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Title: Standard Selections - A Collection and Adaptation of Superior Productions From - Best Authors For Use in Class Room and on the Platform
Author: Various
Language: English
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                   STANDARD SELECTIONS

                 FOR USE IN CLASS ROOM AND
                    ON THE PLATFORM

                  ARRANGED AND EDITED BY

                    ROBERT I. FULTON


                   THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD



                    EDWIN P. TRUEBLOOD


                    GINN AND COMPANY

                  COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY

                  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

                   The Athenæum Press

                     BOSTON · U.S.A.


The purpose of the compilers of this volume is:--

_First_, to provide some new material in poetry and eloquence that has
never before appeared in books of this character, in addition to many
standard selections familiar to the general public;

_Second_, to furnish selections that will stand the test of literary
criticism and at the same time prove to be popular and successful for
public entertainment;

_Third_, to offer for the use of classes in public speaking such
carefully selected literature of varied scope as will be helpful and
stimulating in the practice of reading aloud and profitable in acquiring
power of vocal interpretation;

_Fourth_, to stimulate interest in the works of the authors from whom we
have chosen and in the speeches or books from which extracts have been

_Fifth_, to present as models for students in public speaking notable
specimens of eloquence, among which are masterpieces of the seven great
orators of the world and from the six great triumphs in the history of
American oratory;

_Sixth_, to provide carefully chosen scenes from a few standard, modern
dramas for class-room and platform use. In these scenes the attempt has
been made to preserve the spirit and unity of the plays, to shorten them
to practical length, and to adapt them to the demands of the public

To avoid reprinting material which is already universally accessible, we
have inserted no scenes from Shakespeare; but the reader is referred to
Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings" (published by Ginn and
Company), which contains copious Indexes to choice scenes from
Shakespeare, the Bible, and hymn-books. The two volumes include a wide
field of literature best suited for public speaking.

The selections throughout the book are arranged under six different
classes and cover a wide range of thought and emotion. While many shades
of feeling may be found in the same selection, it has been our aim to
place each one under the division with which, as a whole, it is most
closely allied.

We are grateful to the many authors and publishers who have courteously
permitted us to use their publications. Instead of naming them in the
preface we have chosen to make due acknowledgment in a footnote wherever
their selections appear in the volume.

                                                         F. AND T.




Arena Scene from "Quo Vadis?" The             _Sienkiewicz._    1

Arrow and the Song, The                        _Longfellow._    8

Aux Italiens                                       _Lytton._    8

Bobby Shafto                                        _Henry._   12

Carcassonne                                        _Nadaud._   13

Child-wife, The                                   _Dickens._   15

Count Gismond                                    _Browning._   21

Death of Arbaces, The                              _Lytton._   25

Dora                                             _Tennyson._   32

Easter with Parepa, An                             _Delano._   37

Evening Bells, Those                                _Moore._   41

Ginevra                                          _Coolidge._   42

High Tide at Lincolnshire, The                    _Ingelow._   47

How Did You Die?                                    _Cooke._   52

Indigo Bird, The                                _Burroughs._   53

Jackdaw of Rheims, The                             _Barham._   54

Jaffar                                               _Hunt._   57

Jim Bludsoe                                           _Hay._   59

King Robert of Sicily                          _Longfellow._   61

Lady of Shalott, The                             _Tennyson._   67

Legend of Service, A                             _Van Dyke._   72

Little Boy Blue                                     _Field._   76

Mary's Night Ride                                   _Cable._   77

Nydia, the Blind Girl                              _Lytton._   80

O Captain, My Captain!                            _Whitman._   88

On the Other Train                                   _Anon._   89

Pansy, The                                           _Anon._   92

"Revenge," The                                   _Tennyson._   94

Rider of the Black Horse, The                     _Lippard._   98

Sailing beyond Seas                               _Ingelow._  101

Sands of Dee, The                                _Kingsley._  102

School of Squeers, The                            _Dickens._  103

Secret of Death, The                               _Arnold._  110

Shamus O'Brien                                    _Le Fanu._  113

Ships, My                                          _Wilcox._  117

Soldier's Reprieve, The                           _Robbins._  118

Song, The                                           _Scott._  123

Stirrup Cup, The                                      _Hay._  124

Swan-song, The                                     _Brooks._  125

Sweet Afton                                         _Burns._  129

Violet's Blue                                       _Henry._  130

Waterfowl, To a                                    _Bryant._  132

Wedding Gown, The                                  _Pierce._  133

When the Snow Sifts Through                      _Gillilan._  137

Wild Flower, To a                                _Thompson._  138

Zoroaster, The Fate of                           _Crawford._  139



Centennial Hymn                                  _Whittier._  144

Chambered Nautilus, The                            _Holmes._  145

Crossing the Bar                                 _Tennyson._  146

Destruction of Sennacherib, The                     _Byron._  147

Each and All                                       _Emerson._  148

Laus Deo!                                        _Whittier._  149

Pilgrim Fathers, The                               _Hemans._  151

Present Crisis, The                                _Lowell._  152

Recessional, The                                  _Kipling._  155

Sacredness of Work, The                           _Carlyle._  156

What's Hallowed Ground?                          _Campbell._  157



The Seven Great Orators of the World                          159

I. Demosthenes

  Encroachments of Philip, The                                159

 II. Cicero

      Oration against Antony                                  162

III. Chrysostom

      Undue Lamentations over the Dead                        165
      On Applauding Preachers                                 167

 IV. Bossuet

      On the Death of the Prince of Condé                     169

  V. Chatham

      I. War with America                                     171
     II. Attempt to Subjugate America                         173

 VI. Burke

        I. Impeachment of Hastings                            175
       II. Conciliation with America                          178
      III. English Privileges in America                      182

VII. Webster

        I. Bunker Hill Monument                               185
       II. Revolutionary Patriots                             188
      III. Character of Washington                            191

Six Great Triumphs in the History of American Oratory         193

        I. Henry

            Call to Arms, The                                 193

       II. Hamilton

            Coercion of Delinquent States                     196

      III. Webster

            Reply to Hayne, The                               199

       IV. Phillips

            Murder of Lovejoy, The                            202

        V. Lincoln

           Slavery Issue, The                                 206

       VI. Beecher

            Moral Aspect of the American War                  208

Abolition of War                                   _Sumner._  212

American Flag, The                                _Beecher._  215

American People, The                            _Beveridge._  217

American Question, The                             _Bright._  218

America's Relation to Missions                     _Angell._  220

American Slavery                                   _Bright._  222

Armenian Massacres, The                         _Gladstone._  222

Battle Hymn of the Republic                          _Howe._  225

Blue and the Gray, The                              _Lodge._  226

Corruption of Prelates                         _Savonarola._  228

Cross of Gold, The                                  _Bryan._  231

Death of Congressman Burnes                       _Ingalls._  235

Death of Garfield, The                             _Blaine._  237

Death of Grady, The                                _Graves._  246

Death of Toussaint L'Ouverture                   _Phillips._  239

Dedication of Gettysburg Cemetery, The            _Lincoln._  241

Fallen Heroes of Japan, The                          _Togo._  242

Glory of Peace, The                                _Sumner._  248

Hope of the Republic, The                           _Grady._  249

Hungarian Heroism                                 _Kossuth._  250

International Relations                          _McKinley._  251

Irish Home Rule                                 _Gladstone._  255

Lincoln                                          _Castelar._  258

Lincoln                                          _Garfield._  260

Louisiana Purchase Exposition                         _Hay._  261

Man with the Muck-rake, The                     _Roosevelt._  264

Message to the Squadron                              _Togo._  271

Minute Man, The                                    _Curtis._  273

More Perfect Union, A                              _Curtis._  275

Napoleon                                           _Corwin._  278

Napoleon                                        _Ingersoll._  279

National Control of Corporations                _Roosevelt._  280

Negro, The                                          _Grady._  283

New England                                        _Quincy._  284

New South, The                                      _Grady._  284

O'Connell                                        _Phillips._  290

Open Door, The                                      _Henry._  292

Organization of the World                            _Mead._  294

Permanency of Empire, The                        _Phillips._  296

Pilgrims, The                                    _Phillips._  297

Principles of the Founders                           _Mead._  299

Responsibility of War, The                       _Channing._  302

Scotland                                            _Flagg._  304

Secession                                        _Stephens._  243

Second Inaugural Address                          _Lincoln._  305

Slavery and the Union                             _Lincoln._  307

Subjugation of the Filipino                          _Hoar._  309

Sufferings and Destiny of the Pilgrims            _Everett._  312

To Arms                                           _Kossuth._  313

True American Patriotism                          _Cockran_.  314

Vision of War                                   _Ingersoll_.  315

War in the Twentieth Century                         _Mead_.  318

Washington                                       _Phillips_.  321



A Boy's Mother                                      _Riley_.  323

Almost beyond Endurance                             _Riley_.  324

Bird in the Hand, A                             _Weatherly_.  328

Breaking the Charm                                 _Dunbar_.  325

Candle Lightin' Time                               _Dunbar_.  327

"Day of Judgment, The"                             _Phelps_.  330

De Appile Tree                                     _Harris_.  335

Dooley on La Grippe Microbes                        _Dunne_.  337

Doctrinal Discussion, A                           _Edwards_.  340

Finnigin to Flannigan                            _Gillilan_.  343

Gavroche and the Elephant                            _Hugo_.  345

Hazing of Valiant, The                               _Anon_.  349

Hindoo's Paradise, The                               _Anon_.  353

If I Knew                                            _Anon_.  354

Imaginary Invalid, The                             _Jerome_.  354

Jane Jones                                           _King_.  357

Knee-deep in June                                   _Riley_.  359

Little Breeches                                       _Hay_.  362

Low-Backed Car, The                                 _Lover_.  364

Mammy's Pickanin'                                 _Jenkins_.  366

Mandalay                                          _Kipling_.  368

Mr. Coon and Mr. Rabbit                            _Harris_.  370

Money Musk                                         _Taylor_.  373

One-legged Goose, The                               _Smith_.  375

Pessimist, The                                       _King_.  379

Schneider Sees Leah                                  _Anon_.  380

Superfluous Man, The                                 _Saxe_.  384

Usual Way, The                                       _Anon_.  386

Wedding Fee, The                                 _Streeter_.  387

When Malindy Sings                                 _Dunbar_.  389

When the Cows Come Home                          _Mitchell_.  391



Confessional, The                                    _Anon._  395

Jean Valjean and the Good Bishop                     _Hugo_.  400

Lasca                                                _Anon._  404

Michael Strogoff                                    _Verne_.  408

Mrs. Tree                                        _Richards_.  414

Portrait, The                                      _Lytton_.  423

Tell-tale Heart, The                                  _Poe_.  426

Uncle, The                                           _Bell_.  431



Beau Brummell, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene 3    _Jerrold_.  468

Bells, The, Act III, Scene I                     _Williams_.  437

Lady of Lyons, The, Act II, Scene I; Act III,
  Scene 2                                          _Lytton_.  441

Pygmalion and Galatea, Act I, Scene I; Act II,
  Scene I                                         _Gilbert_.  493

Rip Van Winkle, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene I    _Irving_.  449

Rivals, The, Act I, Scene 2; Act II, Scene I;
  Act III, Scene I; Act IV, Scene 2              _Sheridan_.  454

Set of Turquoise, The, Act I, Scene I; Act I,
  Scene 2                                         _Aldrich_.  478

She Stoops to Conquer, Act II, Scene I          _Goldsmith_.  486

INDEX OF AUTHORS                                              509






The Roman Empire in the first century presents the most revolting
picture of mankind to be found in the pages of history. Society founded
on superior force, on the most barbarous cruelty, on crime and mad
profligacy, was corrupt beyond the power of words to describe. Rome
ruled the world, but was also its ulcer, and the horrible monster, Nero,
guilty of all hideous and revolting crimes, seems a fit monarch for such
a people.

A few years ago appeared "Quo Vadis?" the story from which this
selection is made. The book attained so great a popularity, that it was
translated into almost every tongue. In spite of its many faults, it
invited the attention, and, although it shocked the sensibilities, when
its great purpose was understood it melted the heart.

