A delicious substitute for, and avoiding the injurious effects of Tea and Coffee. " BEST 6 GOES FARTHEST," is THE ORIGINAL Pure Soluble Cocoa. Invented and patented in Holland and, ever since its invention, has re- mained unequaled in solubility, agree- able taste and nutritive qualities. Easily Digested. Made Instantly. Invaluable in FAMILIES, SCHOOLS, HOSPITALS, and KAIL WAY STATIONS, in the CAMP, on SHIPS, for WORKMEN (at home and to take to their work), and in all places where a refreshing and nourishing beverage is required at a moment's notice. The English high-class paper "Health" says " Its purity is beyond question, ONCE TRIED, ALWAYS USED." C. J. VAN HOUTEN & ZOON, Weesp- Holland. SOLD BY ALL GROCERS OF THE UNITED STATES. ASK FOR VAN HOUTEN'S, AND TAKE NO OTHER. THE HAND-BOOK LIBRARY-NO. 4. Issued Quarterly. tit-ntf iqqa Subscription Price, $1.00 Per Year. uujnj^, ioyu. Copyrighted, 1890, by Street & Smith. Entered at the Post Office, New Yorlc, as Second-Class Matter, SELECT Recitations and Readings. I %J ADDED TO WHICH IS THE CHARMING COMEDIETTA, THE LOAN OF A LOVER. (FOR SIX CHARACTERS.) /v& -~0?YRlG V JiJN 27189 By J". 3FL- ^Jj^JXTOIIE, Author of "The Captain of the Watch." etc. NEW YOKK : STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 31 Rose Street. The Great iPJJLJLS WORTH A GUINEA A BOX For Bilious and Nervous Disorders, Such as Wind and Pain in the Stomach, Sick Headache, Giddiness, Fullness and Swelling after Meals, Dizzi- ness and Drowsiness, Cold Chills, Flushings of Heat, Loss of Appetite, Shortness of Breath, Costiveness, Scurvy, Blotches on the Skin, Disturbed Sleep, Frightful Dreams, and all IVervous and Trembling Sensations, &c. The first dose will give relief in twenty minutes. This is no fiction. Every sufferer is earnestly invited to try one box of these pills, and they will be acknowledged to be a won- derful medicine,— "Worth a guinea a box." BEECHAM'S PILLS, taken as directed, will quickly restore females to complete health. For a Sick Headache, Weak Stomach, Constipation, Impaired Digestion, Disordered Liver, they act like magic. A few doses will work wonders upon the vital organs, strengthening the muscular system, restoring long- lost complexion, bringing back the keen edge of appetite, and arousing with the rosebud of health the whole physical energy of the human frame. . These are ''facts" admitted by thousands, in all classes of' society, and one of the best guaran- tees to the nervous and debiliated is that BEECHAM'S PILLS HAVE THE LARGEST SALE OF ANY PATENT MEDICINE IN THE WOULD. PREPARED ONLY BY THOS. BEECHAM, St. Helens, Lancashire, England. Sold by druggists generally. B. F. ALLEN & CO., 365 and 367 Canal St., New York, Sole* Agents for the United States, who (if your druggist does not keep them) Will IMail Beecham's JPills on Receipt of J?rice, 25 Cents. PREFACE. It has been our aim to have the "Select Recita- tions and Readings "not only gems of literary excellence, but of such pith and meaning, that the verbal construc- tion of the narrative or description will be as much appre- ciated as effectiveness of delivery. Much attention should be paid by readers to the choice of subjects. Elocutionists of equal merit are not at all equal in the rendition of certain pieces. A. has his favor- ite selections, in which he is considered unapproachable; and B. has his, which he has made almost his own, by his animation and vividness of illustration. From experience, or experiments before select audiences, each is aware that should he encroach upon the other's especial programme, he would suffer by contrast. It follows, then, that if a speaker has made a wise selec- tion for the display of his elocutionary talents — a selection not only suited to his style and ability, but likely to be intrinsically interesting to his audience — the power to enunciate distinctly, understandingly, deliberately, and elucidate the author's meaning with discriminating intona- tion and emphasis, as well as appropriate gestures, will make his recitation a success. To be an entertaining elocutionist, the speaker must thoroughly comprehend his subject, and be in sympathy 4: PREFACE. with it; lie must feel what he portrays, like an able actor, and ntter his words with such energy, spirit, and distinct- ness that they cannot be misunderstood, and with an earnestness certain to command attention. Reading in public is beneficial in many ways. It gives a young person confidence, so that should* occasion arise, he will have courage to address an assemblage; it improves the memory, and inspires a taste for literature; it induces the speaker to closely study the author's meaning — that he may thoroughly appreciate and understand the thought which is merely suggested, but not expressed; it gives com- mand of language, for it must be admitted that the fre- quent use of elegant diction, the words of the acknowl- edged masters of literature and eloquence, is certain to make the speaker graceful, fluent, and convincing, not only on the rostrum, but in the ordinary intercourse and con- versation of life. The subjects in the "Select Recitations and Read- ings " take a wide scope; they are serious and pleasant, tragic and heroic, droll and pathetic, ranging "from grave to gay, from lively to severe." They comprise some of the productions of the master minds of the world — poets, orators, statesmen and philosophers; and they are adapted for young or old, for parlor entertainments, for school ex- hibitions, or for public occasions. T. C. Gr. CONTENTS PAGE. Advice to a Young Man Ben Jonson 171 A Free Seat Anonymous 134 American Flag. Joseph Rodman Drake 34 Apostrophe to Water Judge Arrington 10 Battle of Fontenoy Thomas Davis 161 Bivouac of the Dead Theodore O'Hara 156 Blind Boy's Speech Park Benjamin . . 76 Cane-Bottoined Chair Wm. M. Thackeray 128 Clown's Baby Margaret Yandegrift 130 Come Back Bill Xye 11 Dirge For a Soldier George H. Boker 89 Drones of the Community Percy Bysshe Shelley 164 Dying Soldier Richard Coe 105 Field of Waterloo Byron 102 Filial Piety. Richard Brinslcy Sheridan. . 88 Freshman's Story Max Adeler 53 Friend of the Red Man Max Adeler 7 Gamblers Wife E. R. Coates 159 Guilt Cannot Keep Its Own Secret Dan iel Webster 14 Hour of Death Felicia Hemans 112 Housekeeper's Soliloquy Mrs. F. D. Gage 113 How a Man Gets Up in the Morning..jGr«fe Thorn 15 Importance of the Union Daniel Webster 32 Just One Azcdea E. Osgood 57 Katie Lee and Willie Grey J. H. Pixley 92 Laugh on, Laugh on, To-day Winthrojj M. Praed 79 Lines on a Skeleton Anonymous 51 Little Sister of Charity Francis S. Smith. 36 Lord of Burleigh Alfred Tennyson 98 Lost Mother-in-Law .Max Adeler 107 Men to Make a State. . George W. Doane 67 Mother and Child Nelly B. Simmons 70 Mrs. Grubbs' Railroad Claim Charles W. Foster 25 Nature's Nobleinec Martin F. Tupper 166 Never Despair Wm. G. Richards 170 Nothing But Leaves Lucy Evelina Ackerman 78 6 CONTENTS. PAGE. Ode To My Little Son Thomas Hood 59 Old Actor's Story George B. Sims. .. 122 Onward, Onward Linnces Banks 172 Pauper's Death-Bed Caroline Bowles Southey 104 Persevere John Brougham 90 Procrastination Charles Mackay 1 69 Psalm of Marriage Phoebe Gary 119 Pill From the To wn Pump Nathaniel Hawthorne 72 Ping out the Old Year Alfred Tennyson. 83 Ruth B. K. Munkittrick 49 Santa Claus' Stocking Francis S. Smith 84 Sketch of Bonaparte Charles Phillips 18 Some Time Eugene Field 133 Song of the Camp .- Bayard Taylor 151 Song of the Canteen Charles G. Halpine 24 Speak No 111 Charles Swain 58 Spiritual Freedon— What is it? William Ellery Channing. . . 81 St. Leon's Toast Walter Scott 13G Surprise Party Francis S. Smith 01 Taking Mrs. Jones' Census Max Adeler 94 Tlianatopsis William Cullen Bryant 46 The Bible Donoso Cortes 153 The Brave at Home T. Buchanan Bead 118 The Charity Dinner Litchfield Mosely 142 The Cynic Henry Ward Beecher 173 The Heavens Declare the Glory of God Joseph Addison 77 The Hour Glass John Quincy Adams 177 The Jiners Anonymous 138 The Late Mr. McGlucken Max Adeler 21 THE LOAN OF A LOVER J. B. Planche 179 The Needle Samuel Woodworth ,158 The Pilgri ins Edward Everett 101 The Traitor's Death-Bed George Lippard 115 The Two Glasses Ella Wheeler Wilcox 149 The Water Mill D. C. McCallum 120 The World For Sale Ralph Hoyt 167 Tom's Wife - - - W. H Harrison 152 Tribute to Genius and Labor Epes Sargent 176 Tubal Cain Charles Mackay 110 War in America Earl of Chatham 39 What the Skipper Said Max Adeler 42 Yankee Boy John Pierpont 175 SELECT Recitations and Readings, NUMBER ONE. A FBIEND OF THE BED MAN. " I don't take the same view of the North American In- dian that most people do," said Professor Trotter, in a dis- cussion down at the grocery store the other night. " Now some think that the red man displays a want of good taste in declining to wash himself; but I don't. What is dirt? It is simply — matter — the same kind of matter that exists everywhere. The earth is made of- dirt; the things we eat are dirt, and they grow in the dirt; and when we die and are buried, we return again to the dirt from which we were made. Science says that all dirt is clean. The savage Indian knows this; his original mind grasps this idea; he has his eagle eye on science; and he has no soap. Dirt is warm. A layer one-sixteenth of an inch thick on a man is said by Professor Huxley to be as comfortable as a fifty- dollar suit of clothes. Why then should the child of the forest undress himself once a week by scraping this off, and expose himself to the rude blasts of winter? He has too much sense. His head is too level to let him take a square wash more than once in every two hundred years, and even then he don't rub hard. 8 A FEIEND OF THE BED MAN. "And then in regard to his practice of eating dogs; why shouldn't a man eat a dog? A dog sometimes eats a man, and turn about is fair play. A well-digested dog stowed away on the inside of a Choctaw squaw, does more to ad- vance civilization and the Christian religion than a dog that barks all night in a back yard, and makes people get up out of bed and swear, don't it? And nothing is more nutritious than dog. Professor Huxley says that one pound of a dog's hind leg, nourishes the vital forces more than a wagon load of bread and corned beef. It contains more phosphorus and carbon. When dogs are alive they agree with men, and there is no reason why they shouldn't when they are dead. This nation will enter upon a glori- ous destiny when it stops raising corn and potatoes, and devotes itself more to growing crops of puppies. "Now many ignorant people consider scalping inhu- man. I don't. I look upon it as one of the most benefi- cent processes ever introduced for the amelioration of the sufferings of the human race. What is hair? It is an ex- crescence. If it grows it cost a man a great deal of money and trouble to keep it cut. If it falls out the man becomes bald, and the flies bother him. What does the Indian do % in this emergency? With characteristic sagacity he lifts out the whole scalp, and ends the annoyance and expense. And then look at the saving from other sources. Professor Huxley estimates that two thousand pounds of the food that a man eats in a year go to nourish his hair. Eemove that hair and you save that much food. If I had my way, I would have every baby scalped when it is vaccinated, as a measure of political economy. That would be states- manship. I have a notion to organize a political party on the basis of baby-scalping, and to go on the stump to ad- vocate it. If people had any sense, I might run into the Presidency as a baby-scalper. "And as for the matter of the Indians wearing rings through their noses, I don't see why people complain of A FRIEND OF THE KED MAN. 9 that. Look at the advantage it gives a man when he wants to hold on to anything. If a hurricane strikes an Indian, ail he does is to hook his nose-ring over a twig of a tree, and there he is, fast and sound. And it gives him some- thing to rest his pipe on when he smokes, while, in the case of a man with a pug, the ring helps to jam his pro- boscis down, and to make it a Koman nose. But I look at it from a sanitary point of view. The Indian suffers from catarrh. Now what will cure that disease? Metal in the nose in which electricity can be collected. Professor Hux- ley says that the electricity in a metal ring two inches in diameter will cure more catarrh than all the medicine be- tween here and Kansas. The child of nature with wonder- ful instinct has perceived this, and he teaches us a lesson. When we, with our higher civilization, begin to throw away finger-rings and ear-rings, and to wear riugs in our noses, w r e will be a hardier race. I am going to direct the attention of Congress to the matter. " Then take the objections that are urged to the Indian practice of driving a stake through a man, and building a bonfire on his stomach. What is their idea? Thev want to hold that man down. If they sit on him they would obstruct the view of him. They put a stake through him, and there he is secured by simple means, and if it is driven in carefully, it may do him good. Professor Hux- ley says that he once knew a man who was cured of yellow jaundice by falling on a pale-fence, and having a sharp- pointed paling run into him. And the bonfire may be equally as healthy. When a man's stomach is out of order, you put a mustard plaster on it. Why? To warm it. The red man has the same idea. He takes a few fagots, lights them, and apjDlies them to the stomach. It is a cer- tain cure. Professor Huxley " " Oh, dry up about Professor Huxley!" exclaimed Meigs, the storekeeper, at this juncture. " Wh-wh-what d' you say?" asked the professor. 10 APOSTROPHE TO WATER. "I say, you stop blowing about Professor Huxley, and you'd better shut up any way. I have bad enoughtof gab from you to night." Then the professor rose sadly, reached over for a cracker, wiped his nose thoughtfully on his sleeve, and sauntered across the street to the bar-room to see if he could find anybody to ask him to take a drink. Max Adeler. APOSTKOPHE TO WATER In the early days of Texas an invitation had been issued by Paul Den- ton, a Western missionary, to several of the residents of one of the settle- ments, to attend a barbecue, and they were promised an abundance of food, and " the oest of liquor: 1 When they came, with the expectation of having a grand carouse, they were amazed to learn that although there was plenty to eat, there was not a drop of liquor. This is the story as narrated in a sketch from the vivid and poetic pen of Judge Arrington, whose nom de plume was Charles Summerfleld. When the Texans clamored for liquor, Paul Denton burst forth with the appended eloquent apostrophe to water: Look at that, ye thirsty ones of earth! Behold it! See its purity! See how it glitters, as if a mass of liquid gems! It is a beverage that was brewed by the hand of the Al- mighty himself. Not in the simmering still or smoking fires, choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded by the stench and sickening odors and rank corruptions, doth our Father in Heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pare cold water, but in the green glade and glassy dell, where the red deer wanders and the child loves to play! There God brews it, and down, down in the deepest val- leys, where the fountains murmur, and the rills sing; and high upon the tall mountain-tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun; where the storm-clouds brood and the thunder-storms crash; and away out on the billowy sea, where the hurricanes howl music, and the big waves roar the chorus, chanting the march of God — there He brews it, that beverage of life — health-giving water. COME BACK. 11 And everywhere it is a thing of beauty — gleaming in the dew-drop, singing in the summer rain, shining in the ice-gem, till the trees all seemed turned into living jewels — spreading a golden vail over the setting sun, or a white gauze around the midnight moon — sporting in the catar- act, sleeping in the glaciers, dancing in the hail showers — folding its bright curtain softly about the wintry world, and weaving the many colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose roof is the sunbeam of heaven, all check- ered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of rarefaction — still always it is beautiful, that blessed life- water! No poison bubbles on the brink! Its foam brings no sadness or murder; no blood-stains in its limpid glass; broken-hearted wives, pale widows, and starving orphans shed no tears in its depths; no drunkard's shrinking ghost, from the grave, curses it in words of eternal desjDair. Beau- tiful, pure, blessed, and glorious! give me forever the sparkling, cold water! Judge Abkexgton. COME BACK. Editor New Yoek Weekly: Dear Sir: — I wish that you would insert the following personal in your valuable and widely read paper: "PERSONAL— WILL THE YOUNG WOMAN WHO -*- used to cook in our family, and who went away, ten pounds of sugar, and five and a half pounds of tea ahead of the game, please come back, and all will be for- given. If she cannot return, will she please write, stating her present address, and also give her reasons for shutting up the cat in the refrigerator when she went away? If she will only return, we will try to forget the past, and think only of the glorious present, and the bright, bright future. 12 COME BACK. Come back, Sarah, and jerk the waffle-iron for us once more. Your manners are peculiar, but we yearn for your doughnuts, and your style of streaked cake suits us ex- actly. You may keep the handkerchiefs and the collars, and we will not refer to the dead past. We have arranged it so that when you snore, it will not disturb the night police, and if you do not like our chil- dren, we will send them away. We realize that you do not like children very well, and our children especially gave you much pain because they were not so refined as you were. We have often wished, for your sake, that we had never had any children; but so long as they are in our family, the neighbors will rather expect us to take care of them. Still, if you insist "upon it, we will send them away. We don r t want to seem overbearing with our servants. We would be willing, also, to give you more time for men- tal relaxation than you had before. The intellectual strain incident to the life of one who makes gravy for a lost and undone world must be very great, and tired nature must at last succumb. We do not want you to succumb. If any one has got to succumb, let us do it. All we ask is that you will let us know when you are go- ing away, and leave the crackers and cheese where we can find them. It was rather rough on us to have you go away when we had guests in the house, but if you had not taken the key to the cooking department, we could have worried along. You ought to let us have company at the house some- times, if we let you have company when you want to. Still, you know best, perhaps. You are older than we are, and you have seen more of the world. We miss your gentle admonitions, and your stern re- COME BACK. v 13 proofs sadly. Come back and reprove us again. Come back and admonish us once more, at so much per admon- ish and groceries. We will agree to let you select the tender part of the steak, and such fruit as seems to strike you favorably, just as we did before. We did not like it when you were here, but that is because we were young, and did not know what the customs were. If a life-time devoted to your welfare can obliterate the injustice we have done to you, we will be glad to yield it to you. If you could suggest a good place for us to send the children, where they would be well taken care of, and where they would not interfere with some ether cook who is a friend of yours, we would be glad to have you write us. My wife says that she hopes you will feel perfectly free to use the piano whenever you are lonely or sad, and when you or the bread feel depressed, you will be welcome to come into the parlor and lean up against either one of us and sob. We know that when you were with us before, we were a little reserved in our manner toward you, but if you come back it; will be different. We will introduce you to more of our friends this time, and we hope you will do the same by us. Young people are apt to get above their business, and we admit that we were wrong. Come back and oversee our fritter bureau once more. Take the portfolio of our interior department. Try to forget our former coldness. Return, oh, wanderer, return! Bill Nye. 14 GUILT CANNOT KEEP ITS OWN SECKET. GUILT CANNOT KEEP ITS OWN SECKET. An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butch- erly murder, for mere pay. The fatal blow is given! and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the assas- sin's purpose to make sure work. He explores the wrist for the pulse. He feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder; — no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own — and it is safe! Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, generally speaking, that " murder will out." True it is, that Provi- dence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of Heaven, by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Es- pecially, in a case exciting so much attention as this, dis- covery must come, and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thous- and excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circum- stance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime, the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or, rather, it feels an irresistible im- pulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under HOW A MAN GETS UP IN THE MORNING. 15 its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or assistance, either from Heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him; and, like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and de- manding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his cour- age, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions, from without, begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles, with still greater violence, to burst forth. It must be confessed — it will be confessed — there is no refuge from confession but suicide — and suicide is confes- sion! Daniel Webster. HOW A MAN GETS UP IN THE MORNING. Generally his wife tells him it is time to get up. If she be in earnest, she emphasizes the assertion by a dig of her elbow in the direction of his ribs, and a flop which draws the blankets of! his side of the bed onto her side. He feels the cold air rush in, and knows something is the matter. He is still half asleep, and does not fully un- derstand whether it is evening or morning. He wishes Eliza Ann would let him alone, and suffer him to go asleep; he doesn't want to be waked up in the middle of the 16 HOW A MAN GETS UP IN THE MOBNING. night, and his head aching so badly. A man's head al- ways aches when he does not want to be meddled with. When at last he is brought to see that the sun is shining in at the window, he rises up a foot or so from the pillow, stares out of the window, yawns a half-dozen times, scratches his head vigorously, draws up his legs, stretches, grunts, says he is tired, and lies down again. His wife comes to the rescue again, and by and by he manages to get up on his elbow, and look around the room as if he had never been there before. He has to form the acquaintance of all the furniture and fixtures over again. He looks at the pictures, and comments on the way that new chromo dangles over the fire-place. His wife hung it there herself, and she defends its right to dangle. He op- poses, and argues to show he is right, and then he changes the subject, and wonders if the seven o'clock bell has struck. All this is to gain time — time to lie in bed a little longer. After a while he puts out one foot, by way of a feeler. The cold air strikes it, and he draws it back, and his wife bounces up into a heap, and sharply tells him "she does wish he'd keep his icy feet away from her!" She shivers away to the marrow of her backbone. And as no loving husband who has sworn at the altar to love, cherish, and protect the woman of his bosom is justified in causing the marrow in her backbone to shiver, he withdraws that cold foot from her vicinity, and by the way of experiment puts the other foot out of bed. Then he shivers, and cries "ugh!" and yawns again, and scratches the portion of his head which he did not hit be- fore, and he stretches, and rubs his nose, and wonders what has become of his stockings. He left 'em right be- side the bed the night before. He is positive about it. And as it is a well-known fact that a man always knows where he left his clothes when undressing, he finds one of his stockings in the wood-box, and the other on the HOW A MAN GETS tJP IN THE MORNING. 