth of a lumdred years 
 
 It readies its blooming lime; 
 And then a wondrous bud at its crown 
 
 Breaks into a thousand flowers; 
 This floral queen, in its blooming seen, 
 
 Is the pride of the tropical bowers ; 
 But the i)lant to the flower is a sacrifice, 
 For it blooms but once, and in blooming dies. 
 
 Have you further heard of this Aloe plant, 
 
 Tliat grows in the sunny clime. 
 How every one of its thousand flowers, 
 
 As they drop in the blooming time, 
 Is an iiifont plant, that fastens its roots 
 
 In the place where it falls on llio ground; 
 And, fast as they drop from the dying stem. 
 
 Grow lively and lovely around? 
 By dying it liveth a thousand fold 
 In the young that spring from the death of the old. 
 
 Have you hoard the tale of the Pelican, — 
 
 The Arab's Gimel el Bahr,— 
 That lives in the African solitudes. 
 
 Where the birds that live lonely are? 
 Have you heard how it loves its tender young, 
 
 And cares and toils fur their good? 
 It brings tliem water from fountains afar, 
 
 And fishes the seas for their food. 
 
N u :.r n ;: r, t 1 1 r. i: E. SI 
 
 In famine it feeds them — what love can devise! — 
 The blood of its bosom, and feeding tliem dies. 
 
 Have you heard the tale they tell of the swan. 
 
 The snow-white bird of the lake? 
 It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave, 
 
 It silently sits in the brake ; 
 For it saves its song till the end of life, 
 
 And then, in. the soft, still even, 
 Mid the golden light of the setting sun. 
 
 It sings as it soar.j into heaven. 
 And the blessed notes full back from the skies; 
 'Tis its only song, for in singing it dies. 
 
 You have heard these tales; shall I tell you one, 
 
 A greater and better than all? 
 Have you heard of him whom the heavens adore; 
 
 Before whom the hosts of them fall? 
 How he left the choirs and anthems above. 
 
 For earth in its wailings and woes, 
 To suffer the shame and pain of the cross, 
 
 And die for the life of his foes? 
 O prince of the noble! sufferer divine! 
 What sorrow and sacrifice equal to thine! 
 
 Have you heard this tale,— the best of them all, — 
 
 The tale of the Holy and True? 
 He dies, but his life, in untold souls, 
 
 Lives on in the world anew. 
 His seed prevails, and is filling the earth. 
 
 As the stars fill the sky above ; 
 He taught us to yield up the love of life. 
 
 For the sake of the life of love. 
 His death is our life, Iiis loss is our gain,— 
 Tlie joy for the tear, the peace for the pain. 
 
 Now hear these tales, ye weary and worn. 
 
 Who for others do give up your all ; 
 Our Saviour hath told you the seed that would grow, 
 
 Into earth's dark bosom must fall,— 
 Must pass from the view, and die away, 
 
 And then will the fruit appear; 
 The grain, that seems lost in the earth below, 
 
 Will return many fold in the ear. 
 By death comes life, by loss comes gain ; 
 
 The joy for the tear, the jieace for the pain. 
 
E<2 ONE HUNIJKEI) CllOICi: S ].I.::CTI O.N s 
 
 FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE. 
 
 Sitting in my humble doorway, 
 
 Gazing out into the night, 
 Listening to tlie stormy tumult 
 
 With a kind of sad delight, — 
 
 Wait I for tlie loved who tomes not. 
 One whose step I long to hear, 
 
 One who, though he lingers from me, 
 Slil'. is dearest of the dear. 
 
 Soft! he comes, — now heart bo quick. 
 Leaping in triumphant piide;^ 
 
 Oh! it is a stranger footstep, 
 Gone by on the other side. 
 
 All the night seems filled with weeping, 
 Winds are wailing mournfully. 
 
 And the rain-tears together 
 Journey to the restless sea. 
 
 1 can fancy, sea, your murmur. 
 As they with your waters flow. 
 
 Like the griefs of single beings 
 Making up a nation's woe. 
 
 Branches, bid your guests be silent; 
 
 Hush a moment, fretful rain ; 
 Breeze, stop sighing,— let mo listen, 
 
 God grant not again in vain ! 
 
 In my cheek the blood is rosy. 
 
 Like the blushes of a bride. 
 Joy! Alas! a stranger footstep 
 
 Goes by on the other side. 
 
 Ah! how many wait forever 
 For the steps that do not come! 
 
 Wait iintil the pitying angels 
 Bear them to a peaceful home. 
 
 Many, in the still of midnight, 
 In the streets have lain and died. 
 
 While the sound of human footsteps 
 Went by on the other side. 
 
N UMIJEli TIIUIJE. 83 
 
 CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON.— D. jErmoii). 
 
 Now, Mr. Caudle,— Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be 
 asleep already, 1 know. Now, what I mean to say is this: 
 there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance 
 about tho matter; but at last niy mind's made up, Mr. Cau- 
 dle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been do- 
 ing to-night, or to-mojrow morning I quit the house. No, 
 no; There's an end of the marriage state, I think, — an ei.d 
 of all confidence between man and wife, — if a husband's to 
 have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets 
 they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit 
 for any decent pensoii to know, J'm sure, if that's the case. 
 Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell 
 me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; 
 still, — not that I care much about it, — still, I should like to 
 know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing 
 in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know 
 there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little 
 bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You kijow I 
 would. Well? 
 
 And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh ? You 
 mean to say— you're notf Now, Caudle, yon know it's a hard 
 matter to put me in a passion, — not that I care about the 
 secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's 
 all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's 
 the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man 
 pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world 
 keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. 
 Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that 
 can be when a man's a mason, — when he keeps a secret that 
 sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, 
 and so you take good care to have all the best of them to 
 yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a di- 
 vorce when a man becomes a mason, — when he's got a Sort 
 of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, 
 that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage. 
 
 Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute! 
 — yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you 
 
84 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to 
 your being a mason ; not at all, Caudle ; I dare say it's a 
 very good thing; I dare say it is : it's only your making a se- 
 cret of it that vexes me. But you'll le'.l me, — yo.i'U \-i\l your 
 own Margaret? Youuon'lf You're a wretch, Mi Caudle. 
 
 IF WE KNEW. 
 
 If we knew the woe and heartache 
 
 Waiting for us down the road, 
 If our lips could taste the wormwood, 
 
 If our backs could feel the load ; 
 Would we waste the day in wishing 
 
 For a time tha( ne'er can be? 
 Would we wait with such impatience 
 
 For our ships to come from sea? 
 
 If we knew the baby fingers, 
 
 Pressed against the window pane. 
 Would be cold and stiff to-morrow, — 
 
 Never trouble us again ; 
 AVould the bright eyes of our darling 
 
 Catch the frown upon our brow? 
 Would the print of rosy fingers 
 
 Vex us then as they do now? 
 
 Ah, these little ice-cold fingers ! 
 
 How they point our memories back 
 To the hasly words and actions 
 
 Strewn along our backward track! 
 How these little hands remind us, 
 
 As in snowy grace they lie, 
 Not to scatter thorns, but roses. 
 
 For our reaping by and by. 
 
 Strange we never prize the mnsic 
 
 Till the sweet- voiced bird has fliown; 
 Strange that we should slight the violets 
 
 Till the lovely flowers are gone; 
 Strange that summer skies and sunshine 
 
 Never seem one-half so fair 
 As wlien winter's snowy pinions 
 
 Shake their white down in the air. 
 
 Lips from which the seal of silence 
 None but <io<l can roll away. 
 
N UMBER TUREf. Sj 
 
 Never blossomed in sueli beauty 
 
 As adorns the mouth to-day; 
 And sweet words that freight our memory 
 
 Witli their beautiful perfume, 
 Come to us in sweeter accents 
 
 Through the portals of the tomb. 
 
 Let us gather up the sunbeams, 
 
 Lying all around our path; 
 Lot us keep the wheat and roses, 
 
 Casting out the thorns and chaff; 
 Lot us find our sweetest comfort 
 
 In the blessings of to-day; 
 Willi a patient hand removing 
 
 All the briars from our way. 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.— H. AV. Lo.ncfkllow. 
 
 S iraewhat back from the village street 
 Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; 
 Across its antique portico 
 Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; 
 And, from its station in the hall. 
 An ancient time-piece says to all, 
 
 " Forever — never! 
 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 Half-way up the stairs it stands. 
 And points and beckons with its hands, 
 From its case of massive oak. 
 Like a monk who, under his cloak, 
 Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 
 With sorrowful voice to all who pass, 
 
 " Forever— never ! 
 
 Never — forever!" 
 
 By day its voice is low and light; 
 But in the silent dead of night, 
 Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
 It echoes along the vacant hall. 
 Along the ceiling, along the floor. 
 And seems to say at each chamber door, 
 
 " Forever^never! 
 
 Never — forever !" 
 
86 
 
 ONE IIUNUULD CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
 Through days of death and days of birth 
 Through every swift vicissitude 
 Of changeful time, unchanged it lias stood. 
 And as if, likeGod, it all things saw, 
 It calmly repeats ihose words of awe, 
 
 " Forever — never ! 
 
 Never — forever!" 
 
 In that mansion used to be 
 Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
 His great fires up the chimney roared; 
 The stranger feasted at his board; 
 But, like the skeleton at the feast. 
 That warning time-piece never ceased, — 
 
 "Forever — never! 
 
 Never — forever!" 
 
 There groups of merry children played ; 
 
 There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; 
 
 Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime 
 
 And affluence of love and time! 
 
 Even as a miber counts his gold. 
 
 Those hours the ancient time-piece told, — 
 
 " Forever — never! 
 
 Never— forever !" 
 
 From that chamber, clothed in white, 
 The bride came forth on her wedding night; 
 There, in that silent room below. 
 The dead lay, in his shrond of snow; 
 And, ia the hush that followed the prayer, 
 Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
 
 "Forever — never! 
 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 All are scattered, now, and fled, — 
 Some are married, some are dead; 
 And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
 "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" 
 As in the days long since gone by. 
 The ancient tirae-pieco makes reply, 
 
 " Forever — never! 
 
 Never — forever!" 
 Never here, forever there. 
 Where all parting, pain, and care, 
 
NUM niSK TUKUE. 87 
 
 And death, and time, shall disappear, — 
 Forever there, but never here! 
 The horologe of Eternity 
 Sayeth this incessantly, 
 
 " Forever— never ! 
 
 Never— forever!" 
 
 THE BALLOT -BOX.— E. H. Chapin. 
 
 I am aware that th(J ballot-box is not everywhere a con- 
 sistent symbol; but to a large degree it is so. I know what 
 miserable associations cluster around this instrument of 
 popular power. I know that the arena in which it stands 
 is trodden into mire by the feet of reckless ambition and 
 selfish greed. The wire-pulling and the bribing, the pitiful 
 Iruokling and the grotesque compromises, the exaggeration 
 and the detraction, the melo-dramalic is.sues and the sham 
 l)atriotism, the party watchwords and the party nicknames, 
 the schemes of the few paraded as the will of the many, the 
 elevation of men whose only worth is in the votes they 
 command, — vile men, whoso liands you would not grasp iu 
 friendship, whose presence you would not tolerate by your 
 fireside, — incompctnt men, whose fitness is not in their ca- 
 jiacity as functionaries, or legislators, but as organ pipes ; — 
 the snatching at the slices and offal of office, the intemper- 
 ance and the violence, the finesse and the falsehood, the 
 gain and the glory ; these are indeed but too closely identified 
 with that puolitical agitation which circles around the ballot 
 box. 
 
 But, after all, they are not essential to it. They are only 
 the masks of a genuine grandeur and importance. For it 
 is a grand thing, — something which involves profound doc- 
 trines of right, — something which has cost ages of effort and 
 sacrifice,— it is a grand thing that here, at last, each voter 
 has just the weight of one man ; no more, no le.ss ; and the 
 weakest, by virtiie of his recognized manhood, is as strong as 
 the mightiest. And consider, for a moment, what it is to 
 cast a vote. It U the token of inestimable privileges, and 
 involves the responsibilities of an hereditary trust. It has 
 passed into your haiids as a right, reaped from fields of suf- 
 
88 ONE HUNDRED Clio ici; s i:Li:f ;■ I u;:s 
 
 fering and blood. The grandeur of history is represented 
 in your act. Men have wrought with i)eu and tongue, and 
 pined in dungeons.anddiedon scaffolds, that you might ob- 
 tain tlii^synibol of freedom, and enjoy this conscioiisiiess of 
 a sai led individuality. Tn the ballot have been Iran.sniitted, 
 as it were, the dignity of the sceptre and the potency of Ihe 
 sword. 
 
 And that which is so potent as a right, is also pregnant as a 
 duty; a duty for the present and for the future. Ifvyou will, 
 that folded leaf becomes a tongue of justice, a voice of order, 
 a force of imperial law; securing rights, abolishing abuses, 
 erecting new institutions of truth and love. And, however 
 you will, it is the expression of a solemi responsibility, the 
 exercise of an immeasurable power for good or for evil, now 
 and hereafter. It is the medium through which you act 
 U[)on your connti y, — tlie organic nerve which incorporates 
 you with its life and welf ire. There is no agent with which 
 thepfissibilitiesof the republic are more intimately involved, 
 none upon which we can fall back with more confidence than 
 the ballot-box. 
 
 THE RAZOR SELLER.— Pjstek Pindar. 
 
 A fellow in a market town. 
 
 Most musical, cried razors up and down, 
 
 And offered twelve for eighteenpence; 
 Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap 
 And for the money quite a heap, 
 
 As every man would buy, with cash and sense, 
 
 A countrj' bnmpkin the great offer heard: 
 
 Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard. 
 
 That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose. 
 With cheerfulness the eighteenpence he paid, 
 And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, 
 
 " This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. 
 
 "No matter if the fellow be a knave. 
 Provided that the razors shave; 
 
 It certainly will be a monstrous prize." 
 So homo the clown, with his good fortune, went, 
 Smiling, in heart and soul content. 
 
 And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. 
 
N U M B E U T n R E E. 89 
 
 Being well lathered from a dish or tub, 
 Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, 
 
 Just like a hedger cutting furze: 
 'Twas a vile razor, — then the rest he tried, — 
 All were impostors; "Ah!" Hodge sighed, 
 
 "I wish my eighteenpence were in my purse." 
 In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, 
 
 He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore. 
 Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, 
 
 A;id cursed each raz.ir's body o'er and o'er: 
 His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, 
 ■ Firm as a Foxite, would not loose its ruff. 
 
 So kept it, — laughing at the steel and suds: 
 Hodge, ill ii i)assioii, stretched his angry jaws. 
 Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, 
 
 On the vile cheat that sold the goods: 
 "Razors! a mean, confounded dog. 
 Not tit to scrape a hog!" ' 
 
 Hodge sought the fellow, — found him, — and begun: 
 "P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun. 
 
 That people flay themselves out of their lives: 
 Yon rascal ! for an hour have I been grubbing, 
 Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, 
 
 With razors just like oyster knives. 
 Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave. 
 To cry up razors that can't shave. ' 
 "Friend," quoth the razor man, "I'm not a knave: 
 
 As for the razors yon have bought. 
 
 Upon my soul I never thought 
 That they would shave." 
 
 "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondernig 
 eyes. 
 
 And voice not much unlike an Indian yell , 
 "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries; 
 
 "Made!" quotli tlie fellow, witli a smile — "to sell." 
 
 GINEVRA.— Sa-muel Rogers. 
 
 If ever you should come to Modena, 
 (Where among other relics yon may see 
 Tassoni's bucket,— but 'tis not the true one,) 
 Stop at a palace near the Reg?:io-gate, 
 Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati. 
 
9J0 O N' I! HUNDRED CIIOIOB SELECTIONS 
 
 Its noblu g.irdeiis, terruce above terrace, 
 And ricli in fouiitiiiiis, stiitues, cypresses, 
 Will long detain you ; but, before you go. 
 Enter the house— forget it not, I pray you — 
 And look awhile upon a picture there. 
 
 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, 
 The last of that illustrious family; 
 Done by Z.impieri, — but by whom I care not. 
 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, iiiclinijig forward as to speak. 
 Her lips half open, and her finger up. 
 As though she said, " Beware!" Her vost of gold 
 Broidered with fl(jwers, and clasped from head to foot; 
 An emerald stone in every golden clasp; 
 And on her brow, fairer than alijbaster, 
 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. 
 
 Aloneit hangs 
 Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, 
 An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm. 
 But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
 AVith Scripture stories from the life of Christ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
 The ducal robes of some old ancestors, — 
 That by the way,— it may be true or false,^ 
 But don't forget the picture; and you will not, 
 When you have heard the tale they told me there. 
 
 She was an only child, — her name Ginevra, — 
 The joy, the pride of an indulgent father; 
 And in her fifteenth year became a bride. 
 Marrying an only son, I'Vancesco Doria, 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
 
 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress. 
 She was all gentleness, all gayety, 
 Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
 But now the day was come, — the day, the hour; 
 
NUMBER THREE. 91 
 
 Now, frowning, smiling for the huudredlli lime, 
 Tlie nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; 
 And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
 lier hand, \vith her heart in it, to Francesco. 
 
 Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast, 
 Wlieii all sat down, the bride herself was wanting. 
 Nor was she to be found. Her father cried, 
 " 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !" 
 And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, 
 And soon from guest to guest the panic sin-ead. 
 ' I'was but that instant she had left Francesco, 
 Laughing and looking back, and flying still, 
 Her ivory tooth imprinted on his iinger. 
 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, embarking, 
 Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
 Donati lived, and long might you have seen 
 .\n 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 passed, and all forgotten, 
 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 Gincvra, 
 " \V'hy 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 wedding ring. 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
 Engraven with a name, — the name of both, — 
 "Ginevra." 
 
 There, then, had she found a grave ! 
 Within that chest had she concealed herself. 
 Fluttering with joy, the liappiest of the happy, 
 V.'hen a spring lock, that lay in ambush there, 
 Fastened her down forever. 
 
92 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE BURIAL OF MOSES.— C. F. Alkxandeh. 
 
 "And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Betli-peor; 
 but no man knoweth of biB sepulchre unto this day." Deut xx ai\. 6. 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain, 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave, 
 III a vale in the land of Moab, 
 
 There lies a lonely grave; 
 But no man dug that sepulchre. 
 
 And no man saw it e'er, 
 For the angels of God upturned the sod, 
 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth; 
 But no man heard the tramping. 
 
 Or saw the train go forth; 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes when the night is done, 
 And thfr crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
 
 Grows into the great sun, — 
 
 Noiselessly as the spring-time 
 
 Her crown of verdure weaves, 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 
 Open their thousand leaves, — 
 So, without sound of music. 
 
 Or voice of them that wept, 
 Silently down from the mountain crown 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
 Perchance the bald old eagle. 
 
 On gray Beth-peor's height, 
 Out of his rocky eyrie, 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight. 
 Perchance the lion, stalking, , 
 
 Still shuns the hallowed spot; 
 For beast and bird have seen and heard 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
 Lo! when the warrior dieth. 
 
 His comrades in the war, 
 With arms reversed, and muffled drum, 
 
 Follow the funeral car. 
 They show the banners taken, 
 
 They tell his battles won, 
 
N U il B E R T II R K K. C3 
 
 And after him lead liia rnasterless steed, 
 While peals the minute gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land 
 
 Men lay the sage to rest, 
 And give the bard an honored place. 
 
 With costly marble dressed. 
 In the great minster transept, 
 
 Where lights like glories fall. 
 And the choir |ings, and the organ rings 
 
 Along the emblazoned wall. 
 
 This was the bravest warrior 
 
 That ever buckled sword ; 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word ; 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced, with his golden pen, 
 On the deathless page, truths half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
 And had he not high honor? 
 
 The hill side for his pall: 
 To lie in state while angels wait, 
 
 With stars for tapers tall ; 
 And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, 
 
 Over his bier to wave ; 
 And God's own hand, in that lonely land. 
 
 To lay him in the grave, — 
 
 In that deep grave, without a name. 
 
 Whence his uncoffined clay 
 Shall break again, — Oh wondrous thought!- 
 
 Before the judgment day; 
 And s^tand, with glory wrapped around. 
 
 On the hills he never trod, 
 And speak of the strife that won our life. 
 
 With the incarnate Son of Grod. 
 
 lonely tomb in Moab's land ! 
 
 O dark Beth-peor's hill ! 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours. 
 
 And teach them to be fetill. 
 God hath his mysteries of grace, — 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell; 
 He hi<les tliem diiep, like the secret ulcep 
 
 Of hiui !;e loved so well. 
 
OJ, ONE nxlN'>Ri;D CHOICE SKLIiCTIUNS 
 
 GRATTAN'S REPLY TO MR. CORRY. 
 
 Has the gentleman done? Has \\& completely Aon&l Hw 
 was unjiarliamentary from the beginning to tlie end of liis 
 speech. There was scarce a word he uttered tliat was not a 
 violation of the privileges of the House. But I did not call 
 him to order, — why? Because the limited talents of some 
 men render it impossible for them to be severe without be- 
 ing unparliamentary. But before I sit down I shall show 
 him how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time. 
 
 On any other occasion, I should think myself justifiable 
 ill treating with silent contempt anything which might fall 
 from that honorable member; but there are times, when 
 the insignificance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of 
 the accusation. I know the ditficulty the honorable gentle- 
 man labored under when he attacked me, conscious that, 
 nil a comparative view of our characters, public and private, 
 there is nothing he could say which would injure me. The 
 public would not believe the charge. I despise the false- 
 hood. If such a charge were made by an honest man, I 
 would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. 
 But I shall first reply to it when not mude by an honest man. 
 The right honor.ible gentleman has called me "an uniin- 
 peached traitor." I ask why not "traitor"," unqualified by 
 any epithet? I will tell him: it was because he durst not. 
 It was the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but 
 lias not courage to give the blow. I will not call him 
 villain, because it would be uiipailiameiitaiy, and he is a 
 privy counsellor. I will not call him fool, because lie happens 
 to be chancellor of the exchequer. But I say, he is one 
 who has abused the privilege of Parliament andthefree- 
 dom of debate, by uttering language which, if spoken out 
 of the House, I should answer only with a blow. I care nr , 
 how high his situation, howlow his character, how contempt- 
 ible his speech ; whether a privy counsellor or a pararj.te, 
 my answer would be a blow. 
 
 He has charged me with being connected with the rebels. 
 The charge is utterly, totally, ami meanly fMlse. Does the 
 honorable gentleman rely on tjie report of the House of 
 
NCMBEK TIIItEE. 95 
 
 Lords for the foundation of his assertion? If he does, I can 
 prove to the committee there was a physical impossibility 
 of that report being true. But I scorn to answer any man 
 for my conduct, whether he be a political coxcomb, or 
 whether he brought himself into power by a false glare of 
 courage or not. 
 
 I have returned,— not as the right honorable member has 
 said, to raise another storm, — I have returned to discharge 
 an honorable debt gf gratitude to my country, that con- 
 ferred a great reward for past services, which, 1 am proud tc* 
 say, was not greater'than my desert. I have returned to 
 protect that Constitution of which I was the parent and 
 founder, from the assassination of such men as the right 
 honorable gentleman and his unworthy associates. They 
 are corrupt, they are seditious, and they, at this very mo- 
 ment, are in a conspiracy against their country. I have re- 
 turned to refute a libel, as false as it is malicious, given to 
 the public under the appellation of a report of the committee 
 of the Lords. Here I stand, ready for impeachment or trial. 
 I dare accusation. I defy the honorable gentleman ; I defy 
 the government; I defy their whole phalanx; let them 
 come forth. I tell the ministers, I will neither give quarter 
 nor take it. I am here to lay the shattered remains of my 
 constitution on the floor of this House, in defence of the 
 liberties of my country. 
 
 THE CvOLLEGIAN AND TH2 TOKTEB, 
 J. R. Plancue. 
 
 At Trin. Col. Cam. — which means, in proper spelling, 
 Trinity College, Cambridge, — there resided 
 
 One Harry Dashington,ayouth excelling 
 In all the learning commonly provided 
 
 For those who choose that classic station 
 For finishing their education. 
 
 That is, he understood computing 
 
 The odds at any race or match ^ 
 Was a dead hand at pigeon-shooting; 
 
 Could kick up rows, knock down the watch, 
 
 U 
 
9(i ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Play truant and, the rake at random, 
 Drink, tie cravats, and drive a tandem. 
 
 Remonstrance, fine, and rustication, 
 So far from working reformation, 
 
 Seemed but to make liis lapses greater; 
 Till he was warned that next offence 
 Would have this certain consequence — 
 
 Expulsion irom his Alma Mater. 
 
 One need not be a necromancer 
 To guess, that, with so wild a wight, 
 The next offence occurred next night; 
 When our incurable came rolling 
 Home, as the midnight chimes were tolling; 
 
 And rang the college bell :— no answer. 
 
 The second peal was vain ; the third 
 
 Made the street echo its alanim ; 
 When, to his great delight, he heard 
 The sordid janitor, old Ben, 
 Eousing and growling in his den : 
 
 "Who's there? — I s'pose young Harum-Scarnm. 
 " 'Tis I, my worthy Ben, — 'tis Harry." 
 " Ay, so I thought, — and there you'll tarry ; 
 'Tis past the hour, — the gates are closed, — 
 
 You know my orders, — I shall lose 
 My place, if I undo the door." 
 "And I," young Hopeful interposed, 
 
 "Shall be expelled, if you refuse. 
 
 So prythee" — Ben began to snore. 
 "I'm wet," cried Harry- "to tbe skin^ 
 
 Hip ! hallo ! Ben, don't be a ninny ; 
 
 Beneath the gate I've thrust a guinea, 
 So tumble out and let me in." 
 
 " Humph !" growled the greedy old curr.mdgeon. 
 Half overjoyed and half in dudgeon, 
 
 " Now you may pass, but make no fuss, 
 On tiptoe walk, and hold your prate.'" 
 
 " Look on the stones, old Cerberus," 
 Cried Harry, as he passed the gate, 
 
 "I've dropped a shilling, — take tho light. 
 
 You'll find it just outside, — gocj-iiight." 
 
 Behold the porter in l.is shirt, 
 Dripping with rain that nevei ^topped, 
 
NUMBEE THREE. 97 
 
 Groping and raking in the dirt, 
 And all without success; but that 
 Is hardly to be wondered at, 
 
 Because no shilling had been dropped; 
 So he gave o'er the search at last, 
 Kegaiued the door, and found it fast. 
 
 With sundry oaths, and growls, and groans. 
 
 He rang once, — twice, — and thrice; and then, 
 Mingled with gigging, heard the tones 
 
 Of Harry, mimicking old Ben: — 
 " Who's there? 'Tis really a disgrace 
 
 To ring so loud, — I've locked the gate, 
 
 I know my duty; 'tis too late, — 
 You wouldn't have me lose my place?" 
 
 "Psha! Mr. Dashington; remember 
 This is the middle of November; 
 
 I'm stripped; 'tis raining cats and dogs" — 
 "Hush, hush!" quoth Hal, " I'm fast asleep;" 
 And then he snored as loud and deep 
 
 As a whole company of hogs. 
 " But, hark ye, Ben, I'll grant admittance 
 
 At the same rate I paid myself." 
 "Nay, master, leave me half the pittance," 
 
 Replied the avaricious elf. 
 "No, — all or none, — a full acquittance; 
 The terms, I know, are somewhat high; 
 But you have fixed the price, not I; 
 
 I won't take less; I can't afford it." 
 
 So, finding all his haggling vain, 
 Ben, with an oath and groan of pain, 
 
 Drew out the guinea, and restored it. 
 "Surely you'll give me," growled the outwitted 
 Porter, when again admitted, 
 "Something, now you've done your joking, 
 For all this trouble, time, and soaking." 
 
 "Oh, surely, surely," Harry said; 
 "Since, as you urge, I broke your rest. 
 And you're half drowned, and quite uiidresped, 
 I'll give you," said the generous fellow. 
 Free, as most people are when mellow, 
 
 " I'll give you — leave to go to bed." 
 
 21 
 
Oh ONE IIUNDKKU CUOICJi SELECTIONS 
 
 THE CHANGED CKOSS.— Mrs. CaiAS. Hobabt. 
 
 It was a time of sadness, and my heart, 
 Although it knew and loved the better part, 
 Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, 
 And all the needful discipline of life. 
 
 And while I thought on these as given to me, 
 My trial tests of faith and love to be, 
 It seemed as if I never could be sure 
 That faithful to the end I should endure. 
 
 And thus, no longer trusting to his might 
 Who says, " We walk by faith and not by sight," 
 Doubting, and almost yielding to despair. 
 The thought arose, " My cross I cannot bear." 
 
 Far heavier its weight must surely be, 
 Than those of others which I daily see; 
 Oh ! if I might another burden choose, 
 Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose. 
 
 A solemn silence reigned on all around ; 
 E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound ; 
 The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell. 
 And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. 
 
 A moment's pause, — and then a heavenly light 
 Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight; 
 Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere, 
 And angels' music filled the balmy air. 
 
 Then One, more fair than all the rest to see, 
 One, to whom all the others bowed the knee, 
 Came gently to me, as I trembling lay. 
 And, "Follow me," he said, " 1 am the Way." 
 
 Then, speaking thus, he led me far above, 
 And there, beneath a canopy of love. 
 Crosses of divers shape and size were seen. 
 Larger and smaller than my own had been. 
 
 And one there was most beauteous to behold,— 
 A little one, with jewels set in gold; 
 Ah ! this, methought, I can with comfort wear, 
 For it will be an easy one to bear. 
 
 And so the little cross I quickly took. 
 
 But all at once my frame beneath it shook ; 
 
N UMBEn . ;^ KEE. 93 
 
 The siiarkling jewels, fair were they to tee. 
 Bill f.ir loo lieavy Was their weight for me. 
 
 "This may not be," I cried, and looked again, 
 To see if any tliere could ease my pain ; 
 But, one by one I passed them slowly by, 
 Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. 
 
 Fair flowers around its sculi)tured form entwined. 
 And grace and beauty seemed in it combined; 
 Wondering I gazed, — and still I wondered more, 
 To think so nitfliy should have passed it o'er. 
 
 But oh, that form so beautiful to see, 
 Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me; 
 Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair; 
 Sorrowing I said, " This cross I may not bear." 
 
 And so it was with each and all around. 
 
 Not one to suit my need could there be found; 
 
 Weeping I laid each heavy burden down. 
 
 As my guide gently said, " No cross, — no crown." 
 
 At length to him I raised my saddened heart; . 
 Ho knevir its sorrows, bade its doubts depart; 
 " Be not afraid," he said, "but trust in me; 
 My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." 
 
 And then, with lightened eyes and willing feet. 
 Again I turned, my earthly cross to meet; 
 With forward footsteps, turning not aside, 
 For fear some hidden evil might betide; 
 
 And there, — in the prepared, appointed way. 
 Listening to hear, and ready to obey,— 
 A cross I quickly found, of plainest form, 
 With only words of love inscribed thereon. 
 
 With thankfulness I raised it from the rest, 
 And joyfully acknowledged it the best, — 
 The only one, of all the many there. 
 That I could feel was good for me to bear. 
 
 And while I thus my chosen one confessed, 
 I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; 
 And as I bent, my burden to sustain, 
 I recognized my own old cross again. 
 
 But, oh! how different did it seem to be, 
 Now I had learned its preciousness to seel 
 
100 ONE UUNDRKD CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 No longer could I unbelieving say, 
 "Perhaps another is a better way." 
 
 Ah, no! henceforth my one desire shall be, 
 That he, who knows me best, should choose for roe; 
 And so, whate'er his love sees good to send, 
 I'll trust it's best, — because he knows the end. 
 
 BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF C^SAR.— Siiakspeare. 
 
 Roinans, countrymen, and lovers ! Hear me for my cause ; 
 and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine 
 honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may be- 
 lieve. Censure me in your wisdom ; and awake your senses, 
 that you may the better judge. If there be any in this as- 
 sembly, — any dear friend of Caesar's, — to him 1 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 tliat 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 liim; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at 
 it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambi- 
 tious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his 
 fortune, honor for his valor, and death for his ambition. 
 
 Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, 
 spepk; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that 
 would not be a Roman? If any, speak ; for him have I of- 
 fended. 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 should do to Brutus. The question 
 of his death is enrolled in the Capitol ; his glory not exten- 
 uated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, 
 for which he suffered death. 
 
 Here come.s his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, 
 though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the ben- 
 efit 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. 
 
NuuouB Tiiuiar, lui 
 
 ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.— Shakspeark. 
 
 Friends, Romans, countrymen! lend me your ears; 
 I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
 Tlie evil that men do lives after them ; 
 The good is oft interred with their bones: 
 So lei it be with Csesar. The noble Brutus 
 Hath told you Caesar was ambitious; 
 If it were so , it was a grievous fault. 
 And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 
 Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,— 
 For Brutus is an honorable man. 
 So are they all, all honorable men, — 
 Come I to speak in Csesar's funeral. 
 
 He was my friend, faithful and just to me: 
 But Brutus says he was ambitious. 
 And Brutus is an honorable man. 
 He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
 Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 
 Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? 
 When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; 
 Ambition should be made of sterne'r stuff: 
 Yet Brutus says he was ambitions, 
 And Brutus is an honorable man. 
 You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, 
 I thrice presented him a kingly crown. 
 Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? 
 Y'et Brutus says he was ambitious. 
 And, sure, he is an honorable man. 
 I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 
 But here I am to speak what I do know. 
 Yon all did love him once, not without cause: 
 What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? 
 O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, 
 And men have lost their reason!— Bear with me; 
 My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 
 And I must pause till it come back to me. 
 
 But yesterday the word of Caesar might 
 Have stood against the world; now lies he there, 
 And none so poor to do him reverence. 
 O masters! if I were disposed to stir 
 Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 
 
10*} ' XE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 1 should do Brntus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
 
 iVlio, you all know, are honorable men. 
 
 I will not do them wrong; I rather choose 
 
 To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 
 
 Thau I will wrong such honorable men. 
 
 But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cseiar; 
 
 I found it in his closet; 'tis his will. 
 
 Let but tlie commons hear this testament, — 
 
 Which, partlon me, I do not mean to read, — 
 
 And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 
 
 And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; 
 
 Yea, beg a hair of him for memory. 
 
 And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
 
 Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 
 
 Unto their issue. 
 
 If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
 You all do know this mantle; I remember 
 The first time ever Csesar put it on ; 
 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent; 
 That day he overcame the Nervii. — 
 Look ! In this place ran Cassius' <]agger through; 
 See what a rent the envious Casca made; 
 Tlirougli this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed, 
 And, as he plucked his cnrsed steel away, 
 Mark how the blood of Coesar followed it, 
 As rushing out of doors, to be resolved 
 If Bnitus so unkindly knocked, or no ; 
 For Brntus, as you know, was Csesar's angel ; 
 Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Csesar loved him I 
 This was the most uiikindest cut of all; 
 For when the noble Cfesar saw him stab. 
 Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms. 
 Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart; 
 And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 
 Even at the base of Pompey's statue. 
 Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 
 Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen I 
 Then I, and you, and all of us fell down. 
 Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 
 
 Oh ! now you weep; and I perceive you feel 
 The dint of pity ; —these are gracious drops. 
 Kind souls! What, weep yon when you but behold 
 Our Cajsar's vesture wounded? Look you herel 
 Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors. 
 
NU 51 B KU Til UEE. 103 
 
 Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
 To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 
 Tliey that have done this deed are honorable ! 
 What private griefs they have, alas! I know not, 
 That made them do it. They are wise and honorable, 
 And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. ■ 
 I come not, friends, to sieal away your hearts; 
 1 am no orator, as Brutus is; 
 But as you know me all, a plain, blunt man. 
 That love my frigiid ; and that they know full well 
 That gave me public leave to speak of him. 
 For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth. 
 Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 
 To stir men's blood; — I only speak right on ; 
 I toll you that which you yourselves do know; 
 Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, 
 And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, 
 And Brut'.is Antony, there wei-e an Antony 
 Would rulUe up your spirits, and put a tongue 
 In every wound of Csesar, that should move 
 The stones of Home to rise and mutiny! 
 
 GRIZZLY GRUMBLER'S ADVICE. 
 
 My Dear Fellow-Grumblers: — Poets, philosophers, and 
 fools, in all ages, have been writing and preaching on the 
 iirt of being happy, without a mighty sight of seals to their 
 ministry, I guess. 
 
 But, as many can't be satisfied unless miserable in body 
 and mind, I am going to show all such persons the several 
 means to be used for the attainment o(f such a desirable end. 
 
 In the first place, my beloved whiners, in order to attain 
 any end, you must get up a slifl' resolution and determi- 
 nation to conquer. Yes, my hearers, you must set down your 
 foot, grit your teeth, let your resolution be as stiff as boiler- 
 plate, let your firmness be as unwavering as the rocks of 
 Gibraltar. Be determined to be miserable, and you shall 
 get your desires. Never mind what people tell you about 
 the bounties of Providence and the beauties of Nature, the 
 balmy breezes of spring, the twittering and warbling of 
 birds,— you must sheer ofi'from them like a wealthy upstart 
 from a poor relation. 
 
 U* 
 
104 ONE HUNDEEU CilOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Put on a sour, savage, snapping-turtle physiognomy; look 
 daggers, and act out your feelings; this is the first great coni- 
 maiidment with misery: Think yon are the most forsalsen 
 mortal that misery ever held a mortgage on. Hate man- 
 kind; call 'em all li.MJ, cheats, swindlers, villains. Look at 
 everything on the wrong side. If it has no dark side, make 
 one, just so r.3 to enjoy yourself looking at it. Take it for 
 granted that everybody about is especially interested to tor- 
 ment you. Fight everybody and everything. You can't 
 hit amiss. The world is all wrong. Everybody is a villain 
 but yourself, and it is your duty to teacli mankind manners. 
 Go at 'em. You can't /aii to be miserable. 
 
 THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.— Caroline A. South ey. 
 
 I'm thinking that to-night, if not before. 
 
 There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar? 
 
 It's brewing up down westward; and look there! 
 
 One of those sea gullsl 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 re- 
 solves that they shall set out, — the two girls, Lizzy 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. 
 
 " 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 till you're quite past; 
 Tliat 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 Lizzy's cloak, 
 A good gray duflSe, lovingly she tied, 
 And amply little Jenny's lack supplied 
 
NUMBED Till: E G. 105 
 
 With her own warmest shawl. " Be sure," said she, 
 "To wrap it round, and knot it carefully, 
 lyiUe this, when you come home, just leaving free 
 One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away; 
 liood will to school, and then good right to play." 
 
 The mother watches them with foreboding, though s^ie 
 knows not why. In a little while the threatened uiorm 
 sets in. Night comes, and with it comes the father from 
 his daily toil; 
 
 There's a treasur^hidden in his hat, — 
 A [ilaything for his young ones; he had found 
 A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round 
 For its long winter sleep; and all his thought, 
 As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught 
 But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, 
 And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise. 
 When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer. 
 Hard won, the frozen captive to their aire. 
 
 No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and 
 to his hurried question, — 
 " Are they come?" 'twas " no." 
 To throw his tools down, hastily unhook 
 The old cracked lantern from its dusty 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 
 Ti> where a fearful foresight led him on. 
 
 A neighbor goes with him, and the fiiithful dog follows 
 the children's tracks. 
 
 " 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 !" 
 And a low sob came faintly on the ear, "Oh, dear!" 
 Mocked by the sobbing gust. 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 
 
 2.* 
 
106 ONE HUNUKIiD CHOICE SKLECTl^jNS 
 
 For a tall man, and half above it propped 
 
 By some old ragged side-piles, that had Stopped, 
 
 Kiidways, the broken plaiili, when it gave way 
 
 With the two little ones, that luckless day. 
 
 "My babes, my lambkins!" was the father's cry; 
 
 One little voice made answer, " Here am I." 
 
 'Twas Lizzy's. Theie 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 oa some dark object underneath. 
 
 Washed by the turbid water, fixed like stone; 
 
 One arm and iiand stretched out, and rigid grown. 
 
 Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. 
 
 There she lay, drowned. ♦ * * » 
 
 They lifted her from out her watery bed ; 
 
 Its covering gone, the lovely little head 
 
 Hnng like a broken snowdrop all aside, 
 
 And one small luind; tlie mother's shawl was tied. 
 
 Leaving that free, about the child's small form, 
 
 As was her last injunction, "fast and warm;" 
 
 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; 
 
 Wliile, through the reckless water overhead, 
 
 Her life breath bubbled up. 
 
 'Islie might have lived. 
 
 Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that riVed 
 
 The wretched mother's heart wlien she heard all, 
 
 "But for my foolishness about that shawl." 
 
 " Wlio says I forgot ? 
 
 Mother, indeed, indeed I kept fast hold. 
 
 And tied the sbuwl quite close, — she can't be cold. 
 
 But she won't move. We slept, I don't know how. 
 
 But I held on, and I'm so weary now. 
 
 And it's 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 turned, 
 Piteonsly plaining like a wounded dove, 
 With now and then the murmur, "She won't move;" 
 And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright 
 ShiMie on that pillow,— passing strange the sight, — 
 JTic young head's raven hair was streaked mth white! 
 
N I MUEU TlIitEi:. 107 
 
 THE PARTING HOUR.— Edward Pollock. 
 
 There's soniething in " the parting hour" 
 
 Will chill the warmest heart, — 
 Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends, 
 
 Are fated all to part; 
 But this I've seen, — and many a pang 
 
 Has pressed it on ray mind, — 
 The one who goes is hajipier 
 
 Than thoselie leaves behind. 
 
 No matter what the journey be, — 
 
 Adventurous, dangerous, far 
 To the wild deep, or bleak frontier. 
 
 To solitude, or war, — 
 Still something cheers the heart that dares, 
 
 In all of human kind ; 
 And they who go are happier 
 
 Than those they leave behind. 
 
 The bride goes to the bridegroom's home 
 
 With doubtings and with tears, 
 But does not Hope her rainbow spread 
 
 Acro.ss her cloudy fears? 
 Alas! the mother who remains, 
 
 What comfort can she find 
 But this — the gone is happier 
 
 Than the one she leaves behind? 
 
 Have you a trusty comrade dear, — 
 
 An old and valued friejid? 
 Be sure your term of sweet concourse 
 
 At length will have an end. 
 And when you part, — as part you will, — 
 
 Oh take it not unkind. 
 If he who goes is hap))ier 
 
 Than you he leaves behind. 
 
 God wills it so, and so it is; 
 
 The pilgrims on their way. 
 Though weak and worn, more cheerful are 
 
 Than all the rest who stay. 
 And when, at last, poor man, subdued, 
 
 Lies down, to death resigned. 
 May he not still he happier far 
 
 Than those he leaves behind? 
 
108 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SKLECTIONS 
 
 ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. -Daniel Webstkr. 
 
 Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. As Au- 
 man beings, indeed, they are no more. They are no more, 
 as in 1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence ; no 
 more, as on sub.sequent periods, tlie head of the govern- 
 ment; no more, as we have recently seen them, aged and 
 venerable objects of admiration and regard. They are no 
 more. They are dead. 
 
 But how little is there of the great and good which can 
 die! To their country they yet live, and live forever. They 
 live in all that perpetuates the remembrance of men^n 
 earth; in the recorded proofs of their own gre.it actions, in 
 the offspring of their intellect, in the deep engraved lines 
 of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage of man- 
 kind. They live in their example; and they live, emphat- 
 ic-ally, and will live, in the influence which iheir lives and 
 effurts, their principles and opinions, now exorcise, and will 
 continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in their 
 own country, bat throughout the civilized world. 
 
 A superior and commanding humaii intellect, a truly great 
 man, — when Heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift, — is nbt a 
 temporary flame, burning bright for a while, and then 
 expiring, giving place to returning darkness. It is rather a 
 spark of fervent heat, as well as radiant light, with power 
 to enkindle the common mass of human mind: so that, 
 when it glimmers in its own decay, and finally goes out in 
 death, no night follows; but it leaves the world all light, 
 all on fire, from the potent contact of its own spirit. 
 
 Bacon died ; but the human understanding, roused by 
 the touch of his miraculous wand to a perception of the true 
 philosophy and the just mode of inquiring after truth, has 
 kept on its course successfully and gloriously. Newton died ; 
 yet the courses of the spheres are still known, and they yet 
 move on, in the orbits which he saw and described for them, 
 in the infinity of space. 
 
 No two men now li ve,^perhaps it may be doubted whether 
 any two men have ever lived in one age, — who, more than 
 those we now commemorate, have impressed their own senti- 
 
N U II n E U THREE. 109 
 
 ments, in regard to politics and government, on mankind ; 
 i.ifused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions 
 of others; or given a more lasting direction to the current 
 of human thought. Their work doth not perish with them. 
 Tlic tree Which tliey assisted to plant will flourish, although 
 they water it and protect it no longer; for it has struck its 
 roots deep; it has sent them to the very centre; no storm, 
 not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it ; its branches 
 spread wide; they stretch their protecting arms broader 
 and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens. 
 
 We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age 
 will come, in which the American revolution will appear 
 less than it is, — one of the greatest events in liuman histor}'. 
 So age will come, in which it will ceass to be seen and felt, 
 on either continent, that a mighty step, a great advance, 
 not only in American affairs, but in hum'in affairs, was made 
 on the 4th of July, 1776. And no age will coirie, we trust, 
 so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the 
 effijient agency of tliese wo now honor. In producing that 
 momentous event. 
 
 THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA POWDER. 
 
 A Frenchman once, — so runs a certain ditty, — 
 
 Had crossed the Straits to famous London city, 
 
 To get a living by the arts of France, 
 
 And teach his neighbor, rough Jqhn Bull, to dance. 
 
 But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill; 
 
 His fortunes sank from low to lower still; 
 
 Until, at last, — pathetic to relate, — 
 
 Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate. 
 
 iStanding, one day, beside a 'cook-shop door. 
 
 And gazing in, with aggravation sore. 
 
 He mused within himself what he should do 
 
 To fill his empty maw, and pocket "too. 
 
 By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan. 
 
 And thus to execute it straight began : 
 
 A piece of common brick he quickly found. 
 
 And with a harder stone to powder ground, 
 
 Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty piece 
 
 Of paper, labelled " Poison for de Fleas," 
 
lly ONE UUNDREli CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try, 
 
 To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy. 
 
 From street to street he cried, with lusty yell, 
 
 "Here's grand and sovereign flea poudare to sell!" 
 
 And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last, 
 
 For soon a woman hailed him as he passed. 
 
 Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot, 
 
 And made him five crowns richer on the spot. 
 
 Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale, 
 
 Went into business on a larger scale; 
 
 And soon, throughout all London, scattered he 
 
 The "only genuine poudare for de flea." 
 
 Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation 
 
 Of mingled boasting and dissimulation, 
 
 He thought he heard himself in anger called; 
 
 And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled — 
 
 In not a mild or very tender mood — 
 
 From the same window where before she stood: 
 
 "Hey, there," said sue, ''you Monsher Powder-man! 
 
 Escape my clutches, now, sir, if you can; 
 
 I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know 
 
 That decent people won't be cheated so." 
 
 Then spoke Monsieur, anil heaved a saintly sigh, 
 
 With humble attitude and tearful eye, 
 
 "All, Madame! s'il vous plait, attendez-vous, 
 
 I viU dis leetle ting c.rplain to yon: 
 
 My poudare gran ! magnifique ! why abuse him? 
 
 Aha! I show you how to use him; 
 
 First, you must wait until you catch de flea; 
 
 Den, tickle he on de petite rib, you see ; 
 
 And when he laugh, — aha! he ope his throat; 
 
 Den poke de poudare diwn! — Begar! he choke." 
 
 IN THE OTHER WORLD.— H. Beecher Stowb. 
 
 It lies around us like a cloud, — 
 
 A world we do not see ; 
 Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
 
 May bring us there to be. 
 
 Its gentle breezes fan our cheek ; 
 
 Amid our worldly cares 
 Its gentle voices whisper love. 
 
 And mingle with our prayers. 
 
N UM BEn TIIKEE. Iw 
 
 Sweet liearts around ii.-. throb and beat. 
 
 Sweet helping hands are stirred, 
 And palpitates tlie veil between 
 
 With breathings almost heard. 
 
 The silence,— awful, sweet, and calm,^ 
 
 They have no power to break ; 
 For mortal words are not for them 
 
 To utter or partake. 
 
 So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 
 ' So neat to i)ress they seem, 
 They seem to lull ns to our rest, 
 And melt into our dream. 
 
 And in the hush of rest they bring, 
 
 'Tis easy now to see 
 How lovely, and how sweet a pass 
 
 The hour of death may be. 
 
 To close the eye, and close the ear, 
 
 Wrajiped in a trance of blis.=!, 
 And gently dream in loving arms, — ■ 
 
 To swoon to that — from this. 
 
 Scarce knowing if we wake oi sleep. 
 
 Scarce asking where we are, 
 To feel all evil sink away, 
 
 All sorrow and all care. 
 
 Sweet souls around us! watch us still. 
 
 Press nearer to our side, 
 Into our thoughts, into our prayers. 
 
 With gentle helpings glide. 
 
 Let death between us be as naught, 
 
 A dridd and vanished stream,— 
 Your joy be the reality. 
 
 Our suffering life the dream. 
 
 VERY DARK. 
 
 The crimson tide was ebbing, and the pulse grery weak and 
 
 faint, 
 Bnt the lips of that brave soldier scorned e'en now to make 
 
 complaint; 
 "Fall in rank!" a voice called to him; calm and low was 
 
 his reply: 
 " Yes, I will if I can do it,— I will do it, thou^jli I die." 
 
112 ONE UUNDEED CnOICK SELECTIONS 
 
 And lie murmured,, when the life-light had died out to just 
 
 a spark, 
 "It is growing very dark, mother, — growing very dark." 
 
 There were tears in manly eyes, then, and manly heads 
 
 were bowed, 
 Though the balls flew thick around them, and the cannons 
 
 thundered loud; 
 They gathered round the spot where the dying soldier lay. 
 To catch the broken accents he was struggling then to say; 
 And a change came o'er the features where death had set 
 
 his mark, — 
 "It is growing very dark, mother — very, very dark." 
 
 Far away his mind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and vales, 
 Where the loved ones watched and waited with that love 
 
 that never fails; 
 He was with them as in childhood, seated in the cottage 
 
 door. 
 Where he watched the evening shadows slowly creeping on 
 
 the floor; 
 Bend down closely, comrades, closely, ho is speaking now, 
 
 and hark,^ 
 "It is growing very dark, mother, — very, very dark.'' 
 
 lie was dreaming of his mother, — that her loving hand wr.s 
 
 pressed 
 On his brow for one short moment, ere he sank away to 
 
 rest; 
 That her lips were now imprinting a fond kiss upon his 
 
 cheek. 
 And a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and low, and 
 
 meek ; 
 Her gentle form was near him, her footsteps he could mark, — 
 But — "It's growing very dark, mother, — very, very dark." 
 
 And the eye that once had kindled, flashing forth with pa- 
 triot light. 
 
 Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering gloom 
 of night ; 
 
 All, poor soldier! ah, fond mother! you are severed nowfor 
 aye ; 
 
 Cold and pulseless, there he lieth, where he breathed his 
 life away ; 
 
 Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not one 
 heavenly spark? 
 
 Ah ! it has grown dark, mother, — very, very dark. 
 
NUMBEE THREE. 113 
 
 THE FIREMAN.— EoBEET T. Conrad. 
 
 The city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls 
 Night's du.'sky mantle, soft and silent, falls; 
 Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand of lead, 
 And ready torjrors wrap each sinking head. 
 Stilled is the stir of labor and of life ; 
 Hushed is the hum, and tranquilized the strife. 
 Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears; 
 The young forget their sports, the old their cares; 
 The grave are careless; those who joy or weep 
 All rest contented on the arm of sleep. 
 
 Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now, 
 And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow ; 
 Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide. 
 Her heart's own partner wandering by her side ; 
 'Tis summer's eve; the soft gales scarcely rouse 
 The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs; 
 And, faint and far, some minstrel's melting tone 
 Breathes to her heart a music like its own. 
 
 When, hark ! O horror! what a crash is there,' 
 What shriek is that which fills the midnight air? 
 'Tis fire! 'tis fire! She wakes to dream no more; 
 The hot blast rushes tlirougli the bl.iziiig door; 
 The dun smoke eddies round ; and, hark ! that cry: 
 "Help! help! Will no one aid? I die, I die!" 
 She seeks the casement; shuddering at its height 
 She turns again ; the fierce flames mock her flight; 
 Along the crackling stairs they fiercely plaj', 
 And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey. 
 "Help! help! Will no one come?" She can no mor^ 
 But, pale and breathless, sinks upon the floor. 
 
 Will no'one save thee? Yes, there yet is one 
 
 Remains to save, when hope itself is gone ; 
 
 When all have fled, when all but him would fly, 
 
 The fireman comes, to rescue or to die. 
 
 He mounts the stair,— it wavers 'neath his tread ; 
 
 He seeks the room, flames flashing round his head; 
 
 He bursts the door; he lifts her prostrate frame. 
 
 And turns again to brave the raging flame. 
 
 The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath; 
 
 The falling timbers menace him with death ; 
 
1'4 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 The sinking floors his hurried step betray; 
 
 And ruin crubhes round his diisperate way; 
 
 Hot smoke obscures, ten thousand cinders rise, 
 
 Yet still he staggers forward with his pri/,'^ ; 
 
 He leaps from burning stair to stair. On ! onl 
 
 C!ourage! One effort more, and all is won! 
 
 The stair is i)assed,— the blazing hall is braved; 
 
 Still on! yet on! once more! Thank Heaven, she's saved! 
 
 HEZEKI.VH BEDOTT.— F. M. Whitcher. 
 
 He was a wonderful hand to moralize", husband was, 'spe- 
 cially after he beeun to enjoy poor health. He made an ob- 
 servation once, when he was in one of his poor turns, that ) 
 shall never forget the longest day 1 live. lie says to me, 
 one winter evenin', as we was a settiu' by the fire; I was a 
 knittin', (I was always a wonderful great knitter,) and he 
 was a smokin', (he was a master hand to smoke, though the 
 doctor used to tell him he'd be better oflf to let tobacket 
 alone; when he was well, used to take his pipe and smoke 
 a spell after he'd got the chores done up, and when he 
 wa'n't well, used to smoke the biggest part o' the time.) 
 Well, he took his pipe out o' his mouth, and turned toward 
 me, and I knowed something was comin', for he h.id a per- 
 tikkeler way of lookin' round when he was gwine tosay any- 
 thiiig oncommon. Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly," (my 
 name was Prissilly nater.illy, but he most gii;erally alway^i 
 called me Silly, 'cause 'twas handier, you know.) Well, he 
 says to me, says he, "Silly.'' and he looked pretty sollein. I 
 tell you, he had a sollem countenance naterally, — and after 
 he got to be deacon 'twas more so, but since he'd lost his 
 liealth he looked soHemer than ever, and certingly you 
 wouldent wonder at it if you knowed how much he under- 
 went. He was troubled with a wonderful pain in his chest 
 and amazin' weakness jn the spine o' his back, besides the 
 pleurissy in the side, and having the ager a considerable 
 part o' the time, and bein broke o' his rest o' nights, 'cause he 
 was so put to't for breath when he laid down. 
 
 Why, it's an onacconntable fact, that when that man died 
 he hadent seen a wo'l day in fifteen year, though when he 
 
NUMBER TilREE. I'.S 
 
 was married, and for five or six year after, I shouldent de- 
 sire to see a ruggeder man ttian what lie was. But the time 
 I'm speakiii' of he'd been out o' lieahh nigli upon ten year, 
 and, oh dear salies! how he had altered since the first time 
 I ever see himl That was to a quiltin' to Squire Smith's, a 
 spell afore Sally was married. 
 
 I'd no idee then that Sal Smith was a gwine to be married 
 to Sam Pendergrass. She'd ben keepin' company with Mose 
 Hewlitt for better' n a- year, and everybody said that was a 
 settled thing, and, lo and behold ! all of a sudding she up 
 and took Sam Pendergrass. Well that was the first time I 
 ever see my hu!>ban<l, and if anybody'd a told me then that I 
 sliould ever marry him, I should a said — but, lawful sakes! 
 I most forgot, I was gwine to tell you what be said to me 
 that evenin', and when a body begins to tell a thing, I be- 
 lieve in finishin'on'tsome time or other. Some folks have a 
 way of talkin' round androundand round for evermore, and 
 iievercorain' to the pint. Now there's MissJinkins, she that 
 was Poll Bingham afore she was married, she is the tejnsest 
 indiwidooal to tell a story that ever I see in all my born days. 
 But I was gwine to tell you what husband said. He says to 
 me, says he, "Silly;" says I, " What?" I didentsay "What, 
 Hezekier?" for I dident like his name. The first time I 
 ever heard it 1 near killed myself a laffin'. "Hezekier Be- 
 dott" says I. " Well, I would give up if I had such a name," 
 but then you know I had no more idee o' marryin' the feller 
 than you have this minnit o' marryin' thegoverncr. I s'pose 
 you think it's curus we should ha' named our oldest son 
 Hezekier. Well, we done it to please father and mother 
 Bedott; it's father Bedott's name, and he and mother Bedott 
 both used to think that names had ought to go down from 
 gineration to gineration. But we always call him Kier, you 
 know. Speakin'o' Kier,he isablessin'.ain'the? and I ain't 
 the only one that thinks so, I guess. Now don't you never 
 tell nobody that I said so, butbetwedii you and me, I rather 
 guess that if Kezier Winkle thinks slie's a gwine to ketch 
 Kier Bedott, she's a leetle out o' her reckonin'. But I was 
 gwine to tell what husband said. He says to me, says he, 
 "Silly;" I says, says I, " What?" If I dident say"what," 
 when he said "Silly," he'd a kept on sayin' "Silly" from 
 
116 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SEI,ECTiniIS 
 
 time to eternity. He always did, because, you h..ow, he 
 wanted me to pay pertikkeler attention, and j. jjinerally did ; 
 no woman was ever more attentive to her husband than 
 wliat 1 was. 
 
 Well, lie says to me, says he, "Silly;" says I, "What?" 
 though I'd no idee what he was gwine to say; dident know 
 but what 'twas something about his sufferings, though he 
 wa'n't apt to complain, but he frequently used to remark 
 that lie wonldent wish his worst enemy to suffer one min- 
 iiit iis he did all the time, but that can't be called grumblin"; 
 tliink it can? Why, I've seen hiiu in sitivations when you'd 
 a thought no mortal could a helped grumblin', but he dident. 
 He and me went once in the dead o' winter in a one-boss 
 shay out to Boon ville, to see a sister o' liisen. "Y ou know tlie 
 snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the kentry. Well, 
 the boss gnt stuck in one o' them 'ere flambergasted snow- 
 banks, and there we sot, enable to stir, and to cap all, while 
 we was a-sittin' there husband was took with a dretful crick 
 in his back. Now that was what I call a perdickerment, 
 don't you? Most men would a swore, but husband dident. 
 He only said, says he, "Consarn it!" How did we get out, 
 did you ask? Why, we might a been sittin' there to this 
 day, fur as I "know, if there hadent a happened to come 
 along a mess o' men iu a double team, and they hysted us out. 
 
 But J was gwine to tell you that observation o' hisen. 
 Saj's he to me, says he, " Silly." I could see by the light o' 
 the fire (there dident happen to be no candle burnin', if I 
 don't disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther 
 forgetful, but I know we wa'n't apt to burn candles 'ceptin' 
 when we had company), I could see by the light o' the fire 
 that his mind was oncommonly soUemnized. Says he to 
 me, says he, "Silly;" I says to him, says I, " What?" He 
 says to me, says he, " We're all poor critters P' 
 
 — Widow Bedott Papers. 
 
 BRUTUS OVER THE DEAD LUCRETIA.— J. H. Payne. 
 
 Would you know why I summoned you together? 
 Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger, 
 Clotted with gore. Behold that frozen corse 1 
 
NCM BKR TIIEKE. 117 
 
 See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death ! 
 
 She was the mark and model of the time, 
 
 The mould in which each female face was formed. 
 
 The very shrine and sacristj' of virtue. 
 
 Fairer than ever was a form created 
 
 By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild. 
 
 And never-resting thought is all on Are. 
 
 The worthiest of the worthy ! Not the nymph 
 
 Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks, 
 
 And whispered in his ear her strains divine, 
 
 Can I conceive beyond her. The young choir 
 
 Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'Tis wonderful, 
 
 Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds. 
 Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost 
 Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose, — 
 How, from the shade of those ill neighboring i>lants, 
 Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf 
 Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace. 
 Bloomed in unsullied beauty. Such perfections 
 Might have called back the torpid breast of age 
 To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind 
 Mijiht have abashed the boldest libertine, 
 And turned desire to reverential love. 
 And holiest affection. O my countrymen! 
 You all can witness when that she went forth 
 It was a holiday in Borne ; old age 
 Forgot its crutch, labor its task, — all ran. 
 And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried 
 "There, there's Lucretia!" Now, look ye, where she lies! 
 That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose. 
 Torn up by ruthless violence, — gone! gone I gone! 
 
 Say, would you seek instruction ? would ye ask 
 What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls, 
 Which saw his jioisoned brother, — 
 Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove 
 O'er her dead father's corse, — 'twill cry, Revenge! 
 Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple 
 With human blood, and it will cry. Revenge ! 
 Go to the tomlJ where lies his murdered wife. 
 And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, 
 Their unappeased ghosts will shriek. Revenge! 
 The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens, 
 The gods themselves shall justify the cry, 
 And swell the general sound, Revenge! Kevenge! 
 
118 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE STLECTIOXS 
 
 And we iMll be revenged, my couiitryinen! 
 Brutus shall lead you on ; Brutus, a name 
 Which will, when you're revenjjed, be dearer to him 
 Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. 
 
 Brutus your king? No, fellow-citizens! 
 If mad ambition in this guilty frame 
 Had strung one kingly fibre, — yea, but one, — 
 By all the gods, this dagger which I hold 
 Should rip it out, though it entwined my heart. 
 
 Now take the body up. Bear it before us 
 To Tarquin's palace; there ve'Il light our torches, 
 And, in the blazing conflagration, rear 
 A pile for these chaste relics, that shall send 
 Her soul among the stars. On ! Brutus leads yon ; 
 On to the Forum! the fool shall set you free. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.-Caeoline Gmswold. 
 
 The snowfiakes are falling swiftly, 
 
 The children are wild with glee. 
 As they dream of the merry pastime 
 
 The morrow's morn will sec ; 
 And faces are bright in their youthful glow 
 As they watch the falling, beautiful snow. 
 
 Within that pleasant parlor. 
 
 The mother alone is still. 
 She feels not the snow that falls without, 
 
 But her throbbing heart is chill. 
 As she turns away from the fireside glow 
 To look abroad on the beautiful snow. 
 
 God help those eyes despairing, 
 
 That gaze at the snow-clad earth ; 
 God pity the mad rebellion 
 
 Whicli in that heart had birth. 
 The children are gone, and a sound of woe 
 Breaks through the night o'er the beautiful snow. 
 
 The woman's face, all ghastly. 
 
 Lies pressed to the window pane. 
 But no sound of human anguish 
 
 Escapes her lips again ; 
 'Twas the cry of a woman's heart crushed low, 
 Whose hopes lay dead 'nealh the beautiful .=now. 
 
NUMBER TUr.EE. 119 
 
 The firelight glanced and sparkled, 
 
 In contrast to her gloom, 
 It gilded the books and pictures. 
 
 And lit up the cheerful room, 
 While, through the casement, its crimson glotr 
 Threw a band of light on the beautiful snow. 
 
 She shrank from the mocking brightness. 
 
 That sought to win lier there; 
 Far better to watch the snowflakes 
 
 Than gaae at a vacant chair, — 
 A chair that never again could know 
 A form now still 'neath the beautiful snotr. 
 
 Many a night-watch had he known. 
 
 And many a vigil kept, 
 Wliile the snowflakes fell around liinj. 
 
 And all his comrades slept; 
 For his heart was strong, in its patriot glow, 
 As he gazed abroad at the beautiful snow. 
 
 He too had watched the snowflakes. 
 And laughed as they whirled him by, — 
 
 Had watched, as they drifted round him. 
 With bright, undaunted eye; 
 
 But now there rests not a stone to show 
 
 The soldier's grave 'neatli the beautiful snow. 
 
 The mourner's eye roved sadly. 
 
 In search of the vacant chair. 
 To rest in loving wonder 
 
 On a young child slumbering there; 
 And she caught from his baby lips the low 
 Half murmured words, "The beautiful snow!" 
 
 With a sudden, passionate yearning. 
 
 She caught him to her breast. 
 And smiled in the eyes that, in their calm. 
 
 Rebuked her own unrest, — 
 Eyes that had caught their kindling glow 
 From the father that lay 'neath the beautiful snow. 
 
 Again she stood at the casement, 
 
 And smiled at her baby's glee, 
 As he turned from the feathery snowflakes 
 
 Her answering smile to see, — 
 Her little child, that never could know 
 The father that lay 'neath the beautiful snow. 
 V 
 
120 ONE nUNDUED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Ah ! many a widowed heart doth tlirob 
 
 In its bitterness alone, 
 And many an orpnan's tears still fall 
 Above some honored stone. 
 Fond hearts must bleed, and tears must flow, 
 For the loved who lie 'neath llie beautiful snow. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S UEriilEVK 
 
 "I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his 
 country, that not a father in all this broad land made so 
 precious a gift, — no, not one. Trie dear boy only slept u 
 minute, just one little minute, at his post; I know that was 
 all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and 
 reliable he was! I know he only fell asleep one little sec- 
 ond ; — he was so young, and not strong, that boy of mine ! 
 Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen ! and now they 
 shoot him because he was found asleep when doing senti- 
 nel duty. Twenty-four hours, the telegram said, — only 
 twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now?" 
 
 " We will hope, with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan 
 soothingly. 
 
 "Yes, yes; let us hope; God is very merciful! 
 
 '"I should be ashamed, father,' Bennie said, 'when I am 
 a man, to think I never used this great right arm' — and he 
 held it out so proudly before me — ' for my country, when it 
 needed it. Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow.' 
 
 "'Go, then, go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep yoiil' God 
 has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan !" and the farmer lepeated 
 these last words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heait 
 doubted them. 
 
 " Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen ; doubt it not." 
 
 Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. 
 She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so con- 
 cealed that no one had noticed it. She had occupied her- 
 self mechanically in the household cares. Now she answered 
 a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from 
 a neighbor's hand a letter. " It is from him," wai all she 
 said. 
 
NU-MBISR TUUEE. 121 
 
 It was like a. message from the dead ! Mr. Owen took tlie 
 letter, but could not break the envelope on accoui.t of his 
 trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the 
 helplessness of a child. 
 
 The minister opened it, and read as follows: — 
 
 "Dear Father: — When this reaches yon I shall be in 
 eternity. At first, it seemed awful to me ; but I have thought 
 about it so much now, that it has no terror. They say they 
 will not bind me, iTor blind me; but that I may meet my 
 death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on 
 the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it 
 would be fighting gloriously; but to bo shot down like a 
 dog for nearly betraying it, — to die for neglect of duty! O 
 father, I wonder the very thought does not kill me! But 
 I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about 
 it; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I can- 
 not now. 
 
 "You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother, I would 
 look after her boy; and, when he fell sick, I did all I 
 could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered 
 back into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried 
 all his luggage, besides my own, on our mftrch. Towards 
 night we went in on double quick, and though the luggage 
 began to feel very heavj', everybody else was tired too ; and 
 as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, 
 he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when 
 we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be 
 sentry, and I would take his place ; but I was too tired, father. 
 I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at 
 my head ; but I did not know it until — well, until it was too 
 late." 
 
 " God be thanked '" interrupted Mr. Owen, .reverently. 
 " I knew Beiinie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post." 
 
 "They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, given 
 to me by circumstances, — 'time to write to you,' our good 
 colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; 
 he would gladly save me if he could ; and do not lay my 
 death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken-hearted, 
 and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die 
 
 in my stead. 
 
 22 
 
122 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 "I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort 
 them, father! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and 
 that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, 
 as they must be now. God help me ; it is very hard to 
 bear! Good-by, father! God seems near and dear to me ; 
 not at all as if he wished me to perish forever, but as if ho 
 felt sorry for his poor, sinful, broken hearted child, and 
 would take me to be with him and my Saviour in a better, 
 —better life." 
 
 A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he 
 said solemnly, "Amen." 
 
 "To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all 
 coming home from pasture, and precious little Blossom stand 
 on the back stoop, waiting for me; but I shall never, rever 
 come! God bless you all ! Forgive your jioor Bonnie." 
 
 Late that night the door of the " back stoop" opened softly, 
 and a little figure glided out, and down the foot-path that 
 led to the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than 
 walking, turning her head neither to the right nor to the 
 left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her 
 hands, as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young 
 girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the 
 night train; and the conductor, .is he reached down to lift 
 her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was 
 i)I)turned toward the dim lantern he held in his hand. 
 A few questions and ready answers told him all ; and no 
 father could have cared more tenderly for his only child, 
 than he for our little Blossom. She was on her way to Wash- 
 ington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. She 
 had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell where and 
 why she had gone. She had brought Bonnie's letter with 
 her; no gopd, kind heart, like the President's, could refuse 
 to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New 
 York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. 
 Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her broth- 
 er's life. And so,in an incredibly short time. Blossom reached 
 the Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House. 
 
 The President had but just seated himself to his morn- 
 ing's task, of overlooking and signing important papers, 
 when, without one word of announcement, the door softly 
 
NUMBER TIIKEE. 123 
 
 opened, and Blosaoin, with downcast eyes And folded hands, 
 stood before him. 
 
 " Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, 
 "what do you want, so briglit and early in the morning?" 
 
 " Bennie's life, i)lea8e, sir," faltered Blossom. 
 
 "Bennie? Who is Bennie?" 
 
 " My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleep- 
 ing at his post." 
 
 "Oh, yes;" and ^r. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers 
 before him. "1 remember. It was a fatal sleep. You see, 
 child, it was at a time of special danger. Thonsands of lives 
 might have been lost for his culpable negligence." 
 
 "So my fatlier said," replied Blossom, gravely, "but poor 
 Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so wealc. He did the 
 work of two, sir, and it was Ji'mmie's night, not his; but 
 Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought about 
 himself, that lie was tired too.'' 
 
 "What is this you say, child? Come here; I do not un- 
 derstand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at 
 what seemed to be a justification of an offence. 
 
 Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her 
 shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face towards his. 
 II iw tall beseemed! and he was President of the United 
 States, too. A dim thought of this kind passed foramoment 
 through Blossom's mind ; but she told her simple and straight 
 forward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to 
 read. 
 
 He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few 
 hasty lines, and rang his bell. 
 
 Blossom heard this order given : "Send this dispatch at once." 
 
 The President then turned to the girl and said, "Go home, 
 my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve 
 his country's sentence, even when it took the life of a child 
 like that, that Abraham Lincoln tliinks the life far too pre- 
 cious to be lost. Go bai;k, or— wait until to-morrow; Bennie 
 will need a change after he has so bravely faced death ; he 
 shall go with you." 
 
 "God bless you, sir," said Blossom ; and who shall doubt 
 that God heard and. registered the request? 
 
 Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to 
 
31:4 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 the White House with his little sister. He was called ir.to 
 tlie President's private room, and a strap fastened upon the 
 shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said: "The soldier that could 
 c irry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the act so un- 
 complainingly, deserves well of his country.'' Then Bennie 
 and Blossom took their way to their Green Mountain home. 
 A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot to welcome them back ; 
 anil, as farmer Owen's hand grasped that of his boy, tears 
 flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say fervently : 
 " The Lord be praised .'" 
 
 THE COMET.— Thomas Hood. 
 
 Among professors of astronomy. 
 Adepts in the celestial economy. 
 The name of Herschel's very often cited; 
 And justly so, for he is hand in glove 
 AVith every bright intelligence above; 
 Indeed, it was his custom so to stop. 
 Watching the stars, upon the house's top. 
 That once upon a time he got benighted 
 
 In his observatory thus coquetting. 
 With Venus or with Juno gone astray. 
 
 All sublunary matters quite forgetting 
 
 In his flirtations with the winking stars, 
 
 Acting the spy, it might be, upon Mars, — 
 A new Andre; 
 
 Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping 
 
 At Dian sleeping; 
 
 Or ogling through his glass 
 
 Some heavenly lass. 
 
 Tripping with pails along the Milky way; 
 
 Or looking at that wain of Charles, the Martyr's. 
 Thus was he sitting, watchman of the sky. 
 
 When lo! a something with a tail of flame 
 
 Made him exclaim, 
 
 "My stars!"— he always put that stress on my,~ 
 "My stars and garters! 
 
 "A comet, sure as I'm alive! 
 
 A noble one as I should wish to view; 
 
 It can't be Halley's though, thai is not due 
 Till eighteen thirty-five. 
 
NU M B KR Til REE. 12j 
 
 Magnificent! How fine his fiery trail! 
 
 Zounds! 'tis a pity, though, he comes unsought, 
 
 Unasked, unreckoned, — in no human thouglit; 
 
 He ought — he ought — he ought 
 
 To iiave been caught 
 With scientific salt upon his tail. 
 
 " 1 looked no more for it, I do declare, 
 Than the Great Bear! 
 
 As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead, 
 
 It really entered in my head 
 No more than Berenice's hair!" 
 Thus musing, heaven's grand inquisitor 
 8at gazing on the uninvited visitor. 
 Till John, the serving man, came to the upper 
 Regions, with " Please your honor, come to supper/ 
 
 "Supper! good John, to-night I shall not sup, 
 Except on that phenomenon, — look up." 
 "Not sup!" cried John, thinking with consternatioii 
 Tliat supping on a «tor must be siar-vation, 
 Or even to batten 
 On ignesfatui would never fatten. 
 His visage seemed to say, "That very odd is,'' 
 But still his master the same tune ran on, 
 " I can't come down ; go to the parlor, John, 
 And say I'm supping with the heavenly bodies." 
 
 "The heavenly bodies!" eclioed John, "ahem!" 
 
 His mind still full of famishing alarms, 
 " Zounds! If your honor sups with them, 
 
 In helping, somebody must make long arms." 
 He thought his master's stomach was in danger, 
 But still in the same tone replied the knight, 
 "Go down, John, go, I have no appetite; 
 Say I'm engaged with a celestial stranger." 
 Qnoth Jolin, not much aufait in such affairs, 
 " Wouldn't the stranger take a bit down stairs?" 
 
 " No," said the master, smiling, and no wonder. 
 
 At such a blunder, 
 
 "Tlie stranger is not quite the thing you think; 
 
 He wants no meat or drink ; 
 
 And one may doubt quite reasonably whether 
 
 He has a mouth, 
 Seeing his head and tail are joined together. 
 
 Behold him! there he is, John, in the south." 
 
126 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 John looked up with his portentous eyes. 
 Each rolling hke a marble in its socket; 
 At last the fiery tadpole spies, 
 And, full of Vauxhall reminiscence, cries, 
 "A rare good rocket!" 
 
 "A what? A rocket, John! Far from it I 
 What you behold, John, is a coraet : 
 One of those most eccentric things 
 
 That in all ages 
 
 Have puzzled sages 
 And frightened kings; 
 "With fear of change, that flaming meteor, Joho, 
 
 Pernlexes sovereigns throughout its range." 
 "Do l)e?" cried John; 
 "Well- let him flare on, 
 
 / ha"en't got no sovereigns to change 1" 
 
 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 I've -wanJered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree. 
 Upon the school-house play-ground, that sheltered you and 
 
 me; 
 But none were left to greet me, Tom; and few were left to 
 
 know. 
 Who pliiyed with us upon the green, some twenty years ago. 
 
 The grass is just as green, Tom ; bare footed boys at play 
 Were sporting, just as we did the:i, with spirits just as gay. 
 But the " master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er 
 
 with snow, 
 Afforded us a sliding-place, some twenty years ago. 
 
 The old school-house is altered now; the benches are re- 
 placed 
 
 By new ones, very like the same our penknives once defaced; 
 
 But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to 
 and fro ; 
 
 Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas twenty years ago. 
 
 The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same 
 
 old tree ; 
 I have forgot the name just now, — you've played the same 
 
 with me, 
 
NUMDnit TirREJJ. 127 
 
 On thiit same spot; 'twas j.layed with knives, by tiirowing 
 
 so and so; 
 Tlie loser had a task to do, — there, twenty years ago. 
 
 The river's running just as still ; the willows on its side 
 Aro larger than they were, Tom ; the stream api)ears less 
 
 wide ; 
 But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we 
 
 played the beau, 
 A.nd swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, — just twenty years 
 
 ago. . 
 
 The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spread- 
 ing beech. 
 Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach; 
 And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so. 
 To see how sadly I am changed, since twenty years ago. 
 
 Near 'oy that sprinfr, upon an elm, you know I cut your name. 
 Your sweetheart's just bjneath it, Tom, and you did mine 
 
 the same; 
 Some heartles'j wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure 
 
 but slow. 
 Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago. 
 
 ]\Iy lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes; 
 I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties; 
 I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strow 
 Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago. 
 
 Some are in the church-yard laid, some sleep beneath the 
 
 sea; 
 But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me: 
 And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, 
 I hope they'll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago. 
 
 aOING OUT AND COMING IN.— Mollie E. Mookk. 
 
 Going out to fame and triumph, 
 
 Going out to love and light, 
 Homing in to pain and sorrow, 
 
 Coming in to gloom.and night. 
 Going out with joy and gladness, 
 
 Coming in with woe and sin ; 
 Ceaseless streams of restless pilgrims 
 
 Going out and coming in. 
 
128 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Through the portals of the liomestead, 
 
 From beneath the blooming vine, 
 To the trumpet tones of glory, 
 
 Where the bays and laurels twine; 
 From the loving home caresses 
 
 To the chill voice of the world. 
 Going out with gallant canvas 
 
 To the summer breeze unfurled. 
 
 Coming back all worn and weary, 
 
 Weary with the world's cold breath; 
 Coming to the dear old homestead. 
 
 Coming in to age and death ; 
 Weary of all empty flattery. 
 
 Weary of all ceaseless din. 
 Weary of its heartless sneering; 
 
 Coming from the bleak world in. 
 
 Going out with hopes of glory, 
 ■ Coming in with sorrow dark; 
 Going out with sails all flying, 
 
 Coming in with mastless barque; 
 Restless stream of pilgrims, striving, 
 
 \Vreaths of fame or love to win ; 
 From the doorways of the homesteads 
 
 Going out and coming in. 
 
 THE LEPER— N. P. Willis. 
 
 Day was breaking, 
 When at the altar of the temple stood 
 The holy priest of God. The incense lamp 
 Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant 
 Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof. 
 Like an articulate wail ; and there, alone, 
 Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helen knelt. 
 The echoes of the melancholy strain 
 Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up. 
 Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head 
 Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off 
 His costly raiment for the leper's garb. 
 And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip 
 Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still. 
 Waiting to hear his doom: — 
 
N U M D B R T U n E E. 129 
 
 "Depart! depart, child 
 Of Israel, from the temple of thy God I 
 For he has smote thee with his chastening rod, 
 
 And to the desert wild, 
 From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, 
 That from thy plague his people may be free. 
 
 " Depart ! and come not near 
 The busy raaf-t, the crowded city, more ; 
 Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er; 
 
 And stay thou»not to hear 
 Voices that call thee in the way; and fly 
 From all who in the wilderness pass by. 
 
 " Wet not thy burning lip 
 In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; 
 Nor rest thee where the covert fountains iiide; 
 
 Nor kneel thee down to dip 
 The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, 
 By desert well, or river's grassy brink. 
 
 "And pass not thou between 
 The weary traveler and the cooling breeze; 
 And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 
 
 Where human tracks are seen; 
 Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain ; 
 Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. 
 
 "And now departl and when 
 Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, 
 Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to him 
 
 Who, from the tribes of men, 
 Selected thee to feel his chastening rod; — 
 Depart, O leper! and forget not God." 
 
 And he went forth alone. Not one of all 
 The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
 Was woven in the fibres of the heart 
 Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
 Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way,— 
 Sick, and heart-broken, and alone, — to die! 
 For God had cursed the leper. 
 
 It was noon. 
 And Holon knelt beside a stagnant pool 
 In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
 Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched 
 
 22« 
 
130 ONE IIUXDBED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Tlie loathsome water to liis fevered lips, 
 Praying he might be so blest,— to die! 
 Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, 
 Ho drew the covering closer on his lip, 
 Crying, "Unclean! unclean I" and in the folds 
 Of the coarse sackcloth shronding up his face, 
 He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
 Nearer the stranjjer came, and bending o'er 
 The leper's prostr.ite form, pronounced his name, 
 "Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone 
 Of a rich ins!rument,^most strangely sweet; 
 And the dull pulses of disease awoke, 
 And for a moment beat beneath the hot 
 And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. 
 "Helon, arise!" And he forsjot his curse, 
 And rose and stood before him. 
 
 Love and awe 
 Mingled iu the regard of Helon's eye. 
 As he beheld the Stranger. He was not 
 III costly rji:'ient clad, nor on his brow 
 The symbol of a lofty lineage wore; 
 Ni) followers at his back, nor ia his hand 
 Buckler, or sword, or spear; yet in his mien 
 Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled, 
 .V kingly condescension graced his lips. 
 The lion woiild liave crouched to in his lair. 
 1 lis garb was simple, and his sandals worn; 
 His statue modeled with a perfect grace; 
 His countenance, the impress of a God 
 Tnnched with the open innocence of a child; 
 His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky 
 1 II the serenest noon ; his hair, unshorn. 
 Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard 
 The fulness of perfected manhood bore. 
 He looked on Helon earnestly awhile. 
 As if his heart was moved ; and stooping down. 
 He took a little water in his hand 
 And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" 
 And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood 
 Coursed with delicious coolness througli his veins, 
 An*! his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow 
 The dewy softness of an infant's stole. 
 His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down 
 Prostrate at Jesus* feet, and worshipped him. 
 
NUMDER TIIEEE. ]31 
 
 PLEADING EXTRAORDINARY. 
 
 May it please the Covrt,— Gentlemen of the Jury: You 
 sit in that Jbox as the great reservoir of Roman liberty, Spar- 
 tan fame, and Grecian polytheism. You are to swing the 
 great flail of justice and electricity over this immense com- 
 munity, in hydraulic majesty, and conjugal superfluity. You 
 are the great triumi>hal arch on which evaporates the even 
 scales of justice andVumerical computation. You are to as- 
 cend the deep arcana of nature, and dispose of my client 
 with equiponderating concatenation, in reference to his fut- 
 ure velocity and reverberating momentum. Such is your 
 sedative and stimulating character. My client is only a man 
 of domestic eccentricity and matrimonial configuration, not 
 l)ermitted, as you are, gentlemen, to walk in the isrimevaj 
 and lowest vales of society, but he has to endure the red- 
 hot sun of the universe, on the heights of nobility and feu- 
 dal eminence. He has a beautiful wife of horticultural pro- 
 pensities, that hen-pecks the remainder of his days with 
 soothing and bewitching verbosity, that makes the nectar 
 of his pandemonium as cool as Tartarus. 
 
 He has a family of domestic children, that gathers around 
 the fireplace of his peaceful homicide in tuniultitudinoua 
 consanguinity, and cry with screaming and rebounding 
 pertinacity for bread, butter, and molasses. Such is the 
 glowing and overwhelming character and defeasance of my 
 client, who stands convicted before this court of oyer and 
 terminer, and lex non scripta, by the persecuting pettifogger 
 of this court, who is as much exterior to me as I am interi- 
 or to the judge, and you, —gentlemen of the jury. 
 
 This Borax of the law here has brought witnes.ses into 
 this court, who swear that my client has stolen a firkin of 
 butter. Now, I say every one of them swore to a lie, and the 
 truth is concentrated within4hem. But if It is so, I justify 
 the act on the ground that the butter was necessary for a 
 public good, to tune his family into harmonious discord. 
 But I take no other mountainous and absquatulated grounds 
 on this trial, and move that a quash be laid upon this in- 
 dictment. 
 
132 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Now I will prove this by a learned expectoration of the 
 principle of the law. Now bntter is made of grass, and it is 
 laid down by St. Peter Pindar, in his iirinciple of suhJerra- 
 iieous law, that grsiSsUcoachanta,\Mi levant, whiih in ourobic- 
 uhir tongue, means that grass is of a mild and fre.e natnre; 
 consequently my client had a right to grass and butter both. 
 
 To prove my second great principle, " let facts be submit- 
 ted to a candid world." Now butter is grease, and Greece 
 is a foreign country, situated in the emaciated regions of 
 Liberia and California; consequently my client cannot be 
 tried in this horizon, and is out of the benediction of this 
 court. I will now bring forward the ultimatum respondentia, 
 and cap the great climax of logic, by quoting aa inconceiv- 
 able principle of law, as laid down in Latin, by Pothier, 
 Iludibras, Blackstone, Hannibal, and Sangrado. It is thus: 
 Hiec hoe morus muUicaulis, a mmsa et thoro, ruta baga centum. 
 AVhich means, in English, that ninety-nine men are guilty, 
 where one is innocent. 
 
 Now, it is your duty to convict ninety-nine men first ; 
 then you come to my client, who is innocent and acquitted 
 according to law. If these great principles shall be duly 
 depreciated in this court, then the great North pole of lib- 
 erty, that has stood so many years in pneumatic tallness, 
 shading these publican regions of commerce and agricult- 
 ure, will stand the wreck of the Spanish Inquisition, the 
 pirates of the hyperborean seas, and the marauders of the 
 Aurora Blivar! But, gentlemen of the jury, if you convict 
 my client, his children will be doomed to pine away in a 
 state of hopeless matrimony; and his beautiful wife will 
 stand lone and delighted, like a dried up mullen-stalk in a 
 sheep-pasture. 
 
 UNDER THE LA.M;PLIGHT.-ANNif; R. Blount. 
 
 Under the lamplight, watch them come, 
 
 Figures, one, two, three ; 
 A restless mass moves on and on, 
 Like waves on a stormy sea. 
 Lovers wooing, 
 Billing and cooing. 
 
NU .MBEl! TlIKliE. ]33 
 
 Heedless of the warning old, — 
 Soniewliere in uncouth rhyme told,-= 
 
 That old Time, Love's enemy, 
 Makes the warmest heart grow cold. 
 See how fond the maiden leaneth 
 
 On that strong encircling arm, 
 While her timid heart is heating 
 Near that other heart so warm ; 
 Downcast are her modest'glances. 
 Filled Ijer heart with pleasant fancies. 
 Clasp her, lover 1— clasp her closer, — 
 Time the winner, thou the loser! 
 He will steal 
 From her sparkling eye its brightness, 
 From her step its native lightness; 
 
 Or, perchance, 
 Ere another year has tied, 
 Thou mayst see her pale and dead. 
 Trusting maiden, 
 Heart love-laden, 
 Thou mayst learn 
 That the lip which breathed so softly- 
 Told to thee a honeyed lie ; 
 That the heart now beating near thee 
 Gave to thee no fond return, — 
 Learn — and die! 
 
 Under the lamp-light, watch them come. 
 
 Figures, one, two, three ; 
 The moon is up, the stars are out, 
 And hurrying crowds I see, — 
 Some with sorrow, 
 Of the morrow 
 
 Thinking bitterly; 
 AVhy grief borrow? 
 Some that morrow 
 Ne'er shall live to see. 
 Which of all this crowd shall God 
 Summon to his court to-night? 
 Which of these many feet have trod 
 
 These streets their last? Who first shall press 
 The floor that shines with diamonds bright? 
 To whom of all this throng shall fall 
 The bitter lot 
 To hear the righteous Judge pronounce: 
 
134 ONE nCNDEKD CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " Depart ye cursed, — I know ye not!" 
 Oh, startling question I — whof 
 
 Under the lamp-light, watch them come. 
 
 Faces fair to see, — 
 Some that pierce your very soul 
 With thrilling intensity: 
 Cold and ragged. 
 Lean and haggard, — 
 God! what misery! 
 See them watch yon rich brocade. 
 By their toihng fingers made, 
 
 With the eyes of poverty. 
 Does the tempter wliisper now: 
 "Such may be tViine own!" — but howf 
 Sell thy woman's virtue, wretch, 
 And the price that it will fetch 
 Is a silken robe as fine, 
 Gems that glitter, hearts that shine,— 
 
 But pause, reflect ! 
 Ere the storm shall o'er thee roll, 
 Ere thy sin spurns all control. 
 Though with jewels bright bedecked, 
 Thou wilt lose thy self respect; 
 All the good will spurn thy touch, 
 As if 'twere an adder's sting, 
 And tlie priee that it will bring 
 In a rained soul ! 
 God protect thee, — keep thee right, 
 Lonely wanderer of the night! 
 
 Under the lamplight, watch them come,— 
 
 Youth with spirits light ; 
 His handsome face I'm sure doth make 
 Some quiet household bright 
 Yet where shall this lover. 
 This son, this brother. 
 Hide his head to-night? 
 Where the bubbles swim 
 On the wine-cup's brim; 
 Where the song rings out 
 Till the moon grows dim ; 
 Where congregate the knave and fool 
 To graduate in vice's school. 
 Oh turn back, youth ! 
 
NUMBER TUREE. 135 
 
 Thy mother's prayer 
 
 Kings ill tliy ear, 
 
 Let sinners not 
 Entice thee there. 
 
 Under tlie lamplight, watch them come, 
 
 The gay, the blithe, the free ; 
 And some with a look of anguished paia 
 
 'Twould break your heart to see. 
 Some from a marriage, 
 
 Altar and priest ; 
 Some from a death-bed. 
 Some from a feast ; 
 
 Some from a den of crime, and some 
 
 Hurrying on to a happy home ; 
 
 Some bowed down with age and woe. 
 
 Praying meekly as they go ; 
 Others, — whose friends and honor are gone, — 
 To sleep all night on the pavement stone; 
 And losing all but shame and jiride. 
 Be found in the morning, a suicide. 
 Rapidly moves the gliding throng, — 
 List the laughter, jest, and song; 
 Poverty treads on the heels of wealth ; 
 Loathsome disease near robust health. 
 Grief bows down its weary head ; 
 Crime skulks on with \ cat-like tread. 
 Youth and beauty, age and pain, 
 Vice and virtue, form the train ; 
 Misery, happiness, side by side; 
 Those who had best in childhood died. 
 
 Close to the good ; — on they go. 
 
 Some to joy, and some to woe, 
 tinder the lamplight, watch them glide, — 
 
 On, like the waves of a swelling sea, 
 
 On, on, on to Eternity. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL.— Lydia H. Sigourney. 
 
 The ship's bell tolled, and slowly o'er the deck 
 Came forth the summoned crew. Bold, hardy men, 
 Far from their native skies, stood silent there. 
 With melancholy brow. From a low cloud 
 
13C ONE IIUND BED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 That o'er the horizon hovered, came the threat 
 
 Of distant muttered thunder. Broken waves 
 
 Heaved up their sharp white helmets o'er the expanse 
 
 Of ooean, which in brooding stillness lay, 
 
 Like some vindictive king, who meditates 
 
 On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wratliful war. 
 
 The ship's bell tolled, and lo ! a youthful form. 
 Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds 
 At midnight's watch, was as a burden laid 
 Down at his comrades' feet. Mournful they gazed 
 Upon his sunken cheek, and some there were 
 Who in that bitter honr remembered well 
 The parting blessing of his hoary sire. 
 And the big tears that o'er his mother's cheek 
 Went coursing down, when his beloved voice 
 Breathed its farewell. But one who nearest .--tood 
 'J'o that pale shrouded corse, remembered more: 
 Of a white cottage, with its shaven Uiwii 
 And blossomed liedge, uiid of a fair-haired girl 
 AVho, at her lattice veiled with woodbine, watched 
 His last, far step, and then turjied back to weep. 
 And close that comrade, in his faithful breast 
 Hid a bright chestnut lock, which the dead youth 
 Had severed with a cold and trembling hand, 
 In life's extremity, and bade him bear. 
 With broken words of love's last eloquence. 
 To his blest Mary. Now that chosen friend 
 Bowed low his sun-bronzed face, and, like a child. 
 Sobbed in deep sorrow. 
 
 But there came a tone, 
 Clear as the breaking morn o'er stormy seas, 
 "lam the resurrection." Every heart 
 Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised. 
 There stood the chaplain, his uncovered brow 
 Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice, 
 Kich as the balm from plants of Paradise, 
 Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls 
 Of dying men. It was a holy hour; 
 There lay the wreck of youthful beauty, here 
 Bent mourning manhood, while supporting Faith 
 Cast her strong anchor 'neath the troubled wave. 
 
 There was a plunge ! The riven sea complained,— 
 Death from her briny bosom took his own. 
 
KUMBER THREE. 137 
 
 The awful fountains of the -deep did lift 
 Their subterraneau portals, and he went 
 Down to the floor of ocean, mid the beds 
 Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to ray soul, 
 In all the funeral pomp, the guise of woe, 
 The monumental grandeur, with which earth 
 Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad, 
 Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea 
 Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth. 
 
 FOES UNITED IN DEATH. 
 
 There was no fierceness in the eyes of those men now, as 
 they sat face to face on the bank of the stream ; the strife 
 and the anger had all gone now, and they sat still, — dying 
 men, who but a few hours before had been deadly foes, — 
 Silt still and looked at each otlier. At last one of them 
 spoke : " We haven't either of us a chance to hold out much 
 longer, I judge." 
 
 "No," said the other, with a little mixture of sailness and 
 recklessness, " you did that last job of yours well, as that 
 bears witness," and he pointed to a wound a little above the 
 heart, from which the life-blood was slowly oozing. 
 
 "Not better than you did yours," answered the other, 
 with a grim smile, and he pointed to a wound a little higher 
 up, larger and more ragged, — a deadly one. And then the 
 two men gazed upon each other again in the dim light; for 
 the moon had come over the hills now, and stood .nmong 
 the stars like a pearl of great price. And as they looked a 
 soft feeling stole over the heart of each townrd his fallen 
 foe, — a feeling of pity for the strong manly life laid low, — a 
 feeling of regret for the inexorable necessity of war which 
 made each man the slayer of the other ; and at last one 
 spoke : " There are some folks in the world that'll feel worse 
 when you are gone out of it." 
 
 A spasm of pain was on the bronzed, ghastly features. 
 "Yes," said the man in huskj' tones, "there's one woman 
 with a boy and girl, away up among the New Hampshire 
 mountains, that it will well nigh kill to hear of this;" and 
 
138 ONK iiuxnnED choice selbctions 
 
 Die man groaned out in bitter anguish, "O God, have pity 
 on my wifu ;uid children!" 
 
 And the other drew closer to him : " And away down a- 
 mong the cotton fields of Georgia, there's a woman and a 
 little girl whose hearts will break when they hear what 
 this day has done;" and then the cry wrung itself sharply 
 out of his heart, "0 God, have pity ujion them!" 
 
 And from that moment the Northerner and the Southern- 
 er ceased to be foes. The thought of those distant homes 
 on which the anguish was to fall, drew tliera closer together 
 in that last hour, and the two men wept like little children. 
 
 And at last the Ncjrtheiner spoke, talking more to himself 
 than to any one else, and he did not know that the other 
 was listening greedily to every word: — 
 
 " She used to come — my little girl, bless her heart! — every 
 night to meet me when I came home from the fields; and 
 she would stand under the great plum tree that's just be- 
 yond the back door at home, with the sunlight making yel- 
 low brown in her golden curls, and the laugh dancing in 
 her eyes when she heard the click of the gate, — I see her 
 now, — and I'd take her in my arms, and she'd put up her 
 little red lips for a kiss ; but my little darling will never 
 watch under the old plum tree by the well, for her father, 
 again. I shall never hear the cry of joy as she catches a 
 glimpse of me at the gate. I shall never see her little feet 
 running over the grass to spring into my arms again !" 
 
 "And then," said the Southerner, " there's a little brown- 
 eyed, brown-haired girl, that used to watch in the cool after- 
 noons for her father, when he rode in from his visit to the 
 plantations. I can see her sweet little face shining out now, 
 from the roses that covered the pillars, and hear her shout 
 of joy as I bounded from my horse, and chased the little fly- 
 ing feet up and down the veranda again." 
 
 And the Northerner drew near to the Southerner, and 
 spoke now in a husky whisper, for the eyes of the dying 
 men were glazing fast, " We have fought here, like men, to- 
 gether We are going before God in a little while. Let us 
 forgive each other." 
 
 The Southerner tried to speak, but the sound died away 
 in a murmur from his white lips ; but he took the hand of 
 
NUMBER THRICE. 139 
 
 his fallen foe, and his stiffening fingers .closed over it, and 
 his 'ast look was a smile of forgiveness and ])eace. When 
 the next morning's sun walked up the gray stairs of thfe 
 dawn, it looked down and saw the two foes lying dead, with 
 their hands clasped in each other, by the stream which ran 
 close to the battle-field. And the little girl with golden 
 hair, that watched under the plum tree among the hills of 
 New Hampshire, and the little girl with bright brown hair, 
 that waited by the roses among the green fields of Georgia, 
 vetQ faiherless. 
 
 THE JESTEli CONDEMNED— n. Smith. 
 
 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 folks his 
 Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes. 
 
 It needs some sense to i)lay the fool, 
 
 Which wholesome rule 
 Occurred not to our jackanapes, 
 
 Who consequently found his freaks 
 Lead to innumerable scrapes. 
 
 And quite as many kitiks 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 hi^ serene and raging Highness; 
 Whether he twitched liis most revered 
 And sacred beard, 
 
 Or had intruded on the shyness 
 Of the seraglio, or let fly 
 An epigram at royalty. 
 None knows : his sin was an occult one, 
 But record tells us that the Sultan, 
 Meaning to terrify the knave. 
 
 Exclaimed, " 'Tis time to stop that breath ; 
 
140 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS, 
 
 Thy doom is sealed ; — presumptuous slave! 
 Thou staud'st condemned to certain death. 
 
 Silence, base rebel! — no replying; 
 But such is my 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 me, 
 
 I'll die, so please you, of old age/" 
 
 HEAVEN— M. Sophie Holmes, 
 
 1« it where the spiral stairway, 
 
 Set with gems, leads up the blue? 
 Are the gleams that pierce the ether 
 
 Eyes of angels looking through? 
 Is that great white road that stretches, 
 
 Paved with stars, across the skies, 
 The way — beyond jioor mortal reaches— 
 
 That the ransomed sj)irit flies? 
 
 Is that land of wondrous glory 
 
 Undivined by human .^ight? 
 Like Creation's mystic story 
 
 Hieroglyphed on scroll of Night? 
 Ah I not so ; faint heart, despair not, 
 
 Heaven is very near to you; 
 Though thy burden weighs, yet fear not, 
 
 With the Father's house in view. 
 
 For without the prophet's vision, 
 
 The mysterious lines to read. 
 That God, for man's blest intuition, 
 
 Writes in every guileless deed, 
 Ye may see — if not soul-fettered 
 
 By the blinding bands of sin — 
 Thy soul's wall sublimely lettered, 
 
 " Heaven's kingdom is within 1" 
 
NUMUUU TIIIIHE. 14] 
 
 If within be peace and gladness, 
 
 Love for all things, great and small, 
 Pity, nigh akin to sadness. 
 
 For an erring brother's fall. 
 For enemies a meek prayer, rather 
 
 Than revenge's fiendish due, 
 Lowly breathed, " Forgive them. Father, 
 
 For they know not what they do!" — 
 
 • Humility, when wreath of laurel 
 
 Crowns thee conqueror, in a field 
 Where self stood trembling in the quarrel, 
 
 Urging thee to dastard yield; 
 But martyr firmness, when thy spirit 
 
 At life's fiery stake is tried, 
 Though no palm awards the merit 
 
 That has stemmed the raging tide; — 
 
 And, withal, a hopeful nature. 
 
 Sifting out the grain of good. 
 The one redeeming better feature, 
 
 Found in every evil brood. 
 Feeding Hate and Falsehood only 
 
 With the swjeet fruit of the true, 
 Loving, though unloved and lonely,— 
 
 Say, can Heaven be far from you? 
 
 Ah ! nearer, nearer for the crosses 
 
 That have strewn tliy way of life; 
 Nearer for the liallowiiig losses; 
 
 Nearer for the conquered strife , 
 Nearer for the wise ordeal , 
 
 That leads thee rough-shod o'er the stone^ 
 Till thou canst bravely bear the real: 
 
 And trusting say, "Thy will be donel" 
 
 Never upward look for Heaven, 
 
 If no Heaven's begun below; 
 Never onward look for Heaven, 
 
 For you pass it as you go ; 
 Never outward look for Heaven, 
 
 Outward lies the slough of sin, 
 The old corrupt, fermenting leavea,— 
 
 Look for Heaven alone within. 
 
142 ONE HUNDRliD CUOICE SELliCIION8 
 
 EUGENE AEAM'S DREAM— Thomas Hooa 
 
 'Twas in the prime of summer-time. 
 
 An evening calm ami cool, 
 And four-and-twenty happy boys 
 
 Came bounding out of school ; 
 There were some that ran, and some that leapt 
 
 Like troutlets in a pool. 
 
 Away they sped, with gamesome minds, 
 
 And souls untouched by sin ; 
 To a level mead they came, and there 
 
 They drave the wickets in : 
 Pleasantly shone the setting sun 
 
 Over the town of liynn. 
 
 Like sportive deer they conrsed about. 
 
 And shouted as they ran, — 
 Turning to mirth all things of earth. 
 
 As only boyhood can, 
 But the usher sat remote from all, 
 
 A melancholy man ! 
 
 His hat was off, his vest apart. 
 To catch Heaven's blessed breeze; 
 
 For a burning thought was in his brow, 
 And his bosom ill at ease; 
 
 So he leaned his head on his hands, and read 
 The book betweeji his knees. 
 
 Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er. 
 
 Nor ever glanced aside, 
 For the peace of his soul he read that book 
 
 In the golden eventide ; 
 Much study had made him very lean, 
 
 A nd pale, and leaden-eyed. 
 
 At last he shut the ponderous tome; 
 
 With a fast and fervent grasp 
 He strained the dusky covers close, 
 
 And fixed the brazen hasp: 
 "O God! could I so close ray mind. 
 
 And clasp it with a clasp 1" 
 
NUMBER THREE. 113 
 
 Then leaping on his feet upright: 
 
 Suiiie uioody turns he tooli, — 
 Now u{) the mead, then down the mead. 
 
 And past a shady nooli, — 
 And lo! he saw a little boy 
 
 That pored upon a book. 
 
 " My gentle lad, what is't you read, 
 
 Romance or fairy fuble? 
 Or is it some^istoric page, 
 
 Of kings and crowns unstable?" 
 The young boy gave an upward glance,— 
 
 " It is 'The Death of Abel'" 
 
 The usher took six hasty strides. 
 
 As stnit with sudden pain, — 
 Six hasty strides beyond the place, 
 
 Then slowly back again; 
 And down be sat beside the lad, 
 
 And talked with hiui of Cain; 
 
 And, long since then, of bloody raea 
 
 Whose deeds tradition saves; 
 Of lonely folk cut off unseen. 
 
 And hid in sudden graves ; 
 Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 
 
 And murders doi>e in caves; 
 
 And how the sprites of injured men 
 
 Shriek upward from the sod, — 
 Ay, huw thegliostly hand will point 
 
 To show the burial dod; 
 And unknown facts of guilty acts 
 
 Are seen in dreams from God; 
 
 He told how murderers walked the earth 
 
 Beneath the curse of Cain, 
 With crimson clouds before their eyes, 
 
 And flames about their brain ; 
 For blood has left upon their souls 
 
 Its >!verlasting stain. 
 
 "And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth. 
 
 Their pangs must be extreme, — 
 Woe, woe, unutterable woe, 
 
 Who spill life's sacred stream t 
 W 
 
144 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 For whyf Methought, last night, I wrought 
 A murder in a dream ! 
 
 "One tnat had never done me wrong, 
 
 A feeble man, and old ; 
 I led him to a lonely field, — 
 
 The moon shone clear and cold ; 
 'Now here,' said I, 'this man shall die^ 
 
 And 1 will have his gold!' 
 
 "Two sudden blows with ragged stick, 
 
 And one with a heavy stone. 
 One hurried gash with a hasty knife, 
 
 And then the deed was done ; 
 There was nothing lying at my foot 
 
 But lifeless flesh and bone. 
 
 "Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone. 
 
 That could not do me ill ; 
 And yet I feared him all the more^ 
 
 For lying there so still; 
 Tliere was a manhood in his look. 
 
 That murder could not kill. 
 
 "And,!©! the universal air 
 Seemed lit with ghagtly flame; 
 
 Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 
 Were looking down in blame; 
 
 1 took the dead man by his hand, 
 And called upon his name. 
 
 "O God! it made me quake to see 
 
 Such sense within the slain; 
 But when I touched the lifeless clay, 
 
 The blood gushed out amain ; 
 For every dot a burning spot 
 
 Was scorching in my brain. 
 
 "My head was lil^e an ardent coal; 
 
 My heart as solid ice; 
 My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 
 
 Was at the devil's price ; 
 A dozen times I groaned ; the dead 
 
 Had never groaned but twice. 
 
 "And now, from forth the frowning; sky, 
 From the heaven's topmost height. 
 
NUMBER THREE. li* 
 
 I heard a voice, — the awful Voice 
 
 Ofthft blood-avenging sprite: 
 'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead, 
 
 And hide it from ray sight 1' 
 
 "I took the dreary body up, 
 
 And cast it in a stream, — 
 A sluggish water, black as ink, 
 
 The depth was so extreme. 
 My gentle boy, remember this 
 
 Is nothing^ut a dream I 
 
 "Down went the corpse with hollow plunge. 
 
 And vanished in the pool ; 
 Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, 
 
 And washed my forehead cool, 
 And sat among the urchins young, 
 
 That evening in the school. 
 
 "O heaven 1 to think of their white souls, 
 
 And mine so black and grim 1 
 I conld not share in childish prayer, 
 
 Nor join in evening hymn ; 
 Like a devil of the pit I seemed, 
 
 Mid holy cherubim. 
 
 "And peace went with them, one and all. 
 
 And each calm pillow spread ; 
 But guilt was my grim chamberlain. 
 
 That lighted me to bed ; 
 And drew my midnight curtains round. 
 
 With fingers bloody red. 
 
 " All night I lay in agony. 
 
 In anguish dark and deep. 
 My fevered eyes I dared not close, 
 
 But stared aghast at Sleep ; 
 For Sin has rendered unto her 
 
 The keys of hell to keep. 
 
 " All night I lay in agony. 
 
 From weary chime to chime. 
 With one besetting, horrid hint, 
 
 That racked me all the time, — 
 A mighty yearning like the firrt 
 
 Fierce impulse unto crime • 
 
iiffe ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS. 
 
 "One stern tyrannic thought, that made 
 
 All other thoughts its slave ; 
 Stronger and stronger every pulse 
 
 Did that temptation crave, 
 Still urging me to go and see 
 
 The dead man in his grave. 
 
 " Heavily I rose up, as soon 
 
 As light was in the sky, 
 And sought the black, accursed pool. 
 
 With a wild, misgiving eye; 
 And I sav.' the dead in the river bed, 
 
 For the faithless stream was dry. 
 
 "Merrily rose the lark, and shook 
 
 The dewdrop from its wing; 
 But I never marked its morning flight, 
 
 I never heard it sing; 
 For I was stooping once again 
 
 Under the horrid thing. 
 
 " With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 
 
 I took him up and ran ; 
 There was no time to dig a grave 
 
 Before the day began : 
 in a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 
 
 I hid the murdered man; 
 
 "And all that day I read in school, 
 But my thought was otherwhere ; 
 
 As soon as the midday task was done. 
 In secret I was there; 
 
 And a mighty wind had swejit the leaves, 
 And sliU the corpse was bare. 
 
 "Then down I cast me on my face, 
 
 And first began to weep, 
 For I knew my secret then was one 
 
 That earth refused to keep, — 
 Or land or sea, though he should be 
 
 Ten thousand fathoms deep. 
 
 "So wills the fierce avenging sprite, 
 
 Till blood for blood atones ; 
 Ay, though he's buried in a cave. 
 
 And trodden down with stones. 
 
NUMBl-.n THREE. 14i 
 
 And years have roited off his flesh, 
 The world sliall see his bones. 
 
 "O God! that horrid, horrid dreaai 
 
 Besets me now, awake; 
 Again, again, witli dizzy brain, 
 
 The human life I take; 
 And my red right hand grows raging hot, 
 
 Like Cranmer's at the stake. 
 
 "And still no peace for the restless clay, 
 
 Will wave or mould allow ; 
 The horrid thins' puraues my soul, — 
 
 It stands before me now /" 
 The fearful boy looked up, and saw 
 
 Huge drops upon his brow- 
 That very night, while gentle sleep 
 
 The urchin's eyelids kissed, 
 Two stern-faced men set out from L3'nn, 
 
 Through the cold and heavy mist ; 
 And Eugene Aram walked between, 
 
 With gyves upon Ms wrist. 
 
 ■ SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO.— SnAKSPEARE. 
 
 Signer Antonio, many a time and oft 
 In the Rialto you have rated me 
 About my moneys and my usances ; 
 Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, 
 For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe; 
 You call me^-misbeliever, cut-throat, dog, 
 And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, 
 And all for use of that which is mine own. 
 Well, then, it now appears, you need my help; 
 Go to, then ; you come to me, and you say, 
 Shylock, we would have moneys; you say so, 
 You that did void your rheum upon my beard. 
 And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur 
 Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. 
 What should I say to you? Should I not say. 
 Hath a dog money? is it possible 
 A cur can loud three thousand ducais t or 
 
AH ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, 
 With bated breath, and whispering humbleness, 
 Say this? 
 
 Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last; 
 You spumed me such a day ; another time 
 You called me — dog; and for these courtesies 
 I'll lend you thus much moneys. , 
 
 JOSH BILLINGS OX "GONGS."— H. G. Sim w. 
 
 Josh Billings relateth his first experience with the goiig 
 thusly: I kan never holi eradicate from my memory the 
 sound ov the first gong I ever herd. I was settin on the 
 frunt step ov a tavurn in the sity ov Bufierlow, pensively 
 smokin. The sun was goin to bed, and the hovins fur and 
 n6ar was a blushin at the performance. The Ery Kanal 
 with its goldei; waters was on its way to Albany, and I was 
 perusin the line botes a floatin by, and thinking of Italy 
 (wherl uste to live) and gondolers and gallus wimmin. 
 Mi entire sole, was, as it were, in a swet — 1 wanted to klimb 
 — i felt grate, I aktually gru. There are things in this life 
 not tu be trifled with : there are times when a man brakes 
 luce from hisself, when he sees spiruts, or when he kin al- 
 most tuch the mune, and feels az if he could fil both hans 
 with the stars of hevin, and almost swear he was a bank 
 president, — that's what ailed me. 
 
 But the koarse ov tru luv never did run smuthe, (this is 
 Shakspeare's opinyun tu, — I and he often thunk thru one 
 quil,)— jist az I waz duin mi best,— dummer, dummer, spat, 
 bang, heller, crash, roar, jam, dummer, rip, whang, roar, men- 
 jus, rally, jump, I struck the centre ov the sidewalk, with 
 aiiuther I klared the gutter, and with anuther I strnck the 
 middle ov the street, snortin like an injun pony at a band 
 uv musick. I gazed in despair at the tavurn, and mi heart 
 was swelled uj> as big as a outdore uven, ray teeth were as 
 loose as a string ov bedes. I thot all the crockery in the 
 tavurn had fell down. I thot of fenomonons. I thot of 
 Gabril and hiz horn. I was jist on the pint ov thinkin 
 somcthin else when the landlord kum to the front step uv the 
 
NUtfGEU THREE. 14U 
 
 tavurn, holJin by a string the bottom of a brass kittle. He 
 kawled lue gjulli with liis hand. I went slola and slola uii 
 to him, he kammed my fearz, he said it was a gong. I saw 
 the kussed thing. He said supper was reddy. 
 
