(Htuxmll mwmitg pihatig gnglidh Collection THE GIFT OF 3ames Morgan Start The date shows when this volume was taken. To renew this book copy the call No. and give to the librarian. I. AUO 3nSjd HOME SrJ;» USE RULES vi. All Books subject to Recall ' All borrowers must regis- „ ter ia the library to bc»rrow books for home use. i All books must be re- turned at end of college year for inspection and repairs. Limited books must be rc- turned within the four week limit and not renewed. Students must return all books before leaving town. Officers should arrange for the return of books wanted during their absence from town. Volumes of periodicals and of pamphlets are held in the librEU'y as much as " possible. For special pur- poses they are given out for a limited time. „ Borrowers should not use their library privileges for - the benefit of other persons. Books of special value and gift books, when the giver wishes it, are not allowed to circulate. Readers are asked to re- port all cases of books " marked or mutilated. Do not deface books by marks and writing. Cornell University Library arV14291 Good selections in prose and poetn 3 1924 031 244 977 olin,anx Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tile Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924031244977 .vT' >■' v^ -ha* GOOD SELECTIONS, m PROSE AND FOETHY, FOR USE IN ^CHooLs ANn Academies, Home and Church Sociables, Lyceums and I/Iter- ARY Societies, Etc. By W. M. JELLIPFE, Teacher of Elocution. J. W. Schermerhorn & Co. 1871. P I\EFACE. This work is intended to present, in one handy little book, Selections of a character heretofore obtained only by long and tedious search among many expensive volumes. To these are added many new and good pieces, which it is believed, will be found acceptable. In the hope that it may help to answer* satisfactorily the question, " What shall I read ?" so often and anxiously put by all who have occasion to read in public, the following is respectfully submitted by The Compiler. Nbw Vokk, y«ne ist, 1871. p ONTENTS. PAGE Address of Sergeant Buzfuz in Bardell v. Pickwick Dickens. 72 Birthday of Washington Choate. 23 Ballad of Valley Forge Stoddard. 32 Bob Cratchit's Dinner Dickens. 43 Barbara Frietchie Whitticr. 65 Bells Edgar A. Foe. 94 Boys. .' Holmes. 132 Bingenon the Rhine Caroline Norton. ii8 Charcoal Man Trowbridge. 8 Christmas Chant Alfred Domett. 40 Christinas Party , Dickens. 53 Clown's Rehearsal, Part I. (Midsummer Night's Dream) Shakespeare. 91 Clown's Rehearsal, Part 11. (Midsummer Night's Dream) Shakespeare. loi Driving Home the Cows KcUe P. Osgood. 62 Drummer Boy's Burial Harper's Magazine. 70 Despair Dcrw, Jr. 122 Dream of Eugene Aram Hood. 137 Evening at the Farm Trowbridge. 79 Flag of Washington F. W. Gillett. 25 Falstaff and Prince Henry Shakespeare. 81 Famine Longfellow. 86 Frenchman and the Flea Powder 155 Getting Under Way Mark Twain. 134 Honored Dead Henry Ward Beecher. 64 Heroes and Martyrs E. H. Chapin. 67 vi Contents. PAGE Higher Views of the Union Wendell Phillips. 109 How I Edited an Agricultural Paper once Mark Twain.^ 150 Heathen Chinee Bret Harte. 156 Independence Bell 29 Irish Picket Orphetes C. Kerr Papers. 60 Knight's Toast 104 Liberty and Union Webster. 37 Lady Clare Tennyson. 106 Maud MuUer ' Whittier. 75 Mokanna's Defeat, (Lalla Rookh) Moore. 112 Mother and Poet Browning. 129 New Year's Eve 5° New Year Tennyson. 57 Nocturnal Sketch Hood. 121 On Lending a Punch Bowl Holmes. 115 Pearl Nautilus Holmes. 7 Polly's Arrival " Old-Fashioned Girl." 10 Paul Revere's Ride Longfellow. 26 Psalm of the Union Harper's Magazine. 38 Psalm of Life Longfellow, m Pied Piper of Hamelin Robert Browning. 143 Raven Edgar A. Poe. 124 Son of the Evening Star Longfellow. 13 Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Read. 58 Smack in School W. P. Palmer. 80 Ship of State Longfellow. 138 Strawberries Trowbridge. 153 Shamus O'Brien Samuel Lover. 158 Tree of Liberty Homer B. Sprague. 31 Visit from Saint Nicholas Clement C. Moore. 41 Vagabonds y. T. Trowbridge. 98 Wolves Trowbridge. 21 Good jSelections. TEE FEABL ITAUTILUS. SuggcsUd by a vuw of a section of the Chatnitnd Nautilus in one of ike Bridgewater Trtaiises. There is a ship of pearl which poets feign Sails the unshadowed main. The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings. And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. Before thee lies revealed, — Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new. Stole with soft step its shining archway through. Built up its idle door. Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 8 Good Selections. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee. Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings. Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul. As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low-vaulted past ! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. Till thou at length art free. Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! THE CHABCOALUAIT. TROWBRIDGE. Though rudely blows the wintry blast, And sifting snows fall white and fast, Mark Haley drives along the street. Perched high upon his wagon seat ; His sombre face the storm defies, And thus from morn till eve, he cries " Charco' ! charco' !" While echo faint and far replies, •' Hark, O ! hark, O !" " Charo' !" — " Hark, O !" — Such cheery sounds Attend him on his daily rounds. The dust begrimes his ancient hat ; His coat is darker far than that ; 'T is odd to see his sooty form All speckled with the feathery storm : Good Selections. 9 9 Yet in his honest bosom lies Nor spot nor speck, though still he crica, " Charco' ! charco' !" While many a roguish lad replies, " Ark, ho ! ark, ho !" " Charco' !" — " Ark, ho !" — Such various sounds Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. Thus all the cold and wintry day He labors r uch for little pay, Yet feels no less of happiness Than many a richer man, I guess. When through the shades of eve he spies The light of his own home, and cries, " Charco' ! charco' !" And Martha from the door replies, " Mark, ho ! Mark, ho !" " Charco' !" " Mark, ho !" — Such joy abounds When he has closed his daily rounds ! The hearth is warm, the fire is bright ; And while his hand, washed clean and white Holds Martha's tender hand once more. His glowing face bends fondly o'er The crib wherein his darling lies, And in a coaxing tone he cries, " Charco' ! charco' !" And baby with a laugh replies, " Ah, go ! ah, go !" " Charco' !— " Ah, go !" — While at the sounds The mother's heart with gladness bounds. Then honored be the Charcoalraan, Though dusky as an African ! 'T is not for you that chance to be A little better clad than he ip Good Selections. His honest manhood to despise — Although from morn till eve he cries, "Charco' ! charco' !" While mocking echo still replies, " Hark, O ! hark, O !" " Charco' !"— " Hark, O !"— Long may the sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! POLLY'S ARRIVAL. From " The Old-fashioned Girl." The train was just in when Torn reached the station, panting like a race-horse, and as red as a lobster with the ■yind and the run. " Suppose she'll wear a top-knot and a thingumbob, like every one else ; and however shall I know her ? Too bad of Fan to make me come alone !" thought Tom, as he stood watching the crowd stream through the depot, r nd feeling rather daunted at the array of young ladies who passed. As none of them seemed looking for any one, he did not accost them, but eyed each new batch with the air of a martyr. "That's her," he said to himself, as he pre- sently caught sight of a girl in gorgeous array, standing with her hands folded, and a very small hat perched on the top of a very large " Chig-non," as Tom pronounced it. " I suppose I've got to speak to her, so here goes ;" and, nerving himself to the task, Tom slowly approached the damsel, who looked as if the wind had blown her clothes into rags, such a flapping of sashes, scallops, ruffles, curls, and feathers was there. " I say, if you please, is your name Polly Milton ?" meekly asked Tom, pausing before the breezy stranger. " No, it isn't," answered the young lady, with a cool stare that utterly quenched him. Good Seleciions. 1 1 " Where in thunder is she ?" growled Tom, walking off in high dudgeon. The quick tap of feet behind him made him turn in time to see a fresh-faced little girl running down the long station, and looking as if she rather liked it. As she smiled, and waved her bag at him, he stopped and waited for her, saying to himself, '' Hullo ! I wonder if that's Polly ?" Up came the little girl, with her hand out, and a half- shy, half-merry look in her blue eyes, as she said in- quiringly: "This is Tom, isn't it?" "Yes. How did you know?" and Tom got over the ordeal of hand-shaking without thinking of it, he was so surprised. " Oh, Fan told me you'd got curly hair, and a funny nose, and kept whistling, and wore a gray cap, pulled over your eyes ; so I knew you directly." And Polly nodded at him in the most friendly manner, having politely refrained from calling the hair " red," the nose "a pug,'' and the cap " old" — all of which facts Fanny had carefully impressed upon her memory. As- the carriage drove off, Polly gave a little bounce on the springy seat, and laughed like a delighted child. " I do like to ride in these nice hacks, and see all the fine things, and have a good time, don't you ?" she said, com- posing herself the next minute, as if it suddenly occurred to her that she was going a-visiting. " Not much," said Tom, not minding what he said, for the fact that he was shut up with the strange girl sud- denly oppressed his soul. " How's Fan ? Why didn't she come, too ?" asked Polly, trying to look demure, while her eyes danced in spite of her. " Afraid of spoiling her crinkles ;" and Tom smiled, for this base betrayal of confidence made him feel his own man again. 12 Good Selections. " You and I don't mind dampness. I'm much obliged to you for coming to take care of me." It was kind of Polly to say that, and Tom felt it ; for his red crop was a tender point, and to be associated with Polly's pretty brown curls seemed to lessen its coppery glow. Then he hadn't done anything for her but carry the bag a few steps ; yet, she thanked him. He felt grateful, and in a burst of confidence, offered a handful of peanuts, for his pockets were always supplied with this agreeable delicacy, and he might be traced anjrwhere by the trail of shells he left behind him. As soon as he had done it, he remembered that Fanny considered them vulgar, and felt that he had disgraced his family. So he stuck his head out of the window, and kept it there so long, that Polly asked if anything was the matter. " He's pretty drunk ; but I guess he can hold his horses," replied this evil-minded boy, with an air of calm resignation. " Is the man tipsy ? Oh, dear ! let's get out ! Are the horses bad } It's very steep here ; do you think it's safe ?" cried poor Polly, making a cocked hat of her little beaver, by thrusting it out of the half-open window on her side. " There's plenty of folks to pick us up if anything happens ; but perhaps it would be safer if I got out and sat with the man ;" and Tom quite beamed with the bril- liancy of this sudden mode of relief. " Oh, do, if you ain't afraid ! Mother would be so anxious if anything should happen to me, so far away !" cried Polly, much distressed. " Don't you be worried. I'll manage the old chap, and the horses, too ;" and opening the door, Tom vanished aloft, leaving poor victimized Polly to quake inside, while he placidly revelled in freedom and peanuts out- side with the staid old driver. Good Selections. 13 Fanny came flying down to meet her " darling Polly," as Tom presented her, with the graceful remark, " I've got her !" and the air of a dauntless hunter, producing the trophies of his skill. Polly was instantly whisked up stairs ; and, having danced a double-shufHe on the door- mat, Tom retired to the dining-room to restore exhausted nature with half-a-dozen cookies. " Ain't you tired to death ? Don't you want to lie down ?" said Fanny, sitting on the side of the bed in Polly's room, and chattering hard, while she examined everything her friend had on. " Not a bit. I had a nice time coming, and no trouble, except the tipsy coachman ; but Tom got out and kept him in order, so I wasn't much frightened," answered in- nocent Polly, taking off her rough-and-ready coat, and her plain hat without a bit of a feather. " Fiddlestick ! he wasn't tipsy ; and Tom only did it to get out of the way. He can't bear girls," said Fanny, with a superior air. " Can't he ? Why, I thought he was very pleasant and kind !" and Polly opened her eyes with a surprised expression. " He's an awful boy, my dear ; and if you have any- thing to do with him, he'll torment you to death. Boys are «// horrid ; but he's the horridest one I ever saw." THE SON OP THE EVENIHa STAB. LONGFELLOW. " Once, in days no more remembered, Ages nearer the beginning. When the heavens were closer to us. And the gods were more familiar, Ip the North-land lived a hunter. With ten young and comely daughters. Tall and lithe as wands of willow; 14 Good Selections. Only Oweenee, the youngest. She the wilful and the wayward. She the silent, dreamy maiden, Was the fairest of the sisters. " All these women married warriors. Married brave and haughty husbands ; Only Oweenee, the youngest, Laughed and flouted all her lovers. All her young and handsome suitors. And then married old Osseo, Old Osseo, poor and ugly, Broken with age and weak with coughing. Always coughing like a squirrel. " Ah, but beautiful within him Was the spirit of Osseo, From the Evening Star descended. Star of Evening, Star of Woman, Star of tenderness and passion ! All its fire was in his bosom. All its beauty in his spirit. All its mystery in his being, All its splendor in his language ! " And her lovers, the rejected. Handsome men with belts of wampum. Handsome men with paint and feathers. Pointed at her in derision. Followed her with jest and laughter. But she said : ' I care not for you. Care not for your belts of wampum, Care not for your paint and feathers, Care not for your jests and laughter ; I am happy with Osseo !' " Once to some great feast invited. Through the damp and dusk of evening Walked together the ten sisters. Walked together with their husbands ; Good Selections, 15 Slowly followed old Osseo, With fair Oweenee beside him ; All the others chatted gaily, These two only walked in silence. " At the western sky Osseo Gazed intent, as if imploring Often stopped and gazed imploring At the trembling Star of Evening, At the tender Star of Woman ; And they heard him murmur softly, ' Pity, pity me, my father !' " ' Listen !' said the eldest sister, ' He is praying to his father ! What a pity that the old man Does not stumble in the pathway. Does not break his neck by falling !' And they laughed till all the forest Rang with their unseemly laughter. " On theiir pathway through the woodlands Lay an, oak, by storms uprooted. Lay the great trunk of an oak tree. Buried half in leaves and mosses. Mouldering, crumbling, huge and hollow. And Osseo, when he saw it. Gave a shont, a cry of anguish. Leaped into its yawning cavern. At one end went in an old man. Wasted, wrinkled, old, andtgly; From the other came a young man. Tall and straight and strong and handsome. " Thus Osseo was transfigured. Thus restored to youth and beauty ; But, alas for good Osseo, And for Oweenee, the faithful ! Strangely, too, was she transfigured. Changed into a weak old woman. 1 6 Good Selections. With a staff she tottered onward, Wasted, wrinkled, old and ugly ! And the sisters and their husbands Laughed until the echoing forest Rang with their unseemly laughter. " But Osseo turned not from her. Walked with slower step beside her. Took her hand, as brown and withered As an oak leaf is in Winter, Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, Soothed her with soft words of kindness, Till they reached the lodge of feasting. Till they sat down in the wigwam. Sacred to the Star of Evening, To the tender Star of Woman. " Then a voice was heard, a whisper. Coming from the starry distance. Coming from the empty vastness. Low, and musical, and tender ; And the voice said : ' O Osseo ! O my son, my best beloved ! Broken are the spells that bound you, All the charms of the Magicians, All the magic powers of evil ; Come to me ; ascend, Osseo ! " ' Taste the food that stands before you ; It is blessed and enchanted, It has magic virtues in it, It will change you to a spirit; All your bowls and all your kettles Shall be wood and clay no longer ; But the bowls be changed to wampum. And the kettles shall be silver ; They shall shine like shells of scarlet. Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. Good Selections. \j " ' And the women shall no longer Bear the dreary doom of labor, But be changed to birds, and glisten With the beauty of the starlight. Painted with the dusky splendors Of the skies and clouds of evening !' " Then the lodge began to tremble, Straight began to shake and tremble. And they felt it rising, rising. Slowly through the air ascending, From the darkness of the tree-tops Forth into the dewy twilight. Till it passed the topmost branches : And behold ! the wooden dishes All were changed to shells of scarlet ! And behold ! the earthen kettles All were changed to bowls of silver ! And the roof-poles of the wigwam Were as glittering rods of silver. And the roof of bark upon them As the shining shards of beetles. " Then Osseo gazed around him, And he saw the nine fair sisters. All the sisters and their husbands. Changed to birds of various plumage. Some were jays and some were magpies, Others thrushes, others blackbirds ; And they hopped, and sang, and twittered. Perked and fluttered all their feathers, Strutted in their shining plumage. And their tails like fans unfolded. " Only Oweenee, the youngest. Was not changed, but sat in silence. Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, Looking sadly at the others ; Till Osseo, gazhig upward. 1 8 Good Selections. Gave another cry of anguish. Such a cry as he had uttered By the oak-tree in the forest. " Then returned her youth and beauty. And her soiled and tattered garments Were transformed to webs of ermine. And her staff became a feather, Yes, a shining silver feather ! " And again the wigwam trembled. Swayed and rushed through airy currents. Through transparent cloud and vapor. And amid celestial splendors On the Evening Star alighted. As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake, As a leaf drops on a river. As the thistle-down on water. " Forth with cheerful words of welcome Came the father of Osseo, He with radiant locks of silver, He with eyes serene and tender. And he said : ' My son, Osseo, Hang the cage of birds you bring there, Hang the cage with rods of silver, And the birds with glistening feathers. At the doorway of my wigwam.' " At the door he hung the bird-cage. And they entered in and gladly Listened to Osseo's father. Ruler of the Star of Evening, As he said : ' O my Osseo ! I have had compassion on you, Given you back your youth and beauty ; Into birds of various plumage Changed your sisters and their husbands ; Changed them thus because they mocked you In the figure of the old man. Good Selections. 19 In that aspect sad and wrinkled. Could not see your heart of passion. Could not see your youth immortal ; Only Oweenee, the faithful, Saw your naked heart and loved you. " Many years in peace and quiet, On the peaceful Star of Evening Dwelt Osseo with his father Many years, in song and flutter. At the doorway of the wigfwam. Hung the cage with rods of silver. And fair Oweenee, the faithful. Bore a son unto Osseo, With the beauty of his mother. With the courage of his father. " And the boy grew up and prospered. And Osseo, to delight him, Made him little bows and arrows. Opened the great cage of silver. And let loose his aunts and uncles, All those birds with glossy feathers. For his little son to shoot at. " Round and round they wheeled and darted. Filled the Evening Star with music. With their songs of joy and freedom ; Filled the Evening Star with splendor, With the fluttering of their plumage ; Till the boy, the little hunter. Bent hi# bow and shot an arrow. Shot a swift and fatal arrow. And a bird with shining feathers. At his feet fell wounded sorely. " But, O wondrous transformation ! 'Twas no bird he saw before him, 'Twas a beautiful young woman. With the arrow in her bosom ! 