17 bureau, under bis wife's false hair and the dirty towel. Nothing like order in tbis world; and if tbe average man is not orderly, then who is? "While be is getting into bis pantaloons a button comes off. One always does. And it flies away to nowbere, and our man gets down on all fours, and looks under tbe bed, and up in tbe wall-basket, and into tbe water-pitcher, and all around for it, in vain. " 'Lizy Ann!" be exclaims; "I've lost off a button. I want it sewed on. I can't dress without it." "Do wait till I get up!" says 'Lizy Ann, wbo is now deep in tbe mysteries of a new novel, wliicb sbe lias just taken from under her pillow, and is of course impatient at being disturbed. " A man is alwavs in want!" " Well, I've got to bave tbis button sewed on," says be, tugging away at bis suspenders. And 'Lizy Ann reaches out and gets a needle and thread, and fishes up a button from her work-basket, and the sew- ing on of the button is an accomplished fact. And by the time that is done, it is discovered that a button is missing from bis shirt. Nothing can be done until that button is fixed. Then his collar must be pinned down behind, so it won't "ride up." Then be calls on "Lizy Ann for a handkerchief. Sbe tells him his handkerchiefs are right there in the second drawer. He pulls the drawer out, away out, for a man can never do anything witb a drawer unless it is away out, and be tumbles over tbe things it contains, and latches out a shirt or two, and jams tbe drawer back witb a stocking banging over tbe edge, and a neck-tie caught in tbe back, and wonders what does make that drawer run so hard, and says there are no handkerchiefs there. And then be pulls out another drawer, and turns over a night-gown or two, and upsets a box of powder, and piles ribbons, and laces, and crimping-pins out on tbe floor, and gets his foot in i8 SKETCH OF BONAPARTE. his wife's work-basket, and unravels half a yard of that lovely edging she is knitting, and emphatically declares he wishes his things could be put where they belong. Then 'Lizy Ann gets out of bed, and goes to his drawer and brings to view a pile of handkerchiefs which he has tumbled over, and gives it as her opinion that a man doesn't know anything. Then he goes to the window and throws that open, and lets in the cold air, and tells 'Lizy Ann to hurry up and dress and the cold air won't hurt her, when she expostu- lates, and pleads cold feet and neuralgia. And he slops the wall-paper in washing, and leaves hair in the comb, and gets hair oil on her best lace bow, and spatters his boot blacking over the carpet, and knocks the skin off his knuckles against the sink, and has to call on 'Lizy Ann for sticking plaster and arnica, and makes him- self a nuisance generally; but he is a man, and was born with a man's carelessness within him, and she knows it, and would not have him changed into a woman for all the world. Kate Thoen. SKETCH OF BONAPAKTE. Napoleon Bonaparte is fallen! We may now pause be- fore that splendid prodigy, which towered among us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a sceptered hermit, wrapt in the soli- tude of his own originality. A mind, bold, independent, and decisive — a will, despotic in its dictates — an energy that distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary character — the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in the annals of this world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell. SKETCH OF NAPOLEON. 19 Flung into life, in the midst of a revolution that quick- ened every energy of a people who acknowledge no supe- rior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity! With no friend but his sword, and no fortune, but his talents, he rushed in the list where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed themselves, and com- petition fled from him as from the glance of destiny. He knew no motive but interest — he acknowledged no criterion but success — he worshiped no God but ambition, and, with an eastern devotion, he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not profess, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate; in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the Crescent; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the Cross; the orphan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the Republic; and, with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and tribune, he reared the throne of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the Pope; a pretended patriot, he impoverished the country; and, in the name of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the Caesars! Through this pantomime of policy, fortune played the clown to his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, beggars reigned, systems vanished, the wildest theories took the color of his whim, and all that was venerable, and all that was novel, changed places with the rapidity of a drama. Even apparent defeat assumed the appearance of victory — his flight from Egypt confirmed his destiny — ruin itself only elevated him to empire. But, if his fortune was great, his genius was transcendent; decision flashed upon his counsels; and it was the same to decide and to perform. To inferior intellects his combinations appeared perfectly impossible, his plans perfectly impracticable; but, in his hands, simplicity marked their development, and success vindicated their adoption. His person partook the char- 20 SKETCH OF NAPOLEON. acter of his mind — if the one never yielded in the cabinet, the other never bent in the field. Nature had no obstacle that he did not surmount — space no opposition that he did not spurn; and whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, or Polar snows, he seemed proof against peril, and em- powered with ubiquity! The whole continent trembled at beholding the audacity of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. Skepti- cism bowed to the prodigies of his performance; romance assumed the air of history; nor was there aught too incred- ible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the visions of antiquity became commonplaces in his contemplation; kings were his people — nations were his outposts; and he disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabi- nets, as if they were titular dignitaries of the chess-board! Amid all these changes, he stood immutable as adamant. It mattered little whether in the field or in the drawing- room — with the mob or the levee — wearing the Jacobin bonnet or the iron crown — banishing a Braganza, or es- pousing a Hapsburg — dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of Russia, or contemplating defeat at the galJows of Leip- sic — he was still the same military despot! In this wonderful combination, his affectations of litera- ture must not be omitted. The jailer of the press, he af- fected the patronage of letters — the proscriber of books, he encouraged philosophy — the persecutor of authors and the murderer of printers, he yet pretended to be the }3rotec- tor of learning! Such a medley of contradictions, and, at the same time, such an individual consistency, were never united in the same character. A royalist, — a repub- lican, and an emperor — a Mohammedan — a Catholic and a patron of the synagogue — a subaltern and a sovereign — a traitor and a tyrant — a Christian and an infidel — he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, in- THE LATE ME. m'gLUCKEX. 21 flexible original — the same mysterious, incorajn-ehensible self — the man without a model, and without a shadow. Charles Phillips. THE LATE MR McGLUCKEX. "Mr. Peters," said the editor to the new reporter, "you say you were personally acquainted with the deceased, Mr. McGlucken?" "Yes, sir." "And you are certain of the facts that you have given in his obituary notice?" " Well, tolerably certain." "Because in describing his appearance you say that he had a Pioinan nose, and only one eye, and that there was a wart upon it. Do I understand you that the wart was upon the Roman nose or the eye?" The expression is not perfectly clear. " The nose, of course." "You remark, also, that Mr. McGlucken's nose was badly injured in the railroad accident at Newark in conse- quence of the bridge giving way. Now, I don't catch the drift of this. Do you mean that the railroad accident re- sulted from the breaking of the bridge of Mr. McGluck- en's nose, or that the bridge of his nose gave way after the accident, or that the nose was hurt by the railroad bridge giving way, or how? Y T ou are not definite enough." "I refer to the railroad bridge." "Ah! Then you go on to say that Mr. McGlucken mar- ried in 1862, but that after a year of too brief hap23iness his wife died suddenly, lea\ing him with eight dear little children, the eldest of whom was but seven years of age. This is calculated to fill the minds of readers with perplex- ity. Are you sure there were eight children? And if so, that the 'oldest was but seven years of age?" 22 THE LATE MR. m'GLUCKEN. "I forgot to state that Mrs. McGlucken had been married before, and that there were three sets of twins." "The omission is important. I notice that you say, in the fourth paragraph from the bottom, that McGlucken went to sea when he was a young man, and that his craft was stove at the Feejee Islands. Then immediately after- ward you remark that at poker he never had a rival. Now, I can hardly believe you mean it, and yet do you know that a superficial reader, glancing over your article, might easily get the impression that McGlucken went to sea in a stove, and somehow or other, managed to row himself ashore on the Feejee Islands with a poker. Read it over and see for yourself. I tell you, Mr. Peters, this kind of a want of definiteness won't do for a newspaper. It confuses people's minds, and maddens them, and brings them down here with murder in their hearts." "I admit that it is not exactly clear." " But this is not the worst. What do you mean when you say, in the fifth paragraph, that while Mr. McGlucken lived in Perkiomen township, he was somewhat lame for a few years, and that he had the largest corn in the country — it was more than eight feet high? Now, do you mean that he had a corn eight feet high, or that he had corn in his field eight feet high, and if the latter, why do you asso- ciate the corn with Mr. McGlucken's lameness? Don't you see for yourself that most persons would get the notion that McGlucken's lameness was caused bv a corn which %/ grew up through his boot and was fastened to his hat? Why, Mr. Peters, if we were to print a thing like that I believe this office would be gutted by a mob before night." "I see; I must rewrite that." " Bight afterward, next to that singular reference to the fact that his aunt persisted in putting on her gum shoes whenever she went to bed, and that his grandmother swal- lowed her spectacles three times in church, you remark THE LATE MR. M GLUCKEN. 23 that * in 1874 Mr. McGlucken was taken with torpidity of the liver, whereupon he joined the Swedenborgian church and voted the Greenback ticket regularly.' You see you fail to make the thing connect. People will want to know how torpidity of the liver drove him over to the Swe- denborgians, and why a Swedenborgian with an ineffective liver should have a propensity to support the Greenback- ers. And no sooner does the bewildered reader give up the problem than you add, respecting Mr. McGlucken's connection with the church choir, that 'he was a fine singer generally, but on this particular Sunday he rode his favorite horse to church, and, as he had the heaves, he had to stop before reaching his destination, so he missed his usual participation in the services,' &c, &c. I pledge you my word of honor, Mr. Peters, as a man who has his finger on the public pulse, that there will be a million peojDle around here to-morrow perfectly savage to know whether McGlucken had the heaves, or whether the horse had! No, Mr. Peters, it won't do! It really won't. I want to put in a good obituary of McGlucken. I know you want to do him justice. I can see your sympathetic feeling run- ning all through this article. It is chock-full of genuine emotion. You really mourn for McGlucken. But hang it, young man, if I should let the billowy tumults of sorrow that rage in your soul boil out into the columns of the Daily Argus in this particular form, I should have the whole McGlucken family after me with a libel suit, and within forty-eight hours all the insane asylums in the State would be so crowded that the patients couldn't breathe! No, you must overhaul it; furbish it up; rewrite it; remodel it; lick it into shape. I'll give you one more chance." Mr. Peters handed in his resignation, and sought a posi- tion as conductor of a horse-car. Max Adeler. 24 A SONG OF THE CANTEEN. A SONG OF THE CANTEEN. There are bonds of all sorts in this world of ours, Fetters of friendship and ties of flowers, And true lovers' knots, I ween; The girl and the boy are bound by a kiss, But there's never a bond, old friend, like this — . We have drank from the same canteen. It was sometimes water and sometimes milk, And sometimes applejack, fine as silk, But whate'er the tipple has been, We shared it together in bane or bliss, And I warm to you, friend, when I think of this — We have drank from the same canteen. The rich and the great sit down to dine, And they quaff each other in sparkling wine, From glasses of crystal and green; But I guess in their golden potations they miss The warmth of regard to be found in this — We have drank from the same canteen. We shared our blankets and tents together, And have fought and marched in all kinds of weather, And hungry and full have we been; Had days of battle and days of rest, But this memory I cling to and love the best — We have drank from the same canteen. For when wounded I lay on the outer slope, With my blood flowing fast, and but little hope Upon which my faint spirit could lean, Oh, then, I remember, you crawled to my side, And bleeding so fast it seemed both must have died, We drank from the same canteen. Charles G. Halpine. MKS. GKUBBS' KAILROAD CLAIM, 25 MRS. GRUBBS' RAILROAD CLAIM. Mrs. Grubbs (excitedly)— Do you mean to say you don't intend to make a claim on the railroad company for my damaged trunk? You know it was a beautiful new trunk, and it's absolutely ruined, and the contents are hardly recognizable. Mr. Grubbs (wise in his generation) — It is very unfortu- nate, my dear; but never mind, 111 get you a new trunk, and— — Mrs. Grubbs — Indeed you won't. If you are not man enough to demand your rights, I'll do it myself, so there ! Mrs. Grubbs (in railroad office building an hour later) — I wish to see the person in charge of the damaged baggage department. Door-tender — Never heard of any sich department, mum. Mrs. Grubbs — Well, I took passage over this road a few days ago, and when my trunk was delivered it was almost demolished and half the contents Door-tender — Yes, mum — very busy now, mum; can't stop to chat about family affairs, mum. Mrs. Grubbs — Huh! Where is the president's office? Door-tender — Right there, mum. Mrs. Grubbs (after half an hour's vain knocking at the door) — I can't make any one hear. Door- tender —No, mum; the president is on a trip to Chiny fer his health, but that's his office, mum. Mrs. Grubbs — Will you be kind enough to tell me who comes next to the president? Door-tender — First vice-president, mum. Mrs. Grubbs — Where is his office? Door-tender — With the president, mum. Mrs.- Grubbs — But that office is closed. 26 MBS. GKUBBS' BALLBOAD CLAIM. Door-tender— Yes, mum; he's in Chicago, but he'll be back next week. Mrs. Grubbs — I'd like to know who's in charge here. Door- tender — I am, mum. Mrs. Grubbs (impatiently) — Who is in charge of the building? Door-tender — Mr. Feelbig, mum. Mrs. Grubbs — Where is he? Door- tender — Down stairs, bossin' the coons what's sif- tin' ashes, mum. Mrs. Grubbs— Humph! What is his position? Door-tender — Head janitor, mum. Mrs. Grubbs (with an inspiration) — Is the superintend- ent in? Door-tender— Don't know, mum, as we've got any super- intendent, mum. You see, Mr. Feelbig used to be called the superintendent of the building, but Mrs. Grubbs (with a great effort at self-control) — I mean the superintendent of the railroad. Door-tender — Oh! Why didn't ye say so? I don't know whether he be in or not, fer he's mostly on the road, but his office is on the fifth floor, mum. Mrs. Grubbs (to elevator boy) — I wish to go to the fifth floor. Elevator Boy — Nothin' there, ma'am, but offices. Mrs. Grubbs — I know it. Elevator Boy— Oh! Who de ye want ter see? Mrs. Grubbs — The superintendent. Elevator Boy (picking up a dime novel, and settling himself in one corner) — He ain't in. Mrs. Grubbs — Then I want to see the next one in charge. Elevator Boy— Who? Mrs. Grubbs — I don't know; whoever is in charge at this time. Elevator Boy — I don't know who is in charge, either, MRS. GRUBBS' RAILROAD CLAIM. 27 but I'll take ye up, only ye mustn't stay too long chinning to the clerks. It ain't allowed. Here ye are. Fifth floor, mum. Mrs. Grubbs (entering nearest door and addressing the first person in view) — I w T ish to see about a trunk First Clerk— Baggage-room — other side river, madam. Mrs. Grubbs —About a trunk which was badly dam- aged First Clerk— Nex' desk. Mrs. Grubbs (with a sigh of infinite relief) I called in regard to a damaged trunk — — Second Clerk— Nex' desk. Mrs. Grubbs— My trunk was badly damaged— in fact, ruined Third (and last) Clerk — Nex' room. Mrs. Grubbs (in next room) — The baggage handlers of your read Official (starting up) — My gracious! On strike? Mrs. Grubbs (with spirit) — They struck my trunk against a stone wall or something, and nearly demolished it. Official (resuming his seat) — Nex' floor. Mrs. Grubbs— Which floor? Official — Nexisaid. Mrs. Grubbs — Up or down? Official— Um — down. Mrs. Grubbs ( to the elevator boy ) — Fourth floor, please. Elevator Boy — Sell anything? Mrs. Grubbs — I am not a peddler. I wish to go to the fourth floor. Elevator Boy (with a startled air) — Ye ain't a relation of any of the vice-presidents, are ye? Mrs. Grubbs (shortly)— No. 28 MRS. GRUBBS* RAILROAD CLAIM. Elevator Boy (with restored equilibrium) — I thought ye couldn't be, from y'r clothes. This floor is full o' vice- presidents. Fourth, madam. Mrs. Grubbs (catching sight of a benevolent-looking personage just leaving an office) — I beg your pardon, sir, but I want some one to — to — I want to see some one about a damaged trunk, very badly damaged — in fact, ruined. Benevolent Party (reflectively) — It might be well to see the ninth assistant vice-president's seventeenth assistant secretary, room 93, tenth floor. Mrs. Grubbs — Oh, thank you! I began to think I never would find the right office. Benevolent Party — Take the elevator to the right, madam. I am very glad to be of service. Good-day, madam. Mrs. Grubbs— Tenth floor, please. Elevator Boy — Yes'm. You must be sellin' something, ain't you? I won't tell, 'deed and double, but I think ye might give me a little if it's good to eat. Mrs. Grubbs — This is simply a roll of music, and a few other things I got as I came along, thinking I'd be through here in a few minutes. Elevator Boy — Oh, I forgot to tell ye. The elevator don't run above the seventh floor to-day — making some repairs up there. Mrs. Grubbs — Dear me! How do the clerks get up? Elevator Boy — I let 'em off here an' they go up the fire- escape. Want to see any one in partic'lar? Mrs. Grubbs — Yes, the — the — well, it's one of the as- sistant secretaries. Elevator Boy — Here comes one now. Mrs. Grubbs (stepping into the hall) — I wish to see the — the tenth assistant president's ninth assistant Assistant Secretary — No such person exists, madam. Mrs. Grubbs — Hasn't he a ninth assistant sec ICBS. GRUBBS* RAILROAD CLAIM. 29 Assistant Secretary (impressively) — There is no tenth as- sistant president, madam. Mrs. Grubbs — Let me see. Oh! It was a vice-presi- dent. Assistant Secretary (impatiently) — Well? Mrs. Grnbbs — Well, I want to see the niuth assistant pres — I mean vice-president's Assistant Secretary — He is net in. Mrs. Grnbbs — Xot the vice-president himself, but Assistant Secretary — I understand. The ninth assistant vice-president. He is not in. Mrs. Grubbs — I don't want to see him. I want to see his ninth — oh, now I remember — I want to see the niuth assistant vice-president's seventeenth assistant secretary. Assistant Secretary — I am he, madam. What can I do for you? Mrs. Grubbs — It's about a damaged trunk — Assistant Secretary — Great snakes! Trunks are not in my department. Pardon me, but I'm in a great hurry. Mrs. Grubbs — Wait just one moment. A gentleman whom I met coming from an office down stairs referred me to you. I'm sure he is the president, or something. Assistant Secretary — President's away, ditto superin- tendent. What kind of a looking gentleman was he? Mrs. Grubbs— Oh, real benevolent looking, and he took so much interest in my case, and Assistant Secretary — Guess he doesn't belong here. Big or little man? Mrs, Grubbs — A tall, handsome, portly old gentleman, with white side-whiskers, and I remember he wore a re- markable antique ring, Egyptian design. Assistant Secretary — Oh! Xow I know who you mean. He's a distant relative of the ninth assistant vice; and now I think of it, a friend of his once lost a lot of cattle in a blizzard while in transit, and to oblige him the ninth as- sistant vice got me to fix the matter up somehow and send 30 MRS. GRUBBS' RAILROAD CLAIM. him a check for part of the losses; but that was freight, you know, through freight; it wasn't baggage. I have noth- ing to do with baggage — hope I never will have either. Mrs. Grabbs — But where shall I go? Assistant Secretary — Oh, nearly all the hotels in this city are good — mere matter of Mrs. Grubbs — I mean to whom shall I apply about my trunk? Assistant Secretary — I'm sure I don't know; you ought to have thought of that before you came here. I must hurry, madam. Mrs. Grubbs — (groping wearily along the halls)— I wish to see First Passer — Next floor. Mrs. Grubbs— Is the official who has charge of the bag- gage which Second Passer — Over t' depot. Don't b'long here. Mrs. Grubbs (desperately, to another) — When this rail- road company sells tickets Third Passer — Yes, indeed, madam; but we don't sell tickets in this building. Ticket office down street. Here, boy! Hold that elevator a moment. Lady wants t' go down. Good-day, madam. Most luxurious traveling in the country, as you'll soon find. Mrs. Grubb (to elevator boy while dropping down) — Isn't there any head to this establishment? Elevator Boy — Ain't much else but head, I guess. You ain't been on the second floor yet. Want to get off? I won't tell. Mrs. Grubbs (humbly)— Ye-e-s. Elevator Boy— Tackle them fellers there. They bought five books of a lady yestiday, but she were younger 'n you. Mrs. Grubbs (entering first office, and determined that her errand sha'n't be misunderstood) — My trunk was com- MRS. GRUBBS' RAILROAD CLAIM, 31 pletely ruined on this road, and I want to see the proper official about it. Firsfc Clerk — Nex' room. Mrs. Grubbs (entering next room) —I am determined to find the official who has charge of the— the baggage dep First Clerk — Bag'm'ster over depot. Here, boy! Show lady cross-town cars. Mrs. Grubbs (at depot an hour later) — My trunk was utterly ruined on this road, and Depot Master — Lost? Mrs. Grubbs — No, smashed; smashed all to pieces. Depot Master — Old trunk, I spose? Mrs. Grubbs (with some asperity) — A brand-new one. Depot Master — Well, people as buys these 'ere cheap paper trunks jest 'cause Mrs. Grubbs (vehemently) — My trunk was thick leather, bound with iron. Depot Master — Ye might a known better 'n to buy a heavy thing like that, as would break of its own weight. Now here is a trunk what ain't hard to lift, and Mrs. Grubbs — My trunk was damaged and I want pay for it. Depot Master — Over t' genl office. Mrs. Grubbs (out of all patience) — But I just came from the general office Depot Master — Well, ye needn't scowl at me 'bout it. I didn't bring ye. If a man 'ud put on half the airs wot you do I'd knock 'im down. We ain't got no money here ter start benevolent societies fer people with lost trunks. The general office is where the money is, can't ye see that? Take the cross-town cars. Mrs. Grubbs (an hour later, at general office) — Are you connected with this company, sir? Pompous Individual— Only in an advisory capacity. I am one of its attorneys. 