 OUT IN THE STREETS.— T. D. Engiish. 
 
 The light is shiwing through the window-pane; 
 
 It is a laughing group that side the glass; — 
 Within, all light; without, pitch-dark, and rain; 
 
 I see, but feel no jjleasure as 1 pass, 
 Out in the streets. 
 
 Another casement, with the curtain drawn : 
 There the light throws tlic shadow of a form,— 
 
 A. woman's, with a child, — a man's: all gone! 
 They with each other. I am with the storm, 
 Out in the streets. 
 
 There at the open window sits a man. 
 His day's toil over, with his pipe alight; 
 
 His wife leans o'er him, with her tale began 
 Of the day's doings. I am with the night, 
 ' Out in the streets. 
 
 All these have homes, and hope, and light, and cheer. 
 And those around who love them. Ah ! for me, 
 
 Who have no home, but wander sadly here, 
 Alone with night and storm and misery, 
 Out in the streets. 
 
 The rain soaks through my clothing to the skin; 
 
 So let it. Curses on that cheery light! 
 There is no light with me, and shame, and sin; 
 
 I wander in the night and of the night, 
 Out in the" streets. 
 
 You who betrayed me with a loving kiss, 
 
 Whose very touch could thrill me through and through- 
 When you first sought me, did you think of this? 
 
 My curse — but why waste time in cursing you. 
 Out in the streets? 
 
 You are beyond my hatred now. You stand 
 Above reproach ; you know no wrong nor guile; 
 
ONE UUNDBEO ClIOICi: SELECTIONS 
 
 Foremost amon^ the worthies of the land. 
 You are all good, and I a wretch all vile. 
 Out in the streets. 
 
 You have a daughter, yonng and inr.ocent ; 
 
 You love her, doubtless. I was pure as she. 
 Before my heart to Tie your lackey" went. 
 
 God guard her ! never lot her roam like me. 
 Out in the streets. 
 
 How the cold rain benumbs my weary limbs? 
 
 What makes the pavement heave? Ah ! wet and chill, 
 I hear the little children singing hymns 
 
 In the village churcli, — hew peaceful now, and still. 
 Out in the streets! 
 
 But why this vision of my early daj's? 
 
 Why comes the church-door in the public way? 
 Hence with this mocking sound of prayer and praise! 
 
 I have no cause to praise, I dare not pray. 
 Out in the streets. 
 
 Wliat change is here? The night again grows warm ; 
 
 Tlio air is fragrant as an infant's breath; 
 Wliy, wliere's my hunger? Left me in tlie storm? — 
 
 Now, God forgive my sins! this, this is death. 
 Out ill. the streets. 
 
 ORATION AGAINST CATILINE.— Cicero. 
 
 How long, Catiline, wilt thou abuse our patience? How 
 long shalt thou baffle justice in thy mad career? To what 
 extreme wilt thou parry tliy audacity? Art thou nothing 
 daunted by the nightly watch, posted to secure the Palati- 
 imi? Nothing, by the city guards? Nothing, by the rally 
 of all good citizens? Notliing, by the assembling of the 
 Senate in this fortified place? Nothing, by the averted 
 looks of all here iiresent? Seest thou not that all thy plots 
 arc exposed? that thy wretched conspiracy is laid bare to 
 every man's knowledge, here in the Senate? that we are 
 well aware of thy proceedings uf List night ; of the night be- 
 
KUMBEK TUHEE. 151 
 
 fore; — the place of meeting, the company convoked, (he 
 measures concerted? Alas, the times! Alas, the public 
 morals ! The senate understands all this. The Consul sees 
 it. Yet the traitor lives! Lives? Ay, truly, and confronts 
 us here in council, takes part in our deliberations, and,with his 
 measuring eye, marks out each man of us for slaughter. And 
 we all this while, strenuous that we are, think we have 
 am;ily discharged our duty to the State if we but shun this 
 madman's sword and fury. 
 
 Long since, O Catiline, ought the Consul to have ordered 
 thee to execution, and brought upon thy own head the ruin 
 thou hast been meditating against others. There was that 
 virtue once in Rome, that a wicked citizen was held more 
 execrable than the deadliest foe. We have a law still, Cat- 
 iline, fur thee. Think not that we are powerless, because 
 forbearing. We have a decree, — though it rests among our 
 archives like a sword in its scabbard,— a decree by which 
 thy life would be raade to pay the forfeit of thy crimes. 
 And, should I order thee to be instantly seized and put to 
 death, I make just doubt whether all good men would not 
 think it done rather too late than any man too crudly. 
 
 But, for good reasons, I will yet defer the blow long since 
 deserved Tl~n will I doom thee, when no man is found so 
 lost, so wicked, nay, so like thyself, but shall confess tliat it 
 was justly dealt. While there is one man that dares defend 
 thee, live! But Ihou shalt live so beset, so surrounded, so 
 scrutinized, by the vigilant guards that I have placed around 
 thee, that thou shalt not stir a foot against the Republic, 
 without my knowledge. There shall be eyes to detect thy 
 slightest movejnent, and ears to catch thy wariest whisper, 
 of which thou shalt not dream. The darkness of night 
 shall not cover thy treason, — the walls of privacy shall not 
 stifle its voice. Baffled on all sides, thy most secret coun- 
 sels clear as noonday, what canst thou now have in view? 
 Proceed, plot, conspire, as thou wilt; there is nothing you 
 can contrive, nothing you can propose, nothing you can at- 
 tempt, which I shall not know, hear, and promptly under- 
 stand. Tliou shalt soon be made aware that I am even more 
 active in pro\'iding for the preservation of the state, than 
 thou in plotting its destruction. 
 
 W* 
 
152 ONE HUNDRED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.— George Croly. 
 
 Conscript Fathers: 
 I do not rise to waste the night in words; 
 J^et that Plebeian talk, 'tis not my trade; 
 But here I stand for right, — let him shovi proofs, — 
 Fur Roman right, though none, it seems, dare stand 
 To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there! 
 Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves! 
 His charge is false ; — 1 dare him to his proofs. 
 You have my answer. Let my actions speak I 
 
 But this I will avow, that I liave scorned 
 And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong. 
 Who brand.s me on the forehead, breaks my sword, 
 Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back, 
 Wronprs me not half so much as he who shuts 
 The gates of honor on me, — turning out 
 The Roman from his birthright; and for what? 
 
 To fling your offices to every slave ! 
 Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb", 
 And, having wound their loathsome track to the top 
 Of I his huge, mouldering monument of Rome, 
 Ilaiig hissing at the nobler man below. 
 
 Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones ; 
 
 ( To the Senate.) 
 Fling down your sceptres; take the rod and axo, 
 And make the murder as you make the law. 
 
 Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free 
 From daily contact of the things I loathe? 
 "Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this? 
 Who'll prove it, at his jieril, on my head? 
 Banished I I thank you for't. It breaks my chain I 
 I held some slack allegiance till this hour ; 
 But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my Lordal 
 I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, 
 Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, 
 1 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 fljng 
 Hatred and full defiance in your face! 
 Your Consul's m.ercifnl ; — for this, all thank* 
 11^ dares not touch a hair of Catiline 1 
 
N UMBEU TIIBBB. lb" 
 
 " Traitor !" I go ; but, I return ! This— trial ! 
 Here 1 devote your Senate ! I've had wrongs 
 To stir a fever in the blood of age, 
 Or make the infant's siuews strong as steel. 
 This day's the birth of sorrow; this hour's work 
 Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my Lordsl 
 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; 
 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 I but when I come, 'twill be the burst 
 Of ocean in the earthquake, — rolling back 
 In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well! 
 You build my funeral-pile ; but your best blocid 
 Shall queiu;li its flame! Back, aliivus! i^Uh the. Lictort.) 
 I will return. 
 
 HIS EYE WAS STERN AND WILD. 
 
 His eye was stern and wild, — his cheek was pale and cold 
 
 as clay ; 
 Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearfnl meaning lay; 
 He mused awhile, but not in doubt, — no trace of doubt was 
 
 there ; 
 It was the steady, solemn pause of resolute despair. 
 Once more he looked upon the scroll,-^once more its words 
 
 he read. 
 Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him 
 
 spread. 
 I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue, cold, gleaming 
 
 steel. 
 And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel. 
 A sickness crept upon mj' heart, and dizzy swam my head; 
 I could not stir, I could not cry, — I felt benumbed and dead ; 
 Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er; 
 I closed uiy eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more. 
 
 Again I looked ; a fearful change across his face had passed ; 
 He seemed to rave, — on cheek and lip a flaky foam waa 
 cast: 
 
 a* 
 
154 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 He raised on high the glittering blade; then first I found a 
 
 tongue, — 
 " II old, niiidinan ! stay thy frantic deed !" I cried, and fori li 
 
 I sprung; 
 He heard me but he lieeded not; one glance around ho 
 
 gave; 
 And ere I could arrest his liand, he had —begun io shave! 
 
 SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN. 
 
 Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not so; 
 There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow; 
 Tliere are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there, 
 And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair. 
 Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-niglit 
 To search for our dead, yon would be a fair sight? 
 Ydu're his wife; you love him— you think so; and I 
 Am only liis mother; my boy shall not lie 
 In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear 
 His form to a grave that mine own may soon share. 
 So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the liearlh, 
 Wliile his motlier alone seeks his bed on the eiirth. 
 
 You will go! then no faintings! Give me the light, 
 And follow my footsteps, — my heart will lead right. 
 All, God ! what is here? a great heap of the slain, 
 All mangled and gory!— what horrible pain 
 These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, ye weep, 
 Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep! 
 
 Morel more! Ah! I tliouglit I conld nevermore know 
 Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below. 
 Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief toll 
 How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell. 
 Did they think I cared then to see officers stand 
 Before my great sorrow, eacli hat in each hand? 
 
 Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright, 
 That your red hands turn over toward this dim light 
 'I'hese dead men that stare so? Ah, if you had kept 
 Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left, 
 You had heard that his place was worst of them all, — 
 Ni>t mid the stragglers, — where he fought he would fall. 
 There's the moon thro' the clouds: Christ, what a scene! 
 1)»M thon from thy heavens o'er such visions lean. 
 And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine? 
 
NUMBER TIIUEE. 15') 
 
 Hiirk, a groan! there another, — here in this line 
 Piled close on each other! Ah, here is the flag. 
 Turn, dripping with gore ; — bah ! they died for this rag. 
 
 Here's the voice that we seek : poor soul, do not start ; 
 
 We're women, iiol ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart! 
 
 Is there auf;ht we can do? A message to give 
 
 To any beloved one? I swear, if I live, 
 
 To take it for sake of tlie words my boy said, 
 
 "Home," "mother," "wife," ere he reeled down 'mong the 
 
 dead. 
 But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood? 
 Speak, speak, man, or point; 'twas the Nintli. Oh, the 
 
 blood 
 Is choking his voice! What a look of desjjair! 
 Tliere, lean on my knee, while I pnt back the hair 
 From eyes so fast; glazing. Oh, my darling, my own, 
 My hands were boih idle when you died alone. 
 
 He's dying — he's dead ! Close his lids, let us go. 
 God's peace on his soul! If we only cuuld know 
 Where our own dear one lies!— my sonl has turned sick : 
 Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick ? 
 I cannot! I cannot! How eager you are! 
 One might think you were nursed on the red lap of War. 
 
 He's not here, — and not here. What w.ild hopes flash 
 
 through 
 My thoughts, as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew, 
 And cast np a prayer to the blue qliiot sky ! 
 W.ts it yon, girl, that shrieked? Ah ! what fece doth lie 
 Upturned toward me there, so risid and white? 
 O God, vay brain reels! 'Tis a dream. My old sight 
 
 Is dimmed with these horrors. My son! oh my son ! 
 Would I had died for tliee, my own, only one! 
 There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast 
 Where first he was lulled, with my soul's Iiynin, to rest. 
 Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss 
 As mine to his baby-touch ; was it for this? 
 
 He was yours, too ; he loved yon ? Yes, yes, you're right. 
 Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to night. 
 Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your years 
 May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears. 
 Yes, take him again ;— ah! don't lay your face there; 
 See, the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair. 
 
156 ONE IIUNDKKD ClIOICI': SJiL liCTI O N S 
 
 How quiet you are! Has she fainted? — her cheek 
 
 Is cold as his own. -Say a word to me, — speak ! 
 
 Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart broke first? 
 
 Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst. 
 
 I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone wilh these dead; 
 
 Those corpses are stirring; God lielp my pour head! 
 
 I'll sit by my children until the men come 
 
 To bury the others, and then we'll go home. 
 
 Why, the slain are all dancing! Dearest, don't move. 
 
 Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by love. 
 
 Lullaby, lullaby ; sleep, sweet darling, sleep! 
 
 God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep. 
 
 THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.— Albert G. Greenb. 
 
 O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, 
 Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay, — 
 The stern old Baron Kudiger, whose frame had ne'er been 
 
 bent , 
 
 By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had 
 
 spent. 
 
 "Theycome around me here, and say my days of life are 
 
 o'er; 
 That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no 
 
 more ; 
 They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, 
 Their own liege lord and master burn, that I, — ha! ha! — 
 
 must die. 
 
 " And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Pay- 
 
 nim spear; 
 Think ye he's entered at my gate, — has come to seek me 
 
 here? 
 I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was 
 
 raging hot ; — 
 I'll try his might, I'll brave his power; defy, and fear him 
 
 not. 
 
 "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin; 
 Bid each retainer arm with speed ; call every vassal in; 
 Up with my banner on the wall ; the banquet board prepare ; 
 Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there !" 
 
N UMBER THREE. 157 
 
 All hundred hands were busy then; the banquet forth was 
 
 spread, 
 And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread; 
 While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, 
 Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud 
 
 old Gothic hall. 
 
 Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers 
 
 poured. 
 On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around 
 
 the board; 
 While at its head, within his dark, carved oaken chair ofstate, 
 Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate. 
 
 "Fill every beaker up, my man ; pour forth the cheering wine; 
 There's life and strength in every drop;— thanksgiving to 
 
 the vine! 
 Are ye all there, my vassals true? mine eyes are waxingdim; 
 Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the 
 
 brim. 
 
 " Ye're there, but yet I see yon not; draw forth each trusty 
 
 sword, 
 And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my 
 
 board ; — 
 I hear it faintly ; — louder yet ! What clogs my heavy breath? 
 Up, all ! and shout for Kudiger, ' Defiance unto death !' " 
 
 Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafen- 
 ing cry 
 
 That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on 
 high. 
 
 "Ho! cravens! do ye fear him? Slaves; traitors! have ye 
 flown? 
 
 Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone? 
 
 "But I defy him; let him come!" Down rang the massy cup 
 
 While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half- 
 way up ; 
 
 And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on 
 his head, 
 
 There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat, — 
 dead! 
 
 DEATH OF LITTLE JO.— Charles Dicke.vx 
 
 Jo is verj' glad to see his old friend ; and says, when they 
 are left alone, that he takes it nncommon kind as Mr. Sangs- 
 by should come so fur out of liis way on accounts of sich iia 
 
158 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIO;>S. 
 
 him. Mr. Sangsby, touched by the spectacle before him, 
 immediately lays upon the table half-a-crowii ; that magic 
 bttlsam of his for all kinds of wounds. 
 
 "And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires 
 the stationer, with his cough of sympatliy. 
 
 "I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't 
 want for nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't thi:ik, 
 Mr. Sangsby. I'm wery sorry that I done it; but I didn't 
 go for to do it, sir." 
 
 The stationer sofily lays down another half-crown, and 
 asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done. 
 
 " Mr. Siingsby," says Jo, " I went and giv a ilhiess to the 
 lady as wos and yet as war'nt the t'other lady, and none of 
 em never says notliink to me fur having done it, on accounts 
 of their being so good and my having been s'unfortnet. The 
 lady come her.self and see me yes'day, and she ses, "Ah Jo!' 
 she ses. 'We tlionght we"d lost j'ou, Jo!' sheses. And she 
 sits down a smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a 
 look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin 
 the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, 1 see him 
 a forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. VVoodcot, he 
 come fnr to give me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's alius 
 a doin on day and niglit, and when lie come a bendin over 
 me and a speakin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin, Mr. 
 Sangsby." 
 
 The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the 
 table. Nothhig less than a repetition of that infallible rem- 
 edy will relieve his feelings. 
 
 "Wot I wo.s tliinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, 
 as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps?" 
 
 "Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. 
 
 "Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says Jo, with eager- 
 ness. 
 
 " Yes, my poor boy." 
 
 Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I was thinkin on then, 
 Mr. Sangsby, wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever 
 I could go, and couldn't bo moved no furder, whether yon 
 might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, wery large, so that 
 anyone could see it anywheres, as that I wos wery truly 
 hearty sorry that I done it, and that I never went fur to do 
 
NUMBEB THREE. 150 
 
 It; and that thoiijjh I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd 
 as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and was alius grieved 
 over It, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his 
 miud. If the writin could be made to say it wery large he 
 might." 
 
 "It shall say it, Jo: very large." 
 
 Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. Its wery kind 
 of you sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I wos afore." 
 
 Tlie meek littla stationer, with a broken and unfinished 
 cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, — he has never been 
 so close to a case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart. 
 And Jo and h», upon this little earth, shall meet no more. 
 No more. 
 
 {Another scene. — Enter Mr. Woodcourt.) 
 
 " Well, Jo, wnat is the matter? Don't be frightened." 
 "I thought," Says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, 
 "I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. An't there jio- 
 body here but you, Mr. Woodcot ?" 
 
 "Nobody." 
 
 "And I an't took back to Tom-all-Alone's, am I, sir?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 Jo closes his eyes , muttering, "I am wery thankful." 
 
 After watching him closely e little while, Allan puts his 
 mouth VQry near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct 
 voice: "Jo, did you ever know a prayer?" 
 
 "Never knowd nothink, sir." 
 
 "Not so much as one short prayer?" 
 
 " No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a pray- 
 in wunst at Mr. Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded 
 as if he wos a speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed 
 a lot, but / couldn't make out nothink on it. Difierent 
 times there wos other genlmen come down Tom-all-Alone's 
 a prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed 
 wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a talkin to theirselves, 
 or a passin blame on the t'others, and not a talkin to us. 
 We never knowd nothink. I never knowed what it wos all 
 about." 
 
 It takes him a long time to say this; and few but an ex- 
 perienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, un- 
 derstand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he 
 makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed. 
 
IGO ONE HUNDRED CUOICE SELEUTION8 
 
 " Stay, Jo, stay ! What no w ?" 
 
 " It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," 
 he returns with a wild look. 
 
 "lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?" 
 
 " Where they laid him as wos wery good to me; wery good 
 to me indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that 
 there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. 
 I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to 
 me, ' I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell 
 him that I am as poor as him now, ahd have come there to 
 be laid along with him." 
 
 " By-and-by, Jo, by-and-by." 
 
 "Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. 
 But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid 
 along with him?" 
 
 "I will, indeed." 
 
 "Thankee sir! Thankee sir! They'll have to get the key 
 of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's alius locked. 
 And there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my 
 broom. — It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any ligiit a 
 comin?" 
 
 " It is coming fast, Jo." " 
 
 Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged 
 road is very near its end. 
 
 "Jo, my poor fellow!" 
 
 "I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin — a gropiii 
 — let me catch hold of your hand." 
 
 "Jo, can you say what I say?" 
 
 " I'll say anything as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." 
 
 " OnK Fathek.'' 
 
 "Our Father ! — yes, that's wery good, sir." 
 
 "Which \ri im Heaven." 
 
 "Art in Heaven! — Is the light a comin, sir?" 
 
 " It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name." 
 
 "Hallowed be — thy — name!" 
 
 The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead. 
 
 Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, 
 Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. 
 Dead, men and womeii, born with heavenly compassion in 
 your hearts. And dying thus around us every day ! , 
 
NUMBER THREE. 161 
 
 NONGTONGPAW.— C. Dibpin. 
 
 John Bull for pastiine took a prance, 
 Some time ago, to peep at France ; 
 To talk of sciences and arts, 
 And knowledge gained in foreign parts. 
 Monsieur, obsequious, heard him- 8i)eak, 
 And answered John in heathen Greek: 
 To all htt asked 'bout all he saw, 
 'Twas, " Monsieur, je vous n'enlends pas." 
 
 John to the Palais- Royal come, 
 Its splendor almost struck him dumb : 
 " I say, whose house is that there here ?" 
 " House ) Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." 
 " What, Nongtongpaw again !" cries John; 
 '•This fellow is some mighty Don: 
 No doubt he's ijle.ty fjr the m.iw, 
 I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw." 
 
 John saw Versailles from Marie's height, 
 
 And cried, astonished at the sight, 
 
 " Whose fine estate is that there here?" 
 
 " State ! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." 
 
 "His? What! the land and houses too/ 
 
 The fellow's richer than a Jew: 
 
 On everything he lays his claw; 
 
 I'd like to dine with Nongtongpaw.'' 
 
 Next tripping came a courtly fair, 
 John cried, enchanted with her air, 
 " What lovelv wench is that there here?" 
 " Ventch I Je vous n'entends pas. Monsieur." 
 " What, he again? Upo:i my life! 
 A palace, lands, and then a wife 
 Sir Joshua might delight to draw ; 
 I'd like to Slip with Nongtongpaw. 
 
 "But hold I whose funei'al's that?" cries John. 
 "Je vous n'entends pni."-r-" What, is he gone? 
 Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save 
 Poor Nongtongpaw, then, from the grave! 
 His race is rui, his game is up; — 
 I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup ; 
 But since he chooses to withdraw. 
 Good-night t'ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw." 
 
162 ONE nU.N'nKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE RUINED MERCHANT— Cora M. Eager. 
 
 A cottage home with sloping lawn, and trellised vines and 
 
 Howers, 
 And little feet to chase away the rosy-flngered hours; 
 A fair young face to jiart, at eve, the shadows in the door ; — 
 I picture thus a home I knew in happy days of yore. 
 
 Says one, a cherub thing of three, with childish heart elate, 
 "Papa is tomin' let me do to meet 'im at tc date!" 
 Another takes the music up, and flingss it on the air, 
 "Papa has come, but why so slow his footstei) on the stair?" 
 
 "0 father! did you bring the books I've waited for so long. 
 The baby's rocking-horse and drum, and mother's ' angel 
 
 song?' 
 And did you see" — but sopiething holds the questioning 
 
 lips apart, 
 And something settles very still upon that joyous heart. 
 
 The quick -discerning wife bends down, with her white hand 
 
 to stay 
 The clouds from tangling with the curls that on his fore- 
 head lay ; 
 To ask, in gentle tones, "Beloved, by what rude tempest 
 
 tossed ?" 
 And list the hollow, " Beggared, lost, — all ruined, poor, and 
 
 lost!" 
 "Nay, say not so, for I am here to share misfortune's hour. 
 And prove how better far than gold is love's unfailing dower, 
 Let wealth take, wings and fly away, as far as wings can soar. 
 The bird of love will hover near, and only sing the more." 
 
 "All lost, papa? why here am I; and, father, see how tall; 
 
 I measure fully three feet four, upon the kitchen wall ; 
 
 I'll tend the flowers, feed the birds, and have such lots of 
 
 fun, 
 I'm big enough to work, papa, for I'm the oldest son." 
 
 " And I, papa, am almost five," says curly-headed Rose, 
 " And I can learn to sew, papa, and make all dolly's clothes. 
 But what w ' poor,'^to stay at home, and have no place to go ? 
 Oh ! then I"ll ask the Lord, to-night, to make us always to." 
 
 "I'se here, papa; I isn't lost!" and on his father's knee 
 He lays hi.s sunny head to rest, that baby-boy of three. 
 " And if we get too poor to live," says littl(> Rose, " you know 
 There is u bettor place, papa, a heaven where we can go. 
 
HUMBEB TIIREO;. 1G3 
 
 " And God will come and take us there, dear father, if we pray, 
 We needn't fear the road, papa, he surely knows the way." 
 Then from the corner, staff in hand, the grandma rises slow. 
 Her snowy cap-strings in the breeze soft fluttering to and fro: 
 
 Totters across the parlor floor, by aid of kindly hands. 
 Counting in every little face, her life's declining sands; 
 Reaches his side, and whispers low, "God's promises are 
 
 sure; 
 For every grievous wound, my son, he sends a ready cure." 
 
 The father clasife her hand in his, and quickly turns aside, 
 The heaving chest, the rising sigh, the coming tear, to hide ; 
 Folds to his heart those loving ones, and k isses o'er and o'er 
 That noble wife whose faithful heart he litlle knew before. 
 
 " May God forgive me! What is wealth to these more pre- 
 cious things. 
 Whose rich affection round my heart a ceaseless odor flings? 
 I think he knew my sordid soul was getting proud and cold. 
 And thus to save me, gave me ilfse, and took away my gold. 
 
 " Dear ones, forgive me; nevermore will I forget the rod 
 That brought me safely unto you, and led me back to God. 
 I am not poor while these bright links of priceless love 
 
 remain, 
 And, Heaven helping, never more shall blindness hide the 
 
 chain." 
 
 THE DEATH-BED.— Thomas Hood. 
 
 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 ej'elids closed;— she had 
 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
164 ONE nUKDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS' 
 
 ABOU BEN ADHEM.— Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Abou Ben Adbem — may his tribe increase !— 
 Awoke one night from a deep (iream of peace. 
 And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
 Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
 An angel, writing in a book of gold. 
 Exceeding jieace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
 And to the Presence in the room he said, 
 " What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, 
 And, with a look made all of sweet accord, 
 Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
 " And is mine one?" said Abou. " Nay, not so," 
 Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. 
 But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then, 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
 
 The angel wrote and vanished. The next night 
 
 It came again, with a great wakening light. 
 
 And showed the names whom love of God had blessed; 
 
 And lo ' Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 
 
 A HUSBAND'S EXPERIENCE IN COOKING. 
 
 I found fault, some time ago, with Maria Ann's custard pie, 
 and tried to tell her how my mother made custard pie. 
 Maria made the pie after my receipt. It lasted longer than 
 any other pie we ever had. Maria set it on the table every 
 day for din her, and you see I conld not eat it, because I forgot 
 to tell her to put in any eggs or shortening. It was eco- 
 nomical, but in a fit of generosity I stole it from the pantry, 
 and gave it to a poor little boy in the neighborhood. Tlie 
 boy's funeral was largely attended by his former playmates. 
 I did not go myself. 
 
 Then there were the buckwheat cakes. I told Maria Ann 
 any fool could beat her making those cakes, and she said I 
 had better try it. So I did. I emptied the batter all out of 
 the pitcher one evening, and set the cakes myself. I got 
 the flour, and the salt, and water, and, warned by the past, 
 put in a liberal quantity of eggs and shortening. I shortened 
 with tallow from roast beef, because I could not find any 
 
NVMBlLit THREE. ]6j 
 
 lard. The batter did not look right, and I lit my pipe- ai <1 
 pondered: "Yeast! yeast, to be snre!" I had forgotten tlie 
 yeast. I went and woke up the baker, and got six cent's 
 worth of yeast. I set the pitcher behind the sitting-room 
 stove, and went to bed. In the morning I got up early, and 
 prepared to enjoy my triumph ; but I didn't. That yeast 
 was strong enougli to raise the dead, and the batter was run- 
 ning all over the carpet. I scraped it up and put it into 
 another dish. 'H^en got a fire in the kitchen, and put on 
 the griddle. The first Jot of cakes stuck to the griddle. The 
 second dittoed, only more. Maria came down and asked 
 what was burning. She advised me to grease the griddle. 
 I did it. One end of the griddle got too hot, and I dropped 
 the thing on my tenderest corn, while trying to turn it a- 
 round. Finally the cakes were ready for breakfast, and 
 Maria got the other things ready. We sat down. My cakes 
 did not have exactly the right flavor 1 took one mouthful 
 and it satisfied me ; I lost my appetite at once. Maria would 
 not let me put one on her plate. I think those cakes may 
 be reckoned a dead loss. The cat would not eat them. The 
 dog ran off and staid away three days after one was offered 
 him. The hens won't go within ten feet of them. I threw 
 thetn into the back yard and there has not been a pig on 
 the premises since. I eat what is put before me now, and 
 do not allude to my mother's system of cooking. 
 
 RING OUT, WILD BELLS!— j^lfred TENNYSOjr. 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
 The year is dying in the night ; 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 
 
 Ring out the old, ring in the new, — 
 Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 
 The year is going, let him go ; 
 
 Ring out the false, ring in the true. 
 
 Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
 For those that here we see no more; 
 Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
 
 Ring in redress to all mankind. 
 
166 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 King out a slowly dying cause, 
 
 And ancient forms of paltry strife; 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
 
 With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
 The faithless coldness of the times; 
 Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
 
 Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
 The civic slander and the spite; 
 Ring in the love of truth and right. 
 
 Ring in the common love of good. 
 
 Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 
 
 Ring out the narrowing lust of gold, 
 Ring out the thousand wars of old; 
 
 Ring in the thousand years of peace. 
 
 Ring in the valiant man, and free, 
 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
 Ring out the darkness of the land; 
 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 MAGDALENA. 
 
 "The night is dreary and cold. 
 
 But the winds are mad with glee; 
 And the Storm-king, wild, and cruel, and bold. 
 
 To-night holds jubilee. 
 Patter, pitiless rain, 
 
 From the clouds with passion gray; 
 Toll! mud winds, toll! for my lost soul 
 
 Is passing from earth away. 
 
 "Oh, blackest of nights! to you 
 
 All other nights are day ; 
 For the sable wings of a hellish crew 
 
 Have shut all light away. 
 Leave me alone with death ; 
 
 Dark spirits of sea and sky, 
 Ye goblin things, with sable wings, 
 
 I do not fear to die ! 
 
 "Wasted, and ha<rgard, and old; 
 OKI, and haggard, and thiu ; 
 
NUMBER THREE. 167 
 
 Wasted and haggard with suffering uutolii ; 
 
 Old and haggard with sin. 
 Steeped in crime to the lips; 
 
 With sorrow and anguish gray. 
 Toll, mad winds, toll,a human soul 
 
 Is passing from earth away. 
 
 "Hark to the old church-bell 
 
 That swings in the church-tower gray; 
 O'er meadow aijd hilt, o'er dell and stream. 
 
 Its music calls away; — 
 Away from carking care, 
 
 Away from strife and sin; 
 Come, come away, 'tis his own day,— 
 
 To his courts enter in. 
 
 "Brightly the sunlight gleams; 
 
 Softly the sweet airs blow; 
 Mid verdant hills the happy streams 
 
 With tuneful babblings flow. 
 We pass the cliur(;h-yard wall. 
 
 Mother, Effie, and I, 
 And the green grass waves o'er lowly graves, 
 
 And the trailing willows sigh. 
 
 " Hark ! that is his step, I know; 
 
 Ah, no! it has passed me by; 
 Ah ! white, cold moon, you are like the snow, 
 
 I shrink from your searching eye. 
 But you cannot know his love; 
 
 His kisses are not for you ; 
 I pity you so, with your heart of snow. 
 
 On your throne in the starry blue. 
 
 " Where am I? God ! it is past,— 
 
 The dream of guiletess years; 
 Howl, fiends of night, on the whirling blast, 
 
 And mock these idiot teat's. 
 I will not fear to die. 
 
 Though all beyond is gloom ! 
 Toll! mad winds, toll ! for my lost soul 
 
 Is passing unto doom." 
 
 Wasted, and haggard, and old ; 
 
 Old, and haggard, and thin ; 
 She's sleeping to-night 'neath the church-yard mould, 
 
 Crushed 'neath a weight of siu. 
 X 
 
lOS ONE UUSDREI> CltOICE StLECTlONS 
 
 Not hers the •lei'lly guilt; 
 
 Hers only the love and shame, — 
 Only the pang of a deathless love, 
 
 Only a blighted name. 
 
 Alone in the black midnight, 
 
 Haunted ))y goblin and ghoul ; 
 The mad winds tolled, death's billows rolled 
 
 Across her shuddering soul. 
 
 LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER.— Edward Everett. 
 
 Hxtract from a speech delivered October 27tb, 1852. 
 
 Among the many memorable words wliich fell from the 
 lips of our friend just before they were closed forever, the 
 most remarkable are those which have been quoted by a 
 l)revious speaker: "I still live." They attest the serene 
 composure of his mind, — the Christian heroism with which 
 he was able to turn his consciousness in upon himself, and 
 explore, step by step, the dark passage (dark to us, but to 
 him, we trust, already lighted from above) which connects 
 tliis world with the world to come. But I know not what words 
 could have been better chosen to express his relation to the 
 world he was leaving, — " I still live." This poor dust is just re- 
 turningto the dust from which it was taken, but I feel that I 
 live in the affections of the people to whose services I have 
 consecrated my days. " I still live." The icy handof deatli is 
 already laid on my heart, but I shall still live in tliose words 
 of counsel wliich I have uttered to my fellow-cilizens, and 
 which I now leave them as the last ber^uest of a dying friend. 
 
 In the long and honored career of our lamented friend, 
 there are efforts and triumphs which will hereafter fill one 
 of the brightest pages of our history. But I greatly err if the 
 closing scene— the height of the religious sublime— does 
 not, in the judgment of other days, far transcend in interest 
 the brightest exjiloits of public life. Within that darkened 
 chamber at Marshfield was witnessed a scene of which we 
 shall not readily find the parallel. The serenity with which 
 he stood in the presence of the King of terrors, without trep- 
 idation or flutter, for hours and days of expectation; the 
 thoughtfulness for the public business when the sands of 
 
NUMBER THREE. 1C9 
 
 life were so nearly ran out; the hospitable care for the re- 
 ception of the friends who came to Marsbfield ; that affec- 
 tionate and solemn leave separately taken, name by name, 
 of wife, and children, and kindred, and friends, and family, 
 — down to the humblest members of the household ; the 
 designation of the coming day, then near at hand, when ''all 
 that was mortal of Daniel Webster should cease to exist ;" 
 the dinily-recoUected strains of the funeral poetry of Gray; 
 the last faint flasb of the soaring intellect; the feebly mur- 
 mured words of Holy Writ repeated from the lips of the 
 good physician, who, when all the resources of human art 
 had been exhausted, had a drop of spiritual balm for the 
 parting soul; the clasped hands; the dying prayers; Oh! 
 my fellow-citizens, this is a consummation over which tears 
 of pious sympathy will be shed ages after the glories of the 
 forum and the senate are forgotten. 
 
 " His sufferings ended with the day. 
 Yet liveil he at its close. 
 
 And breathed the long, long night away, 
 In statnelike repose. 
 
 " But ere the sun, in all his state 
 
 Illumed the eastern skies, 
 He passed through glory's morning gate, 
 
 And walked in paradise." 
 
 THE HEATHEX CHINEE. -F. Bret Hartb. 
 
 {Table Mountain, 1870.) 
 
 Which I wish to remark, — 
 
 And my language is plain, — 
 That for ways that are dark. 
 And for tricks that are vain. 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar. 
 Which the same I would rise to explain. 
 
 Ah Sin was his name ; 
 And I shall not deny 
 In regard to the same 
 AVhat that name might imply. 
 But his smile it was pensive and child-like, 
 As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 
 
 24 
 
17C ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 It was August the third, 
 
 And quite soft was the skies; 
 Which it might be inferred 
 That Ah Sin was likewise ; 
 Yet he played it that day upon William 
 And me in a way I despise. 
 
 Which we had a small game, 
 And Ah Sin took a hand : 
 It was Euchre. The same 
 He did not understand ; 
 But he smiled as he sat by the table, 
 With a smile that was child-like and bland. 
 
 Yet the cards they were stocked 
 
 In a way that I grieve. 
 And my feelings were shocked 
 At the state of Nye's sleeve. 
 Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers. 
 And the same with intent to deceive. 
 
 But the hands that were played 
 
 By that heathen Chinee, 
 And the points that he made 
 Were quite frightful to see, — 
 Till at last he put down a right bower, 
 Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 
 
 Then I looked up at Nye, 
 And he gazed upon me ; 
 And he rose with a sigh, 
 
 And said, " Can this be? 
 We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor," 
 And he went for that heathen Chinee. 
 
 In the scene that ensued 
 I did not take a hand, 
 But the floor it was strewed 
 
 Like the leaves on the strand 
 With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding. 
 In the game he " did not understand." 
 
 In his sleeves, which were long. 
 
 He had twenty-four packs, — 
 Which was coming it strong. 
 
 Yet I state but the facts ; 
 And we found on his nails, which were taper, 
 What is frequent in tapers, — that's wax 
 
NUMBER THREE. ]7J 
 
 Which is why I remark, 
 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for ways that are dark. 
 
 And for tricks that are vain, 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar. 
 Which the same I am free to maintain. 
 
 THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DAY. 
 
 John G. Wiuttier. 
 The proudest now is but my peer, 
 
 The highest not more high ; 
 To-day, of all the weary year, 
 
 A king of men am I. 
 To-day, alike are great and small, 
 
 The nameless and tlie known; 
 My palace is the peoples hall, 
 
 The ballot-box my throne. 
 Who serves to-day upon the list 
 
 Beside the served shall stand ; 
 Alike the brown and wrinkled fist. 
 
 The gloved and dainty hand. 
 The rich is level with the poor. 
 
 The weak is strong to-day ; 
 And sleekest broad-cloth counts no more 
 
 Than home-spun frock of gray. 
 
 To-day let porajTand vain pretense 
 
 My stubborn right abide ; 
 I set a plain man's common sense 
 
 Against the pedant's pride. 
 To-day shall simple manhood try 
 
 The strength of gold and land; 
 The wide world has not wealth to buy 
 
 The power in ray right hand. 
 
 While there's a grief to seek redress. 
 
 Or balance to adjust, — 
 Where weighs our living manhood less 
 
 Than mammon's vilest dust, — 
 While there's a right to need my vote, 
 
 A wrong to sweep away. 
 Up! clouted knee and ragged coat, _ 
 
 A man's a man to-daj'. 
 
172 ONE nUNDHED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC— Thomas DeQuikcky. 
 
 After Joan h:iil been made prisoner, Bhe was finally given up to the Engliflh. 
 Tho object now was to vitiate tlio coronation of Charles VII. aa the work of a 
 witch, and fjr this end Joan was tried for sorcery. At her trial she resolutely 
 defended herself from this absurd accusation. 
 
 Never, fiom the foundation of the earth, was there such a 
 triaras this, if it were laid open in all its beauty of defence, 
 and all its malignity of attack. O child of France, shep- 
 herdess, peasant-girl ! trodden under foot by all around thee, 
 how I honor thy flashing intellect, — quick as the lightning, 
 and as true to its mark, — that ran before France and laggard 
 Europe by many a century, confounding the malice of the 
 ensnarer, and making dumb the oracles of falsehood! 
 " Would you examine me as a witness against myself?" was 
 the question by which many times she defied their arts. 
 The result of this trial was the condemnation of Joan to be 
 burnt alivf. Never did griin inquisitors doom to death a 
 fairer victit»i by baser moans. 
 
 Woman, bister! there are some things which you do not 
 executeas veil as your brother, man; no, nor ever will. Yet, 
 sister, woman ! cheerfully, and with the love that burns in 
 depths of admiration, I acknowledge that you can do one 
 thing as wull as the best of men, — you can die grandly! On 
 the twentieth of May, 14.31, being then about nineteen years 
 of age, Joan of Arc underwent her martrydom. She was 
 conducted before midday, guarded by eight hundred spear- 
 men, to a platform of prodigious height, constructed ofwood- 
 en billets, supported by occasional walls of lath and plaster, 
 and traversed by hollow spaces in every direction, for the 
 creation of air currents. 
 
 With an undaunted soul, but a meek and saintly demeanor 
 the maiden encountered her terrible fate. Upon her head 
 was placed a mitre, bearing the inscription, " Relapsed heretic, 
 •apostate, idolatress." Her piety displayed itself in the most 
 touching manner to the last, and her angelic forgetfulness 
 of self was manifested in a remarkable degree. The execu- 
 tioner had been directed to apply his torch from below. He 
 did so. The fiery smoke rose upwards in billowy volumes. 
 A monk was then standing at Joan's side. Wrapt up in his 
 sublime oflace, he saw not the danger, but still persisted in 
 
NUM BEB TUnEE. 173 
 
 his prayers. Even then, when the last enemy was racing 
 up the fiery stuirs to seize her, even at that moment did this 
 noblest of girls think only for him — the one friend that 
 would not forsake her— and not for herself; bidding him 
 with her last breath to care for his own preservation, but to 
 leave Iter to God. " Go down," she said ; " lift up the cross 
 before uie, that I may see it in d3ine,and speak to me pious 
 words to the end." Then protesting her innocence, and rec- 
 ommending her,fioul to Heaven, slie continued to pray as 
 the flames leaped up and walled her in. Her last audible 
 word was the name of Jesus. Sustained by faith iu him, in 
 her last fight upon the scafibld, she had triumphed glori- 
 ously; victoriously she had tasted death. 
 
 Few spectators of this martyrdom were so hardened as to 
 contain their tears. All the English, with the exception of 
 a few soldiers who made a jest of the affair, were deeply 
 moved. The French murmured that the death was cruel 
 and unjust. "Slic dies a martyr !" "Ah, we are lost, we 
 have burned a saint!" " Would to God that mj/ soul were 
 with hers.'" Such were the exclamations oi\ every side. A 
 fanatic English soldier, who had sworn to throw a fagot on 
 (he funeral-pile, hearing Joan's last prayer to her Saviour, 
 suddenly turned away, a penitent for life, saying everywhere 
 that he had seen a dove, rising upon white wings to heaven 
 from the ashes where she stood. 
 
 ICARUS; OR, THE PERIL OF BORROWED PLUMES. 
 
 JoiiN G. Saxe. 
 There lived and flourished' long ago, in famous Athenstown, 
 One Dsedcdiis, a carpenter of genius and renown ; 
 ('Twas he who with an auger taught mechanics how to bore, — 
 An art which the philosophers monopolized before.) 
 
 His only son was Icariui, a most precocious lad, 
 
 The pride of Mrs. Daedalus, the image of his dad ; 
 
 And while he yet was in his teens such progress he had made 
 
 He'd got above his father's size, and mucli above his trade. 
 
 Now Dxdalus, the carpenter, had made a pair of wings. 
 Contrived of wood and feathers and a cunning setof springs. 
 By means of which the wearer could ascend (o any height, 
 And sail about among the clouds as easy as a kite. 
 
174 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 "O fiither," said young Icarus, " liow I should like to fly! 
 And go like you where all is blue along the upper sky; 
 How very charming it would be above the moon to climb, 
 Andscamper through the zodiac, and haveahigh old time! 
 "Oh, wouldn't it be jolly, though,— to stop at all the inns; 
 To take a luncheon at The Crab, and tipple at Tlie Twins: 
 And, just for fun and fancy, while' careering through the air. 
 To kiss the Virgin, tease the Ham, and bait the biggest Bearf 
 "O father, ])lease to let me go!" was still the urchin's cry ; 
 " I'll be extremely careful, sir, and won't go very high,- 
 Oli, if this little pleasure-trip you only will allow, 
 I promise to be biick again in time to fetch the cow." 
 " You're rather young," said Dxdalus, to tempt the upper air ; 
 But take the wings, and mind your eye with very special care; 
 And keep at least a thousand miles below the nearest star, — 
 Young lads, when out upOn a lark, are apt to go too far." 
 He took the wings, that foolish boy, without the least dismay, 
 (His father stuck 'em on with wax,) and so he soared away; 
 Up, up he rises, like a bird, and not a moment stops 
 "TJutil he's fairly out of sight, beyond the mountain-tops. 
 
 And still he flies,— away, away; it seems the merest fun; 
 No marvel he is getting bold, and aiming at the sun; 
 No marvel he forgets his sire, it isn't very odd 
 That one so far above the earth should think himself a god. 
 
 Already, in his silly pride, he's gone too far aloft; 
 The heat begins to scorch his wings; the wax is waxing soft; 
 Down, down he goes ! Alas! nextday poor /earns was found 
 Afloat upon the .(Egean sea, extremely damp and drowned. 
 
 The moral of this mournful tale is plain enough to all: — 
 Don't get above your pro per sphere, or you may chance to fall ; 
 Romember, too, that borrowed plumes are most uncertain 
 
 things. 
 And never try to scale the sky with other people's wings. 
 
 DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING- MACHINE. 
 
 J. T. Trowbridge. 
 
 If ever there lived a Yankee lad. 
 Wis'! or otherwise, good or bad. 
 Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump 
 With flapping arms from stake or btump, 
 
NCMDEB TUUEB. I7b 
 
 Or, spreading the tail 
 
 Of his coat for a sail, 
 Take a soaring leap from post or rail, 
 
 And wonder why 
 
 He couldn't fly, 
 And flap and flutter and wish and try — 
 If ever you knew a country dunce 
 Who didn't try that as often as once, 
 All I can say is, that's a sign 
 He never would do for a hero of mine. 
 
 An aspiring genius was D. Green : 
 
 The son of a farmer, age fourteen ; 
 
 His body was long and lank and lean, — 
 
 Just right for flying, as will be seen ; 
 
 He had two eyes as bright as a bean. 
 
 And a freckled nose that grew between, 
 
 A little awry — for I must mention 
 
 That he had riveted his attention 
 
 Upon his wonderful invention. 
 
 Twisting his tongue as he-twisted the strings. 
 
 And working his face as he worked the wings. 
 
 And with every turn of gimlet and screw 
 
 Turning and screwing his mouth round too, 
 
 Till his nose seemed bent 
 
 To catch the scent. 
 Around some corner, of new-baked pies. 
 And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyea 
 Grew puckered into a queer grimace, 
 That made him look very droll in the face. 
 
 And also very wise. 
 And wise he must have been, to do more 
 Than ever a genius did before, 
 Excepting Dsedalus of yore 
 And his son Icarus, who wore 
 
 Upon their backs 
 
 Those wings of wax 
 He had read of in the old almanacks. 
 Darius was clearly of the opinion 
 That the air is also man's dominion. 
 And that, with paddle or fin or pinion, 
 
 We soon or late shall navigate 
 The azure as now we sail the sea. 
 The thing looks simple enough to me; 
 
 And if you doubt it, 
 Hear how Darius reasoned about it. 
 X* 
 
173 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS. 
 
 "The birds can fly an' why can't I? 
 
 Must we give in," says he with a grin, 
 
 "That tlie bluebird an' phoebe 
 
 Are smarter'n we be? 
 Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller 
 An' blackbird au' catbird beat us holler? 
 Doos the little cbatterin', sassy wren, 
 No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men? 
 
 Jest show me that I 
 
 Ur prove 't the bat 
 Hez got more brains than's in my hat, 
 An' I'll back down, an' not till then!" 
 He argued further: "Nur I can't see 
 What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee, 
 Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me; — 
 
 Ain't my business 
 
 Important's his'n is? 
 
 That Icarus 
 
 Made a perty muss— 
 Him an' his daddy Doeilalus - 
 They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax 
 Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks. 
 
 I'll make mine o' hither, 
 
 Ur sulhiu' ur other." 
 
 And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned. 
 
 " But I ain't goin' to show my hand 
 
 To nummies that never can understand 
 
 The fust idee that's big an' grand." 
 
 So he kept his secret from all the rest^ 
 
 Safely buttoned within his vest; 
 
 And in the loft above the shed 
 
 Himself he locks, with thimble and thread 
 
 And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, 
 
 And all such things as geniuses use; — 
 
 Two bats for patterns, curious fellows 1 
 
 A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows ; 
 
 Some wire, and several old umbrellas; 
 
 A carriage-cover, for tail and wings; 
 
 A piece of harness; and straps and strings; 
 
 And a big strong box, 
 
 In which he locks 
 These and a hundred other things. 
 His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke 
 And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk 
 
NUMBEK TUKEE. 17' 
 
 Around the corner to see him work — 
 
 Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, 
 
 Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk, 
 
 And boring the holes with a comical quirk 
 
 Of his wise old liead, and a knowing-srairk. 
 
 But vainly they mounted each other's backs. 
 
 And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks; 
 
 With wood from the pilo'and straw from the stacks 
 
 He plifgged the knot-holes and caulked the cracks; 
 
 And a dipper i)f water, which one would think 
 
 He had brought up into the loft to drink 
 
 When he chanced to be dry, 
 
 Stood always nigh, 
 
 For Darius was sly ! 
 And whenever at work he happened to spy 
 At chink or crevice a blinking eye. 
 He let the dipper of water fly. 
 "Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep, 
 Guess ye'U ketch a weasel asleep!" 
 
 And he sings as he locks 
 
 His big strong box : — 
 
 "The weiisers head is small an' trim, 
 
 An' lie ia little an' long an' slim, 
 
 An' quidk of motion an' nimble of limb, 
 
 An' ef you'll be 
 
 Advised by me, 
 Seep wide awake when ye're ketchia' h\ia } " 
 
 So day after day 
 He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, 
 
 Till at last 'twas done— 
 The greatest invention under the sun! 
 " An' now," says Darius, " hooray fur some fun !" 
 
 'Twas the Fourth of July, 
 
 And the weather was dry. 
 And not a cloud was on all the sky, 
 Save a few light fleeces, which here and there. 
 
 Half mist, half air. 
 Like foam on the ocean went floating by — 
 Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen 
 For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. 
 Thought cunning Darius : "Now I shan't go 
 Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. 
 I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough ! 
 An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone oflF, 
 
178 ONE UUSDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 I'll hev full swing fur to try the thing. 
 An' practise a little on the wing." 
 " Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" 
 IS.iys brother Nate. " No ; botheration ! 
 I've got sich a cold — a toothache — I — 
 My gracious !— feel's though I should fly !" 
 
 Said Jotham, " 'Sho ! 
 
 Guess ye better go." 
 
 But Darius said, "No! 
 Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though, 
 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red 
 O' this jumpin', tbumpiii' pain 'n my head." 
 For all the while to himself he said : — 
 
 " I tell ye what ! 
 I'll fly a few times around the lot. 
 To see how 't seems, then soon 's I've got 
 The hang o' the thing, ez likely 's not, 
 
 I'll astonish the nation, 
 
 An' all creation, 
 By fly in' over the celebration ! 
 Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle ; 
 I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull ; 
 I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stand on the steeple; 
 I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! 
 I'll light on the liberty-pole, an' crow; 
 An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 
 
 ' What world 's this '£re 
 
 That I've come near?' 
 Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f m the moon; 
 An' I'll -try a race 'ith their ol' balloon!'' 
 
 He crept from his bed ; 
 And, seeing the others were gone, he said, 
 " I'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head." 
 
 And away he sped. 
 To open the wonderful box in the shed. 
 
 His brothers had walked but a little way, 
 
 AVhen Jotliam to Nathan chanced to say, 
 
 " What is the feller up to, hey?" 
 
 " Don'o' — the 's suthin' ur other to pay, 
 
 Ur he wouldn't 'a' stayed tu hum to-day.'' 
 
 Says Burke, "His toothache's all 'n his eye I 
 
 He never 'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, 
 
 Ef he hedn't got some machine to try." 
 
 TluMi Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darnl 
 
 L«''s hurry back an' hide 'n the barn. 
 
NUMBER TUREE. 17i> 
 
 An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn!" 
 
 "Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back, 
 
 Along by the fences, behind the stack, 
 
 And one by one, through a liole in the wall, 
 
 In under the dusty barn they crawl. 
 
 Dressed in their Sunday garments all ; 
 
 And a very astonishing sight was that. 
 
 When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat 
 
 Came up through tlie floor like an ancient rat. 
 
 And Uiere they hid; 
 
 And Reuben slid 
 The fastenings back, and the door undid. 
 
 "Keep dark!" gaid he, 
 " While I squint an' see what the' is to see." 
 
 A 8 knights of old put on their mail — 
 
 From head to foot an iron suit, 
 Iron jacket and iron boot. 
 Iron breeches, and on the head 
 No hat, but an iron pot instead. 
 
 And under the chin the bail, 
 (I believe they called the thing a helm,) 
 Then sallied forth to overwhelm 
 The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm — 
 
 So lh:s modern knight 
 
 Prepared for flight, 
 But on his wings and strapped them tight; 
 JoiiitL'd and jaunty, strong and light — 
 Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip; 
 Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! 
 And a helm had he, but that he wore, 
 Not on his head, like those of yore, 
 
 But more like the helm of a ship. 
 
 "Hush!" Reuben said, 
 
 "He's up in the shed! 
 He's opened the winder — I see his head! 
 He stretches it out, an' pokes it about, 
 Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear. 
 
 An' nobody near; — 
 Guess he don'o' who's hid in here! 
 He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill ! 
 Stop laffin', Solomon ! Burke, keep still I 
 He's a climbin' out now— Of all the things! 
 What's he got on? I van, it's wings! 
 An' that 'tother thing? I vum, it's a tail! 
 An' there he sets like a hawk on a rail! 
 
ISO ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Steppin' careful, he travels the length 
 
 Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. 
 
 Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; 
 
 Peeks over his shoulder; this way an' that, 
 
 Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by; 
 
 But the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. 
 
 They turn up at him a wonderin' eye. 
 
 To see — The dragon ! he's goin' to fly ! 
 
 Away he goes! Jiraminy! whatajump! 
 
 Flop — flop — an' i)lump 
 
 To the ground with a thump! 
 Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin, all 'n a lumpl" 
 
 As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, 
 
 Heels over head, to his proper sphere — 
 
 Heels over head, and head over heels, 
 
 Dizzily down the abyss he wheels — 
 
 So fell Durius. Upon his crown. 
 
 In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down, 
 
 In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings. 
 
 Broken braces and broken springs, 
 
 Broken tail and broken wings, 
 
 Shooting-atars, and various things ; 
 
 Barn-yard litter of straw and chafi". 
 
 And rauoh that wasn't so sweet by half. 
 
 Away with a bellow fled the calf. 
 
 And what was that? Did the gosling laugh? 
 
 'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door. 
 
 And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, 
 
 "Say, D'rius! how do j-ou like flyin'?" 
 
 Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, 
 
 Darius just turned and looked that way. 
 
 As he stanched his sorrowful nose with liis cuflf. 
 
 " Wal, I like flyin' well enough," 
 
 He said; "but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight 
 
 0' fun in 't when ye come to light." 
 
 I just have room for the moral here : 
 
 And this is the moral — Stick to your sphere. 
 
 Or if you insist, as you have the right. 
 
 On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, 
 
 The moral is — Take care how you light. 
 
fart J[0iirl|. 
 
JEcLcTx of the Fovlt' JVizmhers of 
 " lOO Choice SeLectiorts " corttctinecL 
 in tJxis volzLme is paged, sepcurcutely, 
 and, the Indez is rhade to corres- 
 pond therewitJi.. See EXPLANATION on 
 first page of Contents. 
 
 The entire hook contains nearly 
 lOOO pages. 
 
CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 No. 4. 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER— Francis Scott Key. 
 
 Oh ! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleiining? 
 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous 
 fight, 
 O'er the ramparts we watched were ao gallantly streaming ; 
 
 And the rocltet's red glare, the bombs bursting in air. 
 
 Gave proof through the night tliat our flag was still there ; 
 Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 
 
 On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep. 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep. 
 As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 
 
 Now it catches thfi gleam of the morning's first beam, 
 
 In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream ; 
 'Tis the star-spangled banner ! oh, long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 
 
 And where are the foes who so vauntingly swore 
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
 
 A home and a country should leave us no more? 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. 
 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 
 From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave ; 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave 1 
 
 7 
 
8 ONE HUNDRED CHOICK SELECTIONS 
 
 Oil i thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
 
 Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ; 
 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land 
 Praise the power that bath made and preserved us a nation. 
 
 Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
 
 And this be our motto, " In God is our trust." 
 
 A nd the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land ol the free and the home of the brave I 
 
 THE BRIGHT SIDE.— M. A. Kiddek. 
 
 There is Inany a rest in the road of life, 
 
 If we only would stop to take it. 
 And many a tone from the better land, 
 
 If the querulous heart would wake it ! 
 To the sunny soul that is full of hope. 
 
 And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, 
 The arass is fireen and the flowers are bright, 
 
 Though the wintry storm prevaileth. 
 
 Better to hope, though the clouds hang low. 
 
 And to keep the eyes still lifted ; 
 For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through 
 
 When the ominous clouds are rifted. 
 There was never a night without a day, 
 
 Or an evening without a morning, 
 And the darkest hour, as the proverb goes, 
 
 Is the hour before the dawning. 
 
 There is many a gem in the path of life, 
 
 Which we pass in our idle pleasure, 
 That is richer far than the jeweleji crown, 
 
 Or the miser's hoarded treasure : 
 It may be the love of a little child. 
 
 Or a mother's prayers to Heaven ; 
 Or only a beggar's grateful thanks 
 
 For a cup of water given. 
 
 Better to weave in the web of life 
 
 A bright and golden filling, 
 And to do God's will with a ready heart 
 
 And hands that are swift and willing, 
 Than to snap the delicate, slender threads 
 
 Of our curious lives asunder, 
 And then blame Heaven for the tangled ends, 
 
 Anc' sit, and grieve, and wonder. 
 
NUMBEB FOUR. 9 
 
 REPLY OF PITT TO WALPOLE, 1741. 
 
 William Pitt, first Earl of Chatham— one of the greatest orators of modern 
 times, and especially endeared to Americans for his eloquent appeals iu their 
 bjlialf— was born Nov. 15, 1708. 
 
 Sir, — the atrocious crime of being a young man, which 
 the honorable gentleman has, with such spirit and decen- 
 cy, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate 
 nor deny ; but content myself with wishing that I may 
 be one of those whose follies may cease with their youth 
 and not of that number who are ignorant in spite of 
 experience. Whether youth can be imputed to any man 
 as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of deter- 
 mining ; but surely age may become justly contemptible, 
 if the opportunities which it brings have passed away 
 without improvement, and vice appears to prevail when 
 the passions have subsided. 
 
 The wretch who, after having seen the consequences 
 of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and 
 whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely 
 the object either of abhorrence or contempt, and deserves 
 not that his gray hairs should secure him from insult. 
 Much more, sir, is he to be abhorred, who as he has 
 advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and become 
 morejvicked with less temptation ; who prostitutes him- 
 self for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the 
 remains of his life in the ruin of his country. 
 
 But youth, sir, is not my only crime ; I have been 
 accused of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part 
 may either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or a dis- 
 simulation of my real sentiments, and anadoption of the 
 opinions and language of another man. 
 
 In the first sense, sir, the charge is too trifling to be 
 confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned, that it may 
 be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to 
 use my own language ; and though, perhaps, I may have 
 some ambition to please this gentleman, I shall not lay 
 myself under any restraint, nor very solicitously copy 
 his diction or his mien, however matured by age, or 
 modeled by experience, j. 
 
10 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIUNS 
 
 But if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical 
 behavior imply that I utter any sentiments but ray own, 
 I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain J nor 
 shall any protection shelter him from the treatment he 
 deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, 
 trample upon all those forms with which wealth and 
 dignity intrench themselves ; nor shall anything but age 
 restrain my resentment, — age, which always brings one 
 privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious, without 
 punishment. 
 
 But with regard, sir, to those whom I have offended, 
 I am of opinion that if I had acted a borrowed part, I 
 should have avoided their censure ; the heat that ofiended 
 tl.eii is the ardor of conviction, and that zeal for the 
 service of my country which neither hope nor fear shall 
 influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned 
 while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon 
 public robbery. I will exert my endeavors, at whatever 
 hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief to 
 justice, whoever may protect him in his villainy, and 
 whoever may partake of his plunder. 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.— Robert Southey. 
 
 "In the Parish of St. Neote, Cornwall, is a well, arched over with the rohes 
 of four kinds of trees, — withy, oak, elm, and ash, — and dedicated to St. Keyne. 
 The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether hushand or wife first drink 
 thereof, they get the mastery thereby." — Fuller. 
 
 A well there is in the west country. 
 And a clearer one never was seen ; 
 
 There is not a wife in the west country 
 But has heard ofthe well of St. Keyne. 
 
 An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, 
 And behind does an ash-tree grow, 
 
 And a willow from the bank above 
 Droops to the water below. 
 
 A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne ; 
 
 Pleasant it was to his eye. 
 For from cock-crow, he had been traveling, 
 
 And there was not a cloud in the sky. 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 11 
 
 He drank of the water so cool and clear, 
 
 For thirsty and hot was he, 
 And he sat down upon the bank. 
 
 Under the willow-tree. 
 
 There came a man from the neighboring town. 
 
 At the well to fill his pail ; 
 On the well-side he rested it, 
 
 And bade the stranger hail. 
 
 "New art thou a bachelor, stranger? " quoth he, 
 
 " For an if thou hast a wife. 
 The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 
 
 That ever thou didst in thy life. 
 
 " Or has your good woman, if one you have. 
 
 In Cornwall ever been? 
 For an if she have, I'll venture my life 
 
 She has drank of the well of St. Keyne." 
 
 " I have left a good woman who never was here," 
 
 The stranger he made reply ; 
 "But that my draught should be better for that, 
 
 1 pray you answer me why." 
 
 "St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a time 
 
 Drank of this crystal well. 
 And before the angel summoned her 
 
 She laid on the water a spell. 
 
 "If the husband, of this gifted well 
 
 Shall drink before his wife, 
 A happy man thenceforth is he, 
 
 For he shall be master for life ; 
 
 " But if the wife should drink of it first, 
 
 Heaven help the husband then ! " 
 The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne, 
 
 And drank of the waters again. 
 
 " You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ? " 
 
 He to the countryman said. 
 But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake. 
 
 And sheepishly shook his head. 
 
 '■ I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done. 
 
 And left my wife in the porch. 
 But i' faith, she had been wiser than me, 
 
 For she took a bottle to church." 
 
12 ONEHUNDBED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 FARM-YARD SONG— J. T. Tkowbuiuqb. 
 
 Over the hill the farm-boy goes : 
 His sHadow lengthens along the land, 
 A giant staff in giant hand ; 
 In the poplar-tree above the spring 
 The katydid begins to sing ; 
 
 The early dews are falling; 
 Into the stone-heap darts the mink, 
 The swallows skim tha river's brink, 
 And home to the woodland fly the crows. 
 When over the hill the farm-boy goes. 
 
 Cheerily calling, 
 
 "Co", boss! CO', boss! co' ! co'! co'l" 
 Farther, farther, over the hill, 
 Fainlly calling, calling still — 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! " 
 
 Into the yard the farmer goes, 
 
 With grateful heart, at the close of day : 
 
 Harness and chain are hung away; 
 
 In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough, 
 
 The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, 
 
 The cooling dews are falling ; 
 The friendly sheep his welcome bleat. 
 The pigs come grunting to his feet. 
 The whinnying mare her master knows. 
 When into the yard the farmer goes. 
 
 His cattle Calling, 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! " 
 While still the cow-boy, far away, 
 Goes seeking those that have gone astray — 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! " 
 
 Now to her task the milkmaid goes : 
 
 The cattle come crowding through the gate. 
 
 Lowing, pushing, little and great ; 
 
 About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, 
 
 The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, 
 
 While the pleasant dews are falling; 
 The new milch heifer is quick and shy. 
 But the old cow waits with tranquil eye ; 
 And the white stream into the bright pail flows. 
 When to her task the milkmaid goes, 
 
 Soothingly calling, 
 
 " So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so I so I " 
 
NUMBER FOUR. ]3 
 
 The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool. 
 
 And sits and milks in the twilight cool, 
 
 Saying, " So, so, boss ! so ! so 1 " 
 
 To supper at last the farmer goes : 
 The apples are pared, the paper read. 
 The stories are told, then all to bed : 
 Without, the cricket's ceaseless song 
 Makes shrill the silence all night long ; 
 
 The heavy dews are falling .- 
 The housewife's hand has turned th» '"^t • 
 Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; 
 The household sinks to deep repose, 
 But still in sleep the farm-boy goes 
 
 Singing, calling, 
 
 " Co' boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' 1 " 
 And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, 
 Drums in Ihe pail with the flashing streams, 
 
 Murmuring, " So boss ! so ! " 
 
 HALLOWED GROUND.— Thomas Campbelu 
 
 What's hallowed ground ? Ha-i earth a clod 
 Its Maker meant not should be trod 
 By man, thd image of his God, 
 
 Erect and free, 
 Unscourged by superstition's rod 
 
 To bow the knee? 
 
 That's hallowed ground where, mourned and mi.ssed, 
 
 The lips repose our love has kissed ; 
 
 But Where's their memory's mansion? Is't 
 
 Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
 No! in ourselves their souls exist, 
 
 A part of ours. 
 
 A kiss can consecrate the ground 
 Where mated hearts are mutual hound : 
 The spot where love's first links were wound, 
 
 That ne'er are riven, 
 Is hallowed down to earth's profound. 
 
 And up to heaven ! 
 
 For time makes all but true love old ; 
 The burning thoughts that then were toUl 
 
14 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Run molten still in memory's mould, 
 
 And will not cool, 
 Until the heart itself be cold 
 
 In Lethe's pool. 
 
 What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 
 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
 In dews that heavens far distant weep 
 
 Their turf may bloom ; 
 Or genii twine beneath the deep 
 
 Their coral tomb. 
 
 But strew his ashes to the wind 
 
 AVhose sword or voice has served mankind, 
 
 And is he dead, whose glorious mind 
 
 Lifts thine on high ? 
 To live in hearts we leave behind 
 
 Is not to die. 
 
 Is't death to fell for freedom's right 7 
 He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
 And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 
 
 The sword he draws: 
 What can alone ennoble fight? 
 
 A noble cause ! 
 
 Give that ! and welcome war to brace 
 
 Her drums! and rend heaven's reeking space ! 
 
 The colors planted face to face, 
 
 The charging cheer, 
 Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase. 
 
 Shall still be dear. 
 
 And place our trophies where men kneel 
 To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! 
 The cause of truth and human weal, 
 
 God above, 
 Transfer it from the sword's appeal 
 
 To peace and love ! 
 
 Peace, love ! the cherubim, that join 
 Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine; 
 Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 
 
 Where they are not : 
 The heart alone can make divine 
 
 Religion's spot. 
 
 To incantations dost thou trust, 
 And pompous rites in domes august? 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 15 
 
 See mouldering stones and metal's rust 
 
 Belie the vaunt 
 That man can bless one pile of dust 
 
 With chime or chant. 
 
 The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
 Thy temples, — creeds themselves grow wan! 
 But there's a dome of nobler span, 
 
 A temple given 
 Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban, — 
 
 Its space is heaven ; 
 
 Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling. 
 Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
 And God himself to man revealing, 
 
 The harmonious spheres 
 Make music, though unheard their pealing 
 
 By mortal ears. 
 
 Fair stars! are not your beings pure? 
 Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure? 
 Else why so swell the thoughts at your 
 
 Aspect above ? 
 Ye must be heaven's that makes us sure 
 
 Of heavenly love I 
 
 And in your harmony sublime 
 I read the doom of distant time ; 
 That man's regenerate soul from crime 
 
 Shall yet be drawn, 
 And reason on his mortal clime 
 
 Immortal dawn. 
 
 What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
 To sacred thoughts in souls of worth !' 
 Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 
 
 Earth's compass round ; 
 And your high-priesthood shall make earth 
 
 AU hallowed ground. 
 
 DEATH OF MORRIS.— Sir AValtee Scott. 
 
 It was under the burning influence of revenge that the 
 wife of Macgrsgor commanded that the hostage, ex- 
 changed for her husband's safety, should be brought into 
 her presence. I believe her sons had kept this unfortu- 
 
16 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 nate wretch out of her sight, for fear of the consequences ; 
 but if it was so, their humane precaution only postponed 
 his fate. They dragged forward, at her summons, a 
 wretch, already half dead with terror, in whose agonized 
 features I recognized, to my horror and astonishment, 
 my old acquaintance, Morris. 
 
 He fell prostrate before the female chief with an effort 
 to clasp her knees, from which she drew back, as if his 
 touch had been pollution, so that all he could do in token 
 of the extremity of his humiliation, was to kiss the hem 
 of her plaid. I never heard entreaties for life poured 
 forth with such agony of spirit. The ecstasy of fear was 
 such, that, instead of paralyzing his tongue, as on ordin- 
 ary occasions, it even rendered him eloquent ; and, with 
 cheeks as pale as ashes, hands compressed in agony, eyes 
 that seemed to be taking their last look of all mortal 
 objects, he protested, with the deepest oaths, his total 
 ignorance of any design on the life of Rob Roy, whom 
 he swore he loved and honored as his own soul. In the 
 inconsistency of his terror, he said, he was but the agent 
 of others, and he mul tared the natue of Rashleigh. He 
 prayed but for life ; for life he would give all he had in 
 the world ; it was but life he asked — life, if it were to 
 be prolonged under tortures and privations ; he asked 
 only breath, though it sho.uld be drawn in the damps of 
 the lowest caverns of their hills. 
 
 It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and 
 contempt, with which the wife of Macgregor regarded 
 this wretched petitioner for the' poor boon of existence. 
 
 " I could have bid ye live," she said, " had life been 
 to you the same weary and wasting burden that it is to 
 me, that it is to every noble and generous mind. But 
 you — wretch ! you could creep through the world un- 
 affected by its various disgraces, its ineffable miseries, its 
 constantly accumulating masses of crime and sorrow ; 
 you could live and enjoy yourself, while the noble-minded 
 are betrayed ; while nameless and birthless villains tread 
 on the neck of the brave and long descended ; you 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 17 
 
 diild enjoy yourself, like a butcher's dog in the shambles, 
 battening on garbage,, while the slaughter of the brave 
 went on around you ! This enjoyment you shall not live 
 to partake of; you shall die, base dog, and that before yon 
 cloud has passed over the sun." 
 
 She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her atten- 
 dants, two of whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, 
 and hurried him to the brink of a cliff which overhung 
 the flood. Hfi set up the most piercing and dreadful 
 cries that fear ever uttered — I may well term them 
 dreadful, for they haunted my sleep for years afterward. 
 As the murderers, or executioners — call them as you will 
 — dragged him along, he recognized me, even in that 
 moment of horror, and exclaimed, in the last articulate 
 words I ever heard him utter, " Oh, Mr. Ofebaldistoue, 
 save me ! — save me 1 " 
 
 I was so much moved by tljis horrid spectacle, that, 
 although in momentary expectation of sharing his fate, 
 I did attempt to speak in his behalf, but, as might have 
 been expected, my interference was sternly disregarded. 
 , The victim was held fast by some, while others, binding 
 a large, heavy stone in a plaid, tied it round his neck, 
 and others again eagerly stripped him of some part of 
 his dress. Half naked, and thus manacled, they hurried 
 him into the lake, there, about twelve feet deep, drown- 
 ing his last death-shriek with a loud halloo of vindictive 
 triumph, above which, however, his last death-shriek, 
 the yell of mortal agony, was distinctly heard. 
 
 The heavy burden splashed in the dark-blue waters of 
 the lake ; and the Highlanders, with their pole-axes and 
 swords, watched an instant, to guard, lest, extricating 
 himself from the load to which he was attached, he might 
 have struggled to regain the shore. But the knot had 
 been securely bound ; the victim sunk without effort ; 
 the waters, which his full had disturbed, settled calmly 
 over him ; and the unit of that life for which he had 
 pleaded so strongly, was forever withdrawn from the sum 
 of human existence. 
 
ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SEUKCTIONQ 
 
 JIM. — Bret Harte. 
 
 Say there ! P'r'aps 
 Some on you chaps 
 Might know Jim Wild 7 
 
 Well, — no offence : 
 
 Thar aint no sense 
 In gittin' riled ! 
 
 Jim was my chum 
 
 Up on the Bar: 
 That's why I come 
 
 Down from up yar, 
 Lookin' for Jim. 
 Thank ye, sir ! you 
 Aint of that crew, — 
 
 Blest if you are I 
 
 Money ? — Not much : 
 That aint my kind ; 
 
 I aint no such. 
 
 Rum 7—1 don't mind, 
 Seein' it's you. 
 
 Well, this yer Jim, 
 Did you know him? — 
 Jess 'bout your size ; 
 Same kind of eyes? — 
 Well, that is strange ; 
 Why it's two year 
 Since he came here, 
 Sick, for a change. 
 
 Well, here's to us ; 
 
 Eh? 
 The deuce you say 1 
 
 Dead ?— 
 That little cuss ? 
 
 What makes you star, 
 
 You over thar? 
 
 Can't a man drop 
 
 's glass in yer shop 
 
 But you must rar' ? 
 It wouldn't take 
 Derned much to break 
 
 You and your bar. 
 
NUMBER FOUR. VJ 
 
 Dead! 
 Poor — little — ^Jim ! 
 Why thar was me, 
 Jones, and Bob Lee, 
 Harry and Ben, — 
 No-account men ; 
 Then to take him ! 
 
 Well, thar— Good by,— 
 No more, sir, — I — 
 
 Eh? 
 What's that you say 7 
 Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
 No ? Yes ! By Jo ! 
 
 Sold! 
 Sold ! Why you limb, 
 You ornery, 
 Derned old 
 Long-legged Jim I 
 
 GATES AJAR— Anna L. Ruth. 
 
 Gazing where the setting sun-rays 
 
 Steeped the clouds in gorgeous dyes, 
 Stood my little maid last evening, 
 
 All her-soul within her eyes. 
 "Mamma?" cried she, earnest, breathless, 
 
 With a faith no doubt could mar, 
 " Isn't that what you've been reading? 
 
 Isn't that the 'Gates Ajar?' 
 
 " I can almost see the shining 
 
 Of the streets all paved with gold I 
 I can almost see the gleaming 
 
 Of the harps the angels hold ! 
 Almost, mamma ! for the glory 
 
 Shines so bright it dazzles me. 
 Mamma ! " here the soft voice faltered, 
 
 "Aint I good enough to see ! 
 
 '• Is it cause I cried this morning 
 When you called me from my play? 
 
 If I try again to-morrow. 
 Be real careful all the day, 
 
 Give you not the smallest trouble, 
 Study all my might and main, 
 
ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Wont God let me see it plainly, 
 When he ope's the gates again?" 
 
 " Nay, my darling, years of striving, 
 
 Day by day, and hour by hour, 
 Every duty still fulfilling, 
 
 Could not give the wondrous power ; 
 Yet would mist of sun and weakness 
 
 From your gaze the vision bar ; 
 Never human eyes, unaided. 
 
 Penetrate the gates ajar ! " 
 
 Filled with wonder, vague yet wistful. 
 
 Gazed the soft blue eyes in mine, 
 Reading not my hidden meaning. 
 
 Loath the bright dream to resign. 
 " Never, mamma ! shall I never 
 
 See that heaven so bright and fair, 
 Till I leave you, mamma, darling. 
 
 Till the angels take me there ? " 
 
 " Nay, my child, that heavenly radiance 
 
 Ne'er on earthly vision falls ; 
 But to those whose hope and treasure 
 
 Garnered are within its walls, 
 God gives ofttimes spirit glimpses 
 
 Of their glorious home afar, 
 And to cheer life's thorny pathway 
 
 Sets the golden gates ajar ! 
 
 " Then how petty seem the trials 
 
 That beset their onward way ! 
 Of what little worth the baubles 
 
 Pleasures show to tempt astray ! 
 No more weak and no more weary — 
 
 What this perfect bliss can mar ! 
 While Faith's eyes behold the glories 
 
 Gleaming through the gates ajar ! 
 
 " Oh, my darling, grasp the promise, 
 ~ Bind it on your baby heart. 
 That for those who love him, Jesus 
 
 Mansions bright hath set apart ! 
 Upward, then, towards the radiance. 
 
 Steadfast shining like a star, 
 Unbetrayed your feet shall journey 
 
 Till they reach the gates ajar." 
 
NUMBEK For B. 21 
 
 HOW THE GATES CAME AJAR.— Hklen L. Bostwick. 
 
 'Twas whispered one morning in heaven 
 
 How the little white-angel May, 
 
 Sat ever beside the portal 
 
 Sorrowing- all the day. 
 
 How she said to the stately warden — 
 
 He of the golden bar — 
 
 " O angel, sweet angel ! I pray you, 
 
 Let th'e beautiful gates ajar — 
 
 Only a little, I pray you, 
 
 Let the heavenly gates ajar ! 
 
 " I can hear my dear mother there weeping ; 
 
 She is lonely ; she cannot see 
 
 A glimmer of light in the darkness 
 
 Where the gates closed after me. 
 
 One gleam of the golden splendor, 
 
 O warden, would shine so far. 
 
 But the angel he whispered, " I dare not 
 
 I^et the beautiful gates ajar." 
 
 Spoke low as he answered : " I dare not 
 
 Let the beautiful gates ajar." 
 
 Then up rose Mary the blessed. 
 Sweet Mary, the mother of Christ; 
 Her hand on the hand of the angel 
 She laid, and her touch sufficed. 
 Then turned was the key in the portal, 
 Fell ringing the golden bar ; 
 And lo! in the little child's fingers 
 Stood the beautiful gates ajar! 
 And lo ! in the child's angel fingers, 
 Stood the heavenly gates ajar. 
 
 "And this key for no further using, 
 To my blessed Son shall be given, 
 Said Mary, the mother of Jesus, 
 Tenderest heart in heaven. 
 Now, never a sad-eyed mother 
 But may catch the glory afar. 
 Since safe in the Lord Christ's bosom 
 Are the keys of the gates ajar ; 
 Safe hid in the dear Christ's bosom, 
 And the gates forever ajar ! 
 
22 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 ARNOLD WINKELRIED— James Montgomery. 
 
 In the battle of Sempach, in the fourteenth century, this martyr-patriot per- 
 ceiving that there wji» no other meaud of breaking the heavy-armed lines of the 
 Austrians than by gathering as many of their spears as he could grasp together, 
 opened, by this means, a passage fiT his fellow-combatants, who, with hamniuit) 
 and hatchets, hewed down the mailed men-at-arms and won the victory. 
 
 " Make way for liberty ! " he cried — 
 Made way for liberty, and died I 
 
 In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 
 A living wall, a human wood ; 
 Impregnable their front appears, 
 All-horrent with projected spears. 
 Opposed to these, a hovering band 
 Contended for their fatherland. 
 Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke 
 From manly necks the ignoble yoke ; 
 Marshaled once more at freedom's call, 
 They came to conquer or to fall. 
 
 And now the work of life and death 
 Hung^ oni the passing of a breath ; 
 The fire of conflict burned within ; 
 The battle trembled to begin ; 
 Yet, while the .\ustrians held their ground, 
 Point for assault was nowhere found ; 
 Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, 
 The unbroken line of lances blazed ; 
 That line 'twere suicide to meet, 
 And perish ait their tyrants' feet. 
 How could they rest within their graves. 
 To leave their homes the haunts of slaves ? 
 Would they not feel their children tread. 
 With clanking chains, above their head ? 
 
 It must not be : this day, this hour 
 Annihilates the invader's power ! 
 All Switzerland is in the field — 
 Slie will not fly, she cannot yield, 
 She must not fall ; her better fate 
 Here gives her an immortal date. 
 Few were the numbers she could boast, 
 Yet every freeman was a host, 
 And felt as 'twere a secret known 
 That one should turn the scale alone. 
 While each unto himself was he 
 On whose sole arm hung victory. 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 23 
 
 It did depend on one, indeed ; 
 Behold hiirn— Arnold Winkelried ! 
 There sounds not to the trump of fame 
 The echo of a nobler name. 
 Unmarked, he stood amid the throng, 
 In rumination deep and long, 
 Till you might see, with sudden grace. 
 The very thought come o'er his face ; 
 And by the motion of his form. 
 Anticipate the bursting storm ; 
 And,"by the uplifting of his brow, 
 Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 
 
 But 'twas no sooner thought than done — 
 The field was in a moment won ! 
 " Make way for liberty I" he cried. 
 Then ran, with arms extended wide, 
 As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 
 Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 
 " Make way, for liberty !" he cried ; 
 Their keen points crossed from side to side ; 
 He bowed amidst them, like a tree, 
 And thus made way for liberty. 
 
 Swift to the breach his comrades fly — 
 " Make way for liberty !" they cry. 
 And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 
 As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart, 
 While, instantaneous as his fall, 
 Rout, ruin; panic seized them all ; 
 An earthquake could not overthrow 
 A city with a surer blow. 
 
 Thus Switzerland again was free — 
 Thus death made way for liberty. 
 
 MARK TWAIN'S FIRST INTERVIEW WITH 
 
 ARTEMUS WARD. 
 
 I had never seen him before. He brought letters of 
 introduction from mutual friends in San Francisco, and 
 by invitation I breakfasted with him. It was almost re- 
 ligion, there in the silver-mines, to precede such a meal 
 with whiskey cocktails. Artemus, with the true cos- 
 mopolitan instinct, always deferred to the customs of the 
 
 y 
 
24 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 country he was in, and so he ordered three of those 
 abominations. Hingston was present. I am a match 
 for nearly any beverage you can mention except a whiskey 
 cocktail, and tlierefore I said I would rather not drink 
 one. I said it would go riglit to my head and confuse 
 me so that I would be ia a helpless tangle in ten minutes. 
 I did not want to act like a lunatic before strangers, 
 but Artemus gently insisted, and I drank the treas mable 
 mixture under protest, and felt all the time that I was 
 doing a thing that I might be sorry for. In a minute or 
 two I began to imagine that my ideas were clouded. I 
 waited in great anxiety for the conversation to open, with 
 a sort of vague hope that my understanding would prove 
 clear, _after all, and my misgivings groundless. 
 
 Artemus dropped an unimportant remark or two, and 
 then assumed a look of superhuman earnestness, and 
 made the following astounding speech. He said : 
 
 " Now, there is one thing I ought to ask you about be- 
 fore I forget it. You have been here in Silverland — here 
 in Nevada — two or three years, and, of course, your po- 
 sition on the daily press has made it necessary for you 
 to go down in the mines and examine them carefully in 
 detail, and therefore you know all about the silver-mining 
 business. Now, what I want to get at is — is, well, the 
 way the deposits of ore are made, you know. For instance : 
 now, as I understand it, the vein which contains the sil- 
 ver h sandwiched in between castings of granite, and 
 runs along the ground, and sticks up like a curbstone. 
 
 " Well, take a vein forty feet thick, for example, or 
 eighty, for that matter, or even a hundred, — say you go 
 d )wn on it with a shaft, straight down, you know, or with 
 what you call the ' inclines,' maybe you go down five 
 hiindjed feet, or maybe you don't go down but two hun- 
 dred, any way you go down, and all the time this vein 
 grows narrower, when the castings come nearer or ap- 
 jiroach each other, you may say, that is when they do 
 approach, which of course they do not always do, particu- 
 larly in cases where the nature of the formation is such that 
 
NUMBER porn. 25 
 
 they stand apart wider than they otherwise would, and 
 which geology has failed to account for, although every- 
 thing in that science goes to prove that, all things being 
 equal, it would if it did not, or would not certainly if it 
 did, and then of course they are. Do not you think it is ? " 
 
 I said>to myself: " Now I just knew how it would be, 
 — that whiskey cocktail has done the business for me ; I 
 don't understand any more than a clam. " And then I 
 said aloud, " I — I — that is — if you don't mind, would" 
 you- would you say that over again ? I ought — " 
 
 " Oh, certainly, certainly ! You see I am very unfamil- 
 iar with the subject, and perhaps I don't present my case 
 clearly, but, I — " 
 
 " No, no — no, no — you state it plain enough, but that 
 vile cocktail has muddled me a little. But I will — no, 
 I do understand, for that matter ; but I would get the hang 
 of it all the better if you went over it again, and I'll 
 pay better attention this time. " 
 
 He said, " Why what I was after, was this : — [Here 
 he became even more fearfully impressive than ever, and 
 emphasized each particular point by checking it off on 
 his finger ends.] This vein, or lode, or ledge, or what- 
 ever you call it, runs along between two layers of granite, 
 just tlie same as if it were a sandwich. Very well. Now, 
 suppose you go down on that, say a thousand feet, or 
 maybe twelve hundred, it don't really matter, before you 
 drift ; and then you start your drifts, some of thera across 
 the ledge, and others along the length of it, where the 
 sulphurets — I believe they call them sulphurets, though 
 why they should, considering that, so far as I can see, 
 the main dependence of a miner does not so lie, as some 
 suppose, but in which it cannot be successfully main- 
 tained wherein the same should not continue, while part 
 and parcel of the same ore not committed to either in the 
 sense referred to, whereas, under different circumstances, 
 the most inexperienced among us could not detect it if it 
 were, or might overlook it if it did, or scorn the very idea 
 
-0 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 of such a thing, even though it were palpably demonstra- 
 ted as such. Am I not right ? " 
 
 1 said sorrowfully : " I leel ashamed of myself, Mr. 
 Ward. I know I ought to understand you perfectly 
 well, but you see that infernal whiskey cocktail has got 
 into my head, and now I cannot understand, even the 
 i-iiuplest proposition. I told you how it^would be. " 
 
 " Oh, don't mind it, don't mind it ; the fault was my 
 • own, no doubt, — though I did think it clear enough for — " 
 
 " Don't say a word. Clear ! Why, you stated it as 
 clear as the sun to anybjdy but an abject idiot, but it's 
 that confounded cocktail that has played the mischief " 
 
 " No, now don't say that. I'll begin it all over again — " 
 
 " Don't now, for goodness' sake, don't do anything of 
 the kind, because I tell you my head is in such a condi- 
 tion that I don't believe I could understand the most tri- 
 fling question a man could ask me. " 
 
 " Now, don't you be afraid. I'll put it so plain this 
 time that you can't help but get the hang of it. We will 
 begin at the very beginning. [He leaned far across the 
 table, with determined impressiveness wrought upon his 
 every feature, and fingers prepared to keep tally of each 
 point as enumerated ; and I, leaning forward with pain- 
 ful interest, resolved to comprehend or perish.] You 
 know the vein, the ledge, the thing that contains the 
 metal, whereby it constitutes the medium between all 
 other forces, whether of present or remote agencies, so 
 brought to bear in favor of the former against the latter, 
 or the latter against the former, or all, or both, or com- 
 promising as possible the relative differe^ces existing 
 witliin the radius whence culminate the several degrees 
 of similarity to which — " 
 
 I said : " Oh, blame my wooden head ! it aint any use, 
 i: aint any use to try,— I can't understand anything. 
 Th J plainer you get it the more I can't get the hang of it." 
 
 I heard a suspicious noise behind me, and turned in 
 titiio to see Kingston dodging behind a newspaper, and 
 quaking with a gentle ecstasy of laughter. I looked at 
 
KUMBEK FOUl 
 
 Ward again, and he had thrown off his dread solemnity 
 and was laughing also. Then I saw that I had been 
 sjld, — that I had been made the victim of a swindle in 
 the way of a string of plausibly worded sentences that 
 didn't mean anything under the sun. 
 
 Artemus Ward was one of the best fellows in the 
 world and one of the most companionable. It has been 
 said that he was not fluent in conversation, but, with the 
 above experience in my mind, I differ. 
 
 OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.* 
 Will Carleton. 
 Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way — 
 I, a women of seventy, and only a trifle gray — 
 I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told. 
 As many another woman, that's only half as old. 
 Over the hill to the poor-house — I can't make it quite clear! 
 Over the hill to the poor-house— it seems so horrid queer ! 
 Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to an' fro, 
 But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. 
 
 What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame ? 
 Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ? 
 True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout, 
 But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. 
 
 I am willin' an' anxious an' ready any day, 
 To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honeSt way ; 
 For I ran earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, 
 If anybody only is willin' to have me round. 
 
 Once I was young an' han'some — I was, upon my soul — 
 Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal ; 
 And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, 
 For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way. 
 
 'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free, 
 But many a house an' home was open then to me ; 
 Many a han'some offer I had from likely men. 
 And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. 
 
 And when to John I was married, Fure he was good and smart, 
 But he and all the neigh bor.-* would own I done my part ; 
 
 *FrnFn "FHrm Ballads,'' hvpprniissioii. "Ovor the Hill from the Poor-houee," 
 by Will Carleton, will bo found in No. 10 of this Si-ries. 
 
28 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, 
 And I worked the best that I coulcl in trying to get along. 
 And so we worked together : and life was hard but gay, 
 With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way ; 
 Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, 
 An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. 
 So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one ; 
 Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've 
 
 done ; 
 Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks 
 
 condemn. 
 But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them. 
 
 Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones ! — 
 I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons ; 
 And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old 
 
 and gray, 
 I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other 
 
 way. 
 Strange, another thing : when our boys an' girls was grown, 
 And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone ; 
 When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seem'd to be. 
 The Lord of hosts he come one day an' took him away from 
 
 me. 
 Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall — 
 Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all ; 
 And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or 
 
 frown. 
 Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town. 
 
 She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile ; 
 She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style ; 
 But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know ; 
 But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go. 
 
 She had an edication, an' that was good for her ; 
 
 But when she twitted me on mine 'twas carryin' things too 
 
 fur; 
 An' I told her once 'fore company (an' it almost made her 
 
 sick), •■ 
 That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic. 
 
 So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done — 
 They was a family of themselves, and I another one ; 
 And a very little cottage one family will do. 
 But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two. 
 An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye 
 kn' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try ; 
 
NUMBEIJ FOUR. 29 
 
 But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, 
 \Vhen Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go. 
 
 1 went to live with Susan, but Susan's.liouse was small, 
 And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all ; 
 And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn 
 
 three, 
 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. 
 
 An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got. 
 For Thomas' buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot ; 
 But all the child'rn was on me— I couldn't stand their sauce— 
 And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss. 
 
 An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, 
 And to Isaac, not far from her— some twenty miles at best; 
 And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, 
 And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. 
 
 So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about — 
 So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; 
 But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down. 
 Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town. 
 
 Over the hill to the poor-house —my child'rn dear, good-by ! 
 Many a ni<;ht I've watched you when only God was nigh ; 
 And God '11 judge between us ; but I will al'ays pray 
 That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. 
 
 THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD. 
 
 Beside her mother sat a darling child. 
 
 Wasted by sickness, from whose cheek the bloom 
 Had passed away ; her large blue eyes— as mild 
 
 And soft, as lovely as the sky in June — 
 
 Were fixed upon the morning star, so soon. 
 Like her own life, to melt in glorious day ; 
 
 And as its pale beams trembled in the room. 
 Her heart throbbed wildly, for they seemed to say 
 In whispers, to her spirit, " Come with us away !" 
 
 "Mother, dear mother, lift my weary head. 
 And lay it gently on your own dear breast ; 
 
 Now kiss me, mother, let your smiles be shed 
 Upon my heart ; for soon your child will rest. 
 Far from your care, with saints and angels blest ; 
 
ilO ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 For I have had a dream of that bright land 
 
 Where spirits dwell ; and like the golden west 
 At sunset was the glory of the band I saw, 
 And soon shall with them near the Saviour stand. 
 
 " See, mother, that bright star is almost gone ! 
 
 It wears to me a blissful smile, and fain 
 My aching heart would have it live— it shone 
 
 So sweetly on me that it stilled the pain. 
 
 Come, lift me up, and let me see again 
 Its mellow light before it dies, and sing — 
 
 I feel so well -the little hymn, the same 
 You taught me, months ago, that e'er would bring 
 Our souls so near to heaven as on an unseen wing. " 
 
 The mother's heart was lifted up in prayer, 
 
 As rose the infant voice upon her ear ; 
 The note hung quivering on the balmy air. 
 
 Like that of some sweet birdling, soft and clear ; 
 
 While round the child, dispelling every fear, 
 Came floating visions from the land her dream 
 
 Had pictured to her happy soul so near ; 
 Then, as the song poured forth, the warbled theme 
 But seemed an anthem echoed from a brighter scene. 
 
 She stopped, her head drooped low; the trembling strain 
 
 Was broken where the gushing melody 
 Was softly lingering on the hallowed name 
 
 Whose praises angels sound eternally. 
 
 Quickly the mother sunk upon her knee, 
 And from her snowj' forehead threw the long, 
 
 Dark tresses, and gazed upon her wildly ; 
 The note seemed fluttering yet upon her tongue ! 
 But she was dead, — her heart had broken with her song ! 
 
 TRIUMPH OF FAITH.— J. S. Buckminster. 
 
 Come, now, my incredulous friends, and follow me to 
 the bed of the dying believer. Would you see in what 
 peace a Christian can die ? Watch the last gleams of 
 thought which stream from his dying eyes. Do you see 
 anything like apprehension ? The world, it is true, be- 
 gins to shut in. The shadows of evening collect around 
 his senses. A dark mist thickens and rests upon the ob- 
 jects which have hitherto engaged his observation. The 
 
NUMBER FOUE. 31 
 
 countenances of his friends become more and more indis- 
 tinct. The sweet expressions of love and friendship are 
 no longer intelligible. His ear wakes no more at the 
 well-known voices of his children ; and the soothing ac- 
 cents of tender affection die away, unheard, upon his de- 
 caying senses. To him the spectacle of human life is 
 drawing to its close ; and the curtain is descending which 
 shuts out this earth, its actors, and its scenes. He is no 
 longer interested in all that, is done under the sun. 
 
 Oh ! that I could now open to you the recesses of. his 
 soul ; that I could reveal to you the light which darts 
 into the chambers of his understanding ! He approaches 
 the world which he has so long seen in faith. The imag- 
 ination now collects its diminished strength, and the eye 
 of faith opens wide. 
 
 Friends, do not stand, thus fixed in sorrow, around 
 this bed of death. Why are you so still and silent ? Fear 
 not to move ; you cannot disturb the last visions which 
 entrance this holy spirit. Your lamentations break not 
 in upon the songs of seraphs which enwrap his hearing 
 in ecstasy. Crowd, if you choose, around his. couch ; he 
 heeds you not, — already he sees the spirits of the just 
 advancing together to receive a kindred soul. Press him 
 not with importunities ; urge him not with alleviations. 
 Think you he wants now these tones of mortal voices, — 
 these material, these gross consolations ? No ! He is 
 going to add another to the myriads of the just that are 
 every moment crowding into the portals of heaven ! He 
 is entering on a nobler life. He leaves you, he leaves 
 you, weeping children of mortality, to grope about a little 
 longer among the miseries and sensualities of a worldly 
 life. Already he cries to you from the regions of bliss. 
 Will you not join him there? Will you not taste the 
 sublime joys of faith? There are your predecessors in 
 virtue ; there, too, are places left for your contemporaries. 
 There are seats for you in the assembly of the just made 
 perfect, in the innumerable company of angels, where is 
 Jesus, — the Mediator of the Aew covenant, — and God, 
 the Judge of all. 
 
32 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SKLECTION'S 
 
 AN APPEAL TO THE " SEXTANT " FOR AIR. 
 
 O sextant of the meetin house, wich sweeps 
 And dusts, or is supposed to ! and makes tires, 
 And lites the gass, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose 
 in wich case it smells orful, worse than lamp ile ; 
 And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dies, 
 to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps paths ; 
 And for the servusses gets $100 per annum, 
 Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it ; 
 Gettin up before starlite in all wethers and 
 Xindlin tires when the wether is as cold 
 As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlin; 
 i wouldn't be hired to do it for no sum, — 
 'But O Sextant 1 there are 1 kermoddity 
 Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin 
 Worth more than anything except the sole of man! 
 i mean pewer Are, Sextant, i mean pewer are ! 
 
 it is plenty out of doors, so plenty it doant no 
 What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about 
 Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hatts ! 
 
 .In sliort, its jest as " free as are " out dores. 
 
 But O Sextant, in our church, its scarce asbuty. 
 
 Scarce as bank bills, when agints beg for mischuns, 
 
 Wich some say is purty offten (taint nothin to me, 
 
 wat I give aint nothin to nobody) but, Sextant, 
 
 IT shet 500 men, wimmin and children, 
 
 Speshally the latter, up in a tite place. 
 
 Some has bad breths, none aint 2 sweet. 
 
 Some is fe very, some is scrofilous, some has bad teeth 
 
 And some haint none, and some aint over clean ; 
 
 But every 1 on 'em brethes in and out, and out and in. 
 
 Say 50 times a minnit, or 1 million and a half breths an our. 
 
 Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, 
 
 1 ask you— say 15 minits— and then wats to be did ? 
 Why then they must brethe it all over agin, 
 
 And then agin, and so on till each has took it down 
 At least 10 times, and let it up agin ; and wats more 
 The same individoal don't have the priviledge 
 of brethin his own are, and no one's else. 
 Each one must take whatever comes to him. 
 O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses. 
 To bio the tier of life, and keep it from goin out; 
 and how can bellusses bio without wind, 
 And aint wind are? i put it to your conschens. 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 33 
 
 Are is the same to us as milk to babies, 
 Or water is to fisii, or pendlums to clox, 
 Or roots and airbs unto an iujun doctor, 
 Or little pills unto an omepath. 
 Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe ; 
 , What signifies who preaches if i cant brethe? 
 Wats Pol ? Wats PoUus to sinners who are ded ? 
 Ded for want of breth, why Sextant, when we dy, 
 Its only coz we cant brethe no more, thats all. 
 And now, O Sextant, let me beg of you 
 To let a little are into our church 
 (Fewer are is sertain proper for the pews.) 
 And do it weak days, and Sundays tew. 
 It aint much trouble, only make a hole 
 And the are will come of itself ; 
 It luvs to come in where it can git warm. 
 A nd O how it will rouze the people up. 
 And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps. 
 And yawns, and flggits, as effectoal . 
 As wind on the dry boans the Profit tels of. 
 
 THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS.*-George W. Bungay. 
 
 How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells ! 
 Each one its creed in music tells. 
 In tones that float upon the air, 
 As soft as song, as pure as prayer; 
 And I will put in simple rhyme 
 The language of the golden chime ; 
 My happy heart with rapture swells 
 Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. 
 
 " In deeds of love excel ! excel ! " 
 Chimed out from ivied towers, a bell ; 
 " This is the church not built on sands. 
 Emblem of one not made with hands ; 
 Its forms and sacred rites revere. 
 Come worship here ! come worship here I 
 In rituals and faith excel ! " 
 Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 
 
 " Oh heed the ancient landmarks well ! " 
 In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; 
 
 ♦This very buautifnl pueiii, and now fanions recitation, oricinally appeared in 
 DRMORKftT's Maoazink, but 18 now piiblislied in a handsimicly illnstrat;-*] form, 
 w-ith tile present additions. Tlie poeiu is nsed here by special pi rmissijn. 
 
 2» 
 
34 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " No progress made by mortal man 
 Can change the just eternal pLin ; 
 AVith God there can be nothing new ; 
 Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
 While all is well ! is well ! is well I " 
 Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. 
 
 " Ye purifying waters swell ! " 
 In mellow tones rang out a bell ; 
 " Though faith alone in Christ can save, 
 Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 
 To show the world unfaltering faith 
 In what the sacred Scriptures saith : 
 Oh swell ye rising waters, swell ! " 
 Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 
 
 "Not faith alone, but works as well. 
 Must test the soul ! " said a soft bell ; 
 " Come here and cast aside your load. 
 And work your way along the road, 
 With faith in God, and faith in man, 
 And hope in Christ, where hope began ; 
 Do well ! do well ! do well ! do well ! " 
 Kang out the Unitarian bell. 
 
 " Farewell ! farewell ! base world, farewell ! " 
 In touching tones exclaimed a bell ; 
 " Life is a boon, to mortals given. 
 To fit the soul for bliss in heaven ; 
 Do not invoke the avenging rod, 
 Come here and learn the way to God ; 
 Say to the world. Farewell ! farewell ! " 
 Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 
 
 " To all, the truth, we tell ! we tell ! " 
 Shouted in ecstasies a bell ; 
 " Come all ye weary wanderers, see ! 
 Our Lord has made salvation free ! 
 Eepent, believe, have faith, and then 
 Be saved, and praise the Lord, amen ! 
 Salvation's free, we tell ! we tell ! " 
 Shouted the Jlethodistic bell. 
 
 " In after life there is no hell ! " 
 In raptures rang a cheerful bell ; 
 " Look up to heaven this holy day, 
 Where angels wait to lead the way ! 
 
NtTM deh poi~r. 35 
 
 There are no iires, no fiends to blight 
 The future life ; be just and right. 
 No hell ! no hell ! no hell ! no hell ! " 
 Eang out the Universalist bell. 
 
 " The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 
 
 My cheerful voice, " pealed forth a bell ; 
 
 " No fetters here to clog the soul ; 
 
 No arbitrary creeds control 
 
 Therfree heart and progressive mind 
 
 That leave the dusty past behind. 
 
 Speed well, speed well, speed well, speed well ! " 
 
 Pealed out the Independent bell. 
 
 " No pope, no pope, to doom to hell ! " 
 The Protestant rang out a bell ; 
 "Great Luther left his fiery zeal 
 Within the hearts that truly feel 
 That loyalty to God will be 
 The fealty that makes men free. 
 No images where incense fell ! " 
 Eang out old Martin Luther's bell. 
 
 " All hilil, ye saints in heaven that dwell 
 Close by the cross ! " exclaimed a bell ; 
 " Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, 
 And deign to bless a world like this ; 
 Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 
 Adore the water and the wine ! 
 All hail ye saints, the chorus swell ! " 
 Chimed in the Roman Catholic bell. 
 
 "Against the wrong brave souls rebel," 
 Was the suave language of a bell. 
 " Be wise and wary, bold and free, 
 True to the cross of Calvary ; 
 Undaunted in the holy fight 
 In the defense of truth and right. 
 Hope's charter who would dare to sell," 
 Exclaimed the Congregational bell. 
 
 " Departed souls anear us dwell 
 In spirit-land," said a mystic bell. 
 " Christ is the Saviour — He alone 
 Is God supreme upon the throne ! 
 Though we are plodding mortals here, 
 The home of saints in heaven is near. 
 
i36 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 All doubt expel ! expel I expel ! " 
 
 Then dreamily chimed the New Church bell. 
 
 Each bell its creed in music tells : 
 Faith blends in harmony the bells, 
 Though many-voiced, their choral chime 
 Gives cadence to the creed sublime 
 Of trust in the dear God above. 
 Whose home is heaven, whose thought is love. 
 Each happy heart with rapture swells, 
 Responsive to the bells — sweet bells ! 
 
 " Ye workers who have toiled so well, 
 
 To save the race ! " said a sweet bell ; 
 
 " With pledge, and badge, and banner, come, 
 
 Each brave heart beating like a drum ; 
 
 Be royal men of noble deeds, 
 
 For Ime is holier than creeds ; 
 
 Drink from the well, the well, the well ! " 
 
 In rapture rang the Temperance bell. 
 
 THE BRIDAL FEAST.*— F. C. Long. 
 
 A merry peal of marriage bells 
 Steals softly on the evening air ; 
 Their silver harmony foretells 
 The weal or woe of some fond pair. 
 A festal throng had met at night. 
 And joy beamed in the face of all ; 
 A thousand gems were flashing bright 
 Beneath the .lamps within the hall. 
 Music arose with dulcet swell. 
 And strains of mirth were constant heard ; 
 Peans of gladness rose and fell 
 Like warbles of some forest bird. 
 Or like the sound of limpid streams 
 Which laugh adown the vale of dreams. 
 The guests were seated here and there, 
 On silken lounge and damask chair ; 
 And mid the din, and dance and song, 
 Soft words were whispered in the throng, 
 And tender eyes a tale expressed. 
 Which tongue had never yet confessed. 
 
 •This story, told in prose, will be found in No. 2, and a dramatizatioa of tht 
 same in Dramatic Supplement to No. 14. 
 
NUMBt:U FOUR. 37 
 
 The briile was young, the bride was fair, 
 With laughing eyes and golden hair ; 
 The groom was young, and brave was he 
 As e'er to maiden bent a knee ; 
 A nobler pair, in sooth, than they 
 Have not been seen in many a day. 
 
 " Come, pledge with wine ! Come, pledge with wine 1 " 
 A young and thoughtless gallant cried ; 
 " In amber juice of Gascon vine 
 WeUl pledge the happy groom and bride 1 " 
 A brimming chalice then was poured, 
 And offered to the bridal twain ; 
 While round the glad and festal board, 
 The proffered toast was passed again. 
 The rose forsook the fair bride's face, 
 And left a lily in its place ; 
 For she had cause to dread the fell 
 Distillments from the press of hell ; 
 Still she took up the goblet there. 
 And viewed it in the lamps' red glare. 
 Then slowly raised it to her lip. 
 As if she was about to sip 
 The purple vintage, rich and rare ; 
 And then she paused, and with an eye 
 Which seemed through distant space to pry, 
 Gazed on the cup with eager stare. 
 The merry jeer, the idle joke. 
 Were hushed, as by a wizard's thrall ; 
 And through the lofty banquet hall. 
 No sound the solemn stillness broke. 
 One jeweled finger she upraised, 
 Ornate with genista queen might wear, 
 And on the blushing cup she gazed. 
 As though she saw a spectre there. 
 And thus she spake : 
 
 " I see a mountain range, whose purple busts 
 Ar6 lifted to the sky ; while o'er its brows 
 Gossamer clouds hang like a bridal veil. 
 Bright flowers are blooming on its ragged sides, 
 And joyous birds are caroling in the .shade 
 Of giant oaks and beeches, A crystal rill, 
 Merrily laughing, leaps from cliff to cliff, 
 Eager to gambol in the vale beneath ; 
 And over all, a shadowy, cloud-like mist. 
 
38 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE BELECriONS 
 
 Mellows the harsher outlines of the crags. 
 
 There ! there ! within a deep, cavernous gorge, 
 
 I see the half-nude forms of savage men 
 
 Flitting like phantoms, 'mong the umbrageous tree?, 
 
 And in their midst I see a manly form 
 
 Stretched lowly on the cold and danksome sward. 
 
 How deathlike is the pallor of his cheek ! 
 
 How gleams the fire of madness in his eye, 
 
 As the wild fancies of delirium, 
 
 Like Etna's flood, roll o'er his fevered brain ! 
 
 One faithful friend kneels by him, and his head 
 
 Is pillowed on his breast as tenderly 
 
 As 'twere a mother with a dying child. 
 
 ' Genius in ruins ! ' Oh, that noble youth ! 
 
 Why should death single out a mark so young? 
 
 See how he throws the damp locks from his brow 
 
 Of marble whiteness ! See him clasp his hands ! 
 
 Hear his appalling shrieks for help, for life ! 
 
 Mark how he clutches at that kneeling form, 
 
 Imploring to be saved ! Oh ! stones might weep 
 
 A rivulet of tears to hear him call 
 
 Upon his father's name ! See him entwine 
 
 His icy fingers, as he vainly shrieks 
 
 For his loved sister, twin of his fond soul, 
 
 Who weeps for him in a far distant land! 
 
 And "now his armfi are lifted up to heaven. 
 
 Praying for mercy ; and his language bears 
 
 Such fearful agony upon its tones. 
 
 The red men move away with noiseless feet, 
 
 And leave them quite alone. 
 
 " 'Tis evening now. 
 And like a warrior's shield, the great white moon 
 Stalks through the eastern sky. One silver beam, 
 Piercing the thickness of the clustering leaves, 
 Lights up the features of the dying youth. 
 His eyes are fixed and dim; he does not heed 
 The kindly words his friend pours in his ear. 
 And now his head sinks back, he gasps for breath, 
 His pulse is still — ah, no, it beats again ! 
 Twas a mere fancy ; it will beat no more, 
 For death's cold hand is on him, — he is dead ! 
 They hollow out a grave within that glen ; 
 Without a shroud they lay him in the earth, 
 Where he shall sleep until the end of time. 
 No sculptor's burin ever shall emboss 
 
NUMBER PUJR. 39 
 
 A marble shaft to mark his lonely tomb. 
 
 Dear friends, the youth who died in that strange land 
 
 Was my twin brother ; and he owed his death 
 
 To ardent4rink. Shall I now taste the cup ? 
 
 " Say, shall I taste the cup ? " she cried ; 
 
 " No 1 no ! " a score of tongues replied ; 
 
 And he who first for wine did call, 
 
 Cried " No! " the loudest of them all. 
 
 " Then shjin the cup, " she cried again, 
 
 " 'Twill brand you with the mark of Cain ; 
 
 Forswear at once the tempting bowl. 
 
 That ruins body, mind and soul ! 
 
 Think of my brother'8 lonely grave. 
 
 Far by the bland Pacific's wave ; 
 
 Think of the hungry infant's wail ; 
 
 Think of the mother's visage pale; 
 
 Tliink of the teeming prison's cell, 
 
 Where rum-incited felons dwell; 
 
 Think of our lovely sisters' doom. 
 
 When wine has nipped them in their bloom; 
 
 Ay I pause and think of every shame. 
 
 Of every crime too dark to name; 
 
 And let the wine-fiend's spell be riven, 
 
 And turn your thoughts to home and heaven! 
 
 " Grave fiithers all, whose foreheads show 
 The weight of many a winter's snow, 
 Abjure the wine-cup from to-night. 
 And with the Temperance Army fight. 
 Full many a noble youth is here, 
 Who scarce has felt a barber's shear ; 
 I charge you flee the demon's spell. 
 As you would flee the curse of hell ! 
 For in the sparkling vintage lies 
 A monster dressed in tempting guise, 
 Who'll lure you from the path of right, 
 By wizard wiles, and false delight. 
 Rum will destroy your forms divine 
 As Circe changed her guests to swine. 
 O lovely maids, to whom are given 
 The beauties that embellish heaven ! 
 None of you are too pure, or fair 
 To dally with the dreadful snare. 
 Never for all Pactolus' wealth, 
 In wine let lover drink your health" 
 z 
 
40 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELEt I10X8 
 
 They feasted late, they feasted long, 
 The guests were loud in laugh and song; 
 But no one touched a drop of wine. 
 Though rich Champagne, and limpid Rhine, 
 And Muscatel, — all sparkling-bright,— 
 And purple Port, stood full in sight. 
 Among the crowd were those who'd quaffed 
 For years the soul-destroying draught ; 
 But then and there they soothly swore 
 To touch the tempting cup no more, 
 But ever drink what God had given. 
 And sent them, on the clouds, from heaven ! 
 
 VERRES DENOUNCED.— Cicero. 
 
 An opinion has long prevailed, Fathers, that, in public 
 prosecjtions, men of wealth, however clearly convicted, 
 are always safe. This opinion, so injurious to your order, 
 so detrimental to the State, it is now in your power to 
 refute. A man is on trial before you who is rich, and 
 who hopes his riches will compass his acquittal ; but 
 whose life and actions are his sufficient condemnation in 
 the eyes of all candid men. I speak of Caius Verres, 
 who, if he now receive not the sentence his crimes 
 deserve, it shall not be through the lack of a criminal, 
 or a prosecutor ; but through the failure of the ministers 
 of justice to do their duty. Passing over the shameful 
 irregularities of his youth, what does the prsetorship of 
 Verres exhibit but one continued scene of villainies? 
 The public treasure squandered, a consul stripped and 
 betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a prov- 
 ince robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people 
 trampled on ! But this prsetorship in Sicily has crowned 
 his career of wickedness, and completed the lasting mon- 
 ument of his infamy. His deci.sions have violated all 
 law, all precedent, all right. His extortions from the 
 industrious poor have been beyond computation. Our 
 most faithful allies have been treated as enemies. Roman 
 citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with torturea 
 
NUMBER POUR. 41 
 
 Men the most worthy have been condemned and banislied 
 without a hearing, while the most atrocious criminals 
 have, with money, purchased exemption from the pun- 
 ishment due to their guilt. 
 
 I ask now, Verres, what have you to advance against 
 these charges ? Are you not the tyrant prsetor, who, at 
 no greater distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian 
 coast, dared to put to an intamous death, on the cross, 
 that ill-fated alid innocent citizen, Publius Gavins Cosa- 
 nus ! And what was his offence ? He had declared his 
 intention of appealing to the justice of his country against 
 your brutal persecutions ! For this, when about to em- 
 bark for home, he was seized, brought before you, charged 
 with being a spy, scourged and tortured. In vain Jid 
 he exclaim : " I am a Koman citizen ! I have served 
 under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and who 
 will attest my innocence ! " Deaf to all remonstrance, 
 remorseless, thirsting for innocent blood, you ordered the 
 savage punishment to be inflicted ! While the sacred 
 words, " I am a Roman citizen," were on his lips, — words 
 which, in the remotest regions,are a passport to protec- 
 tion, — you ordered him to death, to a death upon the cross ! 
 