The author drew a startlingly vivid and horrible picture of humanity at
this lowest stage, and in conflict with it he showed us the Christ

The extract is the story of how the young Vinicius, a patrician, a
soldier, a courtier of Nero, through the labyrinth of foul sin, of
self-worship and self-indulgence, with love for his guide, found his
way home to the feet of Him who commanded, "Be ye pure even as I am

It is the love story of Vinicius and the Princess Lygia, a convert to
Christ. The girl's happy and innocent life was rudely disturbed by a
summons to the court of the profligate emperor. Arrived there, she found
that Nero had given her to Vinicius, who had fallen passionately in love
with her; but on the way to Vinicius' house she was rescued by the giant
Ursus, one of her devoted attendants and a member of her own faith. They
escaped in safety to the Christians, who were living in hiding in the

The imperious nature of the youthful soldier for the first time in his
life met resistance. He was so transported with rage and disappointment
that he ordered the slaves from whom Lygia had escaped to be flogged to
death, while he set out to find the girl who had dared to thwart his
desire. His egotism was so great that he would have seen the city and
the whole world sunk in ruins rather than fail of his purpose. For days
and days his search was unceasing, and at last he found Lygia, but in
making a second attempt to carry her off was severely wounded by the
giant Ursus. Finding himself helpless in the Christians' hands, he
expected nothing but death; but instead he was carefully and tenderly
nursed back to health. Waking from his delirium, he found at his bedside
Lygia--Lygia, whom he had most injured, watching alone, while the others
had gone to rest. Gradually in his pagan head the idea began to hatch
with difficulty that at the side of naked beauty, confident and proud of
Greek and Roman symmetry, there is another in the world, new, immensely
pure, in which a soul resides. As the days went by, Vinicius was
thrilled to the very depths of his soul by the consciousness that Lygia
was learning to love him. With that revelation came the certain
conviction that his religion would forever make an inseparable barrier
between them. Then he hated Christianity with all the powers of his
soul, yet he could not but acknowledge that it had adorned Lygia with
that exceptional, unexplained beauty, which was producing in his heart
besides love, respect; besides desire, homage. Yet, when he thought of
accepting the religion of the Nazarene, all the Roman in him rose up in
revolt against the idea. He knew that if he were to accept that teaching
he would have to throw, as on a burning pile, all his thoughts, ideas,
ambitions, habits of life, his very nature up to that moment, burn them
into ashes and fill himself with an entirely new life, and from his soul
he cried that it was impossible; it was impossible!

Before Vinicius had entirely recovered Nero commanded his presence at
Antium, whither the court was going for the hot summer months. Nero was
ambitious to write an immortal epic poem which should rival the
"Odyssey," and in order that he might describe realistically a burning
city, gave a secret command while he was in Antium that Rome should be
set on fire.

One evening, when the court was assembled to hear Nero recite some of
his poetry, a slave appeared.

"Pardon, Divine Imperator, Rome is burning! The whole city is a sea of
flames!" A moment of horrified silence followed, broken by the cry of
Vinicius. He rushed forth, and, springing on his horse, dashed into the
deep night. A horseman, rushing also like a whirlwind, but in the
opposite direction, toward Antium, shouted as he raced past: "Rome is
perishing!" To the ears of Vinicius came only one more expression:
"Gods!" The rest was drowned by the thunder of hoofs. But the expression
sobered him. "Gods!" He raised his head suddenly, and, stretching his
arms toward the sky filled with stars, began to pray.

"Not to you, whose temples are burning, do I call, but to Thee. Thou
Thyself hast suffered. Thou alone hast understood people's pain. If Thou
art what Peter and Paul declare, save Lygia. Seek her in the burning;
save her and I will give Thee my blood!"

Before he had reached the top of the mountain he felt the wind on his
face, and with it the odor of smoke came to his nostrils. He touched the
summit at last, and then a terrible sight struck his eyes. The whole
lower region was covered with smoke, but beyond this gray, ghastly plain
the city was burning on the hills. The conflagration had not the form of
a pillar, but of a long belt, shaped like the dawn.

Vinicius' horse, choking with the smoke, became unmanageable. He sprang
to the earth and rushed forward on foot. The tunic began to smolder on
him in places; breath failed his lungs; strength failed his bones; he
fell! Two men, with gourds full of water, ran to him and bore him away.
When he regained consciousness he found himself in a spacious cave,
lighted with torches and tapers. He saw a throng of people kneeling, and
over him bent the tender, beautiful face of his soul's beloved.

Lygia was indeed safe from the burning, but before the first thrill of
relief was over an infinitely more horrible danger threatened her. The
people were in wrath and threatened violence to Nero and his court, for
it was popularly believed that the city had been set on fire at the
emperor's instigation. The coward, Nero, was startled and thoroughly
alarmed, and welcomed gladly the suggestion that the calamity should be
blamed on the Christians, who were viewed with great suspicion by the
common people, and obliged even then to live in hiding. In order to
clear himself and to divert the people's minds, he instituted at once
against the Christians the most horrible persecutions that have ever
stained man's history. For days and days the people came in countless
numbers to witness the tortures of the innocent victims; but at last
they grew weary of blood-spilling. Then it was given out that Nero had
arranged a climax for the last of the Christians who were to die at an
evening spectacle in a brilliantly lighted amphitheater. Chief interest
both of the Augustinians and the people centered in Lygia and Vinicius,
for the story of their love was now generally known, and everybody felt
that Nero was intending to make a tragedy for himself out of the
suffering of Vinicius.

At last the evening arrived. The sight was in truth magnificent. All
that was powerful, brilliant and wealthy in Rome was there. The lower
seats were crowded with togas as white as snow. In a gilded padium sat
Nero, wearing a diamond collar and a golden crown upon his head. Every
eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where the unfortunate
lover was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and his forehead was covered
with drops of sweat. To his tortured mind came the thought that faith of
itself would spare Lygia. Peter had said that faith would move the earth
to its foundations. He crushed doubt in himself, compressed his whole
being into the sentence, "I believe," and he looked for a miracle.

The prefect of the city waved a red handkerchief, and out of the dark
gully into the brilliantly lighted arena came Ursus. In Rome there was
no lack of gladiators, larger by far than the common measure of man; but
Roman eyes had never seen the like of Ursus. The people gazed with the
delight of experts at his mighty limbs, as large as tree trunks; at his
breast, as large as two shields joined together, and his arms of a
Hercules. He was unarmed, and had determined to die as became a follower
of the Lamb, peacefully and patiently. Meanwhile he wished to pray once
more to the Saviour. So he knelt on the arena, joined his hands and
raised his eyes towards the stars. This act displeased the crowd. They
had had enough of those Christians, who died like sheep. They understood
that if the giant would not defend himself, the spectacle would be a
failure. Here and there hisses were heard. Some began to cry for
scourgers, whose office it was to lash combatants unwilling to fight.
But soon all had grown silent, for no one knew what was waiting for the
giant, nor whether he would not defend himself when he met death eye to

In fact, they had not long to wait. Suddenly the shrill sound of brazen
trumpets was heard, and at that signal into the arena rushed, amid the
shouts of the beast-keepers, an enormous German aurochs, bearing on his
head the naked body of a woman.

Vinicius sprang to his feet.

"Lygia! Oh, ... I believe! I believe! Oh, Christ, a miracle! a miracle!"
And he did not even know that Petronius had covered his head at that
moment with a toga. He did not look; he did not see. The feeling of some
awful emptiness possessed him. In his head there remained not a thought.
His lips merely repeated as if in madness, "I believe! I believe! I

This time the amphitheater was silent, for in the arena something
uncommon had happened. That giant, obedient and ready to die, when he
saw his queen on the horns of the wild beast, sprang up, as if touched
by living fire, and, bending forward, he ran at the raging animal.

From all breasts a sudden cry of amazement was heard, as the giant fell
on the raging bull and seized him by the horns. And then came deep
silence. All breasts ceased to breathe. In the amphitheater a fly might
be heard on the wing. People could not believe their own eyes. Since
Rome was Rome no one had ever seen such a spectacle. The man's feet sank
in the sand to his ankle; his back was bent like a bow; his head was
hidden between his shoulders; on his arms the muscles came out so that
the skin almost burst from their pressure; but he had stopped the bull
in his tracks. The man and the bull remained so still that the
spectators thought themselves looking at a group hewn in stone. But in
that apparent repose there was a tremendous exertion of two struggling
forces. The bull's feet, as well as the man's, sank in the sand, and the
dark, shaggy body was curved so that it seemed a gigantic ball. Which
of the two would fail first? Which would fall first?

Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard from the arena, after
which a brief shout was wrested from every breast, and again there was
silence. Duller and duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and more painful
grew the groan of the bull as it mingled with the whistling breath from
the breast of the giant. The head of the beast began to turn in the iron
hands of the barbarian, and from his jaws crept forth a long, foaming
tongue. A moment more and to the ears of the spectators sitting nearer
came, as it were, the crack of breaking bones; then the beast rolled on
the earth, dead.

The giant removed in a twinkling the ropes that bound the maiden to the
horns of the bull. His face was very pale; he stood as if only half
conscious; then he raised his eyes and looked at the spectators.

The amphitheater had gone wild. The walls of the building were trembling
from the roar of tens of thousands of people.

Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, passionate and persistent, which
soon turned into one unbroken thunder.

The giant understood that they were asking for his life and liberty, but
his thoughts were not for himself. He raised the unconscious maiden in
his arms, and, going to Nero's padium, held her up and looked up

Vinicius sprang over the barrier, which separated the lower seats from
the arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her with his toga.

Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the scars left by
wounds received in the Armenian war, and stretched out his hands to the

At this the enthusiasm passed everything ever seen in a circus before.
Voices choking with tears began to demand mercy. Yet Nero halted and
hesitated. He would have preferred to see the giant and the maiden rent
by the horns of the bull.

Nero was alarmed. He understood that to oppose longer was simply
dangerous. A disturbance begun in the circus might seize the whole city.
He looked once more, and, seeing everywhere frowning brows, excited
faces and eyes fixed on him, he slowly raised his hand and gave the sign
for mercy.

Then a thunder of applause broke from the highest seats to the lowest.
But Vinicius heard it not. He dropped on his knees in the arena,
stretched his hands toward heaven and cried: "I believe! Oh, Christ! I
believe! I believe!"


[1] Copyright, 1896, by Jeremiah Curtin.



     I shot an arrow into the air.
       It fell to earth, I knew not where;
     For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
       Could not follow in its flight.

     I breathed a song into the air.
       It fell to earth, I knew not where;
     For who has sight so keen and strong
       That it can follow the flight of song.

     Long, long afterward, in an oak,
       I found the arrow still unbroke;
     And the song, from beginning to end,
       I found again in the heart of a friend.


[2] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his



     At Paris it was, at the opera there;
     And she looked like a queen that night,
     With a wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
     And the brooch in her breast so bright.

     Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
     The best, to my taste, is the "Trovatoré":
     And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
     The souls in purgatory.

     The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
     And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
     As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
     "_Non ti scordar di me?_"

     The Emperor there in his box of state,
     Looked grave; as if he had just then seen
     The red flag wave from the city gate,
     Where the eagles in bronze had been.

     The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye;
     You'd have thought that her fancy had gone back again,
     For one moment, under the old blue sky,
     To that old glad life in Spain.

     Well! there in our front row box we sat
     Together, my bride betrothed and I;
     My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,
     And hers on the stage hard by.

     And both were silent and both were sad;
     Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,
     With that regal indolent air she had;
     So confident of her charm!

     I have not a doubt she was thinking then
     Of her former lord, good soul that he was,
     Who died the richest and roundest of men,
     The Marquis of Carabas.

     I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
     Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;
     I wish him well for the jointure given
     To my lady of Carabas.

     Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love
     As I had not been thinking of aught for years;
     Till over my eyes there began to move
     Something that felt like tears.

     I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
     When we stood neath the cypress-trees together,
     In that lost land, in that soft clime,
     In the crimson evening weather;

     Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);
     And her warm white neck in its golden chain;
     And her full soft hair just tied in a knot,
     And falling loose again.

     And the Jasmine flower in her fair young breast;
     (O the faint sweet smell of that Jasmine flower!)
     And the one bird singing alone to its nest;
     And the one star over the tower.

     I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
     And the letter that brought me back my ring;
     And it all seemed there in the waste of life,
     Such a very little thing.

     For I thought of her grave below the hill,
     Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over;
     And I thought, "Were she only living still,
     How I could forgive her and love her!"

     And I swear as I thought of her thus in that hour,
     And of how, after all, old things are best,
     That I smelt the smell of that Jasmine flower
     Which she used to wear in her breast.

     And I turned and looked; she was sitting there,
     In a dim box over the stage; and drest
     In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,
     And that Jasmine in her breast!

     I was here, and she was there;
     And the glittering horse-shoe curved between;--
     From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair
     And her sumptuous scornful mien,

     To my early love with her eyes downcast,
     And over her primrose face the shade,
     (In short from the future back to the past)
     There was but a step to be made.

     To my early love from my future bride
     One moment I looked, then I stole to the door,
     I traversed the passage; and down at her side
     I was sitting a moment more.

     My thinking of her or the music's strain,
     Or something which never will be expressed,
     Had brought her back from the grave again,
     With the Jasmine in her breast.

     She is not dead, and she is not wed!
     But she loves me now and she loved me then!
     And the very first words that her sweet lips said,
     My heart grew youthful again.

     The Marchioness there, of Carabas,
     She is wealthy and young and handsome still,
     And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass;
     She may marry whomever she will.

     But I will marry my own first love,
     With her primrose face, for old things are best;
     And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
     The brooch in my lady's breast.

     The world is filled with folly and sin,
     And love must cling where it can, I say,
     For beauty is easy enough to win,
     But one isn't loved every day.

     And I think in the lives of most women and men,
     There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
     If only the dead could find out when
     To come back and be forgiven.

     But O! the smell of that Jasmine flower!
     And O that music! and O the way
     That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
     _Non ti scordar di me,
     Non ti scordar di me!_




     "Bobby Shafto's gone to sea:--
     Silver buckles on his knee--
     He'll come back and marry me,
           Pretty Bobby Shafto!"
     "Mother Goose Melodies."