32 IMPORTANCE OF THE UNION. Mrs. Grubbs— Ob. Well I bave a claim for damages for a- Pompous Individual — I'll see your lawyer at any time, madam, but, remember, if you want to sue, we've got tbe best lawyers in the State, and we own two-thirds of the legislature and half the judges. Better drop it. Good-day, madam. Mrs. Grubbs (after two hours further and equally fruit- less questioning) — Can you direct me Policeman — Yis, mum, Oi can direct ye to the door, an' that's phat I come for. It's complained t' me that ye've been hangin' an' loafin' about the buildin' all day wid no apparent means o' respectable support, an' it's out ye'll be goin' av y'r own accord or Oi'll put yez out. Move on, now. Mrs. Grubbs (entering her own home, just before dark) — Mercy! I feel as if I should faint. How long have you been home, my dear? Mr. Grubbs — Only about an hour. Well, did you settle about the trunk? Mrs. Grubbs — Yes. Just before reaching the house I happened to see a drayman who once did some work for us. I immediately hired him to come get the trunk and dump it into the East Kiver. Charles W. Foster. IMPOKTANCE OF THE UNION. I profess, sir, in my career hitherto to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our federal Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union we are chiefly in- debted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our vir- tues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin IMPORTANCE OF THE UNION. 33 in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate com- merce, and rained credit. Under its benign influences, these great interests im- mediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its ntility and its blessings; and, al- though our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden iu the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counselor in the affairs of this govern- ment, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on consider- ing, uot how the Union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the coudition of the people, when it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. 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 fragments of a once glori- ous Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent, on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and lion- 34 THE AMERICAN FLAG. ored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original luster, 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 afterward — but every- where, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds as they float under the sea and over the land, and in every wind over the whole heavens, that other sentiment dear to every true American heart — Lib- erty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable! Daniel Webster. THE AMEKICAN FLAG. When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white, With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given THE AMERICAN FLAG. 35 To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle -stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory I Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, "When speaks the signal 'trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming* on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn; And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabers rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm, that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frightened waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the. sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. 36 THE LITTLE SISTEB OF CHARITY. Flag of the free heart's hope and home! By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? Joseph Eodman Drake. THE LITTLE SISTER OF CHARITY. Young Harry Gilflory was just twenty-four, And had to his credit a million or more; To him the great world was a garden of flowers, And he, like a butterfly, wasted his hours. He frequented clubs, and he drove his fast horse — Was the pet of the belles, and their mammas, of course; He had nothing to do but kill time, and I fear This cost him at least twenty thousand a year. Like many possessors of very great wealth, He thought more of pleasures that kill than of health; The wine-cup he'd quaff till his wits went astray, And sometimes he'd cling to it day after day, Till nature gave out, and he'd wake at the close Of a lengthened debauch, sick, unnerved, and morose — A prey to remorse, and disgusted to think Of the follies he'd wrought while demented by drink. 'Twas after a turn of this kind that young Gil — Dejected, unnerved by excess, and quite ill — Lounged in his hotel, to all outward things blind, At war with himself and with all of his kind; His young features wore an expression forlorn, THE LITTLE SISTER OF CHARITY. 37 His clothes were bedaubed, and in some places torn, His hair was unkempt, and his eyes were blood-shot, And he looked very much like a penniless sot. Though society's pet, and by every one known, Not one spoke to Gil as he sat there alone; He was left unmolested amid the rude din, Till a small beggar-girl from the street ventured in; Her clothing was thin, and her features were pinched, But from the rude gazers the child never flinched; She must have been less than a dozen years old, But a long fight with hardship had rendered her bold. To each lounger the little petitioner went — " Please give me a copper, sir — only a cent! Since morning I've had not a morsel to eat, And I'm tired, so tired, from walking the street!" Some gave her a penny, some pushed her aside; But, firm and undaunted, she every one tried, Till she came to our hero, the wretched Gilrlory, Held out her w ee hand, and repeated her story. " You've had nothing to eat since the morning, you say?' 1 Gil sullenly growled. " Little girl go away! For three days I've tasted no food; so you see, You're far better off, you young beggar, than me!" The girl hung her head and had nothing to say, But she heaved a deep sigh, and walked slowly away; She paused at the door, hesitated, and then Turned quickly, and faced young Gilflory again. "Poor man!" she exclaimed; I'm so sorry for you!" And her pitying eyes filled with heavenly dew, And hee voice had a pathos as tender and sweet As our Saviour's when Magdalen knelt at his feet. '-Three days without eating! Oh, that is too bad! Here, take these five cents, and you'll make me so glad. 38 THE LITTLE SISTER OF CHARITY. You know you can't live without something to eat, And I can get help from some one on the street." From his indolent stupor Gilflory awoke, At first he felt sure that the child meant to joke; He looked at her keenly, but naught could he trace Save angelic sympathy in her young face. " By Heaven! she means it! ' he cried, in surprise; "Her young bosom heaves; there are tears in her eyes; Both language and accent speak pity and love — She offers me money, and means it, by Jove! "This poor little waif is a princess to-night, And I am the subject that pales in her light. She has taught me a lesson that cannot depart, While reason remains and there's warmth in my heart; She has taught me the lesson that Christ taught of old — That the heart which can feel is the genuine gold, And that in His bright home most blessed He'll call Not those who gave largely, but those who gave all. "Come here, thou frail waif of small form but big heart, Gilflory 's the beggar — the lady thou art!" And quietly taking his hat from his head, He passed it around to eacli person, and said: "I want five dollars, please, not a single cent less, For this angel of light in a calico dress!" They gave without grumbling; but then, don't you see, They gave to a young millionaire on a spree, Who passed it in turn to the * 'angel of light In the calico dress," and kept sober that night. Francis S. Smith. THE WAR IN AMERICA. 39 THE WAR IN AMERICA. My lords: I cannot concur in a blind and servile ad- dress, which approves, and endeavors to sanctify the mon- strous measures which have heaped disgrace and misfor- tune upon us. This, my lords, is a perilous and tre- mendous moment! It is not a time for adulation, The smoothness of flattery can not now avail — cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to in- struct the throne in the language of truth. We must dis- pel the illusion and the darkness which envelop it, and display, in its full danger and true colors, the ruin that is brought to our doors. Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a continuance of support in this ruinous infatuation? Can parliament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to be thus deluded into the loss of the one and the violation of the other? To give an unlimited credit and support for the steady perseverance in measures not proposed for our parliamentary advice, but dictated and forced upon us — in measures, I say, my lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to ruin and contempt! " But yesterday, and England might have stood against the world; now none so poor to do her reverence." I use the words of a poet; but, though it be poetry, it is no fiction. My lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, where we cannot act with success, nor suffer with honor, calls upon us to remonstrate in the strongest and loudest language of truth, to rescue the ear of majesty from the delusions which surround it. The desperate state of our arms abroad is in part know T n. No man thinks more highly of them than I do. I love and honor the English troops. I know their virtues and their valor. I know they can achieve anything except impossibilities; and I know that the conquest of English America is an impossibility. You cannot, I venture to say it, you cannot conquer America! 40 THE WAR IN AMERICA. You may swell every expense and every effort still more extravagantly; pile and accumulate every assistance you can buy or borrow; traffic and barter with every little, pitiful German prince that sells and sends his subjects to the shambles of a foreign prince; your efforts are forever vain and impotent — doubly so from this mercenary aid on which you rely; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your enemies, to over run them with the merce- nary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty! If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms — never — never — never! But, my lords, who is the man that, in addition to these disgraces and mischiefs of our army, has dared to author- ize and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalpiug- knife of the savage? to call into civilized alliance the wild and inhuman savage of the woods; to delegate to the merciless Indian the defense of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our breth- ren? My lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. Unless thoroughly donp away, it will be a stain on the national character. It is a violation of the Constitution. Infected with the mercenary spirit of robbery and rapine; familiarized to the horrid scenes of savage cruelty, it can no longer boast of the noble and generous princi- ples which dignify a soldier; no longer sympathize with the dignity of the royal banner; nor feel the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war, ''that make ambition virtue!" What makes ambition virtue? The sense of honor! But is the sense of honor consistent with a spirit of plunder, or the practice of murder? Can it flow from mercenary motives, or can it prompt to cruel deeds? Besides these murderers and plunderers, let me ask our THE WAB IN AAIEBICA. 41 ministers— what otner allies have they acquired? What otlier powers have they associated to their cause? Have they entered into alliance with the king of the gipsies? Nothing, my lords, is too low or two ludicrous to be con- sistent with their counsels. I am astonished, shocked, to hear such principles con- fessed — to hear them avowed in this House, or in this country; principles equally unconstitutional, inhuman, and unchristian! My lords, we are called upon, as mem- bers of this House, as men, as Christian men, to protest against such notions standing near the throne, polluting the ear of majesty. " That God and nature put into our hands?" I know not what ideas that lord may entertain of God and nature, but I know that such abominable principles are equally abhorrent; to religion and humanity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knife — to the cannibal savage tortur- ing, murdering, roasting, and eating — literally, my lords, eating the mangled victims of his barbarous battles! Such horrible notions shock every precept of religion, divine or natural, and every generous feeling of humanity. These abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation. I call upon that right reverend bench, those holy ministers of the gospel, and pious pastors of our church — I conjure them to join in the holy work, and vindicate the religion of their God. I appeal to the wisdom and the law of that learned bench, to defend and support the justice of their country. I call upon the bishops, to interpose the unsullied sanc- tity of their lawn; upon the learned judges, to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save tts from this pollu- tion. I call upon the honor of your lordships, to rev- erence the dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity of my country, 42 WHAT THE SKIPPEK SAID. to vindicate the national character. I invoke the genius of the Constitution. From the tapestry that adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor of this noble lord frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his country. Earl of Chatham. WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID. We were all sailing down along the Jersey coast in a yacht, and the greenhorns in the party were bothering the skipper with questions. We sighted a light-house, and Mr. Anderson, who hailed from Ohio, and had never seen one before, asked what that was. " That," said the skipper, rather scornfully, "is a light — a flash-light." " What makes it flash?" inquired Mr. Anderson. "Don't you know what makes it flash?" asked the skipper. "No; what?" "Well, you know what a lightning-bug is, don't you? The government has a place for breeding them, over here at Egg Harbor. They've crossed them and crossed them, using the selected varieties every time, until now they turn out a lightning-bug as big as a goose, and bigger. I've seen 'em weigh from eighty to ninety pounds, and carrying an illuminated end that would make a locomotive head-light look like darkness— actually look as black as ink." "How do they raise them?" "Feed 'em on musquitoes. A healthy bug'll eat half a bushel of New Jersey musquitoes at a meal. Government employs boys to catch the musquitoes in traps in the swamps. They keep the lightning-bugs in iron cages on account of the heat. You put fifteen or twenty of 'em to- gether and get 'em excited, and they'll make it so hot in WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID. 43 the cage in the coldest day in winter, that the keepers have to put ice around the cages to prevent them from melting." "How about the light-houses?" " When the government wants to start a light-house, they make a requisition for a bug, and he is carried off in a cage with a boy to stand behind and fan his fire-works so's to keep 'em cool. Then they put him on top of alight- house, and set him at work. If he doesn't flash his light often enough, the man tickles him under the wing with a hoe-handle, or something, and when he persists in working in the day-time, the keeper has to mesmerize him to pre- vent him from undermining his constitution." "Wonderful!" said Mr. Anderson. "I had no idea of such a thing," said Mr. O'Brien. The skipper seemed encouraged to go on, and try to do so a little better. " Yes," he said, "the whole thing is very curious. Now you wouldn't believe how long that light-house over there is?" "How long is it?" "Well, about eight or nine hundred yards. Possibly longer." "No?" " Yes. You see they began to build it in 1809. But the foundation was soft over on the beach there, and so the structure gradually sunk away. In about two years the lantern was only six feet above the ground. They had to build right on top of it, and as that made it heavier, of course it sauk farther. One night the keeper accidentally overslept himself, and when he woke up the lantern was beneath the surface of the sand. lb took nearly a whole day to dig him out. And so, you know, the government went on adding to the light-house year after year, and the building kept on sinking, until now you can go down stairs in that light-house well on to a mile toward the cen- 44 WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID. ter of the earth. The inspector told me they would con- tinue to buiid, just to see where it would go to. The board, I understand, rather expects ultimately to strike China, and to bring about an arrangement for having the whole of our tea trade with that country done up and down the stairs of that light-house. Be rough on the Pacific railroads, won't it?" " Most extraordinary thing I ever heard of!" exclaimed Mr. Anderson. "I can hardly believe it," said Mr. O'Brien. " I don t ask you to believe it," said the skipper. J Tm only giving you the facts, and you can do what you please with them. Now, there's the Barnegat light; that was not built for a light-house. It was put there by a convulsion of nature." "How?" "Why, there was a man lived on that spot named Wil- liam McGuigan, and he wanted to sink a well. He had to go two hundred and thirty seven feet before he struck water; then he bricked the well in, and was satisfied. One night, thirteen months later, there was an earthquake along the coast here, and many supposed it was caused by volcanic action, for in the morning, when McGuigan went out to get a pitcher of water for breakfast, he found that his well had been shot up out of the ground, and was standing at that very minute two hundred and twenty-six feet above the surface of his back yard. Subsequently he went to Indiana to live with his wife's mother, and he sold the well out to the Light-house Board, who put a stair- case and a couple of boys in it, and to-day it's the finest light on the Jersey coast." "It is queer," said Mr. Anderson, "that no notice of so remarkable an occurrence should have appeared in the papers." "The papers!" exclaimed the skipper, contemptuously. "It's mighty little they know about what goes on down WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID. 45 here! Dill you ever see in any of them any account of the death of Thomas Shanahan, the keeper of the Absecora light, a few years ago? Well, sir, one night, while Shana- han was in the lantern, four flights of stairs fell away from the top, and Shanahan was very much worried how to get down. When morning came he got desperate. He took the lightning-bug out of the lantern, straddled himself on its back, ami stueK his penknife into it to make it fly." " Did he get down safely ?*' "He got down, but one leg accidentally rested against the hot end of the bug, and when he reached the ground his leg was burned to a crisp, and he died in two hours. The bug flew over into the pines in Atlantic County, and set fire to eight hundred thousand dollars' worth of timber. " " Awful!" ejaculated Mr. Anderson. "Those keepers have a hard time, any way," said the skipper, as he jammed his helm hard-aport. "I know one of 'em, over here at Long Branch, that is ruined for life -absolutely ruined." "How?" "Why, he's been going up and down those light-house stairs for twenty-two years, four times a day, and sticking close to work, taking no other exercise. What's the con- sequence? Consequence is that he can't walk straight to save his life! Forgotten how. He'll make fifteen or twenty circles in going across the street, and on Sundays he has to start one hour ahead of his wife, because he has so much farther to go; and even then, very often, church is half over and the collection taken up before he gets into his pew. I've known that man to walk eleven miles in going a distance of three-quarters of a mile, and the queer thing about it is that when he stands perfectly fc till it makes his head swim. Even his bedstead is swung on a pivot and revolved by clock-work. Says he must have it or he can't sleep a wink." 46 THANATOPSIS. Mr. Anderson and Mr. O'Brien said nothing in reply, but they looked very thoughtful, and even sad, as the skipper dropped the sail and came alongside the pier. He carried the joke a little too far. Max Adjeleb. THANATOPSIS. To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless daikness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form is laid with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up THANATOPSIS. 47 Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements — To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish .Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers, of ages past, All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun — the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods — rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still ]a]3se of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce. Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead there reign alone. 48 THANATOPSIS. So sbalt tliou rest — and what if thou withdraw Unheeded by the living — and no friend Take note of thy depart are? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood ox care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In tiie full strength of years, matron, and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those who, in their turn, shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry -slave, at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. William Cullen Bkyant. RUTH. 49 RUTH. She was a thing of grace; her movements were the poetry of motion, and her eyes were soft and mellow enough to throw any fanciful mind into an ecstasy of pleasure. She was beautifully pale, coyly shy, and languorously spirit- uelle. No Gainsborough hat tilted jauntily on the side of her head; no blushing rose, lit with the liquid pearls of night, found a warm nest in her ringlets; no fragrant sandalwood fan was open before her eyes, aud no Marie Antoinette slipper graced her small, crescent-like foot. She was the picture of rustic sweetness and simplicity, as she stood among the roses that shed their subtle per- fume round the porch. She walked to the gate and looked anxiously down the road, as though her susceptible soul was cradled in expectation, and, seeing no one approach, she returned to the stoop, but didn't engage her mind in the perusal of the latest novel. She didn't, as others often do, go into raptures over "Phillis," "Airy Fairy Lillian," or other books equally ridiculous. She never read novels at all — not even "The House of Secrets;" and, strange as it may seem, cared little for music, even the compositions of Bellini and Donizetti. She never went to the opera, and found little harmony in the tremulous music of a man- dolin; and she was even unacquainted with the poems of Dobson, Aldrich, Mortimer Collins, and Owen Meredith. It is very likely that no one ever saw a girl with her peculiar ideas. She had no ambition to go on the stage, and become a rival of Clara Morris; she never desired to gain immortal fame as a writer of magazine verses, or a compiler of fashion notes. She w*as never known to take an active part in a church fair, or to work slippers or smok- ing-caps for the minister. She was never present at the opening of a dry-goods store, and could be no more re- joiced at the prospect of a 77-cent sale than could an artist on being presented with a jew T eled cimeter. 50 RtJTtf. Needle-work found in her no warm admirer, and decor- ative art was as far from her idea of the beautiful as one could well imagine. Variations in the fashions never troubled her. She little cared whether the kid gloves most in vogue were four or fourteen-buttoned. She never filled books with various autumn leaves, as do many young ladies whose minds incline to the sentimental side of life; and she never was known to rush upon a gentleman visi- tor and exclaim : " Now, Mr. Thompson, just see my new autograph album. Don't you think it is just too awfully cute for anything?" No, she was never guilty of such a social subterfuge — a subterfuge so called because the act is usually followed by a request that something be written in the album. She never sketched or painted, though it must be con- fessed that she delighted in pretty idylic pictures set in the frame of summer. She was fond of billowy, fragrant clover, and roses, and anemones, and running brooks, and waving ferns. She was also fond of pet dogs, and would run around the garden in happy spirits with them barking at her heels. It was the opinion of every one in the neighborhood that Ruth was a very peculiar composition of incongruities. No young gentleman cared about taking her to picnics or parties, and there was very little rivalry over her. But there was one thing every one admired in her, and that was her very high and dignified sense of propriety in all things. She was always about right, too. She would never correct a young man's grammar before a company. She would never leave church during the sermon; she would never enter church half an hour after the beginning of the services to exhibit her new hat to the congregation. Ruth was a model in many ways. While I have been digressing on her virtues and alleged vices, she has de- cided to walk to the woods, her spirit full of reverie, IiTNES ON A SKELETON. 