 O liberty ! O sound once delightful to every Roman 
 ear ! O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship, once sa- 
 cred, — now trampled on ! Is it come to this ? Shall an 
 inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole 
 power of the Roman people, in a Roman province, 
 within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture, and put to 
 an infamous death, a Roman citizen ? Shall neither the 
 cries of innocence expiring in agony, the teaTs of- pitying 
 spectators, the majesty of the Roman Commonwealth, 
 nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the 
 merciless monster, who, in. the confidence of his riches, 
 strikes at the very root of liberty, and sets mankind at 
 defiance ? And shall this man escape ? Fathers, it must 
 not be! It must- not be, unless you would undermine 
 the very foundations of social safety, strangle justice, 
 and call down anarchy, massacre and ruin on the Com- 
 monwealth ! 
 
42 ONE nUNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE BOYS.— O. W. Holmfs. 
 
 This poem was adilressed to the class of 1829, in Hiirvard College, some thirty 
 years after their graduation. The author, whu retains, in a liigh degree, the 
 freshness and joyousnesi of youtli addresses liis classmates as "boys." 
 
 Has there any old fellow got mixed with, the boys? 
 If there has, take him out, without making a noise. 
 Hang the almanac's cheat and tjie catalogue's spite ! 
 Old Time is a liar ! we're twenty to-night ! 
 
 We're twenty ! We're twenty ! Who says we are more ? 
 He's tipsy, — young jackanapes ! — show him the door! 
 " Gray temples at twenty?" — Yes ! white if we please ; 
 Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze. 
 
 • 
 Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake ! 
 ]ji)(ik close, — you will see not a sign of a flake ! 
 AVe want some new garlands for those we have shed, 
 And these are white roses in place of the red. 
 
 We've a trick, wc young fellows, you may have been told, 
 Of talldng (in public) as if we were old : 
 That boy we call " Doctor," and this we call " Judge ; " 
 It's a neat little fiction — of course it's all fudge. 
 
 That fellow's the " Speaker," the one on the rights 
 " Mr. ?.Iayor," ray young one, how are you to-night? 
 That's our " Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; 
 There's the " Reverend " — what's his name ? — don't make 
 me laugh. 
 
 That boy with the grave mathematical look 
 Made believe he had written a wonderful book, 
 And the Royal Society thought it was ttue I 
 So they chose him right in,— a good joke it was too I 
 
 There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, 
 That could harness a team with a logical chain ; 
 When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, 
 We called him "The Justice," but now "he's the " Squire." 
 
 And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith ; 
 Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith ; 
 But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — 
 Just read on his medal, " My country," " of thee ! " 
 
 You hear that boy laughing ? You think he's all fun ; 
 But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 43 
 
 The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, 
 
 And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all. 
 
 Yes, we're boys, always playing with tongue or with pen ; 
 And I sometimes have asked, shall we ever be men ? 
 Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, 
 Till the last dear companion drops smiling away? 
 
 Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! 
 The stars of its winter, the dews of its May ! 
 And when we-have done with our life-lasting toys, 
 Dear Father, take care of thy children. The Boys ! 
 
 THE ANGEL FERRY.-H. S. Cornwell. 
 
 Oh, when shall the boatman ferry me oVt 
 
 To the friends who wait on the further shore ? 
 
 Along a wild and toilsome way, 
 
 I have journeyed for many a weary day, 
 
 Over the graves of early hope 
 
 And up misfortune's thorny slope, 
 
 Till my mortal sun hath past its noon. 
 
 And my heart beats time to a ceaseless tune : 
 
 When shall the boatman ferry me o'er 
 
 To the friends who wait on the further shore ? 
 
 Through the wrecks of many £C fairy dream 
 I come to the banks of the mystic stream ; 
 I have waited so long for a tardy sail, 
 I can feel my strength begin to fail ; 
 And while I faintly call and pray. 
 My wind-swept locks are turning gray. 
 But I know he is true, and will come ere quite 
 My deep'ning day shall sink to night ; 
 And I walk the sands till he bear me o'er 
 To the friends who wait on the further shore. 
 
 He is fair and beautiful, I know. 
 And his shining robe is white as snow; 
 And the tender love of his starry eyes 
 Is caught from the glory of other skies ; 
 And his silver-sandaled feet have trod 
 The banks of the crystalline river of God, 
 Oh, boatman, haste from the land of rest, 
 And pillow my head upon thy breast ! 
 Speed thy swift shallop, and bear mo o'er 
 To the fi lends who wait on the further shore! 
 
4-1 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 The shadows deepen one by one, 
 
 The sun is set, the day is done ; 
 
 And like a star on my growing sight, 
 
 I can see at last the signal light ; 
 
 High over the rocking wave it rides, 
 
 And swiftly toward the margin glides ; 
 
 1 can hear the rush of that spirit barque. 
 
 And mellow splendors pierce the dark i 
 
 Adieu, dim world ! ere I'm wafted o'er 
 
 To the friends who wait on the further shore. 
 
 CIVIL WAR.— Charles D. Shani.ey. 
 
 "Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot 
 
 Straight at the heart of yon prowling vedette ; 
 Ring me a ball on the glittering spot 
 
 That shines on his breast like an amulet ! " 
 
 " Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, 
 There's music around when my barrel's in tune ! " 
 
 Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped. 
 
 And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. 
 
 " Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch 
 From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood, — 
 
 A button, a loop" or that luminous patch 
 That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud ! " 
 
 " Oh, captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track. 
 When I gazed on the face of that fallen vedette. 
 
 For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, 
 That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. 
 
 " But I snatched off the trinket, — this locket of gold ; 
 
 An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, 
 Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 
 
 Of a beautiful lady in bridal array. " 
 
 " Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 'tis she, 
 My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon 
 
 Was her husband — hush ! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree, 
 We must bury him there, by the light of the moon ! 
 
 " But, hark ! the far bugles their warnings unite; 
 
 War is a virtue, weakness a sin ; 
 There's a lurking and loping around us to-night — 
 
 Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in ! " 
 
N U M B E E P O U B. 45 
 
 THE BATTLE.— Schiller. 
 
 Heavy and solemn, 
 
 A cloudy column ; 
 Through the green plain they marching came ! 
 Measureless spread, like a table dread, 
 For the wild grim dice of the iron game. 
 Looks are bent on the shaking ground, 
 Hearts beat low with a knelling sound ; 
 Swift by the bwasts that must bear the brunt, 
 Gallops the Major along the front ; 
 
 "Halt!" 
 And fettered they stand at the stark command. 
 And the warriors, silent, halt. 
 
 Proud in the blush of morning glowing, 
 
 What on the hill-top shines in flowing ? 
 
 "See you the foeman's banners waving?" 
 
 " We see the foeman's banners waving! " 
 
 " God be with you, children and wife ! " 
 
 Hark to the music, — the drum and fife ! 
 
 How they ring through the ranks which they rouse to the 
 
 strife ! 
 Thrilling they sound, with their glorious tone, — 
 Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone ! 
 Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, 
 lu the life to come that we meet once more ! 
 
 See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asunder ! 
 Hark ! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their 
 
 thunder ! 
 From host to host with kindling sound, 
 The shouted signal circles round ; 
 Ay, shout it forth to life or death, — 
 Freer already breathes the breath ! 
 The war is waging, slaughter raging, 
 And heavy through the reeking pall 
 The iron death-dice fall! 
 Nearer they close — foes upon foes — 
 " Eeady!" — from square to square it goes. 
 
 They kneel as one man from flank to flank. 
 And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank. 
 Many a soldier to earth is sent, 
 • Many a gap by the balls is rent ; 
 O'er the corpse before springs the hinder man. 
 That the line may not fail to the fearless van. 
 
46 ONE HUNDRED CUOICE SELECTIOXS 
 
 To the right, to the left, and around and around, 
 Death whirls in its dance on the bloody ground. 
 God's sunlight is quenched in the fiery fight ; 
 Over the hosts falls a brooding night ! 
 Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, 
 In the life to come that we meet once more. 
 
 The dead men lie bathed in the weltering blood, 
 
 And the living are blent in the slippery flood. 
 
 And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go. 
 
 Stumble still on the corpse that sleeps below. 
 
 ■' What? Francis ! — Give Charlotte my last farewell." 
 
 As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell — 
 
 " I'll give— O God ! are their guns so near ? 
 
 Ho ! comrades ! yon volley ! look sharp to the rear ! 
 
 I'll give to thy Charlotte thy last farewell ! 
 
 Sleep soft ! where death thickest descendeth in rain. 
 
 The friend thou forsakest thy side may i-egain ! " 
 
 Hitherward, thitherward reels the fight ; 
 
 Dark and more darkly day glooms into night. 
 
 Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er. 
 
 In the life to come that we nieet once more I 
 
 Hark to the hoofs that galloping go ! 
 
 The adjutants flying ; 
 The horsemen press, hard on the panting foe, 
 
 Their thunder booms in dying — 
 Victory I 
 Terror has seized on the dastards all. 
 
 And their colors fall ! 
 
 "Victory ! 
 Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight ; 
 And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night! 
 Trumpet and fife swelling choral along. 
 The triumph already sweeps marching in song. 
 Farewell, fallen brothers ; though this life be o'er, 
 There's another, in which we shall meet you once more. 
 Translrttion from the German by Bulwer. 
 
 BOMBASTIC APPEAL TO A JURY. 
 
 Gentlemen of the jnry, it i.s with feelings of no or- 
 dinary communion that I rise to defend my injured client 
 from the attacks that have been made on his hitherto- 
 
nc.m3i;k four. 47 
 
 fore unapproachable character. I feel, gentlemen, that 
 though a good deal smarter than any of you, even the 
 judge himself, yet I am utterly incompetent to present 
 this case in the magnanimous and heart-rending light 
 which its importance demands ; and I trust, gentlemen, 
 that whatever I may lack in presenting the subject will 
 be immediately made up by your own natural good sense 
 and discernment — if you have got any. 
 
 The counsef for the prosecution, gentlemen, will un- 
 doubtedly attempt to heave dust in your eyes. He will 
 tell you thathis client is pre-eminently a man of function,— 
 that he is a man who would scorn to fotch an action 
 against another merely to gratify his own personal corpo- 
 rosity, but, gentlemen, let me cautionate you how to rely 
 upon such specious reasoning like this. I myself appre- 
 hend that this suit has been wilfully and maliciously 
 fotcht, gentlemen, for the sole and only purpose of brow- 
 beating my client here, and in an eminent manner grind- 
 ing the face of the poor ; and I apprehend, also, that if 
 you could but look into that man's heart, and read there 
 the motives that have impelled him to fotch this suit, 
 such a picture of moral turpentine and heartfelt ingrati- 
 tude would be brought to light as has never before been 
 exhibited since the falls of Niagara. 
 
 Now, gentlemen, I want to make a brilliant appeal to 
 the kind symmetries of your nature, and see if I can't 
 warp your judgments a little in favor of my unfortunate 
 client here, and then I shall fotch my argument to a 
 close. Here is a poor man, with a numerous wife and 
 child, depending upon him for their daily bread and 
 butter, wantonly fotoht up here, and arranged before an 
 intellectual jury on the charge of ignominiously hooking 
 — yes, hooking — six quarts of new cider. You, gentle- 
 men, have all been placed in similar situations, and 
 "know how it is yourself," and yoa can therefore feel 
 for the misfortunes of my client ; and I humbly calculate 
 that you will not permit the gushing of your symper- 
 thizing hearts to be squenched in the bud by the surrup- 
 
48 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 tions and superogating arguments of my ignorant oppo- 
 nent on the other side. 
 
 The law expressly declares, gentlemen, in the beauti- 
 ful language of Shakspeare, that where no doubt exists 
 of the guilt of the prisoner, it is your duty to lean upon 
 the side of justice and fotch him in unblameworthy. If 
 you keep this fact in view in the case of my client, gen- 
 tlemen, you will have the honor of making a friend of 
 him and all his relations, and you can allers look upon 
 this occasion, and reflect with pleasure that you did as 
 you would be done by ; but if, on the other hand, you 
 disregard this great principle of law, and set at naught 
 my eloquent remarks, and fotch him in guilty, the silent 
 twitches of conscience will follow you over every fair 
 corn-field, I reckon, and my injured and down-trodden 
 client will be pretty apt to light on you some of these 
 dark nights, as a gray cat lights on a sassar of new milk. 
 
 SEEDS. 
 
 We are sowing, daily sowing. 
 
 Countless seeds of good and ill, 
 Scattered on the level lowland. 
 
 Cast upon the windy hill,— 
 Seeds that sink in rich brown furrows, 
 
 Soft with heaven's gracious rain; 
 Seeds that rest upon the surface 
 
 Of the dry, unyielding plain ; 
 
 Seeds that fall amid the stillness 
 
 Of the lor-ely mountain glen ; 
 Seeds cast out in crowded places, 
 
 Trodden under foot of men ; 
 Seeds by idle hearts forgotten. 
 
 Flung at random on the air; 
 Seeds by faithful souls remembered, 
 
 Sown in tears and love and prayer; 
 
 Seeds that lie unchanged, unquickened, 
 Lifeless on the teeming mould ; 
 
 Seeds that live and grow and flourish 
 When the sower's hand is cold. 
 
NUMBEl: FOIK. 49 
 
 By a whisper sow we blessings, 
 
 By a breatli we scatter strife ; 
 In our words and looks and actions 
 
 Lie the seeds of death and life. 
 
 Thou who knowest all our weakness, 
 
 Leave us not to sow alone ! 
 Bid Thine angels guard the furrows 
 
 Wliere the precious grain is sown, 
 Till the fields are crowned with glory, 
 
 •Filled with mellow ripened ears. 
 Filled with fruit of life eternal 
 
 From the seed we sowed in tears. 
 
 Check the froward thoughts and passions, 
 
 Stay the hasty, heedless hands ; 
 Lest the germs of sin and sorrow 
 
 Mar our fair and pleasant lands! 
 Father, help each weak endeavor, 
 
 Make each faithful effort blest. 
 Till Thine harvest sliall be garnered. 
 
 And we enter into rest. 
 
 ST. PIERRE TO FERRARDO.— J. Shrridan Knowles. 
 
 An oxtractfrom thedramaof "Tlie Wife," adapted for recitation. St. Pierre, 
 having possessed iiimself of Ferrardo'a dagger, compels liiin to sign a confeaaiou 
 of Ilia villainy. 
 
 Know you me, duke ? Know you the peasant boy 
 
 Whom, fifteen years ago, in evil hour, 
 
 You chanced to cross upon his native hills ; 
 
 In whose quick eye you saw the subtle spirit 
 
 Which suited you, and tempted it ? He took 
 
 Your hint, and followed you to Mantua 
 
 Without his father's knowledge, — his old father. 
 
 Who, thinking that he had a prop in him 
 
 Man could not rob him of, and Heaven would spare. 
 
 Blessed him one night, ere he lay down to sleep. 
 
 And, waking in the morning, found him gone ! 
 
 [Ferrardo tries to rise. 
 
 Move not, or I shall move ! You know me. 
 Oh, yes! you trained mc> like a cavalier — 
 You did, indeed ! You gave me masters, duke. 
 And their instructions quickly I took up. 
 As they did lay them down ! I got the start 
 Of my contemporaries ! — not a vouth 
 
 3 
 
50 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Of •whom could read, write, speak, command a weapon, 
 
 Or rule a horse, with me ! You gave me all — 
 
 All the equipments of a man of honor — 
 
 But soon you found a use for me, and made 
 
 A slave, a profligate, a pander, of me ! [renanio rising. 
 
 I charge you lieep your seat ! 
 
 Ten thousand ducats ? 
 What, duke ! Is such your offer ? Give me, duke, 
 The eyes that looked upon my father's face. 
 The hands that lielped my father to his wish. 
 The feet that flew to do my father's will. 
 The heart that bounded at my father's voice. 
 And say that Mantua were built of ducats. 
 And I could be its duke at cost of these, 
 I would not give them for it ! Mark me, duke ! 
 I saw a new-made grave in Mantua, 
 And on the head-stone read my father's name ! 
 To seek me, doubtless, hither he had come — 
 To seek the child that had deserted him— 
 And died here, ere I knew it. Heaven, alone, 
 Can tell how far he strayed in search of me ! 
 Upon that grave I knelt an altered man, 
 And, rising tiience, I fled nor had returned, 
 But tyrant hunger drove me back again 
 To thee — to thee !— my body to relieve. 
 At cost of my dear soul ! I have done thy work — 
 Do mine ! and sign me that confession straight. 
 I'm in thy power, and I'll have thee in mine! 
 There is the dial, and the sun shines on it. 
 The shadow on the very point of twelve— 
 My case is desperate ! Your signature 
 Of moment is most vital to my peace ! 
 My eye is on the dial ! Pass the shadow 
 The point of noon, the breadth of but a hair, 
 As can my eye discern — and, that unsigned. 
 The steel is in thy heart ! I speak no more ! 
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE— Charles Phillips. 
 
 He is fallen ! We may now pause before that splen. 
 did prodigy, which towered among us like some ancient 
 luin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence 
 attracted. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon 
 
NUMBER POUR. 51 
 
 the throne, a sceptred hermit, wrapt in the solitude of 
 his own originulity. A mind, bold, independent, and 
 decisive ; a will despotic in its dictates ; an energy that 
 distanced expedition ; and a conscience pMable to every 
 touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary 
 character, — the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in tlie 
 annals of this world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell. 
 
 Flung into life in the midst of a revolution that quick- 
 ened every energy of a people who acknowledge no supe- 
 rior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and 
 a scholar by charity! With no friend but his sword 
 and no fortune but his talents, he rushed into the lists 
 where rank and wealth and genius had arrayed them- 
 selves, and competition fled from him as from the glance 
 of destiny. He knew no motive but interest, he acknowl- 
 edged no criterion but success, he worshiped no god but 
 ambition, and, with an Eastern devotion, he knelt at the 
 shrine of his idolatry. 
 
 Subsidiary to this, there was' no creed that he did not 
 profess, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate ; 
 in the hope of a dynasty, 4ie upheld the crescent ; for 
 the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the cross ; the 
 orphan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the 
 republic; and, with a parricidal ingratitude, on the 
 ruins both of the throne and tribune, he reared the throne 
 of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned 
 the pope; a pretended patriot, he impoverished the 
 country ; and, in the name of Brutus, he grasped without 
 remorse and wore without shame the diadem of the 
 Ciesars. Through this pantomime of policy, fortune played 
 the clown to his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, 
 beggars reigned, systems vanished, the wildest theories 
 took the color of his whim, and all that was venerable, 
 and all that was novel, changed places with the rapidity 
 of a drama. 
 
 Even apparent defeat assumed the appearance of vic- 
 tory; his flight from Egypt confirmed liis destiny ; ruin 
 itself only elevated him to empire. But, if his fortune 
 
52 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE S-iLECTIONS 
 
 was great, his genius was transcendent ; decision flashed 
 upon his counsels ; and it was the same to decide and to 
 perforin. To inferior intellects his combinations appeared 
 perfectly impossible, his plaus perfectly impracticable ; 
 but, in his hands, simplicity marked their development, 
 and success vindicated their adoption. His person par- 
 took- the character of his mind — if the one never yielded 
 in the cabinet, the other never bent in the field. Nature 
 had no obstacle that he did not surmount ; space no op- 
 position that he did not spurn ; and whether amid Alpine 
 rocks, Arabian sands, or Polar snows, he seemed proof 
 against peril, and empowered with ubiquity. 
 
 The whole continent trembled at beholding the audac- 
 ity of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. 
 Scepticism bowed to the prodigies of his performance ; 
 romance assumed the air of history ; nor was there aught 
 too incredible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, 
 when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his 
 imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the vis- 
 ions of antiquity became commonplace in his contempla- 
 tion ; kings were his people, nations were his outposts ; 
 and he disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and 
 churches, and cabinets, as if they were titular dignitaries 
 of the chessboard. Amid all these changes, he stood 
 immutable as adamant. 
 
 It mattered little whether in the field or in the draw- 
 ing-ropm, with the mob or the levee, wearing the Jacobin 
 bonnet or the iron crown, banishing a Braganza or espous- 
 ing a Hapsburg, dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of 
 Russia or contemplating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic, 
 he was still the same military despot. 
 
 In this wonderful combination, his affectations of liter- 
 ature must not be omitted. The jailer of the press, he 
 affected the patronage of letters ; the proscriber of books, 
 he encouraged philosophy ; the persecutor of authors and 
 the murderer of printers, he yet pretended to the protec- 
 tion of learning. Such a medley of contradictions and, 
 at the same time, such an individual consistency, were 
 
NUMBER poun. 53 
 
 never united in the same character. A royalist, a re- 
 publican, and an emperor ; a Mohammedan, a Catholic, 
 and a patron of the synagogue; a subaltern and a 
 sovereign, a traitor and a tyrant ; a Christian and an 
 infidel ; he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same 
 stern, impatient, inflexible original ; the same mysterious, 
 incomprehensible self, — a man without a model, and 
 without a shadow. 
 
 THE COURTIN'.— James Russell. Lowell. 
 
 God makes sech nights; all white an' still 
 
 Fur'z you can look or listen. 
 Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
 
 AH silence an' all glisten. 
 
 Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
 An' peeked in thru' the winder, 
 
 An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
 'ith no one nigh to hender. 
 
 A fireplace filled the room's one side 
 With half a cord o'wood in,T- 
 
 There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
 To bake ye to a puddin'. 
 
 The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
 Towards the pootiest, bless her I 
 
 An' leetle flames danced all about 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 
 
 An' in amongst 'em rusted 
 The old queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 
 
 Fetched back from Concord busted. 
 
 The very room, coz she was in, 
 Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'; 
 
 An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
 Ez the apples she was peelin'. 
 
 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 
 
 On sech a blessed cretur, 
 A dogrose blushin' to a brook 
 
 Aint modester nor sweeter. 
 
54 ONU IIUNOBED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 He was six foot o' man, A 1, 
 
 Clean grit an' human natur' ; 
 None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 
 
 Nor dror a furrer straighter. 
 
 He'd sparked it with full twent}- gals, 
 Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 
 
 Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells, — 
 All is, he couldn't love 'em. 
 
 But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
 
 All crinkly like curled maple. 
 The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
 , Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 
 
 She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 
 
 Kz hisn in the choir ; 
 My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. 
 
 She knowed the Lord was nighor. 
 
 An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
 When her new meetin'-bunnet 
 
 Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
 0' blue eyes sot upon it. 
 
 Thet night, I tell ye, she looked somef 
 She seemed to've got a new soul, 
 
 For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 
 Down to her very shoe-sole. 
 
 She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 
 
 A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
 All ways to once her feelin's ilew 
 
 Like sparks inburnt-up paper. 
 
 He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 
 
 Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 
 His heart kep' goin' pity-pat 
 
 But hern went pity Zekle. 
 
 An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
 Ez though she wished him fnrder. 
 
 An' on her apples kep' to work, 
 Parin' away like murder. 
 
 " You want to see my Pa, T s'pose ?" 
 
 " Wall ... no .... I come designin' — " 
 
 "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es 
 Agin tu-morrer's i'nin'. " 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 
 
 To say why gals act so or so, 
 Or don't, 'ould bo presumin' ; 
 
 Mebby to mean yei an' say no 
 Comes nateral to women. 
 
 He stood a spell on one foot fust. 
 Then stood a spell on t'other, 
 
 An' on which one he felt the wust 
 He couldn't ha' told ye nuttier. 
 
 Saysjie, " I'd better call agin ;" 
 Says she " Think likely, Mister ; " 
 
 Thet last word pricked liim like a pin, 
 An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. 
 
 When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 
 
 Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
 All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 
 
 An' teary roun' the lashes. 
 
 For she was jes' the quiet kind 
 
 Whose naturs never vary. 
 Like streams that keep a summer mind 
 
 Snowhid in Jenooary. 
 
 The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
 
 Too tight for all expressin', 
 Tell mother see how metters stood, 
 
 An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 
 
 Then her red come back like ttie tide 
 ■ Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
 An' all I know is, they was cried 
 In meetin' corce nex' Sunday. 
 
 KING WILLIAM THANKS HIS GOD. 
 
 [During the Franco-Prussian war, 1870-71.] 
 
 The sombre pall of night had spread 
 
 Upon the horrid scene, 
 The field was thickly strewn with dead, 
 
 The struggle fierce liad been ; 
 And heaps of rigid, gory men. 
 
 Lay pillowed on the sod ; 
 For this, by telegram and pen, 
 
 King William thanks his God ! 
 
 The trumpet's clarion voice was hushed, 
 Nor flaunting banner stirred, 
 
00 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 As from a heap of slain and crushed 
 This dying moan was heard : 
 
 " My helpless babes and wife— Lord ! 
 Have mercy — spare the rod. " 
 
 Electric flashes pass the word, 
 " King William thanks his God ! " 
 
 Two thousand peasants' homes, by fire, 
 
 Bavarian brutes destroy. 
 Nor let the helpless weak retire, 
 
 But rush with fiendish joy, 
 And hurl them to their awful fate 
 
 With ball and bayonet prod ; 
 For these and other mercies great, 
 
 King William thanks his God I 
 
 Great God ! shall kin;^'s ambition slay 
 
 And prostrate to the dust 
 Thy creatures, legions, day by day. 
 
 And then proclaim Thee just ; 
 Deal deiolation through the world, 
 
 Spread ruin at their nod, 
 And then by lightning have it hurled, 
 
 "King William thanks his God?" 
 
 If these are Thine anointed. Lord, 
 
 And thus they do thy will. 
 The lowly ones can ill afford 
 
 To work each other ill ; 
 And would prefer, though little worth, 
 
 Obscurely on to plod. 
 Than telegraph, throughout the earth. 
 
 Offensive thanks to God. 
 
 DEATH OF LITTLE PAUL.— Charles Dickens. 
 
 " Floy," said Paul, " What is that ? " " Where, dear- 
 est?" "There! at the bottom of the bed." "There's 
 nothing there except papa!" The "figure lifted up its 
 head and rose, and, coming to the bedside, said, " My 
 own boy, don't you know me?" Paul looked it in the 
 face, and thought, V>'^as this his father ? But the face, 
 so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if 
 it were in pain; and, befcrc he could reach out both his 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 57 
 
 hands to take it between them and draw it toward hira, 
 the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and 
 went out at the door. Paul looked at Florence with a 
 fluttering heart; but he knew what she was going to say, 
 and stopped her with his face against her lips. The 
 next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of 
 the bed, he c^ied to it, " Don't be so sorry for me, dear 
 papa ; indeed, I am quite happy ! " His father, coming 
 and bending down to him, — which he did quickly, and 
 without first pausing by the bedside, — Paul held him 
 round the neck, and repeated these words to him several 
 times, and very earnestly: and Paul never saw him again 
 in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but 
 he called out, " Don't be so sorry for me ; indeed, I am quite 
 happy." This was the beginning of his always saying 
 in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that 
 they were to tell his father so. 
 
 How many times the golden water danced upon the 
 wall, how many nights the dark, dark river rolled to- 
 ward the sea in spite of him, Paul never counted, never 
 sought t3 know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, 
 could have increased, they were more kind, and he more 
 grateful, every day ; but whether they were many days 
 or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. 
 One night he had been thinking of his mother and her 
 picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and had thought 
 she must have loved sweet Florence better than his father 
 did, to have held her in her arras when she felt that she 
 was dying ; for even he, her brother, who had such dear 
 love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The 
 train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had 
 ever seenhis mother ; for he could not remember whether 
 they had told him yes or no — the river running very 
 fast, and confusing his mind. " Floy, did I ever see 
 mamma ? " " No, darling : why ? " " Did I ever see any 
 kind face, like mamma's, looking at me when I was a 
 baby, Floy ? " he asked, incredulously, as if he had some 
 vbion of a face before him. " Oh, yes, dear." " Whose, 
 
08 ONE IIUNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Floy ? " " Your old nurse's, often." "Ani where is my 
 old nurse?" said Paul. " Is she dead, too? Floy, are 
 we all dead, except you ? " 
 
 There was a huf ry in the room for an instant, — longer 
 perhaps, but it seemed no more, — then all was still again ; 
 and Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, 
 held his head upon her arm. Her arr* trembled very 
 much. " Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please." 
 " She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow." 
 
 " Thank you, Floy." 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 "And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ? " said the 
 
 child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. 
 
 Yes, yes! Mo other stranger would have shed those 
 
 tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her 
 
 pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other 
 
 woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken 
 
 up his wasted hand and put it to her lips and breast, as 
 
 one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman 
 
 would have so forgotten everybody there but him and 
 
 Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. " Floy, 
 
 this is a kind, good face ! " said Paul. " I am glad to 
 
 see it again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here ! " 
 
 " Now lay me down," he said ; " and, Floy, come close 
 to me and let me see you ! " Sister and brother wound 
 their arms around each other, and the golden light came 
 streaming in and fell upon them, locked together. " How 
 fast the river runs between its green banks and the 
 rushes, Floy ! But it's very near the sea. I hear the 
 waves ! They always said so." Presently he told her 
 that the motion cf the boat upon the stream was lulling 
 him to rest. How green the banks were now ! how bright 
 the flowers growing on them ! and how tall the rushes ! 
 Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on ; 
 and now there was a shore before them. Who stood on 
 the bank ? He put his hands together, as he had been 
 used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms 
 to do it ; but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck. 
 
NUMBEK FOUR. 59 
 
 " Mamma is like you, Floy, I know licr by the face ! 
 But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is 
 not divine enough. The light about the head is shining 
 on me as I go ! " 
 
 The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and 
 nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion I 
 The fashion that came in with our first garments, and 
 will last unchanged until our race has run its course, 
 and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The 
 old, old fashion, — death ! Oh, thank God, all who see 
 it, for that older fashion yet, of immortality ! And look 
 upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite 
 estranged when the swift river bears us to the ocean ! 
 
 IN MEMOEY OF CHARLES DICKENS.* 
 Sue M. Remak. 
 As sunset's glow illumed the sea 
 
 One balmy day of June, 
 And golden stars shone o'er the lea 
 
 To greet the rising moon, 
 One light of wondrous brilliancy 
 Went out — alas, how sOon ! 
 
 Great England's son ! His noble name 
 
 She'll proudly call her own,' 
 Exalted on her roll of fame ; 
 
 Yet not her pride alone ; 
 All nations shall his worth proclaim. 
 
 The world his genius own. 
 
 E'( n while his genial heart beat high, 
 Mid friendly smile and cheer, 
 
 An unseen guest was hovering nigh, — 
 Death's shadow drawing near, 
 
 To bear him to his rest on high. 
 From love and labor here. 
 
 O'ershadowed by the angel's wing, 
 
 Unconsciously he lay, 
 Saw not the shaft, felt not the sting. 
 
 But gently passed away ; 
 
 •Diod Junf 9. 1870. 
 
6C 60 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELCCTIOXS 
 
 And while the bells their vespers ring, 
 He gains eternal day. 
 
 " Out with the tide, " his life of love 
 On to the sea shall flow, — 
 
 The boundless sea of God's pure love,^ 
 Nor waves of sorrow know ; 
 
 But share with ransomed souls above 
 Bliss earth could ne'er bestow. 
 
 His name indeed a " Household Word " 
 Through ages now shall be, 
 
 The cheerful sound of "Chimes " be heard 
 Like notes of melody ; 
 
 And "Christmas Carol," word for word, 
 " Keep green his memory." 
 
 Oh ! oould he, with his parting breath, 
 Have whispered what he felt; 
 
 Revealed his earnest thoughts of death 
 To those who near him knelt ; — 
 
 As once he spake, through "lUtle Paul," 
 His dying words might be — 
 
 " How fast the river runs," (for all), 
 
 "It's very near the sea ; " 
 "How green the banks — and rushes tall ; " 
 
 "My mother's face I see;" 
 And then— " thank God!" — above it all 
 
 " For Immortality .' " 
 
 MONSIEUR TONSON. 
 
 There lived, as fame reports, in days of yore, 
 At least some fifty years ago, or more, 
 
 A pleasant wight on town, yclept Tom King, 
 A fellow that was clever at a joke. 
 Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke ; 
 
 In short, for strokes of humor quite the thing. 
 
 To many a jovial club this King was known. 
 With whom his active wit unrivaled shone ; 
 
 Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood, 
 Would crowd his stories and bon-mots to hear, 
 And none a disappointment e'er could fear, 
 
 His humor flowed in such a copious flood. 
 
KUM3E:: FOIB. 61 
 
 To him a frolic was a high delight; 
 
 A frolic he would hunt for, day and night, 
 
 Careless how prudence on the sport might frown. 
 If e'er a pleasant mischief spraag to view, 
 At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew, 
 
 Nor left the game till he had run it down. 
 
 One night, our hero, rambling with a friend, 
 Near famed St. Giles's chanced his course to bend, 
 
 Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight. 
 'Twas silence all around, and clear the coast, 
 The watch, as usual, dozing on his post, 
 
 And scarce a lamp displayed a twinlding light. 
 
 Around tliis place there lived the numerous clans 
 Of honest, plodding, foreign artisans. 
 
 Known at that time by name of refugeea 
 The rod of persecution from their home 
 Compelled tlie inoffensive race to roam. 
 
 And here they lighted, lilte a swarin of bees. 
 
 Well ! pur two friends were sauntering through the street 
 in hopes some food for humor soon to meet. 
 
 When, in a window near, a light they view ; 
 And, though a dim. and melancholy ray. 
 It seemed the prologue to some merry play, 
 
 So towards the gloomy dome our hero drew. 
 
 Straight at the door he gave a thundering knock 
 (The time we may suppose near two o'clock). 
 " I'll ask, " says King, " if Thompson lodges here. " 
 "Thompson," cries t'other, "who the mischiefs he?" 
 " I know not, " King replies, " but want to see 
 What kind of animal will now appear. " , 
 
 After some time a little Frenchman came ; 
 
 One hand displayed a rushlight's trembling flame, 
 
 The other held a thing they called njlotlr; 
 An old striped woolen nightcap graced his head, 
 A tattered waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread ; 
 
 Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note. 
 
 Though thus untimely roused he courteous smiled. 
 And soon addressed our wag in accents mild, 
 
 Bending his head politely to his knee : 
 " Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late ? 
 I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vait ; 
 
 Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me? ' 
 
82 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " Sir, " replied King, " I merely thought to know. 
 As by your house I chanced to-night to go 
 
 (But really, I disturbed your sleep, I fear), 
 I say, 1 thought that you perhaps could tell, 
 Among thefolks who in this quarter dwell, 
 
 If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here? " 
 
 The shivering Frenchman, though not pleased to find 
 The business of this unimportant kind, 
 
 Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer. 
 Shrugged out a sigh that' thus his rest was broke, 
 Then, with unaltered courtesy, he spoke : 
 
 " No, sare, no Monsieur Toason lodges here. " 
 
 Our wag begged pardon, and toward home he spedj 
 AVhile the poor frenchman crawled again to bed. 
 
 But King resolved not thus to drop the jest ; 
 So, the next night, with more of whim than grace, 
 Again he made a visit to the place, 
 
 To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest. 
 
 He knocked,— but waited longer than before ; 
 No footstep seemed approaching to tlie door ; 
 
 Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound. 
 King with the knocker thundered then again. 
 Firm on his post determined to remain ; 
 
 And oft, indeed, he made the door resound. 
 
 At last King hears him o'er the passage creep. 
 Wondering what fiend again disturbed his sleep. 
 
 The wag salutes him with a civil leer ; 
 Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise. 
 While the poor Frenchman rubbed his heavy eyes, 
 
 "Is there — a Mr. Thompson — lodges here?" 
 
 The Frenchman faltered, with a kind of friirht, 
 " \'y, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night 
 
 (And here he labored with a siirh sincere), 
 No Monsieur Tonson in the varld I know. 
 No [Monsieur Tonson here, — I told you so ; 
 
 Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here! " 
 
 Some more excuses tendered, off King goes, 
 
 And the old Frenchman sought once more repoge. 
 
 The rogue next night p\irsued his old career. 
 'Twas long indeed before the man came nigli. 
 And then he uttered, in a piteous cry, 
 
 " Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Toni.jn here ! " 
 
NCMBER FOUR. 63 
 
 Our sportive wight his usual visit paid, 
 
 And the next night came forth a prattling maid, 
 
 Whose tongue, indeed, than any Jack went faster; 
 Anxious, she strove his errand to inquire. 
 He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire, 
 
 He should not stir till he had seen her master. 
 The damsel then began, in doleful state. 
 The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate, 
 
 And begged^ he'd call at proper time of day. 
 King told her she must fetch her master down, 
 A chaise was ready, he was leaving town. 
 
 But tirst had much of deep concern to say. 
 
 Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call, 
 And long, indeed, was slie obliged to bawl, 
 
 I'-re she could rouse the torpid lump of clay. 
 At last he wakes ; he rises ; and ho swears; ' 
 But scarcely had he tottered down the stairs, 
 
 When King attacked him in his usual way. 
 
 The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vaia 
 To his tormentor mildly to comjilain. 
 
 And straight in rage began his crest to rear : 
 " Sare, vat the reason make you treat me so ? 
 Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago. 
 
 And now— I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here !" 
 
 True as the night, King went, and heard a strife 
 Be twcen the harassed Frenchman and his wife, 
 
 ^V'hich would descend to chase the fiend away. 
 At length, to join their forces they agree, 
 And straight impetuously they turn the key, 
 
 Prepared with mutual fury for the fray. 
 
 Our hero, with the firmness of a rock, 
 Collected to receive the mighty shock, 
 
 Uttering the old inquiry, calmly stood. 
 The name of Thompson raised the storm so high, 
 He deemed it then the safest plan to fly. 
 
 With " Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood. " 
 
 In short, our hero, with the same intent. 
 
 Full many a night to plague,the Frenchman went. 
 
 So fond of mischief was the wicked wit. 
 They throw out water; for the watch they call; 
 But King expecting, still escapes from all. 
 
 Monsieur at last was forced his house to quit. 
 2a 
 
64 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE BELECTIO.SS 
 
 It happened that our wag, about this time, 
 
 On some fair prospect sought the Eastern clime; 
 
 Six lingering years were there his tedious lot. 
 At length, content, amid his ripening store. 
 He treads again on Britain's happy shore. 
 
 And his long absence is at once forgot. 
 
 To London, with impatient hope, he flies. 
 And the same night, as former freaks arise. 
 
 He fein must stroll, the well-known haunt to trace. 
 " All ! here's the scene of frequent mirth, " he said ; 
 " My poor old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead. 
 
 Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds the place." 
 
 "With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar. 
 And while he e^er eyes the opening door, 
 
 Lo ! who obeys the knocker's rattling peal ? 
 Why, e'en our little Frenchman, strange to say ! 
 He took his old abode that very day,— 
 
 Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel ! 
 
 Without one thought of the relentless foe, 
 Who fiend-like, haunted him so long ago. 
 
 Just in his former trim he now appears ; 
 The waistcoat and the nightcap seemed the same ; 
 With rushlight, as before, he creeping came. 
 
 And King's detested voice astonished hears. 
 
 As if soihe hideous spectre struck his sight. 
 His senses seemed bewildered with affright. 
 
 His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore ; 
 Then, starting, he exclaimed, in rueful strain, 
 " Begar ! here's Monsieur Tonson come again ! " 
 
 Away he ran, — and ne'er was beard of more. 
 
 ROLL CALL.— N. G. SiiErnERD. 
 
 " Corporal Green ! " the orderly cried ; 
 " Here ! " was the answer, loud and clear, 
 From the lips of the soldier who stood near — 
 
 And "Here ! " was the word the next replied. 
 
 " Cyrus Drew ! " — then a silence fell,— 
 'This time no answer followed the call ; 
 Only his rear-man had seen him fall. 
 
 Killed or wounded, he could not tell. 
 
NUMBER F.OUR. 65 
 
 There they stood in the failing light, 
 These men of battle, with grave dark looks, 
 As plain to be read as open books. 
 
 While slowly gathered the shades of night. 
 
 The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood. 
 And down in the corn where the poppies grew 
 Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; 
 
 And crimson-dyed was the river's Hood. 
 
 For the foe had crossed from the other side 
 That day, in the face of a murderous fire 
 That swept them down in its terriljle ire ; 
 
 And their life-blood went to color the tide^ 
 
 " Herbert Kline ! " At the call there came 
 Two stalwart soldiers into the line, 
 ■ Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, 
 
 Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 
 
 " Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered, " Here ! " 
 
 "Hiram Kerr ! "—but no man replied. 
 
 They were brothers, these two ; the sad winds sighed, 
 And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 
 
 " Ephraim Deane ! "—then a soldier spoke : 
 " Deane carried our regiment's colors, " h» said ; 
 " Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead, 
 
 Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 
 
 " Close to the roadside his body lies ; 
 
 I paused a moment and gave him drink ; 
 
 He murmured his mother's name I think. 
 And death cume with it and closed his eyes." 
 
 'Twas a victory ; yes, but it cost us dear, — 
 For that company's roll, when called at night. 
 Of a hundred men who went into the fight, 
 
 Numbered but twenty that answered, " Here!" 
 
 GOD. — Derzh AVI V 
 
 Tlie foUowino: poeii is a tninslation from the Russian. It has be-^n transla- 
 te 1 into Japanese, by orJer of the emperor, avd is hun^ up, embroidered with 
 gild, in the temple of .Ted'l*. It has also been tr.inslatpd intf» the Chine=i" and 
 Tartar laii^u.hg'^, writtoa on a piece of rich silk, and siisjiended in the ImperiaV 
 palace at i^ekin. 
 
 O thou eternal One ! whose presence bright 
 All space doth occupy, all motion guide ; 
 Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight ; 
 
63 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! 
 
 Being above all beings ! Three-in-one ! 
 
 Whom none can comprehend, and none explore ; 
 
 Who flll'st existence with thyself alone ; 
 
 Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er ; 
 
 Being whom we call God — and know no more ! 
 
 In its sublime research, philosophy 
 May measure out the ocean deep, may count 
 The sands or the sun's rays — but Gud ! for thee 
 There is no weight nor measure ; none can mount 
 Up to thy mysteries. Reason's brig]jtest spark, 
 Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try 
 To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 
 And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, — 
 E'en like past moments in eternity. 
 
 Thou from primeval nothingness didst call. 
 First chaos, then existence ; Lord ! on thee 
 Eternity had its foundation ; all 
 iSprung forth from thee, — of light, joy, harmony, 
 Sole origin ; all life, all beauty, thine. 
 Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
 Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ; 
 Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious, 
 Light-|;iving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 
 
 Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround ; 
 Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath ! 
 Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, 
 And beautifully mingled life and death ! 
 As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, 
 So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from thee, 
 And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
 Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
 Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. 
 
 A million torches lighted by thy hand 
 Wander unwearied through the blue abyss; 
 They own thy power, accomplish thy command, 
 All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
 What shall we call them ? Pyres of crystal light, 
 A glorious company of golden streams. 
 Lamps of celestial ether burning bright, 
 Mins lighting systems with their joyful beams? 
 But thou to these art as the noon to night. 
 
 Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea, 
 All this magnificence in thee is lost ; — 
 Wliat are ten thousand worlds coiiii>ared to tliee? 
 
N U M B E I! F OUR. 07 
 
 And what am I then? .Heaven's unnumbered host, 
 Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
 In all the glory of sublimest thought, 
 Is but an atom in the balance weighed 
 Against thy greatness, — is a cipher brought 
 Against infinity ! What am /then? Naught! 
 Naught ! But the effluence of thy light divine, 
 Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom, too ; 
 Yes, in my spirit doth thy spirit shine. 
 As shin^ the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
 
 Naught ! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly 
 Eager toward thy presence ; for thee 
 I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high 
 Even to the throne of thy divinity. 
 I am, God ! and surely thou must be ! 
 Thou art ! directing, guiding all, thou art ! 
 Direct my understanding then, to thee ; 
 Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; 
 Though but an atom midst immensity. 
 Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand !* 
 I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, 
 On the last verge of mortal being stand, 
 Close to the realm where angels have their birth, 
 Just on the bojindaries of the spirit land ! 
 The chain of being is complete in me; 
 In me is matter's last gradation lost, 
 And the next step is spirit, — Deity ! 
 I can command the lightning and am dust ! 
 A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god ! 
 Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously 
 Constructed and conceived ? Unknown ! this clod 
 Lives surely through some higher energy ; 
 For from itself alone it could not be ! 
 Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and thy word 
 Created me ! Thou source of life and good ! 
 , Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 
 Thy light, thy love, in the bright plenitude, 
 Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
 Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear 
 The garments of eternal day, and wing 
 Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere. 
 Even to its source, to thee, its author there. 
 
 Oh thoughts ineffable ! Oh visions blest ! 
 Though worthless our conception all of thee. 
 Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast. 
 
08 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And waft its homage to thytfleity. 
 tiod ! thus alone my lonely thoughts can soar; 
 Thus seek thy presence — Being, wise and good; 
 Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore; 
 And, when the tongue is eloquent no more, 
 The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 
 
 WHICH COULD I SPARE ?— Frances B. M. Bkotherson. 
 I sometimes wonder, that if death should come. 
 With stealthy tread, unto my happy home. 
 To tell rae, that of those I love so well. 
 One, in his. silent, shadowy realm must dwell; 
 
 No hope, no refuge, from his fatal dart ; 
 Which could I yield him first? oh! loving heart, 
 Which of mine own, my blessed household band 
 Could I resign, though for the better land ? 
 
 Not he to whom my early vows were given. 
 Whose love has made this earth seem like a heaven. 
 Oh, no ! oh, no ! the dark and cheerless tomb 
 May not enclose him with its voiceless gloom ! 
 
 Not she, who first made glad my parent-heart ; 
 Our first to love, of our young life a part; 
 Whose opening bloom has blest us day by day ; 
 
 Death ! I pray thee take not her away. 
 
 Nor him, of noble soul and manners mild, 
 
 Whom one short year we've loved to call our child ; 
 
 Oh, no, not him — that high and loving heart 
 
 1 fain would shield from thy unerring dart. 
 
 Our absent child? oh, no ! destroyer, no! — 
 Near her bright path, I pray thee do not go ; 
 We wait to welcome her around our hearth. 
 And long to listen to her voice of mirth. 
 
 Our fair, young boy, with free and liappy soul, 
 Enjoys the moments that se brightly roll ; 
 I would not see that flashing eye grow dim, 
 Sealed in thy slumbers— ask thou not for him. 
 
 Not my loved parents ! take thou not from me 
 The arms that were my childhood's panoply ; 
 Life would be sad and drear unto their child. 
 Missing the love that o'er my days has smiled. 
 
NUMBEB FOCB. C9 
 
 My own dear brother? no, thy ways pursue; 
 Ye may uot take him— for we are but two; 
 My heart with keenest sorrow would o'erflow, 
 If to the grave this cherished one should go. 
 
 All— all too dear I each golden link so bright- 
 Death ! oast no sliadow on love's rosy light. 
 Father! thou gavest them all -to thee we look; 
 To us the future is a sealed book. 
 
 MRS. CAUDLE URGING THE NEED OF 
 SPRING CLOTHING.— Douglas Jeekold. 
 
 If there's anything in the world I hate, — and you know 
 it,— it 'is; asking you for money. I am sure, for myself, 
 I'd rather go without a thing a thousand times, and I 
 do, the more shame for you to let me. WJiat do I want 
 now f As if you didn't know ! I'm sure, if I'd any money 
 of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing — never ! 
 It's painful to me, gracious knows ! What do you siiy ? 
 If it's painful why go often do itf I suppose you call 
 that a joke, — one of your club-jokes ! As I say, I only 
 wish I'd any money of my own. If there is anything 
 that humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's 
 pocket for every farthing. It's dreadful ! 
 
 Now, Caudle, you shall hear me, for it isn't often I 
 speak. Pray, do you know what month it is ? And did 
 you see how the children looked at church to-day, — like 
 nobody else's children ? What was the matter utith them ? 
 Oh ! Caudle, how can you ask ? Weren't they all in 
 their thick merinoes and beaver bonnets ? What do you 
 say? Whai cfitf What! You'll tell me that you 
 didn't see how the Briggs g^rls, in their new chips, turned 
 their noses up at 'era ? And you didn't see how the 
 Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our poor girls, 
 as much as to say, " Poor creatures ! what figures forthe 
 first of May ? " You didn't see itf The moresharaefor you ! 
 I'm sure, those Briggs girls — ^the little minxes ! — ^put me 
 into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for 
 
70 ONE tlUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 'em over the pew. What do you say ? / ought to be 
 ashamed to own it? Now, Caudle, it's no use talking ; 
 those children shall not cross over the threshold next 
 Sunday if they haven't things for the summer. Now 
 mind — they shan't ; and there's an end of it ! 
 
 Tm always wanting money for clothes f How can you 
 say that? I'm sure there are no children in the world 
 that cost their father so little; but that's it — the less a 
 poor woman does upon, the less she may. Now, Caudle, 
 dear! What a man you are! I know you'll give me 
 the money, because, after all, I think you love your chil- 
 dren, and like to see 'em well dressed. It's only natural 
 that a father should. How much money do I want f Let 
 me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and- Susan, 
 
 and Mary Anne, and What do you say? I needn't 
 
 count' em f You know Iww many there are f That's just the 
 way you take me up ! Well, hoio much money urill it take f 
 Let me see — I'll tell you in a minute. You always love 
 to see the dear things like new pins. I know that. Cau- 
 dle ; and though I say it, bless their little hearts ! they 
 do credit to you, Caudle. 
 
 Mow much? Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I 
 think, with good pinching, — and you know. Caudle, 
 there's never a wife who can pinch closer than I can — 
 I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. 
 What did you say ? Twenty fiddlesticks f What ! You 
 won't give half the money f Very well, Mr. Caudle; I 
 don't care ; let the children go in rags ; let them stop 
 from church, and grow up like heathens and cannibals ; 
 and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be 
 satisfied. What do you say ? Ten pounds enough f Yes, 
 just like you men ; you think things cost nothing fur 
 women ; but you don't care how much you. lay out upon 
 yourselves. They only want frocks and bonnets f How 
 do you know what they want ? How should a man know 
 anything at all about it? And you won't give more 
 than ten pounds? Very well. Then you may go shop- 
 ping with it yourself, and see what you'll make of it ! 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 71 
 
 I'll have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you — no 
 sir ! No ; you've no cause to say that. I don't want to 
 dress jhe children up like countesses ! You often throw 
 that in my teeth, you do ; but you know it's false, Cau- 
 dle; you know it! I only wish to give 'em proper notions 
 of themselves ; and what, indeed, can the poor things 
 think, when they sae the Briggses, the Browns, and the 
 Smiths, — and their fathers dou't make the money you 
 do, CaudleJ — when they see them as fine as tulips ? Why, 
 they must think themselves nobody. However, the twen- 
 ty pounds I will have, if I've any ; or not a farthing ! 
 No, sir ; no, — I don't want to dress up the children like 
 peacocks and parrots ! I only want to make 'em respec- 
 table. What do you say ? You'll give me fifteen pounds? 
 No, Caudle, no, not a penny will I take under twenty. 
 If I did, it would seem as if I wanted to waste your mon- 
 ey ; and I'm sure, when I come to think of it, twenty 
 pounds will hardly do ! 
 
 SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.— W. Hargreaves. 
 
 A fifjure all dirty and ragged. 
 
 Sat on a rickety chair 
 As it rocked itself to and fro — 
 
 'Twas the picture of woe and despair. 
 It rocked, rocked, rocked 
 
 Itself on the chair to and fro, 
 And sang aloud, in a doleful strain. 
 
 This song of grief and woe: 
 
 "Drink — drink — drink ! 
 
 And destroy the vigor of youth ; 
 Drink — drink— drink ! 
 
 And blight all virtue and truth. 
 Better, far better 'twould be 
 
 With the savage and heathen to dwell. 
 Than with swillers of brandy, beer and wine. 
 
 And sink in the drunkard's hell. 
 
 "Drink— drink — drink ! 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim ; 
 Drink— drink — drink ! 
 
 Till eyes are bloodshot and dim ; 
 2a* 
 
72 ONB HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 While all around is drear, 
 And the landlord refuses a drink 
 
 Of burning, fiery rum, to cheer 
 The soul on perdition's brink. 
 
 "Drink — drink — drink ! 
 
 The appetite never flags ; 
 What are its wages ? Beds of straw, 
 
 Want — penury — and rags ; 
 A roofless house, a naked floor; 
 
 No chairs nor tables are there ; 
 A house that's a picture of woe and want, 
 
 With walls all blank and bare. 
 
 " Drink — drink — drink ! 
 
 And waste your precious time; 
 Drink — drink — drink! 
 . Tliough it lead to sin and crime. 
 You never can drown the voice 
 
 Of conscience, if you try. 
 By all the rum ever yet distilled ; 
 
 Nor make God's truth a lie. 
 
 " Oh, moderate drinker, beware I 
 
 The snare of the mocker fly ! 
 Quick dash the poison chalice down, 
 
 Ere the drunkard's death ycu die. 
 My fate is already sealed; 
 
 Repentance comes too late ; 
 Once there was time, but now, alas! 
 
 Tears cannot blot my fate." 
 
 Thus the inebriate sang. 
 
 And rocked on his chair to and fro ; 
 Would that all could liave heard him sing, 
 
 And the pois'nous cup forego ! 
 He gave a shriek, when his song was done. 
 
 And starting up with dread — 
 " Back ! back ! ye fiends ! " he wildly cried. 
 
 Then fell — his spirit had fled. 
 
 Oh, temperate drinker, beware ! 
 
 He that is dead, we know. 
 Once felt as safe— and spoke as loud 
 
 'Gainst intemperance as you ; 
 And yet, died mad with drink, 
 
 Oh, who may his doom foretell? 
 God give us power to banish rum, 
 
 And save all from the drunkard's hell! 
 
N U )I C E n FOUR. 
 
 THE MANIAC. — Matthew Gregory Lewis. 
 
 Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! 
 
 She is not mad who kneels to thee ; 
 For what I'm now too well I know. 
 
 And what I was, and what should be. 
 I'll rave no more in proud despair ; 
 
 My language shall be mild, though sad ; 
 But yet I firmly, truly swear, 
 •T am not mad ; I am not mad ! 
 
 My tyrant husband forged the tale 
 
 Which chains me in this dismal cell; 
 My fate unknown my friends bewail. 
 
 Oh, jailer, haste that fate to tell ! 
 Oh, haste my father's heart to cheer! 
 
 His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad 
 To know, though kept a captive here, 
 
 I am not mad, I am not mad ! 
 
 He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; 
 
 He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; 
 His glimmering lamp still, still I see, — 
 
 'Tis gone ! and all is gloom again. 
 Cold, bitter cold ! — no warmth, no light! 
 
 Life, all thy comforts once I had ; 
 Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night, 
 
 Although not mad ; no, no, — not mad ! 
 
 'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain. 
 
 What! I, the child of rank and wealth, — 
 Am I the wretch who clanks this chain. 
 
 Bereft of freedom, friends,- and health? 
 Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled. 
 
 Which nevermore my heart must glad. 
 How aches my heart, how ^urns my head ; 
 
 But 'tis not mad ; no, 'tis not mad ! 
 
 Hast thou, my child, f<Srgot, ere this, 
 
 A mother's face, a mother's tongue 7 
 She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss. 
 
 Nor round her neck how fast you clung; 
 Nor how with her you sued to stay ; 
 
 Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; 
 Nor how— I'll drive such thoughts away ; 
 
 They'll make me mad ; they'll make mc mad ! 
 
 4 
 
74 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE BI!Li:CTIONS 
 
 His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 
 
 His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone! 
 None ever bore a lovelier child, 
 
 And art thou now forever gone ? 
 And must I never see thee more, 
 
 My pretty, pratty, pretty lad ? 
 I will be free ! unbar the door ! 
 
 I am not mad ; I am not mad ! 
 Oh, hark ! what mean those yells and cries? 
 
 His chain some furious madman breaks ; 
 He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ; 
 
 Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. 
 Help! Help! — He's gone!— Oh, fearful woe, 
 
 Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! 
 My brain, my brain, — I know, 1 know 
 
 1 am not mad, but soon shall be. 
 
 ' Yes, soon ; — for, lo ! yon — while I speak, 
 
 Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare 1 
 He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek, 
 
 He wliirls a serpent high in air. 
 Horror ! the reptile strikes his tooth 
 
 Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; 
 Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; I feel the truth ; 
 
 Your task is done, — I'ji mad ! I'm mad ! 
 
 THE INDIAN CHIEF TO THE WHITE 
 
 SETTLER.— Edward Everett. 
 
 Ihink of the country for which the Indians fought ! 
 Whi) can blame them ? As Philip looked down from 
 his seat on Mount Hope, that glorious eminence, that 
 
 " throne of royal state, which far 
 
 Outshone the wealtli i)f Ormus and of lud, 
 
 Or »vhere the gorgeous East, with richest hand, 
 
 Showei'S ou her kings barbaric pearl and gold, 
 
 as he looked down, and beheld the lovely scene which 
 spread beneath, at the summer sunset, the distant hill-tops 
 glittering as with fire, the slanting beams streaming 
 iicross the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, 
 the majestic forest, — could he be blamed, if his heart 
 burned within him, as he beheld it "all passing, by no 
 
NUMBER ForR. 
 
 tardy process, from beneath his control, into the hands 
 of the stranger ? 
 
 As the river chieftains — the lords of the waterfalls 
 and the mountains — ranged tiiis lovely valley, can it be 
 wondered at, if they beheld with bitterness the forest 
 disappearing beneath the settler's axe, the fishing-place 
 disturbed by his saw-mills ? Can we not fancy the feel- 
 ings with which some strong-minded savage, the chief of 
 tlie Pocomtuck Indians, who having ascended the sum- 
 mit of the Sugar-loaf Mountain (rising as it does before 
 us, at this moment, in all its loveliness and grandeur,) 
 in company with a friendly settler, contemplating the 
 progress already made by the white man, and mark- 
 ing the gigantic strides with which he was advancing 
 into the wilderness, should fold his arms and say : 
 
 " White man, there is eternal war between me and 
 thee ! I quit not the land of my fathers, but with my 
 life. In those woods, where I bent my youthful bow, I 
 will still hunt the deer ; over yonder waters I will still 
 glide, unrestrained, in my bark canoe. By those dash- 
 ing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food ; 
 on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn. 
 
 " Stranger, the land is mine ! I understand not these 
 paper rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou sayest, 
 these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, 
 of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs ; they 
 could sell no more. How could my father sell that 
 which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live 
 upon ? They knew not what they did. 
 
 " The stranger came, a timid suppliant, — few and fee- 
 ble, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear-skin, 
 and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little 
 piece of land to raise corn for his women and children ; 
 and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and 
 spreads out his parchments over the whole, and says, 'It 
 is mine.' 
 
 " Stranger ! there is not room for us both. The Great 
 Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison 
 
76 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SCLCC'lIONS 
 
 in the white man's cup ; the white man's dog barks at 
 the red man's heels. If I should leave the land of my 
 fathers whither shall I fly ? Shall I go to the south, 
 and dwell among the graves of the Pequots ? Shall I 
 wander to the west, the fierce Mohawk, the man eater, 
 is my foe. Shall I fly to the east, the great water is 
 before me. No, stranger ; here I have lived, and here 
 I will die ; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war 
 between me and thee. 
 
 " Thou hast taught rae thy arts of destruction ; for 
 that alone I thank thee. And now take heed to thy steps ; 
 the red man is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day, 
 my bullet shall whistle past thee ; when thou liest down 
 by night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun 
 shall not discover thy enemy, and the darkness of mid- 
 night shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in 
 terror, and I will reap in blood ; thou shalt sow the 
 earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes ; thou 
 ' shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after 
 with the scalping-knife ; thou shalt build, and I will 
 burn, — till the white man or the Indian perish from the 
 land. Go thy way for this time in safety ; but remem- 
 ber, stranger, there is eternal wcir between me and thee." 
 
 EARLY RISING. -John G. Saxe. 
 
 " God btess the man who first invented sleep !" 
 So Sancho Panza said, and so say I ; 
 
 And bless him, also, that he didn't keep 
 His great discovery to himself, nor try 
 
 To make it — as the lucky fellow might — 
 
 A close monopoly by patent-i^ight ! 
 
 Yes, — bless the man who first invented sleep, 
 (I really can't avoid the iteration ;) 
 
 But blast the man with curses loud and deep, 
 Whate'er the rascal's name or age or station, 
 
 Who first invented, and went round advising, 
 
 That artificial cut-ofi', — early rising ! 
 
NUMBKE FOUR. 77 
 
 " Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," 
 Observes some solemn, sentimental owl; 
 
 Maxims like these are very cheaply said ; 
 But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, 
 
 Pray just inquire about his' rise and fall, 
 
 And whether larks have any beds at all ! 
 
 The time for honest folks to be abed 
 
 Is in the morning, if I reason right ; 
 And he who cannot keep his precious head 
 
 iTpon his pillow till it's fairly light, 
 And so enjoy his forty morning winks. 
 Is up to knavery, or else — he drinks ! 
 
 Thomson, who sung about the " Seasons," said 
 It was a glorious thing to rise in season ; 
 
 But then he said it — lying — in his bed. 
 At ten o'clock a. m., — the very reason 
 
 He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is. 
 
 His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice. 
 
 'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake, — 
 
 Awake to duty, and awake to truth, — 
 But when, alUs 1 a nice review we take 
 
 Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, 
 The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep 
 Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep ! 
 
 'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile 
 For the soft visions of the gentle night ; 
 
 And free, at last, from mortal care or guile. 
 To live as only in the angels' sight. 
 
 In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in. 
 
 Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin ! 
 
 So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. 
 
 I like the lad who, when his father thought 
 To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase 
 
 Of vagrant worm by early songster caught. 
 Cried, "Served him right!— it's not at all surprising; 
 The worm was punished, sir, for early rising 1 " 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S TOAST. 
 
 The feast is o'er ! Now brimming wine 
 In lordly cup is seen to shine 
 Before each eager guest ; 
 
ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And silence fills the crowded hall, 
 As deep as when the herald's call 
 Thrills in the loyal breast. 
 
 Then up arose the noble host, 
 
 And smiling cried : " A toast ! a toast ! 
 
 To all our ladies fair ! 
 Here before all, I pledge the name 
 Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame,- 
 
 The Ladye Gundamere 1 " 
 
 Then to his feet each gallant sprung. 
 And joyous was the shout that rung, 
 
 As Stanley gave the word ; 
 And every cup was raised on high. 
 Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry, 
 
 Till Stanley's voice was heard. 
 
 " Enough, enough, " he smiling said, 
 And lowly bent his haughty head ; 
 
 " That all may have their due. 
 Now each in turn must play his part. 
 And pledge the lady of his heart. 
 
 Like gallant knight and. true ! " 
 
 Then, one by one, each guest sprang up. 
 And drained in turn the brimming cup, 
 
 And named the loved one's name; 
 And each, as hand on high he raised, 
 His lady's grace or beauty praised, 
 
 Her constancy and fame. 
 
 'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise ; 
 
 On him are fixed those countless eyes ; 
 
 A gallant knight is he ; 
 Envied by some, admired by all. 
 Far famed in lady's bower, and hall, — 
 
 The flower of chivalry. 
 
 St. Leon raised his kindling eye, 
 And lifts the sparkling cup on high: 
 
 " I drink to one, " he said, 
 " Whose image never may depart. 
 Deep graven on this grateful heart, 
 
 Till memory be dead ; 
 
 " To one, whose love for me shall last. 
 When lighter passions long have passed,— 
 So holy 'tis and true ; 
 
NU.MIIEn FOUR. '/S 
 
 To one whose love hath longer dwelt, 
 More deeply fixed, more keenly felt. 
 Than any pledged by you." 
 
 Each guest upstarted at the word. 
 And laid a hand upon his sword, 
 
 With fury flashing eye ; 
 And Stanley said : " We crave the name, 
 Proud knight, of this most peerless dame 
 
 Whose love you count so high." 
 
 9 
 
 St. Leon paused, as if he would 
 
 Not breathe her name in careless mood, 
 
 Thus lightly to another; 
 Then bent his noble head, as though 
 To give that word the reverence due. 
 
 And gently said : " My mother I " 
 
 LADY CL.VRE.— Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 It was the time when lilies blow. 
 
 And clouds are highest up in air, 
 Lord Ronald brought alily-white doe 
 
 To give his cousin. Lady Clare. 
 
 I trow they did not part in scorn ; 
 
 Lovers long-betrothed were thej' ; 
 They two will wed the morrow morn ; 
 
 God's blessing on the day ! 
 
 " He does not love me for my birth, 
 Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 
 
 He loves me for my own true worth. 
 And that is well," said Lady Oare. 
 
 In. there came old Alice, the nurse. 
 Said, " Who was this that went from thee? " 
 
 " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
 " To-morrow he weds with me." 
 
 "Oh, God be thanked," said Alice, the nurse, 
 " That all comes round so just and fair. 
 
 Lord Ronald is heir .of all your lands. 
 And you are not the Lady Clare." 
 
 " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?" 
 Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " 
 
80 ONE IIUNDBED CHOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 " As God's above," said Alice, the nurse, 
 " I speak tlie trutJi ; you are my child. 
 
 "The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; 
 
 I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
 1 buried her like my own sweet child. 
 
 And put my child in her stead." 
 
 " Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
 Oh, mother," she said ; " if this be true. 
 
 To keep the best man under the sun 
 So many years from his due." 
 
 " Nay now, my child," said Alice, the nurse, 
 " But keep the secret for your life, 
 
 And all yoii have will be Lord Ronald's, 
 When you are man and wife." 
 
 " If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
 " 1 will speak out, for I dare not lie. 
 
 Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold. 
 And fling the diamond necklace by." 
 
 " Nay now, my child," said Alice, the nurse, 
 " But keep the secret all ye can." 
 
 She said, " Not so ; but I will know 
 If there be any faith in man." 
 
 "Nay now, -what faith?" said Alice, the nurse, 
 " The man will cleave unto his right." 
 
 "And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
 " Though I should die to-night." 
 
 " Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 
 
 Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." 
 " Oil, mother, mother, mother," she said, 
 
 " So strange it seems to rae." 
 
 " Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 
 
 My mother dear, if this be so. 
 And lay your hand upon my head, 
 
 And bless me, mother, ere I go." 
 
 She clad herself in a russet gown. 
 She was no longer Lady Clare ; 
 
 She went by dale, and she went by down, 
 With a single rose in her hair. 
 
 The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 
 Leapt up from where she lay. 
 
NUMBEH POUR. 81 
 
 Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 
 And followed her all the way. 
 
 Do^y-n stept Lord Ronald from his tower ; 
 
 " Oh, Lady Clare, you shaine your worlh ! 
 Why come you drest like a village maid. 
 
 That are the flower of the earth ? " 
 
 " If I come drest like a village maid, 
 
 I am but as my fortunes a^e : 
 I am a beggar born," she said, 
 
 " And not the Lady llare." 
 
 " Play me no tricks," said Loi« Ronald, 
 " For 1 am youis in word and in deed. 
 
 Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald. 
 " Your riddle is hard to read." ^ 
 
 Oh and proudly stood she up ! 
 
 Her heart within her did not fail ; 
 She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes. 
 
 And told him all her nurse's tale. 
 
 He laughed ti laugh of merry scorn ; 
 
 He turned and kissed her where she stood : 
 " If you are not the heiress born, 
 
 And I," said he, " the next in blood,— 
 
 " If you are not the hsiress born, 
 
 And I, " said he, ''the lawful heir, 
 We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
 
 And you shall still be Lady Clare." 
 
 LOSS OF THE ARCTIC— Henry Vy'ard Beecher. 
 
 It was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way 
 from pilgrimages, — from Rome and its Ireasures of dead 
 art, and its glory of living nature ; from the sides of Ihe 
 Switzer's mountains, and from the capitals of various 
 nations, — all of them saying in their hearts. We will wait 
 for the September gales to have done with their equinoc- 
 tial fury, and then we will embark ; we will slide across 
 the appeased ocean, and in the gorgeous month of Octo- 
 ber we will greet our longed-for native land, and our 
 heart-loved homes. 
 
82 ONE IIUN'DRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And SO the throng streamed along from ;Berlin, from 
 Paris, from the Orient, converging upon ■ London, still 
 hastening toward the welcome ship, and narrowing every 
 day the circle of engagements and preparations. They 
 crowded aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a 
 h )st of passengers, nor passengers so nearly related to 
 s 1 many of us. The hour was come. The signal-ball 
 fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. The 
 anchors were weighed ; the great hull swayed to the" cur- 
 rent ; the national colors streamed abroad, as if them- 
 salves instinct witl' life and nati)uj,l sympathy. The 
 bell strikes ; the wheels revolve ; the signal-gun beats 
 its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and 
 the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and 
 turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her 
 homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men 
 saw him. Daath sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld 
 him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage. 
 Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew 
 it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his 
 errand. 
 
 And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported 
 itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the in- 
 conveniences of the voyage, there was still that which 
 hushed qvery murmur, — " Horn? is not far away.'' And 
 every morning it was still one night nearer home ! Eight 
 days h id passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist 
 that forover haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland. 
 Boldly they made it ; and plunging in, its pliant wreaths 
 wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The 
 last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voy- 
 age is done for ship and passengers. At noon there came 
 noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument 
 of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast at- 
 mosphere of mist, both steamers were holding their way 
 with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible. 
 
 At a league's distance, unconscious ; and at nearer 
 approach, unwarned ; within hail, and bearing right to- 
 
NUMBER POUR. 83 
 
 ward each other, unseen, uufeU, till in a moment more, 
 emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt 
 her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was 
 scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled 
 nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers deemed 
 that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, 
 the brave Luce (let his name "be ever spoken with admi- 
 ration apd respect!) ordered away his boat with the first 
 officer to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As 
 Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, that some good 
 angel had called to the brave commandjr in the words 
 of Paul on a like occasion, " Except these abide in the 
 ship, ye cannot be saved." 
 
 They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, 
 for now the waters gaining upon the hold, and rising 
 upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh, had now 
 that stern, brave mate, Gourley, baen on deck, whom 
 the sailors were wont to mind, had he stood to execute 
 sufficiently the commander's will, — we may believe that 
 we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and 
 recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. 
 But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence 
 of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, 
 that ignoble mob of fireman, engineers, waiters, and crew, 
 rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, 
 children, and men, to the mercy of the deep ! Four hours 
 there were from the catastrophe of collision to the catas- 
 trophe of SINKIKG ! 
 
 Oh, what a burial was here ! Not as when one is borne 
 from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently car- 
 ried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the 
 turf and flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial- 
 service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone-shroud- 
 ed the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor 
 sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they 
 sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out 
 every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been. 
 
84 ONE nUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE IRISH PICKET.— Orpheus C. Kerh* 
 
 I'm shtandin' in the mud, Biddy, 
 
 Wid not a spalpeen near, 
 An' silence, spaichless as the grave. 
 
 Is all the sound I bear. 
 Me gun' is at a " showldher arms,'' 
 
 I'm wetted to the bone. 
 An' whin I'm afther shpakin' out, 
 
 I find meself alone. 
 
 This Southern climate's quare, Biddy, 
 
 A quare and bastely thing, 
 Wid winter absint all the year. 
 
 And summer in the spring. 
 Ye mind the hot place down below ? 
 
 And may ye niver fear 
 I'd dhraw comparisons— but then 
 
 It's awful warrum here. 
 
 The only moon I see, Biddy, 
 
 Is one shmall star, asthore. 
 An' that's forninst the very cloud 
 
 It was behind before ; 
 The watchfires glame along the hill, 
 
 That's swellin' to the south ; 
 An' whin the sintry passes thim 
 
 I see his oogly mouth. 
 
 It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy, 
 
 And drhamin' shwate I'd be, 
 If thim owld rebels over there 
 
 Would only lave me free ; 
 But when I lane against a shtump. 
 
 An' shtrive to get repose, 
 A musket ball be's comin' shtraight 
 
 To hit me spacious nose. 
 
 It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy, 
 
 A shparkin' here wid me. 
 And thin, avourneen, hear ye say, 
 
 " Acushla, Pat, machree ! " 
 "Och, Biddy, darlint," thin says I, 
 
 Says you, " Get out of that," 
 Says I, " Me arrum mates your waist," 
 
 Says you, " Be daycint, Pat." 
 
 *B. H. Newcli., 
 
NUMDKU POUR. 
 
 An' how's the pigs, and ducks, Biddy? 
 
 It's thiin I thinlc of, shure. 
 That loolced so innosint and shwate 
 
 Upon the parlor flure ; 
 I'm sure you're aisy with the pig, 
 
 That's fat as he can be, 
 An' fade him wid the best, because 
 
 I'm towld he looks like me. 
 
 Y^hin I come home agin, Biddy, 
 
 A sargint tried and thrue. 
 It's joost a daycint house I'll build. 
 
 And rint it chape to you; 
 We'll have a parlor, bed-room, hall, 
 
 A duck-pond nately done. 
 With kitchen, pig-pen, pratey-patch. 
 
 An' garret — all in one. 
 
 But, murther ! there's a baste, Biddy, 
 
 That's crapin' round a tree. 
 An' well 1 know the crathur'a there, 
 
 To have a shot at me. 
 Now, Misther Rebel, say yer prayers, 
 
 And howld yer dirthy paw. 
 Here goes ! — ^be jabers, Biddy, dear, 
 
 I've broke his oogly jaw 1 
 
 "AH-GOO! "-Charles Foli.en Adams. 
 
 Vot vas id mine baby vas trying to say. 
 Yen I goes to bees crib at der preak of der day ? 
 Und oudt vrom der planket peeps ten leedle toes. 
 So pink und so shveet as der fresh plooming rose, 
 Und twisting und curling dhemselves all aboudt, 
 Shust like dbey vas saying : " Ve vant to get oudt ! " 
 Vhile dot baby looks oup, mit dhose bright eyes soplue, 
 Und don'd could say nodings; shust only: " Ab goo!" 
 
 Vot vos id mine baby vas dinking aboudt, 
 \'hen dot thumb goes so qvick in hees shveet leedle mout', 
 Und he looks right avay like he no undershtandt 
 Der reason he don'd could quite shvallow hees handt ; 
 Und he digs mit dhose Angers righdt intp hees eyes, 
 Vhich fills hees oldt fader mit fear und surbrise ; 
 Und vhen mit dhose shimnasdic dricks he va« droo, 
 FTe lay back und crow, und say nix budt: " Ah-gool " 
 
86 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Vot makes dot shmall baby shmile vhen he's asbleep; 
 Does he diuk he vas blaying mit some von, "bopeep?" 
 Der nurse say dbose shmiles vas der sign he haf colic — 
 More like dot fie dhreams he vas hafing some frolic ; 
 I feeds dot oldt nurse mit creeii abbles some day, 
 Und dhen eef she shraile.s, I pelieT vot she say ; 
 Vhen dot baby got cramps he find someding to do 
 Oxcept shmile, und blay, und keep oup hees: " Ab-goo! " 
 
 I ask me, somodimes, vhen I looks in dot crib : 
 " Vill der shirdt-frondt, von day, dake der blace oflf dot b'.b.' 
 Vill dot plue-cyud baby, dot's pooling mine hair. 
 Know all vot 1 knows aboiiilt drouble und care? " 
 Dhen I dink off dyr vorldt, mit its pride und its sins, 
 Und I vish dot minesclf und dot baby vas tvins, 
 Und all der day long I haf nodings to do 
 Budt shust laugh und crow, und keep saying : " Ah-goo I " 
 
 — Youtli's Companion. 
 
 BATTLE OF FONTENOY.— Thomas Davis. 
 May 11th, 1743. 
 
 Uiion the death of Tharles VI., Emperor of Austria, in 1740, his daughter 
 3Inria Tl eresiii tliticuvcred tlmf the si>Vf'r(*igns of Kurope, instead of heing true 
 to their uatha and to her, niinlr immediati' chiims upon her territories, and pre- 
 l)ared to enfuret; them hy npi'ii liustiliti 'S. It) a short time tlie question became 
 a European quarrel, to b- (iettl-'d only by tli ■ doubtful isaiieof war. Louis XV. 
 of Ki, trice and FrediTick the Gie.it opposi'il h-r. whilst Knghind, Holland, Hun- 
 gary, Bavaria, and Hanover, aided iier in the protection of those rights which 
 liad been guaranteed to her. In prosecution of tliiswar, an armyof 79,000 men, 
 commanded by M;ii-sh,il Saxe, and euLOurat!;ed liy the presence of both king and 
 dauphin, lai i sifge to Tourn;iy, early in May, ITi-'t. The Duke of Cumberhind 
 advanced at the lu'rtd of 5S,000 men, cliit'fly English and Dutch, to relieve the 
 town. After a fearful and bloody battle, terribly disastrous to both sides, Louis 
 vv;w about to leavp the liolii. In this juncture S;ixe ordered up his l;uit reserve 
 - the Irish Brigade. It consisted that day of the regiments of Clare, Lally, 
 Dillon, Berwioh, Both, and Buckley with Fit/. James's horae. O'Bripn, Loi-d 
 ri;ur, was in command. Aided by the French rcjiinients of Normandy and 
 V,ii:5-.eany, they wfic ordered to charge upon the Hank of the English with fixed 
 bayuints, without firing. Upon the apjiroach of this splendid body of men, the 
 Kntxli-^h wore halted on the slope of a hill, and up that slope the brigade rushed 
 rii[Mdly and in fine order. "Thoy were led 1o immediate action, and the stimu- 
 lating cry of 'i'uimhiiiriidh ar Luiinneac atjm ar fhcile na Sacsanach,' (Remember 
 Limerick and British faith,) was re-echoed from man to man. The fortune of 
 the field was no longer doubtful, and victory the most decisive crowned the 
 arms of France " The capture of Ghent, Bruges, Ostend, and Oudenarde 
 followed the victory of Fimtenoy. 
 
 Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed 
 And, twice, the lines of 8aint Antoine, the Dutch in vain 
 
 assailed ; 
 For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battorv 
 And well they swept tiie English ranks, and Dutch auxiliarv. 
 
NUMBER POCE. 87 
 
 As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst, 
 The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dis- 
 persed. 
 The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, 
 And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. 
 On Fonteno5', on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride ! 
 And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at even- 
 tide. 
 
 Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread; 
 
 Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their 
 head; 
 
 Steady they step ado wn the slope ; steady they climb the h il 1 ; 
 
 Stead J' they load ; steady they fire, moving right onwardstill ; 
 
 Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, 
 
 Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets shower- 
 ing fast ; 
 
 And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course. 
 
 With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile 
 force — 
 
 Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their 
 ranks. 
 
 They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's 
 ocean banlw. 
 
 More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush 
 
 round ; 
 is stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the 
 
 ground ; 
 Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they 
 
 marched and fired; 
 Fast from each volley, grenadier and voltigcur retired. 
 " Push on, my household cavalry ! " King Louis madly cried ; 
 To death they rush, but rude their shock— not unavenged 
 
 they died. 
 On through the camp the column trod. King Louis turns 
 
 his rein : 
 " Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, " the Irish troops re- 
 main ; " 
 And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, 
 Were not these exiles ready then,— fresh, vehement, and 
 
 true. 
 
 " Lord Clare, " he says, " you have your wish, there are your 
 
 Saxon foes!" 
 The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes ! 
 How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so 
 
 gay. 
 The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day,— 
 
 2b 
 
83 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could 
 dry, 
 
 Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women s 
 parting cry. 
 
 Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country 
 overthrown, — 
 
 Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. 
 
 On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere. 
 
 Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles 
 were. 
 
 O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, 
 
 "Fix bay'nets — charge!" Like mountain-storm, rush ou 
 these fiery bands. 
 
 This is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, 
 
 Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gal- 
 lant show. 
 
 They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle 
 wind, — 
 
 Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like rocks, the men be- 
 hind! 
 
 One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surg- 
 ing smoke, 
 
 AVith empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong 
 Irish broke. 
 
 On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza I 
 
 " Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the Sacsanagh !" 
 
 Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang. 
 
 Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang ; 
 
 Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled 
 with gore; 
 
 Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled 
 flaws they tore ; 
 
 The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, 
 staggered, fled, — 
 
 The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. 
 
 Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack, 
 
 While cavalier and ftntassin dash in upon their track. 
 
 On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun. 
 
 With bloody plumes the Irish stand— the field is fought and 
 
 "THE IRISH BRIGADE" AT FONTENOY. 
 Bartholome\v DOWI.ING. 
 By our camp fires rose a murmur. 
 
 At the dawning of the day. 
 And the tread of many footsteps 
 Spoke the advent of the fray ; 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 80 
 
 And as we took our places, 
 
 Few and stern were our words, 
 While some were tightening horse-girths, 
 
 And some were girding swords. 
 
 The trumpet blast has sounded 
 
 Our footmen to array ; 
 The willing steed has bounded, 
 
 Impatient for the fray ; 
 The green flag is unfolded, 
 
 yVhile rose the cry of joy. 
 "Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner, 
 
 To-day at Fontenoy." 
 
 We looked upon that banner. 
 
 And the memory arose 
 Of our homes and perished kindred, 
 
 Where the Lee or Shannon flows ; 
 We looked upon that banner, 
 
 And we swore to God on high, 
 To smite to-day the Saxon's might. 
 
 To conquer or to die. 
 
 Loud swells the charging trumpet, — 
 
 'Tis a voice from our own land ; 
 God of battles, God of vengeance, 
 
 Guide to-day the patriot's brand ; 
 There are stains to wash away; 
 
 There are memories to destroy, 
 In the best blood of the Briton 
 
 To-day at Fontenoy. 
 
 Plunge deep the fiery rowels 
 
 In a thousand reeking flanks, — 
 Down, chivalry of Ireland, 
 
 Down on the British ranks! 
 Now shall their serried columns 
 
 Beneath our sabres reel, 
 Through their ranks, then, with the war-horse ; 
 
 Through their bosoms with the steel. 
 
 With one shout for good King Louis, 
 
 And the fair land of the vine, 
 Like the wrathful Alpine tempest. 
 
 We swept upon their line ; 
 Then rang along the battle-field 
 
 Triumphant our hurrah, 
 
9U ONB HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And we smote them down, still cheering, 
 "Erin, tlanthagal go bragh." * 
 
 As prized as is the blessing 
 
 From an aged father's lip. 
 As welcome as the haven 
 
 To the tempest-driven ship. 
 As dear as to the lover 
 
 The smile of gentle maid, — 
 Is this day of long-sought vengeance 
 
 To the swords of the Brigade. 
 
 See their shattered forces flying, 
 
 A broken, routed line ; 
 See, England, what brave laurels 
 
 For your brow to-day we twine. 
 Oh, thrice blest the hour that witnessed 
 
 The Briton turn to flee 
 From the chivalry of Erin, 
 
 And France's "fleur de lis." 
 
 As we lay beside our camp fires, 
 
 When the sun had passed away. 
 And thought upon our brethren. 
 
 Who had perished in the fray, — 
 We prayed to God to grant us, 
 
 And then we'd die with joy. 
 One day upon our own dear land 
 
 Like this of Fontenoy. 
 
 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 
 F. M. Whitchek. 
 
 Yes, — he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe- 
 leather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 
 'twas Poll Bingham), she says, I never found it out till 
 after he died, but that's the consarndest lie that ever was 
 told, though it's jest a piece with everything else she says 
 about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I 
 writ to his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set 
 store by him. Want to hear it ? Well, I'll see if I can 
 say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully. sennis to bar- 
 
 ^IrehiiKl, thf bright toast fme^ei-. 
 
N U M B E I! F O U n. 91 
 
 rer up my feelin's, — but I'll try. Dident know I ever 
 writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on't; 
 huint so much late years. I remember once when Par- 
 son Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheese, 
 and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. It says : 
 
 Teach him for to proclaim 
 
 Salvation to the folks ; 
 No occasion give for any blame, 
 ' Nor wicked people's jokes. 
 
 An' so it goes on, but I g.uess I wont stop to say the 
 rest on't now, seein' there's seven and forty verses. 
 
 Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased 
 with it ; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddam. But I 
 was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband ; 
 it begins as foUers : 
 
 He never jawed in all his life, 
 
 He never was onkind; 
 And (tho' I say it that was his wife,) 
 
 Such men you seldom find. 
 
 That's as true as the Scripturs ; I never knowed him to 
 say a harsh word. 
 
 I never changed my single lot, 
 I thought 'twould be a sin — 
 
 Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a 
 chance. Now 'taint for me to say whether I ever had 
 a numerous number o' chances or not, but there's them 
 livin' that might tell 'if they wos a mind to ; why, this 
 poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major 
 Coon, three year after husband died. I guess the giner- 
 ality o' folks knows what wos the nature o' Major Coon's 
 feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Mias Jinkins does 
 say I tried to ketch him. The fact is. Miss Coon feels 
 wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her 
 " Jack at a pinch," — seein' he couldent get such as he 
 wanted, he took such as he could get — but I goes on to say : 
 
 I never changed my single lot, 
 
 I thought 'twould be a sin, — 
 For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, 
 
 I never got married agin. 
 
82 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 If ever a hasty word he spoke, 
 
 His anger dident last, 
 But vanished like tobacker smoke 
 
 Afore the wintry blast. 
 
 And since it was my lot to be 
 
 The. wife of such a man, 
 Tell the men that's after me 
 
 To ketch me if they can. 
 
 If I was sick a single jot, 
 He called the doctor in — 
 
 That's a fact ; he used to be scairt to death if anything 
 ailed me. Now only jest think, — widder Jinkins told 
 Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she 
 guessed dlie deacon dident set no great store by me, or 
 he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was 
 down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git 
 along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went 
 to confrence meetin', and when he wa'n't there, who was 
 ther', pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if 
 husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, 
 and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all 
 came onto Deacon Bedcjtt, — and he was always ready and 
 willin' to do his duty, you know. As long as he was able 
 to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence 
 meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he 
 couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine 
 of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a 
 man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin, so you see 
 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, 
 whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But 
 where was I? Oh! — 
 
 If I was sick a single jot, 
 
 He called the doctor in ; 
 I sot so much store bv Deacon Bedott 
 
 I never got married agin. 
 
 A wonderful tender heart he had, 
 
 That felt for all mankind ; 
 It made him feel amazin' bad 
 
 To see the world so blind. 
 
 Whisky and rum he tasted not — 
 
NUMUKK FOUR. 93 
 
 That's as true as the Scripture ; but if you'll believe it, 
 Betsy, Ann Kunipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins 
 said one day to their house, how't she'd seen Deacon Be- 
 dott high, time and agin ! Did you ever ! Well, I'm glad 
 nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've 
 knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowcd 
 how to speak the truth, — besides she always had a per- 
 tikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us 
 tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make 
 it a pint never to say uothin' to injure nobody. Well, 
 she was a ravin'-distra«ted after my husband herself, but 
 it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, 
 and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally 
 runnin' me down. See, — where had I got to ? Oh, I 
 remember now : 
 
 Whisky and rum he tasted not, 
 
 He thought it was a, sin; 
 I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott 
 
 I never got ooarried agin. 
 
 But now he's dead ! the tho'ugjit is killiu', 
 
 My grief I can't control — 
 He never left a single shillin' 
 
 His widder to console. 
 
 But thai wa'n't his fault, — he was eo out o' health for a 
 number o' year afore he died, it aiat to be wondered at he 
 dident lay up nothin; however, it dident give him no 
 great oneasiness. He never cared much for airthly riches, 
 though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins 
 say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back, 
 — begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his 
 house! did you ever! why, he was the'hull-souldest man 
 I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband 
 as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neigh- 
 bcrs' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to 
 git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high 
 temper, — used to swear like all possests when he got mad, 
 — and I've heard my husband say (and he wa'n't a man 
 that ever said anything that wa'n't true), — I've heard 
 him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of 
 
94 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELrCTIOiS'S 
 
 his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I ? Oh ! 
 " His widder to console," — thcr aint but one more verse, 
 'taint a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read 
 it, he says to me, says he, " What did you stop so soon 
 for?" — but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought 
 I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun ; she's a purty critter 
 to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry o' 
 harn, I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n 
 iiil that, she said there wa'u't a word o' truth in the hull 
 on't, — said 1 never cared tuppence for the deacon. 
 What an everlastin' lie! Why, when he died, I took it 
 so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell, they 
 was afraid they sliould have to send me to a Lunattic 
 Arsenal. But tliat's a painful subject, I wont dwell on't. 
 I conclude as fi)llers : 
 
 I'll never chancre my single lot, 
 
 I think 'twould be a sin ; 
 The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott 
 
 Don't intend to get married agin. 
 
 Excuse my cryin' — my feelin's always overcomes me 'So 
 when I say that poitry — O-o-a-o-o-a! 
 
 CAOCH THE PIPKR.— J. Keegan. 
 
 One winter's day, long, long ago. 
 
 When I was a little fellow, 
 A piper wandered to our door, 
 
 Gray-headed, blind, and yellow; 
 And, oh ! how glad was -my young heart, 
 
 Though, earth and sky looked dreary. 
 To see the stranger and his dog, — 
 
 Poor" Knoh " and Caoch (yLeary. 
 
 And when he stowed away his bag, 
 Cross-barred with green and yellow, 
 
 1 thought and said, " In Ireland's ground. 
 There's not so fine a fellow." 
 
 And tineen Burke and Shane M^ee, 
 And Eily, Kate, and Mary, 
 
NUMBEU FOUR. 95 
 
 jrlushed in, with panting haste to see, 
 And welcome Caoch O'Leary. 
 
 Oh ! God be with those happy times. 
 
 Oh ! God be with my childhood. 
 When I, bare-lieaded, roamed all day, 
 
 liird-nestinj; in the wild-wood. 
 I'll not forget those sunny hours, 
 . However years may vary ; 
 I'll not forget my early friends, 
 
 N(Jr honejt Caoch O'Leary. 
 
 Poor Caoch and " Pinch " slept well that nijrtii 
 
 And in the morning early, 
 He called me up to hear him play, 
 
 "The wind that shakes the barley." 
 And then he stroked my flaxen hair, 
 
 And cried, " God mark my deary !" 
 And how I wept when he said "Farewell, 
 
 And think of Caoch O'Leary." 
 
 And seasons came and went, and still 
 
 Old Caoch was not forgotten. 
 Although I thought him " dead and gone" 
 
 And in the cold clay rotten. 
 And often when I walked and danced 
 
 Witli Eily, Kate, and Mary, 
 We spoke of childhood's rosy hours, 
 
 And prayed for Caoch O'Leary. 
 
 Well, — twenty summers had gone past, 
 
 And June's red sun was sinking, 
 When I, a man, sat by my door, 
 
 Of twenty sad things thinking. 
 A little dog came up the way. 
 
 His gait was slow and weary, 
 And at his tail a lame man limped, — 
 
 'Twas " Pinch " and Caoch O'Leary ! 
 
 Old Caoch ! but ah, how woe-begone 1 
 
 His form is bowed and bending. 
 His fleshless hands are stiflf and wan, 
 
 Ay, — Time is even blending 
 The colors on his thread-bare bag. 
 
 And "Pinch " is twice as hairy 
 And " thin-spare " as when first I saw 
 
 Himself and Caoch O'Leary. 
 
96 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 " God's blessing here, " the wanderer cried, 
 
 '■Far, far, be hell's black viper; 
 Does anybody hereabouts 
 
 Remember Caoch the Piper?" 
 With swelling heart I grasped his hand ; 
 
 The old man murmured " Deary ' 
 Are you the silky-headed child, 
 
 That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," I said — the wanderer wept 
 
 As if his heart was breaking. 
 "And where, a vkk machree," he sobbed, 
 
 " Is all the merry-making 
 I found here twenty years ago?" 
 
 " My tale," I sighed, " might weary. 
 Enough to say there's none but me 
 
 To welcome Caoch O'Leary." 
 
 " Vo, Vo, Vo! " the old man cried, 
 
 And wrung his hands in sorrow, 
 " Pray lead me in, asthore machree, 
 
 And I'll go home to-morrow. 
 My ' peace is made ' — I'll calmly leave 
 
 This world so cold and dreary. 
 And you shall keep my pipes and dog, 
 
 And pray for Caoch O'Leary." 
 
 With " Pinch," I watched his bed that night, 
 
 Next day, his wish was granted ; 
 He died — and Father James was brought. 
 
 And the Requiem Mass was chanted ; 
 The neighbors came ; we dug his grave. 
 
 Near Eily, Kate, and Mary, 
 And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep,-- 
 
 God rest you, Caoch O'Leary. 
 
 OLD TIMES AND NEW.— A. C. Spooneb. 
 
 'Twas in my easy chair at home, 
 
 About a week a^o, 
 I sat and puffed my light-cigar, 
 
 As usual, you must know. 
 
 I mused upon the Pilgrim flock, 
 
 Whose luck it was to land 
 Upon almost the only rock 
 
 A mong the Plymouth sand. 
 
MUHBEU FOUR. HI 
 
 In my mind's eye, I saw them leave 
 
 Their weather-beaten bark — 
 Before them spread the wintry wHds, 
 
 Behind, rolled ocean dark. 
 
 Alone that noble handful stood 
 
 While savage foes lurked nigh ; 
 Their creed and watchword, " Trust in God, 
 
 And keep your powder dry." 
 
 Imagination's pencil then 
 
 That first stern winter painted. 
 When more than half their number died, 
 
 And stoutest spirits fainted. 
 
 A tear unbidden filled one eye. 
 
 My smoke had filied the other. 
 One sees strange sights at such a time, 
 
 Which quite the senses bother. 
 
 1 knew I was alone— but lo ! 
 
 (Let him who dares, deride me;) 
 I looked, and drawing up a chair, 
 
 Down sat a man beside me. 
 
 His dress was ancient, and his air 
 
 Was somewhat strange and foreign ; 
 He civilly returned my stare. 
 
 And said, " I'm Richard Warren. 
 
 " You'll find my name among the list 
 
 Of hero, sage and martyr. 
 Who, in the Mayflower's cabin, signed 
 
 The first New England charter. 
 
 " I could some curious facts impart,— 
 
 Perhaps, some wise suggestions, — 
 But then I'm bent on seeing sights. 
 
 And running o'er with questions." 
 
 "Ask on," said I: "I'll do my best 
 
 To give you information. 
 Whether of private men you ask, 
 
 Or our renowned nation." 
 
 Says he, " First tell me what is that 
 
 In your compartment narrow. 
 Which seems to dry my eye-ball up. 
 
 And scorch my very marrow." 
 
ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIOi\B 
 
 His finger pointed to the grate. 
 
 Said J, "That's Lehigh coal, 
 Dug from the earth,"— he shook his head^J 
 
 " It is, upon my soul ! " 
 
 I then took up a bit of stick, 
 
 One end as black as night. 
 And rubbed it quick across the hearth. 
 
 When, lo ! a sudden light. 
 
 My guest drew back, uproUed his eyea, 
 And strove his breath to catch ; 
 
 " What necromancy's that? " he cried, 
 Quoth I, " A friction match." 
 
 Upon a pipe just overhead 
 
 I turned a little screw, 
 When forth, with instantaneous flash, 
 
 Three streams of lightning flew. 
 
 Uprose my guest: " Now Heaven me save," 
 
 Aloud he shouted ; then, 
 " Is that hell fire ? " " 'Tis gas," said I, 
 
 " We call it hydrogen." 
 
 Then forth into the fields we strolled ; 
 
 A train came thundering by, 
 Drawn by the snorting iron steed 
 
 Swifter than eagles fly. 
 
 Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked. 
 Far streamed the smoky cloud ; 
 
 Echoed the hills, the valleys shook. 
 The flying forest bowed. 
 
 Down on his knee, with hand upraised 
 
 In worship, Warren fell ; 
 " Great is the Lord, our God," cried he; 
 
 " He doeth all things well. 
 
 " I've seen his chariots of fire. 
 
 The horsemen, too, thereof; 
 Oh, may I ne'er forget his ire. 
 
 Nor at his threatenings scoffl " 
 
 " Bise up, my friend, rise up," said I, 
 
 " Your terrors all are vain, 
 That was no chariot of the sky, 
 
 Twas the New York mail train." 
 
NUMBER FOUn. 99 
 
 We stood within a chamber small- 
 Men came the news to know 
 
 From Worcester, Springfield, and New York, 
 Texas and Mexico. 
 
 It came— it wentr— silent and sure; 
 
 He stared, smiled, burst out laughing : 
 " What witchcraft's that ? " " It's what we cau 
 
 Magnetic telegraphing." 
 
 Once more we stepped into the street ; 
 
 SaiJ Warren, " What is that 
 "Which moves along across the way 
 
 As smoothly as a cat ? 
 
 " I mean the thing upon two legs, 
 
 With feathers on its head ; 
 A monstrous hump below its waist 
 
 Large as a feather-bed. 
 
 " It has the gift of speech, I hear; 
 
 But sure it can't be human !" 
 " My amiable friend," said I, 
 
 " That's what we call a woman ! " 
 
 " A woman ! no — it cannot be," 
 
 Sighed he, with voice that faltered: 
 "I loved the women in my day. 
 
 But oh ! they're strangely altered." 
 
 I showed him then a new machine 
 
 For turning eggs to chickens, — 
 A labor-saving hennery 
 
 That beats the very dickens ! 
 
 Thereat he strongly grasped my hand, 
 
 And said, " 'Tis plain to see 
 This world is so transmogrified 
 
 'Twill never do for me. 
 
 " Your telegraphs, your railroad trains, 
 
 Your gas lights, friction matches, 
 Your hump-backed yomen, rocks for coal. 
 
 Your things which chickens hatches, 
 
 " Have turned the earth so upside down, 
 
 No peace is left within it." 
 Then whirling round upon his heel. 
 
 He vanished in a minute. 
 
100 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE 6ELBCTI0S8 
 
 INVECTIVE AGAINST MR. FLOOD. (1783.) 
 H. Grattan. 
 
 It is not the slander of an evil tongue that can defame 
 me. I maintain my reputation in public and in private 
 life. No man who has not a bad character can ever say- 
 that I deceived; no country can call me cheat. But I 
 will suppose such a public character. I will suppose 
 such a man to have existence. I will begin with his 
 character in its political cradle, and I will follow him to 
 the last state of political dissolution. I will suppose him, 
 in the first stage of his life, to have been intemperate ; 
 in the second, to have been corrupt ; and in the last, se- 
 ditious ; that after an envenomed attack upon the persons 
 and measures of a succession of viceroys, and after much 
 declamation against their illegalities and their profusion, 
 he took office, and became a supporter of government when 
 the profusion of ministers had greatly increased, and 
 their crimes multiplied beyond example. At such a 
 critical moment, I will supposs this gentleman to be cor- 
 rupted by a great sinecure offije to muzzle his declama- 
 tion, to swallow his invectives, to give his assent and 
 vote to the ministers, and to bscome a supporter of gov- 
 ernment, its measures, its embargo, and its American war. 
 I will suppose, that with respect to the Constitution of 
 his country, that part, for instance, which regarded the 
 Mutiny Bill, when a clause of reference was introduced, 
 whereby the articles of war, which were — or hereafter 
 might be — passed in England, should be current in Ire- 
 land without the interference of Parliament ; when such 
 a clause was in view, I will suppose this gentleman to have 
 absconded. Again, when the bill was made perpetual, I 
 will suppose him again to have absconded ; but a year and 
 a half after the bill had passed, then I will suppose this 
 gentleman to have come forward, and to say that your 
 Constitution has been destroyed by the Perpetual Bill. 
 
 With respect to conmierce, I will suppose this gentle- 
 man to have supported an embargo which lay on the 
 
NUMBEU FOCE. 101 
 
 country for three years, and almost destroyed it ; and 
 when an address in 1778, to open her trade, was pro- 
 pounded, to remain silent and inactive. In relation 
 to three fourths of our fellow-subjects, the Catholics, 
 when a bill was introduced to grant them rights of prop- 
 erty and religion, I will suppose this gentleman to have 
 come forth to give his negative to their pretensions. 
 
 With regard to the liberties of America, which were 
 inseparable from ours, I will suppose this gentleman to 
 have been an enemy, decided and unreserved ; that he 
 voted against her liberty, and voted, moreover, for an 
 address to send four thousand Irish troops to cut the 
 throats of the Americans ; that he called these butchers 
 " armed negotiators," and stood with a metaphor in his 
 mouth, and a bribe in his pocket, a champion against the 
 rights of America,— the only hope of Ireland, and the only 
 refuge of the liberties of mankind. Thus defective in 
 every relationship, whether to constitution, commerce, or 
 toleration, I will suppose this man to have added much 
 private improbity to public crimes ; that his probity was 
 like his patriotism, and his honor on a level with his oath. 
 
 He loves to deliver panegyrics on himself. I will in- 
 terrupt him, and say, " Sir, you are mistaken if you think 
 that your talents have been as great as your life has been 
 reprehensible. You began your parliamentary career 
 with an acrimony and personality which could have been 
 justified only by a supposition of virtue. After a rank 
 and clamorous opposition you became, on a sudden, silent; 
 you were silent for seven years ; you were silent on the 
 greatest questions ; and you were silent for money ! You 
 supported the unparalleled profusion and jobbing of Lord 
 Harcourt's scandalous ministry, the address to support 
 the American war, the other address to send four thou- 
 sand men, which you had yourself declared to be necessa- 
 ry for the defence of Ireland, to fight against the liberties 
 of America,— to which you had declared yourself a friend. 
 You, sir, who manufacture stage-thunder against Mr. 
 Eden for his anti-American principles — you, sir, whom 
 
102 ONli IIUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 it pleases to chant a hymn to the immortal Hampden — 
 you, sir, approved of the tyranny exercised against Amer- 
 ica; and you, sir, voted four thousand Irish troops to cut 
 the throats of the Americans fighting for their freedom, 
 fighting for your freedom, fighting for the great principle, 
 LiBEUTY. JBut you found, at last (and this should be an 
 eternal lesson to men of your craft and cunning), that the 
 Jting had only dishonored you ; the court had bought, 
 but would not trust you ; and, having voted for the worst 
 measures,- you remained, for seven years, the creature of 
 salary, without the confidence of government. Mortified 
 at the discovery, and stung by disappointment, you be- 
 take yourself to the sad expedients of duplicity. You 
 try the sorry game of a trimmer in your progress to the 
 acts of ansncendiary. You give no honest support either 
 to the government or the people ; observing, with regard to 
 both prince and people, the most impartial treachery and 
 desertion, you justify the suspicion of your sovereign, by 
 betraying the government, as you had sold the people, 
 until, at last, by this hollow conduct, and for some other 
 steps, the result of mortified ambition, being dismissed, 
 and another person put in your place, you fly to the ranks 
 of the volunteers and canvass for mutiny. 
 
 Such has been your conduct ; and at such conduct 
 every order of your fellow-subjects have a right to ex- 
 claim ! The merchant may say to j'ou — the constitution- 
 alist may say to you — the American may say to you — 
 and I, I now say, and say to your beard, sir, — " You are 
 not an honest man ! " 
 
 THE MORMON WIDOWER'S LAMENT. 
 
 And she is dead! and she is dead! 
 
 My multitudinous bride ! 
 No more my weary head may rest 
 
 Her many forms besicie 
 No more her sixty gentle hands 
 
 Shall fondly rest in mine ; 
 
NUMBEU FO0K. 103 
 
 No more around her thirty waists 
 My loving arms shall twine. 
 
 For she is dead ; and from those eyes 
 
 Of black, and blue, and gray, 
 And various intermediate dyes, 
 
 The light has passed away. 
 The eighty little orphans' tears 
 
 Are mingled with my own, 
 And eiglity hearts of tender years 
 
 A/e motherless and lone. 
 
 The fevers seized her all at once, 
 
 And apoplexy, too; 
 With corns, hysterics, and the mumps, 
 
 And dread tic douloureux. 
 A dozen doctors made her worse ; 
 
 They physicked and they bled ; 
 And though she lived with thirty lives, 
 
 No wonder she is dead ! 
 
 But ere she died, in countless throngs 
 
 Her relatives drew nigh. 
 And waded through each other's tears 
 
 To bid my love good-bye. 
 And even then she thought of me, 
 
 And sought my grief to quell ; 
 And summoned me beside'her beds 
 
 To say a last farewell. 
 
 "Good-by, dear John," she feebly said; 
 
 " I'm going soon," said she ; 
 " But, oh ! don't marry Widow Smith, 
 
 And, oh, don't mourn for me ! 
 For Widow Smith is forty-fold, — 
 
 Too many, far, for you ; 
 And she is artful, sly, and bold. 
 
 And quite designing, too. 
 
 " And, John, don't leave your flannels oif ; 
 
 And don't catch cold, my dear ; 
 Don't die of grief, but calmly live, — 
 
 Your children need you here. 
 I shall not want you over there, 
 
 I'd rather be alone ; 
 I've had you here quite long enough ; 
 
 You'll stay away, my own?" 
 
1U4 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And then she closed her eyes in peace. 
 
 And fell asleep, and died ; 
 And left me here to mourn her loss, " 
 
 My ten times triple bride. 
 I know 1 ought to be resigned — 
 
 1 know my tears are rude ; 
 But when one's loss is thirty-fold. 
 
 He can't feel fortitude. 
 
 Oh ! Mary Anne and so forth Jones, 
 
 Thou wert a model wife ! 
 Thy virtues, like thyself, were too 
 
 Too many for this life ! 
 There's no one now to mend my shirts. 
 
 Or hear each other cry ; 
 I sew my buttons on alone, 
 
 And sing the lullaby. 
 
 I'll have to iriarry Widow Smith ; 
 
 I can't get on alone ; 
 The children need a mother's care— 
 
 You don't know how they've grown ! 
 You left me for a better world, 
 
 Your souls are free from pain ; 
 I must relieve my own despair, 
 
 And try my luck again. 
 
 MAN'S MISSION.— Mrs. W. R. Wilde. 
 
 Human lives are silent teaching, 
 
 Be they earnest, mild, and true ; 
 Noble deeds are noblest preaching 
 
 From the consecrated few, — 
 Poet-priests their anthems singing, 
 Hero-swords on corslet ringing. 
 
 When Truth's banner is unfurled ; 
 Youthful preachers, genius gifted, 
 Pouring forth their souls uplifted, 
 
 Till their preaching stirs the world. 
 
 Each must work as God has given 
 
 Hero hand or poet soul ; 
 Work is duty, while we live in 
 
 This weird world of sin and dole. 
 Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling, 
 Lift their white hands up appealing, 
 
 To the throne of heaven's King ; 
 
NDMBER POUR. 105 
 
 Stronger natures, culminating 
 in great actions, incarnating 
 
 What anothier can but sing. 
 Pure and meeli-eyed as an angel, 
 
 W3 must strive, must agonize ; 
 We must preach the saint's evangel 
 
 Ere we claim the saintly prize. 
 Work for all -for work is holy ; 
 ■yye fulfil our mission solely 
 
 When, like heaven's arch above, 
 Blend our souls in one emblazon. 
 And the social diapason 
 
 Sounds the perfect chord of love. 
 
 Life is combat, life is striving, 
 
 Such our destiny below ; 
 Like a scythed chariot driving 
 
 Through an onward-pressing foe. 
 Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial 
 Will but teach us self'denial; 
 
 Like the alchemists of old, 
 Pass the ore through cleansing fire 
 If our spirits would aspire 
 
 To be God's refined gold. 
 
 We are struggling in the morning 
 
 With the spirit of the night. 
 But we trample on its scorning— 
 
 Lo ! the eastern sky is bright. 
 We must watch. The day is breaking; 
 Soon, like Memnon's statue waking 
 
 With the sunrise into sound. 
 We shall raise our voice to heaven, 
 Chant a hymn for conquest given. 
 
 Seize the palm, nor heed the wound. 
 We must bend our thoughts to earnest. 
 
 Would we strike the idols down ; 
 With a purpose of the sternest 
 
 Take the cross, and wait the crown; 
 Sufferings human life can hallow, 
 Sufierings lead to God's Valhalla. 
 
 Meekly bear, but nobly try. 
 Like a man with soft tears flowing. 
 Like a God with conquest glowing, 
 
 So to love, and work, and die ! 
 
10? ONE HUSDBED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE BAYONET CHARGE.— Nathan D. Uhnbe. 
 
 Not a sound, not a breath ! 
 
 And as still as death, 
 As we stand on the steep in our bayonet's shine ; 
 
 All is tumult below. 
 
 Surging friend, surging foe; 
 But not a hair's breadth moves our adamant line, 
 
 Waiting so grimly. 
 
 The battle smoke lifts 
 
 From the valley, and drifts 
 Round the hill where we stand, like a pall for the world ; 
 
 And a gleam now and then 
 
 Shows the billows of men, 
 In whose black, boiling surge we are soon to be hurled, 
 
 Redly and dimly. 
 
 There's the word ! " Ready all ! " 
 
 See the serried points fall, — 
 The grim horizontal so bright and so bare. 
 
 Then the other word — Ha ! 
 
 We are moving ! Huzza ! 
 We snuflF the burnt powder, we plunge in the glare, 
 
 Rushing to glory ! 
 
 Down the hill, up the glen. 
 
 O'er the bodies of men ; 
 Then on with a cheer, to the roaring redoubt! 
 
 Why stumble so, Ned ? 
 
 No answer— he's dead! 
 And there's Dutcli Peter down, with his life leaping out, 
 
 Crimson and gory ! 
 
 On ! on I Do not think 
 
 Of the falling; but drink 
 Of the mad, living cataract torrent of war! 
 
 On ! on ! let them feel 
 
 The cold vensreance of steel ! 
 Catch the Captain — he's hit! 'Tis a scratch, nothing more! 
 
 Forward forever ! 
 
 Huzza ! Here's a trench ! 
 
 In and out of it ! Wrench 
 From the jaws of the cannon the guerdon of fame ! 
 
 Charge ! charge ! with a yell 
 
 Like the shriek of a shell — 
 O'er the abatis, on through the curtain of flame I 
 
 Back again ? Never 1 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 107 
 
 The rampart ! 'Tis crossed^ 
 * It is ours! It is lost' 
 
 No — another dash now and the glacis is won I 
 Huzza ! What a dust ! 
 Hew them down. Cut and thrust! 
 
 A t-i-g-e-r! brave lads, for the red work is done- 
 Victory ! Victory I 
 
 DRUNKARDS NOT ALL BRUTES. 
 John B. Gough. 
 
 1 said when I began, that I was a trophy of this move- 
 ment ; and therefore the principal pare of my work has 
 been (not ignoring other parts) in behalf of those who 
 have suffered as I have suffered. You know there is a 
 great deal said about the reckless victims of this foe being 
 ~ '■ brutes." No, they are not brutes. I have labored for 
 about eighteen years among them and I never have 
 found a brute. I have had men swear at me; I have 
 had a man dance around me as if possessed of a devil, 
 and spit his foam in my face ; but he is npt a brute. 
 
 I think it is Charles Dickens, who says : "Away up a 
 great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily 
 passed by, there is a door, and on that door is written 
 'woman.' " And so in the heart of the vile outcast, away 
 up a great many pairs of stairs, in a very remote corner, 
 easily passed by, there is a door, on which is written 
 "man." Here is our business, to find that door. It may 
 take time ; but begin and knock. Don't get tired ; but 
 remember God's long-suffering for us and keep knocking 
 a long time if need be. D.)n't get weary if there is no 
 answer ; remember Him whose locks were wet with dew. 
 
 Knock on — just try it — you try it ; and just so sure 
 as you do, just so sure, by-and-by, will the quivering lip 
 and starting tear tell, you have knocked at the heart of 
 a man, and not of a brute. It is because these poor 
 wretches are men, and not brutes that we have hopes 
 for them. They said "he is a brute— let him alone." I 
 took him home with me and kept the "brute" fourteen 
 days and nights, through his delirium ; and he nearly 
 frightened Mary out of her wits, once, chasing her about 
 
108 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 the house with a boot in his hand. But she recovered 
 her wits, and he recovered his. 
 