     "With his treasures won at sea,
     Spanish gold and Portugee,
     And his heart, still fast to me,
            Pretty Bobby Shafto!

     "In a captain's pomp and pride,
     With a gold sword at his side,
     He'll come back to claim his bride,
           Pretty Bobby Shafto!"

     So she sang, the winter long,
     Till the sun came, golden-strong,
     And the blue birds caught her song:
           All of Bobby Shafto.

     Days went by, and autumn came,
     Eyes grew dim, and feet went lame,
     But the song, it was the same,
           All of Bobby Shafto.

     Never came across the sea,
     Silver buckles on his knee,
     Bobby to his bride-to-be,
           Fickle Bobby Shafto!

     For where midnight never dies,
     In the Storm-King's caves of ice,
     Stiff and stark, poor Bobby lies--
           Heigho! Bobby Shafto.


[3] From "Under a Fool's Cap."


GUSTAV NADAUD, translated by M. E. W. SHERWOOD

           "How old I am! I'm eighty years!
           I've worked both hard and long;
     Yet patient as my life has been,
     One dearest sight I have not seen,--
           It almost seems a wrong.
     A dream I had when life was new;
     Alas, our dreams! they come not true;
     I thought to see fair Carcassonne,--
     That lovely city,--Carcassonne!

           "One sees it dimly from the height
           Beyond the mountains blue,
     Fain would I walk five weary leagues,--
     I do not mind the road's fatigues,--
           Through morn and evening's dew;
     But bitter frost would fall at night;
     And on the grapes,--that yellow blight!
     I could not go to Carcassonne,
     I never went to Carcassonne.

           "They say it is as gay all times
           As holidays at home!
     The gentles ride in gay attire,
     And in the sun each gilded spire
           Shoots up like those of Rome!
     The bishop the procession leads,
     The generals curb their prancing steeds.
     Alas! I know not Carcassonne--
     Alas! I saw not Carcassonne!

           "Our Vicar's right! he preaches loud,
           And bids us to beware;
     He says, 'O guard the weakest-part,
     And most that traitor in the heart
           Against ambition's snare.'
     Perhaps in autumn I can find
     Two sunny days with gentle wind;
     I then could go to Carcassonne,
     I still could go to Carcassonne.

           "My God, my Father! pardon me
           If this my wish offends;
     One sees some hope more high than his,
     In age, as in his infancy,
           To which his heart ascends!
     My wife, my son have seen Narbonne,
     My grandson went to Perpignan,
     But I have not seen Carcassonne,
     But I have not seen Carcassonne."

           Thus sighed a peasant bent with age,
           Half-dreaming in his chair;
     I said, "My friend, come go with me
     To-morrow, then thine eyes shall see
           Those streets that seem so fair."
     That night there came for passing soul
     The church-bell's low and solemn toll.
     He never saw gay Carcassonne.
     Who has not known a Carcassonne?



All this time I had gone on loving Dora harder than ever. If I may so
express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over head and ears
in love with her, I was saturated through and through. I took night
walks to Norwood where she lived, and perambulated round and round the
house and garden for hours together, looking through crevices in the
palings, using violent exertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on
the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically
calling on the night to shield my Dora,--I don't exactly know from
what,--I suppose from fire, perhaps from mice, to which she had a great

Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken in years, almost of
the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose name was Miss Mills. Dora
called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!

One day Miss Mills said: "Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming
the day after to-morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would
be happy to see you."

I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last, arrayed for
the purpose, at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a
declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect he would be.
Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.

I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Dora's
little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music, and Dora was
painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized flowers I had
given her!

Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at
home, though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was
conversational for a few minutes, and then laying down her pen, got up
and left the room.

I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.

"I hope your poor horse was not tired when he got home at night from
that picnic," said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes.

"It was a long way for him."

I began to think I would do it to-day.

"It was a long way for him, for he had nothing to uphold him on the

"Wasn't he fed, poor thing?"

I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.

"Ye-yes, he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable
happiness that I had in being so near to you."

I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.

"I don't know why you should care for being near me, or why you should
call it a happiness. But of course you don't mean what you say. Jip, you
naughty boy, come here!"

I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip.
I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a
word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I
told her that I idolized and worshiped her. Jip barked madly all the
time. My eloquence increased, and I said if she would like me to die for
her, she had but to say the word, and I was ready. I had loved her to
distraction every minute, day and night, since I first set eyes upon
her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love
her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers
would love again; but no lover had ever loved, might, could, would, or
should ever love, as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip
barked. Each of us in his own way got more mad every moment.

Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by quiet enough,
and Jip was lying in her lap winking peacefully at me. It was off my
mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.

Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I went to my darling to
expatiate on that unfortunate drawback. I soon carried desolation into
the bosom of our joys--not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full
of the subject--by asking Dora without the smallest preparation, if she
could love a beggar.

"How can you ask me anything so foolish? Love a beggar!"

"Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar!"

"How can you be such a silly thing," replied Dora, slapping my hand, "as
to sit there telling such stories? I'll make Jip bite you, if you are so

But I looked so serious that Dora began to cry. She did nothing but
exclaim, "O dear! O dear!" And oh, she was so frightened! And where was
Julia Mills? And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until
I was almost beside myself.

I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on her face; I went down
on my knees; I plucked at my hair; I implored her forgiveness; I
besought her to look up; I ravaged Miss Mills's work-box for a
smelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind, applied an ivory needle-case
instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora.

At last I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression which I
gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek
was lying against mine.

"Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?"

"O yes! O yes! it's all yours, oh, don't be dreadful."

"My dearest love, the crust well earned--"

"O yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts. And after we are
married, Jip must have a mutton chop every day at twelve, or he'll die."

I was charmed with her childish, winning way, and I fondly explained to
her that Jip should have his mutton chop with his accustomed regularity.

When we had been engaged some half-year or so, Dora delighted me by
asking me to give her that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to
show her how to keep accounts, as I had once promised I would. I brought
the volume with me on my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to
make it look less dry and more inviting), and showed her an old
housekeeping book of my aunt's, and gave her a set of tablets, and a
pretty little pencil-case, and a box of leads, to practice housekeeping

But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the figures made her
cry. They wouldn't add up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew
little nosegays, and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets.

Time went on, and at last, here in this hand of mine, I held the wedding
license. There were the two names in the sweet old visionary
connection,--David Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and there in the corner
was that parental institution, the Stamp Office, looking down upon our
union; and there, in the printed form of words, was the Archbishop of
Canterbury, invoking a blessing on us and doing it as cheap as could
possibly be expected.

I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping
house than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. She
kept house for us. We had an awful time of it with Mary Anne. She was
the cause of our first little quarrel.

"My dearest life," I said one day to Dora, "do you think Mary Anne has
any idea of time?"

"Why, Doady?"

"My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined at four."

My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet, and
drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I couldn't
dine off that, though it was very agreeable.

"Don't you think, my dear, it would be better for you to remonstrate
with Mary Anne?"

"O no, please! I couldn't, Doady!"

"Why not, my love?"

"O, because I am such a little goose, and she knows I am!"

I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any
system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little.

"My precious wife, we must be serious some times. Come! sit down on this
chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let us talk
sensibly. You know, dear," what a little hand it was to hold, and what a
tiny wedding ring it was to see,--"you know, my love, it is not exactly
comfortable to have to go out without one's dinner. Now, is it?"


"My love, how you tremble!"

"Because, I know you're going to scold me."

"My sweet, I am only going to reason."

"O, but reasoning is worse than scolding! I didn't marry to be reasoned
with. If you meant to reason with such a poor little thing as I am, you
ought to have told me so, you cruel boy!"

"Dora, my darling!"

"No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you married
me, or else you wouldn't reason with me!"

I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it
gave me courage to be grave.

"Now, my own Dora, you are childish, and are talking nonsense. You must
remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out yesterday when dinner
was half over; and that, the day before, I was made quite unwell by
being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry; to-day, I don't dine at
all, and I am afraid to say how long we waited for breakfast, and then
the water didn't boil. I don't mean to reproach you, my dear, but this,
is not comfortable."

"Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!"

"Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!"

"You said I wasn't comfortable!"

"I said the housekeeping was not comfortable!"

"It's exactly the same thing! and I wonder, I do, at your making such
ungrateful speeches. When you know that the other day, when you said you
would like a little bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and
ordered it to surprise you."

"And it was very kind of you, my own darling; and I felt it so much that
I wouldn't on any account have mentioned that you bought a salmon, which
was too much for two; or that it cost one pound six, which was more than
we can afford."

"You enjoyed it very much. And you said I was a Mouse."

"And I'll say so again, my love, a thousand times!"

I said it a thousand times, and more, and went on saying it until Mary
Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-hole and was brought out, to our
great amazement, by a picket of his companions in arms, who took him
away handcuffed in a procession that covered our front garden with

"I am very sorry for all this, Doady. Will you call me a name I want you
to call me?"

"What is it, my dear?"

"It's a stupid name,--Child-wife. When you are going to be angry with
me, say to yourself, 'It's only my Child-wife.' When I am very
disappointing, say, 'I knew a long time ago, that she would make but a
Child-wife.' When you miss what you would like me to be, and what I
think I never can be, say, 'Still my foolish Child-wife loves me.' For
indeed I do."

I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly loved to come out of the
mists and shadows of the past, and to turn its gentle head toward me
once again, and to bear witness that it was made happy by what I



     Christ God, who savest man, save most
         Of men Count Gismond who saved me!
     Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,
         Chose time and place and company
     To suit it; when he struck at length
     My honor, 'twas with all his strength.

     And doubtlessly ere he could draw
         All points to one, he must have schemed!
     That miserable morning saw
         Few half so happy as I seemed,
     While being dressed in queen's array
     To give our tourney prize away.

     I thought they loved me, did me grace
         To please themselves; 'twas all their deed;
     God makes, or fair or foul, our face;
         If showing mine so caused to bleed
     My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped
     A word, and straight the play had stopped.

     They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen
         By virtue of her brow and breast;
     Not needing to be crowned, I mean,
         As I do. E'en when I was dressed,
     Had either of them spoke, instead
     Of glancing sideways with still head!

     But no: they let me laugh and sing
         My birthday song quite through, adjust
     The last rose in my garland, fling
         A last look on the mirror, trust
     My arms to each an arm of theirs,
     And so descend the castle-stairs--

     And come out on the morning-troop
         Of merry friends who kissed my cheek,
     And called me queen, and made me stoop
         Under the canopy--(a streak
     That pierced it, of the outside sun,
     Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)--

     And they could let me take my state
         And foolish throne amid applause
     Of all come there to celebrate
         My queen's-day--Oh I think the cause
     Of much was, they forgot no crowd
     Makes up for parents in their shroud!

     Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent
         Upon me, when my cousins cast
     Theirs down; 'twas time I should present
         The victor's crown, but ... there, 'twill last
     No long time ... the old mist again
     Blinds me as it did then. How vain!

     See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk
         With his two boys: I can proceed.
     Well, at that moment, who should stalk
         Forth boldly--to my face, indeed--
     But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!"
     And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say!

     "Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet
         About her! Let her cleave to right,
     Or lay herself before our feet!
         Shall she who sinned so bold at night
     Unblushing, queen it in the day?
     For honor's sake, no crowns, I say!"

     I? What I answered? As I live,
         I never fancied such a thing
     As answer possible to give.
         What says the body when they spring
     Some monstrous torture-engine's whole
     Strength on it? No more says the soul.

     Till out strode Gismond; then I knew
         That I was saved. I never met
     His face before, but, at first view,
         I felt quite sure that God had set
     Himself to Satan; who would spend
     A minute's mistrust on the end?

     He strode to Gauthier, in his throat
         Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth
     With one back-handed blow that wrote
         In blood men's verdict there. North, South,
     East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,
     And damned, and truth stood up instead.

     This glads me most, that I enjoyed
         The heart of the joy, with my content
     In watching Gismond unalloyed
         By any doubt of the event:
     God took that on him--I was bid
     Watch Gismond for my part: I did.

     Did I not watch him while he let
         His armorer just brace his greaves,
     Rivet his hauberk, on the fret
         The while! His foot ... my memory leaves
     No least stamp out, nor how anon
     He pulled his ringing gauntlets on.

     And e'en before the trumpet's sound
         Was finished, prone lay the false knight,
     Prone as his lie, upon the ground:
         Gismond flew at him, used no sleight
     O' the sword, but open-breasted drove,
     Cleaving till out the truth he clove.

     Which done, he dragged him to my feet
         And said, "Here die, but end thy breath
     In full confession, lest thou fleet
         From my first, to God's second death!
     Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied
     To God and her," he said, and died.

     Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked
         --What safe my heart holds, though no word
     Could I repeat now, if I tasked
         My powers forever, to a third
     Dear even as you are. Pass the rest
     Until I sank upon his breast.

     Over my head his arm he flung
         Against the world; and scarce I felt
     His sword (that dripped by me and swung)
         A little shifted in its belt;
     For he began to say the while
     How South our home lay many a mile.