51 and her reverie full of the sunshine and glory of a sum- mer dream. Slowly she moves down the lane, without parasol or gloves, and seems like an airy creation of Elf- land. She hums a song after her own fashion while on her journey. After reaching the woods, she searches out her favorite bower beside the margin of a rippling brook — a bower in w T hich Titania might recline intoxicated with lute-notes and aromatic zephyrs. And here she pauses, and reclines her graceful figure on the delightful moss, and floats to a realm of violets and visions, where fairies play on mandolins in flower-bells, and all is buried in the hush of a purple after-glow. Thus she dreams until wakened by some small boys w r ho have come to drive her home. Kuth is a goat. R. K. Munkittrick. LINES ON A SKELETON. Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull Once of ethereal spirit full. This narrow cell was Life's retreat, This space was Thought's mysterious seat. What beauteous visions filled this spot! What dreams of jideasure long forgot! Nor Hope, nor Joy, nor Love, nor Fear, Have left one trace of record here. Beneath this moldering canopy, Once shone the bright and busy eye; But start not at the dismal void — If social love that eye employed, If with no lawless fire it gleamed, But through the dews of kindness beamed, That eye shall be forever bright When stars and sun are sunk in night. 52 IilNES ON A SKELETON. Within this hollow cavern hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue. If falsehood's honey it disdained, And when it could not praise, was chained, If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke! This silent tongue shall plead for thee When time unvails Eternity. Say, did these fingers delve the mine? Or with the envied rubies shine? To hew the rock or wear the gem Can little now avail to them. Bat if the page of truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shall claim Than all that wait on Wealth or Fame. Avails it, whether bare or shod, These feet the path of duty trod? If from the bowers of Ease thev fled, To seek Affliction's humble shed; If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, And home to Virtue's cot returned, These feet with angels' wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky. Anonymous. THE FRESHMAN'S STORY. 53 THE FRESHMAN'S STOKY. When the old farmer came into the car, the only vacant seat was that beside a freshman who was reading a book. The old man wanted to be sociable, and patiently he said to the freshman: " You're fond of novels, I reckon?" "I? no," said the young man. " This isn't a novel. It is Hume's account of the 'Siege of Troy.' " " Troy, hey? I know all about that town. What's the book say in reference to it?" " Why, you know the whole trouble was caused by a woman named Helen, w r ho- " " Any last name?" "No; she was " "Did she go to the Presbyterian Church? A small wo- man with one eye a little warped? I'll bet anything I know that woman!" "And you know," said the freshman, with a far-away look in his eyes, "she came to Troy and went to live with Priam, who " " Prime! I knew a Ferguson who married a Prime. He was in the the truck business in Syracuse; had relations in Troy, most likely." " Helen's husband persuaded the Greeks to come with him to Troy to try to get her back again, and so they manned their ships and sailed toward the city." " Came up in the night boa!:, did they?" "Oh, no; it is believed that they used their oars over the entire distance." " Eowed up! Nobody but a lot of jackasses would have done that when they could have come right up the river shore on an express train." "As soon as they landed, the people of Troy closed the gates of the city, and " "What for?" 54 THE freshman's story. "To keep them out, of course." " Alley gates or front gates?" "What?" "Goon; it makes no difference. I keep my back gate fastened, myself, on account of tramps. I suppose the " " The Greeks were led by a number of brave soldiers. Among these was Ulysses, who " "Who did you say?" "Ulysses, the " "See a here, young man, you're not telling the truth! Don't I know that Grant never came to Troy to fool with anybody's front gate! You ought to be ashamed of your- self to try to impose on a man who is old enough to be your grandfather!" "You don't understand. I mean that " "If a man don't want him for a third term, well and good; but there's no use of putting things on him that he never did." The freshman seemed to be absorbed in examining the landscape from the window. " And the leader of the Trojans," he said, " was a man named Hector. And he came out and stood on the wall, to observe the " "Bricklayer, was he?" "A soldier, and when the Greeks came up they de- manded that he should surrender Helen to her hus- band." " Why didn't he take out a writ of haebaes corpus! I know the judge in Troy. He'd a handed that woman over quicker 'n a wink." " Hector would not consent to give her up, and then the fighting began. They fought, and fought, and fought outside the city limits." "Well," said the old man, "I don't like to doubt your word, my son, but it's mighty queer there wa3 noth- \ the feeshman's stoey. 55 ing about the fuss in any of the papeis. Where were the police?" "And one day, when the Trojans were all within the city, Ulysses came up to the gate, and, picking up a huge stone weighing three hundred pounds, he hurled it at " " Stop! Stop right there! How much did you say that stone weighed?" "Three or four hundred pounds." "And Grant picked it up?" "I said Ulysses picked it up, and with it he burst the gate to splinters." " So young, and yet so wicked," said the old man, sadly. "My son, what you want is a terrible lot of moral disci- pline, laid on thick and rubbed in hard. I never heard your equal at fiction." 11 Well," said the freshman, examining the 74th page of his book, and apparently not heeding the old man, "after a number of combats Hector came out one day, and he and Achilles had a fight all by themselves." "With gloves?" "And when they had exchanged a good many blows, Hector started to run, and he ran clear around Troy three times with Achilles in close pursuit." " Young man, if you don't stop that kind of thing, I'll change my seat! You couldn't make me believe that any man had as good wind as that, if you were under oath." "On the third lap Achilles overtook him, and killed him on the spot." "Did the case come before the grand jury?" "But this, you know, did not let the Greeks into the city. And how do you think they finally got in?" "Took the horse-cars?" " Of course not." "Marched in in a torchlight procession?" "No." 56 the freshman's story. " Came in the band-wagon of a circus?" "No; they made a wooden horse, hollow, and " "Made a wooden horse holloa! There you go again! Why don't you give up that bad habit of violating the truth?" "And they put a band of men inside the horse who " " Rocking horse, did you say?" "Who laid low until the horse got into the city, when they sprang out, opened the gates, let iu their friends, and then the whole party burned the city to ashes." The old man looked anxiously at the freshman. He seemed hurt and offended by the youth's depravity. Then he said, mournfully: " And when do you say all this happened?" "About three thousand years ago." The aged man buried his face in his hands and groaned. "Why, you phenomenal liar! Don't I Jcaow that Troy was founded upon the banks of the Hudson later than 1786." The train stopped, and the freshman rose to get out. As he went through the door of the car, the old farmer leaned over the man in Hie seat in front of him and said: " See that boy going out there?' "Yes." " Well, what he wants is about eight thousand years of steady going to Sunday-school. He can outlie any boy of his size in the temperate zone." Max Adeler. JUST ONE. 57 JUST ONE. Just one little cloudlet, a miniature trifle, Just one little spot on the bright shining sun; Just one little blemish, a sunbeam to rifle, And yet in that moment the storm had begun. Just one little splash on the fair bosomed river, Just one little rain-drop, succeeded by more; Just one throb responsive deep waters deliver, Then to passionate heaving and swaying give o'er. Just one little flaw 'neath the clear alabaster, Hath many a beautiful figure defaced; Just one rapturous moment hath wrought grave disaster. And fashioned a blot which could ne'er be erased. Just one fairy castle, in innocence builded, Whate'er its foundation, 'twas fair to behold; Its halls were of faith, and its panels were gilded With a trust that its object in grace did infold. Just one little blow and the castle lay shattered, Almost without effort 'twas felled to the earth; Its doors were unhinged and its windows were battered; Lo! A grief to the heart that had given it birth. Just one ray of hope, and the torch was relighted, Which pointed whereby had such rule occurred; Just one beacon light, and no longer benighted, A chord of true, fervent devotion was stirred. Just one swift resolve to avert coming sorrow, One quick flash of thought, which allotted its due, Doth yield deep content, which another may borrow, And never have cause the insignia to rue. 58 SPEAK NO HiL. Just one little prayer, winging softly toward heaven, A fluttering breath, like a wandering waif; Just one trembling tear-drop runs counter the leaven, And the murmur re-echoes, * 'Thank God, we are safe." Azalea E. Osgood. SPEAK NO ILL. Nay, speak no ill! a kindly word Can never leave a sting behind, And, oh! to breathe each tale we've heard Is far beneath a noble mind. Full oft a better seed is sown By choosing thus the kinder plan; For if little good be known, Still let us speak the best we can. Give me the heart that fain would hide, Would fain another's fault efface; How can it please our human pride, To prove humanity but base? No; let us reach a higher mood, A noble estimate of man; Be earnest in search for good, And speak of all the best we can. Then speak no ill, but lenient be To other's failings as your own; If you're the first a fault to see, Be not the first to make it known; For life is but a passing day, No lip can tell how brief its span; Then, oh! the little time we stay, Let's speak of all the best we can. Chakles Swain. ODE TO MY LITTLE SON. 59 ODE TO MY LITTLE SON, Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop— first let me kiss away that tear!) Thy tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits, feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy! There goes my ink!) Thou cherub — but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever funny, (Another tumble — that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint!) 60 ODE TO MY LITTLE SON. Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jag- off with another shove!) Dear nursliug of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball— bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamb -like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as a hawk, yet gentle as a dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!) Thomas Hood. THE SURPRISE PARTY. 61 THE SURPRISE PARTY. John Pinchbeck lived on Murray Hill, The tipper-crust among; He had a healthy bank account, His wife was fair and young. He earned a handsome competence By selling hides and leather; His head was level, and his heart As light as any feather. But John's wife, pretty though she was, And sociable and free; Was fond of taking on French airs, When in society. To see the lady in her silks And diamonds arrayed 'Twas hard to b'lieve she once had been A simple dairy maid. But so it was — and one fine day A couple stout and jolly — Zeke Soper and his wife came down To see their darling Polly. For Polly was the lady's name, When at her spiuning-wheel, But now she'd changed it to Pauline, As being more genteel. "Oh, lawful sakes!" Zeke's wife cried out, When she the mansion stood in, ll l hope I never more may see A bowl of hasty puddin'. If this ain't scrumshious! Only see The picters on the ceilin'! As nat'ral as life! Why, Zeke, I'm on the p'int o' squealin'! 62 THE SURPRISE PARTY. "Ifc*s fresco, is it? Well, I vow, I'm drefful glad you told me! And see the carpets and the cheers, And sofys! Zeke, hold me! I'm nigh a bustin' with amaze! I really am! Why, Polly, With all these fixin's 'round you, gal, You must be awful jolly! "It's mighty fine! But, goodness me, Zeke, see them naked figgers A-standing on the mantel-piece; They make me blush, by jiggers! You say they're noble works of art, And great folks come to view 'em? Well, Polly dear, if I was you I'd put some clothes onto 'em. "What's that you say? Pauline's your name Good gracious me, what folly! Why, weren't I by, you silly thing, When you was christened Polly? And if the name was good enough For your dear, blessed mother, It's good enough for you. and I Sha'n't call you any other. "But, speaking of your christnin', Poll, To me it is bewilderin' That you've been married seven years And ain't had any children. Your ma had twelve and I've had eight — Now, Polly dear, confess it, A house, though grand, ain't worth a snap, Without a babe to bless it. <( THE SURPRISE PARTY. 63 But, deary me, I'm tired out! My bones are ackin' cruel — Come, Polly, show us to our room — I'd like a bowl of gruel. And can't you get some boneset tea, And mustard for a body, And a warm band iron for my feet? And Zeke would like some toddy! Next evening, Mrs. Pinchbeck thus Addressed her lord and master: Oh, husband, how can we survive This terrible disaster? I'll die — I know I shall — if aunt And uncle with us tarry Till they are seen by proud Miss Sharp And jealous Mrs. Barry. "Such a disgrace! Just think of it! This morning at the table, The servants, though afraid to laugh Aloud, were scarcely able To hide their mirth, when Uncle Zeke, By Aunt Jerusha followed, Picked up the half -filled finger bowl And all the water swallowed! Just then the hall-bell rang aloud, And soon a summons hearty Smote on the lady' sstartled ear, "Ha! Pinchbeck! Here's a party! We've come to give you a surprise, We know you'll be delighted — And welcome us right cordially, Though we were not invited?" 64 THE SUEPBISE PABTY. Poor Mrs. Pinchbeck! How was she The dreadful blow to parry? She heard the voices of her friends, Miss Sharp and Mrs. Barry. And many others whom she knew Delighted to perplex her, And who would rummage high and low To scandalize and vex her. "Friends!" cried the lady, " welcome all- I'm glad to see you, really ! Just pass down to the dining-room And use the closets freely — But please don't come up stairs, for we Two friends are entertaining — Distinguished persons from abroad — Both nervous and complaining! Oh, horror! Even as she spoke, A voice that made her shiver Came from above, "Oh, Zeke!" it cried "That sirup for my liver! I've left it in the room below — I cannot do without it — Besides, there's company down stairs — Let's go and ask about it!" Ere Mrs. Pinchbeck could prevent The act that her degraded, The aged couple merrily The dining-room invaded. To make the matter worse, old Zeke Had taken too much toddy, And felt that he was just as rich And grand as anybody. THE SURPRISE PARTY. 65 "Why, bow d' due, good folks!" lie cried, And then at Mrs. Barry He winked and said facetiously, "Lord, what a spread you carry! Well, make yourselves to bum at once! Away with melancholy; Hurrah! Let's have a straight-four dance! Jerushy, where is Polly? " She needn't keep herself so shy Because she's got a fortun', She was as poor as any one 'Fore Pinchbeck did his courtin' — But this I'll always say for Poll — No other gal, I reckon, Could ekal her at dairy work, At washin' or at bakin'. Ah, here she is! and Pinchbeck, too! Come, folks, bring on your riddle, And let us have an old-time dance, Up sides and down the middle. Come Polly, put your best licks in, Just as you used to do it, At all our frolics down to hum — Go on, I'll see yeou through it!" Thus Uncle Zekel rattled on, And when his tongue had tired, Old Aunt Jerush took up the theme, With emulation fired. She told her niece's history, From childhood till she married, While Mrs. Pinchbeck helpless stood, And not a thrust was parried. 66 THE SURPRISE PARTY. Let's close the scene — a week passed by — The Pinchbecks, half demented, Were writhing still when they received A note with perfume scented, From Mrs. Barry. Thus it read: " To Mrs. Pinchbeck greeting: Dear friend — the ladies of our set Are soon to have a meeting. " Our object is to call upon And speak with Madame Herman, About the getting up in style Of our forthcoming german. And if you'll send us the address Of your high-bred relations, I'll see that they as well as you, Are granted invitations." The moral of my story is That pride must have a tumble — That those who in their wealth forget They once were poor and humble — Who think they wear so close a mask, That no one can detect it, May come to grief with all their airs, E'en when they least expect it. Francis S. Smith THE MEN TO MAKE A STATE. 67 THE MEN TO MAKE A STATE. The men to make a staternust be intelligent men. I do not mean that they must know that two and two make four; or, that six per cent, a year is half per cent a month. I take a wider and a higher range. I limit myself to no mere utilitarian intelligence. This has its place. And this will come almost unsought. The contact of the rough and rugged world vf\\\ force men to it in self-defense. The lust of worldly gain will drag men to it in self-aggrandizement. But men so made, will never make a state. The intelligence which that demands will take a wider and a higher range. Its study will be man. It will make history its cheap experience. It will read hearts. It will know men. It will first know itself. What, else can govern men? Who else can know the men to govern men? The right of suffrage is a fearful thing. It calls for wisdom, and discretion, and intelligence, of no ordinary standard. It takes in, at every exercise, the in- terests of all the nation. Its results reach forward through time into eternity. Its discharge must be accounted for among the dread responsibilities of the great day of judg- ment. Who will go to it blindly? Who will go to it passionately? Who will go to it, as a sycophant, a tool, a slave? How many do! These are not the men to make a state. The men to make a state must be honest men. I do not mean men that would never steal I do not mean men that would scorn to cheat in making change. I mean men with a single/ace. I mean men with a single eye. I mean men with a single tongue. I mean men that consider always what is right; and to do it at whatever cost. I mean men who can dine, like Andrew Marvel, on a neck of mutton; and whom, therefore, no king on earth can buy. Men that are in the market for the highest bidder; men that make politics their trade, and look to office for a living; men that 68 THE MEN TO MAKE A STATE. will crawl, where they cannot climb; these are not the men to make a state. The men, to make a state, must be brave men. I do not mean men that pick a quarrel. I do not mean the men that carry dirks. I do not mean the men that call them- selves hard names; as Bouncers, Killers, and the like. I mean the men that walk with open face and unprotected breast. I mean the men that do, but do not talk. I mean the men that dare to stand alone. I mean the men that are to-day where they were yesterday, and will be there to-mor- row. I mean the men that can stand still and take the storm. I mean the men that are afraid to kill, but not afraid to die. The man that calls hard names and uses threats; the man that stabs, in secret, with his tongue or with his pen; the man that moves a mob to deeds of vio- lence and self-destruction; the man that freely offers his last drop of blood, but never sheds the first; these are not the men to make a state. The men to make a state must be religious men. States are from God. States are dependent upon God. States are accountable to God. To leave God out of states, is to be Atheists. I do not mean that men must cant I do not mean that men must wear long faces. I do not mean that men must talk of conscience, while they take your spoons. One shrewdly called hypocrisy, the tribute which vice pays to virtue. These masks and visors, in like manner, are the forced concession which a moral nature makes him, whom, at the same time, it dishonors. I speak of men who feel and own a God. I speak of men who feel and own their sins. I speak of men who think the Cross no shame. I speak of men who have it in their heart as well as on their brow. The men that own no future, the men that trample on the Bible, the men that never pray, are not'Wxe men to make a state. The men, to make a state, are made by faith. A man that has no faith, is so much flesh. His heart, a muscle; THE MEN TO MAKE A STATE. 69 nothing more. He has no past for reverence; no future for reliance. He lives. So does a clam. Both die. Such men cau never make a state. There must be faith, which furnishes the fulcrum Archimedes could not find, for the long lever that should move the world. There must be faith to look through clouds and storms up to the sun that shines as cheerily on high as on creation's morn. There must be faith that can lay hold of heaven, and let the earth swing from beneath it, if God will. There must be faith that can afford to sink the present in the future; and let time go, in its strong grasp upon eternity. This is the way that men are made to make a state. The men to make a state are made by self-denial. The willow dallies with the water, and is fanned forever by its coolest breeze, and draws its waves up in continual pulses of refreshment and delight; and is a willow, after all. An acorn has been loosened, some autumnal morning, by a squirrel's foot. It finds a nest in some rude cleft of an old granite rock, where there is scarcely earth to cover it. It knows no shelter, and it feels no shade. It squares itself against the storms. It shoulders through the blast. It asks no favor, and gives none. It grapples with the rock. It crowds up toward the sun. It is an oak. It has been seventy years an oak. It ivill be an oak for seven times seventv vears; unless vou need a man-of-war to thunder at the foe that shows a flag upon the shore, where freemen dwell; and then you take no willow in its daintiness and gracefulness; but that old, hardy, storm-stayed and storm- strengthened oak. So are the men made that will make a state. The men to make a state are themselves made by obedience. Obedience is the health of human hearts; obedience to God; obedience to father and to mother, who are, to children, in the place of God; obedience to teachers and to masters, who are in the place of father and of mother; obedience to spiritual pastors, who are God's 70 MOTHEB AND CHILD. ministers; and the powers that be, which are ordained of God. Obedience is but self government in action; and he can never govern men who does not govern first himself. Only such men can make a state. George W. Doane. MOTHEE AND CHILD. Drunk and disorderly — so it was said, Into the court-room the culprit was led; There on her dark and unwomanly face Lingered the signs of her shame and disgrace, Soiled with the mud in whose depths she had Iain- All the sweet instincts of modesty slain — Standing so boldly there, Waiting so coldly there, Hearing her sentence with sullen disdain. Sternly the justice looked down from his seat — Down at the woman who stood at his feet; Wondering how she had wandered so far From the clear heights where the virtuous are. Ah, how unlovely she seemed in the gloom, There in that dismal and crowded court-room, Treading unthinkingly, Going unshrinkingly On to the depths of her terrible doom! Suddenly, strangely, his features grew mild, There on her breast lay a pure little child, Smiling at him with such innocent eyes, Bhie in their depths as the bonny blue skies. Over her shoulder it struggled to climb, Sweetly unconscious of sorrow or crime, Laughing so merrily, Beautiful, verily — Fair as a lilv-bud found in the slime. MOTHER AND CHTLD. 