 He said to me," " You wouldn't think I had a wife 
 and child ? " " Well, I shouldn't." " 1 have, and— Gcd 
 bless her little heart — my little Mary is as pretty a little 
 thing as ever stepped," said the "brute." I asked, " Where 
 do they live ? " " They live two miles away from here." 
 " When did you see them last ? " "About two years ago." 
 Then he told me his story. I said, " You must go back 
 to your home again." 
 
 " I mustn't go back — I wont — ray wife is better without 
 me than with me ! I will not go back any more ; I have 
 knocked her, and kicked her, and abused her ; do you 
 suppose I will go back again ? " I went to the house 
 with him ; I knocked at the door and his wife opened it. 
 "Is this Mrs. Richardson ? " " Yes, sir." " Well, that 
 is Mr. Richardson. And Mr. Richardson, that is Mrs. 
 Richardson. Now come into the house." They went in. 
 The wife sat on one side of the room and the "brute" on 
 the other. I waited to see who would speak first ; and 
 it was the woman. But before she spoke she fidgeted a 
 good deal. 
 
 She pulled her apron till she got hold of the hem , and 
 then she pulled it down again. 'Ihen she folded it up 
 closely, and jerked it out through her fingers an inch at 
 a time, and then she spread it all down again ; and then 
 she looked all about the room and said, "Well, William?" 
 And the "brute" said, "Well, Mary ?" He had a large 
 handkerchief round his neck, and she said, "You had 
 better take the handkerchief off, William ; you'll need it 
 when you go out. " He began to fumble about it. 
 
 The knot was large enough ; he could have untied it if 
 he liked ; but he said, " Will you untie it, Mary? " and 
 she worked away at it; but her fingers were clumsy, 
 and she couldn't get it off; their eyes met, and the love- 
 light was not all quenched ; she opened her arms gently 
 and he fell into them. If you had seen those white arras 
 clasped about his neck, and he sobbing on her breast, 
 and the child looking in wonder first at one and then at 
 the other, you would have said, " It is not a brute ; it is a 
 man, with a great, big, warm heart in his breast." 
 
NUMBEB FOCR. 109 
 
 BACHELOR'S HALL. 
 
 Bachelor's hall ! What a quare lookhi' place it is 1 
 Save me from such all the days o' my life ! 
 
 Sure, but I think what a burnin' disgrace it is, 
 Niver at all to be gettin' a wife ! 
 
 Pots, dishes, an' pans, an' such grasy commodities, 
 Ashes and praty -skins, kiver the floor; 
 
 The cupboard's a storehouse of comical oddities, — 
 Things tkat had niver been neighbors before. 
 
 See the ould bachelor, gloomy an' sad enough, 
 
 Placin' his tay-kettle over the fire ; 
 Soon it tips over — Saint Patrick! he's mad enough. 
 
 If he were prisent, to fight with the squire! 
 
 He looks for the platter; Grimalkin is scourin' it; 
 
 Sure, at a baste like that, swearin's no sin ; 
 His dish-cloth is missing; the pisis are devourin' it — 
 
 Thunder and turf! what a pickle he's in ! 
 
 When his meal's over, the table's left sittin' so ; 
 
 Dishes, take care o' yourselves if ye can ; 
 Niver a drop o' hot water will visit ye, 
 
 Och, let him alone for a baste of a man ! 
 
 Now, like a pig in a mortar-bed wallowin', 
 See the ould bachelor kneadin' his dough ; 
 
 Troth, if his bread he could ate without swallowin', 
 How it would help his digestion, you know! 
 
 Late in the aiv'nin', he goes to bed shiverin' ; 
 
 Niver a bit is the bed made at all ; 
 He crapes like a terrapin under the kiverin' ; 
 
 Bad luck to the picture of Bachelor's Hall ! 
 
 NEARER HOME.— PiiKBE Gary. 
 
 This beautiful poem, which has cnmfurted so many Christian hearts, will be 
 prized, not only for its own sake, bnt as u fitting memorial to the gifted writer, 
 who has since gone to her " Father's House," to join her sister in their home 
 beyond "the crystal sea.'* It was written in 1842, and is in accordance with the 
 author's latest revision. September, 1871. 
 
 One sweetly solemn thought 
 
 Comes to me o'er and o'er ; 
 I'm nearer my home to-day 
 
 Than I ever have been before ; 
 
Nearer my Father's house, 
 
 Where the many mansions be; 
 
 Nearer the great white throne, 
 Nearer the crystal sea ; 
 
 Nearer the bound of life. 
 
 Where we lay our burdens down ; 
 Nearer leaving the cross, 
 
 Nearer gaining the crown ! 
 
 But the waves of that silent sea 
 KoU dark before my sight. 
 
 That brightly the other side 
 Break on a shore of light. 
 
 Oh, if my mortal feet 
 
 Have almost gained the brink ; 
 If it be I am nearer home 
 
 Even today than I think; 
 
 Father, perfect my trust ; 
 
 Let my spirit feel in death. 
 That her feet are firmly set 
 
 On the Eock of a living faith ! 
 
 PICTURES OF MEMORY.— AT.rcE C.\ry. 
 
 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 wilh the mistletoe; 
 Not for the violets golden 
 
 That sprinkle the vale below ; 
 Not for the milk-white lilies 
 
 That lean from the fragrant hedge. 
 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 cowslip 
 
 It seemeth to me the best. 
 
 I once had a little brother 
 With eyes that were dark and deep— 
 
NUMBER FODS. Ill 
 
 In the lap of that dim old forest, 
 
 He lieth in peace asleep. 
 Light as the down of the thistle, 
 
 1< ree as the winds that blow, 
 We roved there, the beautiful summera, 
 
 The summers of long ago ; 
 But his feet on the hills grew wear/, 
 
 And one of the autumn eves 
 I made for my little brother 
 
 A bed of the yellow leaves. 
 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. 
 
 THE SINGER.*-J. G, Whittier. 
 
 Years since (but names to me before,) 
 Two sisters sought at eve my door; 
 Two song-birds wandering from their nest, 
 A gray old ferm-nouse in the West. 
 Timid and young, the eider had 
 Even then a voice too sweetly sad ; 
 The crown of pain that all must wear. 
 Too early pressed her midnight hair. 
 
 Yet ere the summer eve grew long 
 
 Her modest lips grew sweet with song; 
 
 A memory haunted all her words, 
 
 Of clover fields and singing birds. 
 
 Her dark, dilating eyes expressed 
 
 The broad horizons of the West ; 
 
 Her speech dropped prairie flowers; the gold 
 
 Of harvest wheat about her rolled. 
 
 * The shigpr refcTiTrt to, in this poem, was " Alice Cary," wUo died Feb. 12, 
 1871 ; and tlie other, her slater who died July 31, 1871. 
 
 2c 
 
112 ONE IIUNDi: ED CHOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 Fore-doomed to song she seemed to me; 
 I queried not with destiny ; 
 ^I knew the trial and the need, 
 Yet, all the more, i said, God speed ! 
 
 What could I other than I did? 
 Could I a singing bird forbid? 
 Deny the wind-stirred leaf? Rebuke 
 The music of the forest brook? 
 
 She went with morning from my door. 
 But left me richer than before ; 
 Thenceforth I knew her voice of cheer, 
 The welcome of her partial ear. 
 
 Years passed ; through all the land her name 
 A pleasant household word became ; 
 All felt behind the singer stood 
 A sweet and gracious womanhood. 
 
 Her life was earnest work, not play ; 
 Her tired feet climbed a weary way ; 
 And even through her lightest strain 
 We heard an undertone of pain. 
 
 Unseen of her, her fair fame grew. 
 The good she did she rarely knew ; 
 TJnguessed of her in life the love 
 That rained its tears her grave above. 
 
 When last I saw her, full of peace. 
 She waited for her great release ; 
 And that old friend so sage and bland, 
 Our later Franklin, held her hand. 
 
 For all that patriot bosoms stirs 
 Had moved tliat woman's heart of hers^ 
 And men who toiled in storm and sun 
 Found her their meet companion. 
 
 Our converse, from her suffering bed 
 To healthful themes of life she led ; 
 The out-door world of bud and bloom 
 And light and sweetness filled her room. 
 
 Yet evermore an underthought 
 Of loss to come within us wrought. 
 And all the while we felt the strain 
 Of the strong will that conquered pain. 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 113 
 
 God giveth quietness at last 1 
 The common way that all have passed 
 She went, with mortal yearnings fond, 
 'J'o fuller life and love beyond. 
 
 Fold the rapt soul in your embrace. 
 My dear ones ! Give the singer place. 
 To you, to her, — 1 know not where, — 
 I left the silence of a prayer. 
 
 For ogly thus our own we find ; 
 The gone before, the left behind. 
 All mortal voices die between ; 
 The unheard reaches the unseen. 
 
 Again the blackbirds sing ; the streams 
 Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams. 
 And tremble in the April showers 
 The tassels of the maple flowers. 
 
 But not for her has spring renewed 
 The sweet surprises of the wood ; 
 And bird and flower are lost to her 
 Who was their best interpreter ! 
 
 What to shut eyes has God revealed ? 
 What hear the ears that death has sealed? 
 What undreamed beauty passing show 
 Requites the loss of all we know? 
 
 Oh, silent land, to which we move. 
 Enough if there alone be love ; 
 And mortal need can ne'er outgrow 
 What it is waiting to bestow ! 
 
 Oh, white soul ! from that far-off' shore 
 Float some sweet song the waters o'er, 
 Our faith confirm, our fears dispel, 
 With the old voice we loved so well. 
 
 — Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 MARK TWAIN'S DESCRIPTION OF EURO- 
 PEAN GUIDES.— S. C. Cle.mexs. 
 
 European guides know about enough English to tan- 
 gle everything up so that a man can make neither head 
 nor tail of it. They know their story by heart, — the 
 
114 ONK HUNDRED CH O ICE S KL ECTIOXS 
 
 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 off 
 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 admi- 
 ration. 
 
 It is human nature to take delight in exciting admi- 
 ration. 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 whal makes gossips 
 turn out in rain and storm to go and he 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 
 ecstasies 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 ecstasies 
 any more, we never admired anything, we never showed 
 any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the 
 presence of the subliraest 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 have 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 toneof his voice 
 than any man that lives. It conies 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 
 • Columbus. Our guide there fidn-eted 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- 
 
NUMBEIi FOfR. llo 
 
 pressive fumbling of keys and openings of locks, the 
 scaiued 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 Colombo !" 
 
 Another deliberate examination. 
 
 " Ah, — did he write it himself, or, — or how? 
 
 "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 
 because we are strangers. We are not fools, by 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 
 he thought would overcome us. He said, 
 
 " Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me ! I show you 
 beautiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo — 
 splendid, 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 Colombo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal ! " 
 
 The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such 
 occasions : 
 
 " Ah, — what did yoCi say this gentleman's name was ? " 
 
110 ONB HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 '"Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" 
 
 " Christopher Colombo, — the great Christopher Co- 
 lombo. Well, what did he do ? " 
 
 " Discover America !— discover America, oh, ze devil ! " 
 
 " Discover America ? No — that statement will hardiy 
 wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard 
 nothing about it. Christopher Colombo, — ^pleasant name, 
 — is — is he dead ? " 
 
 " Oh, corpo di Baccho ! — three hundred year ! " 
 
 " What did he die of? " 
 
 " I do not know. I cannot tell." 
 
 " Small-pox, think ? " 
 
 " I do nut know, genteelinen, — 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. 
 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. No- 
 body else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide 
 was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, 
 nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted 
 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. 
 
NCIM blii; FOL'R. 117 
 
 perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure, this time, 
 tiiat some of his old euthusiasm caine back to him : 
 
 " See, genteelmeu ! — Mummy ! Mummy ! " 
 
 The eye-glass cuiiie up as calmly, as deliberately as 
 ever. 
 
 " Ah, — Ferguson, — what did I understand you to say 
 the gentleman 8 name was? " 
 
 " Name ? — he got no name ! — Mummy ! — 'Gyptian 
 mummy! " , 
 
 " Yes, yes. Born here? " 
 
 "No. ' Gyptian aiummy." 
 
 " Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume? " 
 
 "No l--not Frenchman, not Roman I-boru 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, saere bleu ! 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 ms.' Thunder and lightning! I've a 
 notion to — to — if you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch 
 him out! — or, by George, we'll brain you! " 
 
 We make it exceedingly iaterestingfor this Frenchman. 
 However, he has paid us back, partly, without knowing 
 it. • He came to the hotel this morning to ask if we were 
 up, and he endeavored, as well as he could to describe 
 us, so that the landlord would know which persons 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 Koman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, 
 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. 
 
 — Innocents Abroad. 
 
113 OXE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE CHILDKEN.- Charles M. Dickinsos. 
 
 When the lessons and tasks are all ended. 
 
 And (he school for the day is dismissed, 
 The little ones gather around me, 
 
 To bid me good-night and be kissed ; 
 On, the little white arms that encircle 
 
 My neck in a tender embrace ! 
 Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 
 
 Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 
 
 And when they are gone, I sit dreaming 
 
 Of my childhood, too lovely to last ; 
 Of joy that my heart will remember 
 
 While it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
 Ere the world and its wickedness made me 
 
 A partner of sorrow and sin, 
 AVhen the glory of God was about me, 
 
 And the glory of gladness within. 
 
 All my heart prows as weak as a woman's. 
 
 And the fountain of feeling will flow, 
 When I think of the paths steep and stony, 
 
 Where the feet of the dear ones must go, — 
 Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them. 
 
 Of the tempest of fate blowing wild ; 
 Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy 
 
 As the innocent heart of a child ! 
 
 They are idols of hearts and of households ; 
 
 They are angels of God in disguise ; 
 His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses. 
 
 His glory still gleams in their eyes ; 
 Those truants from home and from heaven, 
 
 They have made me more manly and mild ; 
 And I know now how Jesus could lik«n 
 
 The kingdom of God to a child. 
 
 I ask not a life for the dear ones. 
 
 All radiant^ as others have done, 
 But that life may have just enough shadow 
 
 To temper the glare of the sun ; 
 I would pray God to guard them from evil, 
 
 But my prayer would bound back to myself; 
 Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 
 
 But a sinner must pray for himself. 
 
NUMBEK FOUR. 119 
 
 The twig is so easily bended, 
 
 I have banished the rule and the rod ; 
 I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, 
 
 They have taught me the goodness of God. 
 My heart is a dungeon of darkness, 
 
 Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; 
 My frown is suflScient correction. 
 
 My love is the law of the school. 
 
 I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 
 
 To tsaverae its threshold no more ; 
 Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones 
 
 That meet me each morn at the door ! 
 I shall miss the " good-nights" and the kisses 
 
 N.Vnd the gush of their innocent glee. 
 The groups on the green, and the flowers 
 
 That are brought every morning to me. 
 
 I shall miss them at morn and at even. 
 
 Their song in the school and the street ; 
 I shall miss the low hum of their voices, ■ 
 
 And the tramp of their delicate feet. 
 When the lessons of life are all ended. 
 
 And death says, "The school is dismissed! " 
 May the little ones gather around me. 
 
 To bid me good-night and be kissed! 
 
 CLARENCE'S DREAM.— Shakspeare. 
 
 Brakenbury. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day? 
 
 Clarence. Oh, I have passed a miserable night, 
 So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights. 
 That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 
 I would not spend another such a night, 
 Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ; 
 So full of dismal terror was the time ! 
 Methought that I had broken from the tower. 
 And was embarked to cross to Burgundy, 
 And in my company my brother Gloster, 
 Who from my cabin tempted me to walk" 
 Upon the hatches. Thence we looked toward England, 
 And cited up a thousand heavy "times. 
 During the wars of York and Lancaster, 
 That had befallen us. As we paced along 
 Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 
 Methought that Gloster stumbled ; and, in falling, 
 2c* 
 
120 ONE HUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Struck me, that sought to stay him, overboard, 
 
 Into the tumbling billows of the main. 
 
 Oh, Heaven ! Methought what pain it was to drown ! 
 
 Wliat dreadful noise of waters in my ears ! 
 
 What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 
 
 Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 
 
 A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon ; 
 
 Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 
 
 Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 
 
 AH scattered in the bottom of the sea. 
 
 Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes 
 
 Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept. 
 
 As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems 
 
 That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep, 
 
 And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. 
 
 Brah. Had you such leisure, in the time of death, 
 To gaze upon these secrets of the deep ? 
 
 CLar. Methought I had; and often did I strive 
 To yield the ghost ; but still the envious flood 
 Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth 
 To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air ; 
 But smothered it within my panting bulk, 
 AVhioli almost burst to belch it in the sea. 
 
 Br.ik. Awaked you not with this sore agony? 
 
 Clar. No, no ! my dream was lengthened after life ; 
 Oh, then began the tempest to my soul ! 
 I passed, methought, the melancholy flood, 
 AVith that grim ferryman which poets write of, 
 Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 
 The first ihat there did greet my stranger soul 
 Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, 
 Who cried aloud, " Whal scourge for perjar-y 
 C'dn this dark monarchy afford false Clarence f" 
 And so he vanished. Then came wandering by 
 A shadow like an angel, with bright iiair 
 Dabbled in blood, and he shrieked out aloud, 
 "Ijlarence is come— false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, 
 T lal St ibbed me in the field hy Tewksbnry ; 
 N'ize on him, furies! take him to yoixr torments!" 
 With that, methought ale?;ion of foul fiends 
 Environed me, and howled in mine ears 
 Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, 
 I trembling waked, and, for a season after, 
 pould not believe but that I was in hell, — 
 Such terrible impression made my dream. 
 
N OMBEK FOUR. 121 
 
 THE DEATH OF HAMILTON.— Dr. Nott. 
 
 A short time since, and he, who is the occasion of our 
 sarrows, was the ornament of his country. He stood on 
 an eminence, and glory covered him. From that emi- 
 nence he l^as fallen suddenly, forever fallen. His inter- 
 course with the living world is now ended ; and those 
 who would hereafter find him, must seek him in the 
 grave. Ther% cold and lifeless, is the heart which just 
 now was the seat of friendship ; there, dim and sightless, 
 is the eye, whose radiant and enlivening orb beamed with 
 intelligence ; and there, closed forever, are those lips, on 
 whose persuasive accents we have so often, and so lately 
 hung with transport. 
 
 From the darkness which rests upon his tomb there 
 proceeds, methinks, a light, in which it is clearly seen 
 that those gaudy objects which men pursue are only 
 phantoms. In this light how dimly shines the splendor 
 of victory,— how humble appears the majesty of grandeur! 
 The bubble, which seemed to have so much solidity, has 
 burst; and we again see that all below the sun is vanity. 
 
 True, the funeral eulogy has been pronounced, the sad 
 and solemn procession has moved, the badge of mourning 
 has already been decreed, and presently the sculptured 
 marble will lift up its front, proud to perpetuate the name 
 of Hamilton, and rehearse to the passing traveler his 
 virtues, — just tributes of respect, and to the living usfiful ; 
 but to him, moldering in his narrow and humble habita- 
 tion, what are they ? How vain ! how unavailing ! 
 
 Approach and behold, while I lift from his sepulclire 
 its covering ! Ye admirers of his greatness, ye emulous 
 of his talents and his fame, approach, and behold him 
 now. How pale ! how silent ! No martial bands admire 
 the adroitness of his movements ; no fascinating throng 
 weep, and mslt, and tremble at his eloquence ! Amazin;; 
 change ! A shroud, a coffin, a narrow, subtsrraneous 
 cabin ! — this is all that now remains of Hamilton ! And 
 is this all that regains of him? Durinar a life so transi- 
 
1-2 ONB HUNDRED CUOlOii: SELUCTIOXS 
 
 tory, what lasting monument, then, can our fondest hopes 
 erect ! 
 
 My brethren, we stand on the borders of an awful 
 gulf, which is swallowing up all things human. And is 
 there, amidst this universal wreck, nothing stable, nothing 
 abiding, nothing immortal, on which poor, frail, dying 
 man can fasten ? Ask the hero, ask the statesman, whose 
 wisdom you have been accustomed to revere, and he will 
 tell you. He will tell you, iid I say ? He has already 
 told you, from his death-bad ; and his illiimiued spirit, 
 still whispers frjm the heavens, with well-known elo- 
 quence, the solemn admonition : " Mortals hastening to 
 the tomb, and once the companions of my pilgrimage, 
 take warning and avoid my erroi-s ; cultivate the virtues 
 I have recommended ; choose the Saviour I have chosen ; 
 live disinterestedly ; live for immortality ; and would you 
 rescue anything from final dissolution, lay it up in God." 
 
 A SWELL'S SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR. 
 
 I don't appwove this hawid waw ; 
 
 Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes; 
 And guns and dwunis are such a baw, — 
 
 Why don't the pawties compwamise? 
 
 Of cawce, the twoilet has its ohawms; 
 
 But why must all the vulgah crowd 
 Pawsist in spawtins; unifawms 
 
 In cuUaws so extwemely loud ? 
 
 And then the ladies, — pwecions deahs! 
 
 I niawk the change on ev'wy bwow ; 
 Bai Jove ! I weally have my feahs 
 
 They wathah like the hawid wow ! 
 
 To heaw the chawming cweatures talk, 
 Like patwons of the bloody wing, 
 
 Of waw and all its dawty wawk, — 
 It doesn't seem a pwappah thing! 
 
 1 called at Mrs. Gween's last night, 
 To see her niece, Miss Mary Hertz, 
 
 And found her making — cwushing sight ! — 
 The weddest kind of flannel shirts ! 
 
NUMBEK FOUl:. 1-3 
 
 Of cawce I wose and sought the daw, 
 
 With fowy flashing from :ny eyes ! 
 I can't appwove this hawid waw ; 
 
 Wliy don't the pawties compwamise? 
 
 MINISTERING ANGELS.— Emily Judsoh. 
 
 Mother, has the dove that nestled, 
 
 Lovingly upon £hy breast, 
 FoWed up his little pinion, 
 
 And in darkness gone to rest ? 
 Nay, the grave is dark and dreary. 
 
 But the lost one is not there ; 
 Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper, 
 
 Floating on the ambient air? 
 It is near thee, gentle mother. 
 
 Near thee at the evening hour ; 
 Its soft kiss is in the zephyr, 
 
 It looks up from every flower. 
 And when night's dark shadows fleeing, 
 
 Low thou bendest thee in prayer. 
 And thy heart feels nearest heaven. 
 
 Then thy angel babe is there ! 
 
 Maiden, has thy noble brother, 
 
 On whose manly form thine eye' 
 Loved full oft in pride to linger 
 
 On whose heart thou couldst rely. 
 Though all other hearts deceived thee, 
 
 All proved hollow, earth grew drear. 
 Whose protection, ever o'er thee. 
 
 Hid thee from the cold world's sneer,— 
 Has he left thee here to struggle. 
 
 All unaided on thy way ? 
 Nay, he still can guide and guard thee, 
 
 Still thy faltering steps can stay ; 
 Still, when danger hovers o'er thee, 
 
 He than danger is more near ; 
 When in grief thou'st none to pity, 
 
 He, the sainted, marks each tear. 
 
 Lover, is the light extinguished 
 Of the gem, that, in thy heart 
 
 Hidden deeply, to thy being 
 All its sunshine could impart? 
 
12-1 ONB HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Look above ! 'tis burning brighter 
 
 Than the very stars in heaven ; 
 And to light thy dangerous pathway, 
 
 All its new-found glory's given. 
 With the sons of earth commingling, 
 
 Tiiou the loved one mayst forget ; 
 Bright eyes flashing, tresses waving. 
 
 May have power to win thee yet; 
 But e'en then that guardian spirit 
 
 Oft will whisper inthine ear. 
 And in silence, and at midnight. 
 
 Thou wilt know she hovers near. 
 
 Orphan, thou most sorely stricken 
 
 Of the mourners thronging earth, 
 Clouds half veil thy brightest sunshine; 
 
 Sadness mingles with thy mirth. 
 Yet although that gentle bosom, 
 
 ' Which has pillowed oft thy head, 
 Now is cold, thy mother's spirit 
 
 Cannot rest among the dead ; 
 Still her watchful eye is o'er thee 
 
 Through the day, and still at night 
 Hers the eye that guards thy slumber, 
 
 Making thy young dreams so bright. 
 Oh ! the friends, the friends we've cherished, 
 
 Hbw oft we weep to see them die! 
 All unthinking they're the angels 
 
 That will guide us to the sky ! 
 
 TflE MISER FITLY PUNISHED.— Osborse. 
 
 In the year 17G2, a miser, by the nam? of Foscue, in France, having amassed 
 enormous wealth, was reqiifsted by the government to advance a snir of monoy 
 a:i a loan. The mistr demurred, pretending that he was poor. To hide his gold 
 he dag a deep cave in his cellar, the descent to which was by a ladder. 
 
 He entered this cave, one day, to gloat over his. gold, when the trap-door fell 
 and the spriug-lock snapped, lioldlng him a prisoner. 
 
 Some months afterwaVds a search was made, and his body was found in the 
 midst of money-hags, witli a candlestick lying beside it on the floor. This poem 
 supposes the miser to have just entered his cave, and to be soliloquizing. 
 
 So, so ! all safe ! Come forth, my pretty sparklers, 
 
 Come forth, and feast my eyes ! Be not afraid ! 
 
 No keen-eyed agent of the government 
 
 Can see you here. They wanted me, forsooth, 
 
 To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance, 
 
 For the state's needs. Ha, ha! my shining pets, 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 125 
 
 My yollow aarlings, my sweet golden circlets ! 
 
 Too well 1 loved you to do that, — and so 
 
 I pleadea poverty, and none could prove 
 
 My story was not true. Ha ! could they see 
 
 These bags of ducats, and that precious pile 
 
 Of ingots, and those bars of solid gold. 
 
 Their eyes, methiiiks, would water. What a comfort 
 
 Is it to see my moi.eys in a heap 
 
 All safely lodged unuer my very roof! 
 
 Here's a fat bag — let me untie the mouth of it. 
 
 What eloquence ! What beauty ! What expression 1 
 
 Could Cicero so plead '; Could Helen look 
 
 One half so charming— Ah ! what sound was that? 
 
 The trap-door fallen, and the spring-lock caught ! 
 
 Well, have I not the key ? Of course I have ; 
 
 'Tis in this pocket — No. In this 7— No. Then 
 
 I left it at the bottom of the ladder. 
 
 Ha! 'tis not there. Where then? — .Vh ! mercy. Heaven 1 
 
 'Tis in the lock outside ! What's to be done ? 
 
 Help, help ! Will no one hear? Oh I would that I 
 
 Had not discharged old Simon !— but he begged 
 
 Each week for wages, would not give me credit. 
 
 I'll try my strength upon the door. — Despair ! 
 
 I might as soon uproot the eternal rocks 
 
 As force it open. Am I here a prisoner. 
 
 And no one in ihe house? no oiie at hand, 
 
 Or likely soon to be, to hear my cries? 
 
 Am I entombed alive? Horrible fate! 
 
 I sink — I faint beneath the bare conception ! 
 
 {Awakes.) Darkness? Where am I? — I remember now. 
 
 This is a bag of ducats— 'tis no dream — 
 
 No dream I The trap-door fell, and here am I 
 
 Immured with my dear gold - my candle out — 
 
 All gloom — all silence — all de.spair! What, ho! 
 
 Friends!— frien.li .' — I hive no friends. What right have I 
 
 To use the name? These moncy-ba;s have been 
 
 The only friends I've cared for; and for these 
 
 I've toiled, and pinched, and screwed, shutting my heart 
 
 To charity, humanity and love ! 
 
 Detested traitors! since I gave you all, — 
 
 Ay, gave my very soul,— can ye do naught 
 
 For me in this extremity ?— Ho ! Without there ! 
 
 A thousand ducats for a loaf of bread ! 
 
 Ten thousand ducats for a glass of water! 
 
 A pile of ingots for a helping hand ! 
 
126 ONE HU.VDKED CHOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 Was that a laugh ? Ay, 'twas a fiend that laughed 
 
 To see a miser in the grip of death. 
 
 Offended Heaven ! have mercy ! — I will give 
 
 In alms all this vile rubbish, aid me thou 
 
 In this most dreadful strait! I'll build a church,— 
 
 A hospital !— Vain ! vain 1 Too late, too late ! 
 
 Heaven knows the miser's heart too well to trust him ! 
 
 Heaven will not hear !— Why should it? What have I 
 
 Done to enlist Heaven's favor, — to, help on 
 
 Heaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes? 
 
 Nothing ! God's kingdom will not come the sooner 
 
 For any work or any prayer of mine. 
 
 But must I die here— in my own trap caught? 
 
 Die — die? — and then! Oh! mercy! Grant me time, — 
 
 Thou who canst save, — grant me a little time. 
 
 And I'll redeem the past— undo the evil 
 
 That I have done ; make thousands happy with 
 
 This hoarded treasure; do thy will on earth 
 
 As it is done in heaven— grant me but time ! 
 
 Nor man nor God will heed ray shrieks ! All's lost 1 
 
 C^3AR PASSING THE RUBICON. 
 
 J. Sheridan Knowles. 
 A gentleman, speaking of Caesar's benevolent disposi- 
 tion, and of the reluctance with wliich he entered into 
 the civil war, observes, " How long did he pause upon 
 the brink of the Rubicon ? '" How came he to the brink 
 of that river ? How dared lie cross it ? Shall a private 
 man respect the boundaries of pi'ivate property, and shall 
 a man pay no respect to the boundaries of his country's 
 rights? How dared he cross that river? — Oh! but he 
 paused upon the brink. He should have perished on the 
 brink, ere he had crossed it ! Why did he pause ? Why 
 does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of 
 committing an unlawful deed ? Why does the very mur- 
 derer, his victim sleeping bef)re him, and his glaring eye 
 taking the measure of the blow, strike wide of the mortal 
 part ? Because of conscience ! 'Twas that made Csesar 
 pause upon the brink of tii2 Rubicon ! — Compassion ! 
 What compassion ? The compassion of an assassin, that 
 
NUMBEl: FOUR. 127 
 
 fe^a a nioinentary shudder, as liis weapon b gins to cut! 
 — Ciesar paused upon the brink of the liubc'on ! What 
 was the Rubicon ?'" The boundary of Csesar's province. 
 From what did it separate his province ? From his coun- 
 try. Was th it country a desert? No; it was cultivat- 
 ed and fertile, rich and populous ! Its sons were men 
 of genius, spirit, and generosity ! Its daughters were 
 lovely, susceptible, and chaste ! Friendship was its in- 
 habitant ! Love was its inhabitant ! Domestic affection 
 was its inhabitant! Liberty was its inhabitant! All 
 bounded by the stream of the Rubicon ! What was Cte- 
 sar, that stood upon the brink of that stream ? A trai- 
 tor, bringing war and pestilence into the heart of that 
 country ! No wonder that he paused, — no wonder if, 
 his imagination wrought upon by his conscience, he had 
 beheld blood instead of water, and heard groans instead 
 of murmurs! No wonder if some gorgon horror had 
 turned him into stone upon the spot ! But, no ! he 
 cried, " The die is cast ! " He plunged ! he crossed ! 
 and Rome was free nj more. 
 
 "THE HEATHEN CHINEE'S" REPLY.* 
 
 Which my name is Ah Sin ; 
 
 I don't want to call names. 
 But I must, to begin, 
 
 Say of this T. James : 
 That I am convinced he is rather 
 
 Well up in the sinfullest games. 
 
 Yes, Ah Sin is my name, 
 
 Which I need not deny ; 
 What it means is no shame ; 
 
 You will find, if you try. 
 That its meaning is something celestial, 
 
 And how is celestial for high ? 
 
 And about that small game 
 
 I did not understand. 
 So I made it my aim, 
 
 With a smile that was bland, 
 
 \.\h Sill toTrutlifiilJaiiiea.) See ' Tlii-HoutlieiiCliihe.'," by lint Uiiitf, i:i N.i, 3. 
 
J28 ' ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 To keep my small eyes at their keenest 
 
 On Nye as he dealt the first hand. 
 And the way that he dealt, 
 
 There could nothing be finer ; 
 But somehow 1 felt, 
 
 " Mr. Ah Sin, from China, 
 Because your smile is so child-like, 
 
 These fellows play you for a minor ! " 
 But no slouch is Ah Sin, 
 
 And from the word " Go ! " 
 I did play for to win. 
 
 And Nye — rather so ; 
 And I played the new game as I learned him, 
 
 Which showed level head, don't you know ? 
 On my nails there was wax, 
 
 But that nothing proves, 
 When I state the real facts ; 
 
 I was 'prenticed on shoes. 
 And the wax that was found on my fingers 
 
 Was the kind that out" shoemakers use. 
 And the packs up my sleeve. 
 
 My oath I will take. 
 Were not there to deceive, 
 
 But got there by mistake ; 
 1 bought them for Ah Sin, the younger, 
 
 Who likes some card houses to make. 
 In my pockets they ,were 
 
 When I sat down that day; 
 But what with the stir 
 
 A nd excitement of play, 
 They worked up my sleeve from my pocket, 
 
 And strange it was, too, I must say. * 
 Was it right in Bill Nye 
 
 AVlien the trump knave I led. 
 To blacken my eye, 
 
 And on me put a head? 
 Had I known James held the right bower 
 
 I'd have played something else in its stead. 
 But I don't play no more. 
 
 For my lot now is cast 
 On a euchreless shore. 
 
 So I " stick" to my "last," 
 And my smile, at North Adams, Is pensive 
 
 At my heathenish days that are past. 
 
NUMBER POUR. 1-9 
 
 MY WELCOME BEYOND.— Allie Wellington. 
 
 Who will greet me first in heaven, 
 
 When that blissful realm I gain, 
 When the hands have ceased from toiling 
 
 And the heart hatli ceased from pain ; 
 When the last farewell is spoken. 
 
 Severed the last tender tie. 
 And I know Iiow sweet, how solemn, 
 
 And how blest it is to die'/' 
 
 As my barque glides o'er the waters 
 
 Of that cold and silent stream. 
 And I see the domes of temples 
 
 In the distance brightly gleam, — 
 Temples of that beauteous city 
 
 From all blight and sorrow free ; 
 AVho adown its golden portals 
 
 First will haste to welcome me ? 
 
 Ah, whose eyes will watch my coming 
 
 From that fair and beauteous shore? 
 Whose the voice I first shall listen 
 
 That shall teach me heavenly lore? 
 When my feet shall press the mystic 
 
 Borders of that better land. 
 Whose fac8.greet my wondering vision, 
 
 Who shall clasp the spirit hand ? 
 
 Who will greet me first in heaven? 
 
 Oft the earnest thought will rise, 
 Musing on the unknown glories 
 
 Of that home beyond the skies. 
 Who will be my heavenly mentor? 
 
 Will it be some seraph bright, — 
 Or an angel from the countless 
 
 Myriads of that world of light? 
 
 No, not these, for they have never 
 
 Dawned upon my mortal view; 
 But the dear ones gone before us,— 
 
 They the loved, the tried, the true ; 
 They who walked with us lifers pathway, 
 
 To its joys and griefs were given, 
 They who loved us best in earth-land 
 
 Be the first to greet in heaven. 
 
 6* 
 
130 ONE HUNnaSD CUOICE SELliCTIONS 
 
 KEEPING HIS WOED. 
 
 " Only a penny a box," he said ; 
 But the gentleman turned away his head, 
 As if he shrank from the squalid sight 
 Of the boy who stood in the failing light. 
 
 "Oh, sir!" he stammered, "you cannot know," 
 (And he brushed from his matches the flakes of snow 
 That the sudden tear might have chance to fallj 
 " Or I think— I think you would Uke them all. 
 
 " Hungry and cold at our garret-pane. 
 Ruby will watch till I come again 
 Bringing the loaf. The sun has set, 
 And he hasn't a crumb of breakfast yet. 
 
 " One penny, and then I can buy the bread ! " 
 The gentleman stopped. " And you ? " he said ; 
 "/ — I can put up with them, hunger and cold, 
 But Ruby is only five years old. 
 
 " I proniised our mother before she went, — 
 She knew I would do it, and died content, — 
 I promised her, sir, through best, through worst, 
 I always would think of Ruby first." 
 
 The gentleman paused at his open door. 
 Such tales he had often heard before ; 
 But he fumbled his purse in the twilight drear, 
 " I have nothing less than a shilling here." 
 
 "Oh, sir, if you'll only take the pack 
 I'll bring you the change in a moment back. 
 Indeed you may trust me ! " " Trust you ? — no! 
 But here is the shilling ; take it and go." 
 
 Tlie gentleman lolled in his cozy chair, 
 And watched his cigar-wreath melt in air, 
 And smiled on his children, and rose to see 
 The baby asleep on its mother's knee. 
 
 " And now it is nine by the clock," he said, 
 
 " Time tliat my d.arlings were all abed ; 
 
 Kiss me ' good-night,' and each be sure, 
 
 When you're saying your prayers, remember tha poor." 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 131 
 
 Just then came a message—" A boy at the door—" 
 But ere it was uttered he stood on the floor 
 Half breathless, bewildered, and ragged and strange ; 
 " I'm Ruby — Mike's brother — I've brought you the change. 
 
 " Mike's hurt, sir ; 'twas darli ; the snow made him bUnd, 
 And he didn't talce notice the train was behind 
 Till he slipped on the track ; and then it whizzed by — 
 And he's home in the garret ; 1 think he will die. 
 
 " Yet notbing would do him, sir — nothing would do 
 But out through the snow I must hurry to you ; 
 Of his hurt he was certain you wouldn't have heard, 
 And so you might think he had broken his word." 
 
 VV^hen the garret they hastily entered, they saw 
 
 Two arms mangled, shapeless, outstretched from the straw. 
 
 •' You did U—dear Ruby — God bless you J " he said. 
 
 And the boy, gladly smiling, sank back — and was. dead. 
 
 THE SEVENTH PLAGUE OF EGYPT. -George Ckoly, 
 
 'Twas morn — the rising splendor rolled 
 
 On marble towers and roofs of gold ; 
 
 Hall, court and gallery, below, 
 
 Were crowded with a living flow ; 
 
 Egyptian, Arab, Nubian, there. 
 
 The bearers of the bow and spear. 
 
 The hoary priest, the Chaldee sage, 
 
 The slave, the gemmed and glittering page; 
 
 Helm, turban and tiara, shone 
 
 A dazzling ring round Pharaoh's throne. 
 
 There c^me a man — the human tide 
 
 Shrank backward from his stately stride ; 
 
 His cheek with storm and time was tanned ; 
 
 A shepherd's staff" was in his hand ; 
 
 A shudder of instinctive fear 
 
 Told the dark king what step was near ; 
 
 On through the host the stranger came, 
 
 It parted round his form like flame. 
 _ He stooped not at the footstool stone, 
 ' He clasped not sandal, kissed not throne ; 
 
 Erect he stood amid the ring. 
 
 His only words—" Be just, O kingl " 
 
132 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIOVS 
 
 On Pharaoh's cheek the blood flushed high, 
 
 A fire was in his sullen eye ; 
 
 Yet on the chief of Israel 
 
 No arrow of his thousands fell ; 
 
 All mute and moveless as the grave 
 
 Stood chilled the satrap and the slave. 
 
 " Thou'rt come," at length the monarch spoke, 
 
 Haughty and high the words outbroke : 
 
 " Is Israel weary of its lair, 
 
 The forehead peeled, the shoulder bare? 
 
 Take. back the answer to your band : 
 
 Go, reap the wind ; go, plough the sand! 
 
 Go, vilest of the living vile. 
 
 To build the never-ending pile, 
 
 Till, darkest of the nameless dead. 
 
 The vulture on their flesh is fed ! 
 
 What better asks the howling slave 
 
 Than the base life our bounty gave ? " 
 
 Shouted in pride the turbaned peers, 
 
 Upclashed to heaven the golden spears. 
 
 "King! thou and thine are doomed! — Behold!" 
 
 The prophet spoke — the thunder rolled ! 
 
 Along the pathway of the sun. 
 
 Sailed vapory mountains, wild and dun. 
 
 " Yet there is time," the prophet said. 
 
 He raised his stafi" — the storm was stayed ; 
 
 " King ! be the word of freedom given. 
 
 What art thou, man, to war with Heaven 7 " 
 
 There came 'no word— the thunder broke! 
 
 Like a huge city's final smoke. 
 
 Thick, lurid, stifling, mixed with flame. 
 
 Through court and hall the vapors came. 
 
 Loose as the stubble in the field. 
 
 Wide flew the men of spear and shield ; 
 
 Scattered like foam along the wave. 
 
 Flew the proud pageant, prince and slave ; 
 
 Or, in the chains of terror bound, 
 
 Lay, corpse-like, on the smouldering ground. 
 
 "Speak, king! — the wrath is but begun!— 
 
 Still dumb ? — then, Heaven, thy will be done ! " 
 
 Echoed from earth a hollow roar 
 Like ocean on the midnight shore ! 
 A sheet of lightning o'er them wheeled. 
 The solid ground beneath them reeled ; 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 133 
 
 In dust sank roof and battlement ; 
 Like webs the giant walls were rent ; 
 Red, broad, before his startled paze 
 The monarch saw his Egypt blaze. * 
 Still swelled the plague — the flame grew pale ; 
 Burst from the clouds the charge of hail ; 
 With arrowy keenness, iron weight, 
 Down poured the ministers of fate ; 
 Till man and cattle, crushed, congealed, 
 Covered with death the boundless field. 
 Still swelled the plague — uprose the blast, 
 The avenger, fit to be the last. 
 On ocean, river, forest, vale. 
 Thundered at once the mighty gale. 
 Before the whirlwind flew the tree. 
 Beneath the whirlwind roared the sea ; 
 A thousand ships were on the wave- 
 Where are they? Ask that foaming grave I 
 Down go the hope, the pride of years, 
 Down go the myriad mariners ; 
 The riches of earth's richest zone 
 Gone! like flash of lightning, gone! 
 
 And, lo ! that first fierce triumph o'er. 
 Swells ocean on the shrinking shore ; 
 Still onward, onward, dark and wide, 
 Engulfs the land the furious tide. 
 Then bowed thy spirit, stubborn king, 
 Thou serpent, reft of fang and sting ! 
 Humbled before the prophet's knee. 
 He groaned, " Be injured Israel free ! " 
 
 To heaven the sage upraised his wand ; 
 Back rolled the deluge from the land ; 
 Back to its caverns sank the gale ; 
 Fled from the noon the vapors pale ; 
 Broad burned again the joyous sun ; 
 The hour of wrath and death was done. 
 
 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 
 
 My friends,— Thanksgiving Day comes, by statute, 
 once a year ; to the honest man it comes as frequently as 
 the heart of gratitude will allow, which may mean every 
 
134 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 day, or once in seven days, at least. I know that occa- 
 sionally, in meeting, perhaps, a person confesses that he 
 is a poor, miserable sinner, but you tell that person the 
 same fact, out of doors, and he will get mad and tear 
 round dreadfully. We are all honest, good, conscientious 
 people, my friends, no matter what anybody says. 
 
 Now, I propose, my friends, to state a few of the things 
 for us to be thankful for — when we are>in the mood, of 
 course ; for when we are not inclined, who can make us 
 give thanks for anything ? We should be thankful that 
 we know more than anybody else ; for, are we not capa- 
 ble of talking and wi -ing lectures upon every subject 
 ever talked of i. should like to see the male or female 
 in this audience, who didn't know a great deal more than 
 anybody has any idea of! 
 
 We should be thankful that we are all good-looking. 
 Aint we ? J ust look around this audience, and see if 
 you can "spot" the person who is, in his own estimation, 
 not good-looking. It would be a curious study to be 
 sure, to find in what particular some people are good- 
 looking ; but it's none of our personal business if a man 
 has carroty hair, eyes like a new moon, nose like a split 
 pear, mouth like a pair of waffle-irons, chin like a Dutch 
 churn, neck like a gander's, and a body like a crow- 
 bar ; comparatively he is good-looking ; that is, there are 
 hnmelier men and animals than he; so everybody is 
 good-looking and has a right to put on airs. Let us be 
 very thankful, my friends, that this is so ; for, otherwise, 
 some of us would be shut up in "homes for the scare- 
 crows," which governmeht would have to provide. 
 
 We should be thankful that we are more pious than 
 anybody else. That we are pious is evident from the 
 manner in which we treat poor creatures who have most 
 unfortunately been driven to sin ; from the fact that we 
 pay our preachers occasionally, and always require them 
 to be unexceptionable, in all respects ; from the fact that 
 wc don't work on Sunday, and eat the big dinners which 
 it has made the women-folks almost tired to death to pra- 
 
NUMBKK FOUR. 135 
 
 pure. Who is the person in tliis room that is not pious? 
 I do not cure to knowhim for the present. 
 
 We should give thanks that our house is, in many 
 respects, superior to our neighbors'. True, it may not be 
 as big, nor as fine-looking, nor, indeed, as attractive gen- 
 erally ; but it is superior, nevertheless, as we always in- 
 form any man who wants to purchase, — we should be 
 very thankful that we can turn thing.^ so favorably for 
 our own intefests. 
 
 We should be thankful that our teachers, and edi- 
 tors, and doctors, and lawyers, are such superior men, 
 as we learn they are when they come to die and have 
 their epitaphs written. 
 
 We should be thankful, in fact, that this world was 
 especially created for our own comfort, convenience, and 
 use ; that we have a perfect right to life, liberty, and the 
 l)ursuit of happiness, no matter if these do conflict with 
 some other person's wishes, and happiness, and rights. 
 
 I hope you will thank me for this recognition of your 
 good qualities, your rights, youi glory ; and trust I shall 
 be permitted to say of myself, when I retire, 
 " Here lies an honest young man." 
 
 ONLY WAITING. 
 
 A very aged Cliristian who was so poor as to be in an ulnis-house, was asked 
 what ho w;ls doing now. He i-eplied, " Only waiting^ 
 
 Only waiting till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown ; 
 Only waiting till the glimmer 
 
 Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
 Till the night of earth is faded 
 
 From the heart once full of day ; 
 Till the stars of heaven are breaking 
 
 Through the twilight soft and gray. 
 
 Only waiting till the reapers 
 
 Have the last sheaf gathered home ; 
 
 For the summer time'is faded. 
 
 And the autumn winds have come. 
 
 Quickly, reapers, gather quickly 
 The last ripe hours of my heart, 
 2a 
 
13G ONH HUNDRED CHOICE SICLECTIONS 
 
 For the bloom of life is withered. 
 And I hasten to depart. 
 
 Only waiting till the angels 
 
 Open wide the mystic gate, 
 At whose feet I long have lingered, 
 
 Weary, poor, and desolate. 
 Even now I hear the footsteps, 
 
 And their voices, far away ; 
 If they call me, I am waiting, 
 
 Only waiting to obey. 
 
 Only waiting till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown ; 
 Only waiting till the glimmer 
 
 Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
 Then from out the gathered darkness, 
 
 Holy, deathless stars shall rise, 
 By whose light my soul shall gladly 
 
 Tread its pathway to the skies. 
 
 NOTHING TO WEAR.-Wi.i.iam Allen Butleb. 
 
 ABRIDGED FOR PUB'.IC READING. 
 
 Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square, 
 
 Has made three separate journeys to Paris ; 
 
 And her father assures me, each time she was there, 
 
 That she and her friend, Mrs. Harris, 
 
 Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, 
 
 In one continuous round of shopping ; 
 
 Shopping alone, and shopping together. 
 
 At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather. 
 
 For all manner of things that a woman can put 
 
 On the crown of her head, or the sole of her foot. 
 
 Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, 
 
 Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced. 
 
 Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow. 
 
 In front or behind, above or below ; 
 
 For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; 
 
 Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls, 
 
 From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills • 
 In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, 
 "While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore, 
 
 They footed the streets, and he footed the bills ! 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 137 
 
 And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the 
 
 day 
 This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, 
 This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square, 
 The last time we met was in utter despair, 
 Because she had nothing whatever to wear ! 
 
 I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's 
 
 Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, 
 
 I had just been selected as he who should throw all 
 
 The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal 
 
 Oil myself, after twenty or thirty rejections, 
 
 Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections," 
 
 And that rather decayed, but well known worli of art. 
 
 Which Miss Flora persisted in styling her "heart." 
 
 So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighte.l. 
 
 Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove, 
 
 But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted. 
 
 Beneath the gas-fixtures, we whispered our love. 
 
 Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs. 
 
 Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes. 
 
 Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions, 
 
 It was one of the quietest business transactions. 
 
 Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey and gained her, 
 
 With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, 
 
 I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder 
 
 At least in the property, and the best right 
 
 To appear as its escort by day and by night ; 
 
 And it being the week of the Stuckup's grand ball, — 
 
 Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, 
 
 And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe, — 
 I considered it only my duty to call, 
 
 And ask if Miss Flora intended to go. 
 The fair Flora looked up, with a pitiful air. 
 And answered quite promptly, " Why, Harry, mon cher, 
 I should like above all thii^s to go with you there. 
 But really and truly — I've nothing to wear." 
 "Nothing to wear ! go just as you are ; 
 Wear the dross you have on, and you'll be by far, 
 I engage, the most bright and particular star 
 
 On the Stuckup horizon—" I stopped, for her eye, 
 Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, 
 Opened on me at once a most terrible battery 
 
 Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, 
 But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose, 
 
 (That pure Grecian feature,) as much as to say, 
 
138 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELUCTIONB 
 
 " I low absurd that any sane man should suppose 
 That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, 
 No matter how fine, that she wears every day ! " 
 
 So I ventured again: " Wear your crimson brocade" 
 (Second turn up of nose) — "That's too dark by a shade." 
 "Your blue silk "— "That's too heavy." "Your pink"— 
 
 "That's too light." 
 " Wear tulle over satin" — "I can't endure white.'' 
 " Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch" — 
 "1 haven't a thread of point-lace to match." 
 '■ Your brown moire antique" — " Yes, and look like a Quaker." 
 " The pearl-colored"—" I would, but that plaguy dress-maker 
 Has had it a week." " Then that exquisite lilac, 
 In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock" 
 (Here the nose took again the same elevation) — 
 " I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." 
 "Tht!ii wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed 
 
 Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which you sported 
 In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation. 
 When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation, 
 
 Anil by all the grand court were so very much courted." 
 
 The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, 
 And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, 
 As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, 
 " I have worn it three times, at the least calculation. 
 
 And that and most of my dresses are ripped up ! " 
 Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash. 
 
 Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expression 
 More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," 
 
 And proved very soon the last act of our session. 
 " Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling 
 Doesn't fall down and crush you, — you men have no feeling; 
 You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, 
 Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers. 
 Your silly pretence, — why, what a mere guess it is! 
 Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities ? 
 I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear, 
 And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care. 
 But you do not believe me," (here the nose went still higher,) 
 " I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar. 
 Our engagement is ended, sir, — yes, on the spot ; 
 You're a brute, and a monster, and— I don't know what." 
 
 Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too, 
 Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, 
 
NUMBL'lt FOUR. 139 
 
 In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay 
 Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say ; 
 Then, without going through the form of a bow, 
 Found myself in the entry,— I hardly knew how, 
 On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, 
 At home aad up stairs, in my own easy-chair ; 
 
 Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, 
 And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, 
 "Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar 
 
 Of the Ruseias to boot, for the rest of his days, 
 On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare, 
 If he married a woman with nothing to wear?" 
 
 Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited 
 
 Abroad in society, I've instituted 
 
 A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, 
 
 On this vital subject, and And, to my horror. 
 
 That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising. 
 
 But that there exists the greatest distress 
 In our female community, solely arising 
 
 From this unsupplied destitution of dress. 
 Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air 
 With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear ! " 
 
 Oh, ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
 Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, 
 From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride. 
 And the temples of trade which tower on each side. 
 To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt 
 Their children have gathered, their city have built; 
 Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey 
 
 Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ; 
 Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt. 
 Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, 
 
 Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair 
 To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old. 
 Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold; 
 See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet. 
 All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street, 
 Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell 
 
 From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor; 
 Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of hell. 
 
 As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door; 
 Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,— 
 Spoiled children of fashion, — you've nothing to wear! 
 
140 ONE HU.SDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And, oh, if perchance there should be a sphere, 
 Where all is made right which so puzzles) us here ; 
 NV'liere the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of time 
 Fade and die in the light of that region sublime ; 
 Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, 
 Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, 
 Must be clothed for the life and the service above. 
 With purity, truth, iaith, meekness, and love ; 
 Oh, daughters of earth ! foolish virgins, beware ! 
 Lest, in that upper realm, you have nothing to wear. 
 
 IRISH ALIENS.*— R. L. Shiel. 
 
 There is a man of great abilities — not a member of 
 this house, but whose talents and boldness have placed 
 him in tlie topmost place in liis party — who has been 
 heard to speak of the Irish "aliens." Disdaining all im- 
 posture, and abandoning all reserve, he distinctly and 
 audaciously tells the Irish people that they are not en- 
 titled to the same privileges as Englishmen ; that they 
 are "aliens." Aliens? Good heavens! Was Arthur, 
 Duke of Wellington, in the house of Lords, and did he 
 not start up and exclaim, "Hold! 1 have.seen the aliens 
 do their duty!" The " battles, sieges, fortunes that he has 
 passed," ought to have come back upon him. He ought 
 to have remembered that, from the earliest achievement 
 in which he displayed that military genius which has 
 placed him foremost in the annals of modern warfare, 
 down to that last and surpassing combat which has made 
 his name imperishable, — from Assaye to Waterloo, — the 
 Irish soldiers, witli whom your armies are filled, were 
 the inseparable auxiliaries to the glory with which his 
 unparalleled successes have been crowned. 
 
 Whose were the arms that drove your bayonets at 
 Vimiera through the phalanxes that never reeled in the 
 shock of war before? What desperate valor climbed the 
 steeps and filled the moats of Badajos? All, all his vic- 
 
 *lii R'jily to Lurd Lyndhurst (18^7 ', who had atijjiii.iti/A-d thu Irisli lus ulluiis. 
 
NUMBER POOR. 141 
 
 tories should have rushed and crowded back upon his 
 iiieiuory ; Vimeira, Badajos, Salamanca, Albuera, Tou- 
 louse ; and, last of all, the greatest Tell me, for you 
 
 were there, — I appeal to the gallant soldier before nie 
 {Sir Henry Hardinge), who bear*, I know, a generous 
 heart in an intrepid breast, — tell me, for you must needs 
 remember, on that day, when the destinies of mankind 
 were trembling in the balance, while death fell in showers ; 
 when the artillery of France, leveled with the precision 
 of the most deadly science, played upon them ; when her 
 legions, incited by the voice, inspired by the example, of 
 their mighty leader, rushed again and again to the onset ; 
 tell me if, for an instant, when to hesitate for an instant 
 was to be lost, the "aliens" blenched! And when, at 
 length, the moment for the last decisive movement had 
 arrived ; when the valor, so long wisely checked, was at 
 last let loose ; when with words familiar, but immortal, 
 the great captain commanded the great assault, — tell me 
 if Catholic Ireland with less heroic valor than the natives 
 of your own glorious isle precipitated herself upon the foe ! 
 The blood of England, Scotland, Ireland, flowed in the 
 same stream, drenched the same field. When the chill 
 morning dawned, their dead lay cold and stark together; 
 in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited; the 
 green corn of spring is now breaking from their com- 
 mingled dust; the d,ew falls from heaven upon their union 
 in the grave ! Partakers in every peril ; in the glory 
 shall we not be permitted to participate ? — and shall we 
 be told, as a requital, that we are estranged from the 
 noble country for whose salvation our life-blood was 
 poured out? 
 
 CLERICAL WIT. 
 
 A parson, who a missionary had been, 
 And hardships and privations oft had seen, 
 While wandering far on lone and desert strands, 
 A weary traveler in benighted lands, 
 
142 ONE UUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Would often picture to his little flock 
 The terrors of the gibbet and tlie block ; 
 How martyrs suffered in the ancient times, 
 And what men suffer now in other climes ; 
 And though his words were eloquent and deep, 
 His hearers oft indulged themselves in sleep. 
 
 He marked with sorrow each unconscious nod. 
 
 Within the portals of the house of God, 
 
 And once this new expedient thought he'd take 
 
 In his discourse, to keep the rogues awake: — 
 
 Said he, " While traveling in a distant state, 
 
 I witnessed scenes which I will here relate : 
 
 'Twas in a deep, uncultivated wild. 
 
 Where noontide glory scarcely ever smiled ; 
 
 Where wolves in hours of midnight darkness howled, 
 
 Where bears frequented, and where panthers prowled , 
 
 And, on my word, mosquitos there were found. 
 
 Many of which, I think, would weigh a pound ! 
 
 More fierce and ravenous than the hungry shark — 
 
 TJiey oft were known to climb the trees and bark ! " 
 
 The audience seemed taken by surprise — 
 All started up and rubbed their wonderiogeyes; 
 At such a tale they all were much amazed. 
 Each drooping lid was in an instant raised, 
 And we must say, in keeping heads erect, 
 It had its destined and desired effect. 
 But tales like this credulity appalled ; 
 Next day, the deacons on the pastor called, 
 And begged to know how he could ever tell 
 The foolish falsehoods from his lips that fell. 
 
 " Why, sir," said one, " think what a monstrous weight 
 Were they as large as you were pleased to state ? 
 You said they'd weigh a pound ! It can't be true ; 
 We'll not believe it, though 'tis told by you! " 
 " Ah, but it is! " the parson quick replied; 
 " In what I stated you may well confide. 
 Many, I said, sir, — and the story's good, — 
 Indeed I think that mam/ of them would!" 
 The deacon saw at once that he was caught. 
 Yet deemed himself relieved, on second thought. 
 " But then the harking— thm^i of that, good man ! 
 Such monstrous lies ! Explain it if you can ! " 
 " Why, that my friend, I can explain with ease — 
 They climbed the bark, sir, when they climbed the trees.'" 
 
NCMSEK FOUR. 1(3 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE EXECUTION. 
 
 I sneered when I heard the old priest coipplain 
 That the doomed seemed voiceless and dull of brain ; 
 For why should the felon be other than dumb 
 As he stands at the gate of the world to come ? 
 Let them lock up his Eeverence here in the celL 
 Waiting the sound of the morning bell 
 That heralds his dying and tolls his knell, 
 . And the tick-tock 
 Of the great jail clock 
 Will attract him more than the holiest prayer 
 That ever was mingled with dungeon air. 
 
 Will it never be morning, — will never arise 
 The great red sun in the cold gray skies, 
 Thrusting its rays in my iron-barred cell, 
 And lighting the city I know so well? 
 Is this horrible night forever to be, — 
 The phantom I feel, though I cannot see, — 
 Is that to be ever alone with me ? 
 
 Will the tick-tock 
 
 Of the ceaseless clock 
 Beat forever through brain and heart, 
 Till the tortured soul from the body part? 
 
 And now in the darkness surrounding me 
 A hundred figures I plainly see ; 
 And there are my mother's pitying eyes— 
 Why does she from her grave arise ? 
 And there, on the crowd's oxtremest rim. 
 Gashed of throat and supple of limb — 
 Why, what do I want to-day with himf 
 
 To the tick-tock 
 
 Of the ceaseless clock 
 His body is swaying, slowly and free, 
 W^hile his shadowy finger points at me. 
 
 Will it never be here, — the dawn of the day, 
 When the law is to carry my life away ; 
 And the gaping crowd, with their pitiless eyes, 
 Stand eager to see how the doomed one dies? 
 Nothing to scatter the terrible gloom 
 That fills up the arched and grated room; 
 Nothing to herald the hour of doom 
 
 But the tick-tock 
 
 Of the weariless clock, 
 
 21.* 
 
Ill ONB HUNDBED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And the tread of the tired policeman's feet 
 As he steadily paces the echoing street. 
 
 At last the deep darkness is melting away 
 
 At the corpse-like light on the face of the day 
 
 I hear the prisoners in their cells, 
 
 I hear the chiming of morning bells, 
 
 The rattle of carts in the streets once more, 
 
 The careful tread, on the stony floor. 
 
 Of the sheriflf, who comes to the grated door, 
 
 And the tick-tock 
 
 Of the great jail clock. 
 And the whispered words of the keepers around, 
 And every whisper a thunder sound. 
 
 What mocking is this in the formal demand, 
 In the mighty name of the law of the land, 
 For the body of him who is doomed to die 
 In the face of men, and beneath the sky ? 
 I am safe in your thrall, but pinion me well, 
 I might be desperate — who can tell? — 
 As I march to the sound of the clanging bell, 
 
 The tick-tock 
 
 Of the great jail clock, 
 And the voice of the priest as he mumbles a prayer, 
 And the voices that murmur around me there. 
 
 WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.— Charles Maikay. 
 
 Great King William spread before him 
 
 All his stores of wealth untold, — 
 Diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, 
 
 Heaps on heaps of minted gold. 
 Mournfully he gazed upon it 
 
 As it glittered in the sun, 
 Sighing to himself " Oh, treasure, 
 
 Held in care, by sorrow won ! 
 Millions think me rich and happy ; 
 
 But, alas ! before me piled 
 I would give thee ten times over 
 
 For the slumbers of a child ! " 
 
 Great King William from his turret 
 Heard the martial trumpets blow; 
 
 Saw the crimson banners floating 
 Of a countless host below ; 
 
NUMBEK FOUR. 145 
 
 Saw their weapons flash in sunlight, 
 
 As the squadrons trod the sward ; 
 And he sighed, " Oh, mighty army. 
 
 Hear thy miserable lord : 
 At my word thy legions gather. 
 
 At my nod thy captains bend ; 
 But, with all thy power and splendor, 
 
 I would give thee for a friend! " 
 
 Great King William stood oh Windsor, 
 ' Looking, from its castled height. 
 O'er his wide-spread realm of England 
 
 Glittering in the morning light ; 
 Looking on the tranquil river 
 
 And the forest waving free; 
 And he sighed, " Oh ! land of beauty, 
 
 Fondled by the circling sea. 
 Mine thou art, but I would yield thee 
 
 And be happy, could I gain. 
 In exchange, a peasant's garden, 
 
 And a conscience free fi-om stain ! " 
 
 THE DEATH PENALTY.— Victor Hugo. 
 
 I regret, gentlemen, that this qu&stion of the abolition 
 i,f capital punishment — the most important question, per- 
 haps, of all before this body — comes up at a time when 
 we are little prepared for its discussion. For myself I 
 have but few words to say on the subject, but they will 
 proceed from convictions profound and long entertained. 
 You have established the inviolability of the domicile ; 
 we ask you to establish an inviolability higher and more 
 sacred, the inviolability of human life! Gentlemen, a 
 constitution, and above all, a constitution made by France 
 and /or France, is necessarily an important step in civili- 
 zation. If it is not that, it is nothing. Consider, then, 
 this penalty of death. What is it but the special and 
 eternal type of barbarism ? Wherever the penalty of 
 death is most in vogue, barbarism prevails. Wherever 
 it is rare, civilization reigns. Gentlemen, these are in- 
 disputable facts. 
 
146 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 The modification of the penalty was a great forward 
 step. The eighteenth century, to its honor, abolished 
 the torture. The nineteenth century will abolish the 
 death penalty. You may not abolish it to-day, but, doubt 
 not, you will abolish it to-morrow ; or else your suc- 
 cessors will abolish it. You have inscribed at the head 
 of the preamble of your constitution the words, "In 
 PRESENCE OF GoD ;" and would you begin by depriving 
 that God of the right which to him only belongs, — the 
 the right of life and death ? 
 
 Gentlemen, there are three things which are God's, 
 not man's,- — the irrevocable, the irreparable, the indis- 
 soluble. Woe to man if he introduces them into his 
 laws ! Sooner or later they will force society to give 
 way under their weight ; they derange the equilibrium 
 essential to the security of laws and morals ; they take 
 from human justice its proportions ; and then it happens, 
 — think of it, gentlemen, — it happens that the law revolts 
 the conscience ! 
 
 I have ascended this tribune to say but a word, a de- 
 cisive word, and it is this : After the revolution of Feb- 
 ruary came a great thought to the French people. The 
 day after they had burned the throne, they sought to 
 burn the scaffold! But this sublime idea tliey were pre- 
 vented from carrying into execution. In the first article 
 of this constitution you have consecrated the people's 
 first thought ; You have east down the throne ! Now 
 consecrate its second thought, and cast down the scaffold. 
 I vote for the entire abolition of the penalty of death. 
 
 TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.-Thomas Hood. 
 
 I really take it very kind, 
 
 This visit, Mrs. Skinner ; 
 I have not seen you such an age. 
 
 (The wretch has come to dinner !) 
 Your daughters, too, what loves of girls! 
 
 What heads for painters' easels ! 
 Come here, and kiss the infant, dears ! 
 
 (And give it, p'rhaps, the measles!) 
 
NUMBER POUR. 147 
 
 Your charming boys, I see, are home, 
 
 From Reverend Mr. Eussel's ; 
 'Twas very kind to bring them both. 
 
 ( What boots for my new Brussels 1) 
 AVhat! little Clara left at home? 
 
 Well now, I call that shabby ! 
 I should have loved to kiss her so! 
 
 (A flabby, dabby babby !) 
 And Mr. S., I hope he's well ; 
 , But, though he lives so handy,' 
 He never now drops in to sup. 
 
 (The better for our brandy !) 
 Come, take a seat; I long to hear 
 
 About Matikla's marriage ; 
 You've come, of course, to spend the day. 
 
 (Thank Heaven! I hear the carriage!) 
 
 What! must you go? Next time, I hope, 
 
 You'll give me longer measure ; 
 Nay, I shall see you down the stairs; 
 
 (With most uncommon pleasure!) 
 Good by ! good by ! Remember, all. 
 
 Next time you'll take your dinners. 
 (Now, David, mind I'm not at home. 
 
 In future, lo the Skinners.) 
 
 CffiUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. 
 Felicia Hi' mans. 
 
 The bofly of Heniy tho Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fonte- 
 vnuilf, where it was visiteil by Richard Copur de Lion, who, on beliolding it, was 
 struclt with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself fortliat rrbidl- 
 ious conduct which had been the nieaus of bringing his father to an untimely 
 grave. 
 
 Torches were blazing clear. 
 
 Hymns pealing deep and slow. 
 Where a king lay stately on his bier 
 
 In the church of Fontevrault. 
 Banners of battle o'er him hung, 
 
 And warriors slept beneath. 
 And light as noon's broad light was flung 
 
 On the settled face of death, — 
 
 On the settled face of death 
 A strong and ruddy glare ; 
 Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath. 
 Yet it fell still brightest there ; 
 
148 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SEL:;CrlONS 
 
 As if each deeply furrowed trace 
 
 Of earthly years to show. 
 Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race 
 
 Had surely closed in woe I 
 
 The marble floor was swept 
 
 By many a long dark stole, 
 As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, 
 
 Sang mass for the parted soul ; 
 And solemn were the strains they pouted 
 
 Through the stillness of the night, 
 With the cross above, and the crown and sword, 
 
 And the silent king in sight. 
 
 There was heard a heavy clang, 
 
 As of steel-girt men the tread, 
 And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 
 
 With a sounding thrill of dread ; 
 And the holy chant was hushed awhile, 
 
 As by the torch's flame, 
 A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle 
 
 With a mail-clad leader came. 
 
 He came with haughty look. 
 
 An eagle glance and clear ; 
 But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook 
 
 When he stood beside the bier ! 
 He stood there still with a drooping brow, 
 
 And clasped hands o'er it raised; 
 For his father lay before him low, 
 
 It was CcEur de Lion gazed ! 
 
 And silently he strove 
 
 With the workings of his breast ; 
 But there's more in late repentant love 
 
 Than steel may keep suppressed ! 
 And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain. 
 
 Men held their breath in awe. 
 For his face was seen by his warrior-train, 
 
 And he recked not that they saw. 
 
 He looked upon the dead, 
 
 And sorrow seemed to lie, — 
 A weight of sorrow, even like lead, 
 
 Pale on the fast-shut eye. 
 He stooped and kissed the frozen cheek, 
 
 And the heavy hand of clay. 
 
NUMBER FOUB. 14a 
 
 Till bursting words— yet all too weak— 
 Gave his soul's passion way. 
 
 " O father ! is it vain, 
 
 This late remorse and deep? 
 Speak to me, father, once again ! 
 
 I weep, — behold, I weep 1 
 Alas ! my guilty pride and ire. 
 
 Were but this work undone, 
 I would give England's crown, my sire, 
 • To hear thee bless thy son. 
 
 " Speak to me ! mighty grief 
 
 Ere now the dust hath stirred ! 
 Hear me, but hear me ! — father, chief. 
 
 My king, I miist be heard ! 
 Hushed, hushed, — how is it that I call, 
 
 And that thou answerest not '.' 
 When was it thus, woe, woe for all 
 
 The love my soul forgot 1 
 
 " Thy silver hairs I see, 
 
 So still, so sadly bright ! 
 And father, father! but for me, 
 
 They had not been so white ! 
 I bore thee down, high heart, at last ! 
 
 No longer couldst thou strive ;— 
 Oh, for one moment of the past. 
 
 To kneel and say, — ' Forgive ! ' 
 
 " Thou wert the noblest king 
 
 On royal throne e'er seen ; 
 And thou didst wear in knightly ring. 
 
 Of all, the stateliest mien ; 
 And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, 
 
 In war, the bravest heart. 
 Oh, ever the renowned and loved 
 
 Thou wert, — and there thou art ! 
 
 " Thou that my boyhood's guide 
 
 Didst take fond joy to be ! 
 The times I've sported at thy side. 
 
 And climbed thy parent knee ! 
 And there before the blessed shrine, 
 
 My sire, I see thee lie ; 
 How will that sad still face of thine 
 
 Look on me till I die ! " 
 
150 ONE HUNDBBD OIIOItlE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE BIBLE IN HARMONY WITH TEMPERANCE. 
 
 And does that blessed Book of books, which none 
 
 But bold bad men despise, its sanction give 
 
 To poisonous alcoholic wines ? And 
 
 Can the Christian plead a Bible charter 
 
 For the use of that which history, science, 
 
 Reason, and experience, all combined 
 
 On amplest scale, have fairly, fully proved 
 
 To be inimical to man ? Hath God 
 
 By inspiration taught frail, erring men 
 
 To Venture on an awful precipice, 
 
 Where danger lurks at every step? Hath he 
 
 Whose workmanship we are, no more regard 
 
 Or care paternal for his creature man, 
 
 Than thus to jeopardize, on ruin's brink. 
 
 The fair and beauteous fabric of his hand, 
 
 Whence shine creative wisdom, power, and skill, 
 
 In lines of brightei' hue than all the vast 
 
 Of nature's splendid scenery can boast ? 
 
 Can it be thought that He, whose boundless love 
 
 Evolved redemption's scheme of grace immense, 
 
 And laid upon his own all-potent arm 
 
 The mighty undertaking, — can it be 
 
 That He approves the use of that which tends 
 
 With constant, uniform, and powerful sway. 
 
 To mar, pervert, and frustrate all bis work? 
 
 Did that same Jesus, from heaven sent 
 
 On God-like mission of eternal love. 
 
 To spoil the powers of darkness, death, and hell, 
 
 And lift from ruin's vortex of despair, 
 
 A prostrate, helpless, dying, rebel world, — 
 
 Did he, by precept or example, stamp 
 
 A signature divine upon that cup 
 
 AVhich, as "a mocker" sparkles to deceive? 
 
 Did he, the famous Galilean King, 
 
 When first he showed his wonder-working arm, 
 
 A lid poured the glory of his Father forth 
 
 At Cana's holy, blest, connubial feast, — 
 
 Did he the copious water-plenished jars 
 
 Defile with poisonous adder-stinging wine, 
 
 And palm upon that unsuspecting group 
 
 A serpent sparkling in a raging cup? 
 
 And did the holy, harmless, spotless Lamb 
 
 Who gave his life for all, a ransom vast, 
 
NI-JIBEn I.-OUE. 151 
 
 And sealed with blood the cov'nant of his grace, — 
 
 Did he the parting " cup of blessing " fill 
 
 With lust-inspiring wine? Did he command 
 
 His loved and loving ones to shadow forth 
 
 His dying passion and undying love, 
 
 By drinking at his sacred board of that 
 
 Which, as a second curse, since the old flood. 
 
 Has spread a tide of moral pestilence 
 
 O'er all tlie earth, — 'neath whose corrupting stream 
 
 Prophict and Priest and Sai>;t, have sunk o'erwhelmed, 
 
 And witli unnumbered millions found, alas! 
 
 Perdition's deepest, darkest, direst hell? 
 
 Nay, Christian ! startle not ; no skeptic's sneer. 
 
 Or scowl of infidel, or jest profane, 
 
 Is couched beneath the queries now proposed. 
 
 We take with firm confiding trust and love 
 
 The sacred volume, and revere the page 
 
 Whose hallowed verities unfold to man 
 
 His nature, origin, and destiny. 
 
 We joyously adore and venerate 
 
 The God of heaven and earth, and lowly bow 
 
 Before his throne, as suppliants for his grace ; 
 
 With faith unfeigned we take salvation's cup, 
 
 And call upon the name of him by whom 
 
 Redemption's price was paid for all our race. • 
 
 It is because we thus revere God's word, 
 
 And venerate our Father's holy name, 
 
 And cling with faith and love to Jesus' cross. 
 
 That we would seek to wipe away 
 
 The stain, which infidels would be well pleased to view 
 
 Upon the mirror of eternal truth. 
 
 THE AMERICAN INDIAN.— Charles Sprague. 
 
 • Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled 
 with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the 
 rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug 
 his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race 
 of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your 
 heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer ; gaz- 
 ing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian 
 lover wooed his dusky mate. Here the wigwam blaze 
 
152 ONE HUNDRED CUOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 beamed on the tender and helpless, the council fire glared 
 on the wise and daring. Now they dipped their noble 
 limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now tiiey paddled the 
 light canoe along your rocky shores. Here they warred ; 
 the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying death- 
 song, all were here ; and when the tiger strife was over, 
 here curled the smoke of peace. 
 
 Here, too, they worshiped ; and from many a dark bo- 
 som went up a pure prayer to Ihe Great Spirit. He had 
 not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he 
 had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor 
 child of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the 
 God of the universe he acknowledged in every thiiig 
 around. He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty 
 behind his lonely dwelling ; in the sacred orb th^t flamed 
 on him from his mid-day throne ; in the flower that 
 sna])ped in the morning breeze; in the lofty pine, that de- 
 fied a thousand whirlwinds ; in the timid warbler that 
 never left its native grove ; in the fearless eagle whose un- 
 tired pinion was wet in clouds ; in the worm that crawled 
 at his feet ; and in his own matchless form, glowing with a 
 spark of that light, to whose mysterious source he bent 
 in humble, though blind, adoration. 
 
 And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came 
 a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The 
 former were sown for you ; the latter sprang up in the 
 path of the simple native. Two hundred years have 
 changed the character of a great continent, and blotted 
 forever from ite face a whole peculiar people. Art has 
 usurped the bowers of nature, and the childten of educa- 
 tion have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. 
 Here and there a stricken few remain ; but how unlike 
 their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors ! The Indian 
 of falcon glance and lion bearing, the theme of the touch- 
 ing ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone ! and his 
 degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked 
 in majesty, to remind us how miserable is man when the 
 foot of the conqueror is on his neck. 
 
NUMBEK FOUR. 153 
 
 As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
 arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins 
 are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone 
 out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to the 
 untrodden West. Slowly and sadly they climb the dis- 
 tant mountains, and read their doom in the setting sun. 
 They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is press- 
 ing them away ; they must soon hear the roar of the last 
 wave, which will settle over them forever. 
 
 BETSEY AND I ARE OUT.*— Will Cahleton. 
 
 Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout; 
 For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsey and I are out. 
 We, who have worked together so long as man and wife, 
 Must pull in single harness for the rest of our nat'ral life. 
 
 " What is the matter," say you ? I swan it's hard to tell ! 
 Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well ; 
 I have no other woman — she has no other man ; 
 Only we've lived together as long as ever we can. 
 
 So I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked with rae. 
 And so we've agreed together that we can't never agree ; 
 Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime; 
 We've been a-gatherin' this for years, a little at a time. 
 
 There was a stock of temper we both had, for a start, 
 Although we never suspected 'twould take us two apart ; 
 I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone ; 
 And Betsey, like all good women, had a temper of her own. 
 
 The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed. 
 Was somethin' concerning heaven,— a difference in our creed ; 
 We arg'ed the thing at breakfast, we arg'ed the thing at tea, 
 And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we didn't 
 agree. 
 
 And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow ; 
 She had kicked the bucket, for certain, the question was 
 
 only — How? 
 I held my own opinion, and Betsey another had ; 
 And when we were done a-talkin', we both of us was mad. 
 
 •From "Farm HHllada," by iiennission. " How Betsey and I made up," by 
 Will Carletou, will be found in Nu. 5. of tbis series. 
 
 7» 
 
154 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; 
 But for full a week it lasted, and neither of us spoke. 
 And the next was when I scolded because she broke a bowl ; 
 And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul. 
 
 And so that bowl kept pourin' dissensions in our cup ; 
 And so that blamed cow-critter was always a-coinin' up; 
 And so that heaven we arg'ed no nearer to us got. 
 But it gave us a taste of somethin' a thousand times as hot. 
 
 And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way ; 
 Always somethin' to arg'e and somethin' sharp to say; 
 And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o'dozen strong, 
 And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along. 
 
 And there has been days together— and many a weary week— 
 We was both of us cross and spunky, and both too proud to 
 
 speak ; 
 And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the 
 
 winter and fall. 
 If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then T wont at all. 
 
 And so I've talked with Betsey, and Betsey hus talked with 
 
 me; 
 And we have agreed together that we can't never agree; 
 And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be 
 
 mine ; 
 And I'll put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign. 
 
 AVrite on the paper, lawyer, — tlie very first paragraph, — 
 Of all the farm and live stock, that she shall have lier half; 
 For she has helped to earn it, through man}' a weary day, 
 And it's nothin' more than justice that Betsey has her jiay. 
 
 Give her Ihe house and homestead; a man can thrive and 
 
 roam, 
 But women are skeery critters, unless they have a home. 
 And I have always determined, and never failed to say, 
 That Betsey never should want a home if I was taken away. 
 
 There is a little hard money that's dra'win' tol'rable pay,— 
 A couple of hundred dollars laiil by for a rainy day, — 
 Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at ; 
 Put in another clause there, and give her hif of that. 
 
 Yes, I see you smile, sir, at my pivin' her so much ; 
 Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such ; 
 True and fair I married her, when she was blithe and young, 
 And Betsey was al'ays good to me, exceptin' with her tongue. 
 
Once when I was young as you, and not so smart, perhaps, 
 For me she mitteued a lawyer, and several otlier chaps ; 
 And all of em was Hustered, and fairly taken down. 
 And 1 for a time was counted the lucKiest man in town. 
 
 Once, when I had a fever — I won't forget it soon — 
 I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon ; 
 Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight ; 
 She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and 
 night. 
 
 And if ever'a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, 
 Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen ; 
 And I don't complain of Betsey, or any of her acts, 
 Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told each other facts. 
 
 So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home to-night, 
 And read the agreement to her, and see if it's all right; 
 And then, in the mornin', I'll sell to a tradin' man I know, 
 And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world 
 
 I'll go. 
 And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't occur ; 
 That when I am dead at last she'll bring me back to her, 
 And lay me under tlie maples I planted years ago. 
 When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so. 
 
 And when she dies I wish that she would be laid by me; 
 And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we will agree ; 
 And, if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it queer 
 If we loved each other the better because we quarreled here. 
 
 ' BETSEY DESTROYS THE TAPER. 
 
 ['ve brought back the paper, lawyer, and fetched the parson 
 
 here. 
 To see that things are regular, and settled up fair and dear ; 
 For I've been talking with Caleb, and Caleb has with me. 
 And the 'mount of it is we're minded to try once more to 
 
 agree. 
 So I came here on the business, only a word to say, 
 (Caleb is staking pea-vines and couldn't come to-day.) 
 Just to tell you and parson how that we've changed our mind ; 
 So I'll tear up the paper, lawyer, you see it wasn't sijined. 
 
 .\nd now if parson is ready, I'll walk with him toward home; 
 [ want to thank him for soiaething, — 'twas kind of him to 
 come ; 
 
156 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SF.I.ECTIONS 
 
 He's showed a Christian spirit, stood by ns firm arid true ; 
 We mightn't have changed our mind, squire, if he'd been a 
 lawyer too. 
 
 There I — how good the sun feels, and the grass, and blowin' 
 
 trees, 
 Somethipg about them lawyers makes me feel fit to freeze ; 
 You Icnow 1 wasn't bound to state particulars to that man. 
 But it's right to tell you, parson, about our change of plan. 
 
 We'd been some days a- wave' in' a little, Caleb and me. 
 And wished the hateful paper at the bottom of the sea ; 
 But I guess 'twas the prayer last evening, and the few words 
 
 you said, 
 That thawed the ice between us, and brought things to a 
 
 head. 
 
 You see, when we came to division, there was things that 
 
 wouldn't divide ; 
 There was our twelve-year-old baby, she couldn't be satisfied 
 To go with one or the other, but just kept whimperin' low, 
 " I'll stay with papa and mamma, and where they go I'll go." 
 
 Then there was grandsire's Bible — he died on our wedding 
 
 day; 
 We couldn't halve the old Bible, and should it go or stay? 
 The sheets that was Caleb's mother's, her sampler on the wall, 
 With the sweet old names worked in, — Tryphena, and Eunice, 
 
 and Paul. 
 
 It began to be hard then, parson, but it grew harder still, 
 Talkin' of Caleb established down at McHenry'sville ; 
 Three dollars a week 'twould cost him ; no mendin' nor sort 
 
 of care. 
 And board at the Widow Meacham's, a woman that wears 
 
 false hair. 
 
 Still we went on a-talkin' ; I agreed to knit some socks. 
 And make a dozen striped shirts, and a pair of wa'mus frocks ; 
 And he was to cut a doorway from the kitchen to the shed : 
 " Save you climbin' steps much, in frosty weather," he said. 
 
 He brought me the pen at last ; then I felt a sinkin', and he 
 Looked as he did with theagur, in the spring of sixty-three. 
 'Twas then you dropped in, parson, 'twasn't much that was 
 
 said, 
 " Little children, love one another," but the thing was killed 
 
 stone dead. 
 
 I should like to make confession ; not that I'm going to say 
 The fault was all on my side, that never was my way ; 
 
NUMBER FOIIH. 157 
 
 But it may be true that women — tho' how 'tis I can't see — 
 Are a trifle more aggravatin' than men know how to be. 
 
 Then, parson, the neighbors' meddlin' — it wasn't pourin' oil ; 
 
 And the church a-laborin' with ub, 'twas worse than wasted 
 toil; 
 
 And I've thought, and so has Caleb, though maybe we are 
 wrong, 
 
 If they'd kept to their own business, we should have got 
 along. 
 
 There was Deacon Amos Purdy, a good man as we know, 
 
 But hadn't a gift of laborin' except with the scythe and hoe ; 
 
 Then a load came over in peach time from the Wilbur neigh- 
 borhood, 
 
 " Season of prayer," they called it ; didn't do an atom of good. 
 
 I'll tell you about the heifer - one of the kindest and best — 
 That brother Ephraim gave me, the fall he moved out West ; 
 I'm free to own it riled me that Caleb should think and say 
 She died of convulsions, — a cow that milked four gallons a 
 
 day. 
 But I needn't have spoke of turnips, needn't have been so 
 
 cross. 
 And said hard things, and hinted as if 'twas all my loss ; 
 And I'll take it all back, parson ; that fire shan't ever break 
 
 out, 
 Though the cow was choked with a turnip, I never had a 
 
 doubt. 
 
 Then there are p'lnts of doctrine, and views of a future state, 
 I'm willing to stop discussin'; we can both aflford to wait ; 
 'Twon't bring the millennium sooner, dispntin' 'bout when 
 
 it's due. 
 Although I feel an assurance that mine's the Scriptural view. 
 
 But the blessedest truths of the Bible, I've learned to think 
 
 don't lie 
 In the texts we hunt with a candle to prove our doctrines by, 
 But them that come in sorrow, and when we're on our knees ; 
 So if Caleb won't argue on free-will, I'll leave alone the decrees. 
 
 One notion of Caleb's, parson, seems rather misty and dim; 
 I wish, if it comes convenient, you'd change a word with him. 
 It don't quite stand to reason, and for gospel it isn't clear. 
 That folks love better in heaven for having quarreled here. 
 
 I've no such an expectation ; why, parson, if that is so, 
 You needn't have worked so faithful to reconcile folks below; 
 I hold another opinion, and hold it straight and square : 
 If we can't be peaceable here, we won't be peaceable there. 
 
158 ONE HCSDRKD CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 But there's the request he made ; you know it, parson, about 
 Beiu' laid under the maples that his own hand set out, 
 And me to be laid beside him when my time comes to go; 
 As if— as if— don't mind me ; but 'twas that unstrung me so. 
 
 And now that some scales, as we think, have fallen from our 
 
 eyes, 
 And things brought so to a crisis have made us both more 
 
 wise, 
 Why, Caleb says, and so I say, till the Lord parts him and 
 
 me, 
 W e'll love each other better, and try our best to agree. 
 
 TO A SKELETUN. 
 
 The MSS. of this poem, was founil in the Museum of the Ri>yal Culjege of 
 SurguouH, in Louduu, lieaf » perfect huiuiiit hkeletoii, uud tjent by the eur.it. r 
 to the Muriiing Chronicle fur publication. It excited tiu much attention tii.it 
 every etturt wuB mode to discover tlie author, and a responsible party ueiit au 
 far us to offer a reward of Hfty gnineits for information ttiat wtmld discover its 
 origin. The author preserved his iucogliito, aud, we believe, has never been 
 discovered. 
 
 Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a skull, 
 Once of ethereal spirit full. 
 This narrow cell was life's retreat. 
 This space was thought's mysterious seat. 
 What beauteous visions filled this spot. 
 What dreams of pleasure long forgot? 
 Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear. 
 Have left one trac e of record here. 
 
 Beneath this mouldering canopy 
 
 Once shone the bright and bu-ty eye; 
 
 But start not at the dismal void ; 
 
 If social love that eye employed, 
 
 If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 
 
 But through the dews of kindness beamed, — 
 
 That eye shall be forever bright 
 
 When stars and sun are sunk in night. 
 
 AVithin this hollow cavern hung 
 The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue ; 
 If falsehood's honey it disdained. 
 And when it could not praise was chained ; 
 If bold in virtue's cause it spoke. 
 Yet gentle concord never broke, — 
 This silent tongue shall plead for thee 
 When time unveils etornity! 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 159 
 
 Say, did these fingers delve the mine, 
 Or with the envied rubies shine ? 
 To hew the rock or wear a gem 
 Can little now avail to them. 
 But if the page of truth they sought, 
 Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
 These hands a richer meed shall claim 
 Than all that wait on wealth and fame. 
 
 Av/iils it whether bare or shod 
 These feet the paths of duty trod ? 
 If from the bowers of ease they fled. 
 To seek affliction's humble shed ; 
 Jf grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
 And home to virtue's cot returned,-^ 
 Tliese feet with angol wings shall vie, 
 Anil tread the palace of the sky ! 
 
 A REVOLUTIONARY SERMON* 
 Hugh Henry Breckeneidge. 
 
 Soldiers and countrymen : — We liave met this evening 
 perhaps for the last time. We have shared the toil of 
 the march, the peril of the fight, the dismay of the retreat; 
 alike we have endured toil and hunger, the contumely 
 of the internal foe, the outrage of the foreign oppressor. 
 We have sat night after night beside the same camp-fire, 
 shared the same rough soldier's fare ; we have together 
 heard the roll of the reveille which called us to duty, or 
 the beat of the tattoo which gave the signal for the hardy 
 sleep of the soldier, with the earth for his bed, and a 
 knapsack for his pillow. 
 
 And now, soldiers and brethren, wo have met in this 
 peaceful valley, on the eve of battle," while the sunlight 
 is dying away beyond yonder heights, the sunlight that 
 to-morrow morn will glimmer on scenes of blood. We 
 have met amid the whitening tents of our encampment; 
 in times of terror and gloom have we gathered together — 
 God grant it may not be for the last time I It is a sol- 
 emn time. Brethren, does not the awful voice of nature 
 
 *l'ri'acliefi un the eve of the battle of Brandy wine, Septembex- lU, 1777, iu the 
 presence of Wa^hiugtoQ and bis army, at Cbadd's Ford. 
 
 2k 
 
160 ONE hundred' choice selections 
 
 S33ia to echo the sympathies of this hour? The flag of 
 our country droops heavily from yonder stafi"; the breezj 
 has died away along the plain of Chadd's F6rd, — the 
 plain that spreads before us glistening in sunlight; the 
 heights of the Brandy wine arise gloomy and grand beyond 
 the°waters of yonder stream ; and all nature holds a pause 
 of solemn silence, on the eve of the bloodshed and strife 
 of the morrow. 
 
 " They that take the sword shall perish by the sword." 
 And have they not taken the sword ? Let the des )- 
 lated plain, the blood-soddened valley, the burned farm- 
 house, the sacked village, and the ravaged town, answer ; 
 let the whitening bones of the butchered farmer, strewn 
 along the fields of his homestead, answer; let the starving 
 mother, with the babe clinging to her withered breast, 
 that can afford no sustenance, let her answer, with tha 
 death rattle mingling with the murmuring tones that 
 mark the last struggle for life, — let the dyin^ mother and 
 her babe answer ! It was but a day past, and our land 
 slept in the light of peace. War was not here, wrong 
 was not here. Fraud, and woe, and misery, and want, 
 dwelt not among us. Prom the eternal solitude of the 
 green woods, arose the blue smoke of the settler's cabin, 
 and golden fields of corn peered forth from amid the 
 waste of the wilderness, and the glad music of hum m 
 voices awoke the silence of the forest. Now, God of 
 mercy, behold the change ! Under the shadow of a pre- 
 text, under the sanctity of the name of God, invoking 
 the Redeemer to their aid, do these foreign hirelings slay 
 our people ! They throng our towns, they darken our 
 plains, and now they encompass our posts on the lonely 
 plain of Chadd's Ford. 
 
 " They that take the sword shall perish by the sword." 
 Brethren, think me not unworthy of belief when I 
 tell you that the doom of the Britisher is near ! Think 
 me not vain when I tell you that beyond that cloud that 
 now enshrouds us, I see gathering, thick and fast, the 
 d irker cloud and the blacker storm of a Divine retri- 
 bution ! They may conquer us to-morrow ! Might and 
 wrong may prevail, and we may be driven from this 
 field — but the hour of God's own vengcvance will come ! 
 Aye, if in the vast solitudes of eternal space, if in the 
 
NUMBER FOUR. 161 
 
 heart of the boundless universe, there throbs the being of 
 an awful God, quick to avenge, and sure to punish guilt, 
 then will the man George of Brunswick, called King, 
 feel in his brain and in his heart, the vengeance of the 
 Eternal Jehovah ! A blight will be upon his lite, — a 
 withered brain, an accursed intellect ; a blight will be 
 upon his children, and on his people. Great God ! how 
 dread the punishment ! ^ 
 
 A crowded populace, peopling the dense towns where 
 the man of money thrives, while the laborer starves; 
 want striding among the people in all its forms of terror ; 
 an ignorant and God-defying priesthood, chuckling over 
 the miseries of millions ; a proud and merciless nobility, 
 adding wrong to wrong, and heaping insult upon robbery 
 and fraud ; royalty corrupt to the very heart, aristocracy 
 rotten to the core ; crime and want linked hand in hand, 
 and tempting men to deeds of woe and death, — these are 
 a part of the doom and retribution that shall come upon 
 the English throne and people. Soldiers: I look around 
 among your familiar faces with a strange interest! To- 
 morrow morning we will all go forth to battle — for need 
 I tell you that yoirr unworthy minister will go with you, 
 invoking G )d's aid in the fight ? We will march forth 
 to battle. Need I exhort you to fight — to fight for your 
 homesteads, for your wives and your children ? My friends, 
 I might urge you to fight by the galling memories of 
 British wrong! Walton, I might tell you of your father, 
 butchered in the silence of midnight, on the plains of 
 Trenton ; I might picture his gray hairs, dabbled in blood ; 
 I might ring his death shriek in your eara. Shelmire, 
 I might tell you of a mother butchered, and a sister 
 outraged ; the lonely farm house, the night assault, the 
 roof in flames, the shouts of the troopers as they de- 
 spatched their victims, the cries for mercy, the plead- 
 ings of innocence for pity. I might paint this all again, 
 in the terrible colors of vivil reality, if I thought your 
 courage needed ^uch wild excitement. But I know you 
 are strong in the might of the Lord. You will go forth 
 to battle to-morrow with light hearts and determined 
 snirits, though the solemn duty, the duty of avenging the 
 dead, may rest heavy on your souls. And in the hour 
 of battle when all around is darkness, lit by the lurid 
 
1C2 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELKCTIONS 
 
 cannon-glare and the piercing musket-flash, when the 
 wounded strew the ground, and the dead litter your path, 
 remember, soldiers, that God is with you. The Eternal 
 God fights for you ; he rides on the battle cloud, he sweeps 
 onward with the march of the hurricane charge. The Aw- 
 ful and the Infinite fights for you, and you will triumph. 
 
 " They that take the sword shall perish by the sword." 
 
 You have taken the sword, but not in the spirit of 
 wrong and ravage. You have taken the sword for your 
 homes, for your wives, for your little ones. You have 
 taken the sword fur truth, for justice and right, and to 
 you the promise is, be of good cheer ; for your foes have 
 taken the sword, in defiance of all that m:in holds dear, 
 in blasphemy of God ; they shall perish by the sword. 
 
 And now, brethren and soldiers, 1 bid you all farewell. 
 Many of us may fall in the fight of to-morrow, — God rest 
 the souls of the fallen ! — many of us may live to tell the 
 story of the fight of to-morrow, and in the memory of 
 all, will ever rest and linger the quiet scene of this au- 
 tumnal night. When we meet again, may the long 
 shadows of twilight be flung over a peacefiil land. 
 
 God in heaven grant it ! 
 
 THE DECLARATION.-N. P. Willis. 
 
 'Twas late, and the gay company was gone, 
 And light lay soft on the deserted room 
 From alabaster vases, and a scent 
 Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came 
 Through the unshuttered window on the air; 
 And the rich pictures with their dark old tints, 
 Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things 
 Seemed hushed into a slumber. Isabel, 
 The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel, 
 Was leaning on her harp, and I had stayed 
 To whisper what I couhl not when the crowd 
 Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt, 
 And with the fervor of a lip unused 
 To the cold breath of reason, told my love. 
 There was no answer, and I took the hand 
 That rested on the strings, and pressed a kiss 
 Upon it unforbidden— and again 
 
NUMMKR FOUR. 103 
 
 Besought her that this silent evidence 
 That I was not indifferent to her heart, 
 Mi{;ht have the seal of one sweet syllable. 
 I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke, 
 And she withdrew them gently, and upraised 
 Her forehead from it.s resting-place, and looked 
 Earnestly on me - Site liad been asleep I 
 
 JOHN 6URNS OF GETTYSBURG.— Bret Hartb. 
 
 Have you heard the story the gossips tell 
 
 Of John Burns of Gettysburg? — No? Ah, well — 
 
 Brief is the glory that hero earns, 
 
 Briefer the story of poor John Burns; 
 
 He was the fellow who won renown, — 
 
 The only man who didn't back down 
 
 When the Vebels rode through his native town ; 
 
 But held his own in the fight next day, 
 
 When all his townsfolk ran away. 
 
 That was in July, sixty-three, — 
 
 The very day that General liee. 
 
 The flower of Southern chivalry. 
 
 Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 
 
 From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 
 
 I might tell how, but the day before, 
 John Burns stood at his cottage-door, 
 Looking down the village street, 
 Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 
 He heard the low of his gathered kine. 
 And felt their breath with incense sweet ; 
 Or, I might say, when the sunset burned 
 The old farm gable, he thousht it turned 
 The milk that fell in a babbling flood 
 Into the milk-pail, red as blood ; 
 Or, how he fancied the hum of bees 
 Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 
 But all such fanciful thoughts as these 
 Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 
 Who minded only his own concerns. 
 Troubled no more by fancies fine 
 Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine; 
 Quite old-fashioned, and matter-of-fact. 
 Slow to argue, but quick to act. 
 
101 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 That was the reason, as some folks say, 
 He fought so well on that terrible day. 
 
 And it was terrible. On the right 
 
 Kaged for hours the heavy fight, 
 
 Thundered the battery's double bass, — 
 
 Ditficul't music for men to face; 
 
 While on the left — where now the graves 
 
 Undulate like the living waves 
 
 That all the day unceasing swept 
 
 Up to the pits the rebels kept — 
 
 Round shot plowed the upland glades, 
 
 Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; 
 
 Shattered fences here and there 
 
 Tossed their splinters in the air ; 
 
 The very trees were stripped and bare ; 
 
 The barns that once held yellow grain 
 
 Were heaped with harvests Of the slain ; 
 
 The cattle bellowed on the plain, 
 
 The turkeys screamed with might and main, 
 
 And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 
 
 With strange shells bursting in each nest. 
 
 Just where the tide of battle turns. 
 Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns. 
 
 How do you think the man was dressed? 
 He wore an ancient, long buff vest. 
 Yellow as saffron— but his best; 
 And, buttoned over his manly breast 
 Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar, 
 And large gilt buttons, — size of a dollar,— 
 AVith tails that country-folk called " swaller." 
 He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 
 White as the locks on which it sat. 
 Never had such a sight been seen 
 For forty years on the village-green, 
 Since John Burns was a country beau. 
 And went to the " quilting " long ago. 
 
 Close at his elbows, all that day 
 Veterans of the Peninsula, 
 Sunburnt and bearded, Charged away; 
 And striplings, downy of lip and chin — 
 Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in — 
 Glanced as they passed at the hat he wore. 
 Then at the rifle his right hand bore; 
 
NUMBER FOrR. 100 
 
 And hailed him from out their youthful lore, 
 
 With scraps of a slangy repertoire: 
 
 " How are you, White Hat?" " Put her through!" 
 
 " Your head's level ! " and, " Bully for you ! " 
 
 Called him " Daddy"— and begged he'd disclose 
 
 The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 
 
 And what was the value he set on those ; 
 
 While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 
 
 Stood there picking the rebels off— 
 
 With hifi long, brown rifle and bell-crown hat. 
 
 And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 
 
 'Twas but a moment, for that respect 
 
 Which clothes all courage their voices checked ; 
 
 And something the wildest could understand 
 
 Spake in the old man's strong right hand, 
 
 And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
 
 Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; 
 
 Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
 
 Through the ranks in whispers, ancl some men saw, 
 
 In the antique vestments aud long white hair, 
 
 The Past of the Nation in battle there. 
 
 And some of the soldiers since declare 
 
 That the gleam of his old white hat afar. 
 
 Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
 
 That day was their oriflamme of war. 
 
 Thus raged the battle. You know the rest ; 
 
 How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed, 
 
 Broke at the final charge and ran. 
 
 At which John Burns — a practical man — 
 
 Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 
 
 And then went back to his bees and cows. 
 
 This is the story of old John Burns ; 
 
 This is the moral the reader learns : 
 
 in fighting the battle, the question's whether 
 
 You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather. 
 
 BELSHAZZAR.— George Croly. 
 
 Hour of an empire's overthrow ! 
 
 The princes from the feast were gone ; 
 The idol flame was burning low ; — 
 
 'Twas midnight upon Babylon. 
 
136 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 That night the feast was wild and high ; 
 
 That night was Zion's gold profaned ; 
 The seal was set to blasphemy ; 
 
 The last deep cup of wrath was drained. 
 
 Mid jeweled roof and silken pall, 
 Belshazzar on his couch was flung ; 
 
 A burst of thunder filled the hall ; 
 
 He heard — but 'twas no mortal tongue: 
 
 "King of the East! the trumpet calls, 
 That calls thee to a tyrant's grave ; 
 
 A curse is on thy palace walls, 
 A curse is on thy guardian wave ; 
 
 " A surge is in Euphrates' bed. 
 That never filled its bed before ; 
 
 A surge, that, ere the morn be red. 
 Shall load with death its haughty shore. 
 
 "Behold a tide of Persian steel! 
 
 A torrent of the Median car; 
 Like flame their gory banners wheel ; 
 
 Rise, king, and arm thee for the war I " 
 
 Belshazzar gazed ; the voice was past, 
 The lofty chamber filled with gloom ; 
 
 But echoed on the sudden blast 
 The rushing of a mighty plume. 
 
 He listened ; all again was still ! 
 
 He heard no chariot's iron clang ; 
 He heard the fountain's gushing rill. 
 
 The breeze that through the roses sang. 
 
 He slept; in sleep wild murmurs came; 
 
 A visioned splendor fired the sky ; 
 He heard Belshazzar's taunted name ; 
 
 He heard again the prophet cry ; 
 
 " Sleep, Sultan ! 'tis thy final sleep, 
 Or wake, or sleep, the guilty dies ; 
 
 The wrongs of those who watch and weep, 
 Around thee and thy nation, rise." 
 
 He started ; mid the battle's yell 
 He saw the Persian rushing on : 
 
 He saw the flames around him swell. 
 Thou'rt ashes, King of Babylon! 
 
NUMBHIt FOUR. 107 
 
 THE UNBELIEVER.— Thomas Chalmers. 
 
 I pity the unbeliever, — one who can gaze upon the 
 grandeur, and glory, and beauty of the natural universe, 
 and behold not the touches of His finger, who is over, 
 and with, and above all ; from my very heart I do com- 
 miserate his condition. The unbeliever! one whose in- 
 tellect the light of revelation never penetrated ; who can 
 gaze upon tljp sun, and moon, and stars, and upon the 
 unfading and imperishable sky, spread out so magnifi- 
 cently above him, and say all this is the work of chance. 
 The heart of such a being is a drear and cheerless void. 
 In him, mind — the god-like gift of intellect — is debased, 
 destroyed ; all is dark,— a fearful chaotic labyrinth — ray- 
 less — cheerless — hopeless ! No gleam of light from heaven 
 penetrates the blackness of the horrible delusion ; no 
 voice from the Eternal bids the desponding heart rejoice. 
 No fancied tones from the harps of seraphim arouse the 
 dull spirit from its lethargy, or allay the consuming fever 
 of the brain. The wreck of mind is utterly remediless ; 
 reason is prostrate ; and passion, prejudice, and supersti- 
 tion have reared their temple on the ruins of his intellect. 
 
 I pity the unbeliever. What to him is the revelation 
 from on high but a sealed book ? He sees nothing above, 
 or around, or beneath him that evinces the existence of 
 a God ; and he denies — yea, while standing on the foot- 
 stool of Omnipotence, and gazing upon the dazzling throne 
 of Jehovah, he shuts his intellect to the light of reason, 
 and denies there is a God. 
 
 THE ASTONISHED TIPPLER. 
 
 Out of the tavern I've just stepped to-night- 
 Street ! you are caught in a very bad plight ; 
 Right hand and left hand are both out of place- 
 Street, you are drunk : 'tis a very clear case. 
 
 Moon ! 'tis a very queer figure you cut ; 
 One eye is staring while t'other is shut — 
 Tipsy, I see, and you're greatly to blame ; 
 Old as you are, 'tis a horrible shame. 
 2b* 
 
163 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 Then the street lamps— what a scandalous sight 1 
 None of them soberly standing upright ; 
 Rocking and staggering — why, on my word, 
 Each of those lamps is as drunk as a lord. 
 
 All is confusion ! now isn't it odd 7 
 Nothing is sober that I see abroad. 
 Sure it were rash with this crew to remain ; 
 Better go into the tavern again. 
 
 THE DRUMMER BOY. 
 
 A touching incident of the Crimean war. 
 
 " Captain Graham, the men were sayin' 
 
 Ye would want a drummer lad, 
 So I've brought ye my boy Sandie, 
 
 Tho' my heart is woful sad ; 
 But nae bread is left to feed us, 
 
 And nae siller to buy more, 
 For the gudeman sleeps forever, 
 
 Where the heather blossoms o'er. 
 
 " Sandie, make your manners quickly, 
 
 Play your blithest measure true. 
 Give us ' Flowers of Edinboro',' 
 
 While yon fifer plays it, too. 
 Captain, heard ye e'er a player 
 
 Strike in truer time than he?" 
 "Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray 
 
 Drummer of our corps shall be." 
 
 " I give ye thanks -but. Captain, maybe 
 
 Ye will hae a kindly care 
 For the friendless, lonely laddie, 
 
 When the battle wark is sair. 
 For Sandie's aye been good and gentle, 
 
 And I've nothing else to love. 
 Nothing — but the grave off yonder,. 
 
 And the Father up above." 
 
 Then, her rough hand gently laying 
 
 On the curl-encircled head. 
 She blessed her boy. The tent was silent; 
 
 Not another word was said ; 
 For Captain Graham was reminded 
 
 Of a benison, long ago. 
 
N LMBEii FOUK. 1G9 
 
 Breathed above his head, then golden, 
 Bending now, and touched with snow. 
 
 " Good-bye, Sandie." " Good-bye, motlier, 
 I'll come back some summer day ; 
 
 Don't you fear — they don't shoot drummers 
 Ever. Do they, Captain Gra ? 
 
 One more Iciss — watch for me, mother, 
 You will know 'tis surely me 
 
 Coming home, — for you will hear me 
 
 " Playing soft the reveille." 
 
 After battle. Moonbeams ghastly 
 
 Seemed to link in strange aflright, 
 As the scudding clouds before them 
 
 Shadowed faces dead and white ; 
 And the night-wind softly whispered. 
 
 When low moans its light wing bore,— 
 Moans that ferried spirits over 
 
 Death's dark wave to yonder shore. 
 
 Wandering where a footstep careless 
 
 Might go splashing down in blood, 
 Or a helpless hand lie grasping 
 
 Death and daisies from the sod, 
 Captain Graham walked swift onward. 
 
 While a fiintly-beaten drum 
 Quickened heart and step together: 
 
 " Sandie Murray ! See, I come I 
 
 "Is it thus I find you, laddie? 
 
 Wounded, lonely, lying here, 
 Playing thus the reveille ! 
 
 See— the morning is not near." 
 A moment paused the drummer boy. 
 
 And lifted up his drooping head : 
 "Oh, Captain Graham, the light is coming, 
 
 'Tis morning, and my prayers are said. 
 
 " Morning 1 See, the plains grow brighterl 
 
 Morning— and I'm going home ; 
 That is why I play the measure, 
 
 Mother will not see me come ; 
 But you'll tell her, won't you, Captahi— " 
 
 Hush, the boy has spoken true; 
 To him the day has dawned forever. 
 
 Unbroken by the night's tattoo. 
 
170 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH— Barry Cornwall. 
 
 Softly woo away her breath, 
 
 Gentle death ! 
 Let her leave thee with no strife, 
 
 Tender, mournful, murmuring life! 
 She hath seen her happy day, 
 
 She hath had her bud and blossom; 
 Now she pales and shrinks away, 
 
 Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! 
 
 She hath done her bidding here, 
 
 Angels dear ! 
 Bear her perfect soul above, 
 
 Seraph of the skies, — sweet love I 
 Good she was, and fair in youth ; 
 
 And her mind was seen to soar. 
 And her heart was wed to truth. 
 
 Take her, then, forevermore, 
 
 Forever — evermore ! 
 
 A VISION OF FUTURE BLISS. 
 Richard Baxter. 
 
 Rest ! how sweet the sound ! It is melody to my ears. 
 It lies as a reviving cordial at my heart, and thence sends 
 forth lively spirits which beat through all the pulses of 
 my soul. Rest, not as the stone that rests on the earth, 
 nor as this flesh shall rest in the grave, nor such a rest 
 as the carnal world desires. Oh^ blessed rest ! when we 
 rest not day and night, saying, " Holy, holy, holy. Lord 
 God Almighty ; " when we shall rest from sin, but not 
 from worship ; from sufiering and sorrow, but not from 
 joy. Oh, blessed day! when I shall rest with God; when 
 I shall rest in the bosom of my Lord ; when my perfect 
 soul and body shall together perfectly enjoy the most 
 perfect God ! 
 
 This is that joy which was procured by sorrow; that 
 crown which was procured by the cross. My Lord 
 wept, that now my tears might be wiped away ; he bled, 
 that I might now rejoice ; he was forsaken that I might 
 not be ; he died that I might live. Oh, free mercy, thnt 
 can exalt so vile a wretch ! Free to me, though dear to 
 
KUJ:BEn FOLK, 171 
 
 Christ ; free grace that halh chosen me, when thousands 
 were forsaken. 
 
 ■ Oh, sweet reconciliation ! happy union ! Now the gos- 
 pel shall no more be dishonored through our folly. No 
 more, my soul, shalt thou lament the sufferings of the 
 saints, or the Church's ruins, or mourn thy suffering 
 friends, or weep over their dying beds or their graveti. 
 Thou shalt never suffer thy old temptations from Satan, 
 the world, or thy own flesh. Thy pains and sickness are 
 all cured ; tTiy body shall no more burden thee with 
 weakness and weariness ; thy aching head and heart, thy 
 hunger and thirst, thy sleep and labor, — are all gone. 
 
 On, what a mighty change is this ! From persecuting 
 sinners, to praising saints; from a vile body, to this 
 which shines as the brightness of the firmament ; from 
 a sense of God's displeasure, to the perfect enjoyment of 
 him in love; from all my fearful thoughts of death, to 
 this joyful life. Bles.sed change ! Farewell sin and sor- 
 row forever ; farewell my rocky, proud, unbelieving 
 heart, — my worldly, sensual, carnal heart, — and welcome 
 my most holy, heavenly nature! Farewell repentance, 
 faith, and hope, and welcome love, and joy, and praise! 
 
 I shall now have my harvest without plowing or sow- 
 ing; my joy without a preacher or promise; even all 
 from the face of God himself Whatever mixture is in 
 the streams, there isnothingbutpure joy inthe fountain. 
 Here shall I be encircled with eternity, and ever live, and 
 ever, ever praise the Lord. My face will not wrinkle, 
 nor my hair be gray ; for this corruptible shall have put 
 on ineorruption, and this mortal, immortality ; death shall 
 be swallowed up in victory. O death ! where is now 
 thy sting ? grave ! where is thy victory ? 
 
 The date of ray lease will no more expire, nor shall I 
 trouble myself with thoughts of death, nor lose my joys 
 through jear of losing them. When millions of ages are 
 past, my glory is but beginning ; and when millions more 
 are past, it is no nearer ending. Every day is all noon, 
 every month is harvest, every year is a jubilee, every age 
 is a full manhood, and all this is one eternity. Oh, 
 blessed eternity ! the glory of my glory, the perfection 
 of my perfection. 
 
172 ONI! nUNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT.— J. G. Saxb. 
 
 It was six men of Indostan 
 
 To learning much inclined; 
 Who went to see the elephant 
 
 (Though all of them were blind), 
 That each by observation 
 
 Might satisfy his mind. 
 
 The First approached the elephant, 
 
 And, happening to fall 
 Against his broad and sturdy side. 
 
 At once began to bawl : 
 " God bless me ! but the elephant 
 
 Is very like a wall ! " 
 
 The Second, feeling of the tusk, 
 Cried : " Ho ! what have we here 
 
 So very round and smooth and sharp? 
 To me 'tis mighty clear 
 
 This wonder of an elephant 
 Is very like a spear! " 
 
 The Thiid approached the animal, 
 
 And, happening to take 
 The squirming trunk within his hands. 
 
 Thus boldly up and spake : 
 " I see," quoth he, " the elephant 
 
 Is very like a snake ! " 
 
 The Fourth reached out his eager hand, 
 
 And felt about the knee : 
 " What most this wondrous beast is like 
 
 Is mighty plain," quoth he ; 
 " 'Tis clear enough the elephant 
 
 Is very like a tree." 
 