     So 'mid the shouting multitude
         We two walked forth to never more
     Return. My cousins have pursued
         Their life, untroubled as before
     I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place
     God lighten! May his soul find grace!

     Our elder boy has got the clear
         Great brow; though when his brother's black
     Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here?
         And have you brought your tercel back?
     I just was telling Adela
     How many birds it struck since May.



In the eventful year of the eruption of Vesuvius, there lived in Pompeii
a young Greek by the name of Glaucus. Heaven had given him every
blessing but one; it had denied him the heritage of freedom. He was
born in Athens, the subject of Rome. Succeeding early to an ample
inheritance, he had indulged that inclination for travel, so natural to
the young, and consequently knew much of the gorgeous luxuries of the
imperial court. His ideals in life were high. At last he discovered the
long-sought idol of his dreams in the person of Ione, a beautiful, young
Neapolitan, also of Greek parentage, who had lately come to Pompeii. She
was one of those brilliant characters which seldom flash across our
career. She united in the highest perfection the rarest of earthly
gifts,--Genius and Beauty. No wonder that the friendship of these two
ripened into a higher love than that which served a theme for the idle
gossip of the Roman baths, or the epicurean board of a Sallust or a

Arbaces, the legal guardian of Ione, was a subtle, crafty, cunning
Egyptian, whose conscience was solely of the intellect awed by no moral
laws. His great wealth and learning, and his reputation as a magician
gave him great power and influence over not only the superstitious
worshipers, but also the priesthood of Isis. Shrouding the deceit and
vices of a heathen metaphysical philosophy in a brilliant and imposing
ceremonial, Arbaces was the better able to gratify his own desires and
work out his diabolical scheme.

As Ione just ripened into beautiful womanhood, Arbaces determined to
claim her life and her love for himself alone; but his first overture
not only met with rebuff, but revealed the fact that she already loved
Glaucus. Angered by a fate which not even his dark sorcery could remove,
and which the prophecy of the stars had foretold, he is further enraged
by the violent opposition of Apæcides, the brother of Ione, who on his
own account threatens and has prepared to expose the lewd deceits and
hypocrisy of the worship of Isis. Arbaces murders Apæcides, imprisons
the priest Calenus, the only witness of the deed, and with great cunning
weaves a convicting net of circumstantial evidence around Glaucus, his
hated rival. Glaucus is tried, convicted and doomed to be thrown to the

The day of the sports of the amphitheater had come. The gladiatorial
fights and other games were completed. "Bring forth the lion and Glaucus
the Athenian," said the editor. Glaucus had been placed in that gloomy
and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last
and fearful struggle. The door swung gratingly back--the gleam of spears
shot along the walls.

"Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come," said a loud and clear voice.
"The lion awaits thee."

"I am ready," said the Athenian. "Worthy officer, I attend you."

When he came into the air its breath, which, though sunless, was hot and
arid, smote witheringly upon him. They anointed his body, placed the
stylus in his hand, and led him into the arena.

And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and tens of thousands
upon him, he no longer felt that he was mortal. All evidence of
fear--all fear itself--was gone. A red and haughty flush spread over the
paleness of his features--he towered aloft to the fullness of his
glorious stature. In the elastic beauty of his limbs and form, in his
intent but unfrowning brow, in the high disdain, and in the indomitable
soul, which breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude,
his lip, his eye, he assumed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal,
of the valor of his land--of the divinity of its worship--at once a hero
and a god.

The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime, which had greeted his
entrance, died into the stillness of involuntary admiration and
half-compassionate respect; and with a quick and convulsive sigh, that
seemed to move the whole mass of life as if it were one body, the gaze
of the spectators turned from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object in
the center of the arena. It was the grated den of the lion. Kept
without food for twenty-four hours, the animal had, during the whole
morning, testified a singular and restless uneasiness, which the keeper
had attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet its bearing seemed rather
that of fear than of rage; its roar was painful and distressed; it hung
its head--snuffed the air through the bars--then lay down--started
again--and again uttered its wild and far-reaching cries.

The editor's lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he looked anxiously
around--hesitated--delayed; the crowd became impatient. Slowly he gave
the sign; the keeper, who was behind the den, cautiously removed the
grating, and the lion leaped forth with a mighty and glad roar of
release. The keeper retreated hastily through the grated passage leading
from the arena, and left the lord of the forest--and his prey.

Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture at
the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raised
high, in the faint hope that one well directed thrust might penetrate
through the eye to the brain of his grim foe.

At the first moment of its release the lion halted in the arena, raised
itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impatient sighs; then
suddenly sprang forward, but not on the Athenian. At half speed it
circled around and around the arena; once or twice it endeavored to leap
up the parapet that separated it from the audience. At length, as if
tired of attempting to escape, it crept with a moan into its cage, and
once more laid itself down to rest.

The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion soon grew
into resentment at its cowardice; and the populace already merged their
pity for the fate of Glaucus into angry compassion for their own
disappointment. The editor called the keeper.

"How is this? Take the goad, prick him forth, and then close the door of
the den."

As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment, was preparing to
obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; there
was a confusion--a bustle--voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking
forth, and suddenly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned in wonder at
the interruption, toward the quarter of disturbance; the crowd gave way,
and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair
disheveled,--breathless--half exhausted. He cast his eyes hastily round
the ring. "Remove the Athenian," he cried. "Haste,--he is innocent.
Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian. He is the murderer of Apæcides."

"Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the prætor, rising from his seat. "What
means this raving?"

"Remove the Athenian. Quick! or his blood be on your head. Prætor, delay
and you answer with your own life to the Emperor. I bring with me the
eye-witness to the death of Apæcides. Room there--stand back--give way.
People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces--there he sits. Room there
for the priest Calenus."

"The priest Calenus,--Calenus," cried the mob. "Is it he?"

"It is the priest Calenus," said the prætor. "What hast thou to say?"

"Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apæcides, the priest of Isis; these
eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dungeon into which he plunged
me--it is from the darkness and horror of a death by famine--that the
gods have raised me to proclaim his crime. Release the Athenian--he is

"A miracle--a miracle," shouted the people. "Remove the Athenian.
Arbaces to the lion!"

"Officers, remove the accused Glaucus--remove, but guard him yet," said
the prætor.

"Calenus, priest of Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of

"I do."

"Thou didst behold the deed?"

"Prætor--with these eyes--"

"Enough at present--the details must be reserved for more suiting time
and place. Ho! guards--remove Arbaces--guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold
you responsible for your accusation. Let the sports be resumed."

"To the lion with the Egyptian!" cried the people.

With that cry up sprang--on moved--thousands upon thousands! They rushed
from the heights--they poured down in the direction of the Egyptian. In
vain did the ædile command--in vain did the prætor lift his voice and
proclaim the law. The people had been already rendered savage.

Arbaces stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal
features there came an expression of unutterable solemnity and command.
"Behold!" he shouted with a voice which stilled the roar of the crowd;
"behold the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of the avenging Orcus
burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!"

The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld,
with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor shooting from the summit of
Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine tree; the trunk,
blackness,--the branches, fire,--a fire that shifted and wavered in its
hues with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying
red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare.

There was a dead heart-sunken silence. Then there arose on high the
universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb.
At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls
of the theater trembled; and beyond in the distance, they heard the
crash of falling roofs; an instant more and the mountain-cloud seemed
to roll towards them, dark and rapid, like a torrent; at the same time,
it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes mixed with vast fragments
of burning stone! Over the crushing vines,--over the desolate
streets,--over the amphitheater itself,--far and wide,--with many a
mighty splash in that agitated sea,--fell that awful shower! The crowd
turned to fly--each dashing, pressing, crushing, against the other.
Trampling recklessly over the fallen--amidst groans, and oaths, and
prayers, and sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd vomited itself forth
through the numerous passages; prisoner, gladiator and wild beast now
alike freed from their confines.

Glaucus paced swiftly up the perilous and fearful streets, having
learned that Ione was yet in the house of Arbaces. Thither he fled to
release--to save her! Even as he passed, however, the darkness that
covered the heavens increased so rapidly, that it was with difficulty he
could guide his steps. He ascended to the upper rooms--breathless he
paced along, shouting out aloud the name of Ione; and at length he
heard, at the end of a gallery, a voice--her voice, in wondering reply!
He rescued her and they made their way to the sea, boarded a vessel and
were saved from the wrath of Vesuvius.

Arbaces returned to his house to seek his wealth and Ione ere he fled
from the doomed Pompeii. He found them not; all was lost to him. In the
madness of despair he rushed forth and hurried along the street he knew
not whither; exhausted or lost he halted at the east end of the Forum.
High behind him rose a tall column that supported the bronze statue of
Augustus; and the imperial image seemed changed to a shape of fire. He
advanced one step--it was his last on earth! The ground shook beneath
him with a convulsion that cast all around upon its surface. A
simultaneous crash resounded through the city, as down toppled many a
roof and pillar!--The lightning, as if caught by the metal, lingered an
instant on the Imperial Statue--then shivered bronze and column! Down
fell the ruin, echoing along the street, crushing Arbaces and riving the
solid pavement where it crashed! The prophecy of the stars was

So perished the wise Magician--the great Arbaces--the Hermes of the
Burning Belt--the last of the royalty of Egypt.


[4] An adaptation by R. I. Fulton from the "Last Days of Pompeii."



     With farmer Allan at the farm abode
     William and Dora. William was his son,
     And she his niece. He often look'd at them,
     And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."
     Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,
     And yearn'd toward William; but the youth, because
     He had been always with her in the house,
     Thought not of Dora.

                           Then there came a day
     When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son,
     I married late, but I would wish to see
     My grandchild on my knees before I die;
     And I have set my heart upon a match.
     Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
     To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
     She is my brother's daughter; he and I
     Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
     In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
     His daughter Dora. Take her for your wife;
     For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,
     For many years." But William answer'd short;
     "I cannot marry Dora; by my life,
     I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
     Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said,
     "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!
     But in my time a father's word was law,
     And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;
     Consider, William, take a month to think,
     And let me have an answer to my wish;
     Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
     And never more darken my doors again."
     But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,
     And broke away. The more he look'd at her
     The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
     But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
     The month was out he left his father's house,
     And hired himself to work within the fields;
     And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed
     A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.
       Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
     His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well;
     But if you speak with him that was my son,
     Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
     My home is none of yours. My will is law."
     And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
     "It cannot be, my uncle's mind will change!"
       And days went on, and there was born a boy
     To William; then distresses came on him;
     And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,
     Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.
     But Dora stored what little she could save,
     And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
     Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
     On William, and in harvest time he died.
       Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
     And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought
     Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said,
       "I have obey'd my uncle until now,
     And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me
     This evil came on William at the first.
     But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
     And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
     And for this orphan, I am come to you.
     You know there has not been for these five years
     So full a harvest; let me take the boy,
     And I will set him in my uncle's eye
     Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad
     Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,
     And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."
       And Dora took the child, and went her way
     Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
     That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
     Far off the farmer came into the field
     And spied her not; for none of all his men
     Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
     And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
     But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,
     And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
       But when the morrow came, she rose and took
     The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
     And made a little wreath of all the flowers
     That grew about, and tied it round his hat
     To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
     Then when the farmer pass'd into the field
     He spied her, and he left his men at work,
     And came and said, "Where were you yesterday?
     Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"
     So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,
     And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"
     "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not
     Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again,
     "Do with me as you will, but take the child,
     And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"
     And Allan said, "I see it is a trick
     Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
     I must be taught my duty, and by you!
     You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
     To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy,
     But go you hence, and never see me more."
       So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud
     And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
     At Dora's, feet. She bow'd upon her hands,
     And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
     More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,
     Remembering the day when first she came,
     And all the things that had been. She bow'd down
     And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,
     And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
       Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
     Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
     Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
     To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.
     And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
     But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
     He says that he will never see me more."
     Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,
     That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:
     And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
     For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
     His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
     And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
     And I will beg of him to take thee back;
     But if he will not take thee back again,
     Then thou and I will live within one house,
     And work for William's child, until he grows
     Of age to help us."

                           So the women kiss'd
     Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.
     The door was off the latch. They peep'd, and saw
     The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
     Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
     And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
     Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out
     And babbled for the golden seal, that hung
     From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
     Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
     His mother, he cried out to come to her,
     And Allan set him down, and Mary said,
       "O Father!--if you let me call you so--
     I never came a-begging for myself,
     Or William, or this child; but now I come
     For Dora. Take her back, she loves you well.
     O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
     With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,
     He could not ever rue his marrying me--
     I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said
     That he was wrong to cross his father thus,
     'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know
     The troubles I have gone thro!' Then he turn'd
     His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am!
     But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
     Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
     His father's memory; and take Dora back,
     And let all this be as it was before."
       So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
     By Mary. There was silence in the room;
     And all at once the old man burst in sobs:--
       "I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son.
     I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son.
     May God forgive me!--I have been to blame.
     Kiss me, my children."

                             Then they clung about
     The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times.
     And all the man was broken with remorse;
     And all his love came back a hundred-fold;
     And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child
     Thinking of William.

                             So those four abode
     Within one house together; and as years
     Went forward, Mary took another mate;
     But Dora lived unmarried till her death.