20 Good Selections. " When her blood fell on the planet, On the sacred Star of Evening, Broken was the spell of magic. Powerless was the strange enchantment. And the youth, the fearless bowman. Suddenly felt himself descending. Held by unseen hands, but sinking Downward through the empty spaces. Downward through the clouds and vapors, Till he rested on an island. On an island, green and grassy. Yonder in the Big Sea- Water. " After him he saw descending All the birds with shining feathers Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, Like the painted leaves of Autumn ; And the lodge with poles of silver, With its roof like wings of beetles. By the winds of heaven uplifted. Slowly sank upon the island. Bringing back the good Osseo, Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. " Then the birds, again transfigured. Re-assumed the shape of mortals. Took their shape, but not their stature ; They remained as Little People, Like the pigmies, the Puk-Wudijes, And on pleasant nights of Summer, When the Evening Star was shining. Hand in hand they danced together On the island's craggy headlands. On the sand-beach low and level. " Still their glittering lodge is seen there, On the tranquil Summer evenings, And upon the shore the fisher Sometimes hears their happy voices. Sees them dancing in the star-light." Good Selections. 21 THE WOLVES. TROWBRIDGEi Ye who listen to stories told, When hearths are cheery and nights are cold, Of the lone wood-side, and the hungry pack That howls on the fainting traveler's track, — Flame-red eye-balls that way-lay. By the wint'ry moon, the belated sleigh, — The lost child sought in the dismal wood. The little shoes and the stains of blood On the trampled snow,— O ye that hear. With thrills of pity, or chills of fear. Wishing some angel had been sent To shield the hapless and innocent, — Know ye the fiend that is crueller far Than the gaunt gray herds of the forest are ? Swiftly vanish the wild fleet tracks Before the rifle and woodman's axe : But hark to the coming of unseen feet. Pattering by night through the city street ! Each wolf that dies in the woodland brown Lives a spectre, and haunts the town. By square and market they slink and prowl, In lane and alley they leap and howl. All night they snufF and snarl, before The poor patched window and broken door. 23 Good Selections. They paw the clapboards and claw the latch, At every crevice they whine and scratch. Their tongues are subtle and long and thin. And they lap the living blood within. Icy keen are the teeth that tear. Red as ruin the eyes that glare. Children crouched in corners cold Shiver in tattered garments old. And start from sleep with bitter pangs At the touch of the phantom's viewless fangs. Weary the mother and worn with strife. Still she watches and fights for life. But her hand is feeble, and weapon small : One little needle against them all ! In evil hour the daughter fled From her poor shelter and wretched bed. Through the city's pitiless solitude To the door of sin the wolves pursued. Fierce the father and grim with want; His heart is gnawed by the spectres gaunt. Frenzied stealing forth by night, With whetted knife to the desperate fight. He thought to smite the spectres dead. But he smites his brother man instead. O you that listen to stories told. When hearths are cheery and nights are cold. Good Selections. 23 Weep no more at the tales you hear. The danger is close, and the wolves are near. Shudder not at the murderer's name. Marvel not at the maiden's shame. Pass not by with averted eye The door where the striclcen children cry. But when the beat of the phantom feet Sounds by night through the stormy street, Follow thou where the spectres glide ; Stand like Hope by the mother's side ; And be thyself the angel sent To shield the hapless and innocent. He giveth little who gives but tears. He giveth his best who aids and cheers. H!e does well in the forest wild Who slays the monster and saves the child ; But he does better, and merits more. Who drives the wolf from the poor man's door. THE BISTHDAY OP WASHIlTaTON. CHOATK. 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 filial veneration for his mem- ory ; ever re-kindle the fires of patriotic regard to the country which he loved so well ; to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the peril- ous period of the early Indian warfare ; to which he 24 Good Selections. devoted his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field ; to which again he offered the counsels of his wis- dom and experience, as President of the Convention that framed our Constitution ; which he guided and directed while in the Chair of State, and for which the last prayer of his earthly 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 memory 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 spell of power and of might. Yes, 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. Un- doubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American Na- tion, as a Nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And 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 ejacu- lation ; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life ! Yes ! Others of our great men have been appreci- ated, — many admired by all. But him we love. Him, we all love. About and around him we call up no dis- sentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements, — no sectional prejudice nor bias ; 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 heart. It shall re-lume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of pat- Good Selections. 25 riotism, that devoted love of country, which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated." " Where may the wearied eye repose, When gazing on 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." THE FLAG OP WASHIUaTOH. r. W. GIL LETT. DEARbanrier of my native land ! ye gleaming, silver stars. Broad, spotless ground of purity, crossed with your azure bars — Clasped by the hero-father's hand — watched over in his might. Through battle-hour and day of peace, bright morn and moonless night. Because, within your clustering folds, he knew you surely bore Dear Freedom's hope for human souls to every sea and shore ! O precious Flag ! beneath whose folds such noble deeds are done — The dear old Flag ! the starry Flag ! the Flag of Washington ! Unfurl, bright stripes — shine forth, clear stars — swing outward to the breeze — Go bear your message to the wilds— go tell it on the seas. That poor men sit within your shade, and rich men in their pride^ 26 Good Selections. That beggar-boys and statesmen's sons walk 'neath you, side by side ; You guard the school-house on the green, the church upon the hill, And fold your precious blessings round the cabin by the rill. While weary hearts from every land beneath the shining sun Find work, and rest, and home beneath the Flag of Washington. And never, never on the earth, however brave they be. Shall friends or foes bear down this great, proud standard of the Free, Though they around its staff may pour red blood in rushing waves. And build beneath its starry folds great pyramids of graves ; For God looks out, with sleepless eye, upon his child- ren's deeds. And sees, through all their good and ill, their sufferings and their needs ; And He will watch, and He will keep, till human rights have won. The dear old Flag ! the starry Flag ! the Flag of Washington ! PAUL REVEEE'S EIDE. 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. Good Selections. 27 Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 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 arm. Then he said good night, and, with muffled oar. Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. Just as the moon rose over the bay. Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay The Somerset, British man-of-war, A phantom-ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile 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— A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour — the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something, far away. Where the river widens to meet the bay, A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats : 28 Good Selections. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere : Now he patted his horse's side ; Now gazed on the landscape far and near Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and 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 and still. And lo ! as he looks on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A 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 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. You know the rest. In- the books you have read. How the British regulars fired and fled- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall. Chasing the red-coats down the lane, When 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 Paul Revere ; Good Selections. ^g 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 Icnock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore ! For, borne on the night-wind of the past, Through all our history, to the last, Irt 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 Revere. INDBPENDEMOE BELL-J11I7 4th, 1776. When it was certain that the Declaration would be adopted and confirmed by the signatures of the delagates in Congress, it was determined to announce the event by ringing the old State-House bell, which bore the inscrip- tion : " Proclaim liberty to the land : to all the inhabi- tants thereof!" and the old bellman posted his little boy at the door of the hall to await the instruction of the door-keeper when to ring. At the word, the little patriot-scion rushed out, and, flinging up his hands, shouted "Ring! Ring! RING!" There was tumult in the city. In the quaint old Quaker's town. And the streets were rife with people Pacing restless up and down ; People gathering at corners. Where they whisper'd each to each. And the gweat stood on their temples, With the earnestness of speech. As the bleak. Atlantic currents Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, 30 Good Selections. 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 chestnuts Was all turbulent with sound. " Will they do it ?" " Dare they do it ?" " Who is speaking ?" " What's the news ?" " What of Adams ?" " What of Sherman ?" " Oh, God grant they won't refuse !" " Make some way there !" " Let me nearer !" " I am stifling !" " Stifle, then ! When a nation's life's at hazard, We've no time to think of men !" So they beat against the portal, Man and woman, maid and child ; And the July sun in heaven On the scene look'd down and smiled ; The same sun that saw the Spartan Shed his patriot blood in vain. Now beheld the soul of freedom All unconquer'd rise again. See ! See ! The dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthy line. As the boy beside the portal Looks forth to give the sign ! With hrs small hands upward lifted. Breezes dallying with his hair. Hark ! with deep, clear intonation. Breaks his young voice on the air. Hush'd the people's swelling murmur. List the boy's strong, joyous cry ! " Ring- !" he shouts, "Ring! Grandpa, Ring! Ok, Ring for Zideriy /" Good Selections. 31 And straightway, at the signal. The old bellman lifts his hand. And sends the good news, making Iron music through the land. How they shouted ! What rejoicing ! How the old bell shook the air. Till the clang of freedom rufHed The calm gliding Delaware ! How the bonfires and the torches Illumed the night's repose. And from the flames, like Phoenix, Fair Liberty arose ! That old bell now is silent. And hush'd its iron tongue. But the spirit it awaken'd Still lives, — forever young. And while we greet the sunlight. On the fourth of each July, We'll ne'er forget the bellman. Who, twixt the earth and sky. Rung out Our Independence ; Which, please God, shall never die ! TREE or LIBERTY. HOMER D. SPRAGUB. Conscience, illumined and quickened by the Word of God, is above Prelates and Councils, and Popes and Par- liaments, and Constitutions and Kings. But, alas ! how many and how terrible the sacrifices before this truth could become incarnated in any nation's fundamental law ! In Babylonish furnaces, Jewish crucifixions, Roman amphitheatres, Waldensian persecutions, Spanish $2 Good Selections. Inquisitions, Thirty Years' Wars, Barttiolomew massa- cres, Smithfield fires, its victims can ever multiply. The lives of 5o,ooo,ooQ martyrs are in this Tree of Liberty ; their ashes have been its only soil, their tears and blood have watered it, their death alone has given it life. Tree of Liberty ! no garden plant grown beneath glass, warmed by artificial heat, fanned only by the gentle zephyrs, and tended alone by loving hands, no slender vine, no drooping willow, is this ; but a gnarled oak ! Its roots grasp the rock. Its head defies the storm. Many a winter has stripped its green. Persecution's axe has gashed it ; its fires have swept it. War's tor- nadoes have torn it ; its lightnings have riven it. Yet it stands, and thank God ! it strikes its roots deeper and lifts its branches higher and broader, and beckons the nations to-day to rest beneath its shade and enjoy its • shelter. THE BALLAD OP VALLEY FOSaE. It was a night in winter. Some seventy years ago ; The bleak and barren landscape Was blurred with driving snow. In an old New England farm-house, That snowy winter night. In the spacious chimney corner. Where the logs were blazing bright, An aged man was sitting In the cheery light and heat. With his head upon his bosom. And the watch-dog at his feet. Good Selections. 33 Beside him sat his grandson. In a high-baeked open chair, And the glow of ten sweet summers Was golden in his hair. The man was Nathan Baldwin, And many a tale is told Of how he marched and suffered With hunger, and with cold. " Tell me a story, Gran'ther ; Not that of Riding Hood, Nor how the robins buried The children in the wood ; " But how you fought the Indians So many years ago ; Or Valley Forge in winter. And all about the snow." " On the seventeenth of December (The day was still and bright) We crossed the swollen Schuylkill, With Valley Forge in sight. " We saw the smoke of the forges, We heard the anvil's ring : You should have heard us, Abner, And heard us shout, and sing ! " Our huts were built by Christmas ; Rough logs : a slab the door : The cracks with clay were plastered : The frozen ground the floor. " All through the happy valley. The Christmas cheer was Spread ; The farmers ate their turkeys, And we our mouldy bread ! 34 Good Selections. " Well, there we were all winter, Ten thousand men, or more. Ah ! how can I remember. Or speak of what we bore ! " The stupor that benumbed us ; The pains that drove us wild : The hunger and the sickness : The— all but death, my child ! " We huddled in our barracks. For days and days together ; Too weak to stand, too naked To brave the bitter weather. " We made us shoes of raw hide, That stung our tender feet ; We limped about on crutches. We stumbled in the street. " I had a burning fever : I had a freezing chill : I dreamed of killing Indians ! I dreamed of Bunker Hill. " The General came to see me (They told me when I rose). And your father sat and watched me. And patched my tattered clothes ! " One night when I was better. The guard was ordered out. In front of Varnum's quarters. Before the star redoubt. " I thought I heard them call me (It was my turn to go,) So I snatched a hat and musket. And hobbled through the snow ; Good Selections. 35 " Along the grim abbatis, That faced the windy street • To where the gloomy forest And swollen river meet ! " Along the roaring river, Beyond the narrow ford, Till near the outer picket — When all at once I heard " The General's voice, — I hearkened. And through the darkness broke His tall, commanding figure. Wrapt in a martial cloak ! " ' Good evening, Nathan Baldwin ; I'm glad to see you out.' ' It is my night on guard, sir. Before the Star redoubt.' " And he : ' Did Morgan send you ? The snow is drifted there.' I felt he saw my tatters. And pitied my gray hair. " ' I'll do my duty. General !' ' What did the General say ?' ' He threw his cloak about me. And slowly walked away ! " God bless you, sir !' I shouted. And as I strode along, I laughed and cried together. And hummed a battle song. ' I felt my way before me, It was too dark to see : I floundered in a snow-drift, I ran against a tree. 36 Good Selections. " The March winds, sharp and cruel. Their stormy trumpets blew, Came charging down the hill-sides. And stabbed me through and through. " I heard the drums in the distance ; I heard the river roar ; I heard the wolves in forests ; I heard — I heard no more. " I woke in your father's barrack, I was lying in his bed ! He stood beside me crying, Because he thought me dead. " But hark ! I hear him coming. And mother's drawing the tea ! His step is on his scraper. Run to the door and see." The outside latch was lifted, A draft blew in the room ; They heard him calling, " Mother," And " Abner, fetch a broom." He stamped his feet in the entry. And brushed his homespun clothes. " Well, boys." " Good evening, Reuben, What news to-night ?" " It snows !" The dog barked ; Abner tittered. But Gran'ther shook his head. Now mother brought the candles, And the table soon was spread ! With the dishes on the dresser. The loaf of wheat and rye. The baked beans from the oven And a royal pumpkin pie. Good Selections. 37 " Draw up ! we're ready, Reuben." " But where did Abner go ?" With Gran'ther's crutch for a musket, He was marching sad and slow. In Valley Forge at midnight. Freezing to death in the snow ! LIBEETV AND UNION. webs'tkr. I PROFESS, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and the honor of the whole country, and the preservation of the Federal Union. I have not allowed myself to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind ; I have not coolly weighed the chances of pre- serving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together . shall be broken asunder; I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depths of the abyss below ; nor could I regard him as a safe counselor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union should be preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratify- ing prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that, I seek not to penetrate the vail. 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 in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored frag- ments of a once glot;ious Union ; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, 38 Good Selections. or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gor- geous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, bearing for its motto, no such 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 characters 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 whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart : — Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable. A PSALM OP THE UNION. " Harper's Monthly," December, 1861. . God of the Free ! upon thy breath Our flag is for the Right unrolled ; Still broad and brave as when its stars First crowned the hallowed time of old : For Honor still its folds shall fly. For Duty still their glories burn, Where Truth, Religion, Freedom guard The patriot's sword and martyr's urn. Then shout, beside thine oak, O North ! O South ! wave answer with thy palm ; And in our Union's heritage Together lift the Nation's psalm ! How glorious is our mission here ! Heirs of a virgin world are we ; The chartered lords whose lightnings tame The rocky mount and roaring sea : Good Selections. 39 We march, and Nature's giants own The fetters of our mighty cars ; We look, and lo ! a continent Is crouched beneath the Stripes and Stars ! Then shout beside thine oak, O North ! O South ! wave answer with thy palm ; And in our Union's heritage Together lift the Nation's psalm ! No tyrant's impious step is ours ; No lust of power on nations rolled : Our Flag — for friends a starry sky, For foes a tempest 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 world. Then shout beside thine oak, O North ! O South ; wave answer with thy palm ; And in our Union's heritage Together lift the Nation's psalm ! God of the Free ! our Nation bless In its strong manhood as its birth ; And make its life a Star of Hope For all the struggling of the Earth : Thou gav'st the glorious Past to us ; Oh ! let our present burn as bright. And o'er the mighty Future cast Truth's, Honor's, Freedom's holy light ! Then shout beside thine oak, O North ! O South ! wave answer with thy palm ! And in our Union's heritage Together lift the Nation's psalm ! 40 Good Selections. A CHRISTMAS CHANT. ALFRED DOMETT. It was the calm and silent night ! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might. And now was queen of land and sea ! No sound was heard of clashing wars. Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain ; Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars, Held undisturb'd their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ! 'Twas in the calm and silent night ! The senator of haughty Rome Impatient urged his chariot's flight From lordly revel rolling home. Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; What reck'd the Roman what befell A paltry province far away. In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago? Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor ; A streak of light before him lay. Fallen through a half-shut stable-door Across his path. He paused, for naught Told what was going on within ; How keen the stars, his only thought ; The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ! Good Selections. 41 Oh, strange indifference ! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares ; The earth was still, but knew not why ; The world was listening — unawares ! How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever ! To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was link'd, no more to sever, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ! It is the calm and silent night ! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charm 'd and holy now ; The night that erst no shame had worn, To it a happy name is given ; For in that stable lay, new-born. The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight. Centuries ago ! A VISIT PROM ST. NICHOLAS. CLKMENT C. MOORE. 'TwAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads ; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap ; 42 Good Selections. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer. With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; " Now, Dasher ! now. Dancer ! now, Prancer ! and Vixen ! On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all !" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly. When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky ; So up to the house-top the coursers they flew. With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof. The prancing and pawing of each little hoof — As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He Was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot. And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. His eyes — how they twinkled ! his dimples, how merry ! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow ; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. And the smoke it encii-cled his head like a wreath ; He had a broad face and a little round belly. That shook, when he laughed, like bowlful of jelly. Good Selections. 43 He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself ; A wink of his eyes and a twist of his head. Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work. And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk. And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, " Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night." BOB CHATCHIT'S DIITNEB. Dickens* " Christmas Carol." But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of bye streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for as he stood with Scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, and taking off the covers as their bearers passed, he sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of a torch, for once or twice, when there were angry words be- tween some dinner carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humor was restored directly. For they said it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas day. And so it was ! God love it, so it was ! And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind. 44 Good Selections. generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerks. Up then rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in rib- bons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for six- pence ; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Crat- chit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons ; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and, getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own ; and, basking in lux- urious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Crat- chit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan- lid to be let out and peeled. "What has ever got your precious father then ?" said Mrs., Cratchit. "And your brother Tiny Tim! And Martha warn't as late last Christmas day by half an hour !" " Here's Martha, mother !" said a girl, appearing as she spoke. " Here's Martha, mother !" cried the two young Crat- chits. " Hurrah ! There's such a goose, Martha !" " Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are !" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her. shawl and bonnet for her. " We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother !" " Well ! Never mind so long as you are come," said Good Selections. 45 Mrs. Cratchit. " Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye !" " No, no ! There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. " Hide, Martha, hide !" So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him ; and his thread- bare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable ; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame ! "Why, Where's our Martha ?" cried Bob Cratchit, look- ing round. " Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit. " Not coming !" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits, ; for he had been Tim's blood-horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant — " not coming upon Christmas day !" Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke ; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. "And how did little Tim behave .?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content. " As good as gold," said Bob, " and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be plea- sant to them to remember, upon Christmas day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see." Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and 46 Good Selections. trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty. His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister, to his stool beside the fire ; and while Bob, turning up his cuflFs— as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby — compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to simmer. Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot ; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor ; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce ; Martha dusted the hot plates ; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table ; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast ; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, Hurrah ! There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tender- ness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufiicient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight Good Seltxtions. 47 (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last ! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows ! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone — too nervous to bear witnesses — to take the pudding up, and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough ! Suppose it should break in turning out ! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose — a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid ! All sorts of horrors were supposed. Hallo ! A great deal of steam ! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day ! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry- cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that ! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered — flushed but smiling proudly— with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half a quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top. O, a wonderful pudding ! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. 48 Good Selections. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass— two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle. These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done ; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts, on the fire sputtered and crackled noisily. Then Bob proposed : " A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us !" Which all the family re-echoed " God bless us every one !" said Tiny Tim, the last of all. He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. Scrooge raised his head speedily, on hearing his own name. " Mr. Scrooge !" said Bob ; " I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast !" "The Founder of the Feast indeed I" cried Mrs. Cratchit, reddening. " I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope h'd have a good appetite for it." " My dear," said Bob, " the children ! Christmas day." " It should be Christmas day, I am sure," said she, " on which one drinks the health of such an odious, . stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert ! Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow !" " My dear," was Bob's mild answer, " Christmas day." " I'll drink his health for your sake and the day's," said Mrs. Cratchit, " not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy New Year ! He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt !" Good Selections. 49 The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he did n't care two- pence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes. After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them he had a situ- ation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five and sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter's being a man of business ; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favor when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest ; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. Also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord " was much about as tall as Peter ;'' at which Peter pulled up his collars so high that you couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and rouna ; and by and by they had a song, about a lost child traveling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed. There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a handsome family ; they were not well dressed ; their shoes were far from being water-proof; their clothes were scanty ; and Peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker's. But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented so Good Selections. with the time ; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sparklings of the Spirit's torch at part- ing, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last. NEW YEAR'S EVE. ANONYMOUS. Little Gretchen, littl^ Gretchen wanders up and down the street ; The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is on her feet. The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp. By the struggling 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 one 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 the 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 hears her speak. No breath of little whisperers 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 ! Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round. Good Selection's. 51 As laden boughs in Autumn fling their ripe fruits to the ground. And the best love man can offer to the 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 wood, no fire, But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire. So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet, And she curleth up beneath her for warmth her little feet ; And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky, And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high. She hears the clock strike slowly, up in a 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 angels, 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 ever with his own ; And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his. — " How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this !" Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now. For the pressure on her heart, and the weight upon her brow ; 52 Good Selections. 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 could hear what they did say, Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned 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 them, and to join the welcome shout, When darkness fell around her, for the little match was out. Another, yet another, she has 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. And she dreamed there 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 his feet, and in his hands spread wide. And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had known Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow — ay, equal to her own. Good Selections. 53 And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree. Then up to the cold sky, and said, " Will Gretchen come with me?" The poor child felt her pulses 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, O, Lord !" The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. In her scant and tattered garments, with her back against the wall. She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, " It was a bitter, bitter night ! the child is frozen dead." The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed 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 could not see How much of happiness there was after that misery. THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. From Dickens* "Christmas Carol," It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as 54 Good Selections. laughter and good-humor. When Scrooge's nephew laughed, Scrooge's niece by marriage laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled friends, being not a bit behindhand, laughed out lustily. " He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live !" cried Scrooge's nephew. " He believed it too !" "More shame for him, Fred!" said Scrooge's niece, indignantly. Bless those women ! they never do any- thing by halves. They are always in earnest. She was very pretty ; exceedingly pretty. With a dim- pled, surprised-looking, capital face ; a ripe little mouth that seemed made to be kissed — as no doubt it was ; all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed ; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head. Alto- gether she was what you would have called provoking, but satisfactory, too. O, perfectly satisfactory. " He's a comical old fellow," said Scrooge's nephew, that's the truth ; and not so pleasant as he might be. However, his ofifences carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him. Who suffers by his ill whims.' Himself, always. Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence ? He don't lose much of a dinner." " Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner," inter- rupted Scrooge's niece. Everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just had dinner ; and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire, by lamp- light. " Well, I am very glad to hear it," said Scrooge's nephew, "because I haven't any great faith in these young housekeepers. What Ao you say. Topper }" Topper clearly had his eye on one of Scrooge's niece's sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched Good Selections. 55 outcast, who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. Whereat Scrooge's niece's sister — the plump one with the lace tucker ; not the one with the roses- blushed. After tea they had some music. For they were a musi- cal family, and knew what they were about, when they sung a Glee or Catch, I can assure you — especially Top- per, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it. But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After a while they played at forfeits ; for it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself. There was first a game at blind-man's-buflf though. And I no more believe Topper was really blinded than I believe he had eyes in his boots. Because the way in which he went after that plump sister in the lace tucker was an outrage on the credulity of human nature. Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping up against the piano, smothering himself among the curtains, wher- ever she went, there went he ! He always knew where the plump sister was. He wouldn't catch anybody else. If you had fallen up against him, as some of them did, and stood there, he would have made a feint of endeavor- ing to seize you, which would have been an affront to your understanding, and would instantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. " Here is a new game," said Scrooge. " One half-hour, Spirit, only one !" It was a Game called Yes and No, where Scrooge's nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what ; he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The fire of questioning to which he was exposed elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, 5.6 Good Selections. a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and wallied about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every new question put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter ; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump sister cried out : — '■ I have found it out ! I know what it is, Fred ! I know what it is !" " What is it ?" cried Fred. " It's your uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge !" Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to " Is it a bear ?" ought to have been " Yes." Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have drank to the uncon- scious company in an inaudible speech. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew ; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels. Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful ; on foreign lands, and they were close at home ; by strug- gling men, and they were patient in their greater hope ; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts. Suddenly, as they stood together in an open place, the bell struck twelve. Good Selections. 57 THE NEW YEAE. TENNYSON. 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 rediress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause. And ancient forms of party strife ; Ring in the noble 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. 5858 Good Selections. 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. SHERIDAN'S E I D B. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay. The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 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 louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. Making the blood of the listener cold. As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down ; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night, Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight. As if he knew the terrible need ; He stretched away with his utmost speed ; Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay. With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Good Selections. 59 Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth ; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster. Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls. Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed. And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind. And the steed, like a 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 snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray. 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. Then striking his spurs, with a terrible o§th, 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 the 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 when their statues are placed on high Under the dome of the Union sky, 6o b Good Selections. 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 the fight. From Winchester — twenty miles away !" THE IRISH PICKET. From the "Orpheus C. Kerr Papers." I'm shtandin' in the mud, Biddy, Wid not a sintry near, An' silence spacheless as the grave, Is all the sound I hear. Me gun is at a shouldher arms, I'm wetted to the bone. An' whin I'm afther shpakin out, I find misilf alone. This Southern climate's quare, Biddy, A quare and bastely thing, Wid Winter absent 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 Its awful warrum here. The only moon I see, Biddy, Is one small star asthore ! An' that's forninst the very cloud It was behind before. The watchfires glame along the hill. That's smilin' to the South ; Good Selections. 6i 6: An' whin the sintry passes them I see his oogly mouth. Its dead for shlape I am, Biddy, And drhamin swate I'd be, If thim ould rebels over there Would only lave me free ; But when I lane against a shtump. An' shtrive to get repose, A musket ball, he's comin' shtrate 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 waste," Says you, " Be daycint, Pat." An' how's the pigs, and ducks, Biddy ? Its thim I think of, shure. That looked 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 tould he looks like me. When I come agin, Biddy, A sargint tried and thrue. Its 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. 62 52 Good Selections, But, murther ! there's a baste, Biddy, That's crapin' round a tree, An' well I know the crathur's there. To have a shot at me. Now, Misther Rebel, say yer prayers, And hould yer dirthy paw. Here goes ! — begorra, Biddy, dear, I've broke his oogly jaws ! DEIVINa 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 for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy ! 