 The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, 
 
 Said : " E'en the blindest man 
 Can tell what this resembles most; 
 
 Deny the fact who can, 
 This marvel of an elephant 
 
 Is very like a fan ! " 
 
 The Sixth no sooner had begun 
 
 About the beast to grope, 
 Than, seizing on the swinging tail 
 
 That fell within his scope, 
 
NUMDISK Foun. 173 
 
 " I see," quoth he, " the elephant 
 Is very like a rope ! " 
 
 And so these men of Indostan 
 
 Disputed loud and long, 
 Each in his own opinion 
 
 Exceeding stifl' and strong, 
 Thougli each was partly in the right, 
 
 And all were in the wrong ! 
 
 • So, oft in thcologic wars 
 
 The disputants, I ween. 
 Kail on in utter ignorance 
 
 Of what each other mean, 
 Andprate about an elephant 
 
 Not one of tJiem has seen ! 
 
 THE LAUNCHING OP THE SHIP.— H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 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 splendors 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 honor of her marriage-day; 
 
 Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending 
 
 Round her like a veil descending, . 
 
 Eeadv to be 
 
 The bride of the gray old sea. 
 
174 ONE IIUIIDEED CILOICIS SELECTIONS 
 
 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, 
 
 ^he 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, 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, ship! 
 
 Through wind and wave, right onward steer; 
 
 The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
 
 Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 
 
 Sail forth into the sea of life, 
 gentle, loving, trusting wife ! 
 And safe from all adversity. 
 Upon the bosom of that sea 
 Thy comings and thy goings be I 
 For gentleness, and love, and trust. 
 Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
 And in the wreck of noble lives 
 Something immortal still survives! 
 
 Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State ! 
 Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
 Humanity, with all its fears. 
 With all its hopes of future years, 
 Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
 We know what master laid thy keel. 
 What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. 
 
Nl'MBER FOUK. l;0 
 
 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 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. 
 
 ON TO FREEDOM.-A. J. H. Duqanne. 
 
 On to Freedom ! On to Freedom ! 
 
 'Tis the everlasting cry 
 Of the floods that strive with ocean, 
 
 Of the storms that smite the sky ; 
 Of the atoms in the whirlwind, 
 
 Of the seed beneath the ground ; 
 Of each living thing in nature 
 
 That is bound ! 
 'Twas the cry that led from Egypt, 
 
 Through the desert wilds of Edom ; 
 Out of darkness — out of bondage — 
 
 On to Freedom ! On to Freedom 1 
 
 O thou stony-hearted Pharaoh ! 
 
 Vainly warrest thou with God ! 
 Moveless, at thy palace portals, 
 
 Moses waits, with lifted rod ! 
 O thou poor barbarian, Xerxes ! 
 
 Vainlj' o'er the Pontic main 
 Flingest thou, to curb its utterance, 
 
 Scourge or chain ! 
 For the cry that led from Egypt, 
 
 Over desert wilds of Edom, 
 Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew: 
 
 On to Freedom ! On to Freedom ! 
 In the Roman streets, with Gracchus, 
 
 Hark ! I hear that cry outswell ; 
 
i76 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SE L liCT I O S S 
 
 In the German woods, with Hermann, 
 
 And on Switzers' hills, with Tell! 
 Up from Spartacus, the bondman. 
 
 When his tyrant's yolie he clave, 
 And from stalwart Wat the Tyler,— 
 
 Saxon slave ! 
 Still the old, old cry of Egypt, 
 
 Struggling up from wilds of Edom, 
 Sounding still through all the ages : 
 
 On to Freedom ! On to Freedom 1 
 
 On to Freedom ! On to Freedom ! 
 
 Gospel cry of laboring Time, 
 Uttering still through seers and sages. 
 
 Words of hope and faith sublime ! 
 From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens, 
 
 And our Washingtons they come ; 
 And we cannot —and we dare not 
 
 Make them dumb! 
 Out of all the shames of Egypt, 
 
 Out of all the snares of Edom ; 
 Out of darkness— out of bondage — 
 
 On to Freedom ! On to Freedom! 
 
 MARK TWAIN'S "GREAT BEEF-CONTRACT." 
 Samuel, L. Clemens. 
 
 The origin of this distressful thing was this, — and I 
 assert here that every fact in the following resume can 
 be amply proved by the official records of the General 
 Government. 
 
 John Wilson Mackenzie, of Rotterdam, Chemung Coun- 
 ty, New Jersey, deceased, contracted with the General 
 Government, (m or about the 10th day of October, 1861, 
 to furnish to General Sherman the sum total of thirty bar- 
 rels of beef. Very well. He started afler Sherman with 
 the beef, but when he got to Washington, Sherman had 
 gone to Manassas ; so he took the beef and followed him 
 there, but arrived too late ; he followed him to Nashville, 
 and from Nashville to Chattanooga, and from Chatta- 
 nooga to Atlanta,— but he never could overtake him. 
 
KUMBEU FOCR. 177 
 
 At Atlanta he took a fresh start and followed him clear 
 through his march to the sea. He arrived too late again 
 by a few days, but, hearing that Sherman was going out 
 in the Quaker City excursion to the Holy Land, he took 
 shipping for Beirut, calculating to head off the other ves- 
 sel. When he arrived in Jerusalem with his beef, ho 
 learned that Sherman had not sailed in the Quaker City, 
 but had gone to the Plains to fight the Indians. He 
 returned to America and started for the Rocky Moun- 
 tains. After eighteen days of arduous travel on the 
 Plains, and when he had got within four miles of Sher- 
 man's headquarters, he was tomahawked and scalped, 
 and the Indians got the beef They got all of it but one 
 barrel. Sherman's army captured that, and so, even in 
 death, the bold navigator partly fulfilled his contract. In 
 his will, which he had kept like a journal, he bequeathed 
 the contract to his son Bartholomew W. Bartholomew 
 W. made out the following bill and then died : 
 Thk United States, 
 
 In acct. with John Wilso.v Mackenzie, of New Jersey, 
 deceased. Dr. 
 
 To thirty barrels of beef for Gen. Sherman, @ $100 $ 3,000 
 To traveling expenses arid transportation, 14.000 
 
 Total, $17,000 
 
 Rec'd Pay't. 
 
 He died then ; but he lefl the contract to Win. J. Mar- 
 tin, who tried to collect it, but died before lie got through. 
 He left it to Barker J. Allen, and he tried to collect it 
 also. He did not survive. Barker J. Allen left it to 
 Anson G. Rogers, who attempted to collect it, and got 
 along as far as the Ninth Auditor's oflBce, when death the 
 great leveler came ail unsummoned, and foreclosed on 
 him alsa He left the bill to a relative of his in Connec- 
 ticut, Vengeance Hopkins by name, who lasted four weeks 
 and two days, and made the best time on record, coming 
 within one of reaching the Twelfth Auditor. In his will 
 he gave the contract bill to his uncle, by the name of 
 0-be-joyful Johnson. It was too undermining for Joyful. 
 
178 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 His last words were: " Weep not for me, — I am willing to 
 go." And so he was, poor soul 1 iSeven people inherited 
 the contract after that. But they all died. So it came into 
 my hands at last. It fell to me through a relative by the 
 name of Hubbard.^Bethlehem Hubbard, of Indiana. 
 He had had a grudge against me for a long time ; but in 
 his last moments he sent lor me, and forgave me every- 
 thing, and, weeping, gave me, the beef-contract. 
 
 This ends the history of it up to the time that I suc- 
 ceeded to the property^. I will now endeavor to set my- 
 self straight before the nation in everything that concerns 
 my share in the matter. I took this beef-contract, and 
 the bill for mileage and (ransportation, to the President 
 of the United States. He said, " Well, sir, what can I "do 
 for you ? " 
 
 I said, " Sire : On or about the 10th day of October 
 1861, John Wilson Mackenzie, of Rotterdam, Chenmng 
 County, New Jersey, deceased, contracted with the Gen- 
 eral Government to furnish to General Sherman the sum 
 total of thirty barrels of beef — '' 
 
 He stopped me there, and dismissed me from his pres- 
 ence, kindly, but firmly. The next day I called on the 
 Secretary of State. He said, " V/ell, sir? " 
 
 I said, " Your Royal Highness : On or about the 10th- 
 day of Oqtober, 1861, John Wilson Mackenzie, of Rotter- 
 dam, Chemung County, New Jersey, deceased, contract- 
 ed with the General Government to furnish to General 
 Sherman the sum total of thirty barrels of beef — " 
 
 " That will do, sir, — that will do ; this offics has noth- 
 ing to do with contracts for beef" 
 
 I was bowed out. I thought the matter all over, and fi- 
 nally the following day, I visited the Secretary of the 
 Navy, who said, " Speak quickly, sir ; do not keep rac 
 waiting." 
 
 I said, " Your Royal Highness : On or about the 10th 
 day of October, 1861, John Wilson Mackenzie, of Rot- 
 terdam, Chemung County, New Jersey, deceased, con- 
 tracted with the General Government to furnish to Gju- 
 
NUMBHU rouR. 179 
 
 eral Sherman the sum total of thirty barrols ef beef—" 
 
 Well, it was as far aa I could get. He had nothing to 
 do with beef-contracts for General Sherman, either. I 
 began to think it was a curious kind of a government. 
 It looked somewhat as if they wanted to get out of pay- 
 ing for that beef. The following day I went to the Sec- 
 retary of the Interior. I said, " Your Imperial High- 
 ness: On or about the 10th day of October — " 
 
 " That is sufficient, sir, I have heard of you before. 
 Go, — take your infamous beef-contract out of this estab- 
 lishment. The Interior Department has nothing what- 
 ever to ilo with subsistence for the army." 
 
 I went away. But I was exasperated now. I said I 
 would haunt them ; I would infest every department of 
 this iniquitous government till that contract business was 
 sjttled ; I would collect that bill, or fall, as fell my prede- 
 cessors, trying. I assailed the Postmaster-General ; I 
 besieged the Agricultural Department; I waylaid the 
 Speaker of the House of Representatives. They had 
 nothing to do with army contracts for beef. I moved 
 upon the Commissioner of the Patent-Office. I said, "Your 
 august Excellency: On or about — " 
 
 " Perdition ! have you got here with your incendiary 
 beef-contract, at last ? We have nothing to do with beef- 
 contracts for the army, my dear sir." 
 
 " Oh, that is all very well, but somebody has got to 
 pay for that beef! It has got to be paid now too, or I'll 
 onfiscate this old Patent-Office and everything in it." 
 
 " But, my dear sir — " 
 
 " It don't make any difference, sir. The Patent-Office 
 is liable for that beef, I reckon ; and, liable or not liable, 
 the Patent-Office has got to pay for it." 
 
 Never mind the details. It ended in a fight. The 
 Patent-Office won. But I found out something to my 
 advantage. I was told that the Treasury Department 
 was the proper place for me to go. I went there. I 
 waited two hours and a half, and then I was admitted 
 to the First Lord of the Treasury. I said, " Most noble, 
 
180 ON'E nUNDRED CHOICE SELECTION'S 
 
 grave, and reverend Signor : On or about the lOtli day of 
 October, 1861, John Wilson Maeken — " 
 
 " That is sufficient, sir. I have heard of you. Go to 
 the First Auditor of the Treasury." 
 
 I did so. He sent me to the Second Auditor. The 
 Second Auditor sent me to the Third, and the Third sent 
 me to the First Comptroller of the Corn-Beef Division. 
 Tliis began to look like business. Ho examined his books 
 and all his loose papers, but found no minute of the beef- 
 contract. I went to the Second Comptroller of the Corn- 
 B_ef Division. He examined his books and his loose 
 ])apers, but with no success. I was encouraged. Dur- 
 ing that week I got as far as the Sixth Comptroller in 
 that division ; the U3xt week I got through the Claims 
 Department ; the third week I began and completed the 
 Mislaid Contracts Department, and got a foothold in the 
 Djad Reckoning Department. I finished that in three 
 days. There was only one place left for it now. I laid 
 siege to the Commissioner of Odds and Ends; to his 
 clerk, rather, — he was not there himself There were 
 sixteen beautiful young ladies in the room, writing in 
 books, and there were seven well-favored young clerks 
 showing them how. The young women smiled up over 
 tlieir shoulders and the clerks smiled back at them, and 
 all went merry as a marriage bell. Two or three clerks 
 that were reading the newspapers looked at me rather 
 hard, but went on reading, and nobody said anything. 
 However, I had been used to this kind of alacrity from 
 Fourth- Assistant-Junior Clerks all through my eventful 
 career, from the very day I entered the first office of the 
 C )rn-Beef Bureau clear till I passed out of the last one 
 in the Dead Reckoning Division. I had got so accom- 
 plished by this time that I could stand on one foot from 
 the moment I entered an office till a clerk spoke to me 
 without changing more than two, or maybe three times. 
 So I stood there till I had changed four different times. 
 Then I said to One of the clerks who was reading, " Illus- 
 trious Vagrant, where is the Grand Turk ? " 
 
NU.'.I 15 i:s FOUR. 181 
 
 " Wliat do you mean, sir? whom do you ra;3an? If 
 you mean the Chief of the Bureau, he is out." 
 
 " Will he visit the harem to-day ? " 
 
 The young man glared upon me awhile, and then went 
 on reading his paper. But I knew the ways of those 
 clerks. I knew I was safe, if he gat through before 
 another New York mail arrived. He only had two more 
 papers left. Afber awhile he finished them, and thun 
 he yawned, and asked me what I wauled. 
 
 " Renowned and honored Imbecile: On-or about — " 
 
 " You are the beef-contract man. Give me your papers." 
 
 He took them, and for a long time he ransacked his 
 odds and ends. Finally he found the Northwest Passage,— 
 as I regarded it, — he found the long-lost record of that 
 beef-contract; he found the rock upon which so many 
 of ray ancestors had split before they ever got to it. I 
 was deeply moved. And yet I rejoiced, — for I had sur- 
 vived. I said with emotion, " Give it me. The govern- 
 ment will settle now." He waved me back, and said 
 there was something yet to be done first. 
 
 " Where is this John Wilson Mackenzie?" said he. 
 
 " Dead." 
 
 "When did he die?" 
 
 " He didn't die at all,— he wai killed." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Tomahawked." 
 
 " Who tomahawked him ? " 
 
 " Why, an Indian, of course. You didn't suppose it 
 was a superintendent of a Sunday school, did you? " 
 
 " No. An Indian, was it ? " 
 
 " The same." 
 
 "Name of the Indian?" 
 
 " His name ! I don't knnw his name." 
 
 " Must have his name. Who saw the tomahawking 
 done?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " You were not preseat yourself, then? " 
 
 " Which you can see by my hair. I was absent." 
 
 " Then how do you know that Mackenzie is dead? " 
 
 " Because he certainly diod at that time, and I have 
 
182 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 every reason to believe that he has been dead ever since. 
 I know he has, in fact." 
 
 " We must have proofs. Have you got the Indian ? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " Well, you must get him. Have you got the toma- 
 hawk ? " 
 
 " I never thought of such a thing.'' 
 
 " You must get the tomahawk. You must produce 
 the Indian and the tomahawk. If Mackenzie's deatli 
 can be proven by these, you can then go before the com- 
 mission appointed to audit claims, with some show of 
 getting your bill under such headway that your children 
 may possibly live to receive the money and enjoy it. 
 But that man's death must be proven. However, I may 
 as well tell you that the government will never pay 
 that transportation and those traveling expenses of the 
 lamented Mackenzie. It may possibly pay for the barrel 
 of beef that Sherman's soldiers captured, if you can get 
 a relief bill through Congress making an appropriation 
 for that purpose ; but it will not pay for the twenty-ninti 
 barrels the Indians ate." 
 
 " Then there is only a hundred dollars due me, and 
 that isn't certain ! After all Mackenzie's travels in 
 Europe, Asia, and America with that beef; after all his 
 trials and tribulations and transportation ; after the 
 slaughter of all those innocents that tried to collect that 
 bill! Young man, why didn't the First Comptroller of 
 the Corn-Beef Division tell me this? " 
 
 " He uidn't know anything about the genuineness of 
 your claim." 
 
 "Why didn't the Second tell me? why didn't the 
 Third ? Why didn't all those divisions and departments 
 tell me ? " 
 
 " None of them knew. We do things by routine here. 
 You have followed the routine and found out what j'ou 
 wanted to know. It is the best way. It is the only way. 
 It is very regular, and very slow, but it is very certain." 
 
 " Yes, certain death. It has been, to the most of uur 
 tribe. I begin to feel that I, too, am called. Younc 
 
NUMBER Fcrn. 183 
 
 man, you love the bright creature yonder with the gentle 
 blue eyes and the steel pens behind lier ears, — I see it 
 in your sol't glances ; you wish to marry her, but you 
 are poor. Here, hold out your hand, — here is the beef- 
 contract ; go, take her and be happy ! Heaven bless 
 you, my children ! " 
 
 This is all that I know about the great beef-contract, 
 that has created so much talk in the community. The 
 clerk to whofti I bequeathed it died. I know nothing 
 further about the contract or ■any one connected with it. 
 I only know that if a man lives long enough, he can 
 trace a thing through the Circunilociiticm Office of Wash- 
 ington, and find out^ after mucli labor and trouble and 
 delay, that which ho could have found out on the first 
 day if the business of the Circumlocution Office were as 
 ingeniously systematized as it would be if it were a great 
 private mercantile institution. 
 
 THE VALENTINE.— Mai;y D. Brine. 
 
 Eh ! give you a lift? Why, surely, jump in, sir, along o' me. 
 (Whoa! Dobbin, you critter!) Wal, yc3, sir, the walliin' is 
 
 rough, I see. 
 You're a stranger in these parts, I take it. Goiii' to stop a spell? 
 S'pose you'll put up to the tavern? Oh, yes, they will feed 
 
 you well. 
 What's the i>eirs of the riUage? Wal, stranger, I'll own ye 
 
 hev me thar, 
 I aint no hand fur a gossip ; don't hear any news, I declar'. 
 An' my old woman, she tells mo a man aint only half wise 
 Ef he don't keep his ears wide open, and larn how to use 
 
 his eyes. 
 Wal, yes, when I was a youngster, I use 1 to lie peart an' spry, 
 An' there ain't a contenteder couple r>o:i' than my wife an' I •, 
 But we had a sorrer that come to us morc'n ten year ago, 
 An' it sorter shadowed our lives, like a hurt long healin', 
 
 you know. 
 Five years would a been long enough, sir, to leave a putty 
 
 deep scar, 
 But to double that time seems a'most like pushin' a trouble 
 
 too far ; 
 An' he was our only child, sir, the boy that ran off to sea, 
 An' though he had been a wild un, we loved him, his moth- 
 er an' me, „ 
 
184 ONE HUNDRET CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 He was just a lad,— but eighteen, sir, the month that he ran 
 
 away. 
 An' it's hard to say, but there's come not a line from him 
 
 since that day. 
 Whether he's drownded, or killed, only God an' the angels 
 
 may know. 
 But his mother an' me are a-waitin' some message to tell us 
 
 so. 
 It's lonely enough for us both, but I've done my best, sir, to 
 
 cheer 
 An' comfort my dear old woman through each long waitin' 
 
 year ; 
 An' to-day, while down to the village, a thought came inter 
 
 my head, 
 For to-morrer is Valentine's Day, sir, an' so to myself I said : 
 
 " I'll play that Betsey an' me was 'way back to our courtin' 
 
 time. 
 An' I'll buy her a valentine, — somethin' nice, with picter 
 
 an' rhyme ! " 
 An' so I've got it all safe, sir, the purtiest one I could find, 
 An' my old woman'U know that I have her allers in mind. 
 Go home viih me, did you say, sir? Wal, I don't know as 
 
 I mind, 
 Tho' wife wont be dressed for comp'ny, an' our food aint 
 
 the hotel kind ; 
 But if you'll jest take pot-luck, sir, why wife an' me'll he 
 
 glad, 
 For the sake of your two blue eyes, like them that our own 
 
 boy had. 
 
 What's that you say ? Will I let you give Betsey a valentine 
 
 too? 
 AVhy, surely, I wont gainsay it, hut Betsey aint nothin' to 
 
 you. 
 An' it's kind of you, stranger— but see, sir, here is my gate — 
 
 (hold on ! 
 Why, whar is the feller goin' ? This beats creation, I swan !) 
 Say, wife, old woman, come out here ! (Why, surely that's 
 
 Betsey's scream !) 
 Whoa, Dobbin, you pesky critter ! — law, I must be hevin' 
 
 a dream. 
 Else why is my woman kissin' th6 face o' that stranger so. 
 An' oh ! praise God for his goodness, I've brought her 
 
 our son, I know ! 
 
^PP^ndix. 
 
-^NOTE.h 
 
 TKe. following j)CLge.s coTttaxn. tTxe 
 SizpjplerrLerLts to tfte. fovLT" IN'n.rrLbevs 
 of'lOO Ch-oice Selections" errtbr ace d 
 in tTxis voLixme, -wKicK, for greater 
 conveTLience in. arranging , are Ixere 
 grovvpad. together instead, of -appear- 
 in.g at the end of the Nmrhbers to 
 ■which they respecti\^ely belong. 
 
SUPPLEMENT TO 
 
 One Hundred Choice Selections, ^o. 1 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 SENTIMENTS For Public Occasions; 
 
 ■WITTICISMS For Home Enjoyment; 
 
 LIFE THOUGHTS For Private Beflection; 
 
 FUNNY SAYINGS For Social Pastime, &c. 
 
 Our humiliations work out our most elevated joys. The 
 way that a drop of rain comes to sing in the leaf that rustles 
 in the top of the tree all summer long, is by going down to 
 the roots first, and from thence ascending to the bough. 
 
 Beecher. 
 
 Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; 
 
 And every little absence is an age. Dryden. 
 
 The gods in bounty work up storms about us, 
 
 That give mankind occasion to exert 
 
 Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice 
 
 Virtues which shun the day. Addison. 
 
 Men 
 Can counsel, and give comfort to that grief 
 Which they themselves not feel; but tasting it, 
 Their counsel turns to passion, which before 
 Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 
 Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, 
 GJiarm ache with air, and agony with words. 
 
 Sliakgpeare. 
 Mishaps are mastered by advice discreet, 
 And counsel mitigates the greatest smart. Spenser. 
 
 In this wild world the fondest and the best 
 Are the most tried, most troubled, and distressed. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 A cunning man overreaches no one half so much as him- 
 self. Beecher. 
 
 181 
 
1S2 ONE HUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 Young men soon give, and soon forget affronts; 
 
 Old age is slow in both. Addison. 
 
 Our nature here is not unlike our wine ; 
 
 Some sorts, when old, continue brisk and fine : 
 
 So age's gravity may seem severe. 
 
 But nothing harsh or bitter ought t' appear. Denham. 
 
 Boys must not have th' ambitious care of men ; 
 
 Nor men the weak anxieties of age. Roscommon. 
 
 Be not with lionor's gilded baits beguiled, 
 Nor think ambition wise, because 'tis brave; 
 
 For though we like it, as a forward child, 
 'Tis so unsound her cradle is her grave. Davenant. 
 
 One world sufficed not Alexander's mind ; 
 Cooped up he seemed, in earth and seas confined. 
 
 Dryden. 
 He that to ancient wreaths can bring no more 
 From his own worth, dies bankrupt on the score. 
 
 Cleaveland. 
 How fading are the joys we dote upon ! 
 Like apparitions seen and gone ; 
 
 But ihose which soonest take their flight 
 Are the most exquisite and strong ; 
 
 Like angels' visits, short and bright, 
 Mortality's too weak to bear them long. Norris. 
 
 In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drowned; 
 Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round. 
 
 Pope. 
 What a man desires he easily believes. 
 
 A man ought to carry himself in the world as an oranpe 
 '^ree would ifit could walk up and down in the garden — swing;- 
 ng pei-fume from every little censer it holds up to the air. 
 
 J^eecher. 
 Of all bad things by which manjcind are cursed, 
 Their own bad tempers surely are the worst. 
 
 Cumberland. 
 
 The will of man is b)' reason swayed. Shakspeare. 
 
 Wit con.sistsin discovering likenesses — ^judgment, in detect- 
 ing differences. 
 
 A fool may ask more questions in an hour than a wise 
 man can answer in seven years. 
 
SENTIMENTS ASU LIFE THOUGHTS. ISo 
 
 It is enough for tne to know 
 
 I've follies of my own. 
 And on my heart some care bestow. 
 
 And let my friends alone. 
 
 What are another's faults to me, 
 
 I've not a vulture's bill 
 To pick at every flaw I see, 
 
 And make it wider still. 
 
 ffoTgive as I forgive, and own ; 
 
 As feels the heart, so falls the lot; 
 My flowers of life were loving friends, 
 
 My thorns were those who loved me not. 
 
 All men think all men mortal but themselves; 
 Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 
 Strikes tarough their wounded hearts the sudden dread. 
 
 Men are Stoics in their early years, Epicureans in their 
 later,— social in youth, selfish in old age. In early life they 
 believe all men honest till they know them to be knaves; in 
 later life they believe all to be knaves till they know them 
 to be honest. 
 
 Better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak.- 
 
 Shalry)eare. 
 The man that never breaks a rule 
 Is little better than a fool. 
 
 The warrior, from whose force tlje lion flies. 
 Falls by the serpent's tooth. SoiUhey. 
 
 But when men think they most in safety stand, 
 Their greatest peril often is at hand. DrayUm. 
 
 There are souls which fall from heaven like flowers, but 
 ere the pure and fresh buds can open they are trodden in 
 the dust of the earth, and lie soiled and crushed under the 
 foul tread of some brutal hoof. Paul. 
 
 No man is born into the world whose work 
 Is not born with him ; there is always work, 
 And tools to work withal, for those who will. 
 
 Two things indicate a weak mind, — to be silent when it is 
 proper to speak, and to speak when it is proper to be silent. 
 
 Persin-ii Proverb. 
 
 The waters that are the stillest run the deepest, and the 
 foe is most to be dreaded who never threatens till he strikes. 
 
184 ONE nUXDRED CilOIOE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 Happy were men, if !licy'bnt undorstood, 
 
 There is no safety but in doing good. Fountain. 
 
 Mankind one day gereiie anj free appear, 
 
 Tlie next they're clondy, sullen and severe. Oarth. 
 
 On eagle wings immortal scandals fly, 
 
 While virtuous actions arc but born and die. Harvey. 
 
 Reflect that life, liUo every other blessing. 
 
 Derives its value from its use alone. Johnson. 
 
 Of all wild beasts, )ireserve me from a tyraiU ; 
 
 And of all tame, a flatterer. Ben Jomon. 
 
 Be still sad heart, and cease repining; 
 
 Behind the cloud is the sun still shining. Longfellow. 
 
 A man must serve his time at every trade 
 
 Save censure ; critics all are ready made. Byron. 
 
 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
 
 And clothes the mountain in its azure hue. Campbell. 
 
 He who would free from malice pass his days. 
 
 Must live obscure, and never merit praise. Gay. 
 
 But is not man to man a ]>rey? 
 -Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay. Gray. 
 
 Hope and fear, peace and strife, 
 
 Make up the troubled web of life. Sargent. 
 
 Order is lieaven's first law; and this confessed. 
 
 Some are, and must b;;, greater than the rest. Pope. 
 
 Nature ne'er meant lier secrets to be found. 
 
 And man's a riddle, which man can't expound. Paine. 
 
 Let not one look of fortune cast you down. 
 
 She were not fortune if she did not frown. Orrery. 
 
 Who shiiU decide when doctors disagree. 
 
 And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me? Pope. 
 
 For all that in this world is great or gay, 
 
 Doth, as a vapur, v.mish and decay. Spenser. 
 
 All habits gather by unseen degrees. 
 
 As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas. Dryden. 
 
 Ah, me ! what is there in earth's various range 
 
 Which time and absence may not change? Sands. 
 
 That love alone which virtue's laws control. 
 
 Deserves reception in the human soul. Euripides, 
 
SEXTIMUXTS AND LIFE THOUGUTS. 185 
 
 There is always the need for a man to go higher, if he has 
 the capacity to go. Beeclter. 
 
 There are two wings by which a man soars above the 
 world, — Sincerity and Purity. The former regards the inten- 
 tion, the latter the affections: that aspires and aims at a 
 likeness to God, this makes us really like him. 
 
 Thomas a Kempis. 
 When two men quarrel, who owns the coolest head 
 Is most to blame. Goethe^ 
 
 The b(jgt men, doing their best. 
 Know peradventure least of what they do : 
 Men usefullest i'the world, are simply used; 
 The nail that holds the wood, must pierce it first, 
 And He alone who wields the hammer, sees 
 The work advanced by the earliest blow. Take heart. 
 
 Mrs. Broioning. 
 Grief should be 
 Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate, 
 Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free. 
 Strong to consume small troubles, to commend 
 Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end. 
 
 De Vere. 
 No man receives the true culture of a man, in whom the 
 sensibility to the beautiful is not cherished; and I know of 
 110 condition in life from which it should be excluded. 
 
 Channing. 
 Whatever way you wend. 
 Consider well the end. 
 
 Age without cheerfulness is a Lapland without a sun. 
 
 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower 
 Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; 
 And we are weeds without it. 
 
 Love what you ought to do, and you can easily do it ; oiled 
 ■wheels run freely. 
 
 Never speak unless you have something to_ say, and always 
 stop when you have done. 
 
 Search not to find what lies too deeply hid, 
 
 Nor to know things whose knowledge is forbid. Denham. 
 
 Truth can never contradict itself; but is eternal and im- 
 mutable—the same in all ages ; the states of man's reception 
 of it are as various as the principles and subjects of natural 
 creation. 
 
 2f* 
 
186 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 There are some bosoms dark and drear 
 Which an unwatered desert are ; 
 Yet there a curious eye may trace, 
 Some smiling spot, some verdant place. 
 Where little flowers, the weeds between 
 Spend their soft fragrance all unseen. 
 A man might as well fill a tree full of nightingales, and, 
 standing on the ground, attempt to control their notes and 
 to hold them enchoired together, as to attempt to control by 
 his volitions the multiplied thoughts and feelings of his 
 own soul. Beecher. 
 
 Aromatic plants bestow 
 No spicy fragrance while they grow ; 
 But, crushed or trodden to the ground. 
 Diffuse their balmy sweets around. Goldsmith. 
 
 Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; 
 
 Those best can bear reproof who merit praise. Pope. 
 
 When the hoary head is hid in snow, 
 
 The life is in the leaf, and still between 
 
 The fits of falling snows appears the streaky green. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 He is a good orator who convinces himself. 
 
 If you cannot bite never show your teeth. 
 
 Lawyers houses are built on the heads of fools. 
 
 Use well the moment ; what the hour 
 
 Brings for thy use is in thy power. 
 
 And what thou best canst understand, 
 
 Is just the thing lies nearest to thy hand. Goetlie. 
 
 Sorrow treads heavily, and leaves behind 
 A deep impression, e'en when she departs: 
 While joy trips by, with steps as light as wind. 
 And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts of her faint 
 footfalls. 
 We see a world of pains taken and the best years of life 
 spent in collecting a set of thoughts in a college for the con- 
 duct of life, and after all the man so qualified shall hesitate 
 in his speech to a good suit of clothes, and want common 
 sense before an agreeable woman. Hence it is that wisdom, 
 valor, justice and learning cannot keep a man in counte- 
 nance that is possessed with these excellences, if he wants 
 that inferior art of life and behavior called good breeding. 
 
 Steele. 
 
WITTICISMS AND PUNXY SAYINGS. 187 
 
 An Irishman who was, fencing in a barren and desolate 
 piece of land, was told that a flock of sheep which he owned, 
 would starve in it. "Sure," said Pat, " wasn't I fencing it to 
 kape the poor beasts out of it?" 
 
 A dandy in Iowa had legs so attenuated, that the authori- 
 ties had him arrested because he had no visible means of sup- 
 puH. 
 
 A drowned man was sought to be identified by a marked 
 impediment in his speech. 
 
 An orat* said: "There is not a man, woman or child in 
 this house, who has arrived at the age of fifty years, but has 
 felt this truth thundering through their nuuds for c^iUuries." 
 
 " Are you the mate of this shi])?" said a passenger to the 
 cook. " No sir, I am the man that cooks the mate," said the 
 Irishman. 
 
 A Virginia paper describes a fence made of such crooked 
 rails, that every time a pig crawls through, he comes out on 
 the same side. 
 
 Two countrymen went into a store to buy hats. They 
 were shown a hat, in the crown of which was a piece of look- 
 ing glass. One asked what that was for. The other replied : 
 " Why for the man who buys the hat to see how it fits him." 
 
 A young man from the country, who had purchased a copy 
 of Artemus Ward's book, took it back to the store and asked 
 them to exchange it, saying: "The readin' ismlddlin' good, 
 but the spellin' ain't right." 
 
 A countryman brought a piece of board to an artist, with 
 the request that he would paint upon it, St. Christopher as 
 large as life. " But," said the artist, " this board is much too 
 small for that purpose." " That's a b.id job," said the country- 
 man, " but look ye sir, j'e can let his legs hang down over the 
 edge of the board." 
 
 "James, my son, lake this letter to the post office and pay 
 the postage on it." The boy James returned highly elated 
 and said: " Father, I seed a lot of men putting letters in a 
 little place, and when no one was looking, I slipped yours in 
 for nothing." 
 
 A man who for years had refused to contribute to the 
 support of the Gospel, astonished his neighbors by donating 
 a sum towards the purchase of a bell for a new church, alleg- 
 ing as his reason, that he always put his money -where he 
 could hear it ring. 
 
18S ONE HUNDRED CnOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 An ignoramus, in giving orders for a library, told a book- 
 seller to furnish him all the works of Pope, Milton and 
 Shakspeare, and added : " If these fellows publish anything new 
 don't fail to let ine have them." 
 
 One ofthe regulationsof the West Boston Bridge Company 
 read: "And tl.'j said pi-oprieturs shall meetannually on the 
 first Tuesday of June, provided the same does not full on 
 Sunday." 
 
 A fat man ordered two seats in a coach for himself. The 
 clerk engaged him one seat outside, and the other inside. 
 
 A bachelor says : " It is woman and not her wrongs, that 
 ought to be redressed." 
 
 A banker having married a fat old widow with $JOO,000, 
 Bays: " It wasn't his wife's face that attracted him so much 
 as Ihe figure." 
 
 Two well-dressed ladies were examining a statue of An- 
 dromeda, labelled, "Executed in terra cotta." Says one: 
 " Where is that?" "lam sure I don't know," replied the 
 other; "but I jiity the poor girl, wherever it was." 
 
 Your arguments are sound, my son, and delivered with 
 force," said the clergyman to his boy, who had been banging 
 away at his drum for an hour or more; "but we have heard 
 quite enough cfn that head." The boy stopped at once. 
 
 A boy who had been watching through the keyhole the 
 antics of a coujile of lovers, ran down into the kitchen to 
 announce his discovery to his mother. " Oh, it's such fun !" 
 he exclaimed" What's such fun?" gravely asked the old lady. 
 " Why to see Mr. Fippsand sister Mollie play lunatic asylum !" 
 
 " Well, l\Ir. Jones, how do you like yonr new neighbor?" 
 "I don't know very much about him, but my impression is 
 that he'd make a first class stranger." 
 
 A young girl, looking at the Laocoon group, said; "Ah, 
 yes, firemen. I see. But how did they become so intricately 
 entangled in the hose?" 
 
 At a crowded French theatre, a woman fell from the 
 gallery into the pit. When asked if she were injured, she 
 replied : " I shonW think I was, I have lost the best seat in 
 the middle ofthe front row." 
 
 A man refused to take an emetic, saying that it was of no 
 use as he had tried one and it wouldn't stay on his stomach. 
 
WITTILISM3 AND FUNNY SAYING*. 189 
 
 Hogg, tlio Ettrick shepherd, happened to be seated at 
 dinner next to a daughter of Sir William Drysdale. She 
 was a charming young lady — unaffected, affable, and clever. 
 To some remark which he made, she replied: "You're a 
 funny man, Mr. Hogg." To which he instantly rejoined : 
 " And you're a nice lassie, Miss Drysdale. Nearly all girls 
 are like a bundle of pens cut by the same machine — ye're 
 not of the bundle." 
 
 If you your lips would save from slips, 
 
 Five things observe with care ; 
 Of w*iom you speak, to whom you speak, 
 , And how, and when, and where. 
 
 "What a nuisance!" exclaimed a gentleman at a concert, 
 as a young fop in front of him kept talking in a loud voice 
 to a young lady at his side. "Did you refer to me, sir''" 
 demanded the fop. "Oh, no! I mean the musicians, who 
 keep up such a noise with their instruments that I can't 
 hear your conversation," was the stinging reply. 
 
 Among the gifts of a newly married pair at a town in New 
 Jersey, was a broom, sent to the lady, accompanied with the 
 following sentiment: 
 
 This trifling gift accept from me,. 
 
 Its use I would commend ; 
 In sunshine use the brushy part. 
 In storms the other end. 
 
 A young lady graduate entered a large book-store and 
 
 asked for the " Infantile innocents in the recesses of the 
 
 forest." The clerk had formerly been connected with the 
 
 • post-office department, was used to hard ones, and at once 
 
 handed out "Babes in the wood." 
 
 A fellow that got a shrew for a wife, says that 
 Woman's love is like Scotch snuff, 
 We get one pinch, and that's enough. 
 
 An old darkey says : 
 
 Woman's lub, like India rubber. 
 
 It stretch de more de more you lub her. 
 
 "How do you pronounce s-t-i-n-g-y?" Professor Stearns 
 asked the young gentleman nearest the foot of the class. 
 And the smart boy stood up and said it depended a great 
 deal whether the word applied to a man or a bee. " Go to 
 the head, young fellow." 
 
100 ONE nUNDKKD CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 Why is a shoe-black like an editor? Because he polishes 
 th3 understandings of his patrons. 
 
 What is the longest word in the language? Smiles, because 
 there is a mile between the first and last letter. 
 
 Why are potatoes and corn like certain sinners of old? 
 Because having eyes, they see not, and having ears they hear 
 not. 
 
 Why is a fidh-monger never generous? Because his business 
 makes him sell-tish. 
 
 Why are fatigued persons like a wagon wheel? Because 
 they are'ahvays tired. 
 
 When did Moses sleep five in a bed? When he slept 
 with \n& fore-fathers. 
 
 How do young ladies show their dislike to moustaches? 
 By setting their faces against them. 
 
 Why is a dog biting his own tail like a good financier? 
 Becau-se he makes both ends meet. 
 
 Which travels slower, heat or cold? Cold, for you can 
 catch it. 
 
 Why is a pretty girl like a locomotive? Because she 
 sends off the sparks, transjjorts the mails, and has a train 
 following her. 
 
 What are the most unsociable things in the world? Mile- 
 stones, for you never see two of them together. 
 
 AVhat give> a cold, cures a cold, and pays the doctor's bill? 
 A draft, (draught.) 
 
 What relation is a door mat to a doorstep ? A " step farther.'' 
 
 What is the difference between Noah's ark and a down 
 east coaster? 0:io was made of gopher wood, and the other 
 was made to go f.jr wood. 
 
 When is coffee like the soil? When it is ground. 
 
 What is the difference between a bee-hive and a bad 
 jiitato? None. Oiioisabee-hoUler;abee-liolderisaspeck'd 
 'tatur, and a speck'd 'tatur is a bad potato. 
 
 What is the most dangerous time of the year to visit the 
 country? When the bull-rushes out, and the cow-slips 
 about, and the little sprigs are shooting all around. 
 
 What is majesty deprived of its externals ? (M) a jest (Y). 
 
 AVhy is it vnh^'ar to sing and play by yourself? Because 
 it's so-lo. (so low.) 
 
WITTICISMS AND FUNNY SAYIXGS. 191 
 
 The clam has a larger mouth, in proportion to its size, 
 thaii a human being, yet a clam never talks about its neiglibor. 
 
 A maiden refused to be kissed by a physician, alleging 
 that slie would never have a doctor's bill duck in her face. 
 
 "If [ were so unlucky," said an officer, "as to have a stupid 
 son, I would certainly make him a parson." A clergyman, 
 who was in the company, calmly replied: — "You thilik 
 differently from your father." 
 
 Sheridan excused himself from walking with an elderly 
 lady, on account of tlie bad weather. Soon afterwards she 
 met him alone. "So, Mr. Sheridan," said she, "it has cleared 
 up." "Just a little, ma'am, enough for one, but not enough 
 for two." 
 
 A blockhead after babbling some time to Sheridan, said: 
 "Sir, I fear I have been intruding on your attention." "No, 
 no," replied Sheridan, "1 have not been listening." 
 
 Bus— to kiss; re-bus — to kiss again; blunderbus — to kiss 
 the wrong person; omni-bus — to kiss all the girls in the 
 room; bus-ter— a general kisser. 
 
 " I think,'' said an old toper, commenting upon the habit 
 of a young man, who was fast making alseast of himself, 
 "wheji a man reaches a certain pint ia drinkin', he ort to 
 stop." 
 
 "Well, I think," said old Beeswax, drily, " he ought to 
 stop before he reaches a pint." 
 
 When a man comes home and tries to bolt the door with 
 a sweet potato, pokes the fire with the spout of a coffee-pot, 
 attempts to wind up the clock with his bootjack, tries to cut 
 kindling for his morning's fire with an ivory paper knife, 
 takes a cold boiled potato in his hand to light him to bed, 
 and prefers to sleep in his boots and hat, you may reasonably 
 infer that he has been making the acquaintance of some 
 very friendly people. 
 
 A wag, on hearing that a man had given up chimney 
 sweeping, said he thought the busii;ess sooted him. 
 
 A celebrated lawyer was having his head measured at a 
 fashionable hat store the other day. The man remarked, 
 " Why, how long your head is, sir."— "Yes," said the lawyer, 
 "we lawyers must have long heads." Tlie man went on 
 with his work, and soon exclaimed, "And it is as thick as 
 it is long, sir." 
 
192 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SEIiECTIOSS No. 1. 
 
 Greeley wrote an execrable hand. He once disiijissed an 
 employee by letter, and afterwards found tbat the man bad 
 termed his letter of dismissal one of recommendation, and 
 the third party, unable to decipher it, believed it to be a 
 recommendation, and took the man into his employ. 
 
 A tract distributor said to a young lady whose hair was, 
 done up in curl papers. " i see you have used my tracts, 
 but you have put them on the wrong »ide of your head." 
 
 The reason why "Nature will have her way" is because 
 she is feminine. 
 
 I sat me down and thought profound ; 
 This maxim wise 1 drew; 
 It's easier far to like a girl. 
 Than make a girl like you. 
 
 Quoth Smith to Jones: " It really is a sin, 
 You do not get your pretty house fenced in," 
 Quoth Jones : " You're wrong, the place is fenced, con- 
 found it. 
 My wife is all the time a railing round it." 
 
 It is said that the Digger Indians are never known to 
 smile. Tliey are griive Diggers. 
 
 "Are you fond of tongue, sir?" " I was always fond of 
 tongue, madam, and I like it still." 
 
 An Irishman assigned as a reason for not puttingout a fire 
 in his kitchen with a kettle of boiling water that was near, 
 that it was hot water. 
 
 A Texas murderer wanted his execution delayed, because 
 he was in poor health. 
 
 A bore, meeting Douglas Jprrold, said: "Well, what's 
 loing on to day?" "I am," said he, as he passed him. 
 
 " I laugh,'' a would-be sapient cried, 
 " At every one who laughs at me." 
 
 "Good land," a sneering friend replied, 
 " How very merry you must be." 
 
SUPPLEMENT TO 
 
 One Hundred Choice Selections, J^o. 2. 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 SENTIMENTS For Public Occasions; 
 
 ■WITTICISMS For Home Enjoyment; 
 
 LIFE THOUGHTS For Private Beflection; 
 
 FUNNY SAYINGS For Social Pastime, &c. 
 
 In the lexicon of youth, which Fate reserves 
 
 For a bright manhood, there's no such word as fail. 
 
 Bulwer. 
 
 A beautiful eye malces silence eloquent; a kind eye makes 
 contradiction an assent; an enraged eye makes beauty de- 
 formed. Andison. 
 
 Who does the best his circumstance allows. 
 
 Does well, acts nobly ; angels could no more. Young. 
 
 Where is any author in the world 
 
 Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye ? Shak«peare. 
 
 A man of sense may love like a madman, but never like 
 a fool. La RocJiefoucavld. 
 
 Talk not of wasted affection ! Affection never was wasted. 
 If it enricli the heart of another, its waters returning 
 Ba-jk to their springs like the rain, shall fill them full of 
 
 refreshing. 
 That which the foiiitain sends forth returns again to the 
 fountain. Longfellow. 
 
 The heart, like a tendril accustomed to cling, 
 Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone 
 
 But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing 
 It can twine to itself, and make closelv its own. Muore. 
 
 ]81 
 
182 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 If you cannot inspire a woman with love for you, fill her 
 above the brim with love of herself : all that runs over will 
 be yours. CoUon. 
 
 No after friendships e'er can raise 
 
 The endearments of our early days, 
 
 And ne'er the heart such fondness prove 
 
 As when we first began to love. Logan. 
 
 A good wife is like the ivy which beautifies the building 
 to which it clings, twining its tendrils more lovingly as time 
 converts the ancient edifice into a ruin. 
 
 Associate with men of good judgment, for judgment is 
 found in conversation, and we make another man's judgment 
 ours by frequenting his company. IhtUer. 
 
 The keen spirit 
 Seizes the promi)t occasion, makes the thought 
 Start into instant action, and at once 
 Plans and performs, resolves and executes. 
 
 HanncJi More. 
 
 He that will believe only what he can fully comprehend 
 must have a very long head or a very short creed. Colton. 
 
 What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted? 
 Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just ; 
 And he but naked, though locked up in steel. 
 Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 An emperor in his night-cap will not meet with half the 
 resi)ect of an emperor with a crown. Goldsmith. 
 
 Cowards die many times before their deaths ; 
 
 The valiant never taste of death but once. Shakspeare. 
 
 Our doubts are traitors. 
 
 And make us lose the good we oft might win. 
 
 By fearing to attempt. Shakspeare. 
 
 'Tis an old maxim in the schools, 
 
 That flattery's the food of fools; 
 
 Yet now and then you men of wit 
 
 Will condescend to take a bit. SwifL 
 
SENTIMENTS AND LIFE THOUGHTS. 183 
 
 Remember if thou marry for beauty, thou biudest thyself 
 all thy life for that which perchance will neither last nor 
 please thee one year; and when thou hast it, it will be to 
 thee of no price at all. Muliigh. 
 
 'Tis better to have loved and lost. 
 
 Than never to have loved at all. Tennyson. 
 
 Oh, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
 
 BuUas truly loves on to the close, 
 As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets 
 
 The same look which she turned when he rose. Moore. 
 
 Whosoever is afraid of submitting any question, civil or 
 religious, to the test of free discussion, is more in love with 
 his own opinion than with truth. Watson. 
 
 Yes, woman's love's a holy light. 
 
 And when 'tis kindled ne'er can die; 
 
 It lives, though treachery and slight 
 To quench its constancy may try. 
 
 The light of other minds is as necessary to the play and 
 development of genins as the light of other bodies is to the 
 ]>lay and radiation of the diamond. A diamond, incarcerated 
 in a subterraneous prison, rough and unpolished ditfers not 
 from a common stone, and a Newton and Sliakspeare, de- 
 prived of kindred minds and born amongst savages, savages 
 had died. Colion. 
 
 Unhappy he who lets a tender heart, 
 Bound to him by the ties of earliest love. 
 Fall from him by his own neglect and die, 
 Because it met no kindness. 
 
 Give me but 
 Something whereunto I may bind my heart — 
 Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
 Affection's tendrils round. Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Most of the eminent men in history have been diminutive 
 in stature. Sydney Smith. 
 
 To exult even o'er an enemy oppressed, and heap 
 
 Afiliction on the afflicted, is the mark 
 
 And- the mean triumph of a dastard soul. ^ Smollett. 
 
184 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 Lowliness is young Ambition's ladder, 
 Whereto the climber upward turns his face ; 
 .But when he once attains the upmost round, 
 He unto the ladder turns his back, 
 Lopks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees 
 By which he did ascend. Shakspeare. 
 
 Education begins a gentleman, con versation completes him. 
 
 I've learned to judge of men by their own deeds; 
 
 I do not make the accident of birth 
 
 The standard of their merit. Mrs. Hale. 
 
 Let me have men around me that are fat. 
 Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights. 
 Yon Cassius lias a lean and hungry look ; 
 He thinks too much; such men are dangerous. 
 
 iShak»peare. 
 
 Some men are very entertaining for a first interview, but 
 after that they are exhausted and run out; on a second 
 meeting we shall find them very flat and monotonous ; like 
 hand-organs, we have heard all their, tunes. Colton. 
 
 I venerate the man whose heart is warm. 
 
 Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, 
 
 Coincident, exhibit lucid jiroof 
 
 That he is honest in the sacred cause. Cowper. 
 
 Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer. 
 
 And without sneering teach the restio sneer; 
 
 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike. 
 
 Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike. Pope. 
 
 Take time to deliberate, but when the time for action 
 arrives, stop thinking and go on. Jackson. 
 
 Without discretion, learning is_ pedantry and wit imperti- 
 nence; virtue itself looks like weakness; the best parts only 
 qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors and active to 
 his own prejudice. Addison. 
 
 Love is " two souls with but a single thought, 
 Two hearts that beat as one." 
 
 Beauty in the possession of an unthinking woman is more 
 dangerous than a drawn sword in the hands of qn idiot. 
 
SENTIMENTS AND LIPK THOUGHTS. 185 
 
 Beauty has little to do with engaging the love of woman. 
 The air, manner, tone, the conversation, the something that 
 interests, the something to be proud of, — these are the at- 
 tributes of the man made to be loved. Bulwer. 
 
 Beauty is God's handwriting, a wayside sacrament. 
 
 Oh how many deeds 
 
 Of deathless virtue and immortal crime 
 
 The world had wanted, had the actor said, 
 
 " I will do this to-morrow " ! Russell. 
 
 To most men, experience is like the stern-light of a ship, 
 which illumines only the track it has passed. Coleridge. 
 
 Emulation looks out for merits, that she may exalt herself 
 by a victory; envy spies out blemishes, that she may lower 
 another by a defeat. Collon. 
 
 Beauty gives 
 
 The features perfectness, and to tlie form 
 
 Its delicate proportions, yet one glance of intellect. 
 
 Like stronger magic, will outshine it all. Willis. 
 
 Could I come near your beauty with my nails, 
 
 I'd set my ten commandments in your face. Sliakspeare. 
 
 We endeavor to make a merit of faults we are ijnwilling 
 to correct. La Rochefoucauld. 
 
 We confess our little faults in order to persuade others 
 that we have no great ones. La Rochefoucavld. 
 
 True happiness 
 
 Consists not in the multitude of friends, 
 
 But in the worth and choice. Johnson. 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of men 
 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; 
 
 Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
 
 Is bound in shallows and in miseries. Shakspeare. 
 
 There are some men who are Fortune's favorites, and who, 
 like cats, light forever on their legs. Colton. 
 
 Talent, lying in the understanding, is often inherited ; 
 
 genius, being the action of reason and imagination, rarely 
 
 - or never. Cohrirlge, 
 
186 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS N ■. 2. 
 
 Socrates called beauty a short-lived tyranny ; Plato termed 
 it a privilege of Nature; Theophrastus, a delightful preju- 
 dice ; Carneades, a solitary kingdom ; Homer, a glorious gift 
 of Nature ; while Ovid styled it the gift of the gods. 
 
 To believe with certainty, we must begin with doubting. 
 
 Stanklaug. 
 A man will confess his faults, but never his follies. 
 
 Chesterfield. 
 
 It is a great folly for a man to muse on such things as pass 
 his understanding. 
 
 Otttinies, to please fools, wise men err. 
 
 When a true genius appears in the world, you m.iy know 
 him by this sign— that the dunces are all in a confederacy 
 against him. ^■„-,y(. 
 
 Great men stand like solitary towers in the city of God, 
 and secret passages running deep beneath externa! Nature 
 give their thoughts intercourse with higher intelligences, 
 which strengthens and consoles them, and of which the 
 laborers on the surface do not dream. Longfellow. 
 
 Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and 
 some have greatness thrust upon them. Sfiakspeare, 
 
 It is better for a city to be governed by a good man than 
 by good laws. Aristotle. 
 
 Oh many a shaft at random sent 
 
 Finds mark the archer little meant, 
 
 And many a word at random spoken 
 
 May soothe or wound a heart that's broken. Scott. 
 
 Common speakers have only one set of ideas, and one set 
 of words to clothe them in, and these are always ready at 
 the mouth ; so people come faster out of a church when it is 
 almost empty, than when a crowd is at the door. Snrift. 
 
 The idle man's brain is the devil's workshop. 
 
 Those who follow the banners of Reason are like the well- 
 disciplined battalions, which, wearing a more sober uniform 
 and making a less dazzling show than the light troojis com- 
 manded by Imagination, enjoy more safety, and even more 
 honor, in the conflicts of human life. ScoU. 
 
WITTICISMS AND FUNNY SAYINGS. 187 
 
 A gentleman had a ver)' bad memory; a friend, kuowii.j 
 this, lent him the same book seven times over; and, being 
 asked afterward how be liked it, replied : " I think it an 
 admirable production, but the author sometimes repeats the 
 same things." 
 
 A very absent-minded gentleman being upset by a boat 
 into a river, sunk twice before he remembered he could swim. 
 
 An Irishman was told by a teacher, that his charge for 
 tuition was two guineas the first month, and one guinea the 
 second. " Then be jabers," said Pat, " I'll begin the second 
 month no^." 
 
 We know a woman so cross-eyed, that when she weepe 
 tears from her left eye, they fall on her right cheek. 
 
 An Irishman charged v.'ith an assault, was asked whether 
 he was guilty. " How can I tell, your honor, till I have heard 
 the evidence?" was his reply. 
 
 A certain tobacconist advertised : " I shall continue to 
 keep on hand imported cigars of my own manufacture." 
 
 A little girl hearing that her mother was going into h.nlf 
 mourning, wished to know if any of her relatives were haij 
 dead. • 
 
 A clergyman asked a boy if he ever had been baptized. 
 " No, sir," said the lad, "not as I knows of, but I've been 
 ivaxinated." 
 
 An absent minded editor copied from an exchange one of 
 his own articles, and entitled it, " Wretched attempt at wit." 
 
 A soldier excused himself for the stealing of his liquor 
 ration, by saying, " You see, both rations were in one bottle ; 
 mine in the bottom, and so I had to drink off his to gei at 
 mine." 
 
 A bald headed clergyman took for his text, " The hairs of 
 our head are all numbered." 
 
 An old woman unable to read, on receiving a letter from 
 an absent son, asked a friend to read it to her. It read : 
 " Dear mother." Upon the reader makijig a stop to find out 
 what followed, as the writing was rather bad, the old lady 
 exclaimed : " O!;, it is irojji poor Jerry, he alxvays stuttered." 
 
188 ONE HtJNDEED CHOICE SELECTIONS Ko. 2. 
 
 A gentleman at a theatre, said to his companion : " Who 
 is that ugly creature who has just entered the box oiiposite?" 
 " Why sir that is my sister." " No, no, sir," cried the other, 
 " I mean that shocking monster with her." " That sir is my 
 wife." 
 
 A gentleman, while in church, intending to scratch his 
 head, in a mental absence reached over into the next pew 
 and scratched the head of an old maid. He discovered his 
 mistake when she sued him for a breach of promise of mar- 
 riage. 
 
 A conveyancer fell asleep during the representation of 
 Macbeth, and hearing tlie words " A deed without a name," 
 he shouted : " It is void, not worth a sixpence." 
 
 When Beau Nash was ill, the doctor asked him if he had 
 followed his prescription. " No, doctor," said Nash, " if I 
 had, I should have broken my neck, for I threw it out of 
 the second story window." 
 
 " Illustrated with cuts," as the boy said when he drew his 
 knife across the leaves of his grammar. " Illustrated with cuts " 
 repeated the teacher, as he drew a rod over the boy's back. 
 # 
 
 Lanib said to a player of whist : " If dirt were trumps, 
 what hands you'd have!" 
 
 " Why did you set your cup of tea on the chair, Mr Jones?" 
 said the landlady. " It is so very weak, ma'am, I thought I 
 would let it rest." 
 
 "Is your house a warm one, landlord?" It ought to be, 
 the painter gave it two coats recently." 
 
 A fop, speaking of the opera, said: "Oh, there was one 
 air so enchanting it carried me away." "Can anyone whistle 
 it ?" said Jerrold. 
 
 Latin inscriptions are suitable for tombstones- they ai\i 
 in a dead language. 
 
 The breaking of both wings of an army, is a pretty sure 
 way to make it fly. 
 
 " I love thee still," said the quiet husband to lue chatter- 
 ing wife. , * 
 
WITTICISMS AND KUXSY fAYINGS. 18S; 
 
 An editor of a down East paper getting tired of paying 
 his printers, resolved to diminish his help and put his own 
 shoulder to the wheel. Here is a specimen of his first efl'ort 
 at setting type: 
 
 "Ws tiiin?! ^ 9 sh^^J d O most OP OUr own seitiNg tYPa 
 
 heaeafteJ jrintar.S mBy tALk oqon'< iXs biiing difUcUlt 
 
 to sf^ tipe, but don,i eXperienoe £ uch dlfrlcn^y." 
 
 May never lady press his lips, 
 
 His proffered love returning, 
 *Whb makes a furnace of his mouth, 
 
 And keeps its chimney burning. 
 May each true woman shun his sight. 
 
 For fear the fumes might choko her; 
 And none bnt those who smoke themselves, 
 
 Have kissed for a smoker. 
 
 An Irish servant girl, a year over, was given macaroni by 
 her mistress to prepare for the table. Noticing her surprise, 
 the lady said, " Didn't you cook macaroni at your last jilace?" 
 "Cook it? We used them things to light the gas with." 
 
 As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, 
 So wit is by politeness sharpest set ; 
 Their want of edge from their offense is seen, 
 Both pain us least when exquisitely keen. 
 
 "Oh, the perils of the deep!" exclaims the traveler as ho 
 reaches the shore. When he sees his trunk in the hands 
 of the baggage annihilator, he changes his cry to "The per- 
 ils of the depot!" 
 
 Oh, life is a river, and man is a boat, 
 
 That along with the current is destined to float; 
 
 And joy is a cargo so easily stored. 
 
 That he's a sad fool who takes sorrow aboard. 
 
 "Now,'' said the teacher of a primary class to one of his 
 pupils, to whom he was trying to impart a knowledge of 
 division, but with little success, " If you had a pie, and I 
 should ask you for a quarter of it, and yon should give me 
 what I wanted, how much would you have left ? " "I would 
 not have any left!" quickly responded the little girl. 
 
 A fool does never change his mind, 
 
 \nd who can think it strange? '■ 
 
 The feasor, s ;J/;ar— for fools, my friends, 
 
 Have not a mind to change. 
 
190 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIO; S N>i. 2. 
 
 Why are chemists and alchemists both of the feminine 
 gender? Because one is an analyzer (Ann Eliza), the other 
 a charlatan (Charlotte Ann). 
 
 Why is sympathy like blind man's buff? Because it is a 
 fellow feeling for a fellow mortal. 
 
 What is the oldest piece of furniture in the world? The 
 multiplication table. 
 
 Why are two young ladies kissing each other like an em- 
 blem of Christianity 7 Because they are doing unto each other 
 as they would men should do unto them. 
 
 What is the difference between a man going np stairs and 
 one looking up? One is stepping up the stairs, the other 
 staring up the steps. 
 
 Why are the arrows of Cupid like a man in an ague fit? 
 Because they are all in a quiver. 
 
 What is the difference between the desert of Sahara and 
 an ancient shoe? One is all sand and the other sand-al. 
 
 What kind of leather would a naked Moor remind you of? 
 Undressed morocco. 
 
 Why is a Hebrew in perfect health like a diamond? 
 Because he is a Jew-well. 
 
 What celebrated convention would you be reminded of, 
 on hearing a young lady giving advice to her uncle ? Coun- 
 cil of Nice. 
 
 What is it that by losing an eye has nothing left but a 
 nose? A noise. 
 
 When is a bonnet not a bonnet? When it becomes a 
 pretty woman. 
 
 Why is a French franc of no value compared with the 
 American dollar? Because it is worth -less. 
 
 AVhat are the features of a cannon? Cannon's mouth, 
 cannon-ize, and cannon-eers. 
 
 What workman never turns to theleft? A wheel-wright. 
 What fort of a tliroat is the best for a singer to reach high 
 notes with ? A soar throat. 
 
 Where are the uttermost parts of the earth ? Where there 
 are the most women. 
 
 Why are balloons in the air hke vagrants? Because they 
 have no visible means of support. 
 
WWTICISMS AND FU.N.VY SAYINGS. 191 
 
 "Turning points in life" — street corners. 
 
 Motto of a man who doesn't jiay his debts : "Never give 
 up." 
 
 If a man's aim in this world be good, the chances are that 
 he will miss fire in the next. 
 
 When a young man wants to protect a young lady he nat- 
 urally puts his arm around her. 
 
 Some women are liice shotguns. They would attract no 
 attention were it not for their bangs. 
 
 " It is never too late to mend," which is why the cobbler 
 never has your boots done at the time promised. 
 
 Before marriage she was dear and he was her treasure ; 
 but afterward she became dearer and he treasurer. 
 
 When in conversation a man abru!)tly says, "beg pardon I" 
 he means that he wishes to do all the talking himself. 
 
 When a man says he makes hislivingby keepinga country 
 tavern, isn't it a sort of declaration of iun dependence. 
 
 Jones says that after trying for years to photograph his 
 girl on his heart, all he got from her in the end was a negative. 
 
 '' There's always room at the top," said the customer when 
 he saw the way the grocer filled the measure with potatoes. 
 
 " Is my wife out of spirits?" said Jones with a sigh, 
 As her voice of a tempest gave warning. 
 ^ "Quite out sir, indeed," was the servant's reply, 
 "For she finished the bottle this morning." 
 
 The lovely hair my Celia wears is hers. 
 
 Who would have thought it? 
 She swears 'tis hers, and true she swears. 
 
 For I know where she bought it. 
 
 There was onst two cats in Kilkenny, 
 
 And aich thought there was one cat too many; 
 
 So they quarreled and fit, 
 
 And they gouged and they bit. 
 
 Till, excepting their nails, 
 
 And the tip of their tails, 
 Instead of two cats there w^asn't any. 
 
'92 ONE HUNDRBD CHOICE SrLECTl )NS No. ?. 
 
 Ask a woman how old she is if you want to see lier rage. 
 
 A humorous fellow being subpoenaed as a witness on a trial 
 for an assault, one of the counsel, who was notorious for 
 brow-beating witnesses, asked him what distance he was 
 from the parties when the assault happened ; he answerea; 
 
 "Just thirteen feet eleven inches and a half." 
 
 " How came you to be so exact?" said the counsel. 
 
 " Because I expected some fool or other would ask me," 
 said he, "and 1 just measured it." 
 
 When Erskine was in the full tide of success as a barrister, 
 some of his fellow lawyers, wishing to annoy him, hired a 
 boy to ask him, as he was going into court with his green 
 bag stuffed with briefs, if he had any old clothes for sale. 
 
 ".No, you young rascal 1" said Erskine, "these are all new 
 .mits." 
 
 A juryman out West was asked whether he had been 
 charged by the presiding judge. " Well, squire," said he, 
 " the little fellow that sits up in the pulpit, and kinder 
 bosses it over the crowd, gin us a talk, but I don't know 
 whether he charges anything or not." 
 
 A popular preacher received so many pairs of slippers from 
 the female part of his congregation, that he got to fancy 
 himself a centipede. 
 
 The qualities all in a bee that we meet, 
 
 In an epigram never should fail; 
 The body should always be little and sweet, 
 
 And a sting should be felt in the tail. 
 
SUPPLEMENT TO 
 
 One Hundred Choice Selections, No. 3 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 SENTIMENTS For Public Occasions; 
 
 "WITTICISMS For Home Enjoyment; 
 
 LIFE THOUGHTS For Private Beflection; 
 
 FUNNY SAYINGS For Social Pastime, &c, 
 
 The whole world, without art and dress, 
 
 Would be but one great wilderness, 
 
 And mankind but a savage herd. 
 
 For all that nature has conferred : 
 
 This does but roughen and design, 
 
 Leaves art to polish and refine. Butler. 
 
 A man of sense can artifice disdain. 
 
 As men of wealth may venture to go plain. Young. 
 
 Man is his own star, and the soul that can 
 Render an honest and a perfect man, 
 Commands all light, all influence, all fate — 
 Nothing to him falls early or too late. 
 Our acts our angels are, or good or ill. 
 Our fatal shadows, that walk by us still. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 A blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, 
 And thanks his stars he was not born a fool. Pope. 
 
 O'er nature's laws God cast the veil of night: 
 
 Out blazed a Newton's soul— and all was light. Hill. 
 
 'Tis pleasant sure to see one's name in print; 
 
 A book's a book although there's nothing in't. Byron. 
 
 cursed love of gold ; when for thy sake 
 
 The fool throws up his interest in both worlds, 
 
 First starved in this, then daran'd in that to come. Blair. 
 
 A. fool must now and then be right by chance. Cowper. 
 
 181 
 
182 ONE HUNDRED CnOlCE SELECTIONS N(> 3. 
 
 I love to look on woman when her eye 
 Beams with the radiant light of charity ; 
 I love to look on woman when her face 
 Glows with religion's pure and perfect grace: 
 Oh then to her the loveliness is given 
 Which thrills the heart of man like dreams of heaven. 
 
 Otin. 
 Trust not a woman when she weepeth, for it is her nature 
 to weep when she wanteth her will. 
 
 Refinement creates beauty everywhere. It is the grossness 
 of the spectator that discovers anything like grossness in 
 the object. Hazliti. 
 
 Long galleries of ancestors 
 Challenge nor wonder nor esteem from me : 
 "Virtue alone is true nobility." Dryden. 
 
 The choleric man drinks, the melancholic eats, the phleg- 
 matic sleeps. 
 
 It is in the conflicts of Nature that man most feels his 
 littleness. 
 
 There are very few original thinkers in the world, the 
 greatest part of those who are called philosophers have adopt- 
 ed the opinions of some who went before them. Stewart. 
 
 The man who consecrates his hours 
 
 By vigorous effort and an honest aim, 
 
 At once he draws the sting of life and death ; 
 
 He walks with Nature, and her paths are peace. 
 
 Young. 
 O woman ! whose form and whose soul 
 
 Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue ; 
 Whether sunned at the tropics or chilled at the pole, 
 If woman be there, there is happiness too. Moore. 
 
 A clock serves to point out the hours, and a woman to 
 make us forget them. 
 Of all the causes which conspire to blind 
 Man's erring judgment and misguide the mind, 
 What the weak head with strongest bias rules. 
 Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Pope. 
 
 Be thon as chaste as ice and pure as snow, thou shult not 
 escape calumny. Shnkspeare. 
 
 Narrowness of mind is the cause of obstinacy, as we do 
 not easily believe what is beyond our sight. 
 
 La Rochefoucauld. 
 
SENTIMEXTS AND LIFli THOUGHTS. J -3 
 
 Heaven haa no rage like love to hatred turned, 
 
 Nur liell a fury like a woman scorned. Congreve. 
 
 Why lose we life in anxious cares 
 
 To lay in hoards for future years? 
 
 Can these, when tortured by disease, 
 
 Cheer our sick hearts, or purchase ease? 
 
 Can these prolong one gasp of breath, 
 
 Or calm the troubled hour of death ? Gay. 
 
 Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; 
 
 Who Ciiii tread sure on the smooth slippery way? 
 
 Pleased with the passage, we glide swiftly on. 
 
 And see the dangers which we cannot shun. Dryden. 
 
 The poor dog! in life the firmest friend — 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 
 Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
 Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone. Byron. 
 Minds of moderate calibre ordinarily condemn every thing 
 that is beyond their range. La Rochefoucauld. 
 
 Affliction is the good man's shining scene; 
 
 Prosperity conceals his brightest ray ; 
 
 As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man. Young. 
 
 Small miseries, like small debts, hit us in so many places 
 
 nnd meet us at so many turns and corners, that what tliey 
 
 want in weight they make up in number, and render it less 
 
 hazardous to stand one cannon ball than a volley of bullets. 
 
 CoUon. 
 As lamps burn silent with unconscious light, 
 So modest ease in beauty shines most bright; 
 TJnaiming charms with edge resistless fall. 
 And she who means no mischief does it all. HiU. 
 
 There are many troubles which you cannot cure by the 
 Bible and the Hymn Book, but which you can cure by a 
 good i)erspiration and a breath of fresh air. Beecher. 
 
 How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
 
 How complicate, how wonderful is man! 
 
 An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
 
 Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
 
 A worm ! a god ! Young. 
 
 It is often better to have a great deal of harm happen to 
 
 one than a little, since a great deal will arouse us to remove 
 
 what a little will only accustom us to endure. GreviUe. 
 
184 ONE HUNDRED CIIOIIE S-.LECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 If the raind, which rules the body, ever forgets itself so 
 far as to trample upon its slave, the slave is never generous 
 enough to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite tlie op- 
 pressor. Longfellow. 
 
 A gen'ral sets his army in array 
 
 111 vain, unless he fight and win the day. Dcnham. 
 
 Cultivation is as necessary to the mind as food to the body. 
 
 OlCCTO. 
 
 The mind of the scholar, if you would have it large and 
 liberal, must come in contact wi(h other minds. Longfellow. 
 
 It is an easy thing to please or astonish a mob, but essenti- 
 ally to benefit and improve tliem is a work fraught with 
 difficulty and teeming with danger. Colton. 
 
 Honored be woman ! she beams on the sight, 
 
 Graceful and fair, like a being of light. 
 
 Scatters around her, wherever she strays, 
 
 Koses of bliss on our thorn-covered ways — 
 
 Eoses of paradise fresh from above, 
 
 To be gathered and twined in a garland of love. Hood. 
 
 Men naturally love to be cheated, and, provided the 
 impostor is not too barefaced, will meet you halfway with all 
 their hearts. Tom Brovm. 
 
 Our prayers and God's mercy are like two buckets in a 
 well— when one ascends theother descends. Bishop Hopkins. 
 
 It is with narrow-souled people as with narrow-necked 
 bottles— the less they have in them the more noise they make 
 in pouring it out. Pope. 
 
 Books cannot always please, however good; 
 
 Minds are not ever craving for their food. Crabbe. 
 
 If one short volume could comprise 
 
 All that was witty, learn'd, and wise, 
 
 How would it be esteemed and read I Swift. 
 
 All nature is but art, unknown to thee ; 
 
 All chance direction which thou canst not see. Pope. 
 
 Many men do not allow their principles to take root, but 
 
 pull them up every now and then, as children do flowers 
 
 Uiey have planted, to see if they are growing. Longfellow. 
 
 The purest treasure mortal times aiford 
 
 Is spotless reputation ; that away, 
 
 Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay. Shakspeo.re. 
 
SEMTIME.N'TS AND LIFE THjUGHTS. 185 
 
 O woman ! in our hours of ease 
 Uncertain, coy, and liard to please, 
 And variable as the shade 
 By the light quivering aspen made — 
 ■ When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 A ministering angel thou. Scolt. 
 
 Man decides by reason ; the judgment of woman her love is ; 
 There where she does not love, woman already has judged. 
 
 Schiller. 
 
 Such iSoderation with thy bounty join 
 
 That thou mayst nothing give that is not thine; 
 
 That liberality is but castaway 
 
 Which miikes us borrow yhat we cannot pay, Denkam. 
 
 Many talk like philosophers and live like fools. 
 
 He who gives himself airs of importance exhibits the 
 credentials of impotence. Lavater. 
 
 The mother, in her office, holds the key 
 
 Of the soul ; and she it is who stamps the coin 
 
 Of character, and makes the being who would be a savage 
 
 But for her gentle cares, a Christian man. 
 
 We may recover out of the darkness of ignorance, but never 
 out of that of presumption. Stanislaus- 
 
 The generous heart 
 Should scorn a pleasure which gives others pain. 
 
 Thomso" 
 Only add 
 Deeds to thy knowledge answerable ; add faith, 
 Add virtue, patience, temperance; add love. 
 By name to come called charity, — the soul 
 Of all the rest. Milton- 
 
 Yet still there whispers the small voice within. 
 Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din ; 
 Whatever tireed be taught or land be trod, 
 'Man's conscience is the oracle of God! Byron. 
 
 Oh surer than suspicion's hundred eyes 
 Is that fine sense which to the pure in heart, ^ 
 
 By mere oppugnance of their own goodness, 
 Reveals the approach of evil. Coleridge. 
 
 There is none 
 In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
 Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
 A mother's heart. Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 2g* 
 
186 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 O fairest of creation ! last and best 
 
 Of all God's works, — creature, in whom excelled 
 
 Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, 
 
 Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet. Milton. 
 
 Age is the heaviest burden man can bear, 
 Compound of disappointment, pain and care; 
 For when the mind's experience comes at length, 
 It comes to mourn the body's loss of strength ; 
 Resigned to ignorance all our better days. 
 Knowledge just ripens when the man decays. 
 
 Heaven is not always angry when He strikes, 
 
 But most chastises those whom He most likes. Pomfrei. 
 
 The good are better made by ill. 
 
 As odors crushed are sweeter still. Rogers. 
 
 Age by degrees invisibly doth creep. 
 
 Nor do we seem to die, but fall asleep. Denhom. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
 
 Where wealth accumulates and men decay ; 
 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; 
 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made: 
 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
 
 When once destroyed can never be supplied. Goldsmith. 
 
 Some through ambition, or through thirst of gold. 
 Have slain their brothers, and their country sold. 
 
 Drydcn. 
 Vain are their hopes who fancy to inherit, 
 By trees of pedigree, or fame or merit ; 
 Though plodding heralds through each branch may trace 
 Old captains and dictators of their race. Drydcn. 
 
 Nothing fails of its end. Out of sight sinks the stone 
 In the deep sea of time, but the circles sweep on. 
 Till the low rippled murmurs along the shore run, 
 And the dark and dead waters leap glad in the sun. 
 
 WhiUier. 
 Wouldst thou be a happy liver, 
 Let the past be past forever! 
 Fret not, when prigs and pedants bore you; 
 Enjoy the good that's set before you; 
 But chiefly hale no man ; the rest 
 Leave thou to God, who knows what's best. Oocthe. 
 
 Adversity may make one wise, but not rich. 
 
WITTI-ISMS AND FUNNY SAYINGS. 187 
 
 A lady recently married, and seemingly rather inexperi- 
 enced in matters connected with domestic arrangements, was 
 asked by her husband at table, the other day: " What part 
 of the cow is the ham, my dear?" 
 
 She replied, thoughtfully: " Why, I guess it must be the 
 leg— isn't it?" 
 
 A little fellow five or six years old, who had been wear- 
 ing flannel jackets much too small for him, was one day, 
 after having been washed, put into a garment as much too 
 large as the other had been too small. Our six-year-old 
 shrugged his shoulders, sliook himself, walked about, and 
 finally burst out, "Ma, I do feel awful lonesome in this 
 jacket?" 
 
 Being asked what made him so dirty, an unwashed street 
 Arab's reply was: "I was made, as they tell me, of dust, and 
 I suppose it works out." 
 
 A school-boy spelled " sob," and when asked to define it, 
 blundered out: "It means when a feller don't want to cry, 
 and it bursts out itself." Another defined a comma as a 
 period with a tail. 
 
 Some Indians use scalping-knives of tortoise-shell: prob- 
 ably on account of the old fable in which the tortoise was 
 alleged to have got away with the hare. 
 
 " How to tell a mad dog" is the title of an article that is 
 going tlie rounds. We haven't anything to tell a mad dog 
 that we couldn't send to him on a postal card. 
 
 A Dutchman was about to make a journey to his father- 
 land, and, wishing to say "goodbye" to a friend, extended 
 his hand and said : " Veil, off I don'd come back, hullo." 
 
 Professor, deeply interested in bis subject, "Just here I 
 will make a remark that, if you take the trouble to inquire, 
 you will find ninety-nine out of a hundred hold this opin- 
 ion. Yes, I was about to say ninety-nine hundred out of a 
 thousand." 
 
 Youth (with sad, love-struck air) : "Oh! wilt thou be mine, 
 my own dear birdie? I love you deeply, fondly, passionate- 
 ly, wildly! I cannot live without you. Say, oh! say thou 
 wilt be mine!" Maiden {mth downcast eyes): "Adolphus, 
 is there anything the matter with my dress? I saw the 
 Smith girls look at me curiously. Is my hair all right?" 
 
188 ONE nUXDEED CilOIJE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 A certain learned professor says: "We are justified in 
 supposing that tlie primitive man must have been a woully- 
 liaired, prognathous, dolicho-cephalous being, of a dark 
 brown or blackish color." 
 
 Glad the thing is explained ; it was always a puzzle before. 
 
 An Episcopal clergyman who rather likes a joke was en- 
 gaged to reail the service for a brother minister, and was 
 hurrying to church, a little belated on Sunday morning. 
 A friend, struck by his uncommon speed, inquired : 
 
 "Sir, why so fast?" 
 
 " In order," said he, '" that he who runs may read." 
 
 Maiden Aunt (remonstrating with a street Arab) : "Don't 
 yon know, sir, il's very dangerous to throw stones? That 
 one very nearly hit me, sir! And supjiosing it had put my 
 eye out and blinded me, what would you have done then?" 
 
 Street Boy. " Shure I'd have married ye, ov course!" 
 
 Dubbs, the speculator, met Stubbs, the real estate broker, 
 in the street, one windy, dusty March day, and hailing 
 Stubbs, asked him how real estate was. 
 
 " Well," said Stubbs, taking off his spectacles and wiping 
 the dust out of his eyes, " real estate is very active to-day 
 Mr. Dubbs; every one I see has a spec in his eye." 
 
 A seven-year-old was reproved, lately, for playing out 
 doors with boys; she was too big for that now. But, with 
 all imaginable innocence, she replied: 
 
 " Why, gramma, the bigger we grow the better we like 'em." 
 
 Gramma took time to think. 
 
 A lady who had been traveling in Italy was asked by a 
 friend how she liked Venice. "Oh, very niiuh indeed!" 
 was the reply. "I was unfortunate enongh, liowever, to 
 arrive there just at the time of a heavy flood, and we had to 
 go about the streets in boats." 
 
 There is a story told of a fine old Cornish Squire who only 
 drank brandy on two occasions — when he had goose for 
 dinner and when he had not. 
 
 An old man with a bead as destitute of hair .as a water- 
 melon entered a drug store and told flie clerk be wanted a 
 bottle of hair restorer. " What kind of hair restorer do you 
 prefer?" "I reckon I'll have to take a bottle of red Ii.iir 
 restorer. That was tlie color of my hair when I was a boy." 
 
WITIKISMS AND FUNXY SAVINGS. ]89 
 
 William Penn and Thomas Storey once took shelter be- 
 neath some house in Pennsylvania from the rain. The 
 owner came forth with great pomp of manner, and said, 
 "How dare you take shelter here without my leave? Do 
 you know who I am? I am the Mayor of this place." 
 " Pooh ! pooh !" said Friend Storey, " my friend here makes 
 such things as thou art: he is the Governor of Pennsylva- 
 nia." 
 
 AVith whiskers thick upon my face, 
 
 • I went my fair to see : 
 
 She told me she could never love 
 
 A bear-faced chap like me. 
 I shaved them clean, and called again, 
 
 And thought my trouble o'er: 
 She laughed outright, and said I was 
 
 More bare-faced than before. 
 
 A girl heard her father criticised severely across a dinner 
 table. The careless critic paused a moment to say : " I hope 
 he is no relative of yours. Miss." Quick as thought she 
 replied with the utmost nonchalance: "Only a connection 
 of my mother's by marriage." 
 
 As my wife and I, at the window one day. 
 Stood watching a man with a monkey, 
 A cart came by, with a " broth of a boy," 
 "Who was driving a stout little donkey. 
 To my wife I then spoke, by way of a joke, 
 "There's a relation of yours in that carriage;" 
 To which she replied, as the donkey she spied, 
 " Ah, yes, a relation — by marriage." 
 
 A Western coroner's jury returned a verdict that the de- 
 ceased came to his death from exposure. " What do you 
 mean by that?" asked a relative of the dead man. "There 
 are two bullet holes in his skull." " Just so," replied the 
 coroner, " he died from exposure to bullets." 
 
 True wit is like the brilliant stone 
 
 Dug from the Indian mine. 
 Which boasts two various powers in one, 
 
 To cut as well as shine. 
 Genius like that, if polished right. 
 
 With the same gift abounds; 
 Api)ears at once both keen and bright, 
 
 And sparkles while it wounds. 
 
190 ONE HUXDKED CnOICE SELECTrOXS No. 3. 
 
 Why arc fixed stars like wicked old men ? Because they 
 scintillate, (sin-till-late.) 
 
 What is it that a young lady looks for, but doesn't wish 
 to find? A hole in her stocking. 
 
 Why is a steam engine at a fire an anomaly? Because it 
 works and plays at the same time. 
 
 How did Jonah feel when swallowed by a whale? Down 
 in the mouth. 
 
 Why is a field of grass like a per.s6ii older than yourself? 
 Because it's past-your-age. (pasturage.) 
 
 Why is the letter W like scandal ? Because it makes ill 
 will. 
 
 What is that .which is invisible yet never out of sight? 
 The letter S. 
 
 Why is a comprehensive action an aiTectionate one? It 
 embraces everything. 
 
 What's the difference between photographing and the 
 whooping cough? One makes fac-siniiles, and the other 
 makes sick families. 
 
 If you saw a house on fire, what three celebrated authors 
 would you feel disposed at once to name? Dickens — Howitt 
 — Burns. 
 
 When is a man duplicated? When he's beside himself. 
 
 What is the best way to keep a man's love ? Not to return 
 it. 
 What are the most diffl';ult ships to conquer? Hard-ships. 
 
 Why is a wedding ring like eternity? Because it has 
 neither beginning nor end. 
 
 Why does a dressmaker never lose her hooks? Because 
 she has an eye, to each of them. 
 
 What's the difference between a cow and an old chair? 
 One gives milk, the other gives way. (whey.) 
 
 Why are quinine and gentian like the Germans? Because 
 they are two tonics, (teutonics.) 
 
 What's the color of a grass plat covered with snow? In- 
 visible green. 
 
 Why is a policeman like a rainbow? Because he rarely 
 appears until the storm is over. 
 
WITHCISJIS AND FUNXY SAYINGS. 191 
 
 Edwin (huM-iedly, as he starts for town) : Look here, dear! 
 I must get the lawn mowed. 
 
 Angelina. You mean — 
 
 Edmn. Of course ! of course ! — this lown mawed. 
 
 'Anrjelina. Oh! you silly thing! 
 
 Edwin. Well, my dear! you see what a hurry I'm in. Of 
 course, when I say the mawed loaned, I mean the lawed 
 moaned — no! the mawn loaned. Confound it! it's the moan 
 lawned. Pshaw ! 
 
 Angelina* My love! you mean the load mawned. 
 
 Edwin. Do I? I mean the mawed loan. Pshaw ! [Exit.] 
 
 There is a story of Solomon not contained in the " Book 
 of Kings." Two of his court damsels had a row as to pre- 
 cedence. Solomon looked kindly and said, " Let the oldest 
 go first," and the damsels embraced and went in together 
 with entwined arms. 
 
 An Irishman was recently badly cut about the head in 
 an accident and bleeding freely, but he remonstrated against 
 having his wounds dressed, when the surgeon told him he 
 would bleed to death if they were not attended to. His 
 reply was characteristic. " Docthur," said he, " I never bled 
 to death in all me life." 
 
 "That's my butcher!" said an actor to a friend, at the same 
 time pointing to a lean, cadaverous -looking man just pass- 
 ing. " Looks pretty bad — doe.sn't he?" 
 
 " He does look bad," was the reply. " He looks as if you 
 had dealt with him a long time— doesn't he?" 
 , The subject was immediately changed. 
 
 A lady rang her own door bell. Nobody coming she rang 
 again. Still nobody. Finally,^t a louder, longer ring, the 
 servant concluded to show himself " Pray, are you deaf? ' 
 said the lady. " I beg pardon, madam," said the servant, 
 tranquilly, "but I heard only the third ring." 
 
 A man out West claims to have a stone that Washington 
 threw at a wood pecker on his father's cherry-tree. 
 
 When you have just fifteen minutes in which to eat your 
 breakfast and catch the train, how it does soften the tender 
 heart of man toward the gentler sex to see the waiter-girl, 
 who went off to get his order, lean up against the sideboard, 
 go to sleep, and dream of home and heaven and peace until 
 the whistle blows. 
 
192 OXK IIUXDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 A man left a bony steed on the street, and coming back, a 
 short time afterward, discovered that a funny youth had 
 placed a card against the fleshless ribs, bearing the notice : 
 
 "Oats wanted — inquire within!" 
 
 A man went home, the other evening, and found his house 
 locked up. Getting in at the window, with consideraVjlo 
 difficulty, he found on the table a note from his wife: 
 
 "I have gone out. You will find the door-key on one 
 side of the door-step." 
 
 There is a story from Paris of a dog that has been sleep- 
 ing for three months. Alas! there are no such dogs in 
 America. Tlie American dog not only stays awake himself, 
 but keeps every other living thing awake. 
 
 As a canal-boat was passing under a bridge, the captain 
 gave the usual warning, "Look out!'' when a little French- 
 man, popping his head nut of the window, received a severe 
 bump. He drew it back in a great pet, and exclaimed; 
 " Dese Americans are queer people. Dey say ' Look out' 
 when dey mealli 'Look in!'" 
 
 After many days of arid dessication, the vapory captains 
 marshaled their thundering hosts and poured out upon 
 thirsting humanity and pulverizing vegetation a few inches 
 of aqua pluvialis. That's the way one of those editors out 
 West took to tell his readers that it rained. 
 
 When a man without cash or credit attempts to leave a 
 hotel, and lowers his valise out of a back window by means 
 of a rope, it makes charity seem cold to hear the voice of 
 the landlord below, yelling up, " All right, I've got the valise ; 
 let go the rope." 
 
SUPPLEMENT TO 
 
 One Hundred Choice Selections, E"o. 4 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 HENTIMSNTS For Public Occasions; 
 
 ■WITTICISMS For Home Enjoyment; 
 
 LIFE THOUGHTS For Private Reflection; 
 
 FUNNY SAYINGS For Social Pastime, &o. 
 
 Woman, dear woman, still the same 
 
 While beauty breathes through soul or frame : 
 
 While man possesses heart and eyes, 
 
 Woman's bright empire never dies. Moore. 
 
 Tact is the life of the five senses. It is the open eye, the 
 quick ear, the judging taste, the keen smell and the lively 
 touch. Talent is power, tact is skill ; talent is weight, tact is 
 momentum; talent knows what to do, tact how to do it; 
 talent is wealth, tact is ready money. 
 
 One of the saddest things about human nature is; that a 
 man may guide others in the path of life without walking 
 in it himself. 
 
 God washes the eyes by tears until they can behold the 
 invisible land where tears shall coime no more. Beecher. 
 
 His life was gentle, and the elements 
 
 So mixed in him that Nature might stand up 
 
 And say to all the world, This is a man. Shakspeare. 
 
 He's armed without that's innocent within. Pope.' 
 
 Of no distemper, of no blast he died, 
 But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long, 
 ]^ven wondered at because he dropt no sooner. 
 Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years, ■ 
 Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more 
 Till, like a clock worn out with eating time. 
 The wheels of weary life at last stood still. Bryden. 
 
 185 
 
1S6 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 4. 
 
 Whoever can make two ears of corn or two blades of grass 
 to grow upon a spot of ground wliere only one grew before, 
 would deserve better of mankind and do more essential 
 service to his country than the whole race of politicians jiut 
 together. Swift. 
 
 When anger rushes, unrestrained, to action, 
 
 Like' a hot steed, it stumbles in its way: 
 
 The man of thought strikes deepest, and strikes safest. 
 
 Overburv. 
 
 What avails it that indulgent Heaven 
 
 From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to eome, 
 
 If we, ingenious to torment ourselves. 
 
 Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own? Armstrong. 
 
 AVhen men argue, the greatest part 
 
 O' the contest falls on terms of art, 
 
 Until the fustian stuff be spent. 
 
 And then they fall to th' argument. Butler. 
 
 God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offence into 
 everlasting forgetfulness. Beecher. 
 
 Some for renown on scraps of learning dote, 
 
 And think they grow immortal as they quote. Young. 
 
 Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat 
 
 Defects of judgment, and the will subdue. 
 
 Walk thoughtful on the solemn silent shore 
 
 Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon. Young. 
 
 I can march up to a fortress and summon a foe to surren- 
 der, 
 But march up to a woijian with such a proposal I dare not. 
 I'm not afraid of bullets nor shot from the mouth of a 
 
 cannon, 
 But of a thundering "No!" point-blank from the mouth 
 
 of a woman. 
 That I confess I'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 Howe'er it be, it seems to me 
 'Tis only noble to be good : 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 And simple faith than Norman blood. Tennyson. 
 
 What a world of gossip would be prevented if it was only 
 remembered that a person who tells you of the faults of 
 others intends to tell others of your faults. 
 
SBNTIMENT8 AND LIFE THOUGHTS. 187 
 
 Age is all head, j'outh all heart ; age reasons, youth feels ; 
 fige acts under the influence of disappointment, youth under 
 Vhe dominion of hope. 
 
 The best part of beauty is that which no picture can express. 
 
 Man's soul in a perpetual motion flows, 
 And to no outward cause that motion owes. 
 
 Like our shadows. 
 Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines. Ymmg. 
 
 "Where «mbition of place goes before fitness of birth, con- 
 tempt and disgrace follow. Chapman. 
 
 Time's current may wear wrinkles in the face, but not 
 reach the heart. 
 
 There is a time in every man's education when he arrives 
 at the conviction that envy is ignorance ; that imitation is 
 suicide ; that he must take himself for better or for worse, as 
 his portion ; that, though the wide universe is full of good, 
 no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through 
 his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given liim 
 to till. Emerson. 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep, and a forgetting ; 
 
 The soul, that rises with us, our life's star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And Cometh from afar ; 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness. 
 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home. 
 
 Oh there are hours, aye moments, that contain 
 Feelings, that years may pass, and never bring. 
 
 Loveliness 
 Needs not the aid of foreign ornament ; 
 But is, when unadorned, adorned the most. 
 
 Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse, 
 
 But talking is not always to converse ; 
 
 Not more distinct from harmony divine • 
 
 The constant creaking of a country sign. Covjper. 
 
 Ev'ry one is eagle-eyed to see 
 
 Another's faults and his deformity. Dryden. 
 
 We learn to climb by keeping our eyes, not on the valleys 
 that lie behind, but on the mountains that rise before us. 
 
188 OXE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 4. 
 
 Every man, however good he may be, has a yet better 
 man dwelliiig within him, which is properly liimself, but to 
 whom, nevertheless, he is often unfaithful. It is to the in- 
 teriorand less mutable being that we should attract ourselves, 
 not to the changeable every-day man. Von Humboldt. 
 
 Discourse may want an animated " No !" 
 
 To brush the surface, and to make it flow; 
 
 But still remember, if you mean to please. 
 
 To press your point with modesty and ease. Cowper. 
 
 The child-like faith that asks not sight, 
 
 AVaits not for wonder or for sign, 
 
 Believes, because it Toves, aright, 
 
 Shall see things greater, things divine; 
 
 Heaven to that gaze shall oiien wide, 
 
 And brightest angels to and fro 
 
 On messages of love shall glide 
 
 'Twixt God and Christ below. KcUe. 
 
 'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud ; 
 
 'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired ; 
 
 'Tis modesty that makes them seem divine. Shakspeare. 
 
 A man, in this world, is a boy spelling in short syllables; 
 but he will combine them in the next. Bcecher. 
 
 When men grow virtuous in old age, they are merely mak- 
 ing a sacrifice to God of the devil's leavings. Smft. 
 
 Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
 
 One who dvvelleth by the (castled Rhine, 
 
 When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
 
 Stars, that in earth's firniament do shine. Longfellow. 
 
 In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 
 
 And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; 
 
 Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers 
 
 On its leaves a mystic language bears. Percival. 
 
 Truth itself will not profit us so long as she is but held in 
 the hand, and taken upon trust from other men's minds, 
 not wooed and won and wedded by our own. Locke. 
 
 Of all the passions which possess the soul, 
 
 None so disturb vain mortals' minds 
 
 As vain ambition, which so blinds 
 
 The light of them, that nothing can control 
 
 Nor curb their thoughts who will aspire. Earl of Stirling. 
 
WITTICISMS AND FUNNY SAYIXnS. 189 
 
 A gentleman met a rather "uncertain" acquaintance the 
 other day, when the latter said: "I'm a little sliort, and 
 would like to ask you a conundrum in mental arithmetic." 
 " Proceed," said the gentleman. " Well," said the " short" 
 man, "suppose you had $10 in your pocket, and I should 
 ask you for $5, how much would remain ?" " Ten dollars," 
 was the prompt answer. 
 
 Let each one strive with all his might 
 
 To be a decent man, 
 • To love his neighbor as himself. 
 
 Upon the golden plan. 
 And if his neighbor chance to be 
 
 A pretty female woman. 
 Why, love her all the more — you see, 
 
 That's only acting human. 
 
 "Shall I help you to alight," said a young gentleman, 
 addressing a country girl, who was preparing to jump from 
 a carriage. "Thank you, sir," sweetly replied the girl, " but 
 I don't smoke." 
 
 As Pat, an odd joker, and Yankee more sly, 
 
 Once riding together, a gallows passed by ; 
 
 Said the Yankee to Pat, "If I don't make too free. 
 
 Give that gallows its due, and pray where would you be?" 
 
 " Why, honey," says Pat, " faith, that's easily known — 
 
 I'd be riding to town by myself all alone." 
 
 The following conversation took place recently in a hotel : 
 "Waiter!" "Yes, sir." "What's this?" "It's bean soup, 
 sir." " No matter what it has been, the question is, what is 
 it now?"' 
 Two lawyers, when a knotty case was o'er, 
 Shook hands and were as good friends as before. 
 "Zounds," said the losing client, "how come you 
 To be such friends, who were such foes just now?" 
 "Thou fool," says one, " we lawyers though so keen. 
 Like shears ne'er cut ourselves, but what's between." 
 
 The proper remedy for a young lady who is short of stat- 
 ure is to get spliced as soon as possible. 
 
 "Attend your church," the parson cries. 
 
 To church each fair one goes. 
 The old go there to close their eyes, 
 
 The young to eye their clothes. 
 
190 ONE linjJDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS N ). 4. 
 
 At what time of day was Adam borii 7 A little bofui'e Eve. 
 
 Why does a man sneeze three times? Because he cannot 
 help it. 
 
 Why is a very ugly female a wonderful woman ? Because 
 she is an extra-ordinary one. 
 
 Why are some women like facts? Because they are stub- 
 born things. 
 
 On what day in the year do women talk the least? The 
 shortest day. 
 
 What three letters turn a girl into a woman? A-g-e. 
 
 Why is an account book like a statuary shop? It is full 
 of figures. 
 
 Why is an egg like a colt? Because it isn't fit for use till 
 it's broken. 
 
 When is an army totally destroyed ? AVlien its soldiers 
 are all in quarters. 
 
 Why is a defeated army like wool? Because it's worsted. 
 
 What is tantalizing? Giving invitations only to tea. 
 
 Why are books your best friends? Because wlien they 
 bore you, you can shut them up without giving offence. 
 
 Why are pipes humbugs? Because the best are mere- 
 shams. 
 
 What's the diflFerence between stabbing a man and kill- 
 ing a hog? One is assaulting with intent to kill, and the 
 other, killing with intent to salt. 
 
 When is a clock on the stairs dangerous? When it runt 
 down and strikes one. 
 
 When does a chair dislike you? Whsn it can't bear you. 
 
 Why is a tournament like sleep? It is a nightly occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 What word may be pronounced quicker, by adding a syl- 
 lable to it? Quick. 
 
 What do we often catch yet never see ? A passing remark. 
 
 Why is a butcher's cart like his top boots? Because he 
 carries his calves there. 
 
 When is a gun like a dismissed servant? When it is dis- 
 charged and goes off. 
 
 Why is a man who beats his wife like a thoroughbred 
 horse? He's a perfect brute. 
 
 Why ought meat to be only half cooked ? Because whr t'( 
 done cannot be helped. 
 
WlTTItlSMS AND FL'NXY SAYINGS. 191 
 
 "Now, my boy," said the examiner, "if I had a mince iiic, 
 and should give two-twelfths of it to John, two-twelfths to 
 Isaac, two twelfths to Harry, and should take half the pie 
 myself, what would there be left? Speak out loud, so that 
 all can hear." "The plate," shouted the boy. 
 
 At an auction of household articles the auctioneer held up 
 a thermometer and pleaded for a bid. No one seemed to 
 want it, and he turned to a farmer-looking man, and said : 
 "Take it, examine it, and give me a quarter for it." "No — 
 no," repliedjhe man, backing off. " What ! Don't you want 
 a thermometer?" "No, sir; Iliad one a year or two ago, 
 and I worked and worked, and fooled around and fooled 
 around, and I could never keep it regulated worth a cent. 
 Hang it, I couldn't even open the ornery thing." 
 
 A wag, in " what he knows about farming," gives a very 
 good plan to remove widow's weeds. He says a good-look- 
 ing man' has only to say " wilt thou ?" and they wilt. 
 
 " I was very near selling my boots, the other day," said 
 Joe to a friend. 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " I had them half-soled." 
 
 A preacher was standing, on a Monday morning, at his 
 gate, when one of his parishioners arrived with a basket of 
 potatoes. " What's this?" said the vicar. " Please, sir," re- 
 plied the man, "it's some of our very best taturs— a very 
 rare kind, sir. My wife said you should have some of them, 
 as she heard you say, in your sermon, the common taturs d ida't 
 agree with you." 
 
 A youngster being required to write a composition upon 
 some portion of the human body, selected that which unites 
 the head to the body, and expounded as follows: "A throat 
 is convenient to have, especially to roosters and ministers. 
 The former eats the corn and crows with it: the latter 
 preaches through liis'n, and then ties it up. This is pretty 
 much all I can think of about necks." 
 
 " How do you like the character of St. Paul ?" asked a par- 
 son of his landlady one day, during a conversation about 
 the saints and the apostles. " Ah, he was a good, clever old 
 soul, I know," replied the landlady, "for he once said, you 
 know, that we must eat what is set before us and ask no 
 questions for conscience' sake. I always thought I should 
 like him for a boarder." 
 
192 OXI! HUNDRED CnOICK SKLECTI >NS No. 4. 
 
 A youth of Hibernian extraction in chopping wood wilh 
 a hatchet the other day was so unfortunate as to graze the 
 thumb of liis left liand with wliich he was steadying the 
 piece of kindling he was siiHlting. Ruefully gazing at the 
 injured member he remarked : " Be gorra, it was a good 
 thing that I did not have hold of the handle with both 
 hands, or I'd have cut it ofl't.ure." 
 
 A certain Circuit Judge was always sure of meeting some 
 cutting or sneering remark from a self-conceited lawyer 
 wlien he came to a certain town in his rounds. This was 
 repeated one day at dinner, when a gentleman present said : 
 "Judge, why don't you s(]uelcl) that fellow?" The Judge, 
 dropping his knife and forlc and placing his chin upon his 
 hands and his elbows on (he table, remarked: "Up in our 
 town a widow woman has a yellow dog lli:it, whenever the 
 moon shines, goes out upon the stoop and barks and barks 
 away at it all night." Stopping short, he quietly .resumed 
 eating. After waiting some time it was asked: "Well, 
 Judge, what of the dog and the moon?" "Oh, the moon 
 kept right on," he said. 
 
 The difference between a woman and an umbrella is, that 
 there are times when you can shut up an umbrella. 
 
 Little Robbie went to a show for the 6rst time in his life. 
 When he came home, his mother asked nini what he had 
 seen. "An elephant, mamma, that gobbled hay with his 
 front tail." 
 
 " At what age were you married ?" asked she, inquisitively. 
 But the lady was equal to the emergency, and quietly re- 
 sponded: "At the parsonage." 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMINT 
 
 —TO — 
 
 One Hundred Choice Selections, No. 1, 
 
 This Supplement will be forwarded to any address, post-paid, on receipt c* 
 Ten Cents (oi' three copies for Twenty- Five Cents), by addressing 
 P. Garrett & Co., Publishers, 708 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 PRACTICAL JOKES *-RnnEnT C. V. Mexees. 
 A Fabce in One Act. 
 
 CHAIIACTBRS. 
 
 Uncle Toby, a Joker. 
 
 Tom Ashbrook, with vivid remembrances of the White 
 
 Mountains. 
 Jimmy Culverin, an admirer of dimples. 
 
 LeTITIA TknEyCK, 1 ,,. r tt i m u 
 
 Emily TenEyck, } ^'eces of Uncle Toby. 
 
 SCENE — Interior vrith door in the back, clock on stand or table. 
 Leiilia and Emily discovered seated and embroidering. 
 
 ^},iii.\{lookinff at clock). Letty, "they will not be here. See, 
 it is half-past twelve; the train arrives on the stroke of 
 twelve, and we are ten minutes' walk from the station. 
 Uncle Toby must be detained by some business which ac- 
 counts for his not coming and telling us that Mr. Ashbrook 
 and Mr. Culverin failed to come as they promised. It is 
 twenty minutes past the time ; and no girl with any proper 
 appreciation of herself will wait twenty minutes for the 
 propgrest young man in the world. 
 
 Letitia. We should not blame the gentlemen. 
 
 Emily. Do you mean by that much-abused title to indi- 
 cate Tom Ashbrook and Jimmy Culverin? 
 
 Lkt. I was thinking 
 
 Emily. Thinking is a very dangerous habit for a young 
 
 •Copyright, 18S5, by P. Garuett & Co. 
 
J94 ONE HUXDRliD CIIOICK SKLBCTIO S No. 1. 
 
 woman to fall into. Once there was a young woman who 
 kept thinking that she would surely fall in love, and the 
 consequence was that one day she did so. I never think. 
 
 Let. Consequently you will never fall in love. 
 
 Emily. Never! 
 
 Let. For the simple reason that you have already so 
 fallen. 
 
 Emily. Letitia TenEyck ! You are referring to your per- 
 petual White Mountains and a young unknown man who 
 stood beside me and enjoyed the glories of a sunset. That 
 young man had a companion ; that companion stood beside 
 you enjoying the glories of the sunset. AVhat color was 
 that sunset, Letitia TenEyck? 
 
 Let. Ayhat color? 
 
 Emily. That was my question. 
 
 Let. A\'hy — why — well, I should say that golden brown 
 was the predominating tint. 
 
 Emily. Golden brown ; in other words, hazel — the color 
 of the eyeti of the companion of the young man who stood 
 beside me enjoying the glories of the sunset. 
 
 Let. Emily TenEyck, I will dare you to divulge unto me 
 the predominating color of that tunset on the White Moun- 
 tains. 
 
 Emily. Artists will tell you that no two of us see the 
 same scene alike — consequently my sunset was a heavenly 
 blue. 
 
 Let. The color of the eyes of the joung man who stood 
 Ijeside you as you enjoyed the glories of the sunset. Seri- 
 ously, though, Emily, I meant to say that I was thinking 
 that possibly a fresh practical joke was detaining Uncle 
 Toby. It is <lrea(lful that he persists in this rude sort of 
 merriment which constantly sets the house topsy-turvy, 
 makes the most innocent thing dangerous, and robs life of 
 half its peace and security. Practical jokes have had their 
 (lay, surely, ami should be relegated to the times when 
 people had no knives and forks on their tables, and be- 
 lieved in witchcraft; they belong to another age than ours. 
 
 Emily. So does Uncle Toby, for that matter ; he is fifty, 
 and we 
 
 Let. Are not fifty — being only two. 
 
 Emily, Exactly. But really, it appears as though Uncle 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 195 
 
 Toby means to keep it up till the end of the chapter— or 
 the end of contiding people. My greatest fear is that one 
 day he will do something which will get him into a serious 
 difficulty, and not him alone, but us also — for a practical 
 joke scorns one victim only. Had it not been for him 
 Cousin Jeremy would never have inserted that extravagant 
 clause in his will. The idea of Jeremy writing that as you 
 and I had been under the guardianship of Uncle Toby ever 
 since our parents died in our babyhood, doubtless we had 
 imbibed some of his admiration for jests which are made at 
 the expense of others, and therefore, in his will he would 
 show us that we were not the only members of the family 
 who could turn the tables. 
 
 Let. And yet it was spiteful, that clause in the will. 
 Fancy his leaving the money to you and me and his wife's 
 two nephews, Tom Ashbrook and Jimmy Culverin, provid- 
 ed we should favor each other matrimonially— I Tom, he 
 me; you Jimmy, Jimmy you. And we have never laid 
 eyes on either of the nephews! It is the most preposterous 
 thing I ever heard of. 
 
 Emily. And Uncle Toby immediately entered into the 
 spirit of it. So, apparently, did the nephews — for have 
 they not written that they would come to-day and make 
 our acquaintance? 
 
 Let. My dear, it is my opinion that Uncle Toby invited 
 them here. Uncle Toby is equal to anything, even to in- 
 viting two young men whom he has no more seen than you 
 and I have, and invite them as the suitors of his nieces. 
 And to think that he never told us until he started for the 
 station to meet them. Good gracious! Our waiting here 
 and suffering this scandalous proceeding looks as though 
 we acquiesce in Cousin Jeremy's plan. 
 
 Emily. Not so bad as that, sister; the gentlemen, accord- 
 ing to Uncle Toby, say that they have too long neglected 
 their Uncle Jeremy's cousins, and feeling that they owe re- 
 paration, will now pay a visit to our dear Uncle Toby. Not 
 a word do they s.iy about the will. 
 
 Let. I should hope not; it is to be trusted that this 
 family boasts of no such vulgarians as that would make them. 
 But our receiving them does look as though we favor them. 
 
196 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 Emily. How can we help ourselves? Uncle Toby tella 
 us two gentlemen are about to visit him, and we are the 
 hostesses. We dare not run off now, that would be rudest 
 of all. 
 
 Let. As for anything else, newr.' What do we care for-a 
 fortune that is bequeathed to us under such conditions! I, 
 for one, will refuse the slightest advance which Tom Ash- 
 brook may offer me. He must be a veritable money- 
 groveller, a miser, a— a would-be defaulter! 
 
 Emily. And Jimmy Culverin I should set down as his 
 counterpart. Before I should accept him for my fianc6 
 
 Let. Before 1 should accept Tom Ashbrook, I would — I 
 would 
 
 Emily. I know what you would do. 
 
 LvT. What? 
 
 Emily. You would go through the world in single bles- 
 sedness, thinking of the young gentleman with hazel eyes 
 who enjoyed with you the glories of a sunset on the White 
 Mountains, and whom you never saw before nor have seen 
 since, but whose face has haunted you from last summer 
 until now. 
 
 Let. And yon will do as much, thinking of a pair of blue 
 eyes which made your heaven their color. 
 
 Emily. Hush, dear; we should not be so unmaidenly. 
 Let us get back to first principles. As I say, it is now too 
 late for the arrival of the shameless men who are our co- 
 heirs according to Cousin Jeremy's will. At the last mo- 
 ment they may have been seized with compunction. Here- 
 after I shall cherish a little respect for them. 
 
 Let. (starting up.) Talk about confiding people! Are n9t 
 we the most innocent young women in the world ! We 
 have absolutely believed in Uncle Toby — and after all our 
 experience of him! The young men may never have" 
 written a line about coming, and probably at this very mo- 
 ment Uncle Toby is think in; of us sitting here expecting 
 our possible bridegrooms ! 
 
 %s\u.y [irilh a IHO^ scream). What geese We have been ! I 
 do believe the White Mountains have been running in our 
 heads so much that we have lost the little wisdom we ever 
 possessed. Now let us check-mate Uncle Toby ; when he 
 
r)nAMATIC SUITLI-MENT. 137 
 
 returns he must not find us employed over dainty em- 
 bioidery — let us put on our morning caps and get the 
 maid's brooms and act as though we never had any inten- 
 tion of crediting him in his nonsense. 
 
 Let. Oh, what geese we have been ! ( They throw aside 
 their embroidery, run and put on white caps and aprons, and go 
 to door in back and return with brooms.) 
 
 Emily. And yet why did we mention that sunset on the 
 White Moiinteins? I have made myself sad. 
 
 Let. And helped to make me so. Heigho! {Sighs.) 
 Hush! Haik! Tiiat must be Uncle Toby! (.1 lumbering 
 noise heard. Uncle Toby throws open door at the back, when both 
 girls set on and sweep him so that he cannot enter.) 
 
 Uncle T. (struggling.) Emily — Letty, don't, don't! I 
 must come in — I must come in ! {Tlwy sweep the faster.) Let 
 me in, I say; let me in — ean't you see that I am half wild? 
 I have made such a mistake, such a mistake ! (He jumps 
 over the brooms, and the, girls follow him to the front, sweeping 
 him along.) Girls, listen to me (tragically) ; I am a thief! 
 
 Emily. It would not surprise us if you owned to being a 
 dynamiter! 
 
 UxcLE T. A what? 
 
 Emily. Not a What, but a What-Is-It,— a dynamiter 
 (shaking her finger at him) I Oh,*we know you. Uncle Toby, 
 even though you say our summer in the mountains takes 
 us a little off our guard now and then. You are a thief, eli? 
 Do you know what they do with thieves in Egypt? They 
 sweep them out of the way. Thus (sweeping him) ! 
 
 Let. Thus (sweeping him) ! 
 
 Uncle T. Stop, stop, I tell you, and let me explain ! 
 
 Emily. First of all explain to us why you said that Tom 
 Ashbroolt and Jimmy Cul verin would be here to-day at noon ! 
 
 Uncle T. Because they wrote me to that effect. 
 
 Lei', (brandishing her broom.) Look out. Uncle Toby, or 
 we'll do as they do in Egypt. 
 
 Uncle T. Oh, the misery of being a funny man! Here! 
 here is the letter (producing letter, which girls read) ! 
 
 Let. Why Tom Ashbrook is a veritable wretch ! 
 
 Emily. And Jimmy Culverin is his accomplice ! Then 
 it is no silly joke of Uncle Toby's, after all ! And where 
 are they? Own that you bad something to do with their 
 
193 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 threatening to come, — own to that, Uncle Toby, or {brandish- 
 ing her broom) have another taste of Egypt ! 
 
 Uncle T. [groaning.) I will own to anything — I am in 
 sufficient misery to own to being Nebuchadnezzar, Venus 
 arising from the sea, or anything else. I tell you that I am 
 a thief! Own to it? I'll own to inviting the two you;ig 
 fellows to come and spend a day with us. It was to hi a 
 supreme joke. But I have done with practical jokes hence- 
 forth! I abjure anything that approaches merriment; I'll 
 erect a gallows over my bed every night, and with ropes 
 stretch my face till it is as long as any other donkey's. 
 Listen to me, girls, listen to me ! 
 
 Let. Uncle Toby, we cannot think that you are serious. 
 You are always jesting. 
 
 Emily. And acting so as to mislead us. 
 
 Uncle T. Oh, the misery of being a funny man ! But all 
 that is given up. Hear me vow ! I will never make an- 
 other joke so long as — oh, oh, only listen to me; 
 
 Emily. Good gracious! don't say it so often! Are we 
 not listening front head to foot? 
 
 Let. If you keep this up much longer, Uncle, we shall 
 think you really are serious. 
 