When Parepa was here she was everywhere the people's idol. The great
opera houses in all our cities and towns were thronged. There were none
to criticise or carp. Her young, rich, grand voice was beyond compare.
Its glorious tones are remembered with an enthusiasm like that which
greeted her when she sung.

Her company played in New York during the Easter holidays, and I, as an
old friend, claimed some of her leisure hours. We were friends in Italy,
and this Easter day was to be spent with me.

At eleven in the morning she sang at one of the large churches; I waited
for her, and at last we two were alone in my snug little room. At noon
the sky was overcast and gray. Down came the snow, whitening the streets
and roofs. The wind swept icy breaths from the water as it came up from
the bay and rushed past the city spires and over tall buildings,
whirling around us the snow and storm. We had hurried home, shut and
fastened our blinds, drawn close the curtains, and piled coal higher on
the glowing grate. We had taken off our wraps, and now sat close to the
cheery fire for a whole afternoon's blessed enjoyment.

Parepa said, "Mary, this is perfect rest! We shall be quite alone for
four hours."

"Yes, four long hours!" I replied. "No rehearsals, no engagements.
Nobody knows where you are!"

Parepa laughed merrily at this idea.

"Dinner shall be served in this room, and I won't allow even the servant
to look at you!" I said.

She clasped her dimpled hands together, like a child in enjoyment, and
then sprang up to roll the little center-table near the grate.

The snow had now turned into sleet; a great chill fell over the whole
city. We looked out of our windows, peeping through the shutters, and
pitying the people as they rushed past.

A sharp rap on my door. John thrust in a note.

     "MY DEAR FRIEND:--Can you come? Annie has gone. She said you would
     be sure to come to her funeral. She spoke of you to the last. She
     will be buried at four."

I laid the poor little blotted note in Parepa's hand. How it stormed! We
looked into each other's faces helplessly. I said, "Dear, I must go, but
you sit by the fire and rest. I'll be at home in two hours. And poor
Annie has gone!"

"Tell me about it, Mary, for I am going with you," she answered.

She threw on her heavy cloak, wound her long white woolen scarf closely
about her throat, drew on her woolen gloves, and we set out together in
the wild Easter storm.

Annie's mother was a dressmaker, and sewed for me and my friends. She
was left a widow when her one little girl was five years old. Her
husband was drowned off the Jersey coast, and out of blinding pain and
loss and anguish had grown a sort of idolatry for the delicate,
beautiful child whose brown eyes looked like the young husband's.

For fifteen years this mother had loved and worked for Annie, her whole
being going out to bless her one child. I had grown fond of them; and in
small ways, with books and flowers, outings and simple pleasures, I had
made myself dear to them. The end of the delicate girl's life had not
seemed so near, though her doom had been hovering about her for years.

I had thought it all over as I took the Easter lilies from my
window-shelf and wrapped them in thick papers and hid them out of the
storm under my cloak. I knew there would be no other flowers in their
wretched room. How endless was the way to this East-Side tenement house!
No elevated roads, no rapid transit across the great city then as there
are now. At last we reached the place. On the street stood the
canvas-covered hearse, known only to the poor.

We climbed flight after flight of narrow dark stairs to the small upper
rooms. In the middle of the floor stood a stained coffin, lined with
stiff, rattling cambric and cheap gauze, resting on uncovered trestles
of wood.

We each took the mother's hand and stood a moment with her, silent. All
hope had gone out of her face. She shed no tears, but as I held her cold
hand I felt a shudder go over her, but she neither spoke nor sobbed.

The driving storm had made us late, and the plain, hard-working people
sat stiffly against the walls. Some one gave us chairs and we sat close
to the mother.

The minister came in, a blunt, hard-looking man, self-sufficient and
formal. A woman said the undertaker brought him. Icier than the pitiless
storm outside, yes, colder than ice were his words. He read a few verses
from the Bible, and warned "the bereaved mother against rebellion at the
divine decrees." He made a prayer and was gone.

A dreadful hush fell over the small room. I whispered to the mother and
asked: "Why did you wait so long to send for me? All this would have
been different."

With a kind of stare, she looked at me.

"I can't remember why I didn't send," she said, her hand to her head,
and added: "I seemed to die, too, and forget, till they brought a
coffin. Then I knew it all."

The undertaker came and bustled about. He looked at myself and Parepa,
as if to say: "It's time to go." The wretched funeral service was over.

Without a word Parepa rose and walked to the head of the coffin. She
laid her white scarf on an empty chair, threw her cloak back from her
shoulders, where it fell in long, soft, black lines from her noble
figure like the drapery of mourning. She laid her soft, fair hand on the
cold forehead, passed it tenderly over the wasted delicate face, looked
down at the dead girl a moment, and moved my Easter lilies from the
stained box to the thin fingers, then lifted up her head, and with
illumined eyes sang the glorious melody:

     "Angels, ever bright and fair,
     Take, oh! take her to thy care."

Her magnificent voice rose and fell in all its richness and power and
pity and beauty! She looked above the dingy room and the tired faces of
men and women, the hard hands and the struggling hearts. She threw back
her head and sang till the choirs of paradise must have paused to listen
to the Easter music of that day.

She passed her hand caressingly over the girl's soft dark hair, and sang
on--and on--"Take--oh! take her to thy care!"

The mother's face grew rapt and white. I held her hands and watched her
eyes. Suddenly she threw my hand off and knelt at Parepa's feet, close
to the wooden trestles. She locked her fingers together, tears and sobs
breaking forth. She prayed aloud that God would bless the angel singing
for Annie. A patient smile settled about her lips, the light came back
into her poor, dulled eyes, and she kissed her daughter's face with a
love beyond all interpretation or human speech. I led her back to her
seat as the last glorious notes of Parepa's voice rose triumphant over
all earthly pain and sorrow.

And I thought that no queen ever went to her grave with a greater
ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toil, committed to the
care of the angels.

That same night thousands listened to Parepa's matchless voice. Applause
rose to the skies, and Parepa's own face was gloriously swept with
emotion. I joined in the enthusiasm, but above the glitter and
shimmering of jewels and dress, and the heavy odors of Easter flowers,
the sea of smiling faces, and the murmur of voices, I could only behold
by the dim light of a tenement window the singer's uplifted face, the
wondering countenance of the poor on-lookers, and the mother's wide,
startled, tearful eyes; I could only hear above the sleet on the roof
and the storm outside Parepa's voice singing up to heaven: "Take, oh!
take her to thy care!"



     Those evening bells! those evening bells!
     How many a tale their music tells
     Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
     When last I heard their soothing chime.

     Those joyous hours are passed away;
     And many a heart that then was gay
     Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
     And hears no more those evening bells.

     And so 'twill be when I am gone;
     That tuneful peal will still ring on,
     While other bards shall walk these dells,
     And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.



     So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile
     Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head,
     Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,
     As, slowly creeping, he went down the stair.
     Were they afraid that I should be afraid?
     I, who have died once and been laid in tomb?
     They need not.

                   Little one, look not so pale.
     I am not raving. Ah! you never heard
     The story. Climb up there upon the bed:
     Sit close and listen. After this one day
     I shall not tell you stories any more.

     How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve?
     Almost a woman! scarcely more than that
     Was your fair mother when she bore her bud;
     And scarcely more was I when, long years since,
     I left my father's house, a bride in May.
     You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church,
     Gloomy and rich, which stands and seems to frown
     On the Mercato, humming at its base.
     That was my play-place ever as a child;
     And with me used to play a kinsman's son,
     Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days!
     Two happy things we were, with none to chide,
     Or hint that life was anything but play.
     Sudden the play-time ended. All at once
     "You must wed," they told me. "What is wed?"
     I asked; but with the word I bent my brow,
     Let them put on the garland, smiled to see
     The glancing jewels tied about my neck;
     And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth
     By my grave husband, older than my sire.
     O the long years that followed! It would seem
     That the sun never shone in all those years,
     Or only with a sudden, troubled glint
     Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by
     Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love
     Raised to my face--my conscious, woeful face.
     Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined
     Together, none forbidding, for so long.
     They let our childish fingers drop the seed,
     Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain;
     They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow,
     Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant.
     I loved Antonio, and he loved me.

     Life was all shadow, but it was not sin!
     I loved Antonio; but I kept me pure,
     Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake
     Of him, my first-born child, my little child,
     Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look
     Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day.
     I loved: but, hear me swear, I kept me pure!

                                   It was hard
     To sit in darkness while the rest had light,
     To move to discords when the rest had song,
     To be so young and never to have lived.
     I bore, as women bear, until one day
     Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more,"
     And with the word uprose, tore clay apart,
     And what was blank before grew blanker still.
     It was a fever, so the leeches said.
     I had been dead so long, I did not know
     The difference or heed. Oil on my breast,
     The garments of the grave about me wrapped,
     They bore me forth and laid me in the tomb.

     Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night.
     It was night then, when I awoke to feel
     That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams
     Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door,
     The coffins of my fathers all about.
     Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back,
     As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell.
     With frantic strength I beat upon the grate;
     It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand
     Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore
     Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure
     Next time. Next time! That hurts me even now!

     Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which,
     And down the darkling street I wildly fled,
     Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon,
     Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I.
     I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light
     And human touch; but still my witless steps
     Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped,
     By instinct, knocked, and called.

                                   A window oped.
     A voice--'twas his--demanded: "Who is there?"
     "'Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone
     Change into horror, and he prayed aloud
     And called upon the saints, the while I urged,
     "O, let me in, Francesco; let me in!
     I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!"
     Then with a crash, the window was shut fast:
     And, though I cried and beat upon the door
     And wailed aloud, no other answer came.

     Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove
     Down the hard distance toward my father's house.
     "They will have pity and will let me in,"
     I thought. "They loved me and will let me in."
     Cowards! At the high window overhead
     They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed.
     "I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in!
     I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!"
     "The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire.
     My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax
     To St. Eustachio, would he but remove
     This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp
     Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust
     From out the window, and my brother cried,
     "Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!"
     Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb
     And the cold coffined ones! Up the long street,
     Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went.
     My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones;
     My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose
     Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape
     Saw never Florence since.

     At last I saw a flickering point of light
     High overhead, in a dim window set.
     I had lain down to die: but at the sight
     I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength
     Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then
     It was Antonio's door by which I lay.
     A window opened, and a voice called out:
     "Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought,
     "Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest,
     And bid me hence." But, lo, a moment more
     The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch
     Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in.
     "O ghost or angel of my buried love,
     I know not, I care not which, be welcome here!
     Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!"
     I heard him say, and then I heard no more.

     It was high noontide when I woke again,
     To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed--
     My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn,
     Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb,
     Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet,
     Over the pavement to Antonio's door.
     Dead, they cared nothing; living, I was theirs.
     Hot raged the quarrel: then came Justice in,
     And to the court we swept--I in my shroud--
     To try the cause.

                       This was the verdict given:
     "A woman who has been to burial borne,
     Made fast and left and locked in with the dead;
     Who at her husband's door has stood and plead
     For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied;
     Who from her father's house is urged and chased,
     Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact.
     The Court pronounces the defendant--dead!
     She can resume her former ties at will,
     Or may renounce them, if such be her will.
     She is no more a daughter or a spouse,
     Unless she choose, and is set free to form
     New ties if so she choose."

                                 O, blessed words!
     That very day we knelt before the priest,
     My love and I, were wed, and life began.
     Child of my child, child of Antonio's child,
     Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face.
     'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you.
     But time is brief, and, had I told you not,
     Haply the story would have met your ears
     From them, the Amieris.
     Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up,
     To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad.
     I who have died once, do not fear to die.
     Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this.
     Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits
     Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say,
     I know I shall not stand long at that gate,
     Or knock and be refused an entrance there,
     For he will start up when he hears my voice,
     The saints will smile, and he will open quick.
     Only a night to part me from that joy.
     Jesu Maria! let the dawning come!



     The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
       The ringers rang by two, by three;
     "Pull, if ye never pulled before;
       Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
     "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
     Ply all your changes, all your swells,
       Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

     Men say it was a stolen tyde--
       The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
     But in myne ears doth still abide
       The message that the bells let fall:
     And there was naught of strange, beside
     The flight of mews and peewits pied
       By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

     I sat and spun within the doore,
       My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;
     The level sun, like ruddy ore,
       Lay sinking in the barren skies,
     And dark against day's golden death
     She moved where Lindis wandereth,
     My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

     "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling
     Ere the early dews were falling,
     Farre away I heard her song.
     "Cusha! Cusha!" all along;
     Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
             Floweth, floweth,
     From the meads where melick groweth,
     Faintly came her milking song.

     Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
       And not a shadowe mote be seene,
     Save where full fyve good miles away
       The steeple towered from out the greene;
     And lo! the great bell farre and wide
     Was heard in all the country side
     That Saturday at eventide.

     I looked without, and lo! my sonne
       Came riding down with might and main:
     He raised a shout as he drew on,
       Till all the welkin rang again,
     "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
     (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
     Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

     "The old sea wall (he cried) is downe,
       The rising tide comes on apace,
     And boats adrift in yonder towne
       Go sailing uppe the market-place."
     He shook as one that looks on death:
     "God save you, mother!" straight he saith,
     "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

     "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away,
       With her two bairns I marked her long;
     And ere yon bells beganne to play
       Afar I heard her milking song."
     He looked across the grassy lea,
     To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"
     They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

     With that he cried and beat his breast;
       For, lo! along the river's bed
     A mighty eygre reared his crest,
       And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
     It swept with thunderous noises loud;
     Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
     Or like a demon in a shroud.