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 — Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim ; Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet. And the blind bats flitting startled him. Good Selections. 63 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 were 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, from 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 conies with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane. The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home. 64 Good Selections. THE EONOBEI) SEAS. HENRY WARD BEECHER. How bright are the honors which await those who, with sacred fortitude and patriotic patience, have endured all things that they might save their native land from divi- sion, 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 heroes. Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall re- new their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements decay them. 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 brothers, dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bore it. Orphan children shall find thousands of fathers and mothers to love and help those whom dying heroes left as a legacy to the gratitude of the public. Oh, tell me 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 uni- versal language .' 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. He WAS your son ; but now he IS the nation's. He made your household bright ; now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Good Selections. 65 Before, he ■was_ narrowed, appropriated, shut up to 5'ou. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. 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, as of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life. 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, 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 ! BAHBABA FBIETCHIE. JOHN G. WHITTIER. Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn. The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand, Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep. Fair as a garden of the Lord, To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde. On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, When Lee march'd over the mountain wall. Over the mountains winding down. Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 66 Good Selections. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapp'd in the morning wind : the sun Of noon look'd down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten Bravest of all in Frederick town. She took up the flag the men haul'd down. In her attic window the staff she set. To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouch'd hat left and right He glanced ; the old flag met his sight. " Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; " Fire ! " — out blazed the rifle-blast. It shiver'd the window-pane and sash, It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf. She lean'd 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 stirr'd To life at that woman's deed and word. Good Selections. 67 " Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet ; All day long that free flag toss'd 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 more. 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 ! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law ; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town. BEHOES AlTD MAHTYRS. EEV. E, H. CHAPIN. Heroes and martyrs ! they are the men of the hour. They are identified with the names that live upon the lips of millions. It is of these, more than all others, that the people talk, around their fireside and in the assem- blies. Our heroes and martyrs ! a cloud of witnesses for 68 Good Selections. the spirit and worth of the nation. Our heroes! named in the homes of all who have left home and occupation, comfort and kindred, and stood in the midst of the battle — presented to us in glorious clusters on many a deck and field. Our memories run backward and forward through the war, collecting files of illustrious deeds. We remem- ber the man who covered the threatened powder with his body — the gunner who, bleeding to death, seized his lan- yard, fired his cannon, and fell back dead — the gallant captain, who, when his artillery-men were killed, and him- self left alone, sat calmly down upon his piece, and, with revolver in hand, refusing to fly, fought to the end, and died the last man at his gun — the old Massachusett's 2d, at Gettysburg, who, in the fierce fighting on the right, on the morning of the third of July, had their five stand- ard-bearers shot down in succession ; but the colors dropped by one were grasped by another, and never touched the ground. These are the men of the hour, who illustrate the value of our country by the richest crop that has ever sprung from her soil. But where the hero stands, there also the martyr dies. With the chorus of victory blends the dirge — mournful and yet majestic, too. The burden of that dirge, as it falls from the lips of wives and mothers, of fathers and children, is sad and tender like the strain of David weep- ing for those who fell upon Gilboa. That burden is still mournful, but as it passes on and re-issues from a nation's lips, it swells also into exultation and honor — that same burden : " How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle !" Some of us perhaps have read of that company whom their brave ofiicer had so often conducted to victory, and who would never part with their dead hero's name. Still day by day, at the head of the regimental roll, it is called aloud ; the generation that loved him have passed away; but their sons and their sons' sons, will ever and always love the honored name. " Cornet Latour D'Auver- Good Selections. 69 gne" still first of the brave band, is summoned ; and evei and always a brave soldier steps from the ranks to reply . " Dead on the field of honor ! " " Dead on the field of honor ! " This, too, is the record of thousands of unnamed men, whose influence upon other generations is associated with no personal distinc- tion, but whose sacrifice will lend undying lustre to the nation's archives and richer capacity to the nation's life. And yet these martyrs are remembered by name. Go visit the mourning homes of the land: homes of wealth and plenty, some of them, but richer now by the conse- cration of sacrifice. Many are homes of toil and obscurity, from which the right hand of support has been taken, or the youthful prop. Poor and obscure ; but these the un- known fallen have names, and riches of solemn, tender memory. And what heralding on palatial wall more glorious than the torn cap and soiled uniform that hang in those homes where the dead soldier comes no more? What aristocratic legend refers to a prouder fact than that which shall often be recited in the still summer field where he labored, and by the winter fireside where his place is vacant : " He fell in the great war for Union and for Freedom ! " Sleep, sleep in quiet grassy graves, where the symbols that ye loved so well shall cover and spread over you — by day the flowers of red, white and blue, and by night the constellated stars — while out of those graves there grows the better harvest of the nation and of times to come ! TO Good Selections. THB SnUUUBIt-BOY'S BUBIAL. harpers' magazine. All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept ; All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept. One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morn- ing broke ; But aot one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke. Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright sum- mer day, And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay, For the foeman held possession of that hard-won battle plain. In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. Once again the night dropped round them — night so holy and so calm. That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm. On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest. Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast. And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told; How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled. Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars. While right vipward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars. Good Selections. 71 Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whis- pering low. Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow ? Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground. Came two little maidens — sisters— with a light and hasty tread. And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood Where the Drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude. They had brought some simple garments from their ward- robe's scanty store, And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears. For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er, And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore. Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hol- lowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. ^2 Good Selections. But the day was slowjy breaking ere their holy work was done. And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun. And then those little maidens — they were children of our foes — Laid the body of our Drummer-boy to undisturbed repose. ADDRESS OP SERGEANT BUZPUZ IM BAEDELL 7. PICKWICK. You have heard from my learned friend that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at £1,500. The plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford. Sometime before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Gos- well street ; and here she placed in her front parlor-win- dow a written placard, bearing this inscription— ■• Apart- ments furnished for single gentlemen. Inquire within." I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document— "Apartments furnished for single gentle- men ! " Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear— she had no distrust— she had no suspicion— all was confidence and reliance. " Mr. Bardell," said the Good Selections, ^^ widow, " Mr. Bardell was a man of honor — Mr. Bardell was no deceiver — Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, for consolation — in single gentle- men I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections ; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let." Actuated by this beautiful and touch- ing impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lovely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlor-window. Did it remain there long.' No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and the miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlor-window three days — three days, gentlemen — a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired within ; he took the lodgings ; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick — Pickwick the defendant. And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between these parties — letters which are admitted to be in the hand-writing of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, under- handed communications, but, fortunately, far more con- clusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery — letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye — letters that were evi- dently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first : " Garraway's, twelve o'clock. 74 Good Selections. Dear Mrs. B.— Chops and Tomato sauce. Ypurs>, Pick- wick." Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and Tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick ! Chops ! Gracious heavens ! and Tomato sauce ! Gentlemen, is the happi- ness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these .' The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious. " Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till to-morrow. Slow coach." And then follows this very remarkable expres- sion : " Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan." The warming-pan ! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan .' Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about the warm- ing-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire— a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain ? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean ? For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestion- ably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unex- pectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you ! But enough of this, gentlemen ; it is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. My client's hopes and pros- pects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down — but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and re- pass — but there is no invitation for them to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house, even the voice of the child is hushed ; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this Good Selections. 75 domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell street — Pickwick, who has choked up the well and thrown ashes on the sward — Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless Tomato sauce and warming-pan — Pickwick, still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes with- out a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentle- men — heavy damages is the only punishment with which you can visit him ; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a consci- entious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury, of her civilized countrymen. iATJD MULLEE. WHITTIER. Maud Muller, on a summer's day. Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 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 ; 76 Good Selections. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid ; 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 quaffed." 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 brier-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 ! That I the Judge's bride might be ! He would dress me up in silks so fine. 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 should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. And saw Maud Muller standing still. Good Selections. JJ ■' A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er has 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 I 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." But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. And Maud was left in the field 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 the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower. Who lived for fashion, as hie for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go ; And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft, when the wine in his glass was red. He longed for the wayside well instead ; And closed his eyes on his garnished roomg. To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sighed, with secret pain, " Ah, that I were free again ! — Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 78 Good Sekctions. She wedded a man unlearned and poor. And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow and wasting pain Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow 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 his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned The tallow candle an astral burned ; And for him who sat by the chimney lug. Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw. And joy was duty, and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again. Saying only, " It might have been ! " Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge ! God pity them both, and pity us all Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; For of all sad words of tongue or pen. The saddest are these : "It might have been ! " Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes ; And in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away ! Good Selections. 79 EVEMINa AT THE FARM. TROWBRIOGC. Over the hill the farm-boy goes, His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand ; In the poplar-tree, above the spring. The katy-did begins to sing; The early dews are falling ; — Into the stone-heap darts the mink ; The swallows skim the 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' ! " Farther, farther, over the hill. Faintly calling, calling still, " 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 ! so ! " The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool. And sits and milks in the twilight cool. Saying : " So ! so, boss ! so ! so / " 8o Good Selections. To supper at last the farmer goes. The apples are pared, the paper read. The stories are told, then all to bed. Without, the crickets' ceaseless song Makes the shrill silence all night long ; The heavy dews are falling. The housewife's hand has turned the lock ; 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' ! " And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams. Drums in the pail with the flashing streams. Murmuring, " So, boss ! so ! " THE SMACK IIT SCHOOL. W. p. PALMER. A DISTRICT school, not far away 'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day. Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys — Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent ; The while the masters downward look Was fastened on a copy-book — When suddenly behind his back. Rose, loud and clear, a rousing smack, As 'twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss ! " What's that ? " the startled master cries i "That, thir,'' a little imp replies, " Wath William Willith, if you pleathe— I thaw him kith Thuthannah Pleathe ! " Good Selections. 8 1 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. The butt of all good-natured fun — With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The threat'ner 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 didn't mean to be so bad — But when Susannah shook her curls. And whispered I was 'fear'd of girls, And dassn't kiss a baby's doll, I couldn't stand it, sir, at all ! But up and kissed her on the spot. I know — boo hoo — I ought to not — But, somehow, from her looks — boo hoo — I thought she kind o' wished me to ! " PALSTAPP AND PKINOB HENEY. Enter Poins, Bardolph, Gadskill and Peto. PoiNS. Welcome, Jack : where hast thou been ? Fal. a plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too ! marry, and amen ! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether stocks and mend them and foot them too. A plague of all cowards ! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant. \He drinks]. 82 Good Selections. P. Hen. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of tlie sun's ! if thou didst, then behold that com- pound. Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too ; there is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man : yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A- villainous coward ! Go thy ways, old Jack ; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England ; and one of them is fat and grows old : God help the while ! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver ; I could sing psalms or anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still. P. Hen. How now, wool-sack : what mutter you ? Fal. a king's son ! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese, I'll never wear hair ,on my face more. You Prince of Wales I P. Hen. Why you great round man, what's the matter? Fal. Are you not a coward ? answer me that ; and Poins there. PoiNS. 'Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, ^by the Lord, I'll stab thee. Fal. I call thee coward ! I'll see thee damned ere I call thee coward ; but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in your shoulders, you care not who sees your back : call you that backing of your friends ? A plague upon such backing ! give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack : I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day. P. Hen. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunkest last. \He drinks^ Fal. All's one for that. A plague of all cowards still say I. Good Selections. 83 P. Hen. What's the matter ? Fal. What's the matter ! there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this morning. P. Hen. Where is it. Jack ? where is it ? Fal. Where is it ! taken from us it is : a hundred upon poor four of us. P. Hen. What, a hundred, man ? Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not a half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. 1 am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose ; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw — ecce sig- num 1 I never dealt better since I was a man : all would not do. A plague of all cowards ! Let them speak : if they speak more or less than truth, they are villlans and the son of darkness. P. Hen. Speak, sirs : how was it ? Gads. We four set upon some dozen — Fal. Sixteen, at least, my lord. Gads. And bound them. Peto. No, no, they were not bound. Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them ; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us — Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other. P. Hen. What, fought ye with them all ? Fal. All ! I know not what ye call all ; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish : if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature. Poins. Pray God, you have not murdered someof them. Fal. Nay, that's past praying for : for I have peppered two of them : two, I am sure, I have paid ; two rogues in buckram-suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie. 84 Good Selections. spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old word— here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me — P. Hen. What, four ? tbou said'st but two even now. Fal. Four, Hal ; I told thee four. PoiNS. Ay, ay, he said four. Fal. These four came all a front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. P. Hen. Seven ? why, there were but four, even now. Fal. In buckram. PoiNS. Ay, four, in buckram suits. Fal. Seven by these hilts, or I am a villian else. P. Hen. Pr'ythee, let, him alone ; we shall have more anon. Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? P. Hen. Ay, and mark thee too. Jack. Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine men in buckram, that I told thee of — P. Hen. So, two more already. Fal. Their points being broken — PoiNS. Down fell their hose. Fal. Began to give me ground. But I followed them close, came in foot and hand ; and with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid. P. Hen. O, monstrous ! eleven buckram men grown out of two ! Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three misbegot- ten knaves, in Kendal green came at my back, and let drive at me ; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou could'st not see thy hand. P. Hen. These lies are like the father that begets them ; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why thou knotty-pated fool. Fal. What, art thou mad ? art thou mad .' is not the truth, the truth ? Good Selections. 85 P. Hen. Why, how could'st thou know these men in Kendal green when it was so dark thou could'st not see thy hand ? come tell us your reason ; what sayest thou to this ? PoiNS. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason. Fal. What, upon compulsion ? No ; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion I If reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason on compulsion. I — P. Hen. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin : this san- guine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back breaker, this huge hill of flesh ; Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you stock fish — O, for breath to utter what is like thee ! you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow case, you vile standing tuck — P. Hen. Well, breathe a while, and then to it again ; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this. PoiNS. Mark, Jack. P. Hen. We two saw you four set on four ; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how plain a tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four ; and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it ; yea, and can show it you here in the house— and FalstafF, you carried yourself away as nimbly. With as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done ; and then say it was in fight ! What trick, what device, what start- ing-hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame .' Poins. Come, let's hear Jack ; what trick hast thou now? Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made 86 Good Selections. ye. Why, hear ye, my masters, was it for me to kill the heir apparent ? Should I turn upon the true prince ? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules ; but be- ware instinct ; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter ; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life, I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors, watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gal- lants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you ! What, shall we be merry .' shall we have a play extempore .' P. Hen. Content ; and the argument shall be, thy running away, Fal. Ah ! no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me. THE FALII]:7E. H. W. LONGFELLOW. O THE long and dreary Winter ! O the cold and cruel Winter ! Ever thicker, thicker, thicker Froze the ice on lake and river ; Ever deeper, deeper, deeper Fell the snow o'er all the landscape. Fell the covering snow, and drifted Through the forest, round the village. Hardly from his buried wigwam Could the hunter force a passage ; With his mittens and his snow-shoes Vainly 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 footprints. In the ghastly, gleaming forest Good Selections. 87 Fell, and could not rise from weakness, Perish'd there from cold and hunger. O the famine and the fever ! O the wasting of the famine ! O the blasting of the fever ! O the wailing of the children ! the anguish of the women ! All the earth was sick and famish'd ; Hungry was the air around them. Hungry was the sky above them, And the hungry stars in heaven Like the eyes of wolves glared at them 1 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 with haggard eyes and hollow At the face of Laughing Water. And the foremost said : " Behold me ! 1 am Famine, Bukadawin !" And the other said : " Behold me ! I am Fever, Ahkosewin !" And the lovely Minnehaha Shudder'd as they look'd upon her Shudder'd at the words they utter'd, Lay down on her bed in silence. Hid her face, but made no answer; Lay there trembling, freezing, burning At the looks they cast upon her. At the fearful words they utter'd. Forth into the empty forest Rushed the madden'd Hiawatha ; 88 Good Selections. In his heart was deadly sorrow, In his face a stony firmness, On his brow the sweat of anguish Started, but it froze and fell not. Wrapp'd in furs and arm'd for hunting. With his mighty bow of ash-tree. With his quiver full of arrows. With his mittens, Minjekahwun, Into the vast and vacant forest On his snow-shoes stride he forward. " Gitche Manito, the Mighty !" Cried he with his face uplifted In that bitter hour of angliish, " Give your children food, O father ! Give us food, or we must perish ! Give me food for Minnehaha, For my dying Minnehaha !" Through the far-resounding forest. Through the forest vast and vacant Rang that cry of desolation. But there came no other answer Than the echo of his crying. Than the echo of the woodlands, "Minnehaha ! Minnehaha !" All day long roved Hiawatha In that melancholy forest. Through the shadow of whose thickets. In the pleasant days of Summer, Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, He had brought his young wife homeward From the Jand of the Dacotahs ; When the birds sang in the thickets. And the streamlets laugh'd and glisten'd. And the air was full of fragrance. And the lovely Laughing Water Good Selections. 89 Said with voice that did not tremble, " I will follow you, my husband !" In the wigwam with Nokomis, With those gloomy guests, that watch'd her. With the Famine and the Fever, She was lying, the Beloved, She the dying Minnehaha. " Harjc !" she said, " I hear a rushing, Hear a roaring and a rushing, Hear the Fails of Minnehaha Calling to me from a distance !" " No, my child !" said old Nokomis, " 'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees !" " Look !" she said ; " I see my father Standing lonely at 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 beckons !" " Ah !" she said, " the eyes of Pauguk Glare upon me in the darkness, I can feel his icy fingers Clasping mine amid the darkness ! Hiawatha ! Hiawatha !" And the desolate Hiawatha, Far away amid the forest. Miles away among the mountains. Heard that sudden cry of anguish. Heard the voice of Minnehaha Calling to him in the darkness, " Hiawatha ! Hiawatha !" Over snow-fields waste and pathless. Under snow-encumber'd branches, Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 90 Good Selections. Empty-handed, heavy-hearted. Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing : " Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! Would that I had perish'd for you. Would that I were dead as you are ! Wahonowin ! Wahonowin !" And he rush'd into the wigwam. Saw the old Nokomis slowly Rocking to and fro and moaning, Saw his lovely Minnehaha Lying dead and cold before him. And his bursting heart within him Utter'd such a cry of anguish. That the forest moan'd and shudder'd. That the very stars in heaven Shook and trembled with his anguish. Then he sat down still and speechless, On the bed of Minnehaha, At the feet of Laughing Water, At those willing feet, that never More would lightly run to meet him, Never more would lightly follow. With both hands his face he cover'd, Seven long days and nights he sat there. As if in a swoon he sat there. Speechless, motionless, unconscious Of the daylight or the darkness. Then they buried Minnehaha ; In the snow a grave they made her. In the forest deep and darksome. Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; Clothed her in her richest garments ; Wrapp'd her in her robes of ermine, Cover'd her with snow, like ermine : Thus they buried Minnehaha. Good Selections. 91 And at night a fire was lighted, On her grave four times was kindled, For her soul upon its journey To the Islands of the Blessed. From his doorway Hiawatha Saw it burning in the forest, Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; From his sleepless bed uprising, From the bed of Minnehaha, Stood and watch'd it at the doorway. That it might not be extinguish 'd. Might not leave her in the darkness. " Farewell !" said he, " Minnehaha ! Farewell, O my Laughing Water ! All my heart is buried with you, All my thoughts go onward with you ! 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 shall follow To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter !" THE CLOWN'S REHEARSAL. -Part I. " Midsummer Night's Dream." [Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout., and Starveling^ QUIN. Is all our company here ? BOT. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip. 92 Good Selections. QuiN. Here is the scroll of every man's name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the Duke and Duchess, on his wedding-day at night. BOT. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on ; then read the names of the actors ; and so grow to a point. QuiN. Marry, our play is — ^The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisbe. Box. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll : masters, spread yourselves. QuiN. Answer, as I call you.— Nick Bottom, the weaver. Box. Ready : name what part I am for, and proceed. QuiN. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. Box. What is Pyramus ? a lover, or a tyrant ? QuiN. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love. Box. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it : if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes ; I will move storms ; I will condole in some measure. To the rest : — Yet my chief humor is for a tyrant ! I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. " The raging rocks. With shivering shocks," Shall break the locks Of prison gates ; And Phibbus' car Shall shine from far, And make and mar The foolish fates." This was lofty ! — Now name the rest of the players. — This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant vein ; a lover is more condoling. QuiN. Francis Flute, the bellows mender. Good Selections. 93 Flu. Here, Peter Quince. QuiN. You must take Thisbe on you. Flu. What is Thisbe ? a wandering knight ? QuiN. It is the lady that Pyraraus must love. Flu. Nay, faith, let me not play a woman ; I have a beard coming. QuiN. That's all one ; you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will. BOT. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisbe too I I'll speak in a monstrous little voice — " Thisne, Thisne, — Ah, PyramuS, my lover dear ; thy Thisbe dear I and lady dear !" QuiN. No, no ; you must play Pyramus, and Flute, you Thisbe. Box. Well, proceed. QuiN. Robin Starveling, the tailor. Star. Here, Peter Quince. QuiN. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisbe's mother. — Tom Snout, the tinker. Snout. Here, Peter Quince. QuiN. You, Pyramus's father ; myself, Thisbe's father ; Snug, the joiner, you, the lion's part :— and, I hope, here is a play fitted. Snug. Have you the lion's part written ? pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study. QuiN. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring. BOT. Let me play the lion too : I will roar, that I will do any man's heart good to hear me ; I will roar that I will make the Duke say : " Let him roar again, let him roar again." QuiN. An you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek, and that were enough to hang us all. All. That would hang us, every mother's son. BoT. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the 94 Good Selections. ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discre- tion but to hang us ; but I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove ; I will roar you an 't were any nightingale. QuiN. You can play no part but Pyramus ; for Pyra- mus is a sweet-faced man— a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day — a most lovely, gentleman-like man ; therefore, you must needs play Pyramus. Now, masters, here are your parts : and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night ; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight ; there we will rehearse : for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known. In the meantime, I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not. BoT. We will meet ; and there we may rehearse more obscurely and courageously. Take pains ; be perfect ; adieu. QuiN. At the duke's oath we weet. Box. Enough ; hold or cut bow-strings. THE BELLS. EDGAR A. POE. Hear the sledges with the bells — Silver bells — What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme. Good Selections. 95 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 the 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 ! 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 fire 96 Good Selections. 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 On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear, it fully knows. By the twanging And the clanging. How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling. How the danger sinks and swells. By the sinking or the swelling iri the anger of the bells — Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. Bells, bells, bells^ In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 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. Good Selections. gf And who tolling, 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 human — They are Ghouls : And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, A paean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells ! And he dances and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the psean of the bells — Of the bells; Keeping time, time, time. In a so.rt of Runic rhyme. To the throbbing of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells. To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time. As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme. To the rolling of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- Bells, bells, bells. To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 9i8 Good Selections. THE VAGABONDS. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. We are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger'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 nights were cold. And ate and drank — and starved together. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! The paw he holds up there's been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (This out-door business is bad for the strings). Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings ! No, thank ye, sir, — I never drink ; Roger and I are exceedingly moral — Aren't we, Roger ?^see him wink ; — Well, something hot, then, — we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, Jtoo, — 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. Good Selections. 99 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, through 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 ! That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow. But no matter ! We'll have some music, if you're willing. And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough is, sir !) Shall march a little. Start, you villain ! Stand straight ! 'Bout face ! Salute your officer I Put up that paw ! Dress ! Take your rifle ! (Some dogs have arms, you see !) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, To aid a poor old patriot soldier ! March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes When he stands up to hear 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, fill the glasses ! — Quick, sir ! I'm ill,— my brain is going ! Some brandy,— thank you, — there ! — it passes ! Why not reform ? That's easily said ; But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread. And scarce remembering what meat meant. That my poor stomach's past reform ; And there are times when, mad with thinking. lOO Good Selections. I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking. 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 ; — The same old story ; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features. — You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures : I was one of your handsome men ! If you had seen her, so fair and young, Whose head was happy on this breast ! If you could have heard the songs I sung When 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 playing To you to-night for a glass of grog ! She'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 have seen her ? Once : I was weak and spent On the dusty road, a carriage stopped : But little she dreamed, as on she went. Who kissed the coin that her fingers 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 beggar's story ? Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? I had a mother so proud of me ! 'Twas well she died before Do you know Good Selections. lOI If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below ? Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain ; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden. Aching thing, in place of a heart ? He is sad sometimes, 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 ; that glass was warming. You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street. Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; — The sooner, the better for Roger and me ! ' THE CLOWN'S KBHEAESAL.-Part II. [Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout and Starveling^ BoT. Are we all met ? QuiN. Pat, pat ; and here s a marvelous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring-house ; and we will do it in action as we will do it before the Duke. Box. Peter Quince, — QuiN. What sayest thou, bully Bottom ? Box. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw his sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? 02 Good Selections. Snout. By'r lakin, a parlous fear. Star. I believe we must leave the killing out, when 11 is done. BOT. Not a whit ! I have a device to make all well. Vrite me a prologue ; and let the prologue seem to say, re will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus s not killed indeed, and, for the more better assurance, ell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom he weaver ! This will put them out of fear. QuiN. Well, we will have such a prologue. Snout. Will not the ladies be afraid of the lion Star. I fear it, I promise you. Hot. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves j :o bring in — God shield us ! — a lion among ladies, is a nost dreadful thing ; for there is not a more fearful wild- owl than your lion living ; and we ought to look to't. Snout. Therefore another prologue must tell he is lot a lion. BoT. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion's neck ; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect, — Ladies,' — or ' Fair ladies, — I would wish you,' — or ' I ivould request you,' — or ' I would entreat you, — not to fear, not to tremble ; my life for yours, if you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life ; no, I am no such thing ; I am a man as other men are ;' and there indeed let him name his name, and tell them he is Snug tl:(e joiner. QuiN. Well, it shall be so. But there is, two hard things ; that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber ; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisbe met by moonlight. Snout. Doth the moon shine that night we play our play? BoT. A calendar, a calendar ! look in the almanac ; find out moonshine, find out moonshine. QuiN. Yes, it doth shine that night. Good Selections. lOJ BoT. Why, then you may leave a casement of the great chamber window, where we play, open, and the moon may shine in at the casement. QuiN • Ay ; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns or a lanthorn, and say he comes to disfigure, or to present, the person of moonshine. Then, there is another thing ; we must have a wall in the great chamber ; for Pyramus and Thisbe, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall. Snout. You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom .' BoT. Some man or other must present Wall ; and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall ; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisbe whisper. QuiN. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin ; when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake ; and so every one accord- ing to his cue. [Enter Puck, dekind.] Puck. What hempen home-spuns have we swagger- ing here. So near the cradle of the fairy queen ? What, a play toward ? I'll be an auditor ; An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause. QuiN. Speak, Pyramus. Thisbe, stand forth. BoT. Thisbe, the flowers of odious savours sweet,— QuiN. Odours ! odours ! BoT. Odours savours sweet ; So doth thy breath, my dearest Thisbe dear. But hark, a voice ! stay thou but here awhile, And by and by I will to thee appear. {Exit, 104 Good Selections. Puck. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here. [Aside — Exit. Flu. Must I speak now ? QuiN. Ay, marry, must you ; for you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. Flu. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue. Of color like the red rose on triumphant brier. Most brisky Juvenal and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest horse that yet would never tire, I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb. QuiN. ' Ninus' tomb,' man ! why, you must not speak that yet ; that you answer to Pyramus ; you speak all your part at once, cues and all. Pyramus enter ! your cue is past ; it is, 'never tire.' Flu. 0,^as true as truest horse that yet would never tire. [Re-enter Puck, and Bottom, with an ass's keadi\ . BoT. If I were fair, Thisbe, I were only thine. QuiN. O monstrous ! O strange ! we are haunted. Pray, masters ! fly, masters ! Help ! [Exit Clowns. THE KMiaHT'S TOAST. The feast is o'er ! Now brimming wine In lordly cup is seen to shine Before each eager guest ; And silence fills the crowded hall. As deep as when the herald's call Thrills in the loyal breast. Good Selections. 105 ic 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 !" 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 : [06 Good Selections. " 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 past,— So holy 'tis and true ; 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." 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 !" LADY CLAEE. TENNYSON. It was the time when lilies blow. And clouds are highest up in air. Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin. Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn ; Lovers long-betroth 'd were they ! Good S^ections. I07 They two will wed the morrow morn ; God's hlessjng 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 well," said Lady Clare. 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." " O God be thank'd," 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 Lad}' Clare." " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ?" Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ?" " As God's above," said Alice the nurse, " I speak the truth ; you are my child ! " The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." " Falsely, falsely have ye done, O 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 you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife." I08 Good Selections. " If I'm a beggar born," she said, " I 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, " Tho' I should die to-night." " Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." O, Mother, Mother, Mother," she said, " So strange it seems to me. " 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 bj' 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, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way. Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : " O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest like a village maid. That are the flower of the earth.?" Good Selections. 109 " If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." " Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " For I am yours 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 look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. And told him all her nurse's tale. He laughed a laugh of merry scorn ; He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood : •' If you are not the heiress born. And I," said he, "the next in blood — " If you are not the heiress born. And I," said he, " the lawful heir. We two will wed to-morrow morn. And you shall still be Lady Clare." HIQHER VIEWS OF THE UNION. WENDELL PHILLIPS. I CONFESS the pictures of the mere industrial value of the Union, make me profoundly sad. I look, as beneath the skilful pencil, trait after trait leaps to glowing life, and ask at last. Is this all ? Where'are the nobler elements of national purpose and life .' Is this the whole fruit of ages of toil, sacrifice and thought, those cunning fingers, the overflowing lap, labor vocal on every hillside, and 110 Good Selections. commerce whitening every sea ? All the dower of one haughty, overbearing race, the zeal of the Puritan, the faith of the Quaker, a century of colonial health, and then this large civilization, does it result only in a work- shop — fops melted in baths and perfumed, and men grimed with toil? Raze out, then, the Eagle from our banner, and paint instead Niagara used as a cotton-mill ! O no ! not such the picture my glad heart sees when I look forward. Once plant deep in the national heart the love of right, let there grow out of it the firm pur- pose of duty, and then from the higher plane of Christian manhood we can put aside on the right hand and the left these narrow, childish, and mercenary considerations. " Leave to the soft Campanian His baths and his perfumes ; Leave to the sordid race of Tyre Their dyeing vats and looms ; Leave to the sons of Carthage, The rudder and the oar. Leave to the Greek, his marble nymph And scrolls of wordy lore ;" — but for us, the children of a purer civilization, the pioneers of a Christian future, it is for us to found a Capitol whose corner-stone is Justice, and whose top- stone is Liberty ; within the sacred precinct of whose Holy of Holies dwelleth One who is no respecter of per- sons, but hath made of one blood all nations of the earth to serve him. Crowding to the shelter of its stately arches, I see old and young, learned and ignorant, rich and poor, native and foreign. Pagan, Christian and Jew, black and white, in one glad, harmonious, triumphant procession ! " Blest and thrice blest the Roman Who sees Rome's brightest day ; Good Selections. ii Who sees that long victorious pomp Wind down the sacred way ; And through the bellowing Forum, And round the suppliant's Grove ; Up to the everlasting gates Of Capitolian Jove ! " FSALU OF LIFE. LONGFBLLOW. Tell me not, in mournful number?. Life is but an empty dream ; For the soul is dead that slumbers. And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; " Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 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 hearts, 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 ! Be a hero in the strife ! 112 Good Selections. Trust no Future howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act— act in the living Present ! 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. THE UOEA^ITA'S DEFEAT. LALLA ROOKU. But other tasks now wait him — tasks that need All the deep daringness of thought and deed With which the Dives have gifted him — for mark Over yon plains, which night had else made dark. Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights That spangle India's fields on showery nights — Far as their formidable gleams they shed. The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread Glimmering along the horizon's dusky line. And thence in nearer circles, till they shine Among the founts and groves, o'er which the town In all its armed magnificence looks down. • Good Selections. 1 13 Yet, fearless, from his battlements Mokanna views that multitude of tents ; Nay, smiles to think that, though entoiled, beset, Not less than myriads dare to front him yet ; — That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay. Even thus a match for myriads such as they. " O for a sweep of that dark Angel's wing. Who brushed the thousands of the Assyrian King To darkness in a moment, that I might People hell's chambers with yon host to-night ! But, come what may, let who will grasp the throne, Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan ; Let who will torture him. Priest — C^iph — King — Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring With victims' shrieks and bowlings of the slave — Sounds that shall glad me even within my grave ! " Thus to himself — but to the scanty train Still left around him, a far different strain : — " Glorious Defenders of the sacred Crown I bear from Heaven, whose light nor blood shall drown Nor shadow of earth eclipse ; — Warriors, rejoice — the port to which we've passed O'er Destiny's dark wave, beams out at last ! Victory's our own — 'tis written in that Book Upon whose leaves none but the angels look That Islam's sceptre shall beneath the power Of her great foe, fall broken in that hour. When the moon's mighty orb, before all eyes. From Neksheb's Holy Well portentously shall rise ! Now turn and see ! " They turned, and, as he spoke, A sudden splendor all around them broke. And they beheld an orb, ample and bright. Rise from the Holy Well, and cast its light 114 Good Selections. Round the rich city and the plain for miles- Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles Of many a dome and fair-roofed minaret, As autumn suns shed round them when they set, " To victory ! " is at once the cry of all — Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call — But instant the huge gates are flung aside. And forth like a diminutive mountain-tide Into the boundless sea, they speed their course Right on into the Moslem's mighty force. " On for the lamps, that light yon lofty screen. Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean ; There rests the Caliph — speed ! — one lucky lance May now achieve mankind's deliverance." Desperate the die — such as they only cast. Who venture for a world, and stake their last. But fate's no longer with him : — blade for blade Springs up to meet them through the glimmering shade. And, as the clash is heard, new legions soon Pour to the spot, like bees of Kerzeroum To the shrill timbrel's summons, — till, at length. The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength. And back to Neksheb's gates, covering the plain With random slaughter, drives the adventurous train ; Among the last of whom the Silver Veil Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail Of some tossed vessel, on a stormy night. Catching the tempest's momentary light ! And hath not this brought the proud spirit low? Nor dashed his brow, nor checked his daring .' No. Though half the wretches, whom at night he led To throne and victory, lie disgraced and dead. Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking crest, Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the rest ; — Good Selections. 115 And they believe him ! — O, the lover may Distrust that look which steals his soul away ; — The babe may cease to think that it can play With heaven's rainbow ; — alchemists may doubt The shining gold their crucible gives out ; But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. OU LElTDIlTa A FUITCH BOWL. This ancient silver bowl of mine — it tells of good old times. Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes : They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave and true, That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. A Spanish galleon brought the bar — so runs the ancient tale — 'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail. He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flem- ish ale. 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame. Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same ; 1 16 Good Selections. And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was founc 'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smol ing round. But, changing hands, it reached at length a Purita divine. Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine ; But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it was, perhaps. He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles an schnaps. And then, you know what's next — it left the Dutchman shore With those that in the Mayflower came, a hundred sou and more, — Along with all their furniture, to fill their new abodes— To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundre loads. 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closin dim. When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it 1 the brim ; The little Captam stood and stirred the posset with h sword. And all his sturdy men at arm were ranged about tl board. He poured the fiery Holland in— the man that nevi feared — He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yello beard ; And one by one the musketeers, the men that fought at prayed. All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a m: afraid ! Good Selections. 117 That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew. He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldiers wild halloo ; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, " Run from the white man when you find he smells of Holland gin." A hundred years, and fifty more had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose ; When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. " Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good — poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air: And if— God bless me — you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill ;" So John did drink — and well he wrought that night at Bunker Hill ! I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here ; 'Tis but the fool, that loves excess — hast thou a drunken soul ? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl ! I love the memory of the past — its pressed yet fragrant flowers — The moss that clothes its broken walls— the ivy on its towers— Il8 Good Selections. Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed— my eyes grow mois and dim. To think of all the vanished joys that danced around iti brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words—" My deai where have you been ? " BIITGEN OIT THE RHIITE. MRS. CAROLINE NORTON. A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth o woman's tears ; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-bloo ebbed away. And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he migl say : The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade hand. And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my nati'^ land : Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends c mine. For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine. " Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet ar crowd around, To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineya: ground. That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day w done. Good Selections, lip Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun ; And, 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, — The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; And 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 son shall comfort her old age ; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, — but kept my father's sword ; And with boyish love I 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 droop- ing head. When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread. But look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye. 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, 120 Good Selections. " There's another— not a sister ; in the happy days gone by. You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning, — O, friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning ! Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen. My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), — I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine. " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, — I heard, or seemed to hear, ■ 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, through the evening calm and still ; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly 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 trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,— 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 the spark of life had fled,— The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead ! Good Selections. 121 And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine. A ITOCTUElTAIi SKETOH. Even has come ; and from the dark park — hark ! The signal of the setting sun — one gun ; And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-lane Dane slain, Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out. Or Macbeth, raving at that shade-made blade. Denying to his fanatic clutch — much touch ; Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride, ride Four horses, as no other man can span. Or in the small, Olympic pit, sit, split. Laughing at Listen, while you quiz his phiz. Anon night comes ; and with his wings brings things. Such as with his poetic tongue. Young sung. The gas upblazes, with its bright white light. And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl About the streets, and take up Pail-Mall Sail, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. Now thieves, to enter for your cash, smash, Past drowsy Charley in a deep sleep, creep. But, frightened by Policeman B. Three, flee. And, while they're going, whisper low, " No go." Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads. 122 Good Selections. And sleepers waking, grumble " Drat that cat," Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will. Now bulls of Bashan of a prize size, rise In childish dream, and with a roar, gore poor Georgy or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly ; But nurse-maid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears (what faith is man's !) Ann's banns And his, from Rev. Mr. Rice, twice, thrice White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout-out That upward goes shows Rose knows those bows' woes. DESPAIR. DOW, JR. The whitest foam dances upon the darkest billow, and the stars shine the brightest when surrounded by the blackest of thunder-clouds ; so hope mirrors its most brilliant rays in the dark wave of despair, and happiness is never so complete as when visited occasionally by the ministers of misery. These ups and downs in the path- way of man's existence are all for the best, and yet he allows them to vex and torment his peace till he bursts the boiler of his rage, and scalds his own toes. I have no doubt but the common run of people would like to have a railroad built from here to the grave, and go through by steam ; but if they all worked as easy in life's galling collar as I do, they would have things just as they are ; some ups and some downs — some sweet and some bitter — some sunshine and some storm ; because they constitute a variety. I wouldn't give a shinplaster penny to have the road of existence perfectly level ; for I should Good Selections. 123 soon become tired of a dull sameness of prospect, and make myself miserable in the idea that I must experience no material change, either for better or for worse. Plum- pudding is most excellent stuff to wind off a dinner with ; but all plum-pudding would be worse than none at all. So you see, my friends, the trouble and trials of life are absolutely necessary to enable us to judge rightly of gen- uine happiness, whenever it happens to enliven the saturnine region of the heart with its presence. If we were never to have our jackets and shirts wet with the cold rain of misfortune, we should never know how good it feels to stand out and dry in the warm rays of comfort. You needn't hesitate ever to travel through swamps of trouble, for fear of sinking over head in the mud of despondency ; for despair is never quite despair. No, my friends, it never comes quite up to the mark in the most desperate cases. I know the prospects of man are sometimes most tormentingly conglomerous ; but the clouds eventually clear away, and his sky again becomes clear and quiescent as a basin of potato starch. His sun of ambition may be darkened — his moon of rrie- mory turned to blood — and the star of his peace blotted from the firmament of his, I don't know what ; but he is not entirely a gone goose even in this situation. Those semi-celestial angels of light and loveliness, Hope and Fancy, will twine the sweetest of roses round his care-wrinkled brow ; and while one whispers in his ear, " Don't give up the ship," the other dresses up for him a bower of future happiness, and festoons it with the choicest of elysian flowers. The very darkest cell of despair always has a gimlet-hole to let the glory of hope shine in, and dry up the tears of the poor pris- oner of woe. 124 Good Selections. THE BAVEH. BDGAR A. FOE. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping. As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber- door. " 'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, " tapping at 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 upon the floor. Eagerly I wish'd the morrow : vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow— sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, Thrill'd me— fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I 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." Good Selections. 125 Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer, '' Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber- door. That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I open'd wide the door: Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, 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 whisper'd word, "Lenore !" This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, " Lenore !" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul, within me burning. Soon again 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." 126 Good Selections. Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopp d or stay'd he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perch 'd above my cham- ber-door, — Perch 'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber- door — Perched and sat and nothing more. Then this ebony bird 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 is on the Night's Plutonian shore .'" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" Much I marvel'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly. Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; For we can not help agreeing that ncT living human being Ever yet was bless'd 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 word he did outpour. Good Selections. 127 Nothing further then he utter'd — not a feather then he flutter'd— Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, '• Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he 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 follow'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 wheel'd a cushion'd 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 j^ore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " Nevermore !" This Isat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core. 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 : But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloat- ing o'er. She shall press— ah ! nevermore I 128 Good Selections. Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch,"! cried, " thy God hath lent thee— by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, 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 toss'd thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore !" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet Still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore. Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ; Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore !" ' Quoth the raven, " Nevermore :'' " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend 1" I shriek'd, upstarting — Good Selections. 129 " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Pluto- nian shore I Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off 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 of a demon's that is dreaming, 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— nevermore ! MOTHER A^D FOET. MRS. BROWNING. Dead ! one of them shot by the sea, in the east. And one of them shotin 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 ! 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 the west sea, rhyme on in her head Forever, instead ! 130 Good Selections. What's art for a woman ? To hold on her knees Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees, And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat ; To dream and to dote. To teach them. It stings there : I made them, indeed, Speak plain the word country — I taught them, no doubt. That a country's a thing men should die for at need, I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant turned out. And when their eyes flashed, O, my beautiful eyes ! I exulted ! Nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise When one sits quite alone ! then one weeps, then one kneels ! — God ! how the house feels ! At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled 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 oflF 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 yet remained To be leant on, and walked with, recalling the time "When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. Good Selections. 131 And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand. I was not to faint. One loved me for two ; would be with me ere long ! And " Viva Italia !" he died for, our saint, " Who forbids our complaint. My Nanni would add he " was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls, was imprest It was Guido himself who knew what I could bear And how 'twas 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 Guido 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 and that sorrow that reconciles so The Above and Below. O Christ of the seven wounds, who loolc'st thro' the dark To the face of thy mother ! consider, I pray. How we common mothers stand desolate ; mark. Whose sons not being Christ's, 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 ; 1 32 Good Selections. '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 Cavalli, with final retort, Have cut the game short. When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its greep, white and red. When you have your country, from mountain to sea. When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head — And I have my dead. What then ? Do not mock me. Ah ! ring your bells low And burn your lights faintly. My country is there. Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow ; My Italy's there, with my brave civic pair. To disfranchise despair. Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the west, And one of them shot in the east by the sea. Dead ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast. You want a great song for Italy free — Let none look at me. THE BOYS. OLIVER WENDKL HOLMES. 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 the catalogue's spite ! Old Time is a liar ! we're twenty to-night ! Good Selections. 13.3 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 ! Look close, — ^you will see not a sign of a flake ! We want some new garlands for those we have shed, And these are white roses in place of the red. We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (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 right ; " Mr. Mayor," my 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 true I So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was too ! 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 syllable 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 !" 134 Good Selections. You hear that boy laughing ? You think he's all fun ; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done ; 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 ! OBTTIN& UNDER WAY— Innocents Atroad. MARIC TWAIN. All day Sunday at anchor. The storm had gone down a great deal, but the sea had not. It was still piling its frothy hills in air outside, as we could plainly see with the glass. We must lie still until Monday, and we did. The next morning we weighed anchor and went to sea. It was a great happiness to get away after the dragging, dispiriting delay. I thought there never was such glad- ness in the air before, such brightness in the sun, such beauty in the sea. All my malicious instincts were dead within me ; and as America faded out of sight, I think a spirit of charity rose up in their place, that was bound- less, for the time, as the broad ocean that was heaving its billows about us. I wished to express my feelings ; I wished to lift up my voice and sing ; but I did not know anything to sing, and so I was obliged to give up the idea. It was no loss to the ship, though, perhaps. Good Selections. 135 It was breezy and pleasant, but the sea was still very rough. One could not promenade without risking his neck ; at one moment the bowsprit was taking a deadly aim at the sun in mid-heaven, at the next it was trying to harpoon a shark in the bottom of the ocean. What a weird sensation it is to feel the stern of the ship sinking swiftly from under you, and see the bow climbing high away among the clouds ! One's safest course, that day, was to clasp a railing and hang on ; walking was too pre- carious a pastime. Soon a remarkable fossil, shawled to the chin and bandaged like a mummy, appeared at the door of the after deck-house, and the next lurch of the ship, shot him into my arms. I said : " Good morning, sir. It is a fine day.'' He put his hand on his stomach and said, " Oh my !'' and then staggered away and fell over the coop of a sky- light. Presently another old gentleman was projected from the same door, with great violence. I said : " Calm yourself, sir. There is no hurry. It is 4 fine day, sir." He, also, put Kis hand on his stomach, and said, " Ok my ! " and reeled away. In a little while another veteran was discharged abruptly from the same door, clawing at the air for a saving sup- port. I said : " Good morning, sir. It is a fine day for pleasuring. You were about to say — " " Oh my ! " I thought so. I anticipated him anyhow. I staid there and was bombarded with old gentlemen for an hour perhaps ; and all I got out of any of them was " Oh my!" I went away, then, in a thoughtful mood. I said this is a grand pleasure excursion. I like it. The passengers 136 Good Selections. are not garrulous, but still they are sociable. I like these old people, but somehow they all seem to have the " Oh my ! '' rather bad. SHIP OP STATE. LONGFELLOW. Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! Humanity with all its fears. With all the hopes of future years. Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! We know what master laid thy keel. What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 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 ! " Good Selections, 137 THE D&EAU 0£' EUQEITE ABAU. 'TWAS in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and 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 drove the wickets in ; Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed 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 between 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. And pale, and leaden-eyed. 138 Good Selections. At last he shut the ponderous tome ; With a fast and fervent grasp He strained the dusky covers close, And fix'd the brazen hasp : " O God, could I so close my mind. And clasp it with a clasp !" Then leaping on his feet upright. Some moody turns he took — Now up the mead, then down the mead. And passed a shady nook — And lo ! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book ! " My gentle lad, what is't you read — Romance or fairy fable ? Or is it some historic 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 smit with sudden pain — Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again ; And down he sat beside the lad. And talked with him of Cain. 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 everlasting stain ! " And well," quoth he, " I know, for truth. Their pangs must be extreme-:— Good Selections. 139 ) Woe, woe, unutterable woe — Who spill life's sacred stream ! For why ? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream ! " One that 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 I will have his gold ! " Two sudden blows with a rugged 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 : There was a manhood in his look. That murder could not kill I " And, lo I the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame — Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes. Were looking down in blame : I took the dead man by the hand. And called upon his name ! " O God, it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain ! For when I touched the lifeless clay. The blood gushed out amain ! 140 Good Selections. For every clot, a burning spot. Was scorching in my brain ! " And now from forth the frowning sky. From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice — the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite : — ' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead And hide it from my sight ! ' " I took the dreary body up. And cast it in a stream — The sluggish water, black as ink The depth was so extreme ; My gentle boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream ! " Down went the corse with a 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, to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim ! I could 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 I Good Selections. 141 \i " 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 first Fierce impulse unto crime ! " 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 saw the dead in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry. " Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing ; Bat 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 other where ; T42 Good Selections. As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there : And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse 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 ! •' O God, that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake ! Again — again, with a dizzy brain, The human life 1 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 thing pursues 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 eyelids kissed. Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn Through the cold and heavy mist ; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist. Good Selections. 143 THS PIES FIFES OF HAUELIIT. ROBERT BROWNING. Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city ; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side ; A pleasanter spot you never spied ; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pit)'. Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheese out of the vats. And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. And even spoiled the women's chats. By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking : " 'Tis clear," cried they, " our Mayor's a noddy, And as for our Corporation — shocking; To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin ! " You hope, because you're old and obese. To find in the furry civic-robe ease ? Rouse up. Sires ! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking. 144 Good Selections. Oi, sure as fate, we'll send you packing 1" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sat in council. At length the Mayor broke silence : " For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; I wish I were a mile hence ! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — I'm sure my poor head aches again I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap !'' Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? " Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what's that .'" • " Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ? Any thing like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat !'' " Come in" — the Mayor cried, looking bigger And in did come the strangest figure ! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red ; And he himself was tall and thin. With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin. But lips where smiles. went out and in — There was no guessing his kith and kin ! And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire : He advanced to the council-table : And, " Please your honor," said he, " I'm able By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run. After me so as you never saw ! Good Selections. 145 And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper ; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same check : And at the scarfs end hung a pipe ; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying, As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) ' " Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am, Jn Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats ; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats : And, as for what your brains bewilders. If I can rid your town of rats. Will you give me a thousand guilders ?'' " One ? fifty thousand !" — was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. Into the street the Piper stept. Smiling first a little smile. As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while ; Then, like a musical adept. To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled. And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled ; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. You heard as if an army muttered. And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 146 Good Selections. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats. Grave old plodders, gay j'oung friskers. Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins. Cocking tails and pricking whiskers. Families by tens and dozens. Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished ! You should have heard the Hamelin peopje Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. " Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles ! Poke out the nests and block up the holes 1 Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace - Of the rats !" — when, suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market place. With a, " First, if you please, my thousand guilders !" A thousand guilders ! the Mayor looked blue ; So did the Corporation, too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock ; And half the money would replenish Their cellars biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsey coat of red and yellow ! " Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, " Our business was done at the river's brink ; We saw with our eyeis the vermin sink. And what's dead can't come to life, I think. Good Selections. 147 Sp, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke ; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in a joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders I Come, take fifty !" The piper's face fell, and he cried, " No trifling ! I can't wait, beside ! I've promised to visit by dinner-time Bagdad, and accept the prime Of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor ; With him I proved no bargain-driver ; With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver ! And folks who put me in a^passion May find me pipe to another fashion." " How ?" cried the Mayor, " d'ye think I'll brook Being worse treated than a cook ? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst !" Once more he stept into the street. And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds jostling at pitching and hustling. Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, 148 Good Selections. And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls. With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack. And the wretched Council's bosoms beat. As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed. And after him the children pressed ; Great was the joy in every breast. " He never can cross that mighty top ! He's forced to let the piping drop. And we shall see our children stop !'' When, lo ! as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide. As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; And when all were in to the very last. The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all ? No ! One was lame. And could not dance the whole of the way : And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say, — Good Selections. 149 9 " It's dull in our town since my playmates left ! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see. Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town just at hand. Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue. And every thing was strange and new ; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here. And their dogs outran our fallow-deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings. And horses were born with eagle's wings ! And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured. The music stopped and I stood still. And found myself outside the Hill, Left alone against my will, To go on limping as before, ■ And never hear of that country more. The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper by word of mouth. Wherever it was men's lot to find him. Silver and gold to his heart's content, / If he'd only return the way he went. And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor. And Piper and dancers were gone forever. The better in the memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat. They called it the Pied Piper's Street. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn ; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, ISO Good Selections. And on the great Church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away ; And there it stands to this very day. HOW I EDITED AH AGBICULTUEAL FAFEB OITCE. MARK TWAIN. The sensation of being at work once again was luxuri- ous, and I wrought all the week with unflagging pleasure. We went to press, and I waited a day with some solici- tude to see whether my effort was going to attract any notice. As I left the office, toward sundown, a group of men and boys at the foot of the stairs dispersed with one; impulse, and gave me passage-way, and I heard one or two of them say : " That's him !" I was naturally pleased by this incident. The next morning I found a similar group at the foot of the stairs, and scattering couples and individuals standing here and there-in the street, and over the way, watching me with interest. The group separated and fell back as I approached, and I heard a man say : " Look at his eye !" I pretended not to observe the notice I was attracting, but secretly I was pleased with it, and was purposing to write an account of it to my aunt. I went up the short flight of stairs, and heard cheery voices and a ringing laugh as I drew near the door, which I opened, and caught a glimpse of two young, rural-looking men, whose faces blanched and lengthened when they saw me, and then they both plunged through the window, with a great crash, I was surprised. In about half an hour an old gentleman, with a flowing beard and a fine but rather austere face, entered, and sat down at my invitation. He seemed to have something on his mind. He took off his hat and set it on the floor, Good Selections. iji and got out of it a red silk handkerchief and a copy; of our paper. He put the paper on his lap, and, while he polished his spectacles with his handkerchief, he said : " Are you the new editor ?" I said I was. " Have you ever edited an agricultural paper before ?" " No," I said ; " this is my first attempt." Then this old person got up and tore his paper all into small shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several things with his cane, and said I did not know as much as a cow ; and then went out, and banged the door after him, and, in short, acted in such a way that I fancied he was displeased about something. But, not knowing what the trouble was, I could not be any help to him. But these thoughts were quickly banished, when the regular editor walked in ! [I thought to myself. Now if you had gone to Egypt, as I recommended you to, I might have had a chance to get my hand in ; but you wouldn't do iti and here you are. I sort of expected you.] The editor was looking sad, and perplexed, and de- jected. He surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and these two young farmers had made, and then said : " This is a sad business — a very sad business. There is the mucilage bottle broken, and six panes of glass, and a spittoon and two candlesticks. But that is not the worst. The reputation of the paper is injured, and permanently, I fear. True, there never was such a call for the paper before, and it never sold such a large edition or soared to such celebrity ; but does one want to be famous for lunacy, and prosper upon the infirmities of his mind ? My friend, as I am an honest man, the street out here is full of people, and others are roosting on the fences, waiting to get a glimpse of you, because they think you are crazy. And well they might, after reading your editorials. They are a disgrace to journalism. Why, what put it into your head that you could edit a paper of 152 Good Selections. this nature ? You do not seem to know the first rudi- ments of agriculture. You speak of a furrow and a har- row as being the same thing ; you talk of the moulting season for cows ; and you recommend the domestication of the pole-cat on account of its playfulness and its excel- lence as a ratter. Your remark that clams will lie quiet if music be played to them, was superfluous — entirely superfluous. Nothing disturbs clams. Clams always lie quiet. Clams care nothing whatever about music. Ah, heavens and earth, friend, if you had made the acquiring of ignorance the study of your life, you could not Have graduated with higher honor than you could to-day. I never saw anything like it. Your observation that the horse-chestnut, as an article of commerce, is steadily gaining in favor, is simply calculated to destroy this journal. I want you to throw up your situation and go. I want no more holiday — I could not enjoy it if I had it. Certainly not with you in my chair. I would always stand in dread of what you might be going to recom- mend next. It makes me lose all patience every time I think of your discussing oyster-beds under the head of ' Landscape Gardening.' I want you to go. Nothing on earth could persuade me to take another holiday. Oh, why didn't you tell me you didn't know anything about agriculture ?" '; Tell you, you cornstalk, you cabbage, you son of a cauliflower ! It's the first time I ever heard such an unfeeling remark. I tell you I have been in the editorial business going on fourteen years, and it is the first time I ever heard of a man's having to know anything in order to edit a newspaper. You turnip ! " I take my leave, sir ! Since I have been treated as you have treated me, I am perfectly willing to go. But I have done my duty. I have fulfilled my contract, as far as I was permitted to do it. I said I could make your paper of interest to all classes, and I have. I said I could Good Selections. iS3 run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if I had had two more weeks I'd have done it. And I'd have given you the best class of readers that ever an agricultural paper had — not- a farmer in it, nor a solitary individual who could tell a watermelon from a peach- vine to save his life. You are the loser by this rupture, not me, Pie-plant. Adios." I then left. STEAWBEBBIES. TROWBRIDGE. Little Pearl Honeydew, six years old. From her bright ear parted the curls of gold ; And laid her head on the strawberry-bed. To hear what the red-cheeked berries said. Their cheeks were blushing, their breath was sweet, She could. almost hear their little hearts beat; And the tiniest lisping, whispering sound That ever you heard, came up from the ground, " Little friends," she said, " I wish I knew How it is you thrive on sun and dew !" And this is the story the berries told To little Pearl Honeydew, six years old. " You wish you knew ? and so do we ! But we can't tell you, unless it be That the same kind Power that cares for you. Takes care of poor little berries too. " Tucked up snugly, and nestled below Our coverlid of wind-woven snow. We peep and listen, all winter long. For the first spring day and the blue-bird's song. 154 Good Selections. " When the swallows fly home to the old brown shed, And the robins build on the bough overhead. Then out from the mould, from the darkness and cold, Blossom, and runner, and leaf unfold. " Good children then, if they come near, And hearken a good long while, may hear A wonderful tramping of little feet, — So fast we grow in the summer heat. " Our clocks are the flowers; and they count the hours Till we can mellow in sun and showers. With warmth of the west-wind and heat of the south, A ripe red berry for a ripe red mouth. "Apple-blooms whiten, and peach-blooms fall. And roses are gay by the garden wall. Ere the daisy's dial gives the sign That we can invite little Pearl to dine " The days are longest, the month is June, The year is nearing its golden noon. The weather is fine, and our feast is spread With a green cloth and berries red. " Just take us betwixt your finger and thumb — And quick, O quick ! for, see ! there come Tom on all fours, and Martin the man. And Margaret, picking as fast as they can ! " O dear ! if you only knew how it shocks Nice berries like us to be sold by the box, And eaten by strangers, and paid for with pelf. You would surely take pity, and eat us yourself !" And this is the story the small lips told To dear Pearl Honeydew, six years old. When she laid her head on the strawberry-bed To hear what the red-cheeked berries said. Good Selections. 155 THE FBEITCHUAIT AND THE FLEA FOWDEB. 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 John Bull, to dance. But lacking pupils, vain was all his skill ; His fortune sank from low to lower still. Until at last, pathetic to relate. Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate. Standing, 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 ippv?4er ground. Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty piece Of paper, labelled : " Poison for de Fleas," 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 powdare 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 powdare 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, 156 Good Selections. In not a very mild or tender mood. From the same window where before she stood, " Hey, there !" said she, " 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. How dared you tell me that your worthless stuff Would make my bedstead clean and clear enough Of bugs ? I've rubbed those bedsteads o'er and o'er. And now, the plagues are thicker than before !" Then spoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh With humble attitude, and tearful eye, " Ah, madame ! s'il vous plait, attendez-vous — I vill dis leetle ting explain to you. My powdare gran' ! magnifique ! why abuse him i Aha ! I show you, Madame, how to use him. You must not spread him in large quantite Upon de bedstead — no ! dat's not de vay : 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 troat ; Den poke de powdare down ! Begar ! he choke ! ! " THE HEATHEIT CHINEE. BRET HARTH. 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 Good Selections. I57 7 In regard to the same What that name might imply. But his smile it was pensive and childlike. As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 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 the smile that was childlike 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 ? 158 Good Selections. 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. 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. SHAUUS O'BEIEIT, THE BOLD BO? OF GLINGIALL. A. TJlI^E of '98. * SAMUEL LOVER. JiST afther the war, in the year '98, As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 'Twas'the custom, whenever a pisant was got. To hang him by thrial — barrin' sich as was shot. There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight. And the martial-law hangin' the lavins by night. * This admirable Poem is here given coinplete. The main body of the piece is by Samuel Lover ; the P. S. is supposed to be of American origin. Good Selections. 159 It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon : If he missed in the judges — he'd meet a dragoon ; An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentence, The divil a much time they allowed for repentance. An' it's many's the fine boy was then on his keepin' Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin'. An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned for to sell it, A prey 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 Glingall. 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. All' for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye, For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright. Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night ! An' he was the best niower that ever has been. An' the illigantest hurler that ever was seen. In fencin' he gev Patrick Mooney a cut, An' in jumpin' he bate Tim Maloney a fut ; For lightness of fut there was not his peer, For, begorra ! he'd almost outrun the red deer ; 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 done : an' it'soften I heerd tell How he freckened the magisthrate in Cahirbally An' escaped through the sodgers in Ahefloe Valley, i6o Gmd Selections. An' lathered the •y&3mK:a, himself s^in four. An' sbetched the two stroi^est oa cdd GaltuocMe. Bat tlK fax. most ^eep som^inies. the wild iegx most lest. An' treacheiy {hej' on the bkioc w the best ; Afther many a bcave acticMi of pover and pride. An' many a. hard n%fat on the nHmatain's bleak side^ An' a thousand gieat dai^exs and t c>3< oveipast. In the daikness of night be vas taken at I^st. Now, Sif^ircs. look back on the beantifid moon. For the door of the piKon most close on yon soon. An' take yonr last kmk at her dim torely light. That £dls on ib& mountain and valley this night; One look at the village, c ne look at t^ lood. An' si:e at the sheltering, &r-disiant wood ; Faievell ro the f jresL &ievell to the iuH. An' £ue«ell ro the firiends that vill think of jron stiQ ; FaieveD to tl^ patipem. the aadiji' an' Take, And &iewell V3 the giri that woakl die for yoor sake An' iwdve so^eis b ioi^lU. him t.:>MaiTboioi^fa ja3. An' the tiimkgy lesared hha, tefiisiB' all bail ; The fleet limbs wor riaitteA^ an' the ^hro^' aims bound down. An' be laid down his lengtt on flie cowM prison-gronnd. An' the dreaios oi his childhood kem over him there. As gentle an soft as the sweet snnuner air ; An' happy lemembiaBces crowding on ever. As &st as the foam^akes dhrift down on the river. Bringi^ £cesh lo his heart merry ia^ loi^ gone by. Tm the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. Bnt the is2T5 didn't £d]. for the pride of his heart Woald DOT sn&r one drop down his pale rlieek to start ; An' he spia^^ to his feet ic the dark prteon cave. An' he swore with the fieiceaess that misery gave. By the htqies of the good, an' the canse of the brave. Gimd Sdaiimu. l6l That vkea he w:^s :jaoiildeiimg \- the ocdd giave H:s enemies nerer riioaid bare it lo boast His scom ntent vas lo^ : His b-jscsi r^- 1 bleed, but hB cfaeek sboold be diny. Fir. -aadaninted be livedL aoid nadanated fae'd^die. WeH, as s^03 as a few weeks was over aad gone, Tse tenible daj ir tbe tiuial kem on. Tbeie was sdi a crowd tfaere »^ scaice room to stand. An' hyia^ri '.n gnazd. an' dhK< xms sword-in-baad ; An' tbe oooit-hoose so Mi tiiat tbe iiec^>le were bothered. An' attorney an' crieis on tbe p&i&t ir bein' sototheied ; A=.' coanseliors almost gev over for dead. An' tbe jorr sittin'' np in tbeir box overiiead , Aa* tbe joi^e settled oat so detamuned an' b^ Wid' fats svfwn oa his back, acd an ill^ant new wig Az. iBJffK*' was caOed. as' tbe minute tt was said Tbe cart was as st-ll as the heart & plase?** An' an held their breath in the science of dbread. An' Shaxcs (y^aES made answer and said : ** M J h>rd, if you ask me. if in mj life-time I t:ioaght aoT treason, or did any crime That sbcmld call to mj cfaeek. :i5 I stand alone here, Tbe bo: bfaish of rfirinie, or the coMn^ of fear. i62 Good Selections. Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow Before GOD 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 that then In her cause I was willing my veins should run 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 sowi, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap ! In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by. Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry ; " O, judge ! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word ! The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord ; ~ He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin' ; You don't know him, my lord — O, don't give him to fuinf He's the 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' God will forgive you — O, don't say the word !" Thiit was the first minute that O'Brien was shaken. When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken ; An' down his pale cheeks, at the 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 masthered his griefs swelling tide, "An','' says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart. For, sooner or later, the dearest must part ; Good Selections. 163 And God knows it's betthfr 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 cry any more. Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour ; For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven. No thrue man can say that I died like a craven !" Then towards the judge Shamus bent down his head. An' that minute the solemn death-sentence 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 gathgj^jui in the sthrate t What come they to talk oT? what come they 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' whisky was sellin', and cussamuck too. An' ould men and young women enjoying the view. An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark. There wasn't sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark. An' begorry, 'twas thrue for him, for niver such a scruge, 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 the sheriffs and sodgers in state. An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it. Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. 164 Good Selections. An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin', A wild wailin' sound kem on by degrees. Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone. An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on ; An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand. An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand ; An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round. Then the hangman dretufcaeaf, an' the people grew still. Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill ; An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare. For the gripe iv the life-strangling chord to*prepare ; An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his-^st prayer. But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound. And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground ; Bang ! bang ! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres ; He's not 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 — One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. Your swords they may glitther, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin' its yerself you must hang ; To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe glin. An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him agin'. Good Selections. 165 The sodgers ran this way, and the sheriffs ran that. An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat ; An' the sheriffs wor both of them punished severely. An' fined like the mischief because Jim done them fairly. " Bad luck !" said the poliss ; " Bad luck !" said the sodger, " We fought that we had him," but Jim proved a dodger. P, S. — A week after this time, widout firing a cannon, A sharp Yankee schooner sailed out of the Shannon ; An' the captain left word he was goin' to Cork, But niver a bit — he was bound for New^ York. An' that very night they came so near the land. Some thoughithey would sthrike upon Galtimore strand, But the next morning, like the winged sea-mew. As fleet an' as swift to the Westward she flew. The very next Spring — a bright raornin' in May — Just six months after the " g^eat hangin' day," A letther was brought to the town of Kiidare, , And on the outside was written out fair, — " To ould Mrs. O'Brien, in Ireland, or elsewhere." And the inside began — " My dear good ould mother, I'm safe and am happy — and not wishin' to bother You in the radin' (with the help of the praste) I send you inclosed in this letter, at laist Enuf to pay him, and to fetch you away To this ' land of the free and brave,' Amerika ; 'Tis here you'll be happy, an' never made cryin', ^ So long as you're mother of Shamus O'Brien. Give my love to swate Biddy, an' tell her beware Of that spalpeen that calls himself ' Lord of Kiidare ;' And just say to the Judge, I don't now care a rap For him nor his wig, nor his dirty black cap. And as for the dhragoons, them bad paid men of slaughter. Say, I love them as— the devil loves holy wather. l66 ^ Good Selections. And now, my good mother, one word of advice ; Fill your bag with potatoes and whisky and rice ; An' when you start from ould Ireland, take passage at Cork, An' come sthrate over to the town of New York, An' there ax the Mayor the best way to go To the State of Sinsinatty, in the town of Ohio ; For 'tis there you will find me widout much thryin', At the • Harp and the Eagle,' kept by Shamus O'Brien."