 Uncle T. If I thought you'd think that, I'd keep it up 
 till my hundredth birthday— serious! oh, children, chil- 
 ~dren, I'm in a pickle this time ; and one of my confounded 
 jokes has lodged me there. (Impresisirely.) I am a pick- 
 pocket! (The girls laugh.) Yes, I am; upon my honor, I 
 am a red-handed Dick Turpin, a Robin Hood, a Gentleman 
 Jack, any of those illustrious foot-pads you may choose to 
 liken me to. Listen ! 
 
 Emily (raising her broom). Say "listen" once more. Uncle 
 Toby, and I'll think you're an Egyptian. 
 
 UtrcLE T. To prove that I am an American, I will say in- 
 stead, hear me, pay attention, the court demands silence. 
 I honestly did expect Tom and Jimmy tliis morning; I in- 
 vited them that I might enjoy the confusion of you girls. I 
 acknowledge all this simply because I am at this present 
 moment in a state of abject degradation. A little while a'o 
 I went to the station to meet the young men, and in tlie 
 crowd there I caught a glimpse of two manly backs which I 
 
DRAJfATIC SUPrLKMKST. lOI) 
 
 immediately look to belong to Tom Aslibrook and Jimmy 
 Culverin. I eJ;,'e(l my way up to them until only a stout 
 lady separated us. I reached across the stout lady and in- 
 serted my hands into the pockets of the owners of' the 
 backs and abstracted their wallets. I thought what fun it 
 would be when the young fellows were here minutely ex- 
 plaining the ingenuity of the robbery ; and how I would 
 produce the pocket-books, and so on, and so on. Just then 
 the stout lady saw her husband, whom she had come to 
 meet, and givtng a jump backward, made me lo.se my bal- 
 ance, and the next moment I was scrambling around on 
 the floor of the station. When I was on my feet apain the 
 gentlemen whose money I had were no longer in sight — 
 they were ^ot Tom and Jim, whom I had wricten to wait 
 in the station until I met them — I had robbed two men 
 who were perfect strangers to me! Do you appreciate the 
 pickle? I am a thief— a thief! My gray hairs are coming 
 in sorrow to the grave ! 
 
 Let. And I don't believe one word of it. You are only 
 making it up. 
 
 Uncle T. {angrily.) Making it up! Do I look like a per- 
 son who makes up? Ungrateful girl, is this all the sympathy 
 I am to expect in this house? Look here (taking tiio wallets 
 from his pocket) ! Here are the proofs of my light-fingered- 
 ness. Listen ! 
 
 Emily. That word (letting the broom descend on Uncle Tohy'n 
 head) ! You are only playing with us. Uncle Toby, I see it 
 all in your eye. 
 
 Uncle T. It's all in my eye, is it? It is a very indelicate 
 thing for a young lady to use slang. Oh, the misery of 
 
 Let. (interrupting.) Of being a funny man. Yes, I know. 
 I repeat that I do not believe one word of all this terrible 
 story. Besides that, how do we know that you have not 
 forged that note purporting to coms from Mr. Ashbrook 
 and Mr. Culverin? 
 
 U.ncleT. That's right! Add forgery to pocket-picking. 
 Would you like to accuse me of arson, or fratricide, or some 
 other pleasant little vagary? I shall go frantic, like King 
 I,ear, from the unfeeling treatment of female relatives. 
 
 Emily. What a nice actor you are. Uncle, and with so 
 little stage-paraphernalia, too. Now, sir, do you thii* that 
 
200 ONE IIUNDIIED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 we, for one instant, had faith in your story that the gentle- 
 men would come? See our aprons and caps; we are as 
 good at detecting a joke as you are in preparing one. Oh, 
 no, Uncle Toby, we take with a grain of salt every word you 
 liave said— though 1 will own that we were on the vei^e of 
 being geese. 
 
 Vnde Toby groaiw and wrings his hands. There comes a loud 
 
 knock on the door. 
 
 i 
 
 UxcLK T. Oh, I forgot, I forgot! On my way home I 
 met two strangers. Confused and contrite though I 
 might be, my ruling passion was strong in death ; so when 
 one of the strangers asked me to show him the way to the 
 nearest inn, I pointed in the direction of this house. 1 
 don't know why I did it — unless it be that I am so used to 
 doing ridiculous things that I never miss an opportunity to 
 add to my reputation in that particular. [^Knocking continued. 
 
 Emily (to Let). Can we believe him? 
 
 Uncle T. (appealingly ) Believe me — believe me if all 
 those endearing young charms— no, no; 1 mean, believe 
 me that I am a thief— that 1 told these strangers to come 
 here ! Strangers ! they may not be strangers — they may be 
 the constable and his minions, come to take me into 
 custody for picking pockets! Oh, the misery of {running to 
 side) being a tunny man ! (Exit at side.) 
 
 Emily. I scarcely know what to make of this ! There 
 surely is nothing serious in it? 
 
 Li..T. There seems to be as little mirth in it. [Knocking 
 on the door louder than cnr.'] 
 
 Emily. And yet it is more consistent to regard it all as a 
 joke. Come! let us take it as such. If he has gone so far 
 as to tell two strangers that this is an inn, let us help him 
 out with the jest. Then if he is in collusion with two so- 
 called strangers, let us do our best to puzzle them to the ex- 
 treme of their folly. At any rate we will revenge ourselves 
 on Uncle Toby. 
 
 Impatient knocking on door and cries of "Ho, there/" "Open 
 the door.'" 
 
 Let. Very well. It will be revenge on Uncle Toby in- 
 deed. •Remember, we are the daughters of the inn-keeper. 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 201 
 
 and if Uncla Toby comes in we will pretend not to know 
 him. Open the door, or they will break it down. 
 
 Emily throws open the door. Enter Tom Ashbrook, al sight oj 
 whom Letty cries out "Tlie Iiazel sunset," and throws Iter arms 
 around Emily. Enter Jimmy (Julverin, when Emily cries, 
 " The sky-blue sunset," and embraces Letty. Ashbrook and (Jul- 
 verin start confusedly and run to side, where they talk together. 
 
 Let. {looking up.) Tliey are the gentlemen in whose com- 
 pany we enjoj'ed the glories of that golden-brown sunset! 
 
 Emily (looking up). It was not- golden-brown ; it was 
 b— blue! {They hold their heads upon each oOier's shoulders 
 again.) 
 
 Tom. Jimmy, we're in for it. These are the ladies we 
 met at the White Mountains! To think that they should 
 turn out to be inn-keepers! The tall one {pointing to Letty) 
 1 have thought of ever since that sunset. 
 
 Jimmy. While the one with the dimple {indicating Emily) 
 has been my day-star since that one evening when we met 
 them for the first time, and lost them, as we feared, forever. 
 And inn-keepers ! Tom, I wonder if they have the tooth- 
 ache that they act so oddly? Surely they do not recognize 
 us, eh? Let mo talk to them. {Solemnly to the girls.) Can 
 we have luncheon? 
 
 Emily {aside). Was there ever a man who forgot to be 
 hungry in the middle of the day? 
 
 Jim {adde). How odd they are. {Aloud.) A — a second- 
 joint of a butterfly, a — anything ephemeral will do. {Aside.) 
 I feel as oddly as they act. 
 
 Emily {aside). Second-joint of a butterfly! Anything 
 ephemeral ! He has a soul after all ! 
 
 Let. Don't desert me, Emily , 1 believe there is a deeper 
 joke here than any that Uncle has hitherto perpetrated. 
 Remember, we are in for a fine piece of acting. In " She 
 Stoops to Conquer," does not a lady pretend to be a bar- 
 maid before the man she loves? 
 
 Emily. Loves! oh, Letty! And these White Mountain 
 men! I am ready to die for shame! 
 
 Let. You'd better live for Uncle Toby's mortification ! 
 
 Tom {to .Tim). I should never have accused them of such 
 glaring stupidity. Probably they are somewhat confused at 
 2h* 
 
202 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 this meeting; for I differ with you, my friend, and plainly 
 })erceive that they recognize us. Let us carry it off, thougli, 
 with a high hand ; if they do keep an inn it does not make 
 them the less lovable, nor should they be treated less 
 courteously than duchesses. Ah, I fear the eyes of the tall 
 one, — they are Cujiid's darts! 
 
 Jim. The other one has a dimple which goes straight to 
 my heart ! Speak to them, Tom, cpeak to them ; I ve done 
 my share. 
 
 Tom. Ahem! Can we have luncheon? [Aside.) Oh, 
 those eyes! 
 
 Let. (curtsying.) Y-y-yes, sir, in a moment, sir. Ham, 
 sir; bacon, sir; flitch, sir; jowl, sir; milk, sir; cream, sir; 
 curds, sir; and whey, sir? 
 
 Emily. Ducks, sir; drakes, sir; goose, sir; geese, sir? 
 
 Jim. Yes, we'll have some; and oh— {Sighs, as Tom does, 
 and the girls curl.vjing run off.) 
 
 To.M. The strangest inn-keepers in the world. Ham, sir; 
 bacon, sir; flitch, sir; jowl, sir; -it is like an exercise to 
 cure stuttering. And how sweetly she did dwell on flitch ! 
 
 Jim. Ducks, sir; drakes, sir; goose, sir; geese, sir! I 
 never before heard so much music put into "geese." I'll 
 cat everything she brings me, even if it should happen to 
 be a Leviathan entire ; served by her, the viands become 
 fairy-food to endow me with the digestion of an ostrich and 
 the cramming power of a camel. The sight of that dimple 
 turns my brain. I believe I am dead in love with het, and 
 have been all along. 
 
 Tom. Look out, there ! You came into this neigborhood 
 to make love to quite a different personage,— even Emily 
 TenEyck. 
 
 Jim. And you to become spoony on her sister Letitia. 
 How has the idea of spooning prospered? 
 
 Tom. Prospered ! My opinion of the TenEyck girls is that 
 they are the most forward creatures in Christendom, and 
 tlieir uncle a precious old scoundrel. He may have been 
 waiting for us at the station, but we never guaranteed tliat 
 he should find us. If lie were any sort of a man, he would 
 think we were regular sharpers for accepting his invitation. 
 Jimmy, it was your life's inspiration to pretend to accept 
 the invitation, to come down, and then cut across country 
 
DRAMATIC SLITLI ME.NT. 203 
 
 tc the vicinity of the TenEycks, and merely as a matter of 
 curiosity to find out through the talkativeness of their neigh- 
 borg, what sort of young ladies Aunt Jcrsmy's husband's 
 cousins are. I must confess that the Jeremy fortune is not 
 to be lightly treated, and that my sweetest revenge would be 
 to meet Miss Letitia TeuEyek and give her my opinion of 
 her unmaidenliness in being willing to receive me accord- 
 ing to the dictates of her cousin's will. 
 
 Jim. And my revenge would bo as complimentary to 
 Miss Emily.* But the dimpled cheek of this White Moun- 
 tain girl knocks all that out of my head. Why, I have 
 been hunting for her ever since that glorious sunset last 
 summer. 
 
 Tom. As I have been longing for a glance of the eyes of 
 the taller one. I have it ! They are bashful country girls ; 
 I can see it in their peculiar manner. Suppose we deli- 
 cately quiz them about the TenEyck girls — it will keep 
 them from running off and leaving u? forlorn. 
 
 Jim. Oh, bother the TenEyck girls ! I shall not leave 
 this iouse until 
 
 Tom. You have proposed to her of the dimple, or merely 
 learned her name? You lunatic, would you marry an inn- 
 keeper? 
 
 Jim. If I wanted to do so, who would hinder me? I'd 
 never marry unwomaidy, money-grasping Emily TenEyck. 
 Would you call Letitia your wife simply to gain a fortune? 
 
 Tom. Never! Forgive my strictures against inn-keepers! 
 
 Jim. And do you care for anyone quite as you might, 
 could, would, or should care for the girl you had beside 
 you one vague sweet evening last summer, as the day went 
 down into its gorgeous grave? 
 
 Tom. No one, O father confessor ! 
 
 Jim. Then 
 
 Tom. Hush! Here they come with luncheon. Keep 
 them near us as long as you can. Quiz them about the Ten- 
 Eyck girls. 
 
 Enter Emily and Leltij, carrying a small table, on which are re- 
 freshments. The men seat themselves at the table. The girls 
 come to the front of the stage. 
 
 Let. Oh, Emily, just feel how my heart is beating. 
 
1)04 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 Emily. It couldn't beat harder than mine if it tried. 
 Ah, that sunset, that 
 
 Let. Golden-brown sunset! 
 
 Emily. I was about to observe, that bright blue sunset. 
 Uncle Toby can scarcely be in collusion here ; surely these 
 gentlemen are not so base 
 
 Let. Where is Uncle Toby ? I am getting frightened. 
 
 Emily. I don't know where he is. I am getting frighten- 
 ed too. If Uncle would only come, and in some way take 
 the responsibility of this predicament. If he is cheating 
 us, I don't know what I shall do to him ; for he will be 
 making us the sport of tlie only men we ever entertained a 
 fond thought of. The idea of being mistaken for inn- 
 keepers! 
 
 LicT. We have burned our ships; we must go on. These 
 gentlemen recognize us, I can see that, but they will never 
 openly recognize us because of our presumed social position. 
 AVhat shall we do? It's all that Tom Ash brook's fault. 
 
 Emily. His and Jimmy Culverin's. 
 
 Let. If they had not written that letter this would never 
 have occurred — Uncle Toby would never have come across 
 these gentlemen, and 
 
 Emily. We should never have had the gratification of 
 seeing them. You seem to take it for granted that Uncle 
 Toby is not playing with us. I am weakening in that 
 doubt myself One thing we must do, Letty ; we shall 
 never meet these gentlemen again ; even if it were possible, 
 the acting of our present roles would preclude such a possi- 
 bility ; they would despise us. Then let us detain them as 
 long as they are content to stay. After that — farewell to 
 love's young dream ! 
 
 Let. "There's nothing half so sweet in life as love's 
 young dream.'' Oh, poor me! 
 
 The men leave the table, where they have been whispering together, 
 and come forward. 
 
 Tom (atrlcwardly to Letty). Ah — ma'am ! 
 
 Let. (agide.) He calls me ma'am! He thinks I'm my 
 own grandmother! 
 
 Jim. The fact is, we are— ah— strangers in this neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 Emily (asirff). Strangers! Never! Oh, me! 
 
dr.vjiatil; suitllmiixt. 20> 
 
 Tom. We are making investigations relative to some 
 AVhite Mountain sunsets — that -is, I should say relative to 
 some ' 
 
 Jim. Dimples. I — I mean we would very much like to 
 know if — if there are measles in this neighborhood. I have 
 never had measles. 
 
 Emily {to Letty). Let us keep these gentlemen as long as 
 we can. (To Jim.) I have never had measles either ; only 
 a measle. 
 
 Tom. I had them in the plural. {To Jim.) "Why don't 
 you help me detain them? 
 
 Let. I had them plurally too. 
 
 Tom. What a striking coincidence. 
 
 Jim {to Tom). A striking-in coincidence, measles are. 
 You'd better look out and not go too far; they're patching 
 — the girls are, so are the measles. 
 
 Let. But we have no measles in our immediate vicinity. 
 My— my relative {pointing to Emily) 
 
 Jim {aside). They are relatives. I love relatives, even 
 relative degrees of society. 
 
 Let. My relative had one measle. It made a 
 
 Jim. Dimple in her cheek. I love a dimple— I mean a 
 measle ; and when it is illuminated by a brilliant sunset 
 
 Let. Brownish-gold 
 
 Emily. Blue 
 
 Tom. And accompanied by bright eyes and a tall, wil- 
 lowy form, a sort of obligato to the measle, as it were 
 
 Let. {drawing near to Tom.) And a goldenish, topaz, 
 hazel lustre jeweling the west 
 
 Emily {drawing near to Jim). AVhere there are two blue 
 sapphires beneath the flame that like a ruby crowns the 
 sunset on — 
 
 All. The White Mountains! 
 
 Confusion, separation— Letty and Emily going to one side, Tom 
 and Jim to the other. 
 
 Tom {to Jim). We have been predpitate. 
 
 Emily {to Let). Wc nearly betrayed ourselves. 
 
 Tom {to Let). Ma'am 
 
 Let. He calls me ma'am. He takes me for my great- 
 grandmother this time. 
 
 Jim. The fact is, we are strangers in this neighborhood. 
 
20G ONE HUNDRED CHOICE s:;LccriO' s No. 1. 
 
 Emily. Strangers! Never! Oh, me! 
 
 Tom. And we would inquire — (aside) we must come to 
 business, Jimmy, — (aloud) we would inquire about — about 
 the people living in this part of the country. 
 
 Let. (timidli/.) Why? (Aside.) Oh, my heart! How to 
 detain him ! 
 
 To-M. Ah — ah — a pair of friends of mine are the victims 
 of a downright swindle. Their aunt's husband has left 
 them a pot of money with a peculiar stipulation. 
 
 Emily (to Leity, faintly). They are acquainted with those 
 audacious wretches! Is it possible they associate with such 
 depravity ! 
 
 Tom. And — so — 
 
 Let. (boldly.) You have come to inquire about the ladies ! 
 
 Tom. "What ladies? 
 
 Let. (in confusion.) Did — did you not mention the ladies? 
 
 Tom. Did I? (To Jim.) They know about the TenEyck 
 girls. 
 
 LEr. Certainly you mentioned the ladies! 
 
 Jim. I distinctly heard him say Letitia and Emily Ten- 
 Eyck, who live somewhere near by. 
 
 Tom. I am so bewildered I don't know what I do say. 
 
 Emily (to .Tim.) You would inquire 
 
 Jim. I would. You have evidently heard about the late 
 Mr. Jeremy's strange will. In it Miss Emily TenEyck was 
 to marry 3Ir. Jimmy Culverin— who, by the way, is a very 
 likely young man, though I do say it who shouldn't. 
 
 Emii.y. You speak with enthusiasm about your friend. 
 Emily TenEyck is not so enraptured over him; she would 
 no more notice Jlr. Culverin than 
 
 Lkt. Letitia TenEyck would notice his horrible accom- 
 plice, Tom Ash brook ! 
 
 The men vhintle. 
 
 Emily (tugging at her apron). For Jimmy Culverin is the 
 most artful of his sex, and as unscrupulous 
 
 Lkt. As Tom Ashbrook! 
 
 The men whistle again. 
 Ekily (rapidly). Any man who would expect a lady.to 
 become his wife under such outrageous conditions as those 
 imposed upon Emily 
 
DKA.MATIC S'JPrLEMENT. 207 
 
 Let. And Letitia 
 
 Emily. Must be the most terrible scamp in the universal 
 
 Let. The moat terrible scamps! 
 
 Emily. Thus, if you know .Jimmy Culverin 
 
 Let. And Tom Ashbrook 
 
 Emily. Say to them that Emily TenEyck 
 
 Let. And her sister Letitia 
 
 Emily. Simply abominate them and would rather beg 
 from door to door, than accept one penny of their Cousin 
 Jeremy's tbrtune under the imposed qualifications! (They 
 fan themselves with their aprons and walk back.) 
 
 Tom. This is enough to make me curse my sponsors in 
 baptism for bestowing upon me the name of Tom Ash- 
 brook. Jimmy, I won't stand it. [To Letty, utrndij.) Ma'am! 
 
 Let. When he said ma'am before, it was like an .lEolian 
 harp my grandmother and great-grandmother might have 
 listened to. Now it sounds like an old bajr-pipe which my 
 most remote ancestress took the headache from. {The girls 
 come front.) 
 
 Tom, Allow me to say that Miss Letitia TenEyck is ex- 
 tremely harsh in her determinations. 
 
 Jim. As is her sister. You apparently do not know the 
 gentlemen upon whom they sit in judgment? 
 
 Both Girls. We do not. 
 
 Jim. If you knew them your opinion of them would not 
 be identical with that of the TenEyck girls. 
 
 Both Girls. It would. 
 
 Jim. Phew! 
 
 Tom. You presumably know the young ladies very well, 
 ma'am? 
 
 Both Girls. We do ! 
 
 Tom {aside). Mercy ! What revolverish vixens they are. 
 [Aloud.) Then, perhaps it is useless for me to say that Miss 
 Letitia is a most preposterous young person for forming an 
 opinion of a gentleman whom she ha? never met 
 
 LrT. And never desires to meet ! 
 
 Jim. If Miss Emily presumes to despise Jimmy Culverin 
 without ever having set eyes on him 
 
 Emily. She would only despise him the more had her 
 eyes ever been contaminated with a glimpse of him ! 
 
 Jim {aside). And this is the same girl who put music in 
 
208 OXE HUXDEED CUOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 "geese!" (Aloud.) And yet I may know a little more tlian 
 you think relative to Miss Emily. What would you say if 
 I were to tell you that she at this very moment expects a 
 visit from Jimmy Culverin? 
 
 Tom. And that Miss Letitia expects Tom Ashbrook at 
 the same time? 
 
 E.Mii.Y {tearing her apron). I should say that it is all 
 their Uncle Toby's fault — that he is the greatest of practical 
 jokers, and that even you tv/o gentlemen 
 
 Let. (with « little scream, and tearing her apron, aside to 
 Emily) Would you tell them who we are? Don't say that 
 they are the victims of a joke. (Aloud.) The TenEyck girls 
 have a hard enough life with their Uncle Toby (crying). 
 
 E.MiLY (crying). Indeed they have! 
 
 Tom. What beautiful sympathy ! 
 
 Ji.M. What is more lovable than sympathy? 
 
 Tom. Nothing, except the sympathizer! 
 
 LfeT. (weeping in her apron.) The poor girls have as hard 
 a life with their u^un — cle 
 
 Emily (weeping in her apron). As we have. (Aside to Let.) 
 How ever will we get out of this scrape Uncle Toby has 
 broughtus into? I like his blue eyes more and more every 
 minute, and every minute it grows more difficult to leave 
 him; and I hate Jimmy Culverin with my whole heart, 
 while I feel that heart going out in little pieces .to Blue 
 Eyes. 
 
 Let. But to think of them knowing about us and the 
 will — they must have come down here as the agents of 
 those frightful men. 
 
 Emily. Oh, oh, oh! 
 
 Jim. Don't cry. 
 
 Emily (spitefully). I will. I like to cry. J always cry. 
 They're my own eyes, aren't they? 
 
 Let. (hysterically.) It is just terrible that poor Letitia Ten- 
 Eyck should be treated so miserably ! 
 
 Tom. She deserves such treatment. 
 
 Let. She don't! She's as nice a girl as need be. 
 
 Tom. She invited Tom Ashbrook down here. 
 
 Let. Oh, she did nothing of the sort! She hates him; 
 she woiild like to— to stick her hair-pins in him. There! 
 
 Tom. She wouldn't! 
 
DHAMATIC SLPPLEMUXT. 209 
 
 Let. Slie would! If I had him here I should — sweep 
 him out with my broom ! 
 
 Emily. As I should Jimmy Culverin ! 
 
 Jim. You shouldn't! 
 
 Emily. I should! I'd poison him with painted mint- 
 sticks — or broom-sticks! For poor Emily TenEyck 
 
 {Breaks dovm, und she and Lelly sob in each oDier's arms.) 
 
 Tom [rams his hands in his pockets). This is getting to be 
 more than a man can stand. I shall certainly have to h61d 
 the tall one ;» I can't help it. 
 
 Jim [luxnds in hiK pockets). The one with the dimple will 
 surely fall unless she has the support of a manly arm. I 
 don't know-how I shall ever have the courage to go away. 
 One thing I am determined on — I shall never meet Emily 
 TenEyck ; already 1 despise her. 
 
 Tojr. As I do Letitia. And one other thing I shall never 
 do— I shall never forget nor forgive the White Mountains. 
 Jhnmy, I am in love! 
 
 Jim. And I! And I'm going to get out of it. Where \i 
 the money to come from with which to support a wife? A 
 ))Oor young man who has been a lawyer for exactly six 
 months is not a Midas. And I'd like to come across that 
 old man who directed us to this inn. 
 
 To.M. Yes, it is all his fault. And yel but for him we 
 should not have seen these dear ones. All the same, we 
 must get away from this. A medical student who has not 
 earned his sheep-skin, and who has nn bank account, has 
 no right to fall in love. Come, wo must make a rush for it, 
 and try to forget that the saddest words of lip or pen are, 
 " It might have been." Let us pay the reckoning. I'll shut 
 my eyes so as not to see the tall girl, and I'll yell for my 
 bill, and be unhappy all the rest of my life. 
 
 Jim. And I'll stuff my handkerchief in my mouth — my 
 heart's already there — and I'll settle with her of the dimple 
 for my luncheon, and go out into the world a blighted man. 
 
 They feel for their pockri-bn ■k.'<, and, missing them, simidtamntisly 
 cry out. Emily and Lelly hearing them, drop llieir aprons 
 from iheir eyes and start forward. 
 
 Tom. Ma'am ! 
 
 Lkt. (aside.) In that tone of voice T hear my grcat-grand- 
 mother's aunt playing upon the base-drum. 
 
210 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 1. 
 
 Tom. I— I— is there no one else in this inn — no man? I 
 have something to say to him. 
 
 Let. Say it to nie ; oh, say it to me ! 
 
 Jim. 1, too, have something to say to him. 
 
 Emily. .Say it to me! 
 
 Tom. Where is the proprietor? You surely are not the 
 proprietors? 
 
 Let. We are but maids. 
 
 Jim. As we are but men. Let us see the proprietor; Ma- 
 homet must come to the 
 
 All. White Mountains ! 
 
 The girls run off in confusion. 
 
 Tom. I liavc been robbed. 
 
 Jim. So havL' 1. 
 
 Tom. I could not explain it to the tall gir!. 
 
 Jim. Nor I to the dimpled one. 
 
 To.m. Can we explain to the proprietor after we have par- 
 taken of his fare? Will he not take us both for tramps.' 
 Kspocially as the girls may say that we have almost flirted 
 with them. Nay, we have been inquisitive about the Ten- 
 Kyck girls— we may be considered dangerous individuals. 
 What shall we do? Is there not sufficient unhappiness for 
 us but that this must come? Halloa! 
 
 Viich' Toby is pushed in at the back by the girls, vho close the door 
 on him; he is sharj>ening a carving-knife and does not notice 
 the men. 
 
 Tom. This is the old fellow who directed us here. 
 
 Jim. And how fierce lie looks. 
 
 Uncle T. Tlie man who never made a joke will never 
 appreciate the misery of being a funny man! Has not 
 enough happened to me without my dinner being delayed? 
 I'll have something to carve, if it is only the unknown men 
 who were foolish enough to take my advice and come here. 
 The girls say those men want to sec me; what can tliey 
 want of me? They may have sent for me to upbraid me 
 about my silly joke of sending them here. Let them be- 
 ware! I am not in a condition to be sported with.- I have 
 made a pet fool of myself once this day, and it shall not bo 
 said that I allowed two strangers to hoist me into prom- 
 inence as their pet fool also. [Notices men.) What do you 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 211 
 
 want of me? {He raves up and doiim the room, and ihrous the 
 brooms out at the door. Tom and Jim pretend not to see him.) 
 
 Tom. An ugly customer. How will he take it when we 
 tell him we have no money to pay our bill? 
 
 Jim. He will never believe that we have been robbed. 
 It would be a pretty bold pick-pocket who would venture 
 near his person. 
 
 Tom. I don't like the looks of that knife. Come ! I liave 
 it! I have said that there is a possibility of our beinjj; mis- 
 taken for dangerous individuals. To save our skins we 
 must be desperadoes. Get the old gentleman off his high 
 horse, cow him, make him lamb-like ; then take a bold leap 
 for liberty, and to-morrow we can send him what we owe 
 him. No philosophic explanation will ever get us past that 
 knife. Don't notice him, and follow my line of action. Now 
 for it. (Aloud.) Jimmy, did you hurt the old chap much? 
 
 Jim. Not more than could be helped ; tlie — the slip-knot 
 was tight and he couldn't wriggle. 
 
 ViiCi.E*!!. {listening.) Eh? 
 
 To.M. I had a hard time with the bank president last 
 week ; I put six bullets in him before he'd consent to be 
 quiet. 
 
 Jim. And I wasted a pound of good powder before the 
 fire-proof would open. 
 
 U.NCLE T. {dropping the carving-knife.) Merciful Powers! 
 they are assassins ! and I have been trying to impress them 
 so that they would not hold me accountable for sending 
 them here! 
 
 Tom {to Jim). Get as near the door as you can. (Aloud.) 
 And now my hand is in, I hope to settle with the Colonel. 
 
 Jim. And I'll take care of the Captain. (Aside.) Nearer 
 the dgor; nearer, nearer; and then make a rush for it. 
 
 They approach the door, toward which Uncle Toby backs in fear. 
 
 ToM (to Jim). Make a spring over him when you get 
 close— he is more dangerous than I supposed lie'd be. 
 (Aloud.) And when I took the old lady and delicately 
 strangled her between the head and tlie shoulders, how she 
 did scratch, to be sure. 
 
 Jim (to Tom). Kick the carving-knife out of his reach. 
 
212 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SKLFCTIONS No. 1. 
 
 (Aloud.) I've been thinking of smothering a baby or two in 
 an elegant, gentlemanly fashion. Have you ever done it? 
 
 Tom. Innumerable times. 
 They approach nearer and nearer to the door, Uncle Toby retreat- 
 ing toward it. They dose on him and are about to pass by 
 
 him, when lie suddenly throws them forward, falls upon his 
 
 knees, taking from his pockets the two wallets which he offers to 
 
 the men. 
 
 Unci.e T. Mercy, mercy, gentlemen, mercy! You are 
 great villains, and I am a great villain also. They say there 
 is honor among thieves; prove it -I offer you these well- 
 furnished poclvet-b loks. Only don't murder me ! Take my 
 ill-gotten gains; only don't murder me! 1 am not a profcs;- 
 sional thief, it is true, only an amateur pick-pocket, but I 
 dare say I could improve and become a professional if 1 
 gave my wliole mind to it. This morning, by way of a 
 practical joke I abstracted these wallets from the pockets of 
 two gentlemen, and 
 
 To.M AND Jim. My pocket-book! 
 
 Tom. a practical joke, do you call it ! Are we in a bur- 
 glar's den? 
 
 Jim {catching hold of Uncle Toby). You old rascal, it was 
 you who relieved us of our money, was it? — and sent us to 
 your inn, perhaps to murder us ! 
 
 Uncle Toby crouches upon the floor. 
 
 Tom {to Jim). I don't believe he's very harmful after all; 
 I think he's a little daft. 
 
 Uncle T. Mercy, mercy, gentlemen! I'll never do so 
 again. You are superior scoundrels and ought to know how 
 awkward a first attempt is. Oh, the misery of being a funny 
 man! 
 
 Tom. Superior scoundrels! Calling names, are you? 
 Have you, too, heard of that ridiculous will that you should 
 accuse us of being scoundrels? 
 
 Uncle T. I heard your confidential talk just now. 
 
 Jim. Our confidential talk? 
 
 U.scLE T. Yc >u confessed to having committed that which 
 an unfinished state of society insists upon stigmatizing as 
 Tom and Jim laugh. 
 
 Tom. Our joke redounds to our credit, Jimmy. 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 213 
 
 TJnci.e T. (angrily, and rising liastUg to his fo't.) A joke ! 
 Do you dare to joke? — and with- me? A part of the joke is 
 to take what docs not belong to you, is it? Give me those 
 wallets! 
 
 Tom. This one is mine ! 
 
 Jim. And this is min_g I 
 
 Uncle T. You are thieves, murderers! Those wallets do 
 not belong to you! [Fights.) Help! help! 
 
 . Eriier Lelty and Emily ii-itii their brooms. 
 
 Emii.y {running to Jim and defending him). You shall not 
 hurt him, you wicked old man ! 
 
 Let. (defending Tom.) Let him alone, you terrible old 
 Uncle, Have you not sufficiently disgraced us without this? 
 
 They keep him off uith the brooms. 
 
 Uncle T. I tell you they are thieves and murderers. 
 Even though they deny the latter, they arc the former; 
 they have in their possession two wallets which do not be- 
 long to them, and which I shall return to their rightful 
 owners ; for in those books I have found the names and ad- 
 dresses of the persons to whom they belang. 
 
 Tom (to Jim). We dare not own who we are. Remember 
 all that we have said and heard said about Tom Ashbrook 
 and Jimmy Culverin — and, oh, remember the sunset on the 
 White Mountains. 
 
 Uncle T. Give me the wallets! give me the wallets! 
 
 Emily and Lelty keep him at bay. 
 
 Emily. Behave yourself, Uncle Toby! 
 
 Tom and Jim. Uncle Toby ! 
 
 Unci.e T. Let me at him, Letty ; let me at him, Emily! 
 
 Tom. Letty I 
 
 Jim. Emily ! 
 
 Uncle T. I tell you that those wallets belong to Tom 
 Ashbrook and Jimmy C\ilverin. I thought I had made a 
 mistake and taken them from as entire strangers as those 
 two men are; but I found their cards inside the wallets, 
 and — ~ 
 
 Tom. This is my wallet ; I am Tom Ashbrook. I am 
 sorry to say so, but I am. 
 
214 OXE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIOXS No. 1. 
 
 Jim. This is my wallet; I am Jimmy Culvcrin, if you 
 will excuse the liberty. 
 
 Emily drops her broom, and becomts limp. Letty drops her 
 broom, and becomes limp. 
 
 To.M. She loves mo and thinks I am intended for Letitia 
 TenEyck. ( To Letty.) Don't, don't give up. I own to caring 
 deeply for you — have cared for you ever since I saw you in 
 that sunset on the White Mountains. I shall never care for 
 Letitia TenEyck, only for you, my White Mountain maid, 
 and Uncle Jeremy's fortune shall never be mine. 
 
 Jim {to Emily). Nor shall that other Emily, that Emily 
 TenEyck, tear me from you ; Uncle Jeremy's fortune may 
 go to the dogs. 
 
 Uncle T. Uncle Jeremy! What! — what do I hear! Ho! 
 ho (laughing) ! of all my practical jokes, this is the very 
 best. Oh, the happiness of being a funny man ! Ho! ho! 
 So you are Tom Ashbrook? 
 
 Tom. I am. 
 
 Uncle T. And you are Jimmy Culverin? 
 
 Jim. I am. 
 
 Uncle T. Somebody hold me, or do something with me, 
 for I shall die of the joke of it all. Girls, sweep me out as 
 they do in Egypt — do anything you please with me. Ho! 
 ho! And Tom Ashbrook and Jimmy Culverin came to this 
 house and thought it was an inn! This is the greatest 
 family for jokes that ever existed on the crust of the habit- 
 able globe, — and Jeremy has made the best joke of us all. 
 For that (pointing to Emily) is a young woman who has been 
 sighing ever since she returned from the White Jlountains, 
 — ^Nliss Emily TenEyck, the gift of her Cousin Jeremy to 
 Jimmv Culverin. And that (pointing to Letty) is her sister, 
 another sighing young woman, Miss Letitia TenEyck, the 
 gift of her Cousin Jeremy to Tom Ashbrook. And— oh, ho! 
 ho! ho! — that such — ho! ho! — good results— ho! ho! — 
 should come from — ho ! ho ! — practical jokes ! Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
 
 He holds his sides; Letty and Emily smeep him vith their brooms, 
 the men shake his hands, and all laughing as curtain falls. 
 
DRAMATIC SUrrLI MEXT. 215 
 
 ART AND AETiriCE. 
 A Play for Portraits, Postures, and Pictures. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Angelo Easel, a portrait painter. 
 
 Mr. Pliable, his father, and a man of wealth. 
 
 SCENE — A Painter's studio. A table, containing brushes, pal- 
 ette, sketchy of faces, figures, etc. In the centre are curtains to 
 part, and discover a large picture frame, etc. An old sofa, or 
 settee, with a mattress on it. Enter Angelo, disguised as a 
 Yankee, followed by Mr. Pliable. 
 
 Pliable. So, this is my erratic son's studio. 
 
 Anoelo. Yes, sir; this is, or was, our studio, bed- 
 chamber, bath-house, picture-gallery, jiarlor, kitchen, li- 
 brary, dining-room, and drawing-room. 
 
 Pli. And you were in his employ, eh ? 
 
 Ang. Yes, sir-ee ; and a universal humanater crittur I 
 was, too ; I fetched colors, ground paints, peddled picturs, 
 fed his kitten, made his bed (pointing to settee), slept in it 
 when he didn't, went to market when there was any 
 money, went without when there wasn't, cooked his 
 victuals when there was anything to cook, and helped him 
 to fast when there wasn't. 
 
 Pli. And do you mean to say that my son's mouth 
 lacked a meal? 
 
 Ang. Yes, and it made him look quite mealy-mouthed, 
 too, you may well cal'ate. 
 
 Pli. Well, where do you suppose he has gone to ? 
 
 And. Gone to Europe, I reckon, where he can get a 
 leetle more to do, an' a good deal more for doin' it, an' 
 where he hopes to find more patrons an' more of a pappy. 
 
 Pli. More of a what, sir? — Zounds! what d'ye mean? 
 Haven't I given him hundreds upon hundreds of dollars to 
 enable him to pursue his favorite study, and become an 
 Angelo the Second ; and after all what has he done? I 
 don't see a solitary painting! No, not enough of colored 
 canvas to stop up the pipe-hole over my mantel-piece. 
 
 Ang. Very true, sif. Jist you stay here an' loolv when I 
 draw an' close up yonder Utile pieces o' calico {pointing to 
 
216 OHE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS i>0. 1. 
 
 curlain) an' I cal'ate I'll make you open your eyes. I'll 
 show you what he's painted. (Aside.) And I hope your 
 pockets too. {Exit behind curtains.) 
 Pli. I shall be happy to hear of it, and happier to see it. 
 
 Here the. curtain parts and discovers Angela, who has changed his 
 appearance entirely, standing in the large picture frame. The 
 old gentleman starts in astonishment — takes out Ids glasses, rubs 
 them ivilh his pocket Imndkerchief, and gazes in admiration. 
 
 Pli. Why, bless me — why that's really as natural as life, 
 and 
 
 The curtain closes. Here a succession of pictures are in like man- 
 ■ ner repres nted h>/ Angela, irith the asxisliince of such ladies, 
 gentlemen, and children as may be in readiness for the occasion. 
 The subjects or characters being according to the taste and re- 
 sources of llie company, — either historical, comical, or fanciful, 
 etc. The intervals of jiosing the curtain being jilled up by Mr. 
 Pliable in remarks, critical or commendatory. The last picture 
 is that of Angelo, standing in the frame in his own proper cos- 
 tume of an artist, with a brush and palette, in the attitude of a 
 painter. 
 
 Pli. Eh? what! why — bless my soul! — if the dear boy 
 hasn't painted his own portrait to the life. What genius! 
 — what industry! — what triumph of art! If the original 
 were only as near to me now, I'd give — I'd give the half of 
 my fortune! 
 
 Ang. {springing out of frame.) And I'll take it, father, on 
 the instant. 
 
 Vli. {xldrt-i, trembling.) A miracle! Wliat! a living picture! 
 Here, here, Joshua, where the mischief's that Yankee man? 
 
 Ang. (in. tlie Yankee dialect.) Cal'ate I'm abeout, squire! 
 
 Pli. Eh? the mischief— what, have I been duped— eh? 
 sold. No matter— I'm so glad that you're really here — I'll 
 keep my promise. 
 
 Ang. And I'll redeem mine by proving myself a real 
 artist, if our friends will forgive my artifice to-night. 
 
 \_Ourtain falls. 
 
DEAMATIO SUPPLEMENT 
 
 One Hundred Choice Selections, No. 2. 
 
 This Supplement will be forwarded to any address, post-paid, on receipt of 
 Ten Cents (or three copjes for Twenty- Five Cents), by addressing 
 P. Garrett & Co., Publishers, 708 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 - Daughters of Ambrose. 
 
 THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN. 
 
 Adapted from the German, by Miss M. G. Townsend. 
 
 characteiis. 
 
 Eknest Hellwald, heir tu tint liiti.>^ouutcs3 of FiUkonbrun. 
 
 Jeremiah Amuruse, stuward of the lute Couuteas. 
 
 Ernestine, 
 
 Rosa, 
 
 Elise, 
 
 Oaurielle, 
 
 Amelia, 
 
 Dora, 
 
 Adelaide, 
 
 Madame Moorpiltz, 
 
 Madamk Kunkel, j- Formerly friends of the CounteBS. 
 
 Madame Mousetooth, 
 
 Peasants. 
 
 The first scene is a room in a hotel; afterwards, it is in thevidnity 
 of Castle Falkenbrun^ or a room in tJie Castle itself. 
 
 COSTUMES. 
 
 Ernest — Knee-breeches, short ront, cape; — as a German student. 
 Ambrose — Dresnng-goym, skuU-ran, slippers, spectacles. 
 Ambrose's Daughters — Velret bodices, bright skirts, braided hair, 
 
 light-colored waists, slippers. 
 Madame Moorpii.tz — Riding-habit, with large hat, whip, gloves. 
 Madame Kunkel — Rich silk dress, shawl, bonnet. 
 Madame Mousetooth — LigM silk dress, much trimmed with 
 
 lace, ribbon, etc., bonnet very gay, with many bows and feathers, 
 """""**" Copyright, 1886, by P. Garrett & Co. 
 
194 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene l.—Enust alone, silling at table covered ivith documents, 
 writing materials, etc. 
 
 Ernest. Alas! I am the unhappiest of men! The sole 
 heir of my dear great-aunt Falkenbrun, who leaves me all 
 her wealth, —there is certainly no cause for unhappiness in 
 that fact,— but why need she put in that one frightful clause 
 which spoils it all? Here is my copy of the will; let me 
 read over again the detaila of my good fortune — no, misfor- 
 tune, I mean. (Reads.) " Half a million dollars clear, and 
 two estates on the Elbe, near Dresden.'for an eternal posses- 
 sion, to my nephew, Ernest Hellwald — " good old great- 
 aunt ! She loved me after all, though I so often broke her 
 windows and slammed her doors when I was a boy, and 
 only went to see her at Christmas, when she gave me cakes 
 and money. But where is that fatal paragraph? Ah, he^e ; 
 "Paragraph Seven: But my great-nephew shall forfeit the 
 whole unless he marry one of the seven daughters of my old 
 friend Ambrose, the one ^e chooses for his wife to be — " 
 this is too much! — "the ugliest!" But here is Paragraph 
 Eight : " In order that there may be no misunderstandings, 
 I name the noble ladies, Madame JNIoorpiltz, Madame Mouse- 
 tooth, and Madame Kunkel, as a committee to decide which 
 is the ugliest of my friend's seven daughters." Three old 
 women ! It makes m^ tliink of Paris and the apple ; but 
 no, Paris never had to choose from seven, nor did three old 
 witches make him take the ugliest! {Rises and paces the 
 floor.) It is not the want of beauty that appals me,^slie 
 might not be so bad after all but that a gilding of half a 
 million would make her tolerable, — but then my heart is no 
 longer my own ; I have no longer any love to give. It is all 
 in the keeping of that dark-eyed beauty whom I met at 
 Naples, on the last day of the Carnival. Oh, to give her up, 
 and marry the ugliest of seven, — and all, doubtless, frights ! 
 Never! Let me go on reading this hated will ! "Paragraph 
 Nine : In case my nephew does not comply with these con- 
 ditions, the estate shall go to found a hospital for idiots, of 
 which, however, he shall always be a welcome inmate, free 
 of expense, and shall receive from the hospital fund an al- 
 lowance of thirty-seven and a half cents per month." Was 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 195 
 
 ever kindness mixed with cruelty with such diabolical cun- 
 ning? I will try it, however, — try to swallow this gilded 
 pill, and if it be too much for me, then I may think once 
 more of my first love in Naples, whom I have seen but 
 once, for one short moment at a window as I passed be- 
 low in the crowd of masqueraders in the Carnival, but 
 whose lovely image can never be erased from my heart by 
 the combined ugliness of all the hated seven ! 
 
 Scene II. — Road-side; Ernest Hellwald lying on the ground viith 
 a wound in his fwehead ; beside him kiuels Ernestine ; peasants 
 stand around. 
 
 Ernestine. His heart beats feebly, — he is not dead, but 
 dreadfully hurt. Tell me, how did it happen ? 
 
 Peasant. My lady, I cannot tell you, but as I came from 
 the vineyard, we found him lying here, and this empty 
 purse near by. No doubt he has been set upon by thieves, 
 and left for dead. 
 
 Ernestine. See, his forehead is bleeding still ! 
 
 Peasant. It would be strange if it didn't bleed, with that 
 great hole in it. If you will watch here with him, I'll be 
 ofl' to fetch a surgeon from the village ; and you, children, 
 go to Master Ambrose's and tell him we will bring a wound- 
 ed man there in half an hour, and to be ready for him. 
 Will that do, miss? Your father's is the nearest place, and 
 I dare not 
 
 Ernestine. Yes, yes, good Fritz, — but don't be so long! 
 He may die while you are talking here. Make haste! (K.ril 
 Fritz and other peasants.) Poor fellow! He looks like a travel- 
 ing student, yet his face is strangely familiar. Ha! he 
 moves! He is opening his eyes! What a wonderful re- 
 semblance ! 
 
 TjtiSYST (rising on his elbow and looking ai ownd). Wheream I? 
 
 Ernestine. Are you better ? 
 
 Ernest (looking at her fixedly and then falling back). It is she ! 
 
 Ernestine. Don't speak, — you are hurt ; you have been 
 attacked by thieves, and wounded, and now I have sent for 
 help to carry you to my father's house. 
 
 Ernest. Thank Heaven for a most fortunate accident. I 
 thank my seven stars, — .seven— (jriW/i/) oh, wretched num- 
 ber ! I see them now, —all seven of them ! 
 
106 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 EKNraTiNE (aside). Seven stars in broad daylight! Poor 
 fellow! it has affected his reason. [Aloud.) Here, let me 
 bind this handkerchief around your forehead, — there, that 
 will make it better. 
 
 Ehnest. Oh, thanks! A little tighter — no, a little looser 
 — still more loose. There, I think I can rise now ; let me 
 try to stand. (Takes her hand and rises.) Tliere, now, — with 
 your aid, I think I can go on to Castle Falkenbrun, — oh, 
 wretched place ! 
 
 Ernestine. Is there anything so horrible in the name of 
 Falkenbrun, that you should speak so wildly ? 
 
 Ernest. Oh, the seven ! the seven ! 
 
 Ernestine (aside). A strange man! What if he were 
 crazy? But no, that is impossible,— he is too charming! 
 
 Ernest. First, kindest of maidens, I must ask your name. 
 
 Ernestink. It is Ernestine. 
 
 Ernest. And mine is Ernest, — it can't be possible ! Fate 
 has surely meant us for each other. Since I saw you in 
 Naples, I have never ceased to think of you. 
 
 Ernestine (aside). I have certainly lately come from Na- 
 ples, but surely I never saw him there. His poor head! 
 (Aloud.) Come, sir, and let us hasten to the castle. 
 
 Ernest. What castle ? 
 
 Ernestine. Why, Falkenbrun, of course,— that is where 
 I live ! Come, it grows late. 
 
 Ernest. But is the castle yours? 
 
 Ernestine. Oh, no,— it belongs to a young man named 
 
 Hellwald, who is wandering ab(jut the world now, a lazy 
 
 good-for-nothing sort of fellow, I fear, to let such a fine old 
 place go to ruin for want of care. It was left to him by his 
 old grand-aunt, and we are hoping that he will soon come 
 back and bring a wife and make the old place bright and 
 merry again. 
 
 Ernest. Tell me, sweet Ernestine, has the keeper of this 
 castle any daughters? 
 
 Ernestink. Yes indeed, — seven ! 
 
 Ernest. Seven girls! But probably— perhaps some of 
 them are pretty, and some are not. Is it not so ? 
 
 Ernestine {laughing; aside). How he interests himself in 
 the young ladies. (Aloud.) Yes, six of them arc ri<rht 
 pretty, but the seventh ° 
 
DUAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 197 
 
 lEiisEST {anxiously). The seventh? 
 
 Eknesti.ne. She is truly frightful 1 
 
 Ernest. Is she cross-eyed ? 
 
 Ernestine (fatij'^mjr). Why not? 
 
 Ernest. Oh, do go on, nice, sweet, pretty little Ernestine ! 
 
 Ernestine. Well, if you must know, 7 am the old gentle- 
 man's seventh daughter ! 
 
 Ernest, ybu the seventh? (Despairingly.) You the seventh f 
 ( With a glearri of hope.) And are you truly the ugliest ? 
 
 Ernestink. Modesty is becoming to a young maiden' 
 
 Ernest {beside himself). I have it! She is the loveliest! 
 Oh, I am the most wretched man on earth ! 
 
 Ebnestixe {aside). His head seems to be getting light 
 again. (Aloud.) Come, you must let me bring you home 
 with me. 
 
 ErnI'-St. To your sisters ? 
 
 EiiNESTiNE. Yes, you shall yourself judge if I have 
 spoken the truth. I'll tie the handkerchief over your eyes, 
 and then you shall see us on parade before you, when I cry 
 "One, two, three," and you tear the bandage off. 
 
 Ernest. And be blinded by the dazzle of so much beauty ? 
 
 E BN estine. That would be a pity, for such handsome eyes ! 
 
 Ernest (eagerly). Have I handsome eyes? 
 
 Ernestine. Vain creature! come! IShe leads him away. 
 
 Scene III. — Ambrose alone in his library, in dressing-gown and 
 dippers. Enter Rosa. 
 
 Rosa. Father, the poor man has come again to see about 
 the gardener's place. He is out of work, and has eleven 
 children, and his wife is dead, and 
 
 Ambrose. Rosa, it is no use! When he came yester- 
 day I told him I could not employ a man with red hair. 
 When Nature has set such a mark of distrust upon a man, 
 what are we, to run against her warning? 
 
 Of red hair 
 Let all beware ! 
 
 lie would bring misfortune into the house ! I am sorry, 
 but I caanot think of it. Why did I send away the other 
 gardener ? 
 
 Rosa. Because he had a cast in Lis eye. 
 
 Ambrosk. Very true ! You know my principle, now gd 
 
193 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 Rosa. But, father, he might wear a black wig, and color 
 his eyebrows. 
 
 Ambrose. Ah ! that's quite another thing,— I'll take liim if 
 he wears a wig, but it must be very black. Tell him to come 
 to-iuorrow, — no, tliat will be Friday. 
 
 Who on Friday bargains makeB, 
 
 All liiB former luck forsakes. * 
 
 Tell him to come on Saturday. Where is my snuflf-box 7 
 Don't disturb it. (Takes iifrom Rosa.) 
 
 Wlio the prize for health will' take, 
 * Three times will his snuff-box shake. 
 
 (Stuikes it three times, takes muff and sneezes violenVy.) 
 
 All THE Girls (j-usMnji ill). Father! father! 
 
 Ambkose. Not all at once I Only six, however. {Counts.) 
 Yes, an even number, — much better luck. 
 
 Elise. Father, Ernestine is coming with a strange man! 
 
 Ambrose. I knew it ! Did I not prophesy it at breakfast 
 time ? A knife fell down and struck my foot. Where is the 
 stranger? Who is he? 
 
 Gabuiellk. He is blind ! 
 
 Adelaide. At least he has a bandage over his eyes. 
 
 Ernestine enters, leading Ernest. 
 
 Ernestine. Father, here is a gentleman who has met 
 with thieves on the river-bank, and has been robbed and 
 wounded. 1 have brought him home with me, to see what 
 can be done to help him. {Lifts the bandage from his eyes.) 
 
 Ernest {starting hack). Ah ! 
 
 Ambrosk {taking Ins hand cordially). I knew it ! What did 
 I say at dinner? A black cat jumped out at me when I 
 opened my study-door "this morning, — a sure sign of mis- 
 
 lortune. ^ black cat in the morning 
 
 Of an accident gives warning. 
 
 You are heartily welcome, sir. These are my daughters, — 
 you know Ernestine ; Rosa, Elise, Gabrielle, Amelia, Dora, 
 Adelaide. {Each bows as she is named.) 
 
 Ernkst {staring at them, beii-iUhrcd). A real galaxy of beauty ! 
 Excuse me for so rudely penetrating info your family circle ; 
 circumstances compel this informal call. {Aside.) But 
 Ernestine is the loveliest ! 
 
 Ernestine {to Ernest). Now, sir, was 1 not right? Am I 
 not the udicst? 
 
DRAMATIC 5L'PPLEMEN-T. VJ9 
 
 Ehnest. Ah, would that you were ! 
 
 Ernestine {(inxiously). How is j our head feeling now ? 
 
 Ambrose. I know a remarkable balsam, which will cure 
 your wound immediately, but you must apply it before nine 
 o'clock, or it loses its healing power. Will yOu not join us 
 at our evening meal ? Come, children, one plate more. 
 
 Ali, the Girls. Yes, dear father ! ( They all rush out, and 
 return bringing a plate, knife, fork, etc.) 
 
 Ernest. 'Vk^hat a lovely family! So handsome! So 
 obedient ! 
 
 Ambkose. Yes, if only there were not seven of them. It 
 is an unlucky number. 
 
 Ernest. Ah, how well I know that ! 
 
 Ambrose {eagerly). Do you believe, then, in evil combina- 
 tions of numbers ? 
 
 Ernest. Most fully ! 
 
 Ambrose. You are a man after my own heart ! And^what 
 do you think about mesmerism ? 
 
 Ernest. 1 — I 
 
 Ambrose {excitedly). Exactly as I do ! Yes, my soul 
 
 Ai.L the Girls {■U)f<o have been arranging the table, interruptr 
 ing him). Father, everything is ready ! 
 
 Ambrosk. Take your places, my children. Ernestine, lead 
 your friend to a seat. 
 
 Rosa {to Adelaide). A right nice-looking fellow. 
 
 Adelaide. Yes indeed. 
 
 Elisb. Very polite to Tina. 
 
 Gabriellr. He hardly looked at me. 
 
 Amelia. There are too many of us. 
 
 Dora. Perhaps he is already engaged. 
 
 Ambr. Now sit down,— are you all here? One, two, 
 three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,— yes. Potatoes, 
 meat, rolls, fresh butter, fruit,- a frugal meal, but you are 
 welcome. 
 
 Eenkst. a true feast of the gods! In mythology we 
 
 All THE GiRi.s. Have a potato? 
 
 Ernest. You are too kind, — a little water and a roll are 
 all I wish. {Ernestine rises and pours water.) I have often 
 heard of the hospitality of Castle Falkenbrun, and now I 
 know its reputation is well founded. I traveled for several 
 months with the heir, a year or two ago. 
 
200 OKE IlUNDItED CIIOIJE SELECTIONS ITo. 2. 
 
 Amelia. Oh, how charming ! Do tell us about himt 
 
 KosA. Yes,— what is he like ? 
 
 Elise. Good-looking 7 
 
 Adelaide. Tall ? 
 
 Amelia. Short? 
 
 Dora. Dark? 
 
 Gabeiei.le. Or fair, perhaps? 
 
 Adelaide. Is he pleasant ? 
 
 Amelia. Good natured ? 
 
 Dora. Musical ? 
 
 Gabrielle. Benevolent? 
 
 Ernest. No, he is little, has a large nose, his eyes are a 
 pale green, he hates sentiment, is very lazy, and does not 
 care much for the ladies. 
 
 All the Giri s. Oh, what a horrid man ! 
 
 Ernest. And now, ladies, my head is feeling so badly, I 
 shall have to ask you to excuse me. 
 
 Ahbr. Ernestine, give your friend a candle. Your room, 
 sir, is the first one at the head of the stairs. Forgive me for 
 not escorting you, but my rheumatism forbids much walking. 
 
 The girls rise and stand in a semi-circle, Ambrose in the midst. 
 Ernestine gives Ernest a lighted candle. 
 
 Er\-est. Good-night, ladies ! 
 
 All {one after another). Good-night ! 
 
 Ernest goes out, leaving door open. All the girls except Emeitine 
 go out at another door ; she and her father remaining behind. 
 Ernest reappears at door. 
 
 Ernest. My candle was blown out by the wind. 
 
 Ernestine relights it, and as Ernest takes it, he kisses her hand. Am- 
 brose, in the nuantime, has gone to sleep in his chair. Tableau. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A garden; Ernest alone. 
 
 Ernfst. I could not sleep any longer, but am not sure yet 
 whether I am awake or dreaming. What an angel Ernestine 
 is ! What a good old father ! What charming girls her sis- 
 ters are ' As far as I can see, all the landscape is mine, but 
 I forfeit it all at a word ! The idiot asylum, thirty-seven 
 
dramatic; supplement. 201 
 
 and a half cents a month, or give up all hopes of Ernestine. 
 Ah, here she comes,— I dare not see her now. 1 will hide 
 behind these bushes. {Hides.) 
 
 Ernestine enters, carrying a watering-pot. 
 
 Ernestine. My poor flowers are all drooping. I must 
 «prinkle them before the sun is too hot. Ah ! (Sees Ernest's 
 hat.) He is hiding here to give me a surprise ! Now wait ! 
 (Shakes the wfttering-pot in his direction.) Caught in the act! 
 You are my prisoner ! 
 
 EiiNBST {springing out). It is my first fault,— be merciful! 
 But I would willingly be your prisoner all my life long ! 
 
 Ernestine. Oh, that's too long. Will you promise to do 
 better? 
 Ernest. I promise ! But, Ernestine, give up joking. Can 
 
 you not see how my heart is glowing 
 
 Ernestine (sprinkling him). Oh, then I must cool you oflT! 
 How have you slept ? How is your head this morning? 
 
 Ernest. Better, but let my stupid head go, it is my 
 heart that is wrong. Ernestine, what do you think of your 
 sister Dora? 
 
 Eii.NESTiNE (as/o?ii«/iecf). Of Dora? 
 
 Etinest. Yes, and of Rosa, and all the rest of them? 
 They are all pretty girls, are they riot ? 
 Ernestine. They are to me. 
 
 Ernkst. All prettier than you ? You are the ugliest of 
 all ? Could you give me that declaration in writing, with 
 your seal attached ? 
 Ernestine (asirfe). Poor fellow! Papa must have that 
 
 balsam ready by this time, and I'll 
 
 Ernest. Happy father of seven ! seven ! seven ! 
 Ernestine. Yes, Rosa, Elise, Gabrielle, Amelia, Dora, 
 Adelaide, and Ernestine. But if the number seven is so dis- 
 agreeable to you, we expect three more ladies to-day, — 
 Madame Moorpiltz, Madame Mousetooth, and Madame 
 Kunkel. I must go now to make ready for them. 
 
 Ernest. So soon? My judgment day is coming! But 
 before you go, answer me one question, — the peace and 
 happiness of my whole life depends upon your answer, 
 Ernestine. Do you not know that my heart is yours, that 
 
 I love you devotedly? 
 
 2i* 
 
202 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIOIJS No. 2. 
 
 Ernestine {casting down her eyes). You 
 
 ICrnest. Do not be hasty. 1 love you. From the moment 
 I saw you standing in the balcony at Naples, I adored you, 
 anil when I opened my eyes yesterday, after being wounded, 
 you were like a saving angel bending over me. Now tell 
 me, — can you not love me a little ? 
 
 Ernestine {turning her head). I like you right well already. 
 
 Ernest. Oh, this is even more than 1 dared to hope ! 
 May I not speak to your father this very day ? 
 
 Ernestine. I shall not prevent. 
 
 Ernest. And will you give me your lovely hand? 
 
 'ERtn^STinn {holding out her hand). Do you mean — so? 
 
 Ernest. Ernestine, you make me the happiest of men I 
 (Embraces her.) 
 
 Scene II. — Room in Ambrose's house. Mosa alone. 
 
 Rosa. What can all this mean, — this everlasting talk 
 about the ugliest ? One can't help overhearing a little, when 
 people will talk so loud. It's plain that this stranger has 
 the bad taste to prefer ugliness to beauty. I think I'll have 
 a little fun myself. With blackened eyebrows, and a scar 
 on my cheek,— a red paint scar, — I may be able to make 
 myself hideous enough to please even him. Who knows 
 but 1 may rival Tina herself, if I'm very, very ugly ; I'll try 
 it, at all events. [^Exitl 
 
 Enter Madame Kunkel and Elise. 
 
 Mmk. Kunkel. The first thing that I request, young wo- 
 man, is that you treat my precious Molly with the most 
 delicate consideration. 
 
 Elise. Your Molly ? Is she your daughter ? 
 
 Mme. Kunkel. No, Molly is my cat, my dear, true pussy. 
 Any injury done to her is done to me. 
 
 Elise. Very well, Madame; she shall have her own 
 room, if you desire it. 
 
 Mme. Kunkel. With a sofa in it ;— she is accustomed to 
 a sofa ; and three times daily she is brought to me. And 
 here is my precious Polly, who seldom leaves my side. She, 
 too, must have a separate room, and be fed on cream toast. 
 Can you tell me, child, why the master of this place has in- 
 vited me here ? 
 
DRAMATIC SUITLKMEXT. 203 
 
 Elisf. I cannot tell, but we expect Madame Moorpiltz 
 here also. 
 
 ilME. KuNKEL. Moorpiltz! That rough, noisy creature, 
 who carries on her late husband's business exactly like a 
 man, and spends all her time in riding to the hunt and 
 leaping fences? 
 
 EnsE. We expect her, and also Madame Mousetooth. 
 
 MiMK. KuNKHi,. Mousetooth! The silly, sentimental 
 goose, who, in her fiftieth year, still wanders about in the 
 moonlight, and cries over a fly drowning in her milk pitcher! 
 What can they want here? 
 
 Elise. 1 don't know. There they come, however.' 
 
 Enter Madame Mousetooth and Gabrielle. 
 
 Mmr. Kunkel {affectionately). Ah, you are heartily wel- 
 come, my dearest Madame Mousetooth ! What good luck 
 brings you here ? 
 
 Mme. Mousi TOOTii. Sweet, dear Madame Kunkel ! What 
 a delight to see you ! ( To GahrieUe.) Be careful of my toilet 
 box, and my lavender, cologne and millcfleurs! Let them 
 be unpacked in the most gentle manner, and left in my room. 
 
 Gabkikli.f. I will see to it myself. 
 
 Mme. Mousetooth. Thanks, yon darling! And my port- 
 folio, put it away most carefully, the contents are so delicate ! 
 
 Gabrii'.lle. I will do so right away. 
 
 Mme. Mousetooth. You little angel ! Give me a kiss ! 
 There, now, run away, botli of you. ( Exit Eiise and Gabrielle.) 
 May I inquire what brings you here just now, my dear old 
 friend ? 
 
 Mme. Kunkel (aside)'. Jealous old thing ! {Ahiml.) I was 
 just going to ask you, my dear creature, what brought youf 
 
 Mmk. Mousbvooth. But are we all the company, or do 
 they expect others? 
 
 Mme. Kunkeu Madame Moorpiltz will be here soon. 
 
 Mme. Mousetooth. Moorpiltz ! That horrid thing, who 
 outrages every principle of ladylike behaviour and gentle- 
 ness ! But listen ! I hear steps ! 
 
 Enter Madame Moorpiltz and Adelaide. 
 
 Mme. Moorpiltz (loudly). I tell you, girl, if my brown pony 
 can't have a feed of oats without any mixture of bran, let 
 
204 ONE HUSDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS' No. 2. 
 
 him be saddled again at once, and I'll be oflf in a twinkling! 
 
 Adelaide. I will tell the groom. 
 
 Mme. MooRPU.TZ. That's right! And let him feed my 
 two setters, and loosen the collar on the brown pointer. I 
 want to have the black horse clipped, but I'll see to that 
 myself. 
 
 Adelaidk. I will leave your order at once. 
 
 Mme. Moori'iltz (puttmg her on the head). That's a good 
 fellow! Now go!— stay,— have a pinch? {Offers her anug- 
 hox, which Adehikle nfascs as she goes out.) Why, who's all 
 this? How d'ye do, old girls? I almost overlooked you ! 
 
 Mmf. Kunkel. You were so absorbed in your horses and 
 hounds that 
 
 Mme. Mousetootii (gushingly). Oh, but you are so fresh — 
 BO natural ! 
 
 Mme. IMooRPiLTZ. I am not curious, but I should like to 
 know why we are here, it certainly can't be for the pleasure 
 of one another's company. [Eiilur Ambrose.) Well, old boy ! 
 
 Ambrose (bows prof oundl i/ to caclt of the la dies in turn). Ladies, 
 you behold in me the steward of the late lamented Countess 
 Falkenbrun. For many years 1 managed her estates, and 
 she honored me in her will by leaving them still in my 
 charge till they should be given into the hands of the 
 chosen heir. By the instructions left with her will, I have 
 summoned you, her three oldest friends, to attend to a mat- 
 ter of business for her. She left this sealed letter, which 
 you are requested to read alone. \Lays letter on table; exit. 
 
 Mme. Moohpiltz (picking up letter). Well, as I am the 
 youngest and have the best eyes, I will read this mysterious 
 communicatioiifrom our old friend-. ( T'he others glare at her. 
 IS) le reads aloud.) " Dearest friends : I call upon you to de- 
 cide which of the seven daughters of my friend and stew- 
 ard Ambrose is the ugliest. I give no reason for this re- 
 quest, but ask you to settle this simple point and to an- 
 nounce the decision to my great-nephew and heir, Ernest 
 Hellwald. For this service, I leave to each of you as a 
 souvenir of me, a thousand pounds. Estella, Countess oi 
 Falkenbrun." 
 
 All three Ladies. Noble old lady ! 
 
 Mme. Ku.vkel. How generous ! 
 
 Mme. Mousetootii, How charmingly original 1 
 
DliAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 2(/5 
 
 Mme. Mookpiltz. Well, we may as well call the girls in, 
 and put them through their paces. ( Goes to the door and calls.) 
 Hi! Ambrose! Old fellow, where are you? Send us your 
 seven daughters immediately ! 
 
 The girls come in, and are.ranged in a row. They stand still while 
 the ladies examine them and comment upon their appearance. 
 While the examination goes on, Ernest appears at the open door 
 and anxiously watches the group. The ladies delay the longest 
 over Rosa, who lias disfigured herself as much as possible. 'The 
 three then resume their seats. 
 
 All thkeb Ladiks. Now you may go ! 
 
 2'he girls go out at another door. Ernest, unobserved, listens with 
 the greatest anxiety. 
 
 Mme. Moobpiltz. Well, what do you say ? In my mind 
 there is not a doubt about it. 
 
 Mme. Mousetootii. It's also clear to my impartial mind. 
 
 Mme. Kunkel. She has not a good shape. 
 
 Mme. Mousetooth. Her eyes are not bright. 
 
 Mme. Mooepiltz. Her eyebrows are like ox-yokea 
 
 Mme. Kunkel. And that great scar on her cheek. 
 
 Mme. Mousetooth. Such sharp elbows. 
 
 Mme. Moorpiltz. Such a silly expression. 
 
 Mme. Mousetooth. We are united I 
 
 All {Madame Moorpiltz holding up her hand as they rise and 
 say, solemnly). The ugliest is Rosa, the loveliest is Ernestine 1 
 
 Ernest falls back in despair. 
 
 ACT III. 
 Scene I. — The garden. Ernest and Ernestine discovered. 
 
 Ernestine (sadly). Dear Ernest, since you have told me 
 all the story of that hateful will, and I know what a sorrow- 
 ful gift my love would be to you, I cannot consent to such a 
 sacrifice, — you must give me up ! 
 
 Eunest. Never! Rather would I become your father's 
 poorest workman, yes, serve him for nothing, with the 
 hope of an occasional word from you, rather than do with- 
 out you, now that you have just begun to love me ! 
 
 Ernestine. Not so lately as you imagine, perhaps. But 
 is there no hope? Did you hear the decision yourself? 
 
206 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 Ernest. Yes, alas ! I heard it only too well. A plague 
 on their old heads, stuffed with dogs and parrots and 
 lavender-water ! {Ernestine slnrts.) But I should have hated 
 them still more if they had wronged your beauty by any 
 other decision. 
 
 Ernestine {springing up). Ernest! I have an idea! I 
 think I see a way out of all this trouble ! Don't ask me to 
 tell you just yet, — only wait, and don't be surprised at any- 
 tliing strange that I may do. You know I thought that you 
 were crazy when I first met you ; it's my turn now ! 
 
 ScKNE II. — A room in the howse. The old ladies sitting in a row, 
 whispering together ; all the girls excepting Ernestine in a group 
 at one end of the room. Enter Ambrose and Ernest. 
 
 Amdrose. Ladies, while you have been in consultation, I 
 have just made the astounding discovery that we have been 
 entertaining as an unknown guest, no other than oui dear 
 Countess Falkenbrun's great-nephew and heir. It gives me 
 great pleasure to present him to you. {All rise and bow pro- 
 foundly. The girls show signs of great astonishment.) But where 
 is Ernestine ? It is unlucky for her to be up-stairs when all 
 the rest are down. {Goes to the door and calls.) Ernestine ! 
 Ernestine ! 
 
 Ernestine {rushing in). Oh, don't be angry, my dear old 
 ladies, that I kept you waiting a little while, but something 
 so funny has just happened ! I am in such a hurry to tell 
 you, it was too ridiculous !— but do have patience! Rome 
 was not built in a day ! The tree never falls at the first 
 stroke ! It 
 
 M,ME. Moorpiltz. That's a fact, old girl ! 
 
 Eknestinb {pertly). Who asked you to interrupt? But 
 where was I ? Oh, yes ! It wasn't my fault that my father 
 sent me to the red chamber to bring him a sofa cushion ; 
 the red chamber is next the blue one, where dear old 
 Madame Falkenbrun used to drink her tea, except in the 
 winter time, when she liked the yellow breakfast-room best, 
 because 
 
 51 me. Ku.nkel. But, my child, do we need to hear all 
 this? Proceed with your story ! 
 
 Ernestine. Excuse me, my dear old lady,— don't inter- 
 rupt I Good manners are as lovely in the aged as in the 
 
DEAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 207 
 
 young! Obedience is the first duty of a child, so I went for 
 the cushion, and there, lying on the damask sofa, was a 
 great, fat, hideous, abominable, gray cat ! 
 
 Mme. KuNKEL. My Molly! My sweet creature ! 
 
 Ernestine. When I saw the horrid thing there, I took 
 the large fly-brush aiad beat her ofif the sofa ! 
 
 Mme. Kunkkl [shrieking). Do 1 hear aright? Alas! my 
 heart's darling ! 
 
 Ernestine. She turned and tried to scratch me, but I 
 caught up a cord from the floor and tied it around her neck ! 
 
 Mme. Kunkel. Wretch ! Have you slain her 7 
 
 Ernestine. Well, cats, like men, must bite the dust, and 
 she's happier there than here. But no, she is not dead I 
 She sprang to the open window and was out before 
 
 Mme. Kunkel. My Molly ! Out in the cold, cold world! 
 [Faints away. Two of the girls support her.) 
 
 Ernesti.ne. But that's not all ! When she sprang on the 
 table I heard something go smash! and 1 found she had up- 
 set dozens of little bottles and glasses ! 
 
 Mme. ilousETOOTH. Oh, my cologne ! My orange-water! 
 Even my beauty-water gone ! 
 
 Ernesi'i.n:;. Beauty-water ! What good is that to you, at 
 your age ? Yes, perhaps it was. yours, for suddenly there 
 was a strong, most unpleasant smell in the room {snatches her 
 handkerchief and smells it), just like this, and then the cat and 
 I together upset a little box full of ribbons and caps and 
 curls and feathers, and in my haste I crammed them all 
 back again, and as they would not go into the box, I had to 
 put my foot down and press them, — so, — and 
 
 M.ME. Mouse rooTii. Oh, my caps! My feathers! (Faints 
 away. Two others of the girls support her.) 
 
 Mme. Moorpiltz. Never mind her, my dear ! Go on with 
 your interesting tale ! Have a pinch {offering her snuff-box) ? 
 Ernestine {looking intensely disgusted). Bah ! who takes 
 snuS'? It's not a fit habit for a lady ! ( Upsets the box.) 
 
 Mme. MooRPii.TZ. Saucy creature! My best snufl', too! 
 (Tries to box her ears.) 
 
 Er.nestine. Much better to be saucy than to fly around 
 the country looking like a scarecrow, at the head of a pack 
 of skeleton dogs ! 
 Mme. Moorpiltz { furiously). Impertinent creature ! You 
 
208 ONE HUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 shall sufi'er for this ! {Shakes the two old ladies, who come bark 
 to consciousness.) Come, wake up, old girls ! Revenge ! 
 
 They feebly rise and glare at Ernestine, then all three join in the 
 cry, "Revenge! revenge. '" 
 
 Scene III. — Same room as before. All the old ladies ; Ambrose; 
 Ernest ; all the girls. 
 
 Ambkose. "Well, dear ladies, I hope you have finished 
 your deliberations satisfactorily. 
 
 A person of taste 
 Does nothing in haste. 
 
 And surely three persons of such excellent taste require a 
 very lengthy time for consideration. 
 
 Mme. MooRPiLTZ (grimly). Yes, my friend, and we have 
 called your household together in order to give them a 
 specimen of our excellent taste. You do not know, perhaps, 
 that we have been called here by the will of the late Countess 
 to decide which of your seven daughters is the ugliest. 
 
 All the Girls [astonislied). The ugliest! 
 
 Mme. Kunkel. Yes, — a charming fancy ! 
 
 Mme. Modsetooth. Dear, departed Countess! How re- 
 freshing ! How original ! 
 
 M.ME. Moorpiltz. And we all agree in declaring {all rise 
 and speak together with great emphasis) that the loveliest is 
 Eosa ; the ugliest, Ernestine ! 
 
 Ernest {with the greatest delight). The ugliest, Ernestine ! 
 Oh, say it again I 
 
 Mme. Kunkel. In face and character ! 
 
 Ernest {embracing the old ladies in turn). Angels of heaven ! 
 Dearest friends ! Accept my wannest thanks ! I bless you 
 a thousand times ! I am the happiest man in the wurld ! 
 
 Ambrose {regretfully; aside). The wound-balsam did no 
 good ! His poor head is quite light ! I always thought he 
 was a Httle unsound on the subject of animal magnetism I 
 
 Eenest {to Ernestine). Come forward, chosen of my heart ! 
 You are mine,— you, as well as the castle, lands, forests, 
 woods, and waters I Father, will you give me your daughter? 
 
 Ambrose. How? "What? {Aside.) 1 f I only felt sure that 
 his head was quite right. 
 
 Ernest. Read that paragraph! {He reads.) "All this 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 2C0 
 
 property to be his forever, in case he marries the ugliest of 
 the seven daughters of my friend Ambrose." And Ernestine 
 is the ugliest ! 
 
 Mme. Moorpiltz {impressively). We've been fooled, old girls ! 
 
 Ernestine (imploringly). Forgive me, dear ladies, for hav- 
 ing been so rude 1 Love taught me deceit, but now I wish 
 to atone for it. ( To Madame Kunkel.) Your Molly's adven- 
 tures were quite fictitious, — she sleeps sweetly on the white 
 pillow in my room '. 
 
 Mme. Kunkel (joyfully). My Molly ! Is it possible? 
 
 Ernestine (to Madame Mousetooth). Your bottles are quite 
 safe, dear lady, and the beauty-water — which indeed you do 
 not need — is unharmed. To-morrow a flask of Persian oil 
 of roses will be sent you as a peace-offering. ( To Madame 
 Moorpiltz.) Forgive the rudeness I offered you, and accept 
 from Ernest a snuff-box with your monogram in diamonds. 
 And now, can you forgive me ? 
 
 All three Ladies (blandly). We forgive! 
 
 Ernestine. Now father, dear father, your consent, your 
 blessing! 
 
 Ambrose (wiping his eyes). My dear, I knew something of 
 
 this kind was going to happen, such a singular twitching 
 
 in my left eye, — always a sign of weeping! (Joins their 
 
 hands.) But after this I will put no more faith in unlucky 
 
 numbers, for I have gained a most charming and desirable 
 
 son-in-law, because ray little Tina was 
 
 All. The ugliest of seven ! 
 
 Curtain falU. 
 
2.0 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 SCENE FROM THE EIVALS.— R. B. Sheridan. 
 
 CHARACTEKS. 
 Sm Anthony Absoi-ute. 
 Captain Absolute. 
 Fag, a servant. 
 
 Scene. — Capt. Absolute's lodgings. Capt. Absolute seated at table. 
 Enter Fag. 
 
 Fag. Sir, there is a gentleman below desires to see you. 
 Shall I show him into,the parlor? 
 
 Abs iLUTE. Ay — you may. Stay ; who is it, Fag? 
 
 Fag. Your father, sir. 
 
 Abs. You puppy, why didn't you show him up directly ? 
 (Exit Fag.) Now for a parental lecture. I wish the gout 
 had held him fast in Devonshire, with all my soul ! {Enter 
 Sir Anthony Absolute.) Sir, I am delighted to see you here, 
 looking so well ! your sudden arrival at Bath made me ap- 
 prehensive for your health. 
 
 Sir Anthony. Very apprehensive, I dare say. Jack. — 
 What, you are recruiting here, hey ? 
 
 Ai!s. Yes, sir, I am on duty. 
 
 Sir Anth. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did 
 not expect it, for I was going to write to you on a little mat- 
 ter of business. Jack, I have been considering-that I grow 
 old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long. 
 
 Abs. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong 
 and hearty ; and I pray frequently that you may continue so. 
 
 Sir Anth. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all 
 my heart. Well then. Jack, I have been considering that I 
 am so strong and hearty I may continue to plague you a long 
 time. Now, Jai^k, 1 am sensible that the income of your 
 commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a 
 small pittance for a lad of your spirit. 
 
 Abs. Sir, you are very good. 
 
 Sir Anth. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have 
 my boy m^ke some figure in the world. I have resolved, 
 therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. 
 
 Abs. Sir, your kindness overpowers me ; such generosity 
 makes the gratitude of reason more lively than the sensa- 
 tions even of filial affection. 
 
 Sir Anth. I am glad you arc so sensible of my attention 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 211 
 
 —and you shall be master of a large estate in.a few weeks. 
 
 Abs. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude ; I can- 
 not express the sense I have of your munificence. Yet, sir, 
 1 presume you would not wish me to quit the army? 
 
 Sir Antii. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses. 
 
 Abs. My wife, sir ! 
 
 Sir Anth. Ay, ay, settle that between you, settle that 
 between you. 
 
 Abs. a y ife, sir, did you say ? 
 
 Sir Anth. Ay, a wife — why, did not I mention her before? 
 
 Abs. Not a word of her, sir. 
 
 Siii Anth. Odds so ! — I mustn't forget her, though. — Yes, 
 Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage ; 
 the fortune is saddled with a wife, but I suppose that makes 
 no diflTerence. 
 
 Abs. Sir ! sir ! — you amaze me ! 
 
 Sir Anth. Why, what's the matter with the fool? Just 
 now you were all gratitude and duty. 
 
 Abs. I was, sir ; you talked to me of independence and a 
 fortune, but not a word of a wife. 
 
 Sir Anth. Why, what difi'erence does that make ? Odds 
 life, sir ! if you have the estate, you must take it with the 
 live stock on it, as it stands. 
 
 Abs. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave 
 to decline the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady ? 
 
 Sir Anth. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your 
 promise to love, and to marry her directly. 
 
 Abs. Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon my 
 affections for a lady I know nothing of! 
 
 SiK Anth. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you 
 to object to a lady you know nothing of. 
 
 Abs. Then, sir, I must tell you plainly that my inclina- 
 tions are fixed on another ; my heart is engaged to an angel. 
 
 SirAsth. Then pray let it send an excuse. It is very 
 sorry, but business prevents its waiting on her. 
 
 Abs. But my vows are pledged to her. 
 
 Sir Anth. Let her foreclose, Jack ; let her foreclose ; they 
 are not worth redeeming ; besides, you have the angel's 
 vows in exchange, I suppose ; so there can be no loss there. 
 
 Abs. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, 
 that in this point I cannot obey you. 
 
212 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 Sin Anth. Hark'ee, Jack ;— I have heard you for some 
 time with patience ; 1 have been cool, quite cool ; but take 
 care, you know 1 am compliance itself — when I am not 
 thwarted ; no one more easily led — when I have my own 
 way ; but don't put me in a frenzy. 
 
 Abs. Sir, I must repeat it ;— in this I cannot obey you. 
 
 Sir Antii. Now hang me ! if ever I call you Jack again ! 
 
 Abs. Nay, sir, but hear me. 
 
 Sib Anth. SJr, I won't hear a word, not a word ! not one 
 word ! so give me your promise by a nod — and I'll tell you 
 what, Jack — I mean, you dog — if you don't 
 
 Abs. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of 
 ugliness ! to 
 
 Sib Anth. Zounds ! sirrah ! the lady shall be as ugly as I 
 choose : she shall have a hump on each shoulder ; she shall 
 be as crooked as the crescent ; her one eye shall roll like 
 the bull's in Cox's Museum ; she shd,ll have a skin like a 
 mummy, and the beard of" a Jew; she shall be all this, 
 sirrah ! — yet I will make you ogle her all day, and sit up all 
 night to write sonnets on her beauty. 
 
 Abs. This is reason and moderation indeed ! 
 
 SiB. Anth. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, 
 jackanapes ! 
 
 Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth 
 in ray life. 
 
 Sir Anih. 'Tis false, sir, I know you are laughing in your 
 sleeve ; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sirrah ! 
 
 Abs. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. 
 
 Sir Anth. None of your passion, sir! none of your 
 violence, if you please ! it won't do with me, I promise you. 
 
 Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. 
 
 Sir Anth. 'Tis a confounded lie ! — I know you are iu a 
 passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical 
 young dog ; but it won't do. 
 
 Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word 
 
 Sir Anth. So you will fly out ! can't you be cool like mo? 
 What good can passion do ? Passion is of no service, yo\i " 
 impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! — ^There, aou 
 sneer again! don't provoke me! — but you rely upon the 
 mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! you play upon tho 
 meekness of my disposition I Yet take care— the patience 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 213 
 
 of a saint may be overcome at last ! — but mark ! I give you 
 six hours and a half to consider of this ; if you then agree, 
 without any condition, to do everything on earth that I 
 choose, why — confound you ! I may in time forgive you. 
 If not, zounds ! don't enter the same hemisphere with me ! 
 don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with 
 me ; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own ! I'll 
 strip you of your commission ; I'll lodge a five-and-three- 
 pence in th^hands of trustees, and you shall live on the in- 
 terest ; I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you ! and hang me ! if 
 ever I call you Jack again ! \_Erit. 
 
 Abs. Mild, gentle, considerate fatlier,— I Iciss your hands ! 
 What a tender method of giving his opinion in these mat- 
 ters Sir Anthony has ! I dare not trust him with the truth. 
 I wonder what old wealthy hag it is that he wants to bestow 
 on me ! — Yet he married, himself, for love ! and was in his 
 youth a bold intriguer, and a gay companion ! 
 Re-enter Fag. 
 
 Fag. Assuredly, sir, your father is wroth to a degree ; he 
 comes down stairs eight or ten steps at a time, muttering, 
 growling, and thumping the banisters all the way. I and the 
 cook's dog stand bowing at the door — rap ! he gives me a 
 stroke on the head with his cane ; bids me carry that to my 
 master. Upon my credit, sir, were I in your place, and 
 found my father such very bad company, I should certainly 
 drop his acquaintance. 
 
 Abs. Cease your impertinence, sir, at present. Did you 
 come in for nothing more ? Stand out of the way ! {Pushes 
 him~aside, and exit.) 
 
 Fag. So! Sir Anthony trims my master; he ig afraid to 
 reply to his^-father — then vents his spleen on poor Fag! 
 When one is vexed by one person, to revenge one's self on 
 another, who happens to come in the way, is the vilest in- 
 justice ! But I'll away to my master and do him a service 
 nevertheless. I'll let him know that the wife Sir Anthony 
 has chosen for him is the very one his heart is set on, and 
 I'll prove it to him, too. And now to find my master and 
 acquaint him with the news. \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Captain Absolute, after a short interval. 
 
 Abs. Whimsical enough, faith! Fag tells me that the 
 
214 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 girl my father wants to force me to marry is the very one I 
 am plotting to run away with ! But he must not know of 
 my knowledge of this fact yet awhile. He has too summary 
 a method of proceeding in these matters. However I'll read 
 my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sud- 
 den, indeed, but I can assure him it is very sincere. So, so 
 —here he comes. He looks plaguy gruff. (Stepe aside.) 
 
 Enter Sir Anthony Absolute. 
 
 Sir Anth. No— I'll die sooner than forgive him. Die, 
 did I say ? I'll live these fifty years to plague him. At our 
 last meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of tem- 
 per. An obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! Who can 
 he take after? This is my return for putting him, at twelve 
 years old, into a marching regiment, and allowing him iifty 
 pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since ! But I have done 
 with him ; lie's anybody's son for me. I never will see him 
 more, never— never— never. 
 
 Abs. (aside, coming forward.) Now for a penitential face. 
 
 Sir Axth. Fellow, get out of my way ! 
 
 Abs. Sir, you see a penitent before you. 
 
 Sir Antu. I see an impudent scoundrel before ma. 
 
 Abs. a sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge 
 my error, and to submit entirely to your will. 
 
 Sir Axth. What's that? 
 
 Abs. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and consider- 
 ing on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension 
 to me. 
 
 Sir Anth. Well, sir ? 
 
 Abs. I have been likewise weighing and balancing what 
 you were jfleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, 
 and authority. 
 
 Sir Anth. Well, puppy ? 
 
 Abs. Why then, sir, the result of my reflections is- a 
 resolution to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Sir Anth. Why now you talk sense, absolute sense ; I 
 never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound 
 you ! you shall be Jaclc again. 
 
 Abs. I am happy in the appellation. 
 
 Sir Anth. Wliy then. Jack, my dear Jack, 1 will now in- 
 
DRAMATIC SUrPLEMUNT. 215 
 
 form you who the lady really is. Nothing but your j ashimi 
 and violence, you silly fellow, prevented my telling you at 
 tirst. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture — prepare. 
 What think' you of Miss Lydia Languish? 
 
 Abs. Languish ! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire ? 
 
 Sir Anth. Worcestershire! no. Did you never meet Mrs. 
 Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into this 
 country just before you were last ordered to your regiment? 
 
 Abs. Malaprop ! Languish ! I don't remember ever to 
 have heard th'e names before. Yet stay— I think I do 
 recollect something. Languish ! Languish ! She squints, 
 don't she ? A little red-haired girl ? 
 
 Sir A NTH. Squints! A red-haired girl! zounds! no. 
 
 Abs. Then I must have forgot , it can't be the sairie person. 
 
 Sir Anth. Jack'! Jack! what thinlc you of blooming, 
 love-breathing seventeen ? 
 
 Ads. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent. If I can 
 please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire. 
 
 Sir Anth. Nay, but Jack, such eyes ! such eyes ! so inno- 
 cently wild ! so bashfully irresolute ! not a glance but speaks 
 and kindles some thought of love ! Tlien, Jack, her cheeks ! 
 her cheeks, Jack ! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of 
 her tell-tale eyes ! Then, Jack, her lips ! O Jack, lips smil- 
 ing at their own discretion ; and if not smiling, more sweetly 
 pouting ; more lovely in suUenness ! 
 
 Abs. (aside.) That's she, indeed. Well done, old gentleman. 
 
 Sir Anth. Then, Jack, her neck ! O Jack ! Jack ! 
 
 Abs. And which is to be mine, sir, the nieue, or the aunt? 
 
 Sir Anth. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I des- 
 pise you! -When I was of your age, such a description 
 would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt indeed ! 
 Odds life ! when I ran away with your mother, I would not 
 have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire. 
 
 Abs. Not to please your father, sir ? 
 
 Sir Anth. To please my father ! zounds ! not to please— 
 Oh, my father— odds so !— yes -yes ; if my father indeed bad 
 desired— that's quite another matter. Though he wa'n't the 
 indulgent father that I am. Jack. 
 
 Abs. I dare say not, sir. 
 
 Sir Anth. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mis- 
 tress is so beautiful? 
 
21G ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 2. 
 
 Abs. Sir, I repeat it -if I please you in this affair, 'tis all 
 I desire. Not tliat I tliink a woman the worse for being 
 handsome ; but, sir, if you please to recollect, ,you before 
 hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few 
 more graces of that kind— now, without being very nice, I 
 own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual 
 number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back, and thou^ h 
 one eye may be very agreeable, yet as the prejudice lias 
 always run in favor of two, I would not wish to affect a 
 singularity in that article. 
 
 Sir Anth. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, 
 you're an anchorite I — a vile, insensible stock. You a 
 soldier ! — you're a walking block, fit only to dust the com- 
 pany's regimentals on ! Odds life 1 I hayc a great mind to 
 marry the girl myself. 
 
 Abs. 1 am entirely at your disposal, sir : if you should 
 think of addressing Miss Languish 3'ourself, I suppose you 
 would have me marry the aunt ; or if you should change 
 your mind, and take the old lady— 'tis the same to me— I'll 
 marry the niece. 
 
 Sir Anth. Upon my word. Jack, thou'rt either a very 
 great hypocrite, or— but, corrie, I know your indifference on 
 such a subject must be all a lie— I'm sure it must— come, 
 now— hang your demure face !— come, confess Jack— you 
 have been lying— ha'n't you? You have been playing the 
 hypocrite, hey!— I'll never forgive you, if you ha'n't been 
 lying and playing the hypocrite. 
 
 A BS. I'm sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I boar 
 to you should be so mistaken. 
 
 Sir A\th. Hang your respect and duty ! But come along 
 with me, I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall 
 visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean 
 torch to you -come along, I'll never forgive you, if you don't 
 come back stark mad with rapture and impatience— if you 
 don't, egad, I will marry the girl myself! ^ „ 
 
DEAMATIO SUPPLEMENT 
 
 — TO — 
 
 One Hundred Choice Selections, No. 3. 
 
 This Supplement will be forwarded to any address, post-paid, on receipt ot 
 Ten Cents (or tin-ee copies for Twenty- Five Cents), by addressing 
 P. Garkstt & Co., Publisliers, 708 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. Pa. 
 
 THE DAY BEFORE THE WEDDING.* 
 Robert C. V. Meyers. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 Mr. Ebenezf.r Padelthorp, who will give away his daughter to-mnrrow. 
 Mils. EuENEZER Padelthorp, who will be given a son-in-law to-morrow. 
 Mr. Alfred Wahpord, who will be married to-morrow. 
 Mrss Ada Padelthorp, who will be married to-morrow. 
 Mr. Dick Padelthorp, who will be best man, and who wishes it might be his 
 
 own wedding, to-morrow. 
 Miss Dollie Boston, who will be Ada's bridesmaid, and her own bride some 
 
 other to-morrow. 
 
 SCENE — ifrs. PadeUhorp's drawing-room,. Enter Dollie Boston 
 in traveling costume, leaning on the arms of old Mr. Padelthorp 
 and Dick; Dick carries her small leather satchel. In the rear 
 are Mrs. Padelthorp and Ada. 
 
 Ada. So good of you to come in an early train, dear 
 Dollie. We will take the whole of this day to inspect my 
 trousseau, — some of the loveliest creations you ever set your 
 eyes on. 
 
 Mrs. p. I should think that in the breast of a young wo- 
 man who will be a wife to-morrow, there should be more 
 serious thoughts than such as dwell on wedding finery. I 
 am sure it was so in my case when T was about to be married. 
 
 Dollie. But with a bridesmaid, Mrs. Padelthorp, it is 
 allowable. And then, you know, Ada and I were insepar- 
 able in school, and were sisters in theory." 
 ■ ^ ■ 
 
 ♦Copyright, 1SS5, by P. Uakreti <£ Co. 
 
194 ONK IIUVDRID CHOI E SELKCTIO'S No. 3. 
 
 Dick. And soon to be sisters in fact. 
 
 Mk. p. Dick, you might do more graceful things than to 
 remind your fiancfee that she must shortly assume the 
 responsibility of being a member of the clan of Padel- 
 thorp. And, yes, Ada, as your mother observes, as to- 
 morrow will be your bridal day, when at the altar you will 
 assume the halter, you might better employ the time than 
 by chuckling over gew-gaws and baubles of vanity, even 
 though your gossip be your bridesmaid and the bride-elect 
 of your brother. Not that I would preach to you; preach- 
 ing sometimes makes me dull and out of humor, and I 
 mean to preserve a seraphic state of mind until after the 
 ceremony of your marriage — then if there is anything to 
 aggravate me, I am bound to be a whole zoological garden 
 of irritability. At the same time, there are solemn duties 
 of the married life which 
 
 Mrs. p. Ebenezer, if preaching makes you dull, bow do 
 you suppose these rhetorical lectures affect us? Enough to 
 my, my child, that your father and I sincerely trust that 
 you will be as happy with your Alfred as I have been with 
 my Ebenezer. 
 
 JIr. p. And that your Alfred will be as joyous with his 
 Ada, as your mother's Ebenezer has been with his Nancy. 
 We never tiff, nor quarrel, nor blame each other for any- 
 thing, do we wife? 
 
 Mrs. p. Never. Mutual forbearance is the prime motor 
 of married life. Your father and I are a proverbially con- 
 tented couple, often considered quite a shining example for 
 our friends, and as for quarreling or having difl'ercnces of 
 opinion 
 
 Ad.\. Dear me! You speak as though there was a faint 
 possibility of Alfred and I sometimes quarreling or having 
 differences of opinion. I can answer for him, as I can • 
 answer for myself, that never will a thought other than 
 loving, faithful and full of confidence find entrance to the 
 heart of either of us. 
 
 DoLi.iE. Oh, you angel! (Kisses her; (hen in a Imu voiee.) 
 Thus it is with Dick and me; wc have made up our minds 
 that all the world combined shall never ruffie our dear 
 trust and affection.. 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 195 
 
 Dick. The world? The spheres above are as powerless ! 
 But wliy are we keeping Dollie here? — she should be in her 
 own room removing her hat. Take her there, Ada, and 
 
 Bell rings. 
 
 Ada. Oh, there is Alfred, I am sure of it ; he was to come 
 by an early train, too, and stays here until the ceremony. 
 He must have been on your train, Dollie ; what a pity you 
 never met one another, he would have been a delightful 
 escort, dear, aijd I shouldn't have been a bit jealous. (Kisses 
 her.) Mamma, you take Dollie to her room, I must go and 
 meet Alfred. (EjcU.) 
 
 Mr. p. And I'll get out of the way, lest they protract the 
 meeting even till they come to this room ; there is no tell- 
 ing when or where the meeting of two lovers will end. Go, 
 mother, carry the victim to the shambles — that is, take 
 Dollie to her room. 
 
 Mrs. P. goes through doorway at top of stage, escorting Dollie; 
 Mr. P. follows, whistling or singing ; Dick remains behind, 
 throvnng kisses after Dollie ; at last, in taking both hands to 
 throw a kiss, the bag falls to the floor and breaks open. 
 
 Dick. Good gracious ! I forgot to give Dollie her bag, and 
 here I have destroyed the lock. (Gathers up the bag, and gives 
 utterance to an exclamation.) What! fter bag? Yes, for here 
 are her gToves. (Puts in his liand and brings out a new pair of 
 gloves which he examines.) The color of Ada's wedding gown, 
 and number five and a-half, the size Dollie wears. A lady- 
 hand, a nervous aifectionate little hand ; but (pulling out a 
 razor, a choker-collar, a pair of men's linen cuffs, and a pair of 
 su^enders) how did a gentleman's razor, his collar, his cuffs, 
 and his silk suspenders get into that bag?— DoUie's bag? Her 
 bag, with a man's accoutrements in it! Can it be possible 
 that— no, no; and yet— Hush r Some one comes ; I must not 
 be found searching the bag. ( Throws tlu Uag behind a chair.) 
 
 Enter Warford, Ada leaning on his arm, and carrying his small 
 leather satchel, which resembles tlie bag behind the chair. 
 
 Ada. Alfred, how sweet of you to come so early. 
 And so you were not on the train with Dollie Boston, but 
 arrived an hour ago and attended to some business before 
 
196 ONE HrKDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 coming here. For shame, sir; the idea of placing business 
 before me ! 
 
 Warford. Business before pleasure, my friend, as the 
 venerable moral copy-books have it. Ah— is that you, Dick? 
 Why, Dick, old man, how are you (taking his hand) ? 
 
 Dick. Ah — ah-^ 
 
 Warford. What's the matter with you ; have you taken 
 to stuttering? You look peculiar, too, almost as though you 
 might be brewing a chill! 
 
 Dick (aside). He calls it a chiU! (Aloud.) I— I-am— 
 the fact is — 
 
 Ada. The fact is, Dollie is here, and there is small chance 
 of many tete-a-tetes isn't that it, Dicky? It has something 
 to do with Dollie, no matter what ails you. 
 
 Dick. Yes, it certainly has something to do with Dollie. 
 (Aside.) I must not let them know the truth. Oh, the 
 perfidy of women! A razor!- a razor, of all things a razor! 
 and silk suspenders! oh! 
 
 Ada (who has been paying most attention to Warford). Well, 
 you do look odd, Dick, and, as Alfred suggests, as though 
 you were on the point of having a chill: Go and take some 
 quinine. There ! I mean to be as particular about Alfred 
 as you were about Dollie, so I order you to escort him to his 
 room. " Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at 
 once I" 
 
 Warford. For which I shall be correspondingly thank- 
 ful, as the dust has made me scarcely presentable, and is 
 doing its best to enter my constitution. I am, to put it 
 mildly, gritty. (Dick, vnth a parting look at the bag behind the 
 chair, moves off wUh 'Warford, Ada looking after them smiling.) 
 
 Ada. The loveliest man on the face of the globe ! His 
 beauty is almost sensational, it is so pronounced! And 
 papa and mamma to suggest that we should ever quarrel or 
 have the softest of hard feelings for one another! It was 
 almost wicked of papa! (She plays with the clasp of the bag 
 until she opens it.) Oh, dear! what have I done? I have 
 gone and opened Alfred's bag! Dear, dear! I wonder if a 
 woman dare assert the rights of a wife the day before her 
 marriage? No; curiosity was never one of my besetting 
 sine; I am the least curibus woman I know. Now any other 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 197 
 
 woman would think nothing of looking into this bag, but I 
 should despise myself were 1 to do such a thing. 1 am sure 
 I know what is in it at the same time. Dear Alfred has here 
 a ha,ndkerchtef or so, to last until his trunk arrives later on. 
 Ah— his dear gloves, the color of my wedding gown! (Pate 
 her hand in the bag and lakes end a new pair of gloves the color oj 
 those Dick found in DoUie's bag.) Seven and a-half! What a 
 manly hand it is ! {Kisses one of the gloves, puts it on, and lays 
 her cheek againtt it.) Of all the noble beings on the earth's 
 surface, Alfred WaVford is the noblest; even his gloves re- 
 mind one of a hero's hand, that commands and still is gen- 
 erous ! But I will put them in the bag again, and take all 
 to his room door. I can see his tender smile as he receives 
 the bag from me and says with deep emotion, "Thank you." 
 And then — ^but what is this? (Takes out a lace collar and 
 cuffs, and one or two other articles of ladies' apparel.) His bag, 
 and holding this trumpery! He had business which pre- 
 vented his coming here at once, had he! Business! And 
 yet I must not be liasty ; women are proverbially hasty and 
 illogical. I am the least hasty woman I Jcnow. Now I 
 wonder if a woman, the day before her marriage, has the im 
 munities as well as the responsibilities of a wife? If so, I 
 shall certainly demand an explanation. And then Dick's 
 constrained manner when Alfred came in ! Alfred accused 
 him of chills! Is it possible that my brother knows some- 
 thing terrible, which for my sake he refuses to divulge? 
 How do I know but "chills" may be a countersign! Oh, 
 the treachery of man! — even my own brother! I will take 
 this bag to Alfred and exact an explanation ; if he says only 
 " thank you," I shall go into hysterics, I know I shall. 
 
 Ada goes excitedly tO'door, when DoUie faces her, coming in. Ada 
 hides the bag behind her. 
 
 DoLME {adde). How provoking! I was sure Dick kept 
 my bag so that I should come after it and find him here 
 alone and have a little chat with him. {Aloud.) Where is 
 Dick, Ada, dear? 
 
 Ada. I don't know — that is, he's with a scorpion — I mean 
 the treacherous — I don't know what I mean, and I don't 
 care; and I don't know where he is, and I'm glad of it! 
 
193 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SIiLECTTONS No. 3. 
 
 DoixiE (aside). How strangely she behaves, and how 
 slightingly she speaks of dear Dick. (Aloud.) Dick forgot 
 to give me my bag. 
 
 Ada. Bag.' I wish there never had been sucha thing 
 as a bag invented. Dollie Boston, I have arrived at the 
 conclusion that the world is all saw-dust! Yes I have; if 
 you contradict me, I shall make a face at you ! 
 
 DoLi.iE. I have no intention of contradicting you, for I 
 am not at all decided in my own mind as to what the world 
 really is composed of. Scientists assert 
 
 Ada. Bother scientists! What do I care for scientists? 
 Scientists are men, aren't they? 
 
 Dollie. Many of them are. But so is Dick a man. 
 
 Ada. a man! Alas! Dollie Boston, never trust a man! 
 I have had proof this very morning that of all the deceitful- 
 ereatures on the face of this horrible globe, a certain man 
 who is nearer to you and me than he deserves to be, is the 
 most deceitful. 1 have discovered that a man professing to 
 adore a trusting girl is, at the same moment when he is vow- 
 ing all manner bf things to her, on the most familiar terms 
 with another lady. What do you think of that for a man? 
 
 Doi.i.iK (confusedly). Think of it? (Aside.) She plainly 
 means to impress me ; she said she did not know where 
 Dick was and was glad of it— and how she said alas, when 
 I informed her that Dick was a man. Is it possible that she 
 knows of some defection of Dick's and would warn me ? Is 
 it that which caused her to say she wanted to have me with 
 her all this day, and invented the plea of an inspection of" 
 the wedding outfit that she might have me in privacy and 
 so take occasion to tell me all— or at least hint at it? for she 
 is his sister and would hardly accuse him openly. Is it pos- 
 sible of Dick? (Aloud.) Ada, whatever do you mean by 
 these odd words ? Tell me. . 
 
 Ada. I mean that in this room at this present moment 
 there is a mucb, deceived girl, and that I am going to avenge 
 her, and -and (weeping)— oh, I must go to mamma! I must 
 go to mamma! Bah ! (Makes face and runs out.) 
 
 Dollie. A much deceived girl in this room at this pres- 
 ent moment, and she is going to avenge her! What am I 
 to make of it all? To whom does she refer? 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLKMENT. 199 
 
 Dick {coming in at door, and not perceiving Dottie). I could 
 not stay and listen to his raptures about the woman of his 
 choice, while I felt the probability of the object of my own 
 choice being a failure. And my own sister, in whose veins 
 flows my father's and mother's blood, immediately flew at 
 the notion that it was a chill, and suggested quinine. A 
 sister, mind you! Quinine! ye gods! 
 
 DoLLiE. I cannot bear to believe ill of him; and yet he 
 appears worried»-nay, positively as though he tried to con- 
 ceal a harassing something. But I shall not let him perceive 
 tliat his sister has influenced me. (Calls cheerfully.) , Dick! 
 
 Dick (sJartinji). I did not expect to find her here. {Aloud.) 
 How de do, DoUie ! 
 
 DoLLiE (aside). How de do, Dollie ! Would an innocent 
 man say that? This is a beautiful beginning. Was he ex- 
 erting himself to blind his mother and father when he was 
 so kind and attentive to me a little while ago?— desiring 
 that I should be hurriedly shown to my room, maybe feel- 
 ing reproached in my presence? {Aloud.) You forgot to 
 give me my bag. 
 
 Dick. Bag! I wish there had never been a bag made! 
 
 DoLLiE (aside). This aversion to bags seems to run in the 
 family. {Aloud.) I fail to understand you. You are keep- 
 ing my bag from me, and I wish to have it — there is some- 
 thing in it which I need. 
 
 Dick {(uide). Something which she needs! Is it the 
 razor? Oh, daughter of Eve! (Aloud.) Was it your bag 
 which you handed me to carry when I met you on the 
 street as I hurried to the station to escort you here? 
 
 DoLLiE {a«idi). He is confused, and uses the bag as a 
 non-committal subject of conversation. (Aloud, coldly.) To 
 be sure it was my bag; whose else could it be? I am not 
 an express company, carrying around the world's luggage 1 
 hope! 
 
 Dick (atide). This is not her ordinary warm and open 
 demeanor. (Aloud.) Positively your bag? 
 
 Dollie. Positively I do not understand you ; what do you 
 mean? 
 
 Dick (aside). She evades an answer. (Aloud.) I mean 
 nothing — I never mean anything. 
 
200 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 DoLLiE (nsirle). Never means anything, doesn't he ! 
 
 Dick (rashing behind cliair and picking up the bag, which 
 he holds up, sai/ing excitedly). So this is yours, is it?— yours? 
 — your very own? 
 
 DoLLiE. Mine ! my very own ! I know itby the broken lock! 
 
 Dick. And you declare that its contents are your own 
 private property for your own use and adornment? 
 
 Doi.LiE. What a rigmarole ! {Aside.) Surely the bag is 
 used as a non-committal subject! This is the manner of 
 a guilty man I (Aloud.) I answer your question by request- 
 ing you to let me have the bag. 
 
 Dick (asidf). Again she evades a direct answer. (Aloud.) 
 Pray answer my question the way I wish it answered! 
 
 DoixiE (Aside). I am actually becoming afraid of him. 
 (Aloud.) ] yield to the nonsense of the situation and an- 
 swer, yes, the contents of that bag are my own private 
 property, for my own individual and personal use and be- 
 hoof. Is that sufficiently comprehensive? But now I re- 
 fuse to have the bag; I see plainly that there is something 
 behind all this, and that you do not intend to be open with 
 me, — 1 can guess at the reason of your reticence ; your sister 
 has generously hinted at the truth. Sir, I am astonished at 
 your effrontery and lack of manliness. I leave you to your 
 own reflections and shall, in order to prevent gossip, to- 
 morrow act in the capacity of your sister's bridesmaid ; after 
 which you and I shall never stand together again— we are 
 strangers henceforth. (Eurit.) 
 
 Dick. In the name of all that's horrible, was there ever 
 so deep a woman as this, with her razor and pair of silk 
 suspenders! She throws the blame on me, accuses me of 
 unmanliness when she finds herself trapped. That's a wo- 
 man, all the world over! And I thought her the sweetest, 
 most unsophisticated of creatures ! She has even dared to 
 say that Ada has hinted at something detrimental to me. 
 She has taken to heart something which Ada has said ; for 
 my sister has probably found out that she has been treating 
 me shamefully— that is why Ada would not leave us alone 
 together, and was so anxious to have her look at the wed- 
 ding finery. My sister has found out something, anc^. has 
 warned her that she must not further attempt to deceive 
 
, DBAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 201 
 
 me. And she tur^s it about and throws some vague blame 
 on me, and — Ada, Ada, you were true to me, even 
 though you recommended quinine. Oh, horrible, horrible! 
 And yet 1 must go to father and beseech him to notice noth- 
 ing to-morrow, and not to comment upon any constraint 
 which he, in his satisfaction over Ada's happiness, may 
 notice in Dollie Boston or me. Let me remember the Spar- 
 tan youth who smtled while the fox gnawed at his vitals. 
 
 Exit Dick, carxj/ing the bag. Enter Ada and Warford; Ada hat 
 Warford's bag, and is hauglUy in her carriage. 
 
 Wakpord. Really, Ada, I cannot comprehend this treat- 
 ment. I ask you for my bag, and you vouchsafe me not a 
 word in reply, but motioning me to follow, you lead the 
 way to this room. 
 
 Ada. So that papa may not hear. My father is cele- 
 brated for his gentle disposition ; these gentle dispositions 
 are the most reckless when aroused. I am firmly persuaded 
 that were he to know all, your life would be in danger. 
 
 AVarfokd. My life in danger if your father wei'e to know 
 all! All what? 
 Ada. Mamma knows; I have just told her! 
 AVarford. Told her what? 
 Ada. That this is your bag. 
 
 Warford. AVhat has my bag got to do with it?— I would 
 have told her so much myself. 
 Ada. You would? 
 
 AVarford. More; I would announce my ownership of 
 that bag to the whole world, if it were desirable to make 
 such acknowledgment an international episode. 
 Ada Do not insult me with ill-timed jests, Mr. AVarford ! 
 AVarford. Mider AVarford ! This is the most remarkable 
 proceeding with which I have ever had to do. You meet 
 me as I enter the house, all smiles and cajoleries; every 
 member of your family is delighted to see me on the day 
 before the wedding. A few minutes later and you, tht 
 bride-elect, are antipodal to even common courtesy. Youi 
 
 brother also 
 
 Ada. AA'^hatof him? 
 
 A^AKPORD. AVhile in the room assigned to me, he acted 
 2k* 
 
202 ONE HUNDIIED CHOICE" SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 in the most remarkable manner, paid no attention to any- 
 tliing 1 said, and with a well-detined expression of disgust 
 on his countenance he suddenly and without excuse lelt 
 my presence, ( Walks angrily up and down.) 
 
 Ada {aside). Then Dick doea know, and would not tell 
 me— would actually allow me to go to the altar and plight 
 my troth to this man, and never take me into the miserable 
 secret! The perfidy of man! I would not trust my own 
 great-grandfather after this! And yet I must assume the 
 position of a court of equity in this matter and use law and 
 justice both. {Aloud.) Will you be good enough to pause 
 in your perambulations, Mr. Warford, and attend to me? 
 Is this your bag, sir? 
 
 Wakpord {stopping in front of her). Ada, I am positively 
 annoyed. Of course it is my bag; and you know that it is. 
 
 Ada. Pray answer my questions, and reserve to yourself 
 elaborate expressions which are not to the point. Are the 
 articles in this bag your own personal property? 
 
 Warford. Of course they are. Have you been looking — 
 
 Ada. Never mind me ; attend to my questions. When 
 you arrived to-day, you spoke of some business which had 
 detained you from coming earlier to me. 
 
 Warford. It was a little afiair of a private nature. 
 
 Ada. Without doubt. 
 
 AVarford. What do you mean by "Without doubt?" 
 
 Ada. Simply " Without doubt ;'' nothing more, I assure 
 you. And that little affair? 
 
 Warford. I made several trifling purchases of wearing 
 apparel, in fact a collar or so 
 
 Ada {aside). He does not say a lace collar, though. Oh, 
 slyness! 
 
 Warford. A handkerchief or two, all that I had being 
 packed in my truuK 
 
 Ada {aside). He does not say that it was a point-lace 
 handkerchief or two. 
 
 Warford. I believe there was also a pair of silk 
 
 Ada. Yes, yes, I know ! {Aside.) I can stand this no longer I 
 
 Wadfohd {aside). What can possibly be the truth of all 
 this? Her manner! her brother's manner when I praised 
 and extolled her! Can it be? — is it possible that she is en- 
 
DRAMATIC SUrPLPMENT. 203 
 
 deavoring to force me into a quarrel ?— that she desir«s to 
 break oft' our marriage even at this late date, and is pur- 
 posely keeping my bag from me that she may ask irrelevant 
 questions, and irritate me into saying something harsh and 
 BO jilt me? Is there some one else who has gained her 
 heart? I did not like her sending Dollie Boston to her 
 room before presenting me -Dollie Boston might have told 
 the truth in her mode of treating me, for Dollie is Dick's 
 fiancee, and naturally sides with his sister. Yes, there is no 
 gainsaying it; a flash of intuition informs me that Ada has 
 bestowed her affections upon some one else, and intends 
 that there shall be no marriage to-morrow. That one so 
 fair should be so subtle! (Aloud.) Miss Padelthorp, it 
 would be useless to pretend ignorance of your motive ; I 
 own to understanding your conduct. 
 
 Ada (aside). He owns to it! oh, my heart! 
 