     So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
       The heart had hardly time to beat,
     Before a shallow, seething wave
       Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet.
     The feet had hardly time to flee
     Before it brake against the knee,
     And all the world was in the sea.

     Upon the roofe we sat that night,
       The noise of bells went sweeping by;
     I marked the lofty beacon light
       Stream from the church tower, red and high--
     A lurid mark and dread to see;
     And awesome bells they were to me,
     That in the dark rang "Enderby."

     They rang the sailor lads to guide
       From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed,
     And I--my sonne was at my side,
       And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;
     And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
     "O come in life, or come in death!
     O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

     And didst thou visit him no more?
       Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;
     The waters laid thee at his doore,
       Ere yet the early dawn was clear,
     Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
     The lifted sun shone on thy face,
     Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

     That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
       That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;
     A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!
       To manye more than myne and me:
     But each will mourn his own (she saith),
     And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
     Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

     I shall never hear her more
     By the reedy Lindis shore,
     "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
     Ere the early dews be falling;
     I shall never hear her song,
     "Cusha! Cusha!" all along
     Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
             Goeth, floweth;
     From the meads where melick groweth,
     When the water winding down,
     Onward floweth to the town.

     I shall never see her more
     Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
             Shiver, quiver;
     Stand beside the sobbing river,
     Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
     To the sandy lonesome shore;
     I shall never hear her calling,
     "Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
             Mellow, mellow;
     Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
     Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
     Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
             Hollow, hollow;
     Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;
             Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
     From your clovers lift the head;
     Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
     Jetty, to the milking-shed."



     Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
     With a resolute heart and cheerful,
     Or hide your face from the light of day
     With a craven soul and fearful?
     Oh, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce,
     Or a trouble is what you make it,
     And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
     But only--how did you take it?

     You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
     Come up with a smiling face.
     It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
     But to lie there--that's disgrace.
     The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce;
     Be proud of your blackened eye!
     It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
     It's how did you fight--and why?

     And though you be done to the death, what then?
     If you battled the best you could,
     If you played your part in the world of men,
     Why The Critic will call it good.
     Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
     And whether he's slow, or spry,
     It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
     But only--how did you die?


[5] By permission of Forbes & Co, publishers, and of the author.



     Oh, late to come but long to sing,
     My little finch of deep-dyed wing,
       I welcome thee this day!
     Thou comest with the orchard bloom,
     The azure days, the sweet perfume
       That fills the breath of May.

     A winged gem amid the trees,
     A cheery strain upon the breeze
       From tree-top sifting down;
     A leafy nest in covert low;
     When daisies come and brambles blow,
       A mate in Quaker brown.

     But most I prize, past summer's prime,
     When other throats have ceased to chime,
       Thy faithful tree-top strain;
     No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall--
     A prelude with a "dying fall,"
       That soothes the summer's pain.

     Where blackcaps sweeten in the shade,
     And clematis a bower hath made,
       Or, in the bushy fields,
     On breezy slopes where cattle graze,
     At noon on dreamy August days,
       Thy strain its solace yields.

     Oh, bird inured to sun and heat,
     And steeped in summer languor sweet,
       The tranquil days are thine.
     The season's fret and urge are o'er,
     Its tide is loitering on the shore;
       Make thy contentment mine!


[6] By permission of Harper & Bros., publishers, and the author.



     The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
     Bishop and abbot and prior were there;
         Many a monk, and many a friar,
         Many a knight, and many a squire,
     With a great many more of lesser degree,--
     In sooth, a goodly company;
     And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
         Never, I ween, was a prouder seen,
     Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
     Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
         In and out through the motley rout,
     That little Jackdaw kept hopping about:
         Here and there, like a dog in a fair,
         Over comfits and cates, and dishes and plates,
     Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
     Miter and crosier! he hopped upon all.
     With a saucy air, he perched on the chair
     Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat,
     In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
         And he peered in the face
         Of his Lordship's Grace,
     With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
     "We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"
         And the priests with awe, as such freaks they saw,
     Said, "The deuce must be in that little Jackdaw!"

     The feast was over, the board was cleared,
     The flawns and the custards had all disappeared,
     And six little singing-boys--dear little souls
     In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles--
         Came, in order due, two by two,
     Marching that grand refectory through!

     A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
     Embossed and filled with water, as pure
     As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
     Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
     In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
     Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
     Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne;
     And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
     Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
         One little boy more a napkin bore,
     Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
     And a Cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."

     The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
     Of these nice little boys dressed all in white;
         From his finger he draws his costly turquoise:
     And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
         Deposits it straight by the side of his plate,
     While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
     Till when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
     That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

         There's a cry and a shout, and a terrible rout,
     And nobody seems to know what they're about,
     But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out;
         The friars are kneeling, and hunting and feeling
     The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
         The Cardinal drew off each plum-colored shoe,
     And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
         He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels;
     They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates,
     They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
         They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs;
         But, no! no such thing,--they can't find THE RING!

     The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
     He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!
         In holy anger and pious grief
         He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
     Never was heard such a terrible curse!
         But what gave rise to no little surprise,
     Nobody seemed one penny the worse!

         The day was gone, the night came on,
     The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;
         When the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw,
     Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
         No longer gay, as on yesterday;
     His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;
     His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand,--
     His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
         His eye so dim, so wasted each limb,
     Regardless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!
     That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing,
     That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!"
         The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw,
     Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
     And turned his bald head as much as to say,
     "Pray be so good as to walk this way!"
         Slower and slower he limped on before,
     Till they came to the back of the belfry-door,
         Where the first thing they saw,
         Midst the sticks and the straw,
     Was the RING, in the nest of the little Jackdaw!

     Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,
     And off that terrible curse he took;
         The mute expression served in lieu of confession,
     And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
     The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
         When these words were heard, the poor little bird
     Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd:
         He grew slick and fat; in addition to that,
     A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
         His tail waggled more even than before;
     But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,
     No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair.
         He hopped now about with a gait devout;
     At matins, at vespers, he never was out;
     And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
     He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.
     If any one lied, or if any one swore,
     Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,
         That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw!"
     As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
     While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
     That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw!
         He long lived the pride of that country side,
     And at last in the order of sanctity died:
         When, as words were too faint his merits to paint,
     The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.
     And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,
     It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow,
     So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!



     Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier,
     The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
     Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
     And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust
     Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say,
     Ordained that no man living, from that day,
     Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.
     All Araby and Persia held their breath;

     All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show
     How far for love a grateful soul could go,
     And facing death for very scorn and grief
     (For his great heart wanted a great relief),
     Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square
     Where once had stood a happy house, and there
     Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar
     On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.

     "Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man
     Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began
     To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he,
     "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me;
     From wants, from shames, from loveliest household fears,
     Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
     Restored me, loved me, put me on a par
     With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?"

     Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
     The mightiest vengeance could not fall amiss,
     Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
     Might smile upon another half as great.
     He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
     The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
     Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,
     The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
     And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!"
     "Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and holding it
     High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,
     Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!"



     Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,
       Because he don't live, you see;
     Leastways, he's got out of the habit
       Of livin' like you and me.
     Whar have you been for the last three years,
       That you haven't heard folks tell
     How Jimmy Bludsoe passed in his checks,
       The night of the Prairie Belle?

     He warn't no saint--them engineers
       Is all pretty much alike--
     One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill,
       And another one here in Pike.
     A careless man in his talk was Jim,
       And an awkward man in a row--
     But he never flunked, and he never lied--
       I reckon he never knowed how.

     And this was all the religion he had--
       To treat his engine well;
     Never be passed on the river;
       To mind the pilot's bell;
     And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire;
       A thousand times he swore,
     He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank
       Till the last soul got ashore.

     All boats has their day on the Mississip',
       And her day came at last--
     The Movastar was a better boat,
       But the Belle, she wouldn't be passed,
     And so came a-tearin' along that night,
       The oldest craft on the line,
     With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
       And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine.

     The fire burst out as she cleared the bar,
       And burnt a hole in the night,
     And quick as a flash she turned and made
       For that willer-bank on the right.
     Ther' was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out
       Over all the infernal roar,
     "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
       Till the last galoot's ashore."

     Thro' the hot black breath of the burnin' boat
       Jim Bludsoe's voice was heard,
     And they all had trust in his cussedness,
       And know'd he would keep his word.
     And sure's you're born, they all got off
       Afore the smokestacks fell,
     And Bludsoe's ghost went up alone
       In the smoke of Prairie Belle.

     He warn't no saint--but at judgment
       I'd run my chance with Jim
     Longside of some pious gentleman
       That wouldn't shook hands with him.
     He'd seen his duty, a dead sure thing,
       And went fer it thar and then;
     And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard
       On a man that died for men.


[7] By permission of Mrs. Hay.



     Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
     And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
     Appareled in magnificent attire,
     With retinue of many a knight and squire,
     On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat,
     And heard the priests chant the Magnificat,
     And as he listened, o'er and o'er again
     Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
     He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes
     De sede et exultavit humiles;"
     And slowly lifting up his kingly head,
     He to the learned clerk beside him said,
     "What mean those words?" The clerk made answer meet,
     "He has put down the mighty from their seat,
     And has exalted them of low degree."
     Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,
     "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung
     Only by priests and in the Latin tongue;
     For unto priests and people be it known,
     There is no power can push me from my throne!"
     And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,
     Lulled by the chant, monotonous and deep.
     When he awoke it was already night;
     The church was empty, and there was no light,
     Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,
     Lighted a little space before some saint.
     He started from his seat and gazed around,
     But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
     He groped toward the door, but it was locked;
     He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
     And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,
     And imprecations upon men and saints.
     The sounds reëchoed from the roof and walls
     As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.

     At length the sexton hearing from without
     The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
     And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,
     Came with his lantern asking, "Who is there?"
     Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,
     "Open: 'Tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"
     The frightened sexton muttering with a curse,
     "This is some drunken vagabond or worse!"
     Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;
     A man rushed by him at a single stride,
     Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,
     Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,
     But leaped into the blackness of the night,
     And vanished like a spectre from his sight.
     Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
     And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
     Despoiled of his magnificent attire,
     Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,
     With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
     Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;
     Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage
     To right and left each seneschal and page,
     And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
     His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.
     From hall to hall he rushed in breathless speed,
     Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
     Until at last he reached the banquet room,
     Blazing with light and breathing with perfume.

     There on the dais sat another king,
     Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet ring,
     King Robert's self in feature, form and height,
     But all transfigured with angelic light.
     It was an Angel; and his presence there
     With a divine effulgence filled the air,
     An exaltation piercing the disguise,
     Though none the hidden Angel recognize.

     A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
     The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,
     Who met his look of anger and surprise
     With the divine compassion of his eyes;
     Then said, "Who art thou, and why comest thou here?"
     To which King Robert answered with a sneer,
     "I am the King, and come to claim my own
     From an imposter, who usurps my throne!"
     And suddenly, at these audacious words,
     Up sprang the angry guests and drew their swords!
     The Angel answered with unruffled brow,
     "Nay, not the king, but the king's Jester, thou
     Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,
     And for thy counselor shalt lead an ape;
     Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,
     And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"

     Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,
     They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;
     A group of tittering pages ran before,
     And as they opened wide the folding doors,
     His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,
     The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,
     And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring
     With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!"

     Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,
     He said within himself, "It was a dream!"
     But the straw rustled as he turned his head,
     There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
     Around him rose the bare discolored walls,
     Close by the steeds were champing in their stalls,
     And in the corner, a revolting shape,
     Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.
     It was no dream; the world he loved so much
     Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!

     Days came and went; and now returned again
     To Sicily the old Saturnian reign;
     Under the Angel's governance benign
     The happy island danced with corn and wine,
     And deep within the mountain's burning breast
     Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.

     Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,
     Sullen and silent and disconsolate,
     Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,
     With look bewildered and a vacant stare,
     Close shaven above the ears as monks are shorn,
     By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,
     His only friend the ape, his only food
     What others left,--he still was unsubdued.
     And when the Angel met him on his way,
     And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,
     Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel,
     The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,
     "Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe,
     Burst from him in resistless overflow,
     And, lifting high his forehead he would fling
     The haughty answer back, "I am, I am, the King!"

     Almost three years were ended, when there came
     Ambassadors of great repute and fame
     From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
     Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane
     By letter summoned them forthwith to come
     On Holy Thursday to his City of Rome.

     The Pope received them with great pomp and blare
     Of bannered trumpets, on St. Peter's Square,
     Giving his benediction and embrace,
     Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.
     While with congratulations and with prayers
     He entertained the Angel unawares.
     Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,
     Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,
     "I am the King! Look and behold in me
     Robert, your brother, King of Sicily!
     This man who wears my semblance in your eyes,
     Is an imposter in a king's disguise.
     Do you not know me? Does no voice within
     Answer my cry, and say we are akin?"
     The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,
     Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene;
     The Emperor, laughing said, "It is strange sport
     To keep a madman for thy fool at court!"
     And the poor baffled Jester in disgrace
     Was hustled back among the populace.