71 Softly be spoke to the woman — and then Out from that dim, noisy court-room again Bore she her baby, with faltering tread — Freed for the sake of that innocent head. Just for a moment the bonny wee child Backward looked, over her shoulder and smiled; Lying so sweetly there — Cursed so completely there, By the foul touch of those fingers defiled. Sadly the justice bent over his book, Asking himself, as he thought of that look, Through what dark pathways of sin and deceit Fortune would carry those small, winsome feet. Ah, that a blossom so tender should rest, There on that hard and unwomanly breast! One so undutiful Crowned with the beautiful! Sin by the glory of motherhood blest. Think of it, fathers, when sweet eyes of brown Watch through the window your coming from town. Plump little feet patter over the floor, Eager to meet your warm kiss at the door; Tiny wee hands draw your chair to its place — Fairy-like forms clamber up to your face — Cherished so carefully, Nurtured so prayerfully, Kept from all knowledge of shame or disgrace. Dream of it mothers, when lullabies sung Over the cradle so tenderly swung Blend with the laugh of the baby that lies Warm in the light of your watchful blue eyes. Ah, but how proudly you guard her from harm. 72 A BTTJi FROM THE TOWN PUMP. Keeping her safe from all thought of alarm — Kissing, caressing her, Loriugly pressing her Close to jour heart in jour sheltering arm. Nelly B. Simmons. A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist. Like a dram seller on the mall, at muster day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my plainest accents, and at the very tip-top of my voice. Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up! Here is the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated ale of Father Adam —better than Cognac, Holland, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price; here it is by the hogshead or single glass, and not a cent to pay! Walk up, geijtlemen, walk up, and help yourselves! It were a pity, if all this outcry should draw no customers. Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff, aud away again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice, cool sweat. Welcome, most rubicund sir! You and I have been great strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, wall my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man! the water absolutely hisses down! Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of dram shop, spend the price of your children's food, for a swig half so delicious? Now, for the first time these ten years, you know the flavor of cold water. Good-by; and, whenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a constant supply, at the old stand. Who next? Oh, my little friend, you are let loose from A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 73 school, and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your young life. Take it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now. There, my dear child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving stones, that I sus- pect he is afraid of breaking them. What! he limps by, without so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have no wine cellars. Well, well, sir; no harm done, I hope! Go, draw the cork, tip the decanter; but, when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. This thirsty dog, with red tongue lolling out, does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on bis hind legs, and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away again. Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout? Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, my good friends; and, while my spout has a moment's leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical reminis- cences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of vener- able boughs, a sjuring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth, in the very spot where you now behold me, on the sunny pavement. But, in the course of time, a Town Pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring; and, when the first decayed, another took its place — and then another, and still another — till here stand I, gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. Drink, and be refreshed! The water is pure and cold as that which slacked the thirst of the red sagamore, beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow falls, but frcrn the brick buildings. And be it the moral of my story, that, as this wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and 74 A KILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. prized again, so shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued since your father's days, be recognized by all. Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water, to re- plenish the trough for this teamster and his two yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere along that way. No part of my business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look! how rapidly they lower the watermark on the sides of the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time to breathe it in, with sighs of calm enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their monstrous drinking vessels. An ox is your true toper. But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for the remainder of my discourse. Impute it, I beseech you, to no defect of modesty, if I insist a little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifarious merits. It is altogether for your good. The better you think of me, the better men and women you will find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my all-important aid on washing days; though, on that account alone, I might call myself the household god of a hundred families. Far be it from me, also, to hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces, which you w r ould present, without my pains to keep you clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when the midnight bells make you tremble for your combustible town, you have fled to the Town Pump, and found me always at my post, firm, amid the confusion, and ready to drain my vital current in your behalf. Neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my claims to a medical diploma, as the physician, whose simple rule of practice is preferable to all the nauseous lore which has found men sick or left them so, since the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind. A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 75 No! these are trifles, compared with the merits which wise men concede to me — if not in my single self, yet as the representative of a class — of being the grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of the vast por- tion of its crime and anguish, which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise, the cow shall be my great confederate. Milk and water! The Town Pump and the Cow! Such is the glorious co-part- nership that shall tear down the distilleries and brew- houses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea and coffee trade, and, finally, monopolize the whole business of quenching thirst. Blessed con- summation! Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to an unpracticed orator. I never conceived till now, what toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they shall have the business to themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir! My dear hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated, by my instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor casks into one groat pile, and make a bonfire, in honor of the Town Pump. And, when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors, then, if yon revere my memory, let a marble fountain, richly sculptured, take my place upon the spot. Nathaniel Hawthorne. 76 THE BLIND BOY'S SPEECH. THE BLIND BOY'S SPEECH. Thiuk not that blindness makes me sad, My thoughts, like yours, are often glad, Parents I have, who love me well, Their different voices I can tell. Though far away from them, I hear, In dreams, their music meets my ear, Is there a star so dear above As the low voice of one you love? I never saw mv father's face, Yet on his forehead when I place My hand, and fe*4 the wrinkles there, Left less by time than anxious care, I fear the world has sights of woe, To knit the brows of manhood so — I sit upon my father's knee; He'd loved me less, if I could see. I never saw my mother smile; Her gentle tones my heart beguile. They fall like distant melody — They are so mild and sweet to me. She murmurs not — my mother dear! Though sometimes I have kissed the tear From her soft cheek, to tell the joy One smiling word w T ouid give her boy. Right merry was I every day! Fearless to run about and play With sisters, brothers, friends, and all — To answer to their sudden call, To join the ring, to speed the chase, To find each playmate's hiding-place, And pass my hand across his brow, To tell him I could do it now! THE HEAVENS DECLARE THE GLORY OF GOD. 77 Yet, though delightful flew the hours, So passed in childhood's peaceful bowers, When all were gone to school but I, I used to sit at home and sigh; ' And, though I never longed to view The earth so green, the sky so blue, I thought I'd give the world to look Along the pages of a book. Now, since I learned to read and write, My heart is filled with new delight; And music, too -can there be found A sight so beautiful as sound*! Tell me, kind friends, in one short word, Am I not like a captive bird? I live in song, and peace, and joy — Though blind, a merry-hearted boy! Park Benjamin. THE HEAVENS DECLARE THE GLORY OF GOD. The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shiuing flame, Their great Origiual proclaim; Th' unwearied Sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's powers display, And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth, Repeats the story of her birth; While all the stars that round her burn, 78 NOTHING BUT LEAVES. And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though no real voice or sound Amid their radiant orbs be found? In Beason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing as they shine, " The Hand that made us, is divine!" Joseph Addison. NOTHING BUT LEAVES. Nothing but leaves; the spirit grieves Over a wasted life; Sin committed while conscience slept, Promises made but never kept, Hatred, battle, and strife; Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves; no garnered sheaves Of life's fair, ripened grain ; Words, idle words, for earnest deeds; We sow our seeds — lo! tares and weeds; We reap with toil and pain Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves; memory weaves No vail to screen the past; As we retrace our weary way, Counting each lost and misspent day — We find, sadly, at last, Nothing but leaves! LAUGH ON, LAUGH ON, TO-DAY ! 79 And shall we meet the Master so, Bearing our withered leaves? The Saviour looks for perfect fruit — We stand before him, humbled, mute; Waiting the words he breathes — Nothing but leaves! Lucy Evelina Ackekman. LAUGH ON, LAUGH ON, TO-DAY! Laugh on, fair cousins, for to you All life is joyous yet; Your hearts have all things to pursue, And nothing to regret; And every flower to you is fair, And every month is May; You've not been introduced to Care — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! Old Time will fling his clouds ere long Upon those sunny eyes; The voice whose every word is song, Will set itself to sighs; Your quiet slumbers — hopes and fears Will chase their rest away; To-morrow, you'll be shedding tears— Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! Oh, yes; if any truth is found In the dull schoolman's theme — If friendship is an empty sound, And love an idle dream — If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue Too soon on life's long way, At least, he'll run with you a league — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! 80 laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright As childhood's hues depart; You may be lovelier to the sight, And dearer to the heart; You may be sinless still, and see This earth still green and gay; But what you are you will not be, Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! O'er me have many winters crept, With less of grief than joy; But I have learned, and toiled, and wept — I am no more a boy! " I've never had the gout, 'tis true, My hair is hardly gray; But now /cannot laugh like you; Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! I used to have as glad a face, As shadowless a brow; I once could run as blithe a race As you are running now; But never mind how /behave, Don't interrupt your play, And, though I look so very grave, Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! Winthrop M. Peaed. SPIRITUAL FREEDOM — WHAT IS IT ? 81 SPIBITUAL FKEEDOM— WHAT IS IT? 1 call that mind free, which masters the senses, which pro- tects itself against animal appetites, which contemns pleas- ure and pain in comparison with its own energy, which penetrates beneath the body and recognizes its own reality and greatness, which passes life, not in asking what it shall eat or drink, but in hungering, thirsting, and seeKiug after righteousness. I call that mind free, which escapes the bondage of mat- ter, which, instead of stopping at the material universe, and making it a prison-wall, passes beyond it to its Author, and finds in the radiant signatures which it every- where bears of the Infinite Spirit, helps to its own spirit- ual enlargement. I CftU that mind free, which jealously guards its intellec- tual rights and powers, which calls no man master, which does not content itself with a passive or hereditary faith, which opens itself to light whencesoever it may come, which receives new truth as an angel from heaven, which, while consulting others, inquires still more of the oracle within itself, and uses instruction from abroad, not to supersede, but to quicken and pxalt its own energies. I call that mind free, which sets no bounds to its love, which is not imprisoned in itself or in a sect, which re- cognizes in all human beings the image of God, and the rights of His children, which delights iu virtue and sym- pathizes with suffering, wherever they are seen, which con- quers pride, anger, and sloth, and offers itself up a willing victim to the cause of mankind. 1 call that mind free, which is not passively framed by outward circumstances, which is not swept away by the torrents of events, which is not the creature of accidental impulse, but which bends events to its own improvement, and acts from an inward spring, from immutable princi- ples which it has deliberately espoused. 82 SPIRITUAL FREEDOM — WHAT IS IT ? / call that mind free, which protects itself against the usurpations of society, which does not cower to human opinion, which feels itself accountable to a higher tribunal than man's, which respects a higher law than fashion, which respects itself too much to be the slave or tool of the many or the few. / call that mind free, which, through confidence in God, and, in the power of virtue, has cast off all fear but that of wrong doing, which no menace or peril can enthrall, which is calm in the midst of tumults, and possesses it- self, though all else be lost. I call that mind free, which resists the bondage of habit, which does not mechanically repeat itself and copy the past, which does not live on its old virtues, which does not enslave itself to precise rules, but which forgets what is behind, listens for new and higher monitions of con- science, and rejoices to pour itself forth in fresh and higher exertions. 1 call that mind free, which is jealous of its own freedom, which guards itself from being merged in others, which guards its empire over itself as nobler than the empire of the world. In fine, I call that mind free, which, conscious of its affinity with God, and confiding in His promises by Jesus Christ, devotes itself faithfully to the unfolding of all its powers, which passes the bounds of time and death, which hopes to advance forever, and which finds inexhaustible power, both for action and suffering, in the prospect of immortality. William Ellery Channing. KING OUT THE OLD YEAR. 83 RING OUT THE OLD YEAR. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die! Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow. The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true! Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease^ Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. 84 SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. '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. Alfeed Tennyson. SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. 'Twas Christmas Eve in a mining town where the great Sierras rise, And many a miner " strikes it rich," and many a miner dies, And a woman young and beautiful, who wore a widow's cap, Sat in a lonely cabin with a bright boy on her lap. The boy sat musing deeply till at length he raised his head, And looking in the widow's eyes, he kissed her as he said, " You say that Santa Claus won't come to-night because we're poor! Why, ma, I think because of that he ought to come the more! " I mean to hang my stocking up, at any rate, and try What he will do. I do not think he'll pass our cabin by." And then with simple, childish faith his little prayer he said, Pinned his wee stocking to the jamb, kissed ma, and went to bed. The widow mourned in silence, till the boy went fast asleep, Then suddenly she raised her eyes above and ceased to weep. SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. 85 " Ob, God!" she cried, "I suffer, but I know Thy ways are just, Give me the total measure of my sweet boy's faith and trust!" Jack Horn, a stalwart miner, brave and generous, though rude, Whose ideas of propriety, to say the least, were crude, Had meaat that Christmas evening at the widow's hut to call, But peeping through the window blind had heard and witnessed all. A lump arose in Jack Horn's throat the while he wiped his eyes, And muttered, "If I know myself I'll give you a sur- prise!" Then as he looked around the place to further his design, He spied some stockings hanging out and took one from the line. And then he hurried back to camp, and to a place re- paired Where miners took their precious dust and fickle fortune dared, And holding up the stocking to the rough, red-shir ted crowd, He rapped for their attention, and then he said aloud ? "Boys, this is merry Christmas Eve, and at your door I'm knockin' For slugs— this wee bag that I hold is Santa Claus' stockin'. Look at it! It's as empty as the foot it fits is cunning, I stole it from a clothes-line at the house of Poor Tom Dunning. 86 SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. " You all knew Tom — he was, while here, as white a man as any, But when death scooped him into camp he didn't leave a penny, And now his widder, proud as sin, though delicate in figger. Won't take a red cent from the boys, but works like any nigger. " Her young kid b'lieves in Santa Claus, and he's hung up his stockin', And when he finds it empty in the mornin' 'twill be shockin', And so I now propose to take from every pot a shiner And put it in this wee bag as a present from each miner." "Done!" was the cry that then arose without a single croaker, And soon the enthusiastic crowd began a game of poker. Pot after pot was rattled off, and no man rushed to cover, Till Santa Claus' little bag with wealth was running over. Next morn when little Tom jumped up and rushed to get his stocking, As Jack Horn had predicted, its emptiness was shocking! But he still had faith in Santa Claus, and said with visage bright, "I guess he came this morning, 'cause he hadn't time last night. " For I heard him on the door-step at least an hour ago, And he's left my Christmas presents out there — he has, I know!" And full of childish confidence, he opened wide the door, And shrieked out with amazement at the wealth of things he saw. SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. 87 A sword, a gun, a humming-top, a little rocking-chair, A suit of clothes, some brand-new shoes, and other things to wear, Hams, flour, coffee, sugar, tea, provisions, more, by far, Than he had ever seen before, besides a shawl for ma. He laughed, he danced, he clapped his hands, and shouted in his glee, " Oh, ma, see what old Santa Claus has brought for you and me! I told you he would surely come — he could not pass us by!" Then suddenly he stopped and asked, "Oh, ma, what makes you cry?" The widow caught close to her breast her darling, bright- eyed boy, And as she kissed him tenderly, while flowed her tears of joy. She said, "Oh, Heavenly Father, I have not prayed in vain, And come what may hereafter, I will never doubt again!" Again she kissed her darling and stood him on the floor, And smoothed his curly head, and went to close the open door. But an object lay before her which the cabin door was blocking, And written on it legibly was "Santa Claus' stocking." 'Twas heavy, and to lift it Widow Dunning was scarce able, But she managed with an effort to convey it to the table, When she opened it and started back to find, oh, fortune rare! A thousand dollars at the least, in slugs and eagles there. 88 FILIAL PIETY. A year passed by, and Jack Horn called each week on Mrs. Dunning; Somehow he learned to look on her as charming, cute, and cuuning, And when again the Christmas time brought joy and bracing weather, Jack Horn coufes>ed his passion, and their lives were linked together. Francis S. Smith. FILIAL PIETY. Filial Piety! — It is the primal bond of society — it is that iustinctive principle which, panting for its proper good, soothes, unbidden, each sense and sensibility of man! — it now quivers on every lip! — it now beams from every eye! — it is an emanation of that gratitude, which, soften- ing under the sense of recollected good, is eager to own ttie vast, countless debt it ne'er, alas! can pay, torso many long years of unceasing solicitudes, honorable self-denials, life-preserving cares! — it is that part of our practice where duty drops its awe! — where reverences refines into love! — it asks no aid of memory!— it needs not the deductions of reason! — pre-existing, paramount over all, whether law or human rule, few arguments can increase, and none can diminish it! — it is the sacrament of our nature! — not only the duty — but the indulgence of a man — it is his first great privilege — it is among his last, most endearing de- lights! — it causes the bosom to glow with reverberated love! — it requires the visitations of nature, and returns the blessings that have been received!— it fires emotions into vital principle — it renders habituated instinct into a master passion — sways all the energies of man — hangs over each vicissitude of all that must pass away — aids the melancholy Yirtues in their last sad tasks of life, to cheer the languors DIKGE FOB A SOLDIER. 89 of decrepitude and age— explores the thought — elucidates the aching eye! — and breathes sweet consolation even in the awful moment of dissolution! ElCHARD BrINSLEY SHERIDAN. DIEGE FOE A SOLDIER Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Else of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow; What cares he? he cannot know; Lay him low! As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow; What cares he? he cannot know; Lay him low! Fold him in his country's stars, Eoll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death-bemocking folly? Lay him low. lay him lew, In the clover or the snow; What cares he? he cannot know; Lay him low! 90 PERSEVERE. Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him, Mortal love weeps idly by; God alone has power to aid him, Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow; What cares he? he cannot know, Lay him low! George H. Boker. PERSEVERE. Robert the Bruce in the dungeon stood, Waiting the hour of doom; Behind him, the Palace of Holyrood — j Before him, a nameless tomb. And the foam on his lip was flecked with red As away to the past his memory sped, Upcalling the clay of his great renown, When he won and he wore the Scottish crown. Yet, come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. "I have sat on the royal seat of Scone," He muttered, below his breath; "It's a luckless change — from a kingly throne To a felon's shameful death." And he clenched his hand in his despair, And he struck at the shapes that were gathering there, Pacing his cell in impatient rage, As a new-caught lion paces his cage. But, come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his web so fine. PERSEVERE. 