 Warford. At fi rst I was desirous of palliatfng the oficnce ; 
 but your retaining possession of that bae; proves to me that 
 you would say more, and that on the strength of having me 
 talk about the bag 
 
 Ada (aside, her hand rver her heart). My heart will break! 
 He acknowledges all! 
 
 W artokd. You will have it so. And if it be your desire — 
 
 Enter Mrs. Padelthorp. 
 
 Mrs. p. It is her desire ! 
 
 Ada. Oh, mamma, mamma! (Rum to her mother and 
 hides her face upon her neck.) 
 
 Mrs. p. My poor injured darling! / will be your par- 
 tisan. Leave us, dear child !— there is sure to be a scene, 
 and witnessing it you would only suffer the more. 
 
 Warpord (aside). A scene! The mother is to explain to 
 me about the other fellow. 
 
 Mrs. p. Go, dear! There, kiss me, and go. 
 
 Ada weepingly kisses her mother, looks at Warford, then cnjing, 
 "Oh, oh, oh!" rushes from the stage, carrying the bag with tier. 
 
 Mrs. P. Mr. Warford! 
 Warford. Mrs. Padelthorp! 
 
 Mrs. p. (aside.) The very assurance of a culprit. He is 
 acting as remarkably as a brazen kettle without a lid. 
 
204 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE S; LECTIO. S No. 3. 
 
 (Aloud.) My daughter has, I presume, informed you that 
 under existing circumstances, the ceremony of to-morrow 
 would be a liarce. 
 
 Warfokd. Or a tragedy. 
 
 Mrs. p. {aside.) AVould he murder the child at the altar' 
 Oh, if the reporters should get hold of this! 
 
 Warford. Your daughter, madam, has done what she 
 could to make it patent to me that my coming here wair 
 something of a burlesque which might have a transforma- 
 tion scene into the tragical. 
 
 Mrs. p. Ah, I see; you refer to her father's treatment of 
 you, should he find you still here after the disclosure my 
 daughter made to me a few minutes since. 
 
 Warford {aside). Only a few minutes ago? Then she 
 has deceived her parents as well, and has told them only 
 after I entered the house, and while I was intent upon 
 thinking of to-morrow's bliss. (Aloud.) She did mention 
 something about the anger of her father; I trust he will 
 not be seriously offended ; you know " Women are change- 
 able," as tlio song has it. 
 
 Mrs. p. (aside.) The cool audacity of the man is over- 
 whelming. And yet I must not let him see that I take any- 
 thing too much to heart. I must get him away before 
 Ebsnezer comes in, for Ebenezer's happy disposition will 
 never accuse the man sufficiently, and Ada will appear 
 trifling in the eyes of this wretch. (Aloud.) Ebenezer — 
 that is, Mr. Padelthorp, has a most violent temper which, 
 when aroused, is difficult to quell. (A.^id^.) I hope Eben- 
 ezer will forgive me; he has the temper of A, lamb; nay, of 
 a leg of lamb with mint-sauce and French peas. (Aloud.) 
 And so, I thought that if you would take the next train and 
 leave us, a very miserable scene might be averted. 
 
 Warford (aside). They are in a terrific hurry to be rid 
 of me. Can it be that the other fellow will take my once- 
 expected place to-m.orrow? (Aloud.) There will, then, be 
 no ceremony to-morrow? 
 
 Mrs. P. (aside.) Such double-dyed heartlessness ! And 
 yet I must keep calm. I will, to prevent his making a 
 scandal of the whole thing— I will tell him how Ada hopes 
 that she may prevail upon Dollie to take her place to-mor- 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 205 
 
 row, with Dick for the bridegroom ; and as the ceremony 
 was to be strictly private, and only the clergyman and onr 
 family were expected at Ada's wedding, there will seem to 
 have been some mistake about the affair, which mistake 
 was not ours. I fear it is weak logic, but it is the best that 
 I can command just now — Ada must not be talked about. 
 Oh, to get this man away before Dick knows anything 
 and has no occasion to be bloodthirsty! (Alotid.) What 
 did you observe? 
 
 Warfokd. That there would be no ceremony to-morrow? 
 
 Mrs. p. There may be a ceremony to-morrow, but nat- 
 urally you will not be one of the high-contracting parties. 
 
 Warforp. Madam, I am answered. Allow me to go for 
 my hat. (-EM.) 
 
 Dollie Boston runs in. 
 
 DoLLiE (weeping). I waited until your visitor had gone 
 before I ventured in. I am lo-looking for my b-bag. 
 
 Mrs. p. Why what is the matter, child? Have we not 
 enough sorrow without yours? 
 
 DoLLiE {atide). Her sorrow is Dick's carrying-on. (Aloud.) 
 I respect your sorrow, dear Mrs. Padelthorp, and I shall 
 always be a friend to you and Mr. Padelthorp and dear 
 Ada ; but I want my b-bag. 
 
 Mrs. P. Your sympathy for my trouble adds a new grace 
 to you, dear Dollie. You shall always be a loved daughter 
 to me, and after the ceremony to-morrow 
 
 DoLLiE.- I shall have nothing to do with any ceremony 
 to-morrow ; I am going home now ; 1 am looking for my bag. 
 
 Mrs. P. What in the name of all that's trying! Hasn't 
 Ada been to tell you about the changes in to-morrow's pro- 
 gramme ? 
 
 Dollie. I have not seen Ada since she told me about 
 the perfidy of a man whom I had thought the soul of honor. 
 
 Mrs. p. Yes, it is terrible. My only fear is that my hus- 
 band will find it out before the wretch leaves the house — 
 which he will do in a very few moments (weeping). 
 
 Dqllie. Don't ! don't ! I can't bear to think of his being 
 turned away. I want my bag ; it had my handkerchiefs in it ; 
 I have wetted this one through and through with my tears. 
 
206 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 Mrs. p. But to-morrow tears must end. 
 
 ])oi.LiE. Not my tears. 
 
 Mrs. p. But I had hoped that Ada had persuaded you 
 about the wedding. 
 
 DoLWE. I cannot stay for that wedding. I could not do 
 it — I should die. 
 
 Mrs. P. [aside.) Then she does not love Dick! And I 
 have been almost a suppliant at the feet of a fickle girl. 
 [Almid and seriously.) Under the circumstances, then, per- 
 haps it is as well that you should go. 
 
 Doi.LiE (in great anguish). Even his mother turns against 
 me for not going against myself. [Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. p. My heart will burst! My daughter promised to 
 marry the falsest of men, my son engaged to a girl who 
 jilts iiim at such a time as this! Let me go to my room! 
 Oh, here is Ebenezer ! (EmU at side.) 
 
 Elder at lop of stage Mr. P. and Dick, who carries DolUe's bag. 
 
 Mr. p. (happily.) So you want me to keep quiet, do you, 
 until to-morrow's ceremony is over. It appears to me that 
 you are making a mountain out of a mole-hill. If the young 
 lady has a passion for razors, and the like, let us call it an 
 idiosyncrasy and have her life in.sured. 
 
 Dick. Father, you treat the matter altogether too lightly. 
 1 have done with her. 
 
 Mr. p. Well, have done with her and these heroics at 
 one and the same time. If there Ls anything I dislike, it is 
 a ruffling of the happy temperament I am usually in. I 
 hate a fuss. 
 
 Dick. My fear was that you might make what is called a 
 fuss about it. 
 
 M.R. v. (laughing.) I! blesg your heart; I am going to 
 make a fuss about nothing ; I intend to keep up an abso- 
 lutely seraphic state of mind until Ada's wedding is over. 
 The dear child, the apple of her father's eye, shall see me 
 the merriest of you all. I believe I could dance now if I 
 tried (dances). 
 
 Dick. This is a father for you! 
 
 Mr. p. Ne, Dick, my boy, I honor you too much to take 
 any heed of your little tiff with Dollie, — for I insist upon 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 207 
 
 saying you have had a tiff because you have discovered that 
 she is tlie bearded-lady and shaves. 
 
 Dick. Why, father, I have discovered nothing of the sort. 
 
 Mk. p. Haven't you just told me that you found a razor 
 in her satchel? And are not razors intended for shaving? 
 
 Dick. I told you only so much, and left you to dra'V 
 your own conclusions. 
 
 Me. p. I never conclude ; we are compelled to change 
 our opinions too often to be conclusive about anything. And 
 as for drawing, why you couldn't tell my horses from my 
 flies when I used to make pictures to amuse you and Ada. 
 
 DlCK (aside). He is so much impressed with Ada's happi- 
 ness that he will see nothing clearly. Perhaps I should have 
 been wiser had I said not a word, and allowed to-morrow 
 to provide for itself— and yet 
 
 Mr. p. There, Dicky, my son, go and make your peace 
 with Dollie, and give her her razor and show her how to 
 shave around her pretty dimples. 
 
 Dick. Your levity is simply insulting, father. (Exit) 
 
 Mr. P. What! Ha! Insulting, eh ! and calls a seraphic 
 state of mind levity ! How dare he speak thus to me! My 
 own son, in my own house, to tell me that I am insulting 
 and given to levity ! [Strides up and dovm. Enter Mrs. P.) 
 
 Mrs. p. Poor Ebenezer! I have come to him for com- 
 fort, and find him comfortless. He knows all— Ada must 
 have told him, although she promised to say not a word. 
 You can never trust an angry woman to keep quiet. And 
 yetit is a relief .to me that he knows; we can sympathize 
 together. {Aloud.) Don't take it so hard, Ebenezer, don't. 
 
 Mr. p. [nhsennng her for the first time.) Yes, I will, Nancy ; 
 I shall take it just as hard as ever I please— harder, if I am 
 BO inclined ! 
 
 Mrs. p. Well, I'm sure you needn't snap off my head 
 about it. 
 
 Mr. p. Yes, I will, if I want to— I— I mean who wants 
 to snap off your head ? 
 
 Mrs. p. [aside.) He emphasizes my head— he calls it 
 your head, as though it were inferior to every other head 
 that tops a pair of shoulders. [Aloud.) How dare you, sir, 
 to cast reflections upon the head of your wife of nearly a 
 quarter of a century? 
 
208 ONE IIUNDKEO CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 Mr. p. And one of our children, the most ridiculous 
 child that was ever called the offspring of a peaceable man, 
 oh, woman! 
 
 Mrs. p. Don't call me a woman. And I can only hope that 
 you do not refer to yourself as a peaceable man. And also 
 allow me to say that the child you so cuttingly refer to is as 
 injured a child as ever said " Mother" to a loving woman! 
 
 Mr. p. You refer to yourself as a loving woman, do you? 
 Yet you take umbrage at the term woman with the adjective 
 left off. Such is your sex ! 
 
 Mrs. P. Don't call me my sex, Ebenezer; I really will 
 not stand it ! First I am ridiculed in my head, then I am 
 deprecatingly called a woman, and lastly I am denominated 
 my sex! I insist that the child whom you say is ridic- 
 ulous 
 
 Mr. p. And impudent, and unfilial, and full of nonsensi- 
 cal talk about razors, and the like ! 
 
 Mrs. p. Razors! Ebenezer, you have been drinking; 
 your tongue is uncertain! You may stigmatize my head, 
 you may call me a woman or a sex ; anything may be ex- 
 l)ected from an intoxicated person 1 
 
 Mu. P. Who is intoxicated? I am sober as a judge — 
 soberer ; I am sober as yourself. 
 
 Mrs. P. You evidently intend that as an apologetic com- 
 pliment. 
 
 Mu. P. I intend it as a biting reproach I 
 
 Mrs. P. And this is the man I likened to a baked leg of 
 lamb! he is a deviled-crab, full of curry powder! Ebenezer, 
 >'our reproaches are on a par with your anger against your 
 shamefully used child, — that anger which I at first supposed 
 WiH the indignation of an incensed parent." 
 
 Mu. P. I am an incensed parent ; you never saw a parent 
 more incensed than this one. And when my child openly 
 humiliates me because of an innocertt razor 
 
 Mrs. p. I cannot understand ; why do you say "an in- 
 nocent razor?" 
 
 Mil. P. AVould you expect me to say a guilty razor? I 
 am afraid you are asleep ! 
 
 Mrs. p. I wish you were as wide awake! 
 
 Mr. p. I should, in that case, believe that I had the night- 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 209 
 
 Mes. p. Night-donkey, rather, you intoxicated cieature! 
 
 Mr. p. Nancy, address me as an intoxicated creature 
 once more, and I shall call you a woman all the rest of 
 your life ! 
 
 Mrs. p. I really apprehend personal violence, you in- 
 toxicated creature ! Hejp! help! Ada! Dick! 
 
 Enter Ada mth bag on her arm; she goes to her mother. Enter 
 Dick with bag on his arm ; he goes and takes hold of his father ; 
 Mrs. P. all tijf time calling "Help!" 
 
 Dick. Father, father, calm yourself! 
 
 Mr. p. I will not; I don't want to 'calm myself; I 
 wouldn't be calm for anything. And all your fault! 
 
 Mrs. p. Help! help! O Ada! O Dick! your father 
 called me a sex, and a woman, and said horrible things 
 about my poor old head ! 
 
 IrlR. P. She said I was an intoxicated creature ! 
 
 Mrs. p. He insisted upon speaking about razors, and no 
 one who is not under the influence of liquor would have 
 •thought of such a thing! 
 
 Ada. Razors! What does he mean? 
 
 Mrs. P. You'd better not ask him ; he'll call you a wo- 
 man too ! 
 
 • Mr. p. Then I'll give the information without being 
 asked. Dick, here, gave me any amount of impudence 
 simply because when he told me that DoUie uses a razor, 
 I said that possibly she wore a beard. 
 
 Dick. I never told you that she uses a razor ! 
 
 Mr. p. Don't add to your flagrancy by accusing me of 
 falsehood ! 
 
 Ada. Dollie use a razor! AVhat does he mean? 
 
 Um. P. And yet he insists that he is not intoxicated! 
 Ada, when you found your father in this condition, how 
 coiUd you tell him your trouble? 
 
 Ada. I told him nothing. 
 
 Mrs. p. Nothing? Then it is positively delirium tremens. 
 
 AnA. But a razor?— Dollie use a razor? 
 
 Mr. p. I have only your brother's word for it; he found 
 a razor in her bag. 
 
 Ada. In her bagf 
 
 Mr. p. There it is upon his arm. 
 
210 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 Ada. Why, it is like this one upon my arm! 
 
 Mr. p. I suppose yours is a whole magazine of dangerous 
 articles? 
 
 Ada. It certainly carries with it danger to my happiness. 
 
 Dick. As its fellow carries danger to mine. 
 
 Mrs. p. Whose bags are they?— they are precisely alike. 
 
 Ada. This is his! 
 
 Dick. This is hers ! 
 .Ada. His contains a part of a lady's wardrobe! oh! 
 
 Dick, ^ers a part of a gentleman's! There ! the story id 
 out! I cannot understand it that Warford 
 
 Ada. Don't disparage Warford. And your DoUie 
 
 Mrs. p. Ebenezer! 
 
 Mr. p. Nancy ! 
 
 EiiUr Dollie Boston in bonnet and cloak. Enter Warford, over- 
 coat on, hut in hand. 
 
 Dollie. My bag {running tcrAda and catching hold of bag) ! 
 I am going home ! 
 
 AVarford. My bag (running to Dick and catching hold of 
 hag) ! I must catch the train ! 
 
 Ada. This is not your bag, Dollie! 
 
 Dick. This is not yours, Warford I 
 
 Dollie. Ada, that is surely mine— and yet the lock of 
 mine was broken. 
 
 Ada (opening bag and taking out gloves). Are these your 
 gloves, Dollie? — seven and a-half gentleman's? 
 
 Warford. They are mine — the color of your wedding 
 gown! 
 
 Dick (to Dollie). Is this your razor? 
 
 Dollie. No, but those are my gloves— the color of Ada's 
 wedding gown ! I stopped to get them this morning on my 
 M'ay through your principal street here, before I met you, 
 Dick. 
 
 Warford. As I stopped to get mine. That is my razor ; 
 those are my silk suspenders — gracious powers! the second 
 flash of intuition which has seized me within a half hour, 
 informs me that you, Miss Boston — that you are the lady 
 who stood beside me at the glove counter with a bit of silk 
 matching some gloves, as I was doing. I see it all — our 
 bags are alike — we placed them on the counter; in the 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 211 
 
 hurry to get to Ada, I took your bag, threw in my gloves, 
 and rushed off; you put your gloves into my bag and 
 
 Dick. Dollie, Dollie, can you ever forgive me for the 
 jealous things I have thought of you on account of your 
 gloves being mixed up with the razor? 
 
 DoLLiB. Can you forgive me for the jealous things I 
 thought of you, without even a razor and a pair of gloves to 
 give a little plausibility to the thought? 
 
 Ada. O Alfred, I feared your bag held articles belong- 
 ing to a lady whom you cared more for than you did for me. 
 
 Warpobd. And I had murderoUs thoughts of some other 
 fellow. 
 
 Mrs. p. O Ebenezer ! 
 
 Mr. p. O Nancy ! we boasted of the happiness of mar- 
 ried life, and quarreled for the first time since our wedding. 
 I even lost my seraphic state of mind and , 
 
 Mrs. p. Come to my arms, you lamb; your seraphic 
 state of mind shall return to you. 
 
 Mr. p. Never, never! 
 
 DoLUE. It might! 
 
 Dick. It could ! 
 
 Ada. It would ! 
 
 Warford. It should! 
 
 Mr. p. {brightening.) Oh, if my seraphic state of mind is 
 to be made a grammatical mood, then I am helpless. My 
 seraphic state of mind has returned ! Take your partners 
 for % dance! come, mother! My seraphic state of mind 
 shall stay by me all this day at any rate, if for no other 
 reason than because to-day is 
 
 Mrs. p. 
 
 Ada. 
 
 Warfokd. 
 Dollie. 
 Dick. , 
 
 The day before the wedding! 
 Music, dance; in the midst of which curtain falls. 
 
212 ONE HUNDBED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 BALCONY SCENE FROM ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 CapuleCi orchard. Enter Romeo. 
 
 Romeo. He jests at Ecars that never felt a wound. 
 
 [^Juliet appears above, at a vnndovt. 
 But, soft ! what light through yonder window breaks? . 
 It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! 
 Arise, 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, 'tis not to me she speaks. 
 Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
 Having some business, do intreat her eyes 
 To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
 What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 
 The brightness of her cheek would shame "those stars, 
 As daylight doth a lamp ; her eyes in heaven 
 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. Ay me ! 
 
 Rom. She speaks. — 
 
 Oh, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art 
 As glorious to this night, being o'er my bead, 
 As is a winged messenger of heaven 
 Upon the white-upturned wondering eyes 
 Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 
 When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds 
 And ^ils upon the bosom of the air. 
 
 Jul. Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou Romeo? 
 Deny thy father and refuse thy name ; 
 Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, 
 And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 
 
 Rom. (aside.) Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? 
 
 Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy ; 
 Thou art tayself, though not a Montague. 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 213 
 
 What's Montague ? it is nor hand, nor foot, 
 Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part 
 Belonging to a man. Oh, be some other name !— 
 What's in a name ? that which we call a rose 
 By any other name would smell as sweet ; 
 So Komeo would, were he not Romeo called, 
 Retain that dear perfection which he owes 
 Without that title.— Romeo, doff thy itome, 
 And for thy name, which is no part of thee. 
 Take all myself. 
 
 Rom. I take thee at thy word : 
 
 Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized ; 
 Henceforth I never will be Romeo. 
 
 Jul. What man art thou, that, thus bescreencd in night. 
 So stumblest on my counsel ? 
 
 lloM. 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 ; 
 Had I it written, I would tear the word. 
 
 Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words 
 Of thy tongue's utterance,, yet I know the sound. 
 Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ? 
 
 Rom. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike. 
 
 Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore ? 
 The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, 
 And the place death, considering who thou art, 
 If any of my kinsmen flnd_ thee here. 
 
 RoM. 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 let to me. 
 
 Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. 
 
 Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye 
 Than twenty of their swords : look thou but sweet, 
 And I am proof against their enmity. 
 
 Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. 
 
 Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes ; 
 And, but thou love me, let them find me here ; 
 My life were better ended by their hate. 
 Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 
 
 Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place ? 
 
 RoM. By love, that first did prompt me to inquire ; 
 He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 
 
214 ONE UUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far 
 
 As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, 
 
 I would adventure for such merchandise. 
 
 Jvu 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, fainj fain deny 
 What I have spoke^ but ferewell compliment ! 
 Dost thou love me 7 1 know thou wilt say ''Ay," 
 And I will take thy word ; yet, if thou swear'st, 
 Thou mayst prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, 
 They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, 
 • if thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully; 
 Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won, 
 I'll frown and be perversfe, 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 mayst 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, 
 A nd not impute this yielding to light love, 
 AVhich the dark night hath so discovered. 
 
 RoM. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear. 
 That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops, 
 
 Jul. Oh, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moou, 
 That monthly changes in her circled orb, 
 Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 
 
 Rom. What shall I swear by ? 
 
 Jul. Do not swear at all ; 
 
 Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
 Which is the god of my idolatry, 
 And I'll believe thee. 
 
 RoM. If my heart's dear love 
 
 Jul. 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 
 
DRAMATIC SUPI'LEMEXT. 215 
 
 C<ime to thy heart as that within my breast ! 
 
 KoM. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? 
 
 Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? 
 
 RoM. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. 
 
 Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it ; 
 And yet I would it were to give again. 
 
 Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love? 
 
 Jul. But to be franlc, and give \t thee again, 
 And yet I wish but for the thing I have ; 
 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. [Nurse calls vjithin. 
 1 hear some noise within ; dear love, adieu ! — 
 Anon, good nurse ! — Sweet Montague, be true. 
 Stay but a little, I will come again. {Kxii. 
 
 Rom. O 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. 
 
 Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night, indeed. 
 If that thy bent of love be honorable. 
 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 follow thee niy lord throughout the world. 
 
 Nurse (««(/iin). Madam! 
 
 Jul. I come, anon. — But if thou mean'st not well, 
 I do beseech thee — 
 
 Nurse (within). Madam ! 
 
 Jul. By and by, I come : — 
 
 To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: 
 To-morrow 1 will send. 
 
 RoM. So thrive my soul,— 
 
 ~JuL. A thousand times good-night ! [Ent. 
 
 Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. 
 Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books. 
 But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. 
 
 IRetiring slowly. 
 Re-enter Juliet, above. 
 
 Jul. Hist ! Romeo, hist!— Oh, for a falconer's voice, 
 To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! 
 
216 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 3. 
 
 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 mine. 
 With repetition of my Komeo's name. 
 
 KoM. It is my soul that calls upon my name ; 
 How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, 
 Like softest music to attending ears ! 
 
 Jul. Romeo ! 
 
 Rom. My dear? 
 
 Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow 
 
 Shall I send to thee? 
 
 Rom. At the hour of nine. 
 
 Jul. I will not fail ; 'tis twenty years till then. 
 I have forgot why I did call thee back. 
 
 RoM. Let me stand here till thou remember it. 
 
 Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 
 Remembering how 1 love thy company. 
 
 Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, 
 Forgetting any other home but this. 
 
 Jul. 'Tis almost morning ; I would have thee gone. 
 And yet no further than a wanton's bird, 
 Who lets it hop a little fVom her hand, 
 Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, 
 And with a silk thread plucks it back again, 
 So loving-jealous of his liberty. 
 
 Rom. I would I were thy bird. 
 
 Jul. 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. [Kni. 
 
 Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast i 
 Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest ! 
 Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, 
 His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. [ Exil- 
 
DBAMATIO SUPPLEMENT 
 
 — TO— 
 
 One Hundred Choice Selections, No. 4. 
 
 This Supplemeflt will be forwarded to any address, ptfst-paid, on receipt ol 
 Ten Cents (or three copies for Twenty- Five Cents), by addressing 
 P. Gakrbtt & Co., Publishers, 708 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 WHERE'S MY HAT?— Robebt C. V. Meyeks. 
 
 CHARACTKKS. 
 Mr. Frkderick FfiLix. 
 Mrs. Frbdf.rick Felix 
 MARoEav, the nmid. 
 Tenpennv, the cabman. 
 
 Scene. — Room in Mr. Felix's house. Mrs. F. in evening dress, 
 sealed, putting on her gl(/ves; Mr. F. standing cU a table read- 
 ing from a book, 
 
 Mr. Felix. In a moment, Evelyn. I will read this one 
 extract to you, then I will get my hat. 
 
 Mrs. FiiLix. Yes, dear. But we must hurry ; the carriage 
 has been waiting ten minutes, the cabman is impatient, and 
 mamma w'U think we're not coming. 
 
 Mr. F. Listen, my darling. [Reads.) "It is remarkable 
 how trifling are the things which frequently ruin the peace 
 of the most aflFectionate couples. A chance word, an inflec- 
 tion even, has been known to destroy the happiness of a 
 husband and wife, which would have withstood grievances 
 of heroic proportions. A mislaid article has been the occa- 
 sion of so much marital disturbance " 
 
 Mrs. F. Very true, but inapplicable. I cannot conceive 
 if by you should read such books. We never quarrel ; trifles, 
 or matters of heroic proportions never molest us. While as 
 
 Copyright, 188(>, by P. Gabbett Hi Co. 
 
194 ONE HUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 4. 
 
 for misplaced articles There, Fred, my dear, do get youT 
 
 hat ; we must go. 
 
 Mr. F. Yes, yes, Evelyn. And of course {looking for his 
 hat) the books do not touch upon our particular case. But 
 they make us stronger to resist should a time of trial come. 
 
 Mrs. F. In our case it shall never come. 
 
 Me. F. I am positive of that, darling. (Looking about him.) 
 Where's my hat ? 
 
 Mrs. F. {bvMed with her g-oves.) Now if I'd accepted Charley 
 Gibson, it would have been so different. 
 
 Mr. F. Yes, Charley has an irritable temper. Where can 
 that hat be ? 
 
 Mrs. F. While I should have been dreadfully put upon, 
 
 for I have such a forgiving What in the world is the 
 
 matter? What have you lost? 
 
 Mr. F. I have lost nothing , I am looking for my hat. 
 
 Mrs. F. But in such odd places. 
 
 Mr. F. I am sure I placed it on the table when I came 
 down-stairs. 
 
 Mhs. F. You must be mistaken, for it's not there. 
 
 Me. F. I see it's not there. 
 
 Mrs. F. If you had put it there, it would be there now. 
 
 Mr. F. I distinctly remember standing it upon a pair of 
 gloves 
 
 Mrs. F. I had forgotten ; they were my gloves— I raised 
 your hat to get them. 
 
 Me. F. AVhere did you put my hat aftfer that? 
 
 Mrs. F. Where I found it,, of course. 
 
 Mr. F. You are sure you did not place it anywhere else?. 
 
 Mrs. F. I am not in the habit of misplacing articles. Be- 
 sides anything so prominent as a black silk hat 
 
 Mr. F. But you might have 
 
 Mrs. F. Might have thrown it from the window I sup- 
 pose. Do be sensible, Frederick. 
 
 Mr. F. I shall try to be. All the same, the hat's gone. 
 
 Mrs. F. Impossible ! 
 
 Me. F. Do you see it ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Of course not ! 
 
 Mr. F. Then it is gone. 
 
 Mrs. F. It can't be gone; don't be ridiculous! 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 19,j 
 
 Mr. F. Evelyn, I really wish you would not call mo dis- 
 agreeable names. 
 
 Mrs. F. I have called you no names, you silly fellow ! 
 
 Mr. F. Silly fellow ! At any rate you were the last to 
 touch my hat. You have placed it somewhere ! 
 
 Mrs. F. How dare you doubt my word ! 
 
 Mr. F. You will not deny that you were the last to touch 
 my hat ? 
 
 Mrs. F. I never saw you quite so passionate. I used to 
 think that ChUrley 
 
 Mr. F. There, there, don't bring Charley Gibson into the 
 discussion. He's an idiot ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Because he cared for me, I suppose ? 
 
 Mr. F. Where's my hat? 
 
 Mrs. F. Frederick Felix, common politeness demande 
 that you should answer my question ! I insist upon know- 
 ing why Charley Gibson is an idiot. 
 
 Mb. F. Evelyn, I insist upon knowing what you have 
 done with my hat ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Because Charley Gibson proposed to me does 
 not argue that he is an idiot. You proposed to me, too. He 
 may have a hasty temper, but he — he never accused me of 
 purloining his hats. 
 
 Mr. F. I must request you to make no comparisons be- 
 tween Charley Gibson and me ! 
 
 Mrs. F. I shall do whatever I please ! 
 
 Mr. F. Not with my hats though. I want my hat ! 
 
 Mrs. F. I hope you may get it ; your want is not ex- 
 travagant. 
 
 Mr. F. Madam, don't sit there and tantalize me ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Sir, don't insult me ! 
 
 Mb. F. What did you do with my hat, then 7 
 
 Mrs. F. I did nothing with it, you shameless creature ! 
 
 Mr. F. Shameless creature ! If Charley Gibson can make 
 you act thus toward your husband 
 
 Mrs. F. He makes me act no way at all. And mamma 
 always said 
 
 Mr. F. I dare say your mamma's remarks were very valu- 
 able, hut I doubt if they will find my hat for me. 
 
 Mrs. F. {weephiq.) Oh, that I should live to hear my own 
 mother maligned ! 
 
190 ONE IIUNDRKD CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 4. 
 
 Mb. F. Evelyn, let us end this foolishness. Try to recol- 
 lect what you did with my hat. 
 
 Mrs. F. [sobbing.) What do I care for your old hat! I 
 shouldn't be surprised, as long as you hate dear mauirna, 
 that you've hidden your hat so that we couldn't go to hei 
 reception. You want to stay at home and read your hor- 
 rible books about horrible trifles and horrible misplaced 
 articles. But I will go to mamma ; 1 will stay with her ! 
 
 Mr. F. Evelyn, be a woman ! 
 
 Mrs. F. 1 am a woman, you miserable man ! I have found 
 you out ; my dear mamma maligned, an old friend called 
 an idiot because he cared for me, and I, myself, accused of 
 manufacturing places for the concealment of hats! It is 
 terrible! terrible! 
 
 Enter Margery. 
 
 Margery. Please, ma'am, the cabman says his horses has 
 had oats, and they won't wait no longer. 
 
 Mrs. F. Don't address me, Margery ; I am nothing in this 
 house. / am not responsible for tiring the poor horses. 
 
 Mr. F. Margery, for the sake of all you hold dear, tell me 
 — do you see a black silk hat in this room 'i 
 
 Margery {looking aroumfj. I seen it on the table when 
 missus took her gloves from under it. 
 - Mrs. F. Margery, did I throw it out the window 1 
 
 Margery. La! ma'am! 
 
 Mrs. F. If I did the cabman would have seen me do it. 
 Send up the cabman. 
 
 Mr. F. Evelyn, you are positively preposterous. 
 
 Mrs. F. Send up the cabman, Margery, I insist upon it. 
 {Exit Margery.) Mr. Felix, after this we can scarcely remain 
 together. You have exposed me before the servants, and 
 you have rendered me ridiculous in the eyes of a cabman! 
 
 Mr. F. Evelyn, you allow your temper undue privileges. 
 
 Enter Margery imth cabman, who carries a whip. 
 
 Mrs. F. My good man, did you see me throw a black 
 silk hat out the window 7 
 
 Tkxpenny. No ma'am. But 1 wish you had throwed it ; 
 I want a new one pretty bad. 
 
DRAMATIC SUl'PLEMENT. 197 
 
 Margery. You wish she'd throwed one, do you, Tom 
 Tenpenny ? 
 
 Tbnpenny. Now, Margery, girl, you're jealous again. 
 
 Majsgery. Me jealous ? Ho ! 
 
 Mr. F. Margery, what does this freedom mean? 
 
 Margery. This is my young man, sir, and he's not been 
 fair to me. 
 
 Tknpknny. I have! 
 
 Margery. You haven't! You like Mary, next door ! I 
 do believe missus did throw a hat out and you've got it and 
 mean to marry Mary in it ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Margery, how dare you ! 
 
 Mr. F. Margery, why do you thus throw suspicion on 
 your mistress? Evelyn, if this is some deeply laid plot to 
 keep me at home while you go to your mother's reception 
 and meet Charley Gibson 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh ! oh ! oh ! 1 wish I had thrown your old hat 
 out I I wish I'd thrown your boots, too ! I wish I'd thrown 
 myself also ! 
 
 Mr. F. Evelyn, this is the end — these hysterics divulge 
 everything ! Margery, what do you mean by implying that 
 this cabman has my hat ? 
 
 Tenpenny {angrily). I haven't got your hat! Don't call 
 me a thief! [Margery weeps. 
 
 Mr. F. I want my hat, villain ! I shall go to my mother- 
 in-law's and see if Charley Gibson is there ! [Grapples with 
 Tenpenny, who lays about him icith his whip.) 
 
 Margery. Help! help! Master's murdering Tom Ten- 
 penny ! Help ! help ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Help ! help ! Frederick Felix, you are an out- 
 law ! Let the poor man alone ! I am going to mamma's, 
 never to return to you ! 
 
 Mr. F. Where's my hat, villain? {Fighting Tenpenny; 
 Margery belaboring Mr. Felir.) 
 
 Mrs. F. Margery, let Mr. Felix alone ! 
 
 Margery. He's beating Tom ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Let him alone, I say ! I'm paralyzed ; I can't 
 move! 
 
 Mr. F. Where's my hat ! 
 
 Tenpenny. I'll brain you with my whip ! Help me. Mar- 
 
193 • ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 4. 
 
 gery ; I don't care a cent for Mary, next door ; I'll marry 
 you to-morrow. 
 
 M\KGF.R\ {heating Mr. Felix). Help! help! 
 
 Mus. F. Margery, how dare you touch my husband! 
 
 Teiipemqi urenching himself free, aims ivilh his whip at Mr. F. 
 Mrs. F. starting from her chair, throws her arms about Mr. F. 
 
 Mk. F. Let me free, false Evelyn ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Never ! never ! He reaches your dear brains 
 only over my corpse ! 
 
 Margery with a shriek has run to the chair where Mrs. F. has been 
 sealed, and now holds up the ruins of a black silk hat. 
 
 Tenpenny. Look ! That's the hat I stole, is it 7 
 
 Margery {running into /its arms). O Tom ! 
 
 Mr. F. Evelyn, you have saved my life ! 
 
 Mrs. F. O Fred, I sat upon your hat ! I must have placed 
 it on the chair when I took my gloves. Forgive me, forgive 
 me ! I despise Charley Gibson — he's worse than an idiot. 
 And now that I know what I have found in you 
 
 Margery. Tom, now that I know what I've found in 
 you 
 
 Tenpensy. Now that I know what my eye has found in 
 Mr. Felix's fist 
 
 Mr. F. Now that I have found my hat!— ah! we shall 
 not be very late, Evelyn. Where's my other hat? 
 
 All. Oh ! 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. F. embrace, as do Tenpenny and Margery, while 
 curtain falls. 
 
nRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 19^ 
 
 THE STUDENT AjnD HIS NEIGHBORS. 
 N. A. Woodward. 
 
 CHAEACTEES. 
 Deeptiiougiit, iiQ ambitious student. 
 Geaball, a iiari'ow-iDinded niiuer. 
 Van KooTf an iguorant Dutclimau. 
 SwAGOKB, a gentleniaii-at-largti. 
 SoBEOSENSE, an intelligent fitrmer. 
 ifoigYBREATH, a garrulous politician. 
 O'MuLLlQAN, an Irisli servant 
 Steepletop, a young man of pretensions. 
 
 Scene I. — Deepthoughi's study. Deepthought discovered, busily 
 engaged with his books. 
 
 Deepthought. Well, here I am, almost as ignorant as 
 ever. I have, 'tis true, been studying for some four or five 
 years past, and have a tolerably complete knowledge of sev- 
 eral of the sciences ; yet there are so many kinds of desira- 
 ble information of which I know but little, that it seems as 
 if I had only learned enough to see my own ignorance. I' 
 see plainly, that I must increase my diligence, and study 
 fourteen or fifteen instead of twelve hours a day. I am de- 
 termined yet to know something and be somebody. 
 
 ' Enter Noisybrenth. 
 
 NoisYBREATH. How now, Dcepthought, always at your 
 books. Plodding, plodding, always plodding. Why, I 
 should think you would die. Latin, Greek, Algebra— what 
 dry stuff! But, have you heard the news ? Our congress- 
 man, Anthony Doughface, elected. Esquire Skillet goes to 
 the legislature, and Pandersly is, in all probability, elected 
 governor, and most likely our candidate for the presidency 
 has succeeded. Glory enough for one day ! Hurrah ! How 
 can you study at such a time ? 
 
 Deep. Study! Why, I should rather suppose you would 
 ask how I can be idle ; you can hardly conceive how igno- 
 rant I find myself. To discipline the mind properly, and 
 store it with knowledge, requires the utmost diligence. 
 
 Noi. Discipline the mind and store it with knowledge ! 
 Why, you know enough already. If you would only read 
 
200 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIOSS No. 4. 
 
 the party papers a little, and keep up with all the shifts and 
 turns of the leaders, you might go round stumping it, and 
 «oon get elected to the legislature, or to congress. But here 
 comes our mutual friend, Graball. I must tell him the 
 news. (Enter Graball.) Good morning, friend Graball. 
 Have you heard the news ? 
 
 Graball. What news? Have any of the banks broken? 
 Who's failed ? Have stocks fallen ? Anybody gone to Can- 
 ada? Will our railroad be built? 
 
 Noi. Oh, no ! Better than all these. 
 
 Gra. Has the steamer got in, and wheat risen? A fam- 
 ine in Europe, I suppose. 
 
 Noi. No such thing. 
 
 Gra. AVhy, what then ? Come, out with it. Don't keep 
 me in suspense. I can't endure it. I don't take the papers, 
 I can't afford to these hard times. Let's have the news. 
 
 Noi. Why, our congressman is certainly elected. Skillet 
 goes to the legislature again, beyond a doubt, and Pandersly 
 is most likely the governor-elect, and our candidate for the 
 presidency victorious. Glorious, glorious! We are ahead 
 everywhere. The flag of the enemy trails in the dust. The 
 country is safe. 
 
 Gra. Oh, it's only some of your politics! What do you 
 suppose I care for all such glorious news'? Will it put money 
 in my pocket? Will it bake my bread, or advance the price 
 of village lots, stocks, or make it in any way easier for a man 
 to live in these hard times? None of this. Nothing like it. 
 I'd like to see the penny it will bring to my fob. 
 
 Noi. But it's a great victory. I knew we should beat 
 them, and said so all the time. But I must be going, for 
 the telegraphic account from the east is every minute ex- 
 pected. {Exit Koigybreath. 
 
 Gra. That fellow is eternally harping on politics. With 
 him it's politics in the morning, politics at noon, and politics 
 at night. He has spent liis whole time, this six months, in 
 electioneering, and although lie has been once elected chair- 
 man of a political meeting, and twice secretary, he has not 
 got in sight of a good, fat office yet. He expects to be post- 
 master, but he will be sadly disappointed. Well, Deep- 
 thought, how are you? 
 
Dn.VSIATIC SUPPLEMENT. 201 
 
 Deep. In good health, I thank you. How does Mr. Grab- 
 all find himself? 
 
 Gba. Very tolerable, considering how hard the times 
 are, money so scarce, and the price of bread-stuffs so varia- 
 ble. How in the world can you afford to spend yoiar time 
 poring over these musty books ? Why, you will never be 
 worth a cent in the world. 
 
 Deep. Well, if I should never be worth a great amount 
 of property, 1 shall, at least, have the consolation of not re- 
 maining entirely ignorant of the great truths and discoveries 
 of science, at the very noon of the nineteenth century. 
 
 Gea. Ignorant — science ! Pooh ! you will not be able to 
 leave your children anything, when you die. 
 
 Defp. I shall, at least, I hope, leave them the example 
 of one who never worshiped Mammon. 
 
 Gra. Fine talk ; sounds well, — but it won't buy bread, it 
 won't clothe you, or give you shelter. Better sell your books, 
 buy no more, give up study, work hard, spend but little, and 
 you may yet be worth a little property, — say a few thousand. 
 
 Deep. And have very little capacity to enjoy anything. 
 
 Gka. Tut! tut! Don't say that to me. Don't you think 
 I am happy as you can be, spending your weary days and 
 nights over the dusty cobwebs of antiquity ? Besides, were 
 you to sell all your knowledge at the end of ten years' study, 
 it would not fetch much. Very poor stock, indeed. It 
 wouldn't bring dollars and cents. It wouldn't buy food and 
 clothing these hard times. Come, come, I say, throw your 
 books to the dogs,— do as I tell you, and I will make a rich 
 man of you, and then you will be somebody. 
 
 Deep. Mr. Graball, I am very much obliged to you for 
 your advice ; but you are aware that riches often take to 
 themselves wings. Many of your rich men flourish for 
 awhile, and after all become poor and die so. 
 
 Gra. No need of it, positively none,— don't financier 
 right. Only look out whom you trust. Watch the market, 
 take advantage of the times, let books alone, except the day- 
 book and ledger, and you will be rich and respected. 
 
 Deep. Should riches secure the respect of others, it would 
 
 hardly secure self-respect, and without this, the respect of 
 
 others is of very little avail. 
 
 2i.* 
 
202 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 4. 
 
 GiiA. At it again— fine talk— sounds well, but it won't 
 bring the dollars. It won't make the coin rattle in your 
 pockets. It won't fill them with silver ; and empty pockets 
 are sad affairs. An empty purse will not stand upright, you 
 know. Besides, your old coat is getting threadbare, and 
 study won't buy a new one. Come, 1 say, give up study, it's 
 all trash— give it up, and I will give you a clerkship in my 
 store, and when you have been there six months, or a year, 
 I will pay you a fine salary, say ten dollars a month, and you 
 can muke money like dirt. Come, what do you say to that ? 
 
 Deep. Mr. Graball, I am very much obliged to you for 
 your very generous oSier, but 
 
 Gba. Come — no buts — only say the word, and your for- 
 tune is made. 
 
 Deep. ■ Sir, I must say, that my duty to myself compels 
 me to decline. But it is time to attend recitation, and I 
 must leave you. Good evening. {Exit PeepthougfU. 
 
 Gka. Good evening. If that is ijot one of the most stub- 
 born fellows that I ever saw. Why, he will stick to his 
 books till he dies, and he'll always be as poor as Job's cat. 
 Well, I was in hopes to have made something out of him. 
 Let me see ; if he had accepted my offer, I might have saved 
 a cool hundred a year. But no ; the fates have ruled other- 
 wise. I have lain awake these three nights past, .trying to 
 think how I might save a part, or all, of Johnson's salary. 
 But it's of no use. A man can't save much in these hard 
 times. It is all out-goea and no income. I shall die a poor 
 man yet. {After a pause.) Ah, yes ! Lucky I thought of it. 
 There is my Roland farm. I shouldn't wonder if I could go 
 and sell it to old Mr. ^'an ICoot, the Dutchman. He can 
 never pay for it ; but then he has got laid by about a thous- 
 and dollars, which I can pocket. Do that, and 1 can afford 
 to keep my clerk a little longer. [Exit Graball. 
 
 Scene II. — Room of Deepthought. Van Koot discovered. Enter 
 Swagger. 
 
 Van Koot. Goot evenin', mister vat you call um. 
 
 SwAGGKR. Good evening. My name is Napoleon Swagger, 
 Esq., commonly called " Nape Swag," at your service, sir. I 
 am the gentleman who smokes cigars, and drinks small beer 
 
DUAM.VTIC SUrrLKMEXT- 203 
 
 at bar-rooms and groceries. I talk politics, trade horses 
 some, drink with all who invite me, play backgammon, roll 
 ninepins, and the like. I can beat the best of them at any 
 game of chance ; have won more bets than any man in 
 Sleepy Hollow ; take well among the ladies, only they say, 
 " Pity he drinks ;" and more than all that, can whip any 
 other man they may bring on, 1 don't care who he is ; and if 
 you don't believe me, try it. 
 
 Van K. Vat, you ish no goin' to vite? Mine soul! I 
 never shoul8 vish to vip von man in te vorld. I pe von 
 poor farmer, ant vish to get some help for to carry on te 
 farm, vitch I py of Mister Grapall, ant pay him von tousant 
 for't town, and the rest ven I can. 
 
 Swag. Oh, no ! Mr. Van Koot, I don't wish to fight you, 
 for 1 should not find you a match for me ; however, it is 
 your treat, when we get to the tavern. 1 would not mind 
 taking the oysters and cigars. But where in the world is 
 this fellow that studies so much, who they say is a-goin<x, 
 by-and-by, to make a noise in the world? I thought I 
 would just drop in to kill time a little with him. You know, 
 when a man has not a great deal to do, time somehow 
 hangs heavy on his hands. 
 
 Van K. Veil, den, you ish te man vat I vish to sec ; I 
 vish for to hire von man for vork for me on te farm, and I 
 call to see vat you call um, te student, to hire and pe teaclied 
 te farmin', ant vork vit my son Hans, vat have never pcen 
 to school von tay for pookish, but vat can vork so better as 
 any man. For vat vill you hire for py te year? 
 
 Swag. Work on your farm ! — liire for the year ! — do you 
 mean to insult me, you vagabond, you scoundrel, you cab- 
 bage-stump, you 1 — but I won't waste words upon you, for 
 insultiilg a gentleman of my standmg. [Places himself in a 
 boxing attitude.) 
 
 Van K. {alarmed.) Oh, tere ! tare ish no safety mit te 
 Yankees in tish free country. 
 
 Swag. Well, sir, then don't insult a gentleman of my 
 cloth again, with such a vile offer. When I cannot get a 
 living without work, I won't have any. I never did a day's 
 work in my life, and never mean to ; as for school, I hated 
 it, and never went very much when I pretended to, — ;iot 
 
204 ONE HUNDKED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. i. 
 
 more than a day or two a week. But, Mr. Van Koot, it's 
 about time to liquor. Come, I will go over to the grocery 
 and wait till you come along. We'll then make up ana be 
 fiiends again. lExit Suagg(r. 
 
 Enter Deepthought, 
 
 Deep. Good evening, Mr. Van Koot. 
 
 \'an K. Goot evenin'. For vat you keep me vaiting so 
 long? I vont to make you von pargain for vork mit Hans, 
 who ish te smartest poy you ever tid see, ant hash never 
 peen to school von tay. 
 
 Deep. At present, Mr. Van Koot, the mind must be my 
 garden, and science what I wish to cultivate. 
 
 \'an K. "\'at, you no going to raise crout, pe you ? Hans 
 hash te pest crout in te vorlt. 
 
 Dekp. I do not know what will be the result ; but it is a 
 very true saying, as a man soweth that shall he also reap. 
 
 Van K. V^ell den, you ish in te error , for Hans tid sow 
 veat, ant ven te veat grow, it no pe veat, put it vash tistle 
 ant chess, ant veat, ant everything, put no veat. Ant ven 
 he ish goin' to reap te veat, tare ish no veat to reap. 
 
 Defp. Most likely he did not plough the ground suffi- 
 ciently. 
 
 Van K. Vat not te reason pe vy te veat grow chess, put 
 he plant te veat in te wrong moon, ant he plow te ground 
 on Friday, ant tat ish de reason vy te veat grow no veat. 
 
 Deep. Why, you do not suppose the moon or Friday has 
 any influence on vegetation? There is no such thing in the 
 books. 
 
 Van K. Te pookish pe no vort nothing, ant you hast not 
 see te vegetable grow in te wrong moon. Come, trow te 
 pookish to te rat, and come here mit me ant Hans on te 
 farm. Hans ish te pest poy, and never has seen te pookish, 
 ant can tell vy te veat grow no veat, and ven te vedder ish 
 goin' tunter ant lighten, so veil ash any otter man. 
 
 Deep. I presume your son is worthy of his father, but I 
 cannot just now leave my studies to work with either. 
 
 Van K. Ten goot evenin', ant Hans mit me must vork 
 alone mit te peastes. [Exit Van Koot. 
 
 Deep. A\'ell, the tiresome fellow has at length left me, 
 and I hope now to have no further interruption of my 
 
DI1A.MATIJ SUI'PLEMEXT. 205 
 
 Studies. But, upon my life, here comes some one else! I 
 I'uar 1 sliail ucver get a chxnce to study this lesson. 
 
 Enter Steepletop. 
 
 SrEEPLETOP (touching his hat vAlh his thvmb and finger, and 
 bowing very low}. Good evening, my dear sir. 1 was on my 
 way to Bloatington's party, and I have called to see if you 
 would not like to go, and get an introduction to good society. 
 
 D.cKP. I can't say that at present I want any better 
 society than my books. I am very well satisfied with com- 
 muning with the great spirits of the past. 
 
 Stee. Why, sir, I beg leave to tell you that you are get- 
 ting decidedly old-fashioned, a very prosy sort of a fellow, 
 who could hardly hand a lady her fan, according to the 
 rules of etiquette. These old books are good for nothing 
 but to put upon the shelf for ornament rather than u^e. 
 
 Dk.i;p. I think I turn mine to a better use. 
 
 Stee. Come, my dear sir, we are to havo a great jiarty ; 
 Miss Scribbler, Miss Koselily, Miss Stargazer, Miss Pufton, 
 Dr. Epsom, 'Squire Skillet, and other notables, have all 
 been invited. I presume, sir, you will not fail to make a 
 favorable impression ; I will take care to introduce you in 
 the most approved manner. 
 
 Deep. With many thanks for your kind offers, for want 
 of spare time, I must beg to be excused. 
 
 Si'KK. Good evening, sir, your most obedient, sir. {Goes 
 out bowing.) 
 
 Deep. Well, if that fellow takes as well as he thinks he 
 dges among the ladies, I must say I hope to meet with those 
 who are better informed. Half ape and half human as he 
 i.-i, I can hardly endure him. And yet he is continually 
 harping upon good society, and an introduction to it. If by 
 good society he means such as receives him with favor, it is 
 not the kind I care anything about. [Ex^it Deepthought. 
 
 Scene III. — Sobersense at his home. Enter O'ifulligan. 
 
 O'MuLLiGAN. 'Pon me sowl, if it's not yersilf that I see 
 Sobeksenbe. — How now, Pat, what news? 
 O'M. News! it's mesilf that's afther for telling ye tha\ 
 Ve see I'm jist like a letther rite out o' the mail, that's come 
 
206 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIOXS No. 4. 
 
 by tiligraph, walking over the thrack like a stame tac-kittle ; 
 and shure as my name is Pat O'JMulligan, that owld boy of a 
 sthudent has made a diskivery in chimistry that'll make a 
 great man of him all his days. And has he not been offered 
 a dale of money for it, and a chance to be a teacher in the 
 Siminary ? 
 
 ■ Sob. Why surely, Pat, you must be dreaming, for he was 
 here but a short time since, and he said nothing about it. 
 
 O'M. Och ! niver a bit am I dhraming. It's like the likes 
 o' him to say niver a word at all at all. Did he iver tell 
 how he supported the poor mither of him all the time he 
 was afther for studying the books ? Shure and wasn't he the 
 dacentest boy of a lad this side the wwld country ? And 
 shure it's mesilf that's just from the post-office with the 
 news. 
 
 Sob. Well, O'Mulligan, I hope what you say will prove 
 true, for he is a very worthy young man, and one of the 
 most diligent -that I ever saw. He has been studying 
 for the last few years under the greatest difficulties and dis- 
 couragements. And although he has often been importuned 
 by real and pretended friends to give up his books, he has 
 persevered. I have watched him with the greatest interest 
 for some time past, for I have seen a light burning in his 
 room the earliest and latest of any in all Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 O'M. And shure it's yersilf that lent him money to buy 
 books, and niver charged a cint at all at all. 
 
 Sob. Oh, say nothing of that; 1 did not intend any should 
 have known it, so say nothing about it. 
 
 O'M. Troth it's a good dade ; but I'll niver be afther for 
 tillin' o' it, for shure I'm not a bit laky. 
 
 Sob. Is there any truth in the report that Graball has 
 foreclosed his mortgage on the farm of Van Koot, the 
 Dutchman ? 
 
 O'M. Shure as prachin', and isn't Mr. Graball himsilf as 
 poor as a frozen pratie-skeen in the winther? And troth 
 deedn'tthe feer boorn all the whool of the whate he sint 
 to market,— and haven't they foreclosed him? 
 
 Sob. Well, surely, Mr. O'Mulligan, this is unebcpected 
 news. Poor Graball, he is to be pitied. 
 
 O'M. Och me liarty ! not a dhrop o' pity for him, when 
 
DSAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 207 
 
 he turned mo into the strate for not payin' double the rint, 
 and has chated me agin and agin. 
 
 Sob. 1 trust, Pat, you have no mpre news of this sort. 
 
 O'M. And faith I hev. That strootin' man, that loolced 
 so insooltin', has gone to jail. for puthing a name on a bit o' 
 paper ; Nape Swag for stalin'. 
 
 Sob. Well, has Steepletop, the dandy, been taken up for 
 forging, and Swagger for stealing? Well, it is what might 
 have been ejyjected, as they were unwilling to pursue any 
 honest calling. But here comes Noisybreath, the politician. 
 {Enter Noisybreath.) Full of hews, Mr. Noisybreath 7 
 
 Noi. Nothing special ; only our candidate for governor is 
 defeated. The vote at the east is unexpected. We have, 
 also, most likely, been defeated in the presidential contest. 
 The telegraphic news is all unfavorable. 
 
 O'M. Faith, thin, ye'U niver be poostmasther at all a bit. 
 
 Noi. True, Mr. O'MuUigan, I have given up all hopes of 
 it. I now lament that I did not pursue the course which 
 Deepthought advised me. But I never should have been 
 as fortunate as he is. I do not possess the genius. 
 
 Sob. Rather say, Mr. Noisybreath, you never would have 
 had the application, — for I am not one of that foolish sort of 
 people that believe genius comes without application. One 
 ounce of application is worth a pound of genius. But here 
 comes Van Koot ; he seems to be in trouble. {Enter Van 
 Koot.) How how. Van Koot 7 1 understand you have lost 
 your farm ; is it so 7 
 
 Van K. It ish true as te goot pookish. And Hans, he 
 pe so foolish ash to trade mine two fat horse for an olt mare 
 tatmo vert notting. Te Yankee poy comes along and say 
 she goot peaste for te race, ant be vert five huntret tollars, 
 ant he trade mit him, and she no vert nottin' foi- te crow. 
 
 O'M. Faith, ant didn't ye think him the wisest mon of a 
 hoy ye iver saw in the life of ye 7 
 
 Van K. I no vant to say nottin' to te Irishman. 
 
 O'M. Och ! ye call me Irish when 1 was boorn in frae 
 Ameriky, and can spake twice as mootch Inglish as any 
 mother's son of a Touchman, that ye be 7 Faith and troth, 
 ye beggarly ape of a sarpint, if ye call me Irish, by the 
 powers of Saint Pathrick I'll knock yer two eyes into one. 
 
208 ONE nUNDKED CUOICE SKLECflOXS No. 4. 
 
 Sob. Stop, stop, Mr. O'Mulligan, or you will surely prove 
 you have a little of the Irish blood in you yet. And now, 
 gentlemen, one word before we separate. The young man 
 who neglects his studies, prematurely to engage in the great 
 struggle for wealth and political distinction, has taken the 
 surest course to defeat his own object. For discipline of 
 mind is a powerful auxiliary in either of these pursuits, 
 beside being of great value for other and nobler purposes. 
 Whoever expects to go through the world without a knowl- 
 edge of books, must either expect to labor all his life at a 
 disadvantage, or expect miracles. And the parent that fails 
 to give his children an education, either from not sending 
 them to scliool with suitable books, punctually and regularly, 
 or from not watching their progress while tliere, deserves in 
 his old age to find his house left unto him desolate, and to 
 be ill-treated by those unfortunate children wliom he has 
 wronged and cheated out of what they might justly claim 
 as their right, a good education. 
 
 CAIN, ANCIENT AND MODERN.— Elles Mueeay. 
 I. — Cain, alone. Abel lying on ilie ground. 
 
 Caiv. What's this! the red blood stops! he's growing cold ! 
 
 I'll cover him {covering bodij). Father will think ho 
 sleeps. 
 
 I am afraid. This hidden, dreadful thing,— 
 
 Is this my brother? 
 •'^"■^Ji- Cain, where is my son? 
 
 C.u.v. Abel? He must have gone to find the sheep 
 
 He is so fond of. What is it to me, 
 
 My father, where the young man may be now? 
 Eve. Cain, where is he, thy brother? Once I held 
 
 Two little ones within my happy arms, 
 
 And was so merry with them. Now thy face 
 
 Is very dreadful. Whe-e is Abel gone? 
 Caiv. Perhaps to find the tree, my mother Eve, 
 
 Of Mhich you eat in Paradise, and fell. 
 
 Had you not eaten, I had never sinned. 
 4.DAM. Come, let us look for him. In vairi we speak. 
 
 Cain's lips refuse the truth his eves reveal. 
 
DEAMATIC SUl'PLli.MENT. 209 
 
 Cain (alone). I am afraid, bo horribly afraid ! 
 Would I were quiet now as Abel is. 
 Where is my brother ! But I do not know. 
 Am I my brother's keeper ? He can go 
 Just where he chooses. Am I bound to see 
 He does not hurt himself? Say he should run 
 Against my club— whose fault is that? I ask. 
 My club is innocent, and so am I. 
 I will escape into the deepest shades — 
 No ; I will travel to the long world's end. 
 Lest any seeing me should say, " There's Cain, 
 His brother's murderer ; kill him ! strike him down !" 
 
 II. — Groups of men about a whiskey store. Covered figure on a bier. 
 
 Whiskev-seller. What is the matter here? 
 
 FiEST Man. The man is dead. 
 
 Whiskey-seller. 
 
 Dead .' why he laughed and talked with me last night. 
 Second Man. 
 
 We know it. Add, — he drank with me last night. 
 Whiskey-seller. What's that? What harm is that? 
 Third Man. Well, only this,— 
 
 The man has died of drink. He fell face down, 
 
 His lips within a puddle in the road, 
 
 And had not sense to lift his head again. 
 WmsKEY-SELLER. I ask, what's that to me ? 
 Shxond Man. Who sold him drink? 
 
 First Man. He bought it at that corner, of this man. 
 Whiskey-seller. Well', if he did, what fault is it of mine? 
 
 I did not kill him. I have right to sell. 
 
 I've bought a license ; yes, and paid for it. 
 Second Man. Here is the dead man's father ; stand between. 
 
 They gather closely round the bier. 
 
 Father. Good neighbors, have you seen my son to-day? 
 
 His wife is very ill at home and begs 
 
 What is the matter? Sir, where is my boy? 
 
 AVnisKEY-SELLER. Your boy ! Ami the keeper of your boy? 
 
 Little Child. 
 
 Where is our father? Please, please tell us where. 
 Whisk BY-SELLER. 
 
 Get out of this. Why should you ask me ? 
 
 Am I your father's keeper? 
 Third Man (taking the father's arm, and leading him and the' 
 
 child out). Come away. 
 
210 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTION'S Xo. 4. 
 
 Fourth Man. Thou art the keeper of thy brother man, 
 
 And thou didst sell him poison. He is dead ! 
 
 Thy doom is branded on thy guilty brow, 
 
 As once on Cain's. 
 Whiskey-seller. Now just be kind enough 
 
 To clear my store of all this fol-de-rol. 
 First Man. It is, indeed, no proper place for men. 
 
 We leave thee to thy conscience. 
 
 They hear off the body. The rum-seller's uife, with averted face, 
 comes in and throws herself into a chair. 
 
 Whiskey-seller. Mary! why! 
 
 What is the matter? 
 
 Mary. Oh ! I saw his face, — 
 
 The dead, stern face ; the wind blew back the cloak, — 
 
 It was so dreadful ! On our wedding-day. 
 
 Do you remember how he smiled and talked, 
 
 A nd once refused the glass of wine you poured ? [Sot*. 
 
 You were such friends — 
 
 Whiskey-seller. There, Mary, that will do. 
 
 Is not May crying? [A'»rse and child enter. 
 
 Get her quiet, nurse. 
 
 Nurse. Yes, in a minute. There is nothing wrong, — 
 She only heard the drunkard's little girl 
 Scream wildly when she saw her father's face — 
 Of course the child was startled. [ Carries the child out. 
 
 Mary {earnestly). Husband — John, 
 
 I dreamed I saw a picture wild and drear, — 
 A desert blighted, wind-swept : and across 
 The shadows fled two forms like shadows, too ; 
 Fleeing forever : never finding rest. 
 The woman's face was hidden in her hands; 
 The other faced me. Lines of livid light 
 Wrote "Cain" upon his forehead. Then it seemed 
 The face grew yours, and, with a cry, I woke ! 
 
 Wiiiskey-seller. Now, really, Maiy, are you such a goose? 
 I wish you just would mind your house and child, 
 And leave my business to my wiser care. 
 There, go to May ; I hear her cry again. 
 
 Maky. I feel like crying with her. [Goes ovt. 
 
 Whiskey-seller. Cain, she said. 
 
 Cain killed his brother. What's this man to me? 
 Am I each drunkard's keeper? If he chose 
 To drink too much, pray what is that to me? 
 I did not make him drink. I think I'll try 
 
DliAMATIC SUPPLEMEKT. 2X1 
 
 Some other business. Preachers used to say 
 There is a judgment coming. What of that ? 
 Am I to blame because a drunkard drinks? 
 I am not bound to watch his staggering steps 
 
 Or hold his Pshaw ! VW sell the whole concern 
 
 And buy a farm. I wonder what they'd say, — 
 The temperance people. As for Mary there, 
 She'd cry again, 1 know, for very joy. 
 
 THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY. 
 
 CHAKACTEB8. 
 Goddess of tub Beautiful. 
 Dawn, 
 Day, 
 
 Spirits of the Beautiful. 
 
 Twilight, 
 
 Night, 
 
 Sea, 
 
 Forest, 
 
 Flowkrs, 
 
 A LiTTLL Child. 
 
 GonDESS — A crown, and handsomest dress available, with long 
 
 flowing skirts. 
 Dawn — Blue skirt, white waist, white overskirt looped with stream- 
 ers of yellow tarletan; veil of pink tarletan caught up with a 
 
 silver star ; a silver arrow on one shoulder. 
 Day — Blue dress with gilt trimmings. 
 Twilight — Very pale blue or gray dress, with a streamer of pink 
 
 tarletan over one shoulder and under the other; whiti tarletan 
 
 veil caught up with a crescent. 
 Night — Black tarletan dress sprinkled with gilt stars; bandeau 
 
 of stars around the head. 
 Sea — Oreen tarletan dress ufith festoons of white ; spangled white 
 
 veil; corals and pearls. 
 Forest — Dark-green dress trimmed with autumn leaves, or flowers, 
 
 or knots of bright ribbons. 
 Flowers — White dress trimmed irith garlands of flowers; flowers 
 
 on the hair, and a wreath hung on one arm. 
 Child — White dress, not ornamented. 
 
 Goddess (standing on a low pedestal). 
 O Spirits of the Beautiful, 
 
 Where have ye fled away? 
 Come back to grace my royal court, 
 In all your bright array. 
 
212 ONE IIUNDUED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 4. 
 
 Spirits enter and arrange themselves on both sides of the Goddess, 
 so as to form a semi-circle. 
 
 All. Goddess of the Beautiful, 
 
 We hear thee, and obey ; 
 We come with light, and bloom, and song, 
 To grace thy court to-day. 
 
 G. Ye faithful spirits, hear my word : 
 
 I long have been your queen. 
 But now my scepter would resign 
 
 To her who shall be seen 
 Most worthy of the rule o'er all, — 
 
 Who to her throne will bring 
 The most of beauty, and will throw 
 
 A charm o'er everything. 
 
 Speak, Spirits of the Beautiful ! 
 
 Let each present her claim, 
 And I will give the worthiest 
 
 My scepter and my name. 
 
 Dawn. Then mine is the scepter, fair Goddess, 
 
 For I bring the beautiful light 
 That flushes and brightens the eastern sky; 
 
 And scatters the shadows of night. 
 And mine are the birds' early carols, 
 
 The glory that welcomes the sun ; 
 My beauty steals over the world like a sioll, 
 
 My sway is disputed by none. 
 
 G. Nay, for the world would be weary of thee. 
 And long thy more radiant sisters to see. 
 
 Day. I may come to claim the scepter, 
 
 For I bring the glorious day, 
 With its long and sunny hours, — 
 Ample time for work and play. 
 And I bless the man of labor 
 
 With my warmth and golden light ; 
 Mine the throne, for with my radiance 
 Shall the world be ever bright. 
 
 G. Nay, for brain and limb would tired grow. 
 And the weary w^orld would bid thee go. 
 
 Twilight. Soft is my light, — o'er the weary world 
 Tender the touch of my fingers ; 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENT. 213 
 
 Only a glow of departing day 
 
 Faintly above me lingers. 
 Cool are my dews on the aching head, 
 
 Reveries gather around me, 
 All shall be quiet and peace 'neath my rule. 
 
 Beauty the purest surround me. 
 
 G. Truly grateful, after labor, are the twilight dews. 
 
 But thy sway would be too gentle, like tliy own soft hues. 
 
 Night. Eegt I bring : the noise and strife and din 
 Of the busy day are hushed before me. 
 Solemn darkness throws its mantle o'er me ; 
 Sweet repose is found my clasp within. 
 
 All may sleep, and yet to those who wake 
 I present no aspect dark and cheerless. 
 For my starry jewels, bright and peerless. 
 
 Are a spell of beauty naught can break. 
 
 G. Oh, thou art kind and beautiful, yet radiance and rest 
 Are not the only good wlierewith the world would fain 
 be blest. 
 Sea. I come from the depths of the ocean, 
 
 To plead my claim, to the throne, 
 Where the changing colors of every dye 
 Are the purest that ever were known. 
 For my deeps of emerald, lucent, 
 
 For my arching foam-tipped waves, 
 For my jewels rare, and the music 
 
 That floats through my rocky caves ; 
 For the lights and shades on my waters. 
 
 And the swift ships flitting by ; 
 For this ever-changing beauty 
 What spirit with me can vie? 
 
 G. Men call thee cruel, treacherous, and cold ; 
 They will not trust thee for thy pearls or gold. 
 
 FoiiEST. Hark to the whispering pines 1 
 To the rustle of maple leaves ! 
 See the tracery golden that weaves 
 Wherever a sunbeam shines ! 
 
 Cool is the forest shade. 
 Clear and refreshing its green 
 And all the gay branches between, 
 
 Mosses and ivy braid. 
 
214 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 4. 
 
 And in the autumn, like flame 
 
 Flickers my yellow-and-red ; 
 
 For the beauty I everywhere spread 
 Scepter and throne do I claim ! 
 
 G. Thou art all too sober^in thy robes of green, 
 For royal state befitting Beauty's Queen. 
 
 Flowers. The spirit whom all the world loves am I, 
 Bringing the dear fragrant flowers ; 
 Blending all colors of ocean and sky, 
 
 Filling with beauty the hours ; 
 Roses far sweeter than tropical musk 
 
 Blossom wherever I go ; 
 Harebells ring softly, and shines through the dusk 
 
 Of the cassia, the hawthorn's white snow. 
 Under my rule shall sweet garlands be flung 
 
 Constantly over the world like a dress ; 
 Give me the throne, and my praise shall be sung 
 
 Wherever my beauty shall bless. 
 
 G. If thou hadst the scepter, it would soon be seen 
 
 Men loved thee better as their Flora than their Queen. 
 
 Child {erdering). The happy little children, 
 So full of life and play. 
 Have sent me to your noble court 
 
 To plead their cause to-day. 
 For we would like to rale the world; 
 
 We'd make it all so glad. 
 Where no one should be bowed with cares, 
 
 And no one should be sad. 
 We'd make it all so beautiful, 
 
 Give each a happy face ! 
 And cover every ugly thing 
 
 With ornaments of grace. 
 So beauty shall be all around. 
 
 And beauty all above, 
 And over everything we'll throw 
 
 The blessed charm of Love. 
 
 Cf- Oh ! the happy little children. 
 
 The loving little children, 
 They indeed will fill the world with beauty and with light! 
 
 For their smiling little faces. 
 
 And their artless little graces, [bright. 
 
 Ar6 more than stars or dawn or flowers to make us glad and 
 
DRAMATIC SUrPLBMENT. 215 
 
 They have found the magic spell, 
 
 That is mwe than ye can tell, 
 To make happiness and beauty come at their sovereign call ; 
 
 For the word they speak is Love J 
 
 And there is naught above 
 That sweet word to make most willing, loyal subjects of us all. 
 
 All Spirits. Yes, that potent spell we own, 
 And resign to her the throne ! 
 
 G. Tihen bring to her some tribute. 
 
 Some token of her sway. 
 For we must be most faithful found, 
 
 Most ready to obey. 
 So here I give my scepter, 
 And here my throne I yield ; 
 {Leads the little girl to the throne and gives her the scepter.) 
 And with a gift from everyone 
 Her empire shall be sealed. 
 
 I) AWN {taking off silver arrow and putting it on child's shovlJer). 
 
 I present the silver beam that darts across t>ie sky 
 
 To herald my approach, and bid the shadows fly. 
 Twii.iGUT {putting her rosy streamer on child's shoulder). 
 
 I give the rosy flush that brightens up my west. 
 Night (takinglarge star from her hair for the child's other shoulder). 
 
 And I this glowing evening star, the star I love the best. 
 
 Bay {putting bracelet on child's arm). 
 
 And I this golden bracelet. 
 Sra {putting pearls on other arm). 
 
 And I the purest pearls. 
 Forest {taking ivy from, her hair). 
 
 And I this spray of ivy 
 To twine among her curls. 
 
 Flovi'eks {putting a iirreath on child's head). 
 And I will claim the honor 
 
 To crown thee with my flowers ; 
 The world will be more beautiful 
 Beneath thy sway than ours. 
 {They return to their places, Goddess nearest throne.) 
 
 Child. Thanks, Spirits kind and fair; 
 
 For every little child 
 I ask your fostering care. 
 Beneath my rule so mild. 
 
216 ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 4. 
 
 Dear Goddess of the Beautiful ! 
 
 I give thee back thy name, 
 Although the scepter and the throne 
 
 And royal rank I claim ; 
 Be thou my Minister of State, 
 
 And tell me what to do 
 To make the children always glad 
 
 And always good and true. 
 
 G. Yes, I will teach you ; and, fair Dan-n, 
 
 Your smiles and cheerful words 
 Shall wake the children from their sleep, 
 
 With caroling of birds. 
 And Day shall give them sunshine 
 
 For study and for play ; 
 And Tmlighl's gentle voice shall sound, 
 
 To call them all away 
 To join the thankful evening prayer ; 
 
 And then the kindly Night 
 Shall fold them in her loving arms, 
 
 When watching stars are bright. 
 The Sea shall plash sweet music 
 
 Among her rocks and caves. 
 And give them shells of rare device, 
 
 And rock them on her waves. 
 The Forest, cool, shall give them shade, 
 
 And mosses, green and brown ; 
 And Flora every day shall wreathe 
 
 For each dear child a crown. 
 
 All. And so a little child shall rule, 
 
 A little child shall lead ! 
 And so the Scriptures be fulfilled. 
 In thought, and word, and deedl 
 

 Vol. Icontains''100 Choice Selections," Nos. 1,2,3,4. 
 
 Vol. II contains "100 Choice Selections," Nos. 5, 6, 7, 8, 
 
 Vol. Ill contains "100 Choice Selections," Nos. 9,10,11,12. 
 
 Vol. IV contains k^lOO Choice Selections," Nos. 13, 14,15. 16. 
 
 Vol. V contains "100 Choice Selections," Nos. 17, 18, 19, 20. 
 
 Vol. VI contains "100 Choice Selections," Nos. 21, 22, 23, 24. 
 
 tfol. VII contains "100 Choice Selections," Nos. 25, 26, 27, 28. 
 
 Each Volume of The Speaker's Garland combines fbur Numbers of 
 the "lOO Choice Selections" Series in one book, arranged under a general 
 heading and an alphabetical index, printed on beautifully toned paper, and 
 farniahed in elegant binding;— containing about 900 pages eaci,;- mamug 
 truly a "Garland" of imperishable flowers, alike useful and ornamentai in 
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 FOR THE SAME READING, IN A CHEAPER FORM, 
 
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 Embracing the above SEVEN VOLUMES in 
 TWENTY-EIGHT Separate Numbers. 
 
 EVERY NUMBER DIFFERENT. NOTHING REPEATED. 
 
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A COMPLETE LIST OF CONTENTS 
 
 OF THE "100 CHOICE SELECTIONS" SEEIES. 
 
 CON'rKNTS OB^ 
 
 Absalom. 
 
 Addvesi* to the SciMiern. 
 
 Advice to a Fire Coinp.iiiy. 
 
 All we Ask is to be Let Aiuiie, 
 
 Amei'icaii Flag, Tiie. 
 
 A. Ward'sTiip toUichmond. 
 
 Bachelor's Soliloquy, Tii". 
 
 Ballndof T3hm:iel Uay,Tli9. 
 
 Barbara Frietcliie. 
 
 Battle of Getiyabat-g^The. 
 
 Bells, The. 
 
 Bin^en on the Rhine. 
 
 Birthday of Washington. 
 
 Black Begimcnt, Thu. 
 
 Bombastic Description, A. 
 
 Bridge of Sighs, The. 
 
 Capital Punishment. 
 
 Cato'a Soliloquy. 
 
 Caudle's Umbrella Lecture. 
 
 Closing Year, The 
 
 Courtin' in the Country. 
 
 Col. Halpine's Poem on the 
 Gettysburg Monument. 
 
 Confession, Tlie. 
 
 Crime its OvTD Detector. 
 
 I)amon and Pythias. 
 
 Death of John Q. Adnms. 
 
 Discoveries of CJalileo. 
 
 Drifting. 
 
 DrivinjE; Home the Covrs. 
 
 Excelsior. 
 
 Extract from DicI;in^on's 
 Speech at Uninn H-iuanj. 
 
 Extract from S'^ii:itur Ba- 
 ker's Speech, 1861. 
 
 Famine, The. 
 
 Faimer's Blunder, The. 
 
 FifM of Waterloo, Tlie. 
 
 ttenyral Joseph Heed. 
 
 OtfCtuiL; in the Wrong Room. 
 
 Ghost, "The. 
 
 Glorious New England. 
 
 Great B«ll Rohmd, The. 
 
 Hail to the Veteraun ! 
 
 Hamlt*t ID the flayers. 
 
 IIamlel'» Soliloquy. 
 
 Heart of the War, The. 
 
 Flezekiiih Stubbins' Oration. 
 
 Hiawatha's Wooing. 
 
 Infelicissime. 
 
 Josh Billings on " Courting." 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Kneel at no Human Shrine. 
 
 Lament of Irish Emigiant. 
 
 Lecture by Doctor Putf Hluff. 
 
 Letters, The. 
 
 Liberty and Union. 
 
 Main Truck, The. 
 
 arco Bozzaris. 
 Maud Muller. 
 Modest Wit. The. 
 My Lord Tomnoddy. 
 New Castle Apothecary, The. 
 New Year's Eve. 
 No God- 
 Oath, The. 
 
 Ode to my Little Son. 
 Oh, why should the Sphil of 
 
 Mortal be Proud? 
 On Board the Cumberland. 
 
 No. X. 
 
 On the Death of A.Lincoln. 
 On the Shores of Tennessee. 
 Our Defenders. 
 Opportunity for Work. 
 Opposite Examples- 
 *' Owed " to the Fire Encine. 
 Pauper's Death-Bed, Tlie 
 Putting up o' the t^tove. 
 Racy Slump Speech, A. 
 Raven, The. 
 Rieiizi's Address. 
 Scott and the Veteran, 
 Select Passajies in Veise. 
 Seminole's Reply, The. 
 Shamus O'Brien, 
 SlicTidan's Ride. 
 Short Poetical Eitracts. 
 Sleeping Senliii«l. The. 
 Sir John Franklin. 
 Smack in School, The. 
 Soliloquy of Arnold, The. 
 Song of the Decanter. 
 Song of Sherman's Army. 
 Spartacus to the Gladiators. 
 Student, The. 
 Sufferings of tlie Pi'grims. 
 Thanatopsis. 
 Two Roads, The. 
 Unjust National Acquisl^ 
 
 lion. 
 Vagabonds, The. 
 Wolaey'a Soliloqny. 
 Wood of Chancel rorsville. 
 Wounded. 
 Yorkshire Angling. 
 
 After the Battle. 
 
 inien <M liie Ivocks, The. 
 
 inawer to "Hour of Drath, 
 
 &.rtemus Ward in Dixie. 
 
 Asleep. 
 
 Bridget and the Matin 
 
 OF 
 
 dg< 
 
 Battle of Lookout Mount.iin, 
 
 Bell of the *'Atlanlii:,"Ti(e. 
 
 Bernardo and Kin<; Alphon^o. 
 
 Bernardo d<.-\ Carpio. 
 
 Billing»on Maiiitest Destiny. 
 
 Brave at Home, The, 
 
 Brides of Enderby, The. 
 
 Bugle Song. 
 
 Caudle's Lecture on Buttons. 
 
 Closing Scene, The 
 
 Cumberland, Tlie. 
 
 Curse of Begulus, The. 
 
 Deacon StokL•^. 
 
 Dealh-Bed of Arnold. 
 
 Death of Copeinicus. 
 
 Deatli of cj-hivtry, The. 
 
 Dedicatory Ole for tho Get- 
 tysburg Nation.ii Cemc'tuiy, 
 
 Drunken Soliloquy, A, 
 
 Dundreary on " I'wuverb.'i." 
 
 iJi-.tuibed Reverie, A. 
 
 Furiner and Counsellor, The. 
 
 Fire-Fiend. The. 
 
 Found Dead. 
 
 Fourth of July Oration. 
 
 Frencliman's Dinner, A. 
 
 Gen. Grant to the Army, I8G5. 
 
 Give me Three Grains ol Corn 
 Mother. 
 
 Glass of Cold Water, A. 
 
 Gouty Merchant, The 
 Hate of the Bowl. 
 Here She Goes. 
 Hetty McEwen. 
 Horatius at the Bridge . 
 Hour of Death, The. 
 Housekeeper's Soliloquy, The 
 How Man should be Judged. 
 Hypochondriac, The. 
 Independence Bell, 1776. 
 Inquiry, The. 
 Light Brigade, The. 
 
 ISTo. 3. 
 
 Paul Revere 's Ride. 
 Picket Guard, The. 
 Pledge villi Wine. 
 Pretext of Rebellion, The. 
 Psalm of Life, A. 
 Psalm of Marriage, A. 
 Quaker Widow, The. 
 Rain on the Boof. 
 Railroad Clocks. 
 Read to Sleep. 
 Revolution. uv Bi.siiic, Thi*. 
 Ride horn Client to Aix, The. 
 
 Lincoln's Address at the Get- Rum Maniac, The. 
 
 tyaburg Cemetery. 
 Little Jim. 
 Look Aloft. 
 
 Love, Murder, Matrimony. 
 Mantle of St. John du Alatha. 
 M;uk Twain's Opinion of 
 
 '• Chambermaids." 
 Masonic Emblems. 
 May Queen, The. 
 Meeting Place, The. 
 Modern Cain, The. 
 Monument to Washington. 
 Mr. Pickwick in a Itilemma. 
 New-born Babe, The. 
 Nobody's Child. 
 No Sects m Hfeaven. 
 Only One Pair of Stockings 
 
 to Mend To-night. 
 Our Country'& Call. 
 Over the River. 
 Painter of Seville, The. 
 Parody— Old Oaken Bucket. 
 Parrhasiua and the Captive. 
 
 Sally. 
 
 Shall we Give Up the Union! 
 
 Socrates Snooks. 
 
 Somebody's Dailine. 
 
 Song of the Shirt, The. 
 
 Spaitacus to the Romans. 
 
 St.ind by the Flag. 
 
 There Once was a Toner. 
 
 Tribute to our llouored 
 Dead. 
 
 Tubal Cain. 
 
 Union and Liberty. 
 
 U. S. National Aiiihem. 
 
 Vat You Plea.se. 
 
 Wasliington's Sword, etc. 
 
 We Meet Upon ilie Level, and 
 Part Upon the Squaie. 
 
 Wife, The. 
 
 Will the New Year come To- 
 night, Mamma ? 
 
 Wonderful One-Hoss Shay, 
 
 Yankee in Love, A. 
 
 Your Mlssiuu. 
 
These publications are eapeoially adapted to the ase of LTOEUMS, TEMPES- 
 ANCE SOCIETIES, EXHIBITION -ROOMS, OHUROH-SOOIABLES, ANNI- 
 VEE3ARIES, GRANGES, LODGE AND SOCIAL ENTERTAINMENTS, 
 WINTER GATHERINGS and FAMILY FIRESIDES. 
 
 CONXKNTS OF No. 3. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhpm. 
 Adams and Jyirer.^nn, 
 Angela of Buerm Vi-tta, The. 
 Antony to tlie Romans. 
 Ballot Box, The. 
 Baron's LaHt Banquet, The. 
 Beautiful Snow, The. 
 Bells of Shandon. The. 
 Betty and the Bear. 
 BLIhogf} on "The Disfrlct 
 
 Schoolmaster." 
 Burial of Mohbs, The. 
 Burniug Prairie, The. 
 Brutus on Caesar's Death. 
 BrutUB on Lucretia'n Death. 
 Cataline'a Defiance. 
 Caudle a Mason. 
 Changed Cross, The. 
 Collegian and Porter, The. 
 Comet, The. 
 Dead in the Street. 
 Death-Bed, Tlie. 
 Death of Little Jo. 
 Death of the Old Year. 
 Dow's Flat. 
 
 Drawbridge Keeper, The. 
 D. Green's Flying Machine. 
 E Pluribui Uiium. 
 Eugene Aram's Dream. 
 Execution of Joiui of Arc. 
 Fate ot Virgiiii.i, Tlie. 
 Fireman, The 
 Foes United in Death. 
 Footsteps uu the Othei Side. 
 
 Frenchman's FleaPowdiT.A 
 Krum a Sermon on the Duath 
 
 of Abraham Lincoln. 
 Qinevra. 
 
 Going Out and Coming In. 
 Grattan's Reply to Corry. 
 Grave of Charles Diclcone. 
 Grizzly Grumbler's Advice. 
 Guard thine Action. 
 Heathen Chinee. 
 Heaven. 
 
 Hczekiah Bedott. 
 His Jfiye was Stern and Wild. 
 Husband's Coolciiisf, A. 
 Icarus, or Boi-rowpd Plumes. 
 Ideas the Lite of a i'uuple. 
 If we Knew. 
 In the Other World. 
 Irishwoman's Letter, The. 
 Jack Horner. 
 Jester Condemned, The. 
 Joan of Arc. 
 
 Josh Billings on "Gongu." 
 Judicial Tiihuuals 
 Last Hours of Webster, 
 Last Joui ney. The. 
 Leper, The. 
 
 Lincoln's Second Inaugural. 
 Little Bennie. 
 Little Nell's Funeral. 
 Lochinvar's Ride. 
 Loved and Lost. Tlie. 
 Magdalena. 
 ileagher'a Defence. 
 
 Mother and Poet. 
 
 My Beautiful Child. 
 
 New Houpe that Jack Built. 
 
 Nonytongpaw, 
 
 Not on the Battle-Ficld. 
 
 Old Clock on the .St;.ir8, The. 
 
 Oration against Catuliiio. 
 
 Out in the Streets. 
 
 Parting Hour, The. 
 
 Pleading Extraordinary. 
 
 Poli.sh Boy, The. 
 
 Poor Voti-r on Election Day. 
 
 Praying for Rain. 
 
 Razor Seller, The. 
 
 Regiilus to the Kninan Senate. 
 
 Ring llie Bell Soltly. 
 
 Ring Our. Wild Bella. 
 
 Koniimce ol Nick Van Siana. 
 
 Ruined Mercltant, The. 
 
 Rum's Maniac. 
 
 Sailor's Funeral, The, 
 
 Sam M'eller'B Valentine. 
 
 Searching lor the Slaiu. 
 
 Shibboli'th. 
 
 Shylock to Antonio. 
 
 Soldier's Re^pn-'vc, The. 
 
 TliiiMigh Death to Life. 
 
 Tim Tuff. 
 
 Twenty Years Ago. 
 
 Under the Lamplight. 
 
 Very Dark. 
 
 Ward at Shakspeare's Tomb. 
 
 WJiich shall it Be 7 
 
 Young Gray-Head, The. 
 
 CONTEN'TS OF" N"o. 4. 
 
 AmericaTi Indian, The. 
 Angel Ferry. The 
 Appeal tothe"i3extant.*' 
 , Arnold Winkelri'ii. 
 Astonished Tippler, The. 
 A h Goo. 
 
 Bachelor's Hall. 
 Battle of Fontenuy. 
 Battle, The. 
 Bayonet Charge, The. 
 Belshazzar. 
 Betsy and I are Out. 
 Betsy Destroy.^ the Papers. 
 Bible and Temperance, The. 
 Blind Men and the Elfphanl. 
 Bombastic Appeal to a Jury 
 Boys, The. 
 Biidal Feast, The. 
 liright Side, The. 
 Caoch the Piper. 
 Ccesar Passing the Rubicon 
 Children, The. 
 Civil War. 
 Clarence's Dream. 
 Clerical Wit. 
 Cceur de Lion at the Bier of 
 
 his Father. 
 Courtin", The. 
 Creeds of the Bells, The. 
 Declaration, The. 
 Death of Hamilton, The. 
 Death ut Little Paul 
 Death ot Morris. 
 Death Peoalty, The. 
 
 Drummer Bnv, The 
 
 Drunkards nut all Brutes. 
 
 Eiirly Rising. 
 
 Farm- Yard Song. 
 
 Gates Ajar. 
 
 God. 
 
 Hallowed Ground. 
 
 " Heathen Chinee's" Reply. 
 
 How the Gates came Ajur. 
 
 Indian Chief's Speech, Tli?. 
 
 Ill Memory of Dicki-nH. 
 
 Invective iigainat Flood. 
 
 Irish Aliens. 
 
 " Irish Brigade" at Fontenoy. 
 
 Irl-'h Picket, The. 
 
 Jim. 
 
 John Burns at Gettysburg. 
 
 Keeping hi.^ Word. 
 
 King William Thanks God. 
 
 Kniglit's Toast, The. 
 
 Lady Clare. 
 
 Launching of the Ship 
 
 Loss of the Arctic. 
 
 Maniac. The. 
 
 Man's Mi»>sion. 
 
 Mark Twain's Beef Contract 
 
 Mark Tw;Lin meets Wiitd 
 
 Ministerihi: Angela 
 
 jJiser fitly Punished Tlie 
 
 Monsieur Tonson. 
 
 Mormon WidoweiV Linnent 
 
 :\lothei and her ChiM. Tin-. 
 
 Mrs. Candle wanin riotUlng 
 
 My Welcome Beyuud. 
 
 Napoleon Pionnparte. 
 
 Ne.irer Home. 
 
 Night betbip Execution, The. 
 
 Nothing to Wear. 
 
 Old Times and New. 
 
 Only Waiting. 
 
 On to Freedom. 
 
 Over the Hill to the Poor- 
 
 House. 
 Pictures of Memory. 
 Reply of Pitt to Walpole. 
 Revolutionary Sermon, A. 
 Roll Call 
 Seeds, 
 
 Seventh Plague of Kgvi>t. 
 Softly Woo away >ici' Breath. 
 Song of the Drunkard. 
 Singer, The. 
 St. Pierre to Ferrardo 
 Star-Spangled Banner, The, 
 Swell's Soliloquy, A. 
 Thanksgiving Sermon, a. 
 To a Skeleton. 
 Triumph ol Faith. 
 Truth in Parentheses. 
 Twain's "European Guidee." 
 Unbeliever, The. 
 Valentine, The. 
 Verres Denounced 
 Vision ot Future Bliss, A. 
 Well of St. Keyrie, The. 
 Which Could 1 Spare ? 
 Widow Bedott'.M i'ot-try. 
 WiUiam the Conqueror. 
 
Tliecliief merit of the "100 CHOICE" SELECTIONS" SERIES con. 
 si.sts in combining so many rare and valuable pieces in such ^ 
 small and convenient compass, and furnished at prices to suit all. 
 
 CONTENTS OF No. 5- 
 
 Absence. 
 
 Aflectatinn in the Pulpit. 
 A Super's fitoiy. 
 Annabel Lee. 
 Annie and Willie's Prayer. 
 Atheint. Tbe. 
 
 At the Window. — An Exlrnct, 
 A. Ward among the cshakeis. 
 Balance-Wheel, The. 
 Battle of Ivry, Tlie. 
 Bill and Joe. 
 
 B'ackBmith of Ratrpnbacli. 
 Blacksmith's Stoiy, The. 
 Blue and the Grav, The. 
 Cataliue Expelled. 
 Cataliiie to iiis Army. 
 Cliar-co-o-al. 
 Chicago. 
 
 Child's Drnam of a Star, A. 
 Colfax on " Temperance." 
 Comical Dun, A. 
 Compensation. 
 Couflin Sally Dilliard. 
 Crape on the Door. 
 Crossine the Carry. 
 Darkey b Counsel to the New- 
 ly Married. 
 Death of an Inebriate. 
 Deborah Lee.— ,V Parody. 
 Deeds versus Greeds. 
 Dora. 
 Drafted. 
 
 Duellist's Honor, The. 
 Dying Boy, Tlie. 
 Dying Brigand, The. 
 
 Existence of a God, The. 
 
 Gape-Seed. 
 
 CUve me Back my Husband. 
 
 Golden Shoes. 
 
 Hiirmosan. 
 
 Hotspur's Defence. 
 
 How Betsey and I JNIade Cp. 
 
 Iiidian.<(, The. 
 
 Infamous Iiegifllation. 
 
 Irish Letter, An. 
 
 In it Anybody's Bnfiiness. 
 
 It is Well we cannot tsee, etc. 
 
 Joe. 
 
 John Maynard. 
 
 Knight and the Lady, The. 
 
 Knocked About. 
 
 Lament of Jacob Gray, Tlie. 
 
 Learning to Pray. 
 
 Little Church 'round the Cor- 
 ner. 
 
 Love Lightens J.nbor. 
 
 Mark Twain's " Jim Smiley." 
 
 Modulation. 
 
 Moneyless Man, The. 
 
 Mouse-Hunting. 
 
 Mr. Caudle has Lent Five 
 Pounds to a Friend 
 
 Nantucket Skipper, Tiie. 
 
 New ThaiiatopsiR. 
 
 Now I Lay me Down to Sleep. 
 
 Old School-House, TJi.'. 
 
 Old Yankee Farmer, Tbe. 
 
 One Night with Gin. 
 
 Our Folks. 
 
 Strange Land. The. 
 
 Over the Hills from the Poor- 
 
 House. 
 Perversion of the Bible. 
 Peter's Ride to the Wedding. 
 Phantom Isles, The. 
 Poor Player at the Gate, The. 
 Power of Habit, The. 
 Pri^yer and Potatoes. 
 Press On. 
 Public Virtue. 
 Purest Pearl, The. 
 Putting up Stoves. 
 Puzzled Dutchman, The. 
 Bailrcad Car p'cene, A. 
 Bescue of Chicago, The. 
 River, The. 
 Saved. 
 
 Seven Ages of Man. 
 Shepherd of the People, The. 
 Slight MiBunderstanding, A. 
 Gong of the Dying, The. 
 Sorrow for the Dead. 
 Teaching Public School. 
 There is no Death. 
 Thoughts of " Enoch Arden." 
 Tomb of Washington, The. 
 Vnlue of Reputation. 
 Vision of Immortality, The, 
 What Does it Matter. 
 What the Old Man Said. 
 Whiskers, The. 
 Worth of Eloquence. The. 
 Wounded Soldier, Tiie. 
 You Put no Flowers on my 
 
 Papa's Grave. 
 
 CONTENTS Oin n"o. 6. 
 
 Address to a Mummy. 
 All's for the Best. 
 Amei ica. 
 
 Answer of the Mummy. 
 Answer to *"' I am Dyiii'^." 
 Are the Children at Home? 
 A. Ward on Woman's Rights, 
 Bill Mason's Bride. 
 Catastrophe, A. 
 Census-Taker's Experience, A 
 Charcoal Man, The. 
 Claude Melnotte'a Apology- 
 Conscience and JudizmiMit. 
 David Copperfield "and hia 
 
 Child-Wife. 
 Deacon Hezekinh. 
 Deacon's Story, The. 
 Deaf as a Post. 
 Death of Gaudentis. 
 Dermot'.H Paiting. 
 Difficulty about that Dog. 
 Dirge. 
 
 Doctor and his Apples, The. 
 Dream of" FatComributor." 
 Dreams and Realitien. 
 Drunkard's Death. The. 
 Duly of an American dchol- 
 
 ar. 
 Dving Alchemist, The. 
 Eleventh Houi, The. 
 Eloquence. 
 Emblems. 
 
 Engineer's Story, The. 
 Eniogy on Lafavttle. 
 Examples for Irelimd. 
 Faithful Lovers, Tbe, 
 
 First Appearance in Type. 
 
 Fitz-Janies and lUHnU'rick. 
 
 Frenchmaii and the Ruts, 
 The. 
 
 Giles and Abraham. 
 
 Gradatim. 
 
 Green Mountain Justice, A. 
 
 Heavier the Cross. 
 
 Helvellyn. 
 
 High Art— Music. 
 
 How Terry Saved his Bacon. 
 
 Home Picture, A. 
 
 How's my Boy. 
 
 Hymn to the Flowers. 
 
 I am Dying. 
 
 I Have Drank my Last Glass. 
 
 I Sue for Damage^. 
 
 If We Had But Known. 
 
 Inconstant, 
 
 In School Days. 
 
 Jaffar. 
 
 Jenkins Goes to a Pic-Nic. 
 
 Jerusalem by Moonlight. 
 
 Jolly Old Pedagogue, The. 
 
 Last Man, The. , 
 
 Last Mile-Stone, The. 
 
 Life from Death. 
 
 Light. 
 
 Literary Pursuits and Active 
 Business. 
 
 Little Grave, The. 
 
 Mark Twain on Juvenile Pu- 
 gilists. 
 
 Memory's Wild- Wood. 
 
 Minister's Pay-Day, A. 
 
 llischief Makerti, 
 
 Miss Maloney on the Chinese 
 
 Question. 
 Mrs. Caudle has taken Cold. 
 Mystic Weaver, The. 
 National Banner, The. 
 New, Church Organ, The. 
 Nicht with a Ventriloquist.A. 
 NoDle Revenge, The, 
 Nothing in the Paper To- Day. 
 Old Man in Stylish Church. 
 One Glaj^s More. 
 Paddy's Excelsior. 
 Patriotism. 
 PerverriK Hen, The. 
 Platonic. 
 
 Pravers of Children. 
 Quilting, The. 
 Response to ** A Man's a Man 
 
 for A' That." 
 Rome and Carthage. 
 Shall we know Each Other 
 
 There. 
 Silver Wedding, The. 
 Sketch of Old Cnachuig Days. 
 Snow of Age, The. 
 Soliloquy of Richard HI. 
 To Those About to Marrv. 
 Uncle Jo. 
 
 Vat have I got to Pay. 
 Vision of the Monk Gabriel. 
 Voices of the Dead. 
 Wfints of Man, The. 
 When. 
 
 Where Man should Die. 
 Woman's Question, A. 
 Toutb and Age. 
 
I'nstmctiony Amnsement, and Pastime for Old and Tonng) 
 
 Every Bchool-boy who speaks pieces ; every member of a Lyceum who wants 
 Bomelhing new to recite; every family that wants o library of good reading at the 
 smallest possible price; everybody who eojuys either wholesome fun or solid 
 enjoyment, should possesf; these Docks. 
 
 CONXKNXS OW N 
 
 Agony- Bells. 
 
 Alonzo the Brave and the 
 
 Fair Imogine. 
 Answer to *' Five O'clock in 
 
 the Morning," 
 Answer to "Leona." 
 Ab " Old Giles " Saw it. 
 At Last. 
 
 Battle of Life, The. 
 'Biah Cathcai't's Proposal. 
 Borriobnola Gha. 
 Boy who went from Heme, 
 
 The. 
 Brother Watkins. 
 By tbe Shore of the Biver. 
 Cnaracter of Henry Uiuy. 
 Cheer Up. 
 
 Cid and Baviecn, Tbe. 
 Damon to the SyracuHans. 
 Dickens in Camp. 
 Double Bed, The. 
 Dumb- Waiter, The. 
 Dundreary ai Brighton. 
 Education. 
 Eloquence and Logic. 
 Erin's Flag. 
 Example. 
 
 Factory Girl's Last Day, The. 
 Friar Fhilip. 
 Galley Slave, Tbe. 
 Gladiator, The. 
 Graves of the Patriots, The. 
 Gray Swan, Tbe. 
 Griper Greg. 
 fa Ghost. 
 
 Hamlet's 
 
 I Have Charity. 
 
 ' Heropa of Greece. 
 
 I Herve Riel. 
 
 How Jamie Game Home. 
 
 Idiot Boy, Tbe. 
 
 Imitation. 
 
 I was with Grant. 
 
 Jimmy Butler and the Owl. 
 
 Joe Jones. — A Parody. 
 
 John Gilpin. 
 
 Johnny Bartholomew. 
 
 Kate Ketcbem. 
 
 Kiss at tbe Door, A. 
 
 Labor is Worsliip. 
 
 Left Alone at Eighty. 
 
 Leona. 
 
 Life's Battle. — An Oration. 
 
 Life's Conflict. 
 
 Little Boy that Died, The. 
 
 Little M#v'n Wish. 
 
 LoHt Mr. Blake. 
 
 Mad £ngiueer, Tbe. 
 
 Mail may be Happy. 
 
 Mark Twain Editd an Agri- 
 cultural Paper. 
 
 Marmion and Douglas. 
 
 Mercy. 
 
 Midsummer-Day Seen** A. 
 
 Milton's Prayer of Piiti^uce. 
 
 Mnna's Waters. 
 
 Mr. i^tiver'B Horse. 
 
 My Cliildhood Home. 
 
 My Creed. 
 
 Noble Revenge. 
 
 Not very Far. 
 
 o. 7. 
 
 Now. 
 
 Old Chums. 
 
 Old Man in Model Church. 
 One Niche the Highewt. 
 Pastor Wanted. A. 
 Per Pacem ad Lucem. 
 Pe reeve re. 
 Political Corruption. 
 PoAt Nummos Virtus. 
 Baiiibow, The. 
 "Rock of Ages." 
 Bhadowfl, 
 
 Shall tlie Baby Stay 7 
 Socks for John Randall. 
 Song of Saratoga. 
 Sonj^ of Steam. 
 Sowing and Harvesting. 
 Speech by Obadiah Parting- 
 ton Swipes. 
 Stab. Tbe. 
 
 Struggle with a Stove-Pi pe, A. 
 Suiinit to tbe Big Ox, A. 
 Think of Me then. 
 Thompkinsville University. 
 Through Trials. 
 Tim Twinktetons' Twine. 
 Triumph of Order, A. 
 Two Villages, Tbe. 
 Unfortunate Likeness, An. 
 Union Linked with Liberty. 
 Voices at tbe Throne, The. 
 Weaver, The. 
 
 Who Would be a Boy Again Y 
 William Tell. 
 Yarn of the "Naucy Bell." 
 
 Ahram and 21mri. 
 
 Across the River. 
 
 All's Well. 
 
 " Are You a Mason V 
 
 Baggage Fiend, The. 
 
 Battle of Blenheim, The. 
 
 Beautiful Dreams. 
 
 Ben Fiaber. 
 
 Bill Arp on tbe Rack. 
 
 Bridge of Truth, The. 
 
 Bull-Fight, Tbe. 
 
 Burial of Sir John Moore. 
 
 Burial of tbe Dane, The. 
 
 CassiuB against Ciesar. 
 
 Clowns Story. The. 
 
 Coquette Punished, A. 
 
 David, King of Israel. 
 
 Death of Little Nell. 
 
 Death- Bide, The. 
 
 Der Baby. 
 
 Dignity of Labor, Tbe. 
 
 Dirge, A. 
 
 Dishonest Politician, The. 
 
 Drummer's Bride, The. 
 
 Dying Hymn, A. 
 
 Dying Street-Arab, Tbe. 
 
 Eagle's Rock, Tbe. 
 
 Enaurance. 
 
 Exile to his Wife, The. 
 
 Paiih and Works. 
 
 First Parting, The. 
 
 Forest Hymn, A. 
 
 Freedom and Patriotism. 
 
 <3^1oveand tbe Lions, The. 
 
 Oray 's Elegy. 
 
 CONTENTS OF 
 
 Heritage, The. 
 
 Hebrew Tale. A. 
 
 If we Would. 
 
 Immortality. 
 
 It Might have Been. 
 
 Jephtha's Rash Vow. 
 
 John Jankins' Seiinen. 
 
 Katie Lee and Willie Grey. 
 
 King and the Locusts, The. 
 
 Kit Carson's Ride. 
 
 Laborer, The. 
 
 Let Every One Sweep before 
 his Own Door. 
 
 Lofty Faith. 
 
 Lost Heir, The. 
 
 Magical Isle, Tbe. 
 
 Mabmoud. 
 
 Man of Expedients, The 
 
 Mark Twain tells an Anec- 
 dote of A. Ward. 
 
 Melting Moments. 
 
 Model Love-Letter, A. 
 
 Mr. Perkins Buys a Dog- 
 Mr. Perkins Moves a Stove. 
 
 Mv Mother's Bible. 
 
 Mystery of Life in Chiist 
 The. 
 
 Name, A. 
 
 Never Give Up. 
 
 No Mortgase on tbe Farm. 
 
 NotkingWt Leaves. 
 
 Not Loctt. 
 
 Old Canoe, Tbe. 
 
 Old Forsaken School-House, 
 Tbe. 
 
 ISTo. 8. 
 
 Oratory and tbe Press. 
 
 Order for a Picture, An. 
 
 Our Whole Country. 
 
 Out in the Sobbing Rain. 
 
 Outer tbe Old House, Nancy. 
 
 Pat O'Rourke and tbe Frogs. 
 
 Picture, Tbe. 
 
 Quaker and Robber, The. 
 
 Babboni. 
 
 Recollections of my Christ- 
 mas Tree. 
 
 Rip Van Winkle. 
 
 Holla's Address. 
 
 SexLon, Tbe. 
 
 Shaiiow on tbe Blind, The. 
 
 Sign of Distresp, The. 
 
 Simon Short's Son Samuel. 
 
 Singing for tbe Million. 
 
 Skipper Ireson's Ride. 
 
 Sneezing Man, Tbe. 
 
 Snow-Storm. The. 
 
 S|ieech of Vindication, 
 
 ISpiriiual Temple, The. 
 
 Strong Drink. 
 
 That Line Fence. 
 
 Three Bells, The. 
 
 Thrilling Sketch. 
 
 Tired Mothers. 
 
 To the Terrestrial Globe. 
 
 True Source of Reform, Itft 
 
 Wanted—A Pastor. 
 
 Warren's Address. 
 
 " What Misht have Been."' 
 , Wives of Krixham, The. 
 JYe Editor's Perplexities. 
 
tQVi can find almost any of your choice pieces In this " OoTn^lete List of QyrUenU^^ 
 besides hutdreds of new ones that you have never heard of Every nuuioej" 
 Is different ; therefore get them alJ I Bold by all firaUelass booksellers. 
 
 CO>rTE:N"TS OF No. 9- 
 
 After the Battle. 
 
 Anger and EnumerRtlOD 
 
 Antonv and Cleopntr». 
 
 Appeal of the Mi^nagaiis. 
 
 Away from the Wine-Uup f 
 
 Bacheloi-H, Tht*. 
 
 Beneath Che Surface. 
 
 Biniey and "46." 
 
 Boys. The. 
 
 Buck Fanrthaw'B Funeral. 
 
 Caudle's Wedding-D.iy 
 
 Cause of Temperaaue, The. 
 
 Charity. 
 
 Ghristma.1 Eve. 
 
 Clpopatra's Bar^e. 
 
 Curfew Must Not Ring To- 
 Ni-ht. 
 
 Dead Light-House Keeper, 
 The. 
 
 Death of Moses, The. 
 
 Doorstep, The. 
 
 Drink! Drink I Drink I 
 
 Elocution. 
 
 Ensign Bearer, The. 
 
 Eva's Death. 
 
 "Fat Contributor" on Insur- 
 ance Agents, The. 
 
 Fii'Btand Last Dinner, The. 
 
 From India, 
 
 Great Presence of Mind. 
 
 Greenwood Shrift, The. 
 
 Guilty or Not Guiltv. 
 
 Hannah Binding Shoes. 
 
 Hnrp ot a Thousand stnngs. 
 
 " Hez " and tlie Lnnilloril. 
 
 Hole in ttie GmpHt, Tii -. 
 
 How He Saved St. MichHel'a. 
 
 How Mr. Coville Counted the 
 .:>hinglep on his House. 
 
 How the Gentlemen do Be- 
 fore Marriage. 
 
 How they do After Marriage. 
 
 How to Cure a Cough. 
 
 I'll Take What Father Takes. 
 
 Indemberance. 
 
 In Memoriam. 
 
 Jester's Sermon, The. 
 
 Last Prayer of Mary, Queen 
 of -^cotfl. 
 
 Land Poor. 
 
 Lawyers and the Cat, The. 
 
 Laugh and Grow Fat. 
 
 Lay of the Madman. 
 
 Lay of Real Life, A. 
 
 Likenese. The, 
 
 Little Maityr, The. 
 
 Locked Out. 
 
 Maclaine'8 Child. 
 
 Maestro 's Confession, The. 
 
 Mark Twain's "Story of the 
 Bad Little Boy." 
 
 Mary, Queen of Scots. 
 
 Mill River Biae. 
 
 Mother's Sacrifice, The. 
 
 Mr. Blifkin'a FicHt Baby. 
 
 Mr. CoviUe's Easy Chiir. 
 
 Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Green. 
 
 My Child. 
 
 My Lambs. 
 
 Night of Terror, A. 
 
 Nobody There. 
 
 O'Connell's Heart. 
 
 Odn for Decoration Day. 
 
 Ode to Rum, An. 
 
 Office-Seeker's Flatform.Tbe. 
 
 Once More. 
 
 Only a Boy. 
 
 Only a Curl, 
 
 Only Sixteen. 
 
 Old Farmer Gray gets Photoo 
 
 graphed. 
 Old Wife's Eisa, The. 
 I Orator Puff. 
 Olhello'a Apology. 
 Reform W ill Go On, The. 
 Retort, The. 
 
 Righteiona Not Forsaken .The. 
 Schoolmaster's Sleep, The. 
 Schneider's Ride. 
 Shadow on the Wall, The. 
 Slander. 
 
 Soldier's Pbrdon, The. 
 Sou] ot Eloquence, The. 
 Suicidal Cat, The. 
 Temperance, 1776-1876. 
 Thank8giviii|;, A. 
 Ihere's a Silver Lining to 
 
 Every Cloud. 
 Thoughts in a Church-^ard. 
 Trials of a Twin. 
 True Source of Conteutmeni, 
 Uncle, The. 
 We Shall Know. 
 Whnt is That to Thee? 
 Whistler, The. 
 Woman's Rights, by Miss Ta- 
 
 bitha Primrose. 
 Tiiiikce and the Dutchman^ 
 
 Dog. The. 
 Tf:ir that is to Come, The. 
 Yuba Dam. 
 
 CJONTENTS OF TSTo. lO. 
 
 Abdel Ha-wan 
 
 Americnn Flag, The. 
 
 Aunt Tahilha. 
 
 Babv'a First Tooth, The. 
 
 Battle of Bunker Hill. 
 
 Beginning Again. 
 
 Benevolence. 
 
 Beat Cow in Peril. The. 
 
 Bill and I. 
 
 Blessed are the Dead. 
 
 Bootblack, The. 
 
 Blifkins, the Bacchanal- 
 
 Brutuii and Caseins. 
 
 Bumpkin's Courtt^hip, Thd. 
 
 By the Alma River. 
 
 Calling a Boy in the Moruin!r. 
 
 Candeapina's Standard. 
 
 Catching the Morning Train. 
 
 Cook of the Period, A 
 
 Curing a Cold. 
 
 Dagmar Cross, The. 
 
 Davy, the Teamaler. 
 
 Deserted Mill, The. 
 
 Diver, The. 
 
 Diversitns of Judcment. 
 
 Double Sacrifice, The. 
 
 Drunkard's Dream, The. 
 
 Father Phifn Colle<:tion. 
 
 " Father, take mv Hand," 
 
 Qoiii' Home To- Day. 
 
 Good-Nieht, Papa. 
 
 Guueamie Barra. 
 
 Gracious Answer, The. 
 
 Granger's Wife, The. 
 
 Hebrew Mother. The. 
 
 Hepsey'ti Ambition. 
 
 Hi'r Letter. 
 
 Humble Virtue Rewarded 
 
 Jiidge'H Temperance Lec- 
 ture, A. 
 
 Kathleen Ban Adair. 
 
 Lidea to Bary Jade. 
 
 Life IS what we Make it. 
 
 Lights and Shades. 
 
 Light-House, The. 
 
 Little Evangelist, The. 
 
 Little Gretcfaen, 
 
 Lochiel's Warning. 
 
 Mary's Diminutive Sheep, 
 
 Menagerie, The. 
 
 Nit-phistopheles a Dealer. 
 
 Miser. The. 
 
 Modem Cymon, The. 
 
 Morning Argiu Obituary De- 
 partment. 
 
 Mr Caudle and his Second 
 Wife. 
 
 My Friend's Secret. 
 
 Nhw " Old Mother Hubbard.' 
 
 Number Ninety-One. 
 
 Old HouHf in the Meadow. 
 
 Old Man in tne Wood, The. 
 
 Old Ways and the New, The, 
 
 Out. 
 
 Passing Away. 
 
 Prisoner for Debt, The. 
 
 ProL'reaa. 
 
 Piu'iresg of Humanity, The 
 
 Pulpit Oratorv. 
 
 Reply to " The Welcome." 
 
 (Reverie in Church. 
 
 I Rum-Fiend's Portrait, The. 
 
 'Ruins of B:ibylon, The. 
 
 Sarncen Brotliers, The. 
 
 Schooling a Husband. 
 
 Seeing Through. 
 
 Selling a Coat.' 
 
 Signs and OmenB„ 
 
 Sisters, The. 
 
 Sister Pleads for a Brother) 
 
 Lite, A.- 
 Snyder's Nose. 
 
 Some Mother's Child. 
 
 Stray Child, A. 
 
 There's Tan in the Street. 
 
 Three Fishers, The. 
 
 Time for Prayers, The. 
 
 Triumphs of our Language. 
 
 Trouble your Head with joni 
 own Affairs. 
 
 True aiil False Glory. 
 
 True Heioism. 
 I Two .Anchors, The. 
 
 Two Loves and a Life. 
 
 Unbolted Door, The. 
 
 Uncle Dan'l's Prayer. 
 
 Vulture of the Alps, The. 
 
 Waitinc by the Gate. 
 ,Wax Work. 
 I Welcome, The. 
 I When Duty Begins. 
 
 Wlieii Mary waa a Lassie. 
 
 When the Tide Goes Out, 
 
 Willy'a Grave. 
 IWorld for Sale. The. 
 
THE SERIES OF "100 CHOICE SELECTIONS" 
 
 Have been itjot-ived with a degree of favor unequalled by any siniilar woike of the kind 
 publitfhtiil, and huudrudti of ttiHtiiiiouiai» might be giveu, from leaUiiig Maganiiee, Instruct- 
 vn, SUdcnta, and Littrary Men throuKliout tli« country, but a glance at tlie Ubl ol con- 
 teutt) it) tU© only rccomiKcndation, netded to btspeak cbe favor of every iutelligt*ut reader. 
 
 coJsrxKN-'^rs oin >ro. xx. ' 
 
 Aapirnuong. 
 