     In solemn state the Holy Week went by,
     And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;
     The presence of the Angel, with its light,
     Before the sun rose, made the city bright,
     And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,
     Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.

     Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,
     With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,
     He felt within a power unfelt before,
     And, kneeling humbly on the chamber floor,
     He heard the rushing garments of the Lord
     Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.

     And now the visit ending, and once more
     Valmond returning to the Danube's shore,
     Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again
     The land was made resplendent with his train,
     Flashing along the towns of Italy
     Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea.
     And when once more within Palermo's wall,
     And, seated on the throne in his great hall,
     He heard the Angelus from convent towers,
     As if a better world conversed with ours,
     He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,
     And with a gesture bade the rest retire;
     And when they were alone, the Angel said,
     "Art thou the King?" Then, bowing down his head,
     King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,
     And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!
     My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,
     And in some cloister's school of penitence,
     Across those stones that pave the way to heaven,
     Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven!"

     The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face
     A holy light illumined all the place,
     And through the open window, loud and clear,
     They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,
     Above the noise and tumult of the street:
     "He has put down the mighty from their seat,
     And has exalted them of low degree!"
     And through the chant a second melody
     Rose like the throbbing of a single string:
     "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!"

     King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
     Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!
     But all appareled as in days of old,
     With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold,
     And when his courtiers came, they found him there
     Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.


[8] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton,
Mifflin, & Co., authorized publishers of his works.




     On either side the river lie
     Long fields of barley and of rye,
     That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
     And thro' the field the road runs by
         To many-tower'd Camelot;
     And up and down the people go,
     Gazing where the lilies blow
     Round an island there below,
         The island of Shalott.

     Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
     Little breezes dusk and shiver
     Thro' the wave that runs forever
     By the island in the river
         Flowing down to Camelot.
     Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
     Overlook a space of flowers,
     And the silent isle embowers
         The Lady of Shalott.

     By the margin, willow-veil'd
     Slide the heavy barges trail'd
     By slow horses; and unhail'd
     The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
         Skimming down to Camelot.
     But who hath seen her wave her hand?
     Or at the casement seen her stand?
     Or is she known in all the land,
         The Lady of Shalott?

     Only reapers, reaping early
     In among the bearded barley,
     Hear a song that echoes cheerly
     From the river winding clearly,
         Down to tower'd Camelot:
     And by the moon the reaper weary
     Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
     Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
         Lady of Shalott."


     There she weaves by night and day
     A magic web with colors gay.
     She has heard a whisper say,
     A curse is on her if she stay
         To look down to Camelot.
     She knows not what the curse may be,
     And so she weaveth steadily,
     And little other care hath she,
         The Lady of Shalott.

     And moving thro' a mirror clear
     That hangs before her all the year,
     Shadows of the world appear,
     There she sees the highway near
         Winding down to Camelot:
     There the river eddy whirls,
     And there the surly village-churls,
     And the red cloaks of market girls,
         Pass onward from Shalott.

     Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
     An abbot on an ambling pad,
     Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
     Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
         Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
     And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
     The knights come riding two and two:
     She hath no loyal knight and true,
         The Lady of Shalott.

     But in her web she still delights
     To weave the mirror's magic sights,
     For often thro' the silent nights
     A funeral, with plumes and lights
         And music, went to Camelot:
     Or when the moon was overhead,
     Came two young lovers lately wed;
     "I am half sick of shadows," said
         The Lady of Shalott.


     A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
     He rode between the barley sheaves,
     The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
     And flamed upon the brazen greaves
         Of bold Sir Lancelot.
     A red-cross knight forever kneel'd
     To a lady in his shield,
     That sparkled on the yellow field,
         Beside remote Shalott.

     All in the blue unclouded weather
     Thick jewel'd shone the saddle-leather,
     The helmet and the helmet-feather
     Burn'd like one burning flame together,
         As he rode down to Camelot.
     As often thro' the purple night,
     Below the starry clusters bright,
     Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
         Moves over still Shalott.

     His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
     On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
     From underneath his helmet flow'd
     His coal-black curls as on he rode,
         As he rode down to Camelot.
     From the bank and from the river
     He flashed into the crystal mirror,
     "Tirra lirra," by the river
         Sang Sir Lancelot.

     She left the web, she left the loom,
     She made three paces thro' the room,
     She saw the water lily bloom,
     She saw the helmet and the plume,
         She look'd down to Camelot.
     Out flew the web and floated wide;
     The mirror crack'd from side to side;
     "The curse is come upon me," cried
         The Lady of Shalott.


     In the stormy east-wind straining,
     The pale yellow woods were waning,
     The broad stream in his banks complaining,
     Heavily the low sky raining
         Over tower'd Camelot;
     Down she came and found a boat
     Beneath a willow left afloat,
     And round about the prow she wrote
         _The Lady of Shalott_.

     And down the river's dim expanse
     Like some bold seer in a trance,
     Seeing all his own mischance--
     With a glassy countenance
         Did she look to Camelot.
     And at the closing of the day
     She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
     The broad stream bore her far away,
         The Lady of Shalott.

     Lying robed in snowy white
     That loosely flew to left and right--
     The leaves upon her falling light--
     Thro' the noises of the night
         She floated down to Camelot:
     And as the boat-head wound along
     The willowy hills and fields among,
     They heard her singing her last song,
         The Lady of Shalott.

     Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
     Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
     Till her blood was frozen slowly
     And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
         Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
     For ere she reached upon the tide
     The first house by the water side,
     Singing in her song she died,
         The Lady of Shalott.

     Under tower and balcony,
     By garden-wall and gallery,
     A gleaming shape she floated by,
     Dead-pale between the houses high,
         Silent into Camelot.
     Out upon the wharfs they came,
     Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
     And around the prow they read her name,
         _The Lady of Shalott_.

     Who is this? and what is here?
     And in the lighted palace near
     Died the sound of royal cheer;
     And they cross'd themselves for fear,
         All the knights at Camelot:
     But Lancelot mused a little space;
     He said, "She has a lovely face;
     God in His mercy lend her grace,
         The Lady of Shalott."



     It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise his name!)
     To hear, one day, report from those who came
     With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy,
     To tell of earthly tasks in His employ;
     For some were sorry when they saw how slow
     The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow;
     And some were glad because their eyes had seen,
     Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green.
     So, at a certain hour, before the throne
     The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone;
     Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought,
     And thus his tidings to the Master brought:
     "Lord, in the city Lupon I have found
     Three servants of thy holy name, renowned
     Above their fellows. One is very wise,
     With thoughts that ever range above the skies;
     And one is gifted with the golden speech
     That makes men glad to hear when he will teach;
     And one, with no rare gift or grace endued,
     Has won the people's love by doing good.
     With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest;
     But, Lord, I fain would know which loves thee best?"

     Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look
     The hearts of all are like an open book:
     "In every soul the secret thought I read,
     And well I know who loves me best indeed.
     But every life has pages vacant still,
     Whereon a man may write the thing he will;
     Therefore I read in silence, day by day,
     And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way.
     But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three
     Who serve me there, and take this word from me:
     Tell each of them his Master bids him go
     Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow;
     There he shall find a certain task for me,
     But what, I do not tell to them nor thee.
     Give thou the message, make my word the test,
     And crown for me the one who answers best."
     Silent the angel stood, with folded hands,
     To take the imprint of his Lord's commands;
     Then drew one breath, obedient and elate,
     And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate.

     First to the Temple door he made his way;
     And then because it was an holy-day,
     He saw the folk by thousands thronging, stirred
     By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word.
     Then, while the echoes murmured Bernol's name,
     Through aisles that hushed behind him, Bernol came;
     Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might,
     With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight.
     One moment at the pulpit step he knelt
     In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt
     The angel's hand:--"The Master bids thee go
     Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow,
     To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face
     Went white as death, and for about the space
     Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply;
     Till Bernol looked around and whispered, "Why?"
     But answer to this question came there none;
     The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone.

     Within the humble house where Malvin spent
     His studious years, on holy things intent,
     Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found
     The saintly sage immersed in thought profound,
     Weaving with patient toil and willing care
     A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair:
     A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet,
     And needing but one thread to be complete.

     Then Asmiel touched his hand and broke the thread
     Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said,
     "The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go
     Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow,
     To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise
     Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes.
     The broken thought, the strangeness of the call,
     The perilous passage of the mountain-wall,
     The solitary journey, and the length
     Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength,
     Appalled him. With a doubtful brow
     He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered, "How?"
     But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go,
     With cold disheartened voice, "I do not know."

     Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek
     The third and last, to whom God bade him speak,
     Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet
     But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street,
     With ready heart that faced his work like play,
     And joyed to find it greater day by day!
     The angel stopped him with uplifted hand,
     And gave without delay his Lord's command:
     "He whom thou servest here would have thee go
     Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow,
     To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again
     The eager answer leaped to meet him, "When?"

     The angel's face with inward joy grew bright,
     And all his figure glowed with heavenly light;
     He took the golden circlet from his brow
     And gave the crown to Fermor, answering; "Now!
     For thou hast met the Master's bidden test,
     And I have found the man who loves Him best.
     Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply
     When He commands us, asking 'how?' or 'why?'
     He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just;
     Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust."


[9] From "Music and other Poems," copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's



     The little toy dog is covered with dust,
       But sturdy and stanch he stands;
     And the little tin soldier is red with rust,
       And his musket molds in his hands.
     Time was when the little toy dog was new
       And the soldier was passing fair,
     And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
       Kissed them and put them there.

     "Now, don't you go till I come," he said;
       "And don't you make any noise!"
     So toddling off to his trundle bed
       He dreamt of the pretty toys.
     And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
       Awakened our Little Boy Blue--
     Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
       But the little toy friends are true.

     Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
       Each in the same old place.
     Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
       The smile of a little face.
     And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
       In the dust of that little chair,
     What has become of that Little Boy Blue
       Since he kissed them and put them there.



Mary Richling, the heroine of the story, was the wife of John Richling,
a resident of New Orleans. At the breaking out of the Civil War she went
to visit her parents in Milwaukee. About the time of the bombardment of
New Orleans she received news of the dangerous illness of her husband,
and she decided at once to reach his bedside, if possible. Taking with
her, her baby daughter, a child of three years, she proceeded southward,
where, after several unsuccessful attempts to secure a pass, she finally
determined to break through the lines.

About the middle of the night Mary Richling was sitting very still and
upright on a large, dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in
the black shadow of a great oak. Alice rested before her, fast asleep
against her bosom. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose naked
saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the full
moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there
emerged from the shadow of woods on either side, and divided into a main
right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary's left. Off
in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires.
Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness.

She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next
moment a man came out of the bushes at the left, and without a word took
the bridle of the old horse from her fingers and vaulted into the
saddle. The hand that rested a moment on the cantle as he rose grasped a
"navy six." He was dressed in dull homespun, but he was the same who had
been dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the
lesser road.

"If we'd gone on three hundred yards further," he whispered, falling
back and smiling broadly, "we'd 'a' run into the pickets. I went nigh
enough to see the videttes settin' on their hosses in the main road.
This here ain't no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I've got
one o' the niggers to show us the way."

"Where is he?" whispered Mary; but before her companion could answer, a
tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started
ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a
clear, open forest, and followed the long, rapid, swinging stride of the
negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow
stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when
they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his
arms, directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle, with her skirts
gathered carefully under her, and so they went down into the cold
stream, the negro first, with arms outstretched above the flood; then
Mary, and then the white man,--or, let us say plainly, the spy--with the
unawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on the
farther side without a shoe or garment wet, save the rags of their dark

Again they followed him, along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the
woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young
cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of house-dogs,
now the doleful call of the chuck-will's-widow, and once Mary's blood
turned, for an instant, almost to ice at the unearthly shriek of the
hoot owl just above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim,
narrow road, and the negro stopped.

"Dess keep dish yeh road fo' 'bout half mile, an' you strak 'pon de
broad, main road. Tek de left, an' you go whah yo' fancy tek you."

"Good-by," whispered Mary.

"Good-by, Miss," said the negro, in the same low voice; "good-by, boss;
don't you fo'git you promise tek me thoo to de Yankee' when you come
back. I 'feered you gwine fo'git it, boss."

The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half-mile was soon
passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length
Mary's companion looked back as they rode single file with Mary in the
rear, and said softly:

"There's the road," pointing at its broad, pale line with his

As they entered it and turned to the left, Mary, with Alice again in her
arms, moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferent
horsemanship having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush.
His horse was just quickening his pace to regain the lost position, when
a man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of the highway,
snatched a carbine from the earth and cried: "Halt!"

The dark recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen, enveloped
in their blankets, lying about a few red coals. Mary turned a frightened
look backward and met the eyes of her companion.

"Move a little faster," said he, in a low, clear voice. As she promptly
did so she heard him answer the challenge, as his horse trotted softly
after hers.

"Don't stop us, my friend; we're taking a sick child to the doctor."

"Halt, you hound!" the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back three or
four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw also her
companion, his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost an
agony, rise in his stirrups with the stoop of his shoulders all gone,
and wildly cry:


She smote the horse and flew. Alice woke and screamed.

"Hush, my darling," said the mother, laying on the withe; "mamma's here.
Hush, darling, mamma's here. Don't be frightened, darling baby. O God,
spare my child!" and away she sped.

The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousand
echoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, and
there went close by Mary's ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the
same moment she recognized, once,--twice,--thrice,--just at her back
where the hoofs of her companion's horse were clattering--the tart
rejoinders of his navy six.

"Go!" he cried again. "Lay low! lay low! cover the child!" But his words
were needless. With head bowed forward and form crouched over the
crying, clinging child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and
sun-bonnet and loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, with lips
compressed and silent prayers, Mary was riding for life and liberty and
her husband's bedside.

"O mamma, mamma," wailed the terrified little one.

"Go on! Go on!" cried the voice behind; "they're--saddling up! Go! go!
We're goin' to make it! We're going to make it! Go-o-o!"

And they made it!


[10] From "Dr. Sevier."



As Glaucus, a young Athenian, now a resident of Pompeii, was strolling
with his friend Clodius through the streets of that renowned city, their
steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an open space where three
streets met; and just where the porticoes of a light, graceful temple
threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her
right arm and a small three-stringed instrument of music in her left
hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating a low, plaintive

"It is my poor, blind Thessalian," said Glaucus, stopping; "I have not
seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! let us listen to her song."


     Buy my flowers, O buy, I pray!
     The blind girl comes from afar;
     If the earth be as fair as I hear them say,
     These flowers her children are!

     Do they her beauty keep?
     They are fresh from her lap, I know,
     For I caught them fast asleep
     In her arms an hour ago.

     Ye have a world of light,
     Where love in the loved rejoices;
     But the blind girl's home is the house of night,
     And its beings are empty voices.

     Come buy,--buy, come buy!--
     Hark! how the sweet things sigh
     (For they have a voice like ours)
     O buy--O buy the flowers!

"I must have that bunch of violets, sweet Nydia," said Glaucus, "your
voice is more charming than ever."

The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian's voice; then
as suddenly paused, while a blush of timidity flushed over neck, cheeks,
and temples.

"So you are returned!" she said in a low voice.

"Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden
wants your care, you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow, and mind, no
garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty

Nydia smiled joyously but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing in his
breast the violets he had selected, turned gaily and carelessly from the

Though of gentle birth, for her cradle was rocked at the foot of
Olympus, Nydia had been sold when quite young to Burbo, a gladiator of
the amphitheater. She was cruelly treated by the wife of Burbo.

Glaucus bought her, took her to his home, and her sweetest joy was to
minister to the comfort and entertainment of her deliverer. The vines
that grew upon the walls of the peristyle were not more graceful, their
tendrils not more trusting and tender, nor the flowers woven into
wreaths and garlands by her skillful fingers more beautiful than the
blind flower-girl of the house of Glaucus.

As the months went on what wonder that the kind words and sympathetic
voice which had been the first that had sounded musically to her ear
should awaken in the breast of Nydia a deeper love than that which
springs from gratitude alone! What wonder that in her innocence and
blindness she knew no reason why the most brilliant and the most
graceful of the young nobles of Pompeii should entertain none other than
feelings of friendship for her! When the Athenian drew her unconsciously
to his breast, deeming her still a child--when he kissed her cheek and
wound his arm around her trembling form, Nydia felt that those feelings
she had innocently cherished were of love.

What wonder then that into her wild and passionate soul should creep the
pangs of jealousy when another claimed the homage of him who was all to

Glaucus loved Ione, a beautiful young Neapolitan of Greek parentage who
had lately come to Pompeii. She was one of those brilliant characters
which seldom flash across our career. She united in the highest
perfection the rarest of earthly gifts,--Genius and Beauty. No one ever
possessed superior intellectual qualities without knowing them. In the
person of Ione, Glaucus found the long-sought idol of his dreams; and so
infatuated was he, that he could talk of no one else. No song was sweet
but that which breathed of love, and to him love was but a synonym of

"Play to us, dear Nydia,--play, and give us one of thy songs; whether it
be of magic or not as thou wilt--let it at least be of love."

"Of love! wish you that I should sing of love?"


She moved a little way from Ione, who had learned to love her more as a
sister than a slave, and placing her light, graceful instrument on her
knee, after a short prelude, she sang the following strain, in which
with touching pathos, her own sighs were represented by the _Wind_, the
brightness of the beautiful Ione by the _Sun-beam_, and the personality
of Glaucus by his favorite flower, the _Rose_.


     The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,
         And the Rose loved one;
     For who seeks the Wind where it blows?
         Or loves not the Sun?


     None knew where the humble Wind stole,
         Poor sport of the skies--
     None dreamt that the Wind had a soul,
         In its mournful sighs!


     Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou prove
         That bright love of thine?
     In thy light is the proof of thy love,
         Thou hast but--to shine!


     How can the Wind its love reveal?
         Unwelcome its sigh;
     Mute--mute to its Rose be it still--
         Its proof is--to die!

Alike in their mornings at the house of Ione, and in their evening
excursions, Nydia was usually their constant, and often their sole
companion. They did not guess the secret fires which consumed her; the
flames of which were ever fanned by the unconscious breath of the two
lovers. Yet her fidelity arose above her pitiful pangs of jealousy and
in the hour of need she was the tried and trusted.

The scene changes; where only the brightness of uninterrupted love had
hitherto fallen, now creep the black shadows of tragic sorrow.

Ione falls into the clutches of Arbaces, a subtle, crafty Egyptian, who
attempted by the magic of his dark sorcery, to win her away from
Glaucus. In pursuit of his base designs, Arbaces murders Apæcides, the
brother of Ione, imprisons the priest Calenus, the only witness of the
deed, and with great cunning weaves a convicting web of circumstantial
evidence around Glaucus, his hated rival. Glaucus is tried, convicted,
and doomed to be thrown to the lion. Ione and Nydia are also prisoners
in the house of Arbaces. Glaucus has been placed in that gloomy and
narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last and
fearful struggle.

Alas! how faithless are the friendships made around an epicurean board!
Where were the gay loiterers who once lingered at the feasts and drank
the rich wines of the house of Glaucus? Only Sallust shed a tear, but he
was powerless against Arbaces who was backed by the corrupt priesthood
of Isis.

What ministering angel should now come forth as a light out of darkness
bearing, even in her blindness, the conditions of deliverance, but
Nydia. From the slaves of Arbaces she learned the approaching fate of
Glaucus. Working upon the superstition of her special guard Sosia, she
manages to escape his vigilance for a time, and creeping along a dark
passage she overhears the cries of the priest Calenus lately
incarcerated in an adjoining dungeon cell. From him she learns the
circumstances of the crime of Arbaces for which the innocent Glaucus was
doomed to die. A few hours later she was captured by Sosia and replaced
in her cell.

Yet knowing that the sole chance for the life of Glaucus rested on her,
this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely susceptible as she
was--resolved not to give way to despair. Glaucus was in deadly peril,
but she should save him! Sosia was her only hope, the only instrument
with which she could tamper.

As if afraid he would be again outwitted, Sosia refrained from visiting
her until a late hour of the following day.

"Kind Sosia, chide me not," said Nydia, "I cannot endure to be so long
alone, the solitude appalls me. Sit with me, I pray, a little while.
Nay, fear not that I should attempt to escape; place thy seat before the
door. Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up thy freedom?"

"How much?" said he, "why, about 2000 sesterces."

"The Gods be praised! not more? Seest thou these bracelets and this
chain? they are worth double that sum. I will give them thee if thou
wilt let me out, only for one little hour! let me out at midnight--I
will return ere to-morrow's dawn; nay, thou canst go with me."

"No," said Sosia, sturdily, "a slave once disobeying Arbaces is never
heard of more."

"Well, then, thou wilt not, at least, refuse to take a letter for me;
thy master cannot kill thee for that."

"To whom?"

"To Sallust, the gay Sallust. Glaucus was my master, he purchased me
from a cruel lord. He alone has been kind to me. He is to die to-morrow.
I shall never live happily if I cannot, in this hour of trial and doom,
let him know that one heart is grateful to him. Sallust is his friend;
he will convey my message."

"Well, give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter."

Nydia carefully prepared the epistle, but ere she placed it in the hands
of Sosia she thus addressed him:

"Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to deceive me--thou
mayst pretend only to take the letter to Sallust--thou mayst not fulfill
thy charge; but here I solemnly dedicate thy head to vengeance, thy soul
to the infernal powers, if thou wrongest thy trust; and I call upon thee
to place thy right hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these
words;--'_By the ground on which we stand--by the elements which contain
life and which can curse life--by Orcus, the all-avenging--by the
Olympian Jupiter, the all-seeing--I swear that I will honestly discharge
my trust, and faithfully deliver this letter into the hands of
Sallust_.' Enough! I trust thee--take thy reward. It is already
dark--depart at once."

Sosia was true to his trust--Sallust read the letter, she wrote,--"_I am
a prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the Prætor! procure my
release, and we yet shall save Glaucus from the lion. There is another
prisoner within these walls, whose witness can exonerate the Athenian
from the charge against him;--one who saw the crime--who can prove the
criminal to be a villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly! hasten! quick!
quick! Bring with you armed men, lest resistance be made,--and a cunning
and dexterous smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is thick and
strong. Oh! by thy right hand, and thy father's ashes, lose not a

The day for the sports in the amphitheater had come and all the seats
were filled with eager and expectant people. The gladiatorial fights and
other games of the arena were completed.

"Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian," said the editor.

Just then a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; the
crowd gave way and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches,
his hair disheveled; breathless; half exhausted--he cast his eyes
hastily around the ring.

"Remove the Athenian," he cried, "haste,--he is innocent. Arrest Arbaces
the Egyptian. He is the murderer of Apæcides."

"Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the prætor, "what means this raving?"

"Remove the Athenian--quick, or his blood be on your head. I bring with
me the eye-witness to the death of Apæcides. Room there--stand
back--give way. People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces--there he
sits--room there for the priest Calenus."

"Enough at present," said the prætor. "The details must be reserved for
a more suiting time and place. Ho! guards! remove the accused Glaucus,
arrest Arbaces, guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible for your
accusation. Let the sports be resumed."

As the prætor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy--a female
voice--a child voice--and it was of joy! It rang through the heart of
the assembly with electric force--it was touching, it was holy, that
child's voice!

"Silence!" said the grave prætor--"who is there?"

"The blind girl--Nydia," answered Sallust; "it is her hand that raised
Calenus from the grave and delivered Glaucus from the lion."

Stunned by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake, Glaucus had been
led by the officers of the arena into a small cell within the walls of
the theater. They threw a loose robe over his form and crowded around in
congratulation and wonder. There was an impatient and fretful cry
without the cell; the throng gave way, and the blind girl flung herself
at the feet of Glaucus.

"It is I who saved thee," she sobbed, "now let me die!"

"Nydia, my child!--my preserver!"

"Oh, let me feel thy touch--thy breath! yes, yes, thou livest! We are
not too late! That dread door methought would never yield! But thou
livest! Thou livest yet!--and I--I have saved thee!"


[11] Adapted by Robt. I. Fulton from "Last Days of Pompeii."




     O Captain, my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
     The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
     The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
     While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
     But, O heart, heart, heart! O the bleeding drops of red,
     Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.

     O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
     Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
     For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores
     For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
     Here, Captain, dear father! this arm beneath your head!
     It is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead.

     My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
     My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
     The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done;
     From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
     Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful tread
     Walk the deck where my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.


[12] By permission of David McKay, publisher.




"There, Simmons, you blockhead! Why didn't you trot that old woman
aboard her train? She'll have to wait here now until the 1.05 A.M."

"You didn't tell me."

"Yes, I did tell you. 'Twas only your confounded stupid carelessness."


"She! You blockhead! What else could you expect of her! Probably she
hasn't any wit; besides, she isn't bound on a very jolly journey--got a
pass up the road to the poorhouse. I'll go and tell her, and if you
forget her to-night, see if I don't make mince-meat of you!" and our
worthy ticket agent shook his fist menacingly at his subordinate.

"You've missed your train, marm," he remarked, coming forward to a
queer-looking bundle in the corner.

A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the sweetest
old face I ever saw.

"Never mind," said a quivering voice.

"'Tis only three o'clock now; you'll have to wait until the night train,
which doesn't go up until 1.05."

"Very well, sir; I can wait."

"Wouldn't you like to go to some hotel? Simmons will show you the way."

"No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as another to me. Besides, I
haven't any money."

"Very well," said the agent, turning away indifferently. "Simmons will
tell you when it's time."

All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes she
must be asleep, but when I looked more closely I could see every once
in a while a great tear rolling down her cheek, which she would wipe
away hastily with her cotton handkerchief.

The depot was crowded, and all was bustle and hurry until the 9.50 train
going east came due; then every passenger left except the old lady. It
is very rare, indeed, that any one takes the night express, and almost
always after ten o'clock the depot becomes silent and empty.

The ticket agent put on his greatcoat, and, bidding Simmons keep his
wits about him for once in his life, departed for home.

But he had no sooner gone than that functionary stretched himself out
upon the table, as usual, and began to snore vociferously.

Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before and never
expect to again.

The fire had gone down--it was a cold night