91 "Oh, were it my fate to yield up ray life At the bead of rny liegemen all, In the foremost shock of the battle-strife Breaking my country's thrall, I'd welcome death from the foeman's steel, Breathing a prayer for old Scotland's weal; But here, where no pitying heart is nigh, By a loathsome hand it is hard to die." Yet, come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. "Time and again have I fronted the pride Of the tyrant's vast array, But only to see, on the crimson tide, My hopes swept far away. Now a landless chief and a crownless king, On the broad, broad earth not a living thing To keep me court, save yon insect small, Striving to reach from wall to wall." For, come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. "Work, work as a fool, as I have done, To the loss of your time and pain — The space is too wide to be bridged across, You but waste your strength in vain." And Bruce, for the moment, forgot his grief, His soul now filled with the same belief — That, howsoever the issue went, For evil or good was tho omen sent. And, come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. As a gambler watches his turning card On which his all is staked — As a mother waits for the hopeful word 92 KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GKEY. For which her soul has ached — It was thus Bruce watched, with every sense Centered alone in that look intense; All rigid he stood, with un uttered breath, Now white, now red, but still as death. Yet, come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. Six several times the creature tried, When at the seventh — ''See! see! He has spanned it over!" the captive cried, "Lo! a bridge of hope to me; Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson here Has tutored my soul to Persevere!" And it served him well, for ere long he wore In freedom the Scottish crown once more. And, come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. John Brougham. KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY. Two brown heads with tossing curls, Bed lips shutting over jDearls, Bare feet, white and wet with dew, Two black eyes, and two eyes blue. Little girl and boy were they, Katie Lee and Willie Grey. They were standing where a brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Flashed its silver, and thick ranks Of willow fringed its mossy banks — Half in thought and half in play, Katie Lee and Willie Grey. KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY. 93 They had cheeks like cherries red; He was taller — 'most a head. She with arms like wreaths of snow, Swung a basket to and fro As she loitered, half in play, Chattering to Willie .Grey. " Pretty Katie," Willie said— And there came a dash of red Through the brownness of his cheek — "Boys are strong and girls are weak, And I'll carry, so I will, Katie's basket up the hill," Katie answered, with a laugh, "You shall carry only half;" And then tossing back her curls, "Boys are weak as well as girls." Do you think that Katie guessed Half the wisdom she possessed? Men are only boys grown tall; Hearts don't change much after all; And when, long years from that day, Katie Lee and Willie Grey Stood again beside the brook Bending like a shepherd's crook — Is it strange that Willie said, While again a dash of red Crossed the brownness of his cheek, "I am strong and tou are weak; Life is but a slippery steep, Hung with shadows cold and deep. "Will you trust me, Katie dear- Walk beside me without fear? 94 TAKING MES. JONES* CENSUS. May I carry, if I will, All your burdens up the hill?" And she answered, with a laugh, "No, but you may carry half." Close beside the little brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Washing with its silver hands Late and early at the sands, Is a cottage, where to-day Katie lives with Willie Grey. In a porch she sits, and lo! Swings a basket to and fro — Vastly different from the one That she swung in years agone, This is long and deep and wide, And has — rockers at the side, J. E. PlXLEY. TAKING MKS. JONES' CENSUS. When the census enumerator knocked on Jones' door, it was opened by a fierce-looking woman with red hair. When he had explained his errand, she said, savagely: " I sha'n't tell you a thing, you impudent vagabond!" " But, madam, the Government " "It's none of the Government's business who lives here!" " But the Government, madam, wants the names so that it can send to each person a splendid chromo, which " "What kind of chromos?" she asked. "Those with a blue girl putting green sunflowers around a pink sheep's neck, while a yellow cow looks through a mud-colored fence?" TAKING MRS. JONES' CENSUS. 95 " Yes," said the -enumerator, "and with a glorious red sunset over behind the barn." " Well, we have twenty-two of those chromes in the house now. Got 'em as prizes at the tea store, and we don't want any more. So you can quit!" "Very well, madam; then I shall have to get the facts as well as I can. I will put you down as having eighteen children, nine boys and nine girls, and six of them twins, with red hair. How will that do?" asked the enumerator, making a memorandum with his pencil. "Put down what you please. Only the twins and red hair are lies, and if you put them into the census report, Mr. Jones will sue you for libel." "Ah! Jones is the name, is it? Let me see, I'll put you down as a Presbyterian, and Mr. Jones as a Baptist. How will that do?" "My folks have been Methodists for centuries. As for the Joneses, you can class them among the sinners; put 'em under the head of Total Depravity, even if they are Episcopalians." "May I ask what is Mr. Jones' occupation?" " He is mostly occupied in going to picnics and to horse- races just now, spending the money that ought to buy me clothes." " Has he no regular business?" "No; 'tis irregular. He hasn't made a whole boot for a month." "Shoemaker," said the enumerator to himself. "I am getting along. And now, madam, how old are you?" "Who told you to ask?" " The President. Gave special orders. Said on no ac- count was I to quit until I got your exact age." "Well, he'll find it out, drat his impudence, when I choose to tell him, and that's not yet." " Suppose I say sixty-seven," suggested the enumerator, thoughtfully. 96 TAKING MES. JONES' CENSUS. "You call me sixty-seven if you dare! I'm not an hour over forty-two, and I can prove it out of the family Bible. But it's nobody's business but mine how old I am. Jones is fifty-two, but nobody would believe it who knew him. A child has more sense." " The next question is, 'What color are the various mem- bers of your family — white, black, mulatto, Chinese, or Indian?" " That," said Mrs. Jones, "is sheer insolence. We are all just as white as you are." 11 No Chinese?" "Certainly not." "No Indians?" "You daren't ask such a question if I had the kitchen poker with me." " No colored people about?" "Jimmy!" shouted Mrs. Jones; "bring me a kettle of hot water!" "We will pass that, then," said the enumerator. "Now let me know how many of the family are blind, deaf, dumb, idiotic, insane, crippled, bed-ridden, paralyzed, feeble- minded, one-legged, dyspeptic, suffering from torpid livers, or hydrocephalus, or otherwise disabled?" "Is that on the paper there?" "Yes, ma'am." " Well, it's outrageous! But there is nothing the matter with any of us, excepting that Jones is a little deaf in the right ear, and Tommy squints, and I always have lumbago in the fall, when Jones' chills come on. And Lucy has warts. Does the paper ask about warts?" "I think not. The Government seems to be indifferent about the number of warts in the country." " I wonder it don't want to know about 'em. I wonder it don't want to know how often I give Johnny paregoric and sugar for the stomach-ache. That'd be no worse than some of the things it does ask. What business is it of TAKING MRS. JONES* CENSUS. 97 the President whether Mr. Jones has one leg or eleven? The number of Mr. Jones' legs has nothing to do with the prosperity of the couutry, has it? Well, then, it is scan- dalous to send you here to ask about 'em." "Let ine see," said the enumerator, running over his paper with the point of his lead pencil; "how many times have you been married? And mention, if you please, why it was that your husband, or husbands, expressed a pref- erence for a homely woman with warm hair?" The enumerator was a brave man, but he was small. Mrs. Jones, on the contrary, was large and muscular. When she let go of his collar, and he had collected his senses, he found himself lyiug in the geranium bed, cov- ered with mud, and with his memorandum- book on the other side of the fence. Mrs. Jones had retreated to the house, and double locked the door, while she went to the stable yard to un- chain the dog. The enumerator picked himself up and emerged from the front gate just in time to miss the dog. Then he went over to Smiley's, across the way, aud, after obtaining a description of the Smiley family, Mrs. Smiley gave him a full account of Mrs. Jones' household, with a variety of picturesque, but not very flattering, information respecting Mrs. Jones' personal peculiarities. When the enumerator hands in his description of the Joneses, he is going to make it mighty interesting for the general reader. Max Adeleb. 98 THE LOKD OF BURLEIGH. THE LOED OF BUELEIGH. In her ear he whispers gayly — "If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watched thee daily, And I think thoulov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter — " There is none I love like thee," He is but a landscape painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips that fondly falter, Presses his, without reproof; Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof. "I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife; Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." They, by parks and lodges going, See the lordly castles stand; Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well — "Let us see these handsome houses, Where the wealthy nobles dwell." So she goes, by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and ordered gardens great; Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 99 All he shows her makes hiin dearer; Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage, growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. Oh, but she will love him truly; He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gate-way she discerns, With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns — Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before; Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footsteps firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round, and kindly — "All of this is mine and thine." Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free; Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the color flushes Her sweet face, from brow to chin; As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove; 100 THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. But he clasped her like a lover, And he cheered her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Though at times her spirit sank; Shaped her heart, with woman's meekness, To all duties of her rank. And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such, That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weighed upon her, And perplexed her night and morn, "With the burden of an honor Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and even fainter, As she murmured — "Oh, that he Were once more that landscape painter, Which did win my heart from me!" So she drooped and drooped before him, Fading slowly from his side; Three fair children first she bore him, Then, before her time, she died. Weeping, weeping, late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh House, by Stamford town. And he came to look upon her, And he looked at her and said — " Bring the diess and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed." Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body dressed In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest. Alfred Tennyson. THE PILGKIMS. 101 THE PILGKIMS. Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown, sea, I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from their base, the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel. I see them, ' escaped from those perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth — weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, with- out means, surrounded by hostile tribes. Shut, now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treat- ies had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Stu- dent of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's 102 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it dis- ease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea? — was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melan- choly fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope! Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious! Edward Everett. THE FIELD OF WATEKLOO. Stop! for thy tread is an empire's dust; And earthquake's spoil is sepulchered below! Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. As the ground was before, thus let it be. How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory? There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again; And all went merry as a marriage-bell. But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 103 Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony stieet; On with the dance! let joy be unconnned! No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet! Bnt hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before. Arm! Arm! it is, it is the cannon's opening roar! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near His heart more truly knew that peal too well, Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there was sudden parting, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eves, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, And near, the beat of the alarming drum 104 the pauper's death-bed. Boused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens, w ith terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! they come! the j come!" Last noon beheld them full of lusty life; Last eve, in beauty's circle, proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife The morn, the marshaling in arms — the day, Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder clouds close o'er it; which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent. Byron. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. Tread softly — bow the head; In reverent silence bow; No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger! however great, With lowly reverence bow; There's one in that poor shed, One by that paltry bed, Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state; Enter — no crowds attend; Enter — no guards defend This palace gate. THE DYING SOLDIES. 105 That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meager hands A dying head. No mingling voices sound — Au infant wail alone; A sob suppressed — again That short, deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh! change!— Oh! wondrous change! Burst are the prison bars — This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars! Oh! change — stupendous change! There lies the soulless clod! The sun eternal breaks — The new immortal w r akes — Wakes with his God! Caroline Bowles Southey. THE DYING SOLDIER "Chaplain, I am dying, dying; Cut a lock from off my hair, For my darling mother, chaplain, After I am dead, to wear; Mind you, 'tis for mother, chaplain, She whose early teachings now Soothe and comfort the poor soldier, With the death-dew on his brow! 106 THE DYING SOLDIEB. "Kneel down, now, beside me, chaplain, And return rny thanks to Him Who so good a mother gave me, Oh, my eyes are growing dim! Tell her, chaplain, should you see her, All at last with me was well; Through the valley of the shadow I have gone, with Christ to dwell! "Do not weep, I pray you, chaplain; Yes, ah! weep for mother dear; I'm the only living son, sir, Of a widowed mourner here; Mother! I am going, going To the land where angels dwell; I commend vou unto Jesus: Mother darling — fare you well!" Downward from their thrones of beauty Looked the stars upon his face; Upward on the wings of duty Sped the angel of God's grace. Bearing through the heavenly portal, To his blessed home above, The dead soldier's soul immortal, To partake of Christ's sweet love. Far away, in humble cottage, Sits his mother, sad and lone; And her eyes are red with weeping, Thinking of her absent son. Suddenly Death's pallid presence Cast a shadow o'er her brow; Smiling a sweet smile of welcome, She is with her loved ones now ! BlCHABD COE. A LOST MOTHEK-IN-IiAW. 107 A LOST MOTHER-IN-LAW. A Pittsburgh paper the other day published an account of a corpse, which was shipped to that place on a railroad, but, w^hich missed the connections somehow, two or three times, and didn't turn up for about a month. It is a very odd coincidence that. Dr. Robinson, of our village, had al- most a precisely similar experience a month or two ago. He received a telegram from New York, from a iDerson unknown to him, saying that his mother-in-law was dead, and that the body would be sent right on. He waited for several days, and as the old lady failed to arrive, he made some inquiry about her at the express office. The express people stirred around, and after a while as- certained that the remains had been sent through to Washington, and delivered by some blunder to Secretary Tracy, under the impression that the box contained the model of a new-fangled gunboat. Dr. Robinson instantly telegraphed on to the secretary that if he didn't return the body promptly, he would have him arrested for embezzling his mother-in-law. The next day he received an answer, saying that the box had been re-shipped, and stating that if he tried to palm any more of his old cadavers off on the national administration, he would be seized and shot. But still the package didn't turn up, and the doctor again put the express people on the scent. They discov- ered that it had somehow got off onto the Northern Cen- tral Railroad, and was lying in the office at Harrisburgh. They ordered it to be sent on. It was coming all right on the next train, when the express car was attacked by masked robbers, who ran the coffin out, opened it, and then left in disgust. Next morning the body was found standing against a tree, and the coroner wouldn't let it 108 A LOST MOTHER-IN-LAW. go until he had held an inquest on it, and collected his fees. But finally it was re-shipped at York, Pa., and it ap- peared to be on the way home when a collision occurred, and the folks who came to the rescue concluded that this must be one of the killed. So another coroner sat on it, and then it was buried. The doctor compelled the ex- press company to have it disinterred, and it was set in motion again. It arrived at Wilmington on the Fourth of July, and the express messenger was so anxious to get away to view the fire-works, that he didn't push the box all the way into the car, and while the train was going over a creek, the car received a jolt, the box slid out and into the creek, and the unconscious old lady sailed down with the tide, and never made land until she reached the Delaware Break- water, down opposite Cape May. The doctor was perfectly wild about it, for nobody could tell where the box had got to. The* people at the break- water thought it must have fallen overboard from a steamer, and they telegraphed pretty nearly all over the world about it. At last the news reached the papers, and the express company investigated the matter, and had the body shipped toward home. Word was sent to the doc- tor that she was coming at last upon a certain train, so he got the funeral procession ready and marched it down to the depot to receive his deceased relative. When the train reached the station it went past without stopping, and the doctor was furious. He telegraphed over to Wilmingtou, and got a promise that the box would be sent on the next train in about four hours. So the mourners all waited around in the swelter- ing heat, and sure enough, after a while, the box arrived. It was shot out at the station. They put it in the hearse and took it to the cemetery, where it was safely interred. Then the doctor felt easy at last, and he went home with a A LOST MOTHER-IN-LAW. 109 rather light heart. When he entered the house he saw a woman sitting in the parlor toasting her toes by the grate. She turned around as he entered, and to his amazement and horror he perceived that it was his mother-in-law. His first impulse was to slam the door and run. But he summoned up courage euough to say: " Great Heaven! what are you doing here? How did you ever come to and climb out of that sepulcher?" She was inclined to behave ugly at first at receiving such a greeting, but when the doctor explained the matter, she agreed that it was the most extraordinary thing she ever heard of. So the doctor started right out for the ceme- tery, and ordered the man to disinter those remains^ In about two hours the man called to say that he had dug down about forty feet, and, strange to say, couldn't find the body. Then the doctor felt cold creep all over him, and he began to doubt if the old lady up stairs was real flesh and blood after all. But he proceeded to the grave- vard to examine the matter for himself, and to his relief he found that the fool of a man had dug in the wrong place. So they got the body up at last, and took a look at it, and the doctor saw at once that there was a mistake. It was not his mother-in-law at all. While he was wondering what on earth it meant, he heard that the Episcopal minister was rushing around try- ing to find out something about his dead and strayed mother-in-law. His name was Bev. Dr. Bobertson, and Dr. Bobinson gave him a look at the body in the box. It was the minister's relative. Then the other doctor wanted him to shoulder all those coroner's fees and funeral ex- penses, which the minister declined to do, on the ground that the jrb had been unnecessarily botched, and so the case was taken into court, and set down for trial at the next term. We are awaiting the result with some anxiety. Dr. Bobinson says that if he is going to have other peo- ple's dead mothers-in-law shoved ofi'on him by the law of 110 TUBAL CAIN. the land, he intends to emigrate, and reside permanently somewhere else. Max Adkler. TUBAL CAIN. Old Tubal Cain was a man of might In the days when the earth was young, By the fierce red light of his furnace bright, The strokes of his hammer rung; And he lifted high his brawny hand On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers As he fashioned the sword and spear. And he sang, * 'Hurrah for my handiwork! Hurrah for the spear and sword! Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well! For he shall be king and lord." To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire, And each one prayed for a strong steel blade, As the crown of his desire; And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud in glee, And gave him gifts of pearls and gold, And spoils of forest free. And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Who hath given us strength anew! Hurrah for the smith! hurrah for the fire! And hurrah for the metal true!" But a sudden change came o'er his heart Ere the setting of the sun, And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done. TUBAL CAIN. Ill He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind; That the land was red with the blood they shed In their lust for carnage blind. And he said, "Alas, that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and the sword, for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man!" And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smoldered low; Bat he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright, courageous eye, And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high; And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!' , And the red sparks lit the air — "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made" — And he fashioned the first plowshare. And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And plowed the willing lands; And sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain! Our stanch good friend is he; And, for the plowshare and the plow, To him our praise shall be. But while oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the plow, We'll not forget the sword." Chaeles Mackay. 112 THE H0TJK OF DEATH. THE HOUK OF DEATH, Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer — But all for Thee, thou mightiest of the earth. • The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erw helming power, A time for softer tears — but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee — but thou are not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain — But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? — They have one season — all are ours to die! THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 113 Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Aud stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! Felicia Hemans. THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. Here's a big washing to be done — 1 One pair of hands to do it — Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats and pants, How will I e'er get through it? Dinner to get for six or more, No loaf left o'er from Sunday; And baby cross as he can live — He's always so on Monday. 'Tis time the meat was in the pot, The bread was worked for baking, The clothes were taken from the boil — Oh, dear! the baby's waking! Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh-sL! I wish he'd sleep a little, 114 THE HOUSEKEEPEK'S SOLILOQUY. 'Till I could run and get some wood, To hurry up the kettle. Oh, dear! oh, dear! if P comes home, And finds things in this pother, Hell just begin to tell me all About his tidy mother! How nice her kitchen used to be, Her dinner always ready Exactly when the noon-bell rang — Hush, hush, dear little Freddy! And then will come some hasty words, Eight out before I'm thinking — They say that hasty words from wives Set sober men to drinking. Now, is not that a great idea, That men should take to sinning, Because a weary, half-sick wife, Can't always smile so winning? When I was young, I used to earn My living without trouble, Had clothes, and pocket money, too, And hours of leisure double. I never dreamed of such a fate, When I, a-lass! was courted — Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, housekeeper, chambermaid, laundress, dairy woman, and scrub gener- ally, doing the work of six, For the sake of being supported! Mrs. F. D. Gaoe. THE TRAITOR'S DEATH-BED. 115 THE TKAITOK'S DEATH-BED. Fifty years ago, in a rude garret, near the loneliest sub- urbs of the city of London, lay a dying man. He was but half dressed, though his legs were concealed in long mili- tary boots. An aged minister stood beside the rough couch. The form was that of a strong man, grown old through care more than age. There was a face that you might look upon once, and yet wear it in your memory forever. Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face. A bold forehead seamed by one deep wrinkle, visible be- tween the brows — long locks of dark hair, sprinkled with gray; lips firmly set, yet quivering, as though they had a life separate from the life of the man; and then, two large eyes — vivid, burning, unnatural in their steady glare. Ay, there was something terrible in that face — something so full of unnatural loneliness — unspeakable despair, that the aged minister started back in horror. But look! those strong arms are clutching at the vacant air; the death- sweat stands in drops on that bold brow — the man is dy- ing. Throb — throb — throb — beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. "Would you die in the faith of the Chris- tian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there on the damp floor. The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but made no sound. Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first time he spoke. "Christian!" he echoed, in that deep tone which thrilled the preacher to the heart; "will that faith give me back my honor? Come with me, old man, come with me, far over the waters. Ha! we are there! This is my native town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood; yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But an- 116 THE TRAITOK'S DEATH-BED. other flag waves yonder, in place of the flag tliat waved when I was a child. " And listen, old man, were I to pass along the streets, as I passed when but a child, the very babes in their cradles would raise their tiny hands, and curse me! The graves in yonder church-yard would shrink from my foot- steps; and yonder flag would rain a baptism of blood upon my head!" That was an awful death-bed. The minister had watched "the last night" with a hundred convicts in their cells, but had never beheld a scene so terrible as this. Sud- denly the dying man arose; he tottered along the floor. With those white fingers, whose nails were blue with the death-chill, he threw open a valise. He drew from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, and the wreck of a battle-flag. "Look ye, priest! this faded coat is spotted with my blood!" he cried, as old memories seemed stirring at his heart. " This coat I wore, when I first heard the news of Lexington; this coat I wore, when I planted the banner of the stars on Ticonderoga! that bullet-hole was pierced in the fight of Quebec; and now, I am a — let me whisper it in your ear!" He hissed that single burning word into the minister's ear. "Now, help me, priest! help me to put on this coat of blue; for you see" — and a ghastly smile came over his face — "there is no one here to wipe the cold drops from my brow; no wife, no child. I must meet Death alone; but I will meet him, as I have met him in battle, without a fear!" And, while he stood arraying his limbs in that worm- eaten coat of blue and silver, the good minister spoke to him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that great faith, which pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back from the face of God. " Faith!" echoed the strange man, who stood there, erect, with the death-chill on his brow; "Faithl Can it give me back my honor? Look ye, priest! THE TEAITOR'S DEATH-BED. 117 there, over the waves, sits George Washington, telling to his comrades the pleasant story of the eight years' war; there, in his royal halls, sits George of England, bewail- ing, in his idiotic voice, the loss of his colcnies! And here am I! — I, who was the first to raise the flag of freedom, the first to strike a blow against that king — here am I, dy- ing! oh, dying like a dog!" The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look of the dying man, while throb — throb — throb — beats the death-watch, in the shattered wall. "Hush! silence along the lines there!" he muttered, in that w T ild, absent tone, as though speaking to the dead; ' 'silence along the lines! not a word — not a word, on peril of your lives! Hark you. Montgomery! we will meet in the center of the town — we will meet there in victory, or die! — Hist! silence, my men, not a whisper, as we move up those steep rocks! Now on, my boys, now oni Men of the wilderness, we will gain the town! Now, up with the banner of the stars — up with the flag of freedom, though the night is dark, and the snow falls! Now! now, one more blow, and Quebec is ours!" And look! his eye grows glassy. With that word on his lips, he stands there — ah! what a hideous picture of de- spair; erect, livid, ghastly; there for a moment, and then he falls — he is dead! Ah, look at that proud form, thrown cold and stiff upon the damp floor. In that glassy eye there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy — a sublimity of despair. Who is this strange man lying there alone, in this rude garret; this man, who, in all his crimes, still treasured up in that blue uniform, that faded flag? Who is this being of horrible remorse — this man, whose memories seem to link something with heaven, and more with hell? Let us look at that parchment and flag. The aged min- ister unrolls that faded flag; it is a blue banner gleaming with thirteen stars. He unrolls that parchment; it is a 118 THE BRAVE AT HOME. colonel's commission in the Continental Army, addressed to Benedict Arnold. And there, in that rude hut, while the death-watch throbbed like a heart in the shattered wall; there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of desola- tion, lay the corpse of the patriot and the traitor. Geobge Lippard. THE BEAVE AT HOME. The maid who binds her warrior's sash, With smile that well her pain dissembles, The while beneath her drooping lash One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles. Though Heaven alone records the tear, And fame shall never know the story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear As e'er bedewed the field of glory. The wife who girds her husband's sword, 'Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word, What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of death around him rattle, Had shed as sacred blood as e'er Was poured upon a field of battle! The Mother who conceals her grief, While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod Beceived on Freedom's field of honor! T. Buchanan Bead. THE PSALM OF MAKKIAGE. 119 PSALM OF MARRIAGE. Tell me not in idle jingle, "Marriage is an empty dream!" For the girl is dead that's single, And gir]s are not what they peem. Life is real! Life is earnest! Single blessedness a fib! "Man thou art, to man returnest!" Has been spoken of the rib. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow Finds us nearer marriage day. Life is long, and youth is fleeting, And our hearts, though light and gay. Still like pleasant drums are beating Wedding marches all the way. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb driven cattle! Be a heroine — a wife! Trust no future, howe'er pleasant, Let the dead past bury its dead! Act — act to the living Present! Hearts within and hope ahead! Lives of married folks remind us We can live our lives as well, And, departing, leave behind us, Such examples as shall "tell." 120 THE WATER MTL3J. Such examples that another, Wasting time in idle sport, A forlorn, unmarried bi other, Seeing, shall take heart and court. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart on triumph set, Still contriving, still pursuing, And each one a husband get. Phosbe Cart. THE WATEE MILL. Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the live-long dav, A3 the clicking of the wheel wears hour by hour away; How languidly the autumn wind doth stir the withered leaves, As on the field the reapers sing, while binding up the sheaves, A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, "The mill will never grind with water that is past." Soft summer winds revhe no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main, The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered grain, The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tranquil, deep and still, But never glideth back again to busy water mill, The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and vast, " The mill will never grind with water that is past." Oh! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, THE WATEK MILL. 121 For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing too, Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one hap£>y day, For time will ne'er return sweet joys, neglected, thrown away, Nor leave one tender word unsaid — true love alone will last — "The mill will never grind with water that is past." Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh, Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word, Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, perishing, un- penned, unheard — Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast — "The mill will never grind with water that is past." Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will, The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill, Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on the way, For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase, to-day — Possessions, power and blooming health, must all be lost at last — " The mill will never grind with water that is past." Oh! love thy God and fellow man, thyself considered last, For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past, 122 THE OLD ACTOK'S STOKY. Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede from view, And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true, Ah ! then thou'lt see more clearly still, the proverb deep and vast, " The mill will never grind with water that is past." D. C. McCallum. THE OLD ACTOE'S STOEY. Mine is a wild, strange story— the strangest you ever heard; There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel, every word; It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life; The scene was a ship, and the actors — were myself and my new-wed wife. You musn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then; I'm old, you know, and I wander — it's a way with old women and men, For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away, And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day. The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night, But I see it again this evening, I can never shut out the sight. We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our minds to go. THE OLD ACTOR'S STORY. 123 We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down With a strolling band of players, going from town to town; We played the lovers together — we were leading lady and gent— And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went. The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the ring, And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything. How we smiled at that part of the service when I said, "I thee endow!" But as to the "love and cherish," I meant to keep that vow. We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was good, When it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we could. We were happy, and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we made — Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade. Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit; Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit — Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call; But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall. We got an offer for Melbourne — got it that very week. 124 THE ou> actor's story. Those were the days when thousands went over to for- tune seek. The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot Good for a "spec," .and took us as actors among his lot. We hadn't a friend in England — we'd only ourselves to please — And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas. We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough; We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. But use is a second nature, and we'd gob not to mind a storm, When misery came upon us- came in a hideous form. My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad That the doctor said she was dying — I thought 'twould have sent me mad — Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, And the nearest land was hundreds — ay, thousands — of miles away. She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath. She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin, wan face, She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace. I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, THE OLD ACTOR* S STORY. 125 Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless — my wife was dead! Dead! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night, For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side, And all day long in my madness, "They've murdered her!" I cried. They locked me away from my fellows — put me in cruel chains, It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent. I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists. Beat at my prison panels, and then — O God! — and then I heard the shrieks of women, aud the tramp of hurrying men. I heard the cry, "Ship a-fire!" caught up by a hundred throats, And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats; Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood. I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, 126 THE OLD ACTOB'S STOEY. And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail, Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howl- ing gale. ' I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, "I will not die! Die in this burning prison!" — but I caught no answering cry. Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door, I was free — with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death; I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at play. And then — O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day. There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night; The flames flung a smile on her features — a horrible, lurid light. God knows how I reached and touched her, but found my- self by her side; I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died. In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain; I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain; THE OLD ACTOR'S STORY. ■ 127 Ob, was there mercy in heaven? Was there a God in the skies? The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her eyes. I cursed like a madman raving — I cried to her, "Nell! my Nell!" They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell; They had left us alone to perish — forgotten me living — and she Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea. I clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still; I seized her in spite of my fetters — fear gave a giant's will. God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and the wreck Up — up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck. We'd a moment of life together — a moment of life, the time For one last word to each other — 'twas a moment supreme, sublime. From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had bi ought her to life, And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife! It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay, Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by; 128 THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky. I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and she Tore with new strength at my fetters — God helped her, and I was free; Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. Did they save us? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my dear old wife. We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by. We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship! George E. Sims. THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIE. In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knickknacks and silly old books, THE CANE- BOTTOMED CHAIR. 129 And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), Old rickety* tables, and chairs broken-backed; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the sultan require Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn; 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and cherish the best; For the fiuest of couches that's padded with hair 1 never would change thee, my cane- bottomed chair. 'Tis a bandy-legg'd. high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair. If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms! I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair. 130 THE CLOWN'S BABY. It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane -bottomed chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone — I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair. She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair. Wm. M. Thackeray. THE CLOWN'S BABY. It was on a western frontier; The miners, rugged and brown, Were gathered around the posters; The circus had come to town! The great tent shone in the darkness Like a wonderful palace of light, And rough men crowded the entrance- Shows didn't come every night! Not a woman's face among them; Many a face that was bad, And some that were only vacant, And some that were very sad. THE CLOWN'S BABY. 13i And behind a canvas curtain, In a corner of the place, The clown, with chalk and vermilion, Was "making up" his face. A weary -looking woman, With a smile that still was sweet, Sewed on a little garment, With a cradle at her feet. Pantaloon stood ready and waiting; It was time for the going on, But the clown in vain searched wildly; The "property-baby" was gone! He murmured, impatiently hunting, " It's strange, I cannot find — There! I've looked in every corner; It must have been left behind!" The miners were stamping and shouting, They were not patient men. The clown bends over the cradle — " I must take you, little Ben!" The mother started and shivered, But trouble and want were near; She lifted her baby gently; "You'll be very careful, dear?" "Careful? You foolish darling"— How tenderly it was said! What a smile shone through the chalk and paint — "I love each hair of his head!" The noise rose into an uproar, Misrule for a time was king; The clown, with a foolish chuckle, Bolted into the ring. 132 the clown's baby. But as, with a squeak and flourish, The fiddles closed their tune, "You'll hold him as if he was made of glass?" Said the clown to Pantaloon. The jovial fellow nodded; " I've a couple myself," he said, "I know how to handle 'em, bless you! Old fellow, go ahead!" The fun grew fast and furious, And not one of all the crowd Had guessed that the baby was alive, When he suddenly laughed aloud. Oh, that baby -laugh! It was echoed From the benches with a ring, And the roughest customer there sprang up With, "Boys, it's the real thing!" The ring was jammed in a minute, Not a man that did not strive For "a shot at holding the baby," The baby that was •'alive!" He was thronged by kneeling suitors, In the midst of the dusty ring, And he held his court right royally — The fair little baby king — ■ Till one of the shouting courtiers, A man with a bold, hard face, The talk, for miles, of the country, And the terror of the place, Kaised the little king to his shoulder, And chuckled, "Look at that!" As the chubby fingers clutched his hair, Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!" SOME TIME. 133 There never was such a hatful Of silver, and gold, and notes; People are not always penniless Because they don't wear coats! And then, "Three cheers for the baby! ?: I tell you, thoso cheers were meant, And the way in which they were given Was enough to raise the tent. And then there w T as sudden silence, And a gruff old miner said, "Come, boys, enough of this rumpus! It's time it was put to bed." So, looking a little sheepish, But with faces strangely bright, The audience, somewhat lingeringly, Elocked out into the night. And the bold-faced leader chuckled — "He wasn't a bit afraid! He's as game as he is good-looking; Boys, that was a show that paid!" Makgaret Vandegrxet. SOME TIME. Last night, my darling, as you slept, I thought I heard you sigh, And to your little crib I crept And watched a space thereby; Then, bending down, I kissed your brow- For, oh, I love you so — You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know. Some time, when, in a darkened place Where others come to weep, 134 A FBEE SEAT. Your eyes shall see a weary face Calm in eternal sleep. The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow, The patient smile may show — You are too young to know it now, Bat some time you shall know. Look backward, then, into the years, And see me here to-night — See, oh, my darling! how my tears Are falling as I write; And feel once more upon your brow The kiss of long ago — 1 You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know. Eugene Field. A FBEE SEAT. He was old and poor and a stranger In the great metropolis, As he bent his steps thitherward To a stately edifice; Outside he inquires, "What church is this? 5 ' " Church of Christ," he hears them say; "Ah! just the place I am looking for; I trust he is in here to-day." He passed through the spacious columned door And up the carpeted aisle, And as he passed, on many a face He saw surprise and a smile. From pew to pew, up one entire side, Then across the broad front space; From pew to pew, down the other side He walked with the same slow pace. A FREE SEAT. 185 Not a friendly voice had bid him sit To list to the gospel truth, Not a sign of deference had been paid To the aged one by youth. No door was opened by generous hand, The pews were paid for — rented, And he was a stranger, old and poor, Not a heart to him relented. And as he paused outside a moment to think, Then passed into the street, Up to his shoulder he lifted a stone That lay in the dust at his feet. And bore it up the broad, grand aisle, In front of the ranks of pews, Choosing a place to see and hear, He made a seat for his use. Calmly sitting upon the huge stone, Folding his hands on his knees, Slowly, reviewing the worshipers, A great confusion he sees. Many a cheek crimsoned with shame, Some whisper together sore, And wished they had been more courteous To a stranger, old and poor. As if by magic some fifty doors Opened simultaneously, And as many seats and books and hands Are proffered hastily; Changing his stone for a crimsoned pew And wiping a tear away, He thinks it was a mistake, after all, And that Christ came late that day. 136 ST. IiEON's TOAST. The preacher's discourse was eloquent, The organ in finest tone, But the most impressive sermon heard Was preached by an humble stone. 'Twas a lesson of lowliness and worth That lodged in many a heart, And that church preserves that sacred sfcone, That the truth may not depart. Anonymous. ST. LEON'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. Then up arose the noble host, Who 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 Lady Gundamere!" Quick to his feet each gallant sprang, And joyous was the shout that rang, 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; st. leon's toast. 