 BoHComb'B Baby. 
 
 Bxllle uf Lexington, The. 
 
 Be JiiBt and Fear Not. 
 
 Better than Gold. 
 
 Blifkius the Ruraliat. 
 
 Boy. A. 
 
 Boy's Last Request, The. 
 
 Brotherhood. 
 
 Buildiug Che Chimney. 
 
 Chfu-lie Mactira^- 
 
 Charming Woman, A. 
 
 Child of Karth, The. 
 
 Chineae Story, A. • 
 
 Cho-che- Bang and Chi-Chil- 
 
 Bloo. 
 CIo»et Scene fVom Hamlet. 
 Cockney Wail, A. 
 Conductor Bradley. 
 Courtship Under Difficulties. 
 Culture the Result of Labor- 
 Death- Bed. A. 
 Death of Henry Clay. 
 DemoiL-Ship, The. 
 Drunkard's Dream. The. 
 Execution of Montroae, The. 
 FalstaflTs Boosting. 
 Fisherman's Summons, The. 
 Footprints of Decay. 
 Gentle Alice Browu. 
 Give me the Hand. 
 God's Acre. 
 God's Anvil. 
 Golden Street, The. 
 Gone with a Handsomer Man. 
 Guard's Story, The. 
 
 Half an Hour before Supper. 
 He Didn't Want a Coffin. 
 He Doeth his Alms to be Seen 
 
 of Men. 
 how the Dutchman Killed 
 
 the Woodchuck. 
 " If Things was only Sich !" 
 In Heaven I'll Rock Thee to 
 
 Sleep. 
 In the Bottom Drawer, 
 Ivy Green, The. 
 Jere Lloyd on " Phrenology." 
 King's Temple. The. 
 Laughtn' in Meetin'. 
 Learned Negro, The. 
 Little Steenie. 
 Lord Dundrearv Proposing. 
 Lost and Found. 
 Love and Ace. 
 Love in a Balloon. 
 Lucky Call, The. 
 Maiden's Prayer, The. 
 Man with a Cold in his Head, 
 
 The. 
 Mark Twain 'a Story of " The 
 
 Good Little Boy.*' 
 Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 
 Mind, the Glory of Man. 
 Modern Belle, The. 
 Monster Cannon, The. 
 Mother, Home, and Heaven 
 Mountains of Life, The. 
 My First Political Spt^cfa. 
 N:itions and Humanity. 
 Niituve Proclaims a Deity. 
 Object of Miasiouti, The. 
 
 Old Clock on the Wall. Tba. 
 
 Only a Woman. 
 
 Passing By. 
 
 Pilgrims and the Peaa, The. 
 
 Portrait, The. 
 
 Psalm of Hope, A. 
 
 lied Jacket, The. 
 
 Re^uluB. 
 
 Regulus to Carthaginians. 
 
 Relief of Lucknow, The. 
 
 Ride on the Black Valley Bail- 
 read. 
 
 Ring Down the Drop. 
 
 Rock Me to Sleep. 
 
 Romance in Verse, A. 
 
 Save the Other Man. 
 
 Scene from Deuglas, A. 
 
 Shelter. 
 
 She Would be a Mason. 
 
 Borrowtul Tale of a Hired 
 Girl. 
 
 Sublimity of the Bible. 
 
 Temptations of St. Aiitbonf . 
 
 That Baby in Tuacaloo. 
 
 Thebes. 
 
 There Come the Boya. 
 
 Trouhlf 8 of a Wife. 
 
 True Faith. 
 
 Truth. 
 
 'Twill not be Long. 
 
 Vacation Hymn, A. 
 
 Warning to the Intemperate. 
 
 Weary Soul, The. 
 
 Wite's Anpea*. The. 
 
 Wife, Children, and Friends. 
 
 Tarn, A. 
 
 CONTEVTTS OV No. X3. 
 
 A,ddress of Spottyeus. 
 
 Annuity, The. 
 
 Battle of the Kegs, The. 
 
 Beggar's Petition, The. 
 
 Bellry of Ghent, The. 
 
 Beth Gelert. 
 
 Setter Land, The. 
 
 Black Horae and Rider, The. 
 
 Bondage of Drink, The. 
 
 Brootc. The. 
 
 Browns, The. 
 
 Ceiiteunfal Celebration, Our. 
 
 Centennial Oration. 
 
 Chameleon, The. 
 
 Chinese Dinner, The. 
 
 Columbia. 
 
 Constant Reader, A. 
 
 CountiT's Greatest Bvil, The. 
 
 Cut Behind. 
 
 Dawn of the Centennial, The. 
 
 Death of Dora. 
 
 De Pint wid Old Pete. 
 
 Dimes and Dollars. 
 
 Doketor's Drubbles, A. 
 
 Edinburgh after Floddea. 
 
 Eternal Justice. 
 
 Fast Mail and the Stage, The. 
 
 Fatal Glass, The. 
 
 Father, I^ead On. 
 
 For Love. 
 
 Four Lives. 
 
 God is Nowhere. 
 
 Good Rending. 
 
 Gone Before. 
 
 Heartbreak Hill. 
 
 Helpmate, A. 
 
 Hold the Light. 
 
 How we Hunted a Mouse. 
 
 Hundred Years to Come, A. 
 
 Independence Day. 
 
 Is there Room, iu Angel 
 Land T 
 
 Judge Not. 
 
 Kentucky Belle. 
 
 King's Picture, The. 
 
 Knocking. 
 
 Leap of Curtius, The. 
 
 Little Brown Hands. 
 
 Little Margery. 
 
 Malibran and the Young Mu- 
 sician. 
 
 Man who Felt Sad. The. 
 
 March of Mind, The. 
 
 Mark Twain and the Inter- 
 viewer. 
 
 Measuring the Baby. 
 
 Might of Love, The. 
 
 Minot's Ledge. 
 
 More Cruel than War. 
 
 Mora. 
 
 Mother's Fool. 
 
 Mulligan's. GospeL 
 
 Murillo's Trance. 
 
 Mystic Veil, The. 
 
 Name in the Sand, A. 
 
 Night. „ „ 
 
 Ode to Independence Hall, 
 An. 
 
 Old Professor, The. 
 
 Old Woman's Railway Sig- 
 nal, The. . ^ 
 
 One iu Blue and One m Gray. 
 
 Our Sweet UneMressed. 
 Pat's Correspondence. 
 Phantoms of St. Sepulchre^ 
 
 The. 
 Pleaniireof Picoic-ing, The. 
 Poor Little Joe. 
 Popping Corn. 
 Resignation. 
 Rev. Oleus Baoon, D.D. 
 Schlituuheimer Don't Goneii* 
 
 iate. 
 ShelJtng Peas. 
 She Wanted an Epitaph. 
 Sister of Charity, The. 
 Smith of Ragenbach. The. 
 Sneeting. 
 Songof 1876, The. 
 Statue in Clay, The. 
 Stigma, The. 
 
 Htory of the Little Bid Hiu. 
 Stranger in the Pew, A. > 
 Sumner's Tribute to Pena. 
 Teacher's Dream, The. 
 Temperance Bhyme-ation. 
 Then and Now, 1776-1876. 
 Three Warnings, The. 
 Uncle Reuben s Eaptisra. 
 Uncle Sam's a Hundred, 
 Unfinished Still. 
 Vegetable Convention, A. 
 Ventriloquist on a Stag*- 
 
 Coach, A. 
 Victim, The. 
 Veiled Picture. The. 
 Wedding Fee. The. 
 What Ailed " Ugly Sam." 
 
IF YO0 WAWT ^' SOMETHIHG NEW TO SPEAK,** GET THE 
 
 •"100 CHOICE SELECTIONS" SERIES. 
 
 CONTETCTS OjP No. 13, 
 
 irt Thou Living Yet? 
 Asking the Gov'Tier. 
 AoDty Doleful's VhiI. 
 Ballad of But>itJ Bell, The. 
 Bartender's Story, The. 
 Bernai'do'H Revenge. 
 Bivouac of the Dead. 
 Brother Anderaoirit Sermon. 
 Centennial Hyrnn. 
 Church Spider, The. 
 Confession of a Drunkard. 
 Country Dance, The. 
 Cuddle Doon. 
 CuHter'H haul Charge. 
 Daddy Worthless 
 Darkey Bootblack, The. 
 Death Makes all Brothers. 
 Diary of a Sea- Voyafie. 
 Difficulty of Rhyioing, The. 
 Dumli Child. Thd. 
 Execution of Madame Bo- 
 land. 
 Fanes we Meet, The. 
 Faith and Reosou. 
 Farevrel). A. 
 Fatal Falsehood, The. 
 Flood of Years, The. 
 Fourth of July, 1376. 
 God Bless our School. 
 Qod Save our President. 
 Godiva. 
 
 Goin' SomewhPre. 
 Germs of the Beautiful. 
 Grandmother's Spectacles. 
 Hide and Seek. 
 
 How FersimmDns took Cah 
 
 ob der Baby. 
 If. 
 
 I'm with You Once Again. 
 Intriv, Mintra, Cutra, (Joru. 
 Is it Nothing to You ? 
 Josiata at the OeDteniiial. 
 Ker Chew Duet, A. 
 Leetle Yawcob Strauss. 
 Liberty. 
 
 Little Hatchet Btor; The. 
 Little Hero, The. 
 Lodge Night. 
 Makiu' an Editor Outen o' 
 
 Him. 
 Margery Miller. 
 Mark Twain on the Weather. 
 Minstrel's Curse, The. 
 Mosaics. 
 
 Mr. Rootlp'B Economy, 
 Murder of King Duncan. 
 My Neighbor's Baby. 
 Newsboy, The. 
 Old Deacon's Lament, The. 
 Old Sampler, The. 
 Old Soldier's Story. The. 
 Our Owo. 
 Our Ships at Sea. 
 Palmetto and the Pine, The. 
 Papa Can't Find Me. 
 Parting Words. 
 Passing Under the Rod. 
 Physician's Slorv, A. 
 Pied Piper of Hameliu, The. 
 Pip's Fight. 
 
 Pride of Battery B, The. 
 Proverbeel Feelossify. 
 Pyramids not all Egyptian. 
 Question, A. 
 Religion and Doctrine. 
 Ride of Collins Graves, The. 
 Reply to "A Woman's Ques* 
 
 tion." 
 Silent Harp, The. 
 Spelling Dow^t. 
 Success. 
 
 Surgeon's Tale, The. 
 Temperance Pearls. 
 That Hired Girl. 
 There's Buaioeas for All. 
 Though Lost to Sight, tb 
 
 Memory Dear. 
 Three Little Chairs, The. 
 'Tia Five and Twenvy Years. 
 Tom. 
 
 To America in 1876. 
 Too Late. 
 Trapper's Story. A. 
 True Nobility. 
 True Temple. The. 
 Two Temples. The. 
 Village Sewing Society, The. 
 Wanted. 
 Wet and Dry. 
 What is a Minority. 
 What I Saw. 
 
 Widder Green's Last Words. 
 Wine-Cup, The. 
 Wrman's Quention, A. 
 Word for each Mouth, A. 
 
 CON^TEN'TS OF Wo. 14. 
 
 Angel \D a Saloon, An. 
 Annie'.'i Ticket. 
 Airy Nothings. 
 Arehie Dean. 
 At Set of Sun. 
 Battle of Hohenlinden. 
 Bellof Atri. The. 
 Better Thint^n, 
 Kind Prefich(-r, The. 
 Broken Pitcher, The. 
 Budge and Toddie. 
 Burning of the Lexinston. 
 Canvassing Disadvanta;:^. 
 Course of Love too Smooth. 
 Courteous Mother, A. 
 Daddy's Boy. 
 Death of Hofer, The. 
 Death of the Old Squire, The. 
 Disappointed Candidate, A. 
 Dying Christian, The. 
 Eajjle, The. 
 Father Roach. 
 Female Convention, The. 
 Flower of Liberty, The. 
 First Party, The. 
 Firnt Snow-Fail, The. 
 Forty to Twenty. 
 Glass Railroad, The. 
 Grateful Preacher, The. 
 Hans aad Fritz. 
 Hillside Legion, The. 
 Honest Rum-Seller's Adver- 
 tisement, An. 
 Humility. 
 Buudred Years from Now. A. 
 
 Ike after the Opera. 
 Iphigenia and Agamemnon. 
 John and Tibbie's Dispute. 
 Josiah Allen's Wife at A. T. 
 
 Stewart's Store. 
 Kyarlina Jim. 
 Last Hymn, The. 
 Leak in the Dike, The. 
 Little Pat and the Parson. 
 Little Stow-Away, The. 
 Losses. 
 
 Lost Babies. The. 
 Lost Church. The. 
 Lost Steamship, The. 
 Love on the Half-Shell. 
 Maiden Martyr, The. 
 Man's Mortality. 
 Mat and Hal and I. 
 Metaphorical Papers. 
 Missing Ship, The. 
 Mother's Diary. A. 
 Mr. Schmidt's MLstake. 
 i/ly Mother at the Gate. 
 Newsboy's Debt, The. 
 Now. 
 
 Old Huldah. 
 Old Sweet Song, The. 
 Our Visitor, and What he 
 
 Came for. 
 Papa's Letter. 
 
 Penny ye Meant toGi'e.The. 
 Philosopher's Scales. The. 
 Pimpkin versus Bodkin. 
 Popping the Question, 
 Puiitana, The. 
 
 Puzzled CensQs-Taker, The. 
 Riiilway Station in the Nortb 
 
 of England, 
 Rainy Day, The. 
 
 Regret. 
 
 Resistini^ a Mother's Love. 
 Respect the Burden. 
 Ritt of the Rock, The. 
 Romance of n Carpet. 
 Scene at Niagara Falls. 
 6choolma.<))er'e Guests, The. 
 Sennacherib. 
 Sewing on a Button. 
 Sign -Board A. 
 Sims' Little Girl. 
 Singer's Alms, The. 
 Spanish Duel, The. 
 Spike that Gun. 
 Taking up Carpets. 
 To the Rescue. 
 Too Late for the Train. 
 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. 
 Trouble in the Choir. 
 Two Bootblacks. 
 Uncle Remus' Revival Tlyma. 
 Unnoticed Bound, The. 
 Unpaid Seamstress, The. 
 Vas Bender Henshpecked 7 
 Vnudois Teacher, The. 
 Water-Mill. The. 
 What the Tempprance Causr- 
 has Done for John and Me. 
 Whistling in Heaven. 
 Who is to Blame r 
 Why Biddy and Pat Married 
 
Get the entire Series of « 100 CHOICE SELECTIONS.*' 
 
 Every number complete in itself. Nothing repeated. 
 
 CONTKNTS OW JSTo. 15. 
 
 Advice to the Toung. 
 
 After the Ball. 
 
 Alexander and Bucephalus. 
 
 Annie Protberoe. 
 
 Appeal to Young Men. 
 
 Auld Robin Gray. 
 
 Avalanche. The. 
 
 Battle of tialamis. The. 
 
 Best Thing in the World. 
 
 Better in tbe Morning. 
 
 Bewitched Clock, The. 
 
 Cat Eater, The. 
 
 Cata<itropbe, A.** 
 
 Caught in the QulckaaDd. 
 
 Circus Clown, The. • 
 
 Come Back. 
 
 Compensation. 
 
 Conflict of Trains, A. 
 
 Coronation Pageant of Anne 
 Boleyn, The. 
 
 Curious Life Poem, A. 
 
 Death and tbe Drun kard. 
 
 Diamond Weddini;, The. 
 
 Dot Biiby off Mine. 
 
 Drunkard's "Ten Command- 
 ments," The. 
 
 Drunkard's Wife, The. 
 
 Dundreary in the Country. 
 
 Dying Actor, The. 
 
 Faith and Works. 
 
 Fall of the Femberton Mill. 
 
 False Witness Detected. 
 
 Flight of Xerxes, The. 
 
 First Client, The. 
 
 Force of Habit, The. 
 
 Gladiator, Tlie. 
 
 He Never Told a Lie. 
 
 Hero and Leander. 
 
 How he Whipped Him. 
 
 How Tom Sawyer got his 
 Fence Whitewashed. 
 
 How the Cats went to Board- 
 ing .School. 
 
 HouHe not Made with Hands. 
 
 Humanity. 
 
 Incidentof the French Camp. 
 
 Indian Chieftain, The. 
 
 Jamie Douglas. 
 
 King of Denmark's Rid«. 
 
 King Robert of Sicily. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere. 
 
 Landlord of "Blue Hen," 
 The. 
 
 Last Redoubt, The. 
 
 Law. 
 
 Less than Cost. 
 
 Letting the Old Cat Die. 
 
 Lightkeeper's Daughter. 
 
 Little Match Girl, The. 
 
 Litile Rocket's Christmas. 
 
 Marion's Dinner. 
 
 Maik Twain's Watch. 
 
 Miltiades Peterkin Paul. 
 
 Mr. O'Houlaliao's Mistake. 
 
 Mumford's Pavement. 
 
 Mv Wife and Child. 
 
 My Wife and I. 
 
 Nell. 
 
 Noble Nature, The. 
 
 Noozell and the Organ Grind' 
 er. 
 
 Old Sargeant, The. 
 
 Paddy McGrath's Introduc- 
 tion to Mr. Bruin. 
 
 Perkins at tbe Dentist's. 
 Phil Blood's Leap. 
 Rainbow, The. 
 Reprove Gently. 
 Ruined Cottage, Tbe. 
 Bailor Boy's J>ream, The. 
 Sailor's Storv, A. 
 She Always Made Home H^ 
 
 py- 
 
 She Meant Business. 
 Shun the Bowl. 
 Borne Time. 
 Song of Marion's Men. 
 Squire's Pledge, The. 
 Tale of a Temptation. 
 Tale of the Atlantic Coast. 
 There's Work Enough to 
 
 Do. 
 Those Evening Bells. 
 Three Horsemen, The. 
 Three Sons. The. 
 Toast, "Peace and Flen- 
 
 tv," A. 
 Toby Tosppot. 
 To-Morrow. 
 
 Tom, the Drummer-Boy. 
 Travelng Companion, A. 
 Two Glasses. The. 
 Village Preacher, The. 
 We Two. 
 When shall we Three Meet 
 
 Again J 
 When to Worship. 
 'Who are the Free f 
 Whom wilt thou Live For i 
 "Wreck of the Huron. 
 Xerxes at the Hellespont. 
 
 CONTKN'TS OB" No. 16. 
 
 Palace 0* the King. The. 
 Path of Peace, The. 
 
 Perils of Invisibility, The. 
 
 American Traveller, The. i First Bar^o. The. 
 Appeal for Prohibition, An. Game Knut Played, The, 
 Asleep at the Switch. jOiftof Tritemius, The. 
 
 Aurelia'8 Unfortunate Yo ing Gloverson the Mormon. 
 
 Man. I Good and Better. 
 
 Baby. Grandmother Gray. 
 
 Before Sedan. JGualberto's Victory. 
 
 Belshazzar Smith's Cure for Hidden Bris^htness. 
 
 Somnambulism. I His Time for Fiddling. 
 
 Ben Hazzard's Guests. How " Ruby " Played 
 
 Blessed are They that Mourn. Ildeal and the Real, The, 
 
 JJessios od the Dance, A. 
 
 Ally's First and Last Drink 
 of Lager. 
 
 Billy Grimes, the Drover. 
 
 Bricklayers, The. 
 
 Burdock's Goat. 
 
 Burr and Blennerhaisett. 
 
 Caught in the Maelstrom. 
 
 Catalogue Dickens' Works. 
 
 Champioii Snorer, The. 
 
 Charity Dinner, The. 
 
 Charles Sumner. 
 
 Christmas Chant, A. 
 
 Christmaa-Night in the Quar- 
 ters. 
 
 Christmas-Tree, The. 
 
 Clear the Way. 
 
 Country Sleighing. 
 
 Daily Dying. 
 
 Demon Ship, The. 
 
 Diffidence. 
 
 Dukitd Snake, The. 
 
 Knjoyment of the Present- 
 
 Farmer's Wife. The. 
 
 Father Molloy. 
 
 Immortality of Love, Tbe. 
 
 In the Garret are our Boys. 
 
 Jane Conquest. 
 
 Jepbthah's Daughter. 
 
 Karl the Martyr. 
 
 Last Banquet, The. 
 
 Last Station, The. 
 
 Last Wish, The. 
 
 Legend of Bregenz, A. 
 
 Lesson from "The Fruit of, 
 
 the Spirit," A. 
 Lips that Touch Liquor must 
 
 Never Touch Mine, The. 
 Lost Watch, The. 
 .Vfad Mag. 
 
 Mark Twain Visits Niagara. 
 Mine Katrine. 
 Miss Edith Helps Along. 
 Morning. 
 Nicholas Nickleby Leaving 
 
 the Yorkshire School. 
 Nisht after Chriptm^s, The. 
 Ni^'lit before Christmas. 
 Old Story. The. 
 Only a Jew. 
 
 Power of Gentleness, The. 
 Prayer. 
 
 Precepts. 
 
 Putting Down the Window. 
 
 Ctuestions. 
 
 Relics. 
 
 Reward of Meekness. 
 
 Robber, The. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln. 
 
 Rustic Ocurtship. 
 
 Sentence of Death on the 
 
 High Seas. 
 Shadows. 
 
 Short Sensational Story. 
 Short Terop«>rance Speech. 
 Solomon and his Sages. 
 Something SpJit. 
 Song of the Type. 
 Spelling Bee at Angels. 
 Spelling Class, Th«. 
 Street Musicians, The. 
 Strong Temptation, A. 
 Story of Deacon Brown. 
 Three Little Graves. 
 Three Wishes, The. 
 Toast, The. 
 True Faith. 
 Two Little Rogues. 
 Two Stammerers. The. 
 Vallev Forge. 
 Vision of Mirza, The. 
 Warden. Keep a Place for Ma 
 Wh^u the Cows come Home 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS FOR ALL. 
 
 dll Diffp.t'ent, The Newest and Best Piecm. Get the whole Serieai 
 
 CONrEN'TS OB^ No- 17- 
 
 &.dverti8(}ment Answered. 
 
 Always at the G^ate. 
 
 Aiaei'ica. 
 
 Aruold the Traitor. 
 
 ArtemuB Ward's Mormon 
 
 Lecture. 
 AuDt Jemima's Courtahip. 
 Baby is Dead, The. 
 Bachelor Sale, The. 
 Bosbvflchell's Confession. 
 Butcber and the Children, A. 
 Cane- Bottomed Chair, The. 
 Charge by the Ford, The. 
 CbriFCmas Hymn, A. 
 Courtereien, The. 
 Country Courtship, A. 
 CowB — A Compositiou. 
 Deuth's Choice. 
 Dentrover, The. 
 Do Not Sing thAtSong Again. 
 Down with th^ Tratt^c. 
 Drunkard's Death, The. 
 Evening Brings uy Home. 
 Every Year, 
 Pfed my Sheep. 
 Pire- Bell's Story, The. 
 Fireside Saintn, "The. 
 Flight for Life, The. 
 Foreclosure of the Mortgage. 
 Gambler's Wife, The. 
 Qamin. The. 
 Qod's Beverage. 
 Q-reenwood Cemetery. 
 Barveut oi Kuni. The. 
 lero of tko Commune, The. 
 
 Hole in the Floor, The. 
 Hole in the Patch, The. 
 How to Break the Chain. 
 How the Old Horse Wuu the 
 
 Bet. 
 Hundred "^eare from Now, A, 
 Hunter's Last Ride, The. 
 Ideal with a Roman Nose, A. 
 In tlie Old South Church. 
 In the Street of By-und-By. 
 Jim Wolfe and the Cats. 
 King Canute. 
 Laughter. 
 
 Leap of Rousban Beg, The. 
 Letter of Marque, The. 
 Tiife Brigade, The. 
 Literary Nightmare, A. 
 Little Girl's View of Life ir a 
 
 Hotel, A. 
 Little Shoe, A. 
 Lizzie and I are One. 
 Lord Dundreary and the 
 
 French Widow. 
 Lord Dundreary on Mental 
 
 Photographs. 
 Matiu'nus to his Band. 
 Men to Make a State, The. 
 Mines of Avondale, The. 
 Moth-Eaten. 
 Miif^ic in Camp. 
 Musical Frogs. The. 
 My Bread on the Waters. 
 My Daughter Jane. 
 Ifew Preacher, The. 
 N lagara. 
 
 Niglit that Baby Died, The. 
 Nocturiiiil Sketch, A. 
 Oh, Breatne not his Name. 
 Old Church Bell, Tli*-. 
 Old Surgeon's Story, The. 
 Old Thirteen, The. 
 Paddy Blake's Echo. 
 Pai*son"s Sociable, The. 
 Peter Longpocket. 
 Progress. 
 
 Recipe for a Modern Novel. , 
 Reformed Man's Lament, A.' 
 Ride of Jennie M'Neal. 
 Rosary of my Years, The. 
 Royal Princess, A. 
 Sausage- Maker's Ghost, The 
 Secreia of Masonry, The. 
 Ship of Faith, The. 
 Sleep Weary Child. 
 Somebody's Mother, 
 {story of !Bishop Potts. 
 St. Patrick's Martyi-s. 
 Tale of the Big Snow, A, 
 Temperance Pledge, The. 
 Tpxas Centennial Oration. 
 Texas Story, A. 
 .Twilight Idyl, A. 
 Up- Hill. 
 
 Village Bell, The, 
 What Whiskey Did for Me. 
 Widow, The. 
 Words and their Uses. 
 Wrecker's Oath, The. 
 Zeph Higgins' Confession. 
 Zoological Romance, A. 
 
 rJONTENXS OF TsTo. IS. 
 
 Aged Prisoner. The. 
 
 intouio Oriboni. 
 
 AhK Mamma. 
 
 At the Garden Gate. 
 
 Aunt Kindly. 
 
 Babies. The. 
 
 Baby's Soliloquy, A. 
 
 Back- Log; or, Uncle Ned's 
 
 Little Game, The. 
 Bankrupt's Visitor, The. 
 Baptism Defended. 
 Benediction, The. 
 Ben Isaac's ViHion. 
 Blnbbs and h's PuHet. 
 BiiMy in the Police Court. 
 Bill of Items, A. 
 Cambysea and the Maerobiau 
 
 Bow. 
 Care of God, The. 
 Catholic Psalm, The. 
 Child Lo^tt, 
 Ohri.stian Life, The. 
 Composition on the Horae. 
 Columbia. 
 Dairtv's Faith. 
 De E'en and de Swoarri. 
 Domestic Tempest, A. 
 Door of Heaven, The, 
 Far Awa' Lan', The. 
 Flight of the Goda, The. 
 Fire-Fiend. The. 
 Four Scenes. 
 Georgia Volunteer, A. 
 Giver's Reward, The. 
 H*T- Fever. 
 
 Helpless Gray Head, The. 
 
 Heroes of the Mines. 
 
 Homeward. 
 
 Indirection, 
 
 Irish Philosopher, The- 
 
 Iron Gate. 
 
 Irrepres-sible, The. 
 
 Jenny Dunlenth. 
 
 Jeswie Cameron, 
 
 John Smith's Will. 
 
 Kate Maloney. 
 
 Leaving the Homestpad. 
 
 Lesson of Waterloo, The. 
 
 Little AUie. 
 
 Little Clip- Bearer, The. 
 
 Little Mag's Victoiy. 
 
 Lindnn Bee-Story. A. 
 
 Lover's Sacrifice, The. 
 
 Mansie Wauch's First and 
 Last Play. 
 
 Marc Antony's (OrlginaJ) Ora- 
 tion. 
 
 Matt. F. Ward's Trial. 
 
 Macdonald's Raid, a.d. 1780. 
 
 Medley, Mary's Little Lamb. 
 
 *' Memento Moii \" 
 
 Meriiiy's Conversion. 
 
 Model Sermon, A. 
 
 Money Musk. 
 
 Mrs Potts' Dissipated Hus- 
 band. 
 
 My Mule. 
 
 My Neijfiibor. 
 
 Mysterious Rappings. 
 
 Nutting. 
 
 |Dia cnurcn- Bella. 
 Old Man Goes to School, The 
 One Day Solitary. 
 One of the Six Hundred. 
 Opportunity. 
 Our Traveled Parson. 
 Owl Clitic, The. 
 Popping the Question. 
 Pyramus and Thisbe. 
 Regiment's Return, The. 
 Rhymers. 
 
 Roineo and Julifct (altered)* 
 Room for You. 
 Satan and tlie Grog-Seller. 
 Seeking Rest. 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Silent Tower of Bottreaui. 
 Sister and I. 
 
 " Sockery '^Setting a Hcd. 
 Sometime. 
 Spirit's Birth, The. 
 StJition-Agent'8 Story, Tho 
 Story of the Faithful Soul. 
 Story of a New Hat. 
 Tale of a Nose. 
 Tale of a Tramp, The. 
 Tom's Little Star. 
 Toussaint L'Ouverture. 
 Tuple Tie, The. 
 Waste Not, Want Not. 
 What Intemperance Doe* 
 Widow's Light, The. 
 Woodland Lesson, The. 
 World we Live in, The. 
 Youtkful Experience, 
 
tHE SERIES OF "100 CHOICE SELECTIONS. 
 
 CON"TB3]S'XS 
 
 6abr'B Kiss, The. 
 Bald-headed Man, The. 
 Balla4 of the Tempest. 
 Birth of St, Patrick, The. 
 Brakeraan at Church, The. 
 Buviag a Cow. 
 Canteen, The. 
 Captain Reec« of the MaaCle- 
 
 piece. 
 Charity. 
 Chriatiao MAl(*.ea aa<t the 
 
 Lion, The. 
 Comfort. 
 Coming Round. 
 Connor. 
 
 Count (Jaultier'a Bide. 
 CourCahip. 
 Cvnic. The. 
 Damsel of F«ru, The. 
 Deacon's Prayer, The. 
 Dead Kudent, The. 
 Death of the Keveller, The 
 Defence of Lucknow, The. 
 Door to Memory's Hall. 
 Dutcliman'fl Seieaade, The. 
 Dutchman's Telephone. X. 
 Engineer's Murder^ The. 
 Etiquette. 
 Tace Against the Fane, 
 
 The. 
 father John. 
 t'ishin'.- 
 
 b^ireman's Prayer, The. 
 Flood and the Ark, The. 
 Fool's Prayer, Tim. 
 tlyiug Jini't) Last Leap. 
 Fuuerat Oicslom in Egypt. 
 
 OB' No 
 
 Half-way Doin'a. 
 Heroes of the Land of Peon. 
 Honest Deacon, The. 
 Household Jewels, Tk^e. 
 Human Life. 
 I Am Not Old. 
 I Live for Thee. 
 Invitation to the Zoo, An. 
 Landlord's Last Motueuta. 
 Larry's on the Force. 
 Mariner's Description of a 
 
 Piano, A. 
 Master Johoor's Next-Door 
 
 Neighbor. 
 Matrimony. 
 Mids Minerva's Disappomt- 
 
 meat. 
 Monster Diamond, The. 
 Mr. Caudle's Hat. 
 Mrs. McWlUiams and 
 
 Lightiiins. 
 Mule and the Bees, The. 
 My Garden Plot 
 New Birth, The. 
 Old Farm-Houee, The. 
 |Old-School Punishment. 
 lOn the Channel Boat. 
 lOn the Other Train 
 Ormolu's Tenement House. 
 Orphan's Prayer, Tlie. 
 Over the HiU from the Poor- 
 
 House 
 Pawnbroker 8 Shop, The. 
 Picture, A. 
 Pilot's Story, The. 
 Poor Little Boy's Hymn. 
 PoUto, The. 
 
 the 
 
 . 19. 
 
 Reveller a, The. 
 
 Roll On. 
 
 Bchool master's Conquest. 
 
 Bhiuwrecked. 
 
 Sic Vita. 
 
 Bioux Chiefs Daughter. 
 
 Smalt Th.ii^s. 
 
 Spoopendyke'a Burglars. 
 
 Stoiy of Chinese Love, A. 
 
 Straight Road, The. 
 
 Study ot Elocution, The. 
 
 Summer Eve. 
 
 Surly Tim's Trouble. 
 
 Sympathy. 
 
 Too Much None. 
 
 Traffic in Ardent Spirits. 
 
 Ti amp ami ii Vagaoond, A. 
 
 True Teaching. 
 
 Tru^it. 
 
 Truth, Freedom, Vtrtue. 
 
 Two of Them. 
 
 Victory of Perry, The. 
 
 Voltaire and Wilberforce. 
 
 Welcome to the Nations. 
 
 When Will You Come Horn* 
 Again t 
 
 What a LUtle Boy Thinhi 
 about Tilings 
 
 White Sqnall. The. 
 
 Who is this Wonderful Proph- 
 et? 
 
 Widow Malone. 
 
 Witch "h Daughter, The, 
 
 Wo-beptHie Lover, A. 
 
 Woodchucks. 
 
 W-ong Man, The. 
 
 Touiig Tramp. The. 
 
 coasr^rKisTTS oin isto. so. 
 
 Aorahara Lincoln. 
 
 An Awful Squirt, 
 
 Apothecary Man, The. 
 
 Archbishop and fill Bias, 
 
 A t the bast. 
 
 Automatic Cradie, The. 
 
 Alix Italiens. 
 
 Awfully Lovely Philofiophy. 
 
 Babv sleeps 
 
 Bay Billy. 
 
 Bessie Kendrlck's Journey 
 
 Bluebeard. 
 
 Brier- Rose. 
 
 Chinese Excelsior, The. 
 
 Clnistmas Chimes, The. 
 
 Church Reveries of a School' 
 
 Girl. 
 Conev Esland Down der Pay 
 Cradle Song. 
 Crippie Ben. 
 Cross-eyed Lovers, The. 
 Damascua. 
 
 Difficult Love-Making. 
 Dot Leedle Loweeza. 
 Earth's Noblemen. 
 Echo. 
 Engaged. 
 Evening Idyl, An. 
 Family Jar, A. 
 F-'tching Water From 
 
 Well. 
 
 First Settler's Story, The. 
 First ""'e Deum, The. 
 Gentleman, A. 
 
 the 
 
 Golden Grains. 
 
 He Came too Late — A Parody 
 
 Home of Peace, The. 
 
 Impressions of Niagara. 
 
 iHChcape Kock, The. 
 
 In the Chimney Coruec- 
 
 I Wonder. 
 
 Jack Chiddy 
 
 Jenny Kissed Me. 
 
 Jenny Malone< 
 
 J-iiera, The. 
 
 Jo, the Tramp. 
 
 Katie's Answer. 
 
 King Volmer and Elsie. 
 
 Little Barefoot. 
 
 Little bv Little. 
 
 Little G'olilen Hair. 
 
 Little Nellie in the Prlsoa. 
 
 Lookout Mountain. 
 
 Lorraine. 
 
 Love of Country. 
 
 Memory. 
 
 Miller of Dee» The. 
 
 My Love. 
 
 Mysterious Duel, A. 
 
 My Vesper Song. 
 
 Next Morning. 
 
 Nightfall. 
 
 Nora M'Guire'B Lovers. 
 
 Nothing is Lost. 
 
 01(1 Churchyard Tree, The. 
 
 Old Daddy Turner. 
 
 Old Man in the Palace Car, The 
 
 Old time Sleighride, The. 
 
 Only a Glove. 
 
 Our Counlrr. 
 
 Patience with Love. 
 
 Patient Mercy Jones. 
 
 Phaidrig Orolioore. 
 
 Piece of Rfd Calico, A- 
 
 Rabbi's Vision, The, 
 
 Reason Wliy, The. 
 
 Riding Down. 
 
 Pory O'More. 
 
 Barn's Letter. 
 
 Saxon Grit. 
 
 Similia SimilibuM Curantur. 
 
 Sincle Head of Wheat, The. 
 
 Sly'Thoughts. 
 
 Solution, The. 
 
 Song of the Mystic. 
 
 Spinning- Wheel Song, The 
 
 Street Cries. 
 
 Struggle on the Pass, The- 
 
 Tammy's Prize. 
 
 Tantalus : Texas. 
 
 Temperance. 
 
 Tommy Taft. 
 
 Two Absent- Minded Men. i 
 
 Two Beggars, The. 
 
 Uncle Tom and the Hornet 
 
 United at Last. 
 
 Vashti. 
 
 Voice In the Twilight, The. 
 
 What iiy Lover Suid. 
 
 What Time is Tl ' 
 
 Woman who Lingers, The. 
 
 Zara's Ear-Rings. 
 
 The Speaker's Garland (in five volumes) combines the whole tw.'uty numbers of "Iff 
 Choice Selections." Each volume of the 'Garland " contains four numben ©f "Bt M ^ 
 '^blb." buidBomelT MKt s^^ne^sLutiaiiv bound \a cloth. Bend for Circolu. 
 
fhe "100 '^OXCfi Si:L£cnoiTS SSRIES" contftiBfi tfae nevest latf 
 bast things for Eeadings end ftecitations for all occasions. 
 
 CONTENTS OF No. 
 
 At Frederiefcstrarg.— 1882. 
 
 Aln'i He Cuter 
 Artie's Amen. 
 
 Aunt Patience's Doaghnuta- 
 Afleisting a Poetess 
 At tbw Stamp- Window. 
 Bear butte Mountain. 
 Battle of Beal' an I>uloe. 
 Ben Hu/ed. 
 
 Best Seffins-Mactalne, Tha. 
 Blaine on (^rfleld 
 Come vtth the Ring. 
 Dandy Fifth, The. 
 Drama of Three, A 
 Dream of the Univerae, A. 
 Danle) versus Dishcloth, 
 Emblem of Pence, An. 
 PindinR the Sunset. 
 Forging of the Anchor, The 
 ParmeT Stebbins at Ocean 
 
 Grove. 
 Proward Doster, The. 
 Por Love's Sake. 
 Olve Thanks fer What t 
 Gold. 
 
 Hagar in the Wilderness. 
 Horse-Cai Incident, A 
 He Wanted it Let Alon«. 
 Humptr Dumpty 
 Hilda, Spinning 
 Heroes. 
 In the Harbor. 
 I Would not Live Alway 
 Irish Coqvekrv 
 irttnnr Jadkuu 
 
 Just Over the Waj. 
 Jackdaw of Bbelms, Tha. 
 Kate Bhellr. 
 Eentacby PhiloBopbr* 
 Eeenan's Charge. 
 Land of Liberty, The. 
 Legend of the Organ-Build- 
 er, The. 
 Lights o' London, The. 
 Little child ahaUIead them, A. 
 Little Tom. 
 Little FhU. 
 
 Little Shoes did it. The. 
 Hy Daughter Louise- 
 Mrs. Brown's Husbands. 
 Main Hazir Hun. 
 Mother's Thoughts^ A. 
 Matins. 
 Margery Daw. 
 Miser's Will, Tb«. 
 Mlue Vamily. 
 Martyr of the Arena, The 
 Mother's Answer, A. 
 
 Sl- 
 
 Pardon Complett. 
 
 Public Opinion. 
 
 Queen or Prussia's fiide, flM 
 
 Bose, The. 
 
 Ride of Paul Venarec, Tba* 
 
 Roman Sentinel, Th*. 
 
 Railway Matinee, A. 
 
 Removal, The. 
 
 Smiting the Bock. 
 
 Study of Eloquence. Thm, 
 
 Song of the Battle-Flag. 
 
 Saved by a Oboet. 
 
 St. John the Aged. 
 
 Siu.^er's Climax, The. 
 
 Rtory of Life, A. 
 
 Sample- Booms. 
 
 Singiuff Across the Watar.. 
 
 Stage- Driver's Story, Tbm, 
 
 Ships at Sea. 
 
 Smooth Day, A. 
 
 Thou Canst not Forget. 
 
 Too Utterly Utter. 
 
 Total Annihilation. 
 
 Mr. Banscript'a Ride Down jTresd water Jim. 
 
 Hill. 
 Our Old Doctor. 
 Our Railroads. 
 Opening the Campaign. 
 I Popular Error, A. 
 Purpose, A. 
 
 Patchwork Philosophy. 
 Partins Lovers, The. 
 Petit ^an. 
 
 Policeman's Story, The, 
 Peril of the Mines, Th». 
 
 Tilphman's Ride. 
 
 To Mark Mother's Grav*. 
 
 Telegraphic Signal, The. 
 
 WidderBudd. 
 
 . Where are Wicked Fol^ 
 ' Bnned? 
 
 What £t is to Die. 
 
 Wlint a Christmas Carol did. 
 , Wbiit Adam Missed 
 j We've Always been Providst 
 for. 
 
 <B« Psgot. ftmphlet Edition, 30 Cento; Cloth-Bound, 60 Cont*. 
 
 CONTENTS OF No. S2. 
 
 At ehe Opeia. 
 
 After the Tiieatre. 
 
 Address to tlie Sun. 
 
 American Exile, An. 
 
 Ballad of tbe Shamrock. 
 
 Bebuid Time. 
 
 Big Shoe, The. 
 
 Basket of Flowers, A. 
 
 BiQ Ben Bollon. 
 
 Bcllaii of Capri, A. 
 
 Children we Keep, Tbe. 
 
 Christmas Baby, The. 
 
 Disturbance in Church, A. 
 
 Dame Fredegonde. 
 
 Linna Chide the Mither. 
 
 De:M:oi)'H Courtship, The. 
 
 Dead Doll, The. 
 
 De 'Sperience of de Beb'rend 
 Quacko Strong. 
 
 Death's Blunder. 
 
 Don'd Feel too Big. 
 
 Dead Soldier-Boy, The. 
 
 Doom of Claudius and Cyn- 
 thia, Tbe. 
 
 Eloquence that Persuades. 
 
 Fourth of July. 
 
 Farmer Beu's Theory. 
 
 Fate. 
 
 Fallow Field. The. 
 
 fading Leaf, The. 
 
 First Revolution of the Hea- 
 vens Witnessei by Man. 
 
 Give us a Call. 
 
 Grandmother's Sermoa. 
 
 Gmng to School 
 
 Good Old Way, The. 
 
 Qheber's Bloody Glen, The. iNo Smoking AUowe^ 
 Glance Backward, A. |Not Guilty (?), 
 
 How the Parson Broke the Only Playing. 
 
 Sabbath. I Only the Brakesman. 
 
 How Jim Turner Broke up; Open Door, The. 
 
 the School. Old Jack in the Well. 
 
 Heart Ventures. 
 Hindoo's Paradise, The. 
 Home, Sweet Home. 
 How a Widow Mourned. 
 How the Lawyers got a Pa 
 
 tron Saiut. 
 In Answer. 
 
 Inquiaitive Customer, An. 
 Je suis Americaiu. 
 Jim's Kids. 
 Jerry. 
 Kitty Neil. 
 Knight's Vow, The. 
 Last Days of Herculaneum. 
 Lucky Horseshoe. Tbe. 
 
 i Lottie Dougherty. 
 Love-Knot, The. 
 Literary Attractions of the 
 
 Bible. 
 Little Bessie. 
 LasCEl. 
 
 Lovely Scene, A. 
 Mine ^childhood. 
 Midnight Express, The. 
 Morning Psalm, The. 
 Music Everywhere. 
 Mike McQaffatv's Dog. 
 Marguerite of France. 
 Neafected Call, The. 
 Ifoia Kozmo. 
 
 Old, Old Story. The. 
 
 Old Knight's Treasure, The. 
 
 Old Clock. The. 
 
 Piice ol' a Drink, The. 
 
 Pike County Wedding, A. 
 
 Rum's Devastation. 
 
 RuiiiHeller'ft Song. The. 
 
 Round of Life, The. 
 
 Rest. 
 
 She had Business with the 
 
 Boss Mason. 
 Sermon, The. 
 Saii.iy Macdonald's Signal. 
 Street Crowd, A. 
 Shoemaker's Daughter, The. 
 Ticket 0' Leave. 
 Tim's Prayer Answered. 
 Trouble in " Amen Coiner." 
 Tramp's Story, The. 
 Temperance Echo, The. 
 Unaccountable Mystery, An. 
 Virion. A. 
 Vacant Chair. The. 
 Wanted to Learn Elocution. 
 William Brown of Oregon, 
 Wild (irapes. 
 'Voman's Pocket. A. 
 Wind and the Moon, The, 
 Waiting on tbe Lord. 
 Young Scholar, The. 
 
Tfaiform la St yl e and Pri c e, t o Bepetltlon thr onghont the Series. 
 
 CONTENTS OF IVo. 33^ 
 
 Ab the Pigeon Plies, 
 
 Anuwered Pruvers. 
 
 At the Oracoilo. 
 
 Bachelor a fJ-rowl. A. 
 
 Biiab'B Story. 
 
 Boy to the Schoolmaster, 
 
 The. 
 By the Sea. 
 
 Bby'B EH»ay nn Oirls, A. 
 BeiHhazzar'a Downrall. 
 Curtain-Fixture, The. 
 Clown's Bnby. The. 
 Domestic Economy. 
 Discipline. 
 
 Dnatn and the Grave. 
 Devil, The 
 
 Dr. Tindnle's Cue •Cure. 
 Demmy Jake. 
 Death of King Conor Mac 
 
 Neasn. 
 Enchanted Shirt, The. 
 KndlesB Proc*»anion, The. 
 BueineevH Mnking Love. 
 Bany Wife. The 
 Pnte of Macsresor, The. 
 Gnindeiir of tlie Ocean, The. 
 Gnindtnother's Bible. 
 Oond-ltve, Old Houne. 
 Gambler'B T.iwt Deal, The. 
 Hnw Randa went over the 
 
 River. 
 Bow Guflhtng destroyed the 
 
 Alhemarle. 
 HiH Last Coun. 
 Huldy'8 Pumpkin Pies. 
 Higher. 
 
 Hnt, The. 
 
 Incomplete Rerelatioa, An. 
 
 Initiated Tramp, Ad. 
 
 tti the Catacombs. 
 
 John Jones and I. 
 
 Jamie. 
 
 Just Retribution, The. 
 
 Juptice in Leadville, 1878. 
 
 Katrina's Visit to New York. 
 
 Eathie Morris. 
 
 Little Maud. 
 
 Lake Saratoga. 
 
 Lightning Story, A. 
 
 Legend of Innisfatlen, A, 
 
 Little Brown Curl, The. 
 
 Lullabv. 
 
 Miltiaaes gets the Beat of 
 
 Santa Claus. 
 Midshipmite, The. 
 Moses on Fisgah. 
 Missionary Hvmn, The 
 My Mother's Song. 
 Kight In Eden. 
 On the Frontier. 
 Old Actor's Story, The. 
 Olil King Cole. 
 Old Canteen, The. 
 Onlya Drunkard. 
 Old Soldier Tramp, The. 
 Old Rpading Cla.'^s. The. 
 Our Gunner'H Shot. 
 Overcometh. 
 Prince's Feather. 
 Paddy'H I,ament. 
 Pipt's Funeral. The. 
 Princeas and the Babbi, The. 
 
 Promised Land To-Morrow. 
 
 The. 
 Passions, The. 
 Pat and thu Pig. 
 Pilot, The. 
 Ring's Motto. The. 
 Song of the American Eagla^ 
 Sunday Fishin'. 
 Slren'H Wpdding-Ring, The. 
 Soldier's Cradle-Hymn, Thet 
 Spring Housp-CleauiQg. 
 Sixteen and Sixty. 
 Street Gamin's Story of tb« 
 
 Plav, A. 
 Still Waters. 
 
 Schoolboy's Apple's, Tho. 
 Saving the Ciaer. 
 Schonnv Schwartz. 
 Substitute, The. 
 S'poj'in', 
 
 Time's Soliloquy. 
 They went A- Fishing. 
 Two. 
 
 Thoughts on Immortalitf- 
 There are None. 
 Too Zealous by Half. 
 Things that Never Die. 
 Teaching him the Busineoa. 
 Tides are Riping, The. 
 Uncle Ike'a Roosters. 
 What I Live for. 
 Widow's Son restored to 
 
 Life, The, 
 Wiped Out. 
 
 Willie's Signal for JeKia. 
 ^elsh Classic, A. 
 
 CONTJBPfTS OF JVo. 34. 
 
 Paradox of Time, The. 
 
 Pompeii. 
 
 Peiiuiiig a Pig. 
 
 Put Youraell in Her Place. 
 
 Kiiili'Oad Ci'osHins, The. 
 
 Robert Bruce andthe Spider. 
 
 Raindrops, The. 
 
 Repartee. 
 
 Story of Some Bells, The. 
 
 Song of the Forge, The. 
 
 Sermon in Rhyme, A. 
 
 Somehow. 
 
 Station -Master's Story, The. 
 
 Sclmeider's Tomatoes. 
 
 Smoked- AmericanTheology. 
 
 bul Parker's (ihost. 
 
 Thief on the Cross, The. 
 
 Tribulations of Biddy Ma^ 
 
 lone. 
 Two Weavers, The. 
 Trouble with the Steward, 
 Truiidle-Eed Tieaijurea. 
 Tommy's Kiist Love- 
 Trouble- Borrowers. 
 Useful Precepts for Girlft. 
 Unwritten Poems. 
 Wrong Road, The. 
 What IS Heaven 1 
 Wife's Appeil, Tbe. 
 Whims. 
 
 What the Little Girl Said. 
 When the House is Alone by 
 
 Itself. 
 Year's Twelve Children* 
 
 The. 
 Year's Wooing, A. 
 
 gssued Fehruary 20th. 1 885 \ contains "100 Choice Selections" Noa. 21, 22,23 A 24 
 olform with nreceding Volumes 864 pages. Price, Green and Gold, 81.75 
 
 Baitsy and I are Oudt. 
 
 Bridal in Eden, The. 
 
 Ballad ot Cassandra Brown. 
 
 Brave Boy, A. 
 
 Baby in Church. 
 
 Buy Hero, A. 
 
 Childless. 
 
 Consider the Lilies. 
 
 Christ and the Little Onea. 
 
 Concraut. A. 
 
 Dfpot Incident, A. 
 
 Dying Child, The. 
 
 Death of the First- Born. 
 
 Earth's Angt'ls. 
 
 End of trie Way, The. 
 
 Ellen McJoiies Aberdeen. 
 
 Emancipation of Man, The. 
 
 Fui war a 
 
 Foundering of the Dolphin. 
 
 Fiom the Wreck. 
 
 Fra Giacamo. 
 
 From Hand to Mouth, 
 
 First Cloud, The. 
 
 Growing Old. 
 
 Grandfather's House. 
 
 Gunn's Lee. 
 
 Gowaiis under her Feet 
 
 Qottingen Barber, The. 
 
 Qod Kiiowa. 
 
 Qroves of Blarney, The. 
 
 Ooodv Blake and Harry Oill. 
 
 Qo Vny, Becky Miller, Go 
 Vay! 
 
 Rows. Blacksmith was Con- 
 verted. 
 
 Help me Acroiifl. Papa. 
 
 Henry tbe^Fifth's Wooing. 
 
 Home. 
 
 Heart's Charity, The. 
 
 I Wonder. 
 
 Judge ot Belllnzona, The. 
 
 Jack Hopkins' Story. 
 
 Life- Boat. The. 
 
 Lessons. 
 
 Lord's Prayer Illustrated. 
 
 Little Jim. 
 
 Landlord's Visit, The. 
 
 Legend, A. 
 
 Love of his Life, The. 
 
 Mountaina. 
 
 Movement Cure for Rheu- 
 
 matittm. The. 
 Mixed Relationship, A. 
 Midnight Charge, The. 
 Marjory May. 
 Mrs Jones's Lodger. 
 Maid of Orleans, The. 
 Mr. Piper's Mittens. 
 Not 60 Well Acquainted. 
 Ninety-Eight. 
 One -Legged GooFe,The. 
 Old Methodist's Testimony, 
 
 The. 
 Out and Into. 
 Old Woman's Complaint, 
 
 An. 
 Orpheus and Eurydlce. 
 Old and the New, The. 
 O'Branigan'a Drill. 
 Peculiar Neighbor, The. 
 Pauper Girl, The. 
 Potter'a Field, The. 
 
fHE DHAMATIC STTPPLEMEirrS appended to the FIEST TWENTY 
 NUMBERS of the "100 Choice Selections,'* contain a pleasing variety 
 of CBAMAS, COMEDIES, FARCES, Etc., enited to every occasion. 
 
 SEND FOR CATALOGUE. 
 
 COIVTEIVTS No. 35. 
 
 Ansry Worda. 
 
 Arabella nnd Sall^ Ann. 
 
 Abner and the Widow Jones.' 
 
 Apostrophe to the Oyster, Ad. 
 
 Blowing Bubbles. 
 
 Biddy O'Brien has Ibu Tooth- 
 ache. 
 
 Bonier Land, The. 
 
 Bn41ad of War, A. 
 
 Book Canvasser, The. 
 
 Becalmed. 
 
 Battle uf iDkerman, The. 
 
 Beyond, 
 
 Brother Ben. 
 
 Bold Dragoon, The. 
 
 Beautiful Gate, The. 
 
 Chrititmaa Blessing, A. 
 
 Drunkard's Wife, The. 
 
 Drunkard's Tliirdt, The. 
 
 Don't Use Bio Worda. 
 
 Defence of Xantippe, A. 
 
 Death -Bridge of the Tay. 
 
 Educational Courtship. 
 
 Four Knights. The. 
 
 Farmer and Wheel ; or. The 
 New Lochinvar. 
 
 Fnend of the Fly, A. 
 
 Faded Flowers, 
 
 Flirtation. 
 
 Fire I Fire* 
 
 Fate of Charlotte Rusae, The. 
 
 Girl of the Period, A. 
 
 Grace Darling. 
 
 Hannibal on tlie Alps. ' 
 
 How Mr. Smi£?gles went to a 
 Public Dinner. 
 
 His Garments got Turned. 
 
 How Jimmy Tended the Baby. 
 
 Hero Woman, The. 
 
 How to Choose a Wife. 
 
 In the Tunnel. 
 
 Ideal India. The. 
 
 Kitty'fl Prayer, 
 
 Kate. 
 
 Land of the Afternoon. 
 
 Last Charge, The. 
 
 Life's Journey. 
 
 Life. 
 
 Love, the Pest Monument 
 
 Lady Gay tjpanker. 
 
 Lesson from a Bell, A. 
 
 Little While Hearse, The. 
 
 Little Fireman. The. 
 
 Mr. Jonathan Bangs. 
 
 Man who Apologized, The. 
 
 Moll Jarvis O'Morley. 
 
 Miss O'Mulligan takes a Bi- 
 cycle Ride. 
 
 Modern Shakspeare, The. 
 
 Merchant and the Book- 
 Asent, The. 
 
 Nature Prayer. A. 
 
 New Story, The. 
 
 Napoleon's Overthrow. 
 
 No Kiss. 
 
 Nae Star was Glintin. 
 
 OldScliool House. The- 
 
 Old Arm-Chiir. The. 
 
 Old Oaken Bucket. The. 
 
 Outside. 
 
 On llie Kivpr. 
 
 On the Beach. 
 
 [Praying for Papa. 
 Pro^-UBtea' Bed. 
 PerfecC Man, The. 
 
 Rest. 
 
 SacrilegiouB Gamesters, The>, 
 
 Switchman's 6tory, The. 
 
 Shepherd Dog of the Pyre- 
 nees. The. 
 
 Sung of an Old Dollar Bill. 
 
 Story which the Ledger told. 
 
 SuuHet. 
 
 Saved by a Rattlesnake. 
 
 Shacob's Lament. 
 
 Speech of Patrick Henry. 
 
 Singer and the Child, The. 
 
 Sncw, The. 
 
 Six Love Letters. 
 
 Sympathv. 
 
 Strange Harvest, The. 
 
 Smack "out " of School, The. 
 
 Supporting the Guns. 
 
 This Old World of Ours. 
 
 Two Champions, The. 
 
 Three Parsons, "The. 
 
 Time's Silent Lesson. 
 
 To my Love. 
 
 Three Nazarites, The. 
 
 Tale of a Tadpole, The. 
 
 Tommv's Prayer. 
 
 Unfinished Manuscript. The. 
 
 Women of Mumbles Head, 
 The. 
 
 What a Thirty-ton Hammer 
 Can Do. 
 
 Wp're BuilHine Twoa Day. 
 
 Year in Paradise, A. 
 
 216 Pages. Pamphlet Edition, 30 Cents ; Cloth-Bound, 60 Cents. 
 
 COTVnrT:iVTS No. 
 
 All the Children. 
 
 A<;iiea the Martyr. 
 
 All About the Weather. 
 
 Arraignment of Rum, The. 
 
 Abigail Becker. 
 
 Awkward. 
 
 Be True. 
 
 liillet-Doux, A. 
 
 Bad Cold, A. 
 
 Brudder Brown on "Apples." 
 
 Cobblerof Lynn, The. 
 
 Composition, The. 
 
 Convict's Soliloquy, The. 
 
 Dan's Wife. 
 
 Doctor and tlie Lampreys. 
 
 Kn^lishman's Sea- Dirge, An, 
 
 Elsie's Child. 
 
 End of King David, The. 
 
 Fia Fonti. 
 
 French by Lightning. 
 
 Foolish Little Maiden, A. 
 
 Farmer Stehbins on Rollers, 
 
 Give us Men. 
 
 Qabu's Christmas Eve. 
 
 George Lee. 
 
 Hour of Horror, An. 
 
 He Giveth Sleep. 
 
 Haunted Smithy, The. 
 
 Home. 
 
 Inventor's Wife, The. 
 
 Island of Home, The. 
 
 Irishman's Perplexity, An. 
 
 Lost on the Shore. 
 
 Lor-l of Euileigh, The. 
 
 Little Fritz. 
 
 Little Tee- Hee. 
 
 Life's Game of Ball. 
 
 Last Look, A. 
 
 Life. 
 
 Larrie O'Dee. 
 
 Letter H, The. 
 
 Leonidas. 
 
 Lament of the Greek Women 
 
 Legend of St. Christopher. 
 
 .Me and Bill. 
 
 .Mnther's Daring, A. 
 
 Me and Jones. 
 
 M.irtyrs of Uganda, The. 
 
 Niic in the Programme. 
 
 Nuttins; Expedition, A. 
 
 Now I Tay me Down to Sleep. 
 
 Noble Stranger, The. 
 
 Nottman. 
 
 Overflow of Great River, The. 
 
 Only. 
 
 Our Debating Club. 
 
 Puzzled. 
 
 Peaaimistic Philosopher, The. 
 
 Poetry of Science, The. 
 
 Pauper's Revenge, A. 
 
 Paddy's Courting. 
 
 Pat's Mistake. 
 
 Prayin" for Shoes. 
 
 Quarrel, The. 
 
 Quarrel of the Wheels, The. 
 
 Road to Heaven. The. 
 
 Room Enough for All, 
 
 Reason Why, The. 
 
 S6. 
 
 Railway Chase, The. 
 
 Silver Cup, The. 
 
 Scandal. 
 
 Shall we Meet Again ? 
 
 Sunrise Among the Hills. 
 
 Scene from "Richelieu." 
 
 Sentinel of Metz, The. 
 
 School-Boy on ' Corns," A. 
 
 Serenade, A. 
 
 Thou Knowest Best. 
 
 There'll be Room in Heaven, 
 
 Town Pump, The. 
 
 Two Cities. 
 
 Then and Now. 
 
 Three Cherry-Stonea, The. 
 
 Taste it Not. 
 
 Ten Pound Ten, 
 
 Unapoken. 
 
 Unfaithfulness. 
 
 Vrilentine, A. 
 
 Vigilante, The. 
 
 Way of the World, The. 
 
 Wpather in Verse, The. 
 
 Walrus and Carpenter, The. 
 
 Who Rules the Household? 
 
 Washerwoman's Friend, Th*. 
 
 When Greek met Greek. 
 
 Western Artist's Accomplish- 
 ments, A. 
 
 Word for Cranks, A. 
 
 Willie Clark. 
 
 Why Ben Schneider decide* 
 for Prohibition. 
 
 Zenobia's Defenf^e. 
 
A rare combination of Readings, Seoitatlons, Plays, Sentiments, 
 Witticisms, etc. Much original matter. 240 pages each. Price, 
 30 cents. A liberal reduction for tbe entire Series. 
 
 Air-Castlea. 
 
 Advance of Science, The. 
 Alltel, The. 
 Burdock's Munic-Box. 
 Billy K. Simes. 
 Bonowed Baby, The. 
 Barney O'LiQu'a Leeches 
 Bunging a Senaatioual Ki 
 elist. 
 
 By Special Request. 
 Chanty Collector, The. 
 College "Oil-Cans." 
 Church Fair, The. 
 Crippled for Life, 
 Cliickeiis Come Home to 
 
 Roost. 
 Creation of Man, Tlie. 
 Der Oak and Der Vine. 
 Dffiled. 
 
 Der Vater-Mill. 
 Duty. 
 
 Ere the Sun went Dntrn. 
 Father's Counsel, Tlie. (A 
 
 Temperance Dialogue.) 
 Four Brothers, The. 
 Fence o' Scripture Faith 
 Forever. 
 Facts concerning "Jav 
 
 Gould." 
 Foreign Views nf the Statue. 
 Grandma's Sliainrocks. 
 Grace Vernon Uu.ssell. 
 Gallant Wescue, A. 
 Ganges, The. 
 God B Country. 
 Getting Up. 
 Geuius. 
 
 3VO 
 
 Ghost of an Old Continental. 
 
 How Girls Study. 
 
 Iloutage, The. 
 
 Happy Couple, A. 
 
 I canuoi Turn the Key and 
 
 37- 
 
 {An 
 
 my Bairn Outaide. 
 In Vanity Fair. 
 
 If I should Die To-night. 
 
 Junipero Serra. 
 
 Knightly Welcome, 
 
 KiHs Deterred, The. 
 
 I^ahor. 
 
 Law Agin it, A. 
 
 Lizzie. 
 
 Little Gail. 
 
 liittle Turncoats. 
 
 Love is Over all. 
 
 Legend of Kalooka, The. 
 
 Leadville Jim 
 
 Legend of Crystal Spring. 
 
 Light from Over the Kange. 
 
 Minister's Grievances, The. 
 
 Mustered Out. 
 
 Mouse, The. 
 
 Masterpiece of Brother Felix. Timber Line, 
 
 Marco's Death. iTuo Maiiv of We. 
 
 Mahmud and the Idol. iTiuiiing the Pointn. 
 
 Mizpah. 'Timothy Giey. 
 
 My Boy Fritz. (A Duologue.) '1 i;utor ^ea. The. 
 
 Outlaw, The. 
 Prime of Life. The. 
 Public Worrier, The. 
 
 Uproanoua Farce.) 
 Purpose. 
 Pnscilla Prim on Woman's 
 
 Rights. 
 Prayer in Battle, Th^- 
 Renyi. 
 
 Rival 8inger, The. 
 Stray Sunbeam. A. 
 Soldier Tramp, The. 
 Sealed Orders. 
 Supers. 
 
 Soldier's Offering, A. 
 Sand-man. The. 
 S'posin' a Case. 
 Stoiy of a Bedstead, The. 
 fiott-Heaited Bill. 
 Scene from " Leah.' 
 
 ma.) 
 Sound the Reveille. 
 Stnrm at iSea, A. 
 Stiilue of Libtrty Unveiled. 
 
 {Dra- 
 
 Midnight Mass. The. 
 Mother's Doughnuts. 
 Nothing for Use. 
 Number Twenty-five. 
 Nameless Gu^'at, The. 
 Oiiginal Love Story, An. 
 Our G'lurnbus. 
 Our Lives. 
 
 Wli.it Men have Not Fought 
 
 lor. 
 
 Watchman's Story, A. 
 
 You MuBt be Dieaming. (A 
 
 Capital Farce.) 
 Yes, I'm Guilty. 
 Young America. 
 
 American Eagle, The. 
 Annie Pickens. 
 Bonnet for My Wife, A. 
 
 Sparkling Comedietta.) 
 Bores, The. 
 Bob Johnson's Visit to the 
 
 Circus. 
 Buzzard's Point. 
 Barnyard Melodies. 
 Bill Nye on Horneta. 
 Composite .Maiden, A. 
 Convict Joe. 
 Case of Pedigree, A. 
 Court of Berlin, The. 
 Devotion to Duty. 
 Drive On ! Drive On ! 
 Deadly Weapon, A. 
 Der Coming Man. 
 Death of Bul Sikes, The. 
 "Dead! Name Unknown." 
 Dew-Drop Inn, The. {A 
 
 Temperance Dialogue.) 
 Don Crambo. 
 Discovery of San Francisco 
 
 Bay. 
 Debating Society, The. 
 Eunice. 
 
 Easter Poem, An. 
 Find Your Level. 
 Falling In and Falling Out. 
 Fall of Jericho, The. 
 
 COIVTKIVTS OTT JNO. 
 
 I Hold Fast to the Dear Old 
 Sabbath. 
 {A His Riches. 
 
 iViA Mother's Cooking. 
 
 Her Wedding. 
 
 Hint, A. 
 
 How the King Lost his 
 Crown. 
 
 Idiot's Gallantry, An. 
 
 Jim, A Hero. 
 
 Jealous Wife, The. 
 
 Jerusalem, the Beautiful, 
 
 "Kirts Me, Mamma, I Cao't 
 Sleep." 
 
 Kittens and Babies. 
 
 Ki^s in the Dark, A. 
 
 Little .lolinnie on 'Owls. 
 
 Lovv-Backed Car, The. 
 
 Margaret's Guest. 
 
 Miller's Maid, The. 
 
 Masque, The. 
 
 My Lover. 
 
 Mrs. Murphy's Cake Recipe. 
 
 My Little Bo-peep. 
 
 New-Year Ledger, The. 
 
 Night- Watch, The. 
 
 New Declaration of Inde- 
 pendence, A. 
 
 Number 999. 
 
 Only a Song. 
 
 Old House on the Hillside. 
 
 Obstinate Music-Box, The. 
 
 ss. 
 
 Grain of Truth, A. 
 
 Get Acquainted with Your- Only True Life, The. 
 self. |01d Man's Idyl, An. 
 
 Good-bve. Old Church. On the Prairie. 
 
 Heaveii'wiird. Poetical Courtship. 
 
 Happy Family, A. 'Paraou'a Vacation, The. 
 
 Prince's Hunting, The. 
 
 Petil of the Passenger Train. 
 
 Peter Klaue. 
 
 Queon Vashti. 
 
 Rose of Avondale, The. 
 
 Bajput Nurse, A. 
 
 Raiest Peiiil. The. 
 
 Spii'itcd Object-LeasOD, A 
 
 Shouting Jaue. 
 
 Sclinke und Agers. 
 
 Strange Request, The. 
 
 Sleepy. 
 
 blim Teacher of Cramberrv 
 Gulch, The. 
 
 Street Tumblers, The. 
 
 Mmple Church, The. 
 
 iatory of Little Mofaes, The. 
 
 Saved. 
 
 f^ince She Went Home. 
 
 Swallowed Frog, The. 
 
 gliail Bess Come Hamef 
 
 Stcuy of Rebekah, The. 
 
 To-morrow. 
 
 Three Sunbeams. 
 
 That Fire at the Nolans'. 
 
 Troll-Man, The. 
 
 Twenty-one To-day. 
 
 Three Trees, The. 
 
 V'liceless Chimes, The. 
 
 Vi-it to Hades, A. 
 
 Village Scare, The. (A Com- 
 edy Jor Youiig. Folks.) 
 
 Whiit the Diver S.-i w. 
 
 Wiiiting for the GaKwon. 
 
 Wh.1t is Home? 
 
 What I Said. 
 
 Woman's Song, A 
 
COIVTEIVTS OF* Wo. 20. 
 
 After the Battle. 
 
 Art Jwcob aerved for Bacbel. 
 
 Abiiei's cSecond Wile. 
 
 Aiiuhiia'ti Ai'iival {_A Dm- 
 logue). 
 
 Anne Hathaway. 
 
 Bibte, The. 
 
 Bit of Shopping for the 
 Country, A. 
 
 Bridge- Keeper's Story, The. 
 
 Bell of the Angels. The. 
 
 By the Cross of Monterey. 
 
 Bright Hours. 
 
 Colonel's Orders, The. 
 
 Clear Case, A. 
 
 Cabmaa's Story, The. 
 
 Domestic Mutual Improve- 
 ment. 
 
 Di'ntimiter'aDaughter.The. 
 
 Diiel Scene from "The Ki- 
 vals." 
 
 Di-jni6ed Conrtship. 
 
 U.uiiel Peritou's Kide. 
 
 EureUa. 
 
 Kngine- Driver's Story ,Tlie. 
 
 Fuiry Tale, A. 
 
 French Account of Adam's 
 Fall. 
 
 Fireman's Wedding, The. 
 
 Foiuidations. 
 
 Granddad's Polka. 
 
 Grunt. 
 
 Game of Chess, A {A 
 
 How Mickey got Kilt in the 
 
 War. 
 How Mose Counted the 
 
 ERgM. 
 Huskin', The. 
 
 How Columbus Found 
 Amerfca. 
 
 Hugh Gordon's Iron Mill. 
 
 How Marriage is like a I>e- 
 vonHliire Lane. 
 
 If it, was Nut fur the Drink. 
 
 In llie Same Line. 
 
 1 Wonder Why. 
 
 Joe Striker and the Sherifi*. 
 
 Journey of Life. The {A 
 Dialogue). 
 
 Juberlo Tom. 
 
 John of Mount Sinai. 
 
 Jaquelioe. 
 
 Legend of St. Freda, The. 
 
 Little Sibier of Mercy, The. 
 
 Little Jo. 
 
 Mrs. Bruwulow'a Christmas 
 Party. 
 
 Mountain and the Squirrel, 
 The. 
 
 Message from Bony, A. 
 
 Mad Aiitlionv's Charge. 
 
 Mary Ann's tlscape. 
 
 Mr. Bowser Takes Precau- 
 tions. 
 
 Marriage of Cana, The. 
 
 Nigbt-Ride on the Engine. 
 
 " Nearer to Thee." 
 
 Neai'iny Home. 
 
 Not Willin'. 
 
 Only a Smile. 
 
 Orthograpliy. 
 
 Old Organ, The. 
 
 Ocean's Dead, The. 
 
 Old Man'.H Story, An. 
 
 Old Teiinant Church. 
 
 Pilot's Bride, The. 
 
 Perfect Faith, A. 
 
 Put's Wisdom. 
 
 Peiin's Monument. 
 
 Refat for the Weary. 
 
 Reliibution 
 
 Rodney's Kide. 
 
 Reason Whv, The. 
 
 Story of Faith, The. 
 
 Sable Sermon. 
 
 ** Somebody's." 
 
 Starry Flag, The. 
 
 Speak Geutlv. 
 
 Sent Back by the Angels. 
 
 "Shoiitin'." 
 
 Simple Sign, A. 
 
 Sand-Man. The. 
 
 Song of the Oyster, A. 
 
 "Scipio." 
 
 Strauss' Boedry. 
 
 Se^r :ind Dreamers, The {A 
 Dialogue). 
 
 Selling the Bahr. 
 
 hwell in a Hoise-Car, The. 
 
 Then and Now. 
 
 Tsar Olee. 
 
 Timelv Hint, A. 
 
 That Autograph Sale. 
 
 Unpardonable Sin, The. 
 
 Up Thar, behind the Sky. 
 
 Vas Marriage a Failure? 
 
 Vacation Fragment, A. 
 
 Venice of the Aztecs, The. 
 
 Wa.4hington. 
 
 " We all like Sheep." 
 
 World, The. 
 
 What One Boy Thinks. 
 
 What Drove Me into a Lu- 
 natic Asyhim. 
 
 Wooing ot the Lady Ama- 
 bel, The. 
 
 OorVTJEiVTH OF No. 30. 
 
 As it Is in Heaven. 
 Auctioneer's (lift. The. 
 At the Stage Door. 
 Aunt MelisHy on Boyn. 
 At the Tomb of Napoleon. 
 Bnive Woman, A. 
 Bicycle Ride, The. 
 Cherished Letters. 
 Chn-t Calming the Tern- 
 
 pe.Ht. 
 Cliallenge. A. 
 Chinese " Maud Muller." 
 Choir's Way of Telling It. 
 
 The. 
 Christmas a Hundred Tears 
 
 to Come. 
 California Flea, The. 
 Davy and Goliar. 
 Dos and the Tramp, The. 
 D<';il;iii Brown's Way. 
 Dp;ith's Triumph. 
 Drum, A. 
 !)<' Quincy'.-i Deed. 
 Deacon. Me and Him, The. 
 Don Fed 10 and Fair Inez. 
 Debaiin' S'ciety, The. 
 D-T Deutscher'a Maxim, 
 Daik Forest of Sorrow. The. 
 Enemies Meet at Death's 
 
 Door. 
 Elti'iuencG of O'Connell. 
 Fhig the Train. 
 Fathoming Br:tins. 
 Goinc on an Eirand. 
 Grumble Corner and 
 
 Thanksgiving Street. 
 Good, The. 
 Grave by the Sorrowful Sea, 
 
 The. 
 
 Gloria Belli. 
 
 Genua of GreatneES. 
 
 Gambler's Tale, The. 
 
 Her Vision. 
 
 Harvest, The. 
 
 How the Beea came by 
 their Sting. 
 
 Hunchbacked Singer, The. 
 
 His Sweetheart's Song. 
 
 How the Fifty-first Took 
 the Bridge. 
 
 In the Dime Museum. 
 
 It WHM All a Mistake. 
 
 Little Worries. 
 
 Lotty's Messase. 
 
 Lady Maud'rt Oath. 
 
 Loom of Life. The. 
 
 Loat on the Desert. 
 
 Man lor the Hour, The. 
 
 Midnight Tragedy, A. 
 
 Memoiiesof the War. 
 
 Mysterious Guest, Tiie. 
 
 Men who Do not Lift, The. 
 
 iMother's Tinder Falin's, A. 
 
 Make Room in Heaven. 
 
 My First Sin^ine Les-son. 
 
 Nicknames of the States. 
 
 Old Letters. 
 
 Out at Sea. 
 
 Old Friends. 
 
 Oh, No, of course Not. 
 
 Ould Docther Mack. 
 
 Pink Perhimed Note, A 
 (A Comedietta). 
 
 Pattin' Juba. 
 
 Presto Clianco. 
 
 Parrot in a Deacon's Meet- 
 ing, A. 
 
 Frocrastinatioii. 
 
 Please, Preacher Man, can 
 I go Home? 
 
 Pufsy Wants a Corner 
 (yl Comedietta). 
 
 Pat's Secret. 
 
 Parhon Policy. 
 
 Peter Adair. 
 
 Right Living. 
 
 Swore Oli". 
 
 Signin<^ of Magna Charta. 
 
 School Episode, A. 
 
 Star-Gazing. 
 
 Sword. The. 
 
 Sermon on Life, A. 
 
 Shepherd's Story, The. 
 
 Sherman's March. 
 
 Starless Crown, The. 
 
 South Fork. 
 
 True Story of a Brie 
 Cheese. 
 
 Two Chimneys, The. 
 
 Thankful Parson, A. 
 
 Temple of Living Masons, 
 
 Teetotaller's Story. A. 
 
 Uncle Podger Hangs a Pic- 
 ture. 
 
 Uncle Edom and the Yan- 
 kee Book -agent. 
 
 Views of Farmer Brown. 
 
 Volunteer Organist, The. 
 
 Wild Prairie Fire, A. 
 
 Whisperin' Bill. 
 
 Whistling Regiment, The. 
 
 Which Road ? 
 
 Wizard's Spell, The. 
 
 Waiting — At the Church 
 Door. 
 
 Wreck of the "Mary Wi- 
 ley." 
 
COINTTKIVTS OF ]Vo. 31, 
 
 *Aunt Maria at the Eden Musce. 
 Apostrophe to tliP IMiBSisaippi. 
 
 All-around Inte"^ctual niau, An. 
 
 After DetLth ir Arabia. 
 
 ♦Awake 1 Rejoice I 
 
 lluVii Jack of ttie "Albatroas." 
 
 Be Ye Keady. 
 
 Blind Flower Girl of Pompeii, The. 
 
 Billy's Koso. 
 
 Brought Back. 
 
 Bachelor's Reverie, A. 
 
 ?Min.] Mary of the Mountain. 
 
 Jurrent of Life, The. 
 
 flhristmas Story, A. 
 
 Ciiiuaiiian's Prodigal, The, 
 
 Clodiiig Scene, The. 
 
 ♦Curtay, The. 
 
 ColnmbuB. 
 
 ChriHtopher (f . 
 
 Cuine, Sign the Pledge. 
 
 Court of the King, The. 
 
 Curate's Story, The. 
 
 Charge on "Old Hundred," The. 
 
 Caught. 
 
 Dickens Gallery, The. 
 
 Kternity of Music, The. 
 
 Evening Doze, An. 
 
 Kagle Screams, The. 
 
 Everlasting Memorial, The. 
 
 "■Epitaph, The. 
 
 Fauntleroy. 
 
 •Father's Choice, The. 
 
 Fireman's Prize, The. 
 
 Fate. 
 
 Good Joke on Maria, A. 
 
 God's Music. 
 
 11:8 Mother's Songs. 
 
 *'Hiilf Wits not told me. The." 
 
 Heroes of Inkerrauu. 
 
 *IIow the Church was Builtat Kehue's 
 
 ll.r Ideal. 
 
 How I won my Wife. 
 
 Ho had Faith. 
 
 It's my Nature. 
 
 *Jouer Swallerin' a Whale. 
 
 Jesus, Lover of my Soul. 
 
 •Keepers of the Light. 
 
 La TnwT d' Anvergne. 
 
 *LittlH Dago Girl, The. 
 
 Lost Fouud, The. 
 
 Lady Jane. 
 
 "Little Jack Two-Btirks. 
 
 Mother-in-law, The. 
 .■\lr. Ki8^eldorf Hnd the Water-pipe. 
 Mi.unted Knifibt, 'Ihe. 
 -My Neighbor's Call. 
 
 Mrs. O'Toole and the Conductor. 
 My Dolls. 
 Sickel Plated. 
 
 Nathan Hale, the Martyr Spy. 
 'Nora Mulligan's Thanksgiving Party. 
 Ninkum Land, The. 
 Owen's Oath. 
 'Our Church Sociable. 
 '■One-Legged GouBe, The. 
 *Over the Divide. 
 Prototype, A. 
 Peronella. 
 
 Prairie Mirage, The. 
 Tretty Maid of Kisoimmee, The, 
 *i'arty Caucus, The. 
 " Quiet Smoke, A. (A Comedy.) 
 '^Quicksand, The. 
 '''Roinau Legend, A. 
 ♦Rescue, The. 
 
 •Reclaimed. (A Temperance Drama.\ 
 ♦Resurrection Morn. {An Oriental 
 
 Drama.) 
 *So was I. 
 
 Sunbeam's Mission, The. 
 Small Beginnings. 
 St. Peter's Politeness. 
 ^=Stranger's Evidence, The. 
 Shadows on the Snow. 
 ■''Sarah's Proposal. (A Monologue.) 
 "There was a Crooked Man." 
 Tribute to Grant, A. 
 Truth in the Ship's Log. 
 Up Higher. 
 Unseen Angel, An. 
 Uncle Ednni andtheFlurridy Nigger. 
 Velvet Coat of the Last Century, A. 
 What Might Happen. 
 Woman Healed, The. 
 Woman, 
 
 Waterniillion, The. 
 We all Know Her. 
 Young Bootblack, The. 
 *Ze Moderiie English. (A Comedy.) 
 
 Also, tSt^Ulnients>^ Wiliic siM, etc 
 
 SYNOPSIS OF PLATS IN No. 31. 
 
 ZE MOnERNE ENGLISH.— A Comedy in one act, by Robert C. V. 
 Meysks. Three males, three females, lime, thirty minutes. Many of the 
 eccentricities of the English language, taught as a practical joke to a titled 
 Frenchman and his daughter, furnish the basis for an exceedingly ludicrous 
 sei les of situations, on the eve of a fashionable bail. Bubbling over with 
 fi'n. One of Meyers's best. 
 
 A QUIET SMOKE.— A Comedy in one act, by W. H. Nball. Three 
 males, two females. Time, twenty-five minutes. An old gentleman, afflicted 
 with gout, is denied the use of tobacco by his doctor. His expedients to 
 escape this decree, despite the watchfulness of his wife, keep things lively. 
 An English {or colored) servant is a prominent character. 
 
 RECLAIMED; OR, SUNSHINE COMES AT LAST.— A Temperance 
 drama, in four acts, by H. Elliott McBride. Six males, one female. 
 Time, thirty minutes. Refined in dialogue; telling situations; easily ar- 
 ranged, and suie to prove attractive where such a play is needed. An jrish 
 character adds a touch of humor. 
 
 RESURRECTION MORN.— A beautiful Oriental drama, by Ellen 
 McKRAV. Seven males, four females. 'I"ime, thirty minutes. Couched in 
 fine language and offering a good opportunity for picturesque costumes an/ 
 
CONTENTS OF No. 32. (Issued Nov. 10, 1892). 
 
 Tho«e marked [*] are either entirely 
 of the owneia of Copyright. 
 And thP Band Played. 
 Bi;; Bob Simpson. 
 B;i(;Iielur'8 Hope, The. 
 Bruls^oof Glen Aray, The. 
 Beaiity of the Sea, The. 
 Cfinictacus. 
 
 *('hurclj Kitchen, The. 
 Christmas Guests, The. 
 *Cadwalitder Fry and hia Theory. 
 Cliild's Mirror, Thp. 
 *Oivil \V;ir— Episodoof tlieCunimune. 
 ♦Cap'n Peleg Bunker on Base-Ball. 
 Ci'DSsing t)i6 Bar. 
 Drumhead Court- Martial, A. 
 Dot and Dolly. 
 
 ♦Dynamite Plot, A. {A Comedy.) 
 Diummer Roy, The. 
 *I)er Shpidor und der Fly. 
 ♦Dude, A. 
 *Di*ad Leader, The. 
 Dufl on a High Tower, A. 
 Kricore ! Encore ! 
 Elam Chaee s Fiddle. 
 Eliab Eliezer. 
 
 *EconomicAl Boomerang. {A Comeihj. 
 Flag of the Rainbow. 
 Flank Hayman. 
 ♦Fife, The. 
 ♦From the Iron Gate. 
 Farmer Boffin's Eijuivalent. 
 •Fighting Fire. 
 Guide Post, The. 
 He triod to tnll his Wife. 
 Hunting a Madman. 
 ♦IIeart'8 Ease, The. 
 Hif Names. 
 
 How an Engineer won his Bride. 
 *He Didn't Amount to Shucks. 
 Hour with Whittieri An. 
 ♦Interrupted Proposal, An. 
 Inevitable, The. 
 Idiot Liid, The. 
 Jail-Bird's Story, A. 
 Juryman')* Story, A. 
 Kifjsing Cup's Race. 
 Love's Striitegy. 
 Little Charlie. 
 Jjatches. 
 
 Little Pilgrim. A. 
 Light in the Window, The. 
 ♦Little Boy Who Went Away, Tlie. 
 
 original or used by special permidsion 
 
 '=Little Rnint Cecilia. 
 
 Mended Vaae, The. 
 
 Magpie, The. 
 
 .Mad. 
 
 Magic Waud, The. 
 
 Nellie's prayer. 
 
 Only Joe. 
 
 Overland Mail. 
 
 Oh, for a man 1 
 
 Old Fisherman, The. 
 
 Open Steeplechase, The. 
 
 Only a Woman. 
 
 Ou the Rappahannock. 
 Our Weddiri' Day. 
 Old Jack Watts's Christmas. 
 ^Old Ace. 
 
 Peter Mnlrooney and the Black Filly. 
 '=Paupr'r's Child, The. 
 ^Rescue of Albret, The. 
 Raising a Beard. 
 »-Bide of Death, The. 
 Race for Life, A. 
 Rescue of Mr. Figg, The. 
 "^Revenge, A, 
 
 '=Seth Peters's Report of Daniel Web- 
 ster's Speech. 
 •^Slaughter House, The. 
 ■"Sad Mistake, A. 
 
 ♦Shadow from an Insane Asylum, A. 
 Swipes's Dinner. 
 Tragedy in the Sunshine, A. 
 Three Preachers, The. 
 Too Progressive for Him. 
 Tone of the Voice, The. 
 
 Tim's Downfall. 
 Two Pennies, The. 
 To the Dykes ! 
 True Boston ian, A. 
 "Uncle Pete's Plea. 
 •^Under the Wheels. 
 * " Uncle John" to his City Cousin. 
 Water and Rum. 
 ■ Wliere are your Treasures ? 
 Wlieri Sam'wel led the Singin'. 
 White Rose and the Poppy, Ttie. 
 What She Said. 
 Wakin' the Young Uns. 
 Wiien I am Dead. 
 
 When Grandfather Went to Town. 
 
 ■Y;ivvcob's Tribulations. 
 Also, HentimentSf WiUicisnis, ttc. 
 
 SYNOPSIS OF PLATS IN No. 32. 
 
 A DYNAMITE PLOT —A capital Comedy by Robert C V. Meyers. 
 Five males, three females. Time, thirty-five minutes. Scene, a railway 
 station. An old Major, an old maid, two young couples whose love affairs 
 are dreadfully mixed, a detective who suspects the others of being a gang 
 of dynamiters, together with an Irish porter, form the constellation from 
 which scintillate brilliant flashes of fun. 
 
 AN ECONOMICAL BOOMERANG.— A very spirited Comedietta 
 by W, H. Npall. Three males, three females. Time, forty minutes. A 
 husband's plea for economy mduces the wife to attempt her own dress- 
 making, and use him as a figure for draping. The unexpected admission 
 of callers, by a "grane" Irish girl, surprises him thus attired, causing great 
 commotion, and rumors of insanity, Kesult, order out of chaos, a discom- 
 fitted doctor, a wiser husband, a re-united household, and a happy audience. 
 
 tSSUED, DECEMBER 10, 1892. 
 The Speaker's Garland, Vol. VIII, containing "100 Choice 
 Selections," Nos- 29, 30, '''' "^^ °'*''» «""■'«' tTo^oI T»rir.oo 
 
«»T*LoouEor DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENTS APPMotD to tne 
 
 TlirlM'J5?IT-'"'*'^'" " """ "'""'^^ SELECTiaNS." ARRANGED IN PARTS AS 
 Ir!^Io\ "" '* ^" CORRESPONDING NUMBERS OF TKE SERIES. TNE "lOO CHOICE 
 f«^.^? ■^21'nV'!"'"^'' '"eLUOE THESE VARIOUS SUPPLEMENTS, ARE FURNISHED AT 
 USUfiL PRICE. (THIRTY CENTS ,, OR THE SUPPLEMENTS CAN BE HAD SEPARATELY TOR 
 
 TEN CENTS PER NUMBER. 
 
 /« tht preparation o/ these Plays, the aim has been to blend innocent fun viith 
 profitable instruction and amuSement, and there is positively nothing offensive or 
 objectionable in the entire collection. Suitable /or the Lyceum, School or Parlor. 
 
 The approx imate time required in representation is given to most of the plays. 
 
 Tio. z. 
 
 PRACTICAL JOKES —A Farce in one act, by Robert C V. Mevkrs. Three 
 males two females Time, fifty minutes. Very sparkling. The discomfiture of 
 the old man ; the embarrassment of his nieces, and the bewilderment of the young 
 gentlemen give rise to a series of highly amusing complications. 
 
 ART AN D ARTIFICE. — A picture play for two, introducing a series of tableaux. 
 
 KO. 2. 
 
 THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.— A Comedy in three acts: adapted from the 
 German. Twelve characters, viz : — An ecocntric old father with seven daughters, 
 a lover, and three elderly ladies. The humor consists in the odd discovery of the 
 heroine, and gives a good opportunity for efficient acting. 
 
 SCENE FROM "THE RIVALS."— An adaptation of the celebrated interview 
 between Sir Anthony and his son Jack on the question of matrimony, 
 
 Mo. 3. 
 
 THE DAY BEFORE THE WEDDING.— A Comedietta in one act, by Rober-. 
 C. V Meyers. Three males, three females. Time, forty minutes. An accidental 
 exchange of hand-satchels is made the basis of a tilt between two sets of lovers 
 which is happily discovered in time to prevent serious results. 
 
 THE BALCONY SCENE FROM 'ROMEO AND JULIET."— Specially ar- 
 ranged for easy presentation. 
 
 Mo. 4. 
 
 WHERE IS MV HAT?— A Farce in one act, by Robert C.V. Meyers. Two 
 males, two females. Time, fifteen minutes. The loss of a hat, just as the parties 
 are starting for the opera, causes vexatious delays, which rufile tempers anci pro- 
 duce recrimination, until the missing article turns up in a very unexpected place. 
 
 THE STUDENT AND HIS NEIGHBORS.— A Comedy with a moral, foi eight 
 boys. A miser, politician, dandy, Dutchman, Irishman, etc. Time, thirty minutes. 
 
 CAIN, ANCIENT AND MODERN.— By Ellen Murray. A very clTectivd 
 temperance lesson. Twelve characters, with auxiliaries Time, ten minutes 
 
 THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY —A Poetical Spectacular Play for nine girls; 
 giving opportunity for pretty costuming : easily arranged . Time, twenty minutes, 
 
 No. 5. 
 
 COMPOSED ENTIRELY OF PAGES FROM MODEL DIALOGUES." 
 A QUEER FIT. — A humorous sketch for four males, introducing a Jew clothier 
 TRUSTY AND TRUE. — Fourboys. Time, twenty minutes. Vice made odiou? 
 A FRIGHTENED LODGER.— An uproarious Farce for four males, introducing 
 Yankee character, an Irishman, an assumed lunatic, etc. Time, thirty minutes. 
 MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.— By H. Elliott McBbidb. Five males. 
 thnc females. Time, twenty minutes. A lesson for gossips 
 
 MRS. HIGGINSON'S WILL.— Four males, three females. Time, twenty mm. 
 
 No. 6- 
 
 BILL JEPSON'S WIFE.— A Comedietta, by Robert C. V. Meyers. One 
 male two females (one a little girl) Time, fift«-.n minutes. This is a character 
 •ketch, giving scope for some effective acting in the suppressed style. 
 
 /^N ELECTRIC EPISODE— A F.-irce by Helen Booth. Two males, two 
 females. Time, thirty minutes. An electric battery causes a proposal of marriage. 
 
 VANITY VANQUISHED —A Farce in one act, by H. Ei.LlOTt McBKinn. 
 Two males, four females. Time, twenty minutes. In which a conceiled fnp is 
 decidedly taken down b-' four lively liirls. who all pretend to be in love with hun. 
 
Tliese FLATS have lieen added to the resptctive snmDeTs ol tba 
 "1 00 Choioe Seleotions,"— inoreasing each book to 216 pages,— withoat 
 any inorease in the ptioe. The usual liberal redaotion to Clubs. 
 
 Xo. 7. 
 
 THE LONG-LOST NEPHEW.— A Society Farce in one act, by Robert C V, 
 Meyers. Three males, two females. Time, thirty luinutcs. Exceedingly ludicrous; 
 full of action. The situations are a series of surprises, altogether unlooked for and 
 creative of a deal of merriment. 
 
 GHOST SCENE FROM "HAMLET," A complete performance, introducine 
 seven leading characters, including the King and Queen. Time, thirty minutes. 
 
 THIS NUMBER 18 DEVOTED ENTIRELY TO TEMPERANCE. 
 
 THE CONQUEROR CONQUERED.- A Spectacular Melodrama, by Geo. S. 
 Burleigh. Six leading characters, with troops of boys and girls, attendants, etc. 
 
 COLD-WATER CROSS. — A short Musical Recitation for seven girls. 
 
 THE DEMONS OF THE GLASS.— (From Schoolday Dialogues.) By Olivhr 
 Optic. Nine characters; introducing a fairy, with tableaux, choruses, etc. 
 
 THE VEILED PRIESTESS, by Laura U. Case. Two males, eight femalcs- 
 An opportunity for pretty costuming and highly dramatic. 
 
 SAVED. — (From Model Dialogues.) Five boys, four girls, with song and tableaux. 
 
 TWO LIVES.— A Melodrama, in one Scene, by Geo. M. Vickers. Three 
 males, three females, and villagers. Time, thirty minutes. Preparation to celebrate 
 a Temperance Mission. Contrast of two lives. The prodigal's return and reforma- 
 tion. "A Mother's Song," — words and music. 
 
 ^o* 9* 
 
 CASSIUS' WHISTLE.— A Farce in one act, by Robert C. V. Meyers. Five 
 males, two females. Time, lorty minutes. An antiquarian, in search of curios, enters 
 the house of a stranger through a window, and becomes po.ssessed of a whistle, which 
 he fondly presumes is of very ancient date. The complications are very amusing. 
 
 A MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT.— {From Schoolday Dialogues.) Two 
 males, three females. A misunderstanding in regard to the initials appended to an 
 advertisement causes a meeting between the wrong parties. Short and pithy. 
 
 No. 10. 
 
 TEACHER WANTED. —(From Excelsior Dialogues.) By Frank Crosbt, 
 Eleven characters, consisting of School Committee and Applicants. A caricature 
 on the ignorance and prejudice of old-time school-boards. Easily arranged and de- 
 cidedly amusing. Time, thirty minutes. Can be varied to suit the occasion. 
 
 THE UNWELCOME GUEST.- (From Model Dialogues.) By H. Elliott 
 McBride. A short sketch for three boys and two girls ; showing how a rich uncle 
 was not so attractive while assuming poverty. The final discomfiture of the selfish 
 relatives makes an exciting finale. 
 
 DID YOU EVER SEE A GHOST?— A Farce, by Robert C. V. Meyers. 
 Three males, two females. Time, twenty minutes. A domestic quarrel as to the 
 genuineness of ghosts, the power of imagination in producing one and the sudden 
 change of mind caused by its appearance, together with the imperfect manner of 
 concealing affright, admits of very comical absurdities. 
 
 :no. II. 
 
 COURTSHIP UNDER DIFFICULTIES.— A short and very amusing dialogue 
 for three; in which a lady and gentleman receive an introduction under very em- 
 barrassing circumstances — each supposing the other to be deaf— having been vic- 
 timized by a mutual friend, who secretly enjoys their efforts to entertain each other 
 
 FALLSTAFF'S BOASTING.— Introducing Falstaff, Prince Henry, Poins, etc. 
 
 THE TREES OF THE BIBLE, by M B. C. Slade. A responsive and concert 
 exercise for a class in Sabbath School. 
 
 LICENSED SNAKES. A short temperance performance for a class ol boys. 
 
 FIGHTING THE RUM. FIEND.— A Comedy for young folks, by Julia M. 
 Thayer, with six males in principal characters, and a group of boys and girls as 
 "Crusaders^" for the minor parts, carrying banners — shouting and singing Scene, 
 a drink ing-saloon, — introducing a moderate drinker, a hard drinker, a tippler, and 
 nunsellers; their noal conversioa by the Cold Water Army. Time, twenty minutes. 
 
Bememberl that each Number of "100 Choice Selections" 
 OontaiuB one huiulreil diiTerent Headings and Becitations; aiBO, 
 a varied assortment of Sentiments and "Witticisms, besides the 
 Dramatic Supplements herein described. Best get the complete 
 book. Better still, get the whole set. For Sale b7 Booksellers. 
 
 Ko, 12. 
 
 PEPITA, OR THE GIPSY GIRL OF ANDALUSIA.— An Operetta in five 
 acts, arranged to old and popular song tunes ; many of which can be easily varied to 
 suit the pleasure and convenience of the performers It introduces Spanish noblemen 
 and ladies, American sailors, servants, gipsies, ruffians, etc., — eleven leading char- 
 acters, with auxiliary chorus. Time, ij^ hours. This has proved a great success. 
 
 A FIFTY-DOLLAR MILLINER'S BILL —A society Comedietta, by Helen 
 Booth. Two males, two females. Time, fifteen minutes Analtercationconcerninga 
 cigar bill and milliner's bill, nearly destroys the conjugal bliss of two devoted couples. 
 
 No. 13. 
 
 THE INFERNAL MACHINE.— A farcical Dialogue, by H. Elliott McBhios, 
 Three males, three females. Time, twenty minutes. Showing how the prying eyes 
 of neighbors distort facts and create a lively row. 
 
 THE CRUSADERS.— A short SpectacularSketch, by EllenMukrav. Founded 
 upon the exciting incidents of the twelfth century, when Richard 1, led the crusade 
 against the despoilers of the Holy City. 
 
 THE PREMATURE PROPOSAL.— (From ExcelsiorDialogues.) Onemale,three 
 females. Time, twenty minutes. A hypochondriac wife gets her simpleton husband in 
 hot water by persuading him to propose for a second wife before the first is defunct. 
 
 No. 14. 
 
 AFTER TWENTY YEARS.— A sparkling Comedy, by Helen Booth. Intro- 
 ducing the song, *' You'll Remember Me." One male, two females. Time, thirty 
 minutes. After twenty years' estrangement, two lovers, whose affection for one 
 another has never ceased, are unexpectedly re-united. 
 
 HE WAS NEVER KNOWN TO SMILE.— An eccentric Comedy, by Charles 
 Barnard. Two males, two females. The story of a man who never knew the joys 
 of childhood, having been brought up in an incubator. The efforts of his fiancee, (assis- 
 ted by hermother and the family doctor,) in teaching him to smile, are very ludicrous. 
 
 THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP.- (From Excelsior Dialogues.) A very thrilling 
 tableau recitation for a lady, with auxiliaries. 
 
 MAY COURT IN GREENWOOD.— By Laura U. Case. A very pretty 
 tpectacular sketch for five girls, and a group of children, with May-day songs, etc. 
 
 No. 15. 
 
 A SOFT BLACK OVERCOAT WITH A VELVET COLLAR.-A very spirited 
 Comedietta, by Robert C. V. Meyers. Two males, two females. Time, thirty 
 minutes. An accidental exchange of overcoats leads to serious matrimonial dis- 
 turbances, and dual threats of divorce, when, fortunately, a discovery of the mistake 
 restores marital felicity. 
 
 THE ROUGH DIAMOND.- Buckstone's well-known and popular Comedy; 
 abridged and adapted for private use, with all objectionable features eliminated. 
 Couiin Joe, Sir William, Capt. Blenheim and Margery. Time, thirty minutes. 
 
 No. x6. 
 
 DESIQNED EXPRESSLY FOR SABBATH-SCHOOL ENTERTAINMENTS. 
 
 ESAU AND JACOB.— A short Temperance Duologue, with auxiliary chorus. 
 
 THE BEAUTY OF PIETY —A Poetical Sketch, for ten girls, introducing a 
 Priestess of Nature and her messengers. Beautiful in diction and admits of handsome 
 dressing. Time, fifteen minutes. 
 
 HEAVENLY FOUNDATIONS.— An Emblematical Sketch of the foundation 
 slones of the New Jerusalem, for thirteen speakers. 
 
 CirfJINR THE PLEDGE.— Four males, seven females. Time, thirty minutes. 
 A domestic Tern" erance Drama for the young folks, skilfully wrought up and pre- 
 «enting some original situations. , - r- c 
 
 SCRIPTURC FLOWERS.— A Responsive Concert Exercise by M. B. C. Sudb. 
 
The Entir*! Twenty Wumbera of these IHtAMATIC aXTPPZB' 
 MEXTSt in one volume, cloth-bound, will be mailed to any addrfat 
 on rt'cvipt of $1.50. Single Numbers, 10 Cents; or, $1.00 per doz*tn. 
 
 No. 17. 
 
 FOURTH ACT OF "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE." being the celebrated 
 Irial scene, complete. Eight characters, and attendants. Time, thirty minutes. 
 
 QUARREL SCENE FROM "SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL," introducing Sir 
 Peter and Lady Teazle. Making a consecutive performance of two parts. 
 
 UNDER AN UMBRELLA.— A Comedietta for two, by Robert C.V. Meyers. 
 Time, twenty minutes. An unexpected meeting in a rain-storm brings about a 
 reconciliation between two lovers, so long separated that they had forgotten each 
 other. Replete with repartee. 
 
 No. 18. 
 
 THE TOP LANDING.— A capital Farce, by Robert C. V. Meyers. Three 
 
 males, three females Time, forty minutes. An impecunious artist and an equally 
 impoverished dramatic author, with but one pair of shoes in common, have their 
 friendship severely tested. The assistance rendered by their respective sweethearts 
 is extremely ludicrous, but satisfactory. An elderly fellow-boarder mystifies the 
 plot, and adds to the merriment. 
 
 THE LOST CHILD.— (From Model Dialogues.) An admirable Character 
 sketch, introducing an Irishwoman, an Irishman, a Frenchman, a Dutchman, and 
 a Yankee. Their misunderstandings are intensely comical. Time, twenty minutes. 
 
 Xo. 19. 
 
 AT THE "RED LION."— A romantic Drama, by Helen Booth. Fourmales, 
 two females, and auxiliaries. Time, forty minutes. Characters of,^^ olden tiine, — 
 kJwder and patches, wigs and knee-breeches. Lovers in disguise, an assumed 
 liighwayman, and confusion generally; introducing a sword duel across a table. 
 
 THE WEATHERCOCK.— An adaptation from Allingham's standard Farce. 
 Five males. Time, twenty minutes. An amusing travesty on the inability of y^ung 
 men to choose a calling in life. 
 
 XO. 20. 
 
 AUNT SUSAN JONES.— AsparklingComedy, by H. EluottMcBrids. One 
 male, four females, — the former a fop. Tim-', thirty minutes. Annt Susan, eccenrri*. 
 but wealthy, visits her city relatives, and under the guise of deafness, exposes hypoc- 
 risy and rewards sincerity. While conveying a moral it is exceedingly funny. 
 
 A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER— A Farce, by Robert C. V. Meyers. Two 
 males, two females. Time, twenty-five minutes. An unexpected collision, on a 
 dark night between a lover and the father of his fiancee, causes serious difficulties, 
 requiring the combined ingenuity of the lady and her mother to overcome. Abounding 
 in cross-purposes and comical situations. 
 
 REMEIVTBER 
 
 that you get these Uramaiic SuppkMnents with the corresponding num'ier 
 ot "(.)ne Hundred Choice Selections," without any increase in price. 
 
 THAT THE COIVIPLETE SET CONTAINS 
 Thirty-one Hundred (liferent Readivgs and Recitations; 
 over Three Hundred pages of Sentiments and Witticisms, and 
 the entire list of Plays herein described, embracing nearly 
 Six Thousand Pages in all. 
 
 Each Number of the "One Hundred Choice Selections," cont.iins fmrr, 
 2l6to 240 pages (including Supplement), and will be sent to any address 
 on receipt of SO Cents, or Four Copivs for $1.00. 
 A LIBERAL REDUCTION FOR THE WHOLE SET. GE'i THEM Ali 
 
 — . ^.^ ■ 
 
 FOR SALE BY BOOKSELLERS EVERYWHERE 
 
DRAMATIC SUPPLEMENTS-Continwcd. 
 
 The following described Plays have been added to the n >cti»e 
 Kumbera of "100 CHOICE SELECTIONS"- increasing tho bo.^^ leve 
 enumerated to 240 pages - without any increase in price. 
 
 The Supplements are furnished separately for 10 ots. per JTumbei; 
 S No. 21. 
 
 S S A TH^P"«'TJ.N'8DI1 EMMA.-Apoelicalskttch In thr« sc.ncs, intra 
 
 a . ducing Captain Miles Standish, John Alden. and Priscilla. Time, fifteen min 
 
 %H , THE COUNTRY COUSINS -By H M. Gakrett. Two males four 
 
 " b '™ales. I ime, fifty minutes. A cultured country girl visits hei city cousin, 
 
 J6fh whom she has never met, and by assumed rudeness of mannfr and dress, 
 
 P X punishes the latter for an insultiug letter; also, exposes an imposter in the 
 
 a ^ role of a French Count, which adds much to the merriment. 
 
 g 3 ^**. 22. 
 
 ,o2 RUNNING FOR '■ONGRESS. -By Frank Crosby. Thirteen males, 
 
 o '^ one female (latter could be omitted.) An unsophisticated victim with more 
 
 g ^ moneythan brains, is induced to run for Congress, and being too confiding;, is 
 
 p,Q taken in and done for by his supposed friends. An amusing satire on the 
 
 g H methods of unscrupulous politicians: introducing the advocates of various 
 
 O 2 Po''''cal hobbies. Time, forty minutes. 
 
 " g WAITING FOR THE STAGE.— By Frank Crosby. Seven males, six 
 
 gg females. Time, twenty minutes. Ahighly amusingtravestyonold-timestage- 
 
 M '~°^^^ traveling. A promiscuous party assemble in the waiting-room and 
 
 ^ ^ indulge in reminiscences. Several dialect characters are introduced, 
 
 ^ - No, 23. 
 
 a a AUNT TABITHA'S PERPLEXITIES.— A home play in two scenes, by 
 
 * O H.M. Garrett. Two males, three females. Time, forty minntej,. Natural 
 
 W is style, easily arranged. The efforts of the old maid in trying to g.iin the 
 
 W Doctor's affections, and her mortification upon learning that they were be- 
 
 ,_r <D stowed upon her niece, give rise to some very amusing situations. 
 « ^i A SCENE IN COURT.— By a memberof the Baltimore Bar. /\ ftirc:cai 
 
 QQ 4^ representation, in the nature of a mock trial. A case of larceny, introducing 
 
 O a blust-ring lawyer, Irish and Dutch witnesses, etc. Nine males, three fe- 
 
 H males; also jurors, bailiffs and spectators. Time, thirty minutes. 
 
 No. 24. 
 
 UNCLE JACOB'S MONEY.— A Comedietta by H. Elliott McBride. Two 
 males, three females. Time, thirty minutes Aunt Laurinda, an eccentric old 
 country-woman, visits her city nieces oa a secret mission and causes great commo- 
 tion. Her son, a bumpkin, who is'nt such ■ fool as he looks, adds much to the fun, 
 
 FALSE FACES. — An uproarious Farce, by F.lmfr Ruan Coatcs. Time, thirty 
 minutes. An arrant humbug, who is figuring as a Clairvoyant and Fortune-teller, 
 is cleverly exposed by some acquaintances, disguised in female costume, who call 
 upon him for professional advice. Eight males. 
 
 PAT FLANIGAN'S LOGIC— A short Temperance sketch fbr three boys. 
 
 No. 25. 
 
 A PAIR OF GLOVES.— A spirited Comedietta, by Kobert C. V. MbyerS 
 Three males, two females. Time, thirty minutes A young widow whose hand is 
 sought in marrliii;e by two gushing admirers, disconcerts tnem by exposing a p: ir 
 of gentleman's gl'ives, which by a curious turn of events restores to the lady her 
 «ld-time lover. Amusing complications, discomfiture, marriage. Highly dramatic. 
 
 SCHOOL CANTATA. — A series of original solos and choruses for boj'S and 
 girls, at the close of a term. Adapted to Pinafore music. Time, fifteen minutes 
 
 IN WANT OF A SERVANT— (From Schoolday Dialogues.) By Clara 
 Augusta. Three males, four females. Time, twenty minutes A lady advertibCS 
 for a servant; after interviewing the applicants she changes her mind. 
 
 No. 26. 
 
 STRIKIN(5 OIL —A very laughable Comedy in two acts, by H. Elliott 
 McBridr Seven males, five females. Time, fifty minutes. Scene, the mii'iion- 
 aire's home. An exemplification of shoddy aristocracy and fortune hunting, intro- 
 ducing an escaped lunatic; an English fop; a tragic elocutionist; an old maid in 
 search of a man; Aunt Hannah Plunkett, from "away eout in Connecticut," etc. 
 
 THE PORTRAIT AND THE CRITICS.-A tableau play from the trick picture 
 scene in "Masks and Faces," introducing Peg Woffington, Triplet, Cibbsr, Boaper. 
 QuiQ. Snarl and Mrs- Qive. 
 
The foUowiag Flays are taken from the correspondiug Nnmhertf 
 of "100 OKOIOE SELEOTiONS." These Leaflets, as desorihco uuder 
 each Numher, are furnished separately at 10 cents pel nnnLber. 
 
 Ko« 27. 
 
 **YOU MUST BE DREAMING."— A Comedietta in jne act, ^y 
 Robert C. V. Mbybrs. Two males, two females. 1 ime, thirty mimiies. 
 A valise of silver and a lost letter cAise curious comp'ications, re^uItlng 
 happily in due time. Decidedly bright. 
 
 THE PUBLIC WORRIER. -A Farce in one act, by George M, 
 ViCKERS. Five males, two females. Time, tweniy-five minutes. An 
 unfortunate, lacking employment, engages to worry by proxy lor a cun- 
 sideration. He succeeds beyond his most sanguine expectations. Tliis I. as 
 proved very popular. 
 
 MY BOY FRITZ.— By Ellen Murray. A short and very beautilul 
 sketch for two girls. 
 
 SCFNE FROM "LEAH."— By Augustin Daly. Leah reproaches 
 Rudolf for his unfaithfulness in deserting her. A splendid opporHinity for 
 dramatic effect. 
 
 Xo« 28. 
 
 A BONNET FOR MY WIFE.-A Comedietta, by Robert C. V. 
 Meyers. Two males, four females. Time, twenty-five minutes. An 
 exchange of bonnets which two husbands have secretly secured for their 
 respective wives, makes **lhe surprise" overdone, and produces serious 
 domestic infelicity which the French milliner at last sets to rights. 
 
 THE DEW-DROP INN.— A temperance drama, by George M. 
 ViCKKKS. Three males, one female, groups of citizens, &c. A temperance 
 meeting in which some experiences are related, and a stranger produces a, 
 sensation. Very effective. 
 
 THE VILLAGE SCARE —A home play, in one act, by S Jennie 
 Smith. Six males, six females, police officers, board of health, &:c. 1 ime, 
 ihirty-five minutes. The tattle of village gossips, by distorting facts, pro- 
 duces results, the disastrous effects of which are averted just in time to 
 prevent distress. 
 
 Xo. 29. 
 
 A GAME OF CHESS.— A Comedietta in one act, by Robert C. V. 
 Meyers. Three mates, three Jemales. A crusty old major, a forgetful 
 "memory" man, a lost daughter, a maiden aunt, and a brace of lovers 
 furnish the theme for three-quarters of an hour's solid fun, 
 
 THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. -By S. Jennie Smith. A figurative 
 sketch in which Beauty, Tame and Wealth offer their attractioPR to a 
 Pilgrim who rejects them all to accept Religion as the greatest aim in life. 
 
 THE DUEL SCENE FROM *'THE RIVALS."— The well-known 
 dialogue between Bob Acres and Sir Lucius O'Trigger while waiting the 
 arrival of the duelling party. 
 
 THE SEER AND THE DREAMERS— By Ellen Murray. A 
 poetical temperance allegory for three characters ; either male or female. 
 
 ADALINA*S ARRIVAL; or. There's No Place Like Old Connecticut. 
 A dialogue, by H. Elliott McEride. Four males, fourfemales. Time, 
 twenty-five minutes. Two stingy brothers refuse to make a home for their 
 neice, whose father is dead. I'he third brother provides for her. Some 
 fine touches of pathos and humor. The Yankee dialect of a deaf old granny 
 adds much to the fun. 
 
 No. 30. 
 
 A PINK PERFUMED NOTE. -A Comedietta, by Robfrt C. Y. 
 Meyers. Three males, three females. Time, forty-five minutes. A laundry 
 bill, a love letter and a photograph becoine the instrument? ol an unforeseen 
 series of complications. A good chance for French and Irish dialect. 
 
 PUSSY WANTS A CORNER— A Comedietta, by W. Alexander 
 Stout. Three males, three females. Time, forty-five minutes. An elderly 
 spinster, whose early matrimonial prospects were interfered with by a mis- 
 chievous brother and a cat, forms a great aversion for felines generally. A 
 series of amusing situations, in which another cat figures, brings about a 
 reconciliation, followed by three weddings. 
 
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