137 * k 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 stood 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 and 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 held the sparkling cup on high; 6 'I drink to one," he said, "Whose image never m;*y 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; 138 THE JINEES. And Stanley said, "We crave the name, Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, Whose fame 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!" Walteb Scott. THE JINERS. She was about forty-five years old, well dressed, had black hair, rather thin and tinged with gray, and eyes in which gleamed the fires of determination not easily balked. She walked into the mayor's office and requested a pri- vate interview, and having obtained it, and satisfied her- self that the law students were not listening at the key- hole, said slowly, solemnly, and impressively: "I want a divorce." "What for? I supposed you had one of the best of husbands," said the mayor. "I s'pose that's what everybody thinks; but if they knew what I've suffered in ten years, they'd wonder I hadn't scalded him long ago. I ought to, but for the sake of the young ones I've borne it, and said nothing. I've told him, though, what he might depend on, and now the time's come; I won't stand it, young ones or no young ones. I'll have a divorce, and if the neighbors want to blab them- selves hoarse about it they can, for I won't stand it an- other day." "But what's the matter? Doesn't your husband pro- THE JTNERS. 139 vide for you? Doesn't he treat you kindly?" pursued the mayor. " We get victuals enough, and I don't know but he's as true and kind as men in general, and he's never knocked any of us down, I wish he had; then I'd get him into jail, and know where he was of nights," retorted the woman. "Then what is your complaint against him?" "Well, if you must know, he's one of them plaguey jiners." "A what?" "A jiner — one of them pesky fools that's always jining something. There can't nothing come along that's dark and sly and hidden, but he jines it. If anybody should get up a society to burn his house down, he'd jine it just as soon as he could get in; and if he had to pay for it he'd go all the suddener. We hadn't been married more'n two months before he jined the Know Xothin's. We lived on a farm then, and every Saturday night he'd come tearing in before supper, grab a fistful of nut cakes, and go off gnawing them, and that's the last I'd see of him till morn- ing. And every other night he'd roll and tumble in his bed, and holler in his sleep, ' Put none but Americans on guard — George Washington;' and rainy days he would go out in the corn-barn, and jab at a picture of King George with an old bagnet that was there. I ought to put my foot down then, but he fooled me so with his lies that I let # him go and encouraged him in it. "Then he jined the Masons. P'raps you know what them be, but I don't, 'cept they think they are of the same kind of critters that built Solomon's temple; and of all the nonsense and gab about worshipful master, and square and compasses, and sich like that we had in the house for the next six months, you never see the beat. And he's never outgrowed it nuther. What do you think of a man, squire, that'll dress himself in a white apron, about big 140 THE JINERS. enough for a monkey's bib, and go marching up and down and making motions, and talking foolish Hugo at the pic- ture of George Washington, in a green jacket and an apron covered over with eyes and columns and other queer pictures! Ain't he aloouytick? Well, that's my Sam, and I've stood it as long as I am goin' to. " The next lunge the old fool made was into the Odd Fellows. I made it warm for him when he came home and told me he'd jined them, but he kinder pacified me by telling me they had a sort of branch show that took in women, and he'd get me iu as soon as he found how to do it. Well, one night he come home and said I'd been proposed, and somebody had blackballed me. Did it himself, of course. Didn't want me around knowing about his goings on. Of course he didn't, and I told him so. " Then he jined the Sons of Malter. Didn't say noth- ing to me about it, but sneaked off one night, pretendin' he'd go to sit up with a sick Odd Fellow, and I never found it out, only he come home looking like a man who had been through a threshing machine, and I wouldn't do a thing for him until he owned up. And so it's gone from bad to wus, jiuin' this and that and t'other, till he's wor- ship minister of the Masons, and goodness of hope of the Odd Fellows, and sword swallower of the Finnegans, and virgin cerus of the Grange, and grand mogul of the Sons of Indolence, and two-edged tomahawk of the United Order of Bed Meu, and tale bearer of the Merciful Mani- kins, and skipper of the Guild Caratrine Columbus, and grand oriental bouncer of the Royal Arcaners, and big wizard of the Arabian Nights, and pledge passer of the Reform Club, and chief bugler of the Irish Mechanics, and purse-keeper of the Order of Canadian Conscience, and double-barreled dictator of the Knights of the Brass Circles, and standard-bearer of the Royal Archangels, and sublime porte of the Onion League, and chief butler of THE JINERS. 141 the Celestial Cherubs, and puissant potentate of the Petri- fied Polly wogs, and goodness only knows what else. I've borne it and borne it, hopin' he'd get 'em all jined after a while, but 'tain't no use, and when he'd got into a new one, and been made grand guide of the Nights of Horror, I told him I'd quit, and I will." Here the mayor interrupted, saying: " Well, your husband is pretty well initiated, that's a fact; but the court will hardly call that a good cause for divorce. The most of the societies you mention are com- posed of honorable men with excellent reputations. Many of them, though called lodges, are relief associations and mutual insurance companies, which, if your husband should die, would take care of you, and would not see you suffer if you were sick." "See me suffer when I'm sick! Take care of me when he's dead! Well, I guess not; I can take care of myself when he's dead; and if I can't I can get another! There's plenty of 'em! And they needn't bother themselves when I am sick either. If I want to be sick and suffer, it's none of their business, especially after all the suffering I've had when I ain't sick, because of their carryin's on. And you needn't try to make me believe it's all right, either. I know w r hat it is to live with a man that jines so many lodges that he don't never lodge at home." " Oh, that's harmless amusement," quietly remarked the mayor; "and if all that you say about your husband is really as you affirm, it affords strong proof that he must be a man endowed with an unusual amount of earnestness of purpose, as well as a large degree of popularity." She looked him square in the eyes and said: "I believe you are a jiner yourself." He admitted that he was to a certain extent, and she arose and said: " I would not have thought it. A man like you, chair- man of a Sabbath-school — it's enough to make a woman 142 THE CHARITY DINNER. take pizen! But I don't want anything of you. I want a lawyer that don't belong to nobody or nothin'." And she bolted out of the office to hunt up a man that wasn't a jiner. Anonymous. THE CHAEITY DINNER Time: Half-past six o'clock. Place: The London Tav- ern. Occasion: Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands. On entering the room, we find more than two hundred noblemen and gentlemen already assembled; and the num- ber is increasing every minute. The preparations are now complete, and we are in readiness to receive the chairman. After a short pause, a little door at the end of the room opens, and the great man appears, attended by an admir- ing circle of stewards and toadies, carrying white wands like a parcel of charity schoolboys bent on beating the bounds. He advances smilingly to his post at the princi- pal table, amid deafening and long-continued cheers. The dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield up ourselves to the enjoyments of eating and drinking. These important duties finished, and grace having been beauti- fully sung by the vocalists, the real business of the even- ing commences. The usual loyal toasts having been given, the noble chairman rises, and, after passing his fingers through his hair, he places his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, gives a short preparatory cough, accom- panied by a vacant stare around the room, and commences as follows: "My Lords and Gentlemen: — It is with feelings of mingled pleasure and regret that I appear before you this THE CHAEITY DINNER. 143 evening; of pleasure, to find that this excellent and world- wide-known society is in so promising a condition; and of regret that you have not chosen a worthier chairman, in fact, one who is more capable than myself of dealing with a subject of such vital importance as this. (Loud cheers.) But, although I may be unworthy'of the honor, I am proud to state that I have been a subscriber to this society from its commencement; feeling sure that nothing can tend more to the advancement of civilization, social reform, fire- side comfort, and domestic economy among the Cannibals, than the diffusion of blankets and top-boots. (Tremend- ous cheering, which lasts for several minutes.) Here, in this England of ours, which is an island surrounded by water, as I suppose you all know — or, as our great poet so truthfully and beautifully expresses the same fact, 'Eng- land bound in by the triumphant sea' — what, down the long vista of years, have conduced more to our successes in arms, and arts, and song, than blankets? Indeed, I never gaze upon a blanket without my thoughts reverting fondly to the days of my early childhood. Where should we all have been now but for those warm and fleecy cov- erings? My Lords and Gentlemen! Our first and tender memories are all associated with blankets; blankets when in our nurses' arms, blankets in our cradles, blankets in our cribs, blankets to our French bedsteads in our school-days, and blankets to our marical four-posters now. Therefore, I say, it becomes our bounden duty as men — and, with feelings of pride, I add, as Englishmen — to ini- tiate the untutored savage, the wild and somewhat uncul- tivated denizen of the prairie into the comfort and warmth of blankets; and to supply him, as far as practicable, with those reasonable, seasonable, luxurious, and useful appen- dages. At such a moment as this, the lines of another poet strike familiarly upon the ear. Let me see, they are something like this — ah — ah 144 THE CHAEITY DINNEE. "Blankets have charms to soothe the savage breast, "And to — to do — a ■ I forget the rest. (Loud cheers.) Do we grudge onr money for such a purpose? I answer fearlessly No! Could we spend it better at home? I reply most emphati- cally, No! True, it may be said that there are thousands of our own people who at this moment are wandering about the streets of this great metropolis without food to eat or rags to cover them. But what have we to do with them? Our thoughts, our feelings, and oar sympathies are all wafted on the wings of charity to the dear and in- teresting Cannibals in the far-off islands of the great Pacific Ocean. (Hear, hear.) Besides, have not our own poor the work- houses to go to; the luxurious straw of the casual wards to repose upon, if they please; mutton broth to bathe in, and the ever toothsome, although somewhat scanty allowance of Hoke' provided for them? If people choose to be poor, is it our business? And let it ever be remem- bered that our own people are not savages and man-eaters; and, therefore, our philanthropy would be wasted upon them. (Overwhelming applause.) To return to our sub- ject. Perhaps some person or persons here may wonder why we should not send out side-springs and bluchers, as well as top-boots. To those I will say, that top-boots alone answer the object desired — namely, not only to keep the feet dry, but the legs warm, and thus to combine the double uses of shoes and stockings. Is it not an instance of the remarkable foresight of this society, that it pur- posely abstains from sending out any other than top-boots? To show the gratitude of the Cannibals for the benefits conferred upon them, I will just mention that, within the last few weeks, his illustrious Majesty, Hokey Pokey Wan- key Fum the First — surnamed by his loving subjects 'The Magnificent, ' from the fact of his wearing, on Sundays, a shirt-collar and an eya-glass as full court costume — has forwarded the president oi the society a very handsome THE CHARITY DINNER. 145 present, consisting of two live alligators, a boa-constrictor, and three pots of preserved Indian, to be eaten with toast; and I a in told by competent judges, that it is quite equal to Russian caviare. "My Lords and Gentlemen* — Twill not trespass on your patience by making any further remarks; knowing how incompetent 1 am — no, no! I don't mean that — knowing how incompetent you ail are — no! I don't mean that either — but you all know what I mean. Like the ancient Roman lawgiver, I am in a peculiar position; for the fact is, I cannot sit down — I mean to say, that I cannot sit down without saying that, if there ever was an institu- tion, it is this institution; and, therefore, I beg to pro- pose, 'Prosperity to the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Canni- bal Islands.' " The toast having been cordially responded to, his lord- ship calls upon Mr. Duffer, the secretary, to read the re- port. Whereupon that gentleman, who is of a bland and oily temperament, and whose eyes are concealed by a pair of green spectacles, produces the necessary document, and reads in the orthodox manner. " Thirtieth Half-yearly Report of the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots to the Natives of the Cannibal Islands. " The society having now reached its fifteenth anniver- sary, the committee of management beg to congratulate their friends and subscribers on the success that has been attained. " When the society first commenced its labors, the gen- erous and noble-minded natives of the islands, together with their king— a chief whose name is well-known in connection with one of the most sterling and heroic bal- lads of this country— attired themselves iu the light but somewhat insufficient costume of their tribe — viz: little before, nothing behind, and no sleeves, with the occas- 146 THE CHAEITY DINNEB. ional addition of a pair of spectacles; but now, thanks to thi3 useful association, the upper classes of the Cannibals seldom appear in public without their bodies being envel- oped in blankets, and their feet incased in top-boots. " When the latter useful articles were first introduced into the islands, the society's agent had a vast amount of trouble to prevail upon the natives to apply them to their proper purpose; and, in their work of civilization, no less than twenty of its representatives were massacred, roasted, and eaten. But we persevered; we overcame the natural antipathy of the Cannibals to wear any covering to their feet; until, after a time, the natives discovered the warmth and utility of boots; and now they can scarcely be induced to remove them until they fall off through old age. "During the past half-year, the society has distributed no less than 71 blankets, and 128 pairs of top-boots; and your committee, therefore, feel convinced that they will not be accused of inaction. But a great work is still before them; and they earnestly invite co-operation, in order that they may be enabled to supply the whole of the Can- nibals with these comfortable, nutritious and savory ar- ticles. "As the balance-sheet is rather a lengthy document, I will merely quote a few of the figures for your satisfaction. We have received, during the last half-year, in subscrip- tions, donations, and legacies, the sum of 5,4:031. 6s. 3-4d We have disbursed for advertising, etc., 222/. 6s. 2d. Rent, rates, and taxes, 305/. 10s. l-4d Seventy-one pairs of blankets, at 20s. per pair, have taken 71/. exactly; and and 128 pairs of top-boots, at 21s. per pair, cost 134/. some odd shillings. The salaries and expenses of the manage- mentJamount to 1.307/. 4s. 2 l-2rZ. ; and sundries, which in- clude committee meetings and traveling expenses, have absorbed the remainder of the sum, and amount to 3, 268/. 9s. 1 3-4 sued by Street & Smith. The story will somewhat explain to those wlio have not seen it the great popularity of the play."— Brooklyn Times, June 8th. #* "The fame of Denman Thompson's play, 'Old Homestead,' is world-wide. Tens of thousands have enjoyed it, and frequently recall the pure, lively pleasure they took in its representation. This is the story told in narrative form as well as it was told on the stage, and will be a treat to all, whether they have seen the play or not."— National Tribune, Washington, D. C. "Here we have the shaded lanes, the dusty roads, the hilly pastures, the peaked roofs, the school-house, and the familiar faces of dear old Swanzey, and the story which, dramatized, has packed the largest theater in New York, and has been a success everywhere because of its true and sympathetic touches of nature. All the incidents which have held audiences spell- bound are here re- corded—the accusation of robbery directed against the innocent boy, his shame, and leaving home ; the dear old Aunt Tilda, who has been courted for thirty years by the mendacious Cy Prime, who has never had the courage to propose; the fall of the country boy into the temptations of city life, and his recovery by the good old man who braves the metropolis to find him. The story embodies all that the play tells, and all that it suggests as well."— Kansas atu Journal, THE COUNTY FAIR. By NEIL BURGESS. Written from the celebrated play now running its second continuous season in New York, and booked to run a third sea- son in the same theater. The scenes are among the New Hamp- shire hills, and picture the bright side of country life. The story is full of amusing events and happy incidents, something after the style of our "Old Homestead," which is having such an enormous sale. " THE COUNTY FAIR" will be one of the great hits of the season, and should you fail to secure a copy you will miss a 5^1-7 literary treat. It is a spirited romance of town and country, and a faithful repro- duction of the drama, with the same unique characters, the same graphic scenes, but with the narrative more artistically rounded, and completed than was possible in the brief limits of a dramatic representation. This touch- ing story effectively demonstrates that it is possible to produce a novel which is at once wholesome and interesting in every part, without the introduction of an impure thought or suggestion. Bead the following OPINIONS OF THE PRESS: Mr. Neil Burgess has rewritten his play, "The County Fair,"' in story form. It rounds out a narrative which is comparatively but sketched in the play. It only needs the first sentence to set going- the memory and imagination of tho^e who have seen the latter and whet the appetite for the rest of this lively conception of a live dramatist.— Brooklyn Daily Eagle. As "The County Fair" threatens to remain in New York for a long time the general public out of town may be glad to learn that the playwright has put the piece into print in the form of a story. A tale based upon a play may sometimes lack certain literary qualities, but it never is the sort of thing over which any one. can fall asleep. For- tunately, "The County Fair'' on the stage and in print is by the same author, so there can be no reason for fearing that the book misses any of the points of the drama which has been so successful.— A'. T. Herald. The idea of turning successful plays into novels seems to be getting popular. The latest book of this description is a story reproducing the action and incidents of Neil Burgess' play, "The County Fair." The tale, which is a romance based on scenes of home Life and domestic joys and sorrows, follows closely the hues of the drama in story and plot.— Chicago Daily News. Mr. Burgess' amusing play, "The County Fair." has been received with such favor that he has worked it over and expanded it into a novel of more than 200 pages. It will be enjoyed even by those who have never heard the play and still more by those who have.— Cincinnati Times-Star. This touching story effectively cfemonstrates that it is possible to produce a novel which is at once wholesome and interesting in every part, without the introduction of an impure thought or suggestion.— Albany Press. Street & Smith have issued "The County Fair." This is a faithful reproduction of the drama of that name and is an affecting and vivid story of domestic life, joy and sorrow, and rural scenes.— San Francisco Call. This romance is written from the play of this name and is full of touching incidents. —Ecansville Journal. It is founded on the popular play of the same name, in which Neil Burgess, who is also the author of the story, has achieved the dramatic success of the season.— Fall River Herald. Tlie County Fair is No. 33 of "The Select Series," for sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent, on receipt of price, 25 cents, to any address, postpaid, by STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 25-31 Eose st., Xew York. Mrs. Geqrgie Sheldon's Copyright Novels, I3ST The Select Series. Price, 25 Cents Eacli, FULLY ILLUSTRATED. No. 16-SIBYL'S INFLUENCE. No. 24-THAT DOWDY. No. 43-TRIXY. No. 44-A TRUE ARISTOCRAT. These novels, from the pen of our gifted au thor, who writes exclusively for us, are among her most popular productions, and hold the front rank in first-class literature. For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, post- paid, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of price, 25 cents each, by STREET & SMITH, Publishers, P. O. Box 2734. 31 Rose Street, New York. BERTHA M. CLAY'S Copyright Novels, IIsT The Select Series Price, 25 Cents JEistGlx, FULLY ILLUSTRATED. No. 22.-A HEART'S BITTERNESS. No. 28.-A HEART'S IDOL. No. 36.-THE GIPSY'S DAUGHTER. No. 37.-IN LOVES CRUCIBLE. No. 39.-MARJORIE DEANE. Tnese novels are aniong tbe best ever ■writ- ten by BERTHA M. CLAY, and are enjoying an enormous sale. Tbey are copyrigbted and can be bad only in THE SELECT SERIES. For sale by ail Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, post- paid, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of price, 25 cents each, by STREET & SMITH, Publishers, P. O. Box 2734. 31 Rose Street, New York. STREET & SMITH'S SELECT SERIES OF POPULAR AMERICAN. COPYRIGHT STORIES, BY POPULAR AUTHORS. la. Handsome Paper Covers, 25 Cents. A STORY OF POWER AND PATHOS. THE SENATOR'S BRIDE. By Mrs. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER, Author of "Brunette and Blonde," "Lady Gray's Pride," sto. This is a domestic story of deep interest, charmingly written, with vigor and earnestness, and has not a dull scene in it. The author's purpose is to portray nature ; she therefore avoids all extravagance, and relies entirely upon her ability to entertain her readers with the presentation of scenes and incidents that never surpass probability, yet are extremely captivating. The story of "The Senator's Bride" is something more than a work of fiction. It contains a moral that is certain to be im- Dressed upon all who follow the career of the wife who wrecked lei* happiness because she respected herself too much to deceive ler husband. PRICE, TWENT1T-FIVE CENTS. Issued in clean, large type, with handsome lithographed cover, and for sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers ; or sent, postage free, to any address, on receipt of price, by the pub- lishers, street &c smith, P a Box 2734. 31 Rose St*, New York* The Select Series. A SEMI-MONTHLY PUBLICATION DEVOTED TO GOOD READING IN AMERICAN FICTION. PRICE 25 CENTS EACH. FULLY ILLUSTRATED. Xi^itost Issues. No. 37-IN LOYE'S CRUCIBLE, by Bertha M. Clay. No. 36-THE GIPSY'S DAUGHTER, by Bertha M. Clay. No. 85-CECILE'S MARRIAGE, by Lucy Randall Comfort, No, 31— THE LITTLE WIDOW, by Julia Edwards. No. 33— THE COUNTY FAIR, by Neil Burgess. No. 32-LADY RYHOPE'S LOYER, by Emma Garrison Jones. No. 31— MARRIED FOR GOLD, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins. No. 30- PRETTIEST OF ALL, by Julia Edwards. No. 29— THE HEIRESS 0FEGRE3I0NT, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis. No. 28— A HEART'S IDOL, by Bertha M. Clay. No. 2 7 -WINIFRED, by Mary Kyle Dallas. No. 26-FONTELROY, by Francis A. Durivage. No. 25-THE KING'S TALISMAN, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. No. 21— THAT DOWDY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. No. 23-DEN3IAN THOMPSON'S OLD HOMESTEAD. No. 22-A HEART'S BITTERNESS, by Bertha 31. Clay. No. 21-THE LOST BRIDE, by Clara Augusta. No. 20-ING03IAR, by Nathan D. Urner. No. 19-A LATE REPENTANCE, by Mrs. Mary A. Denison. No. 18— R0SA3I0ND, by Mrs. Alex. 3IcYeigh 3IHler. No. 17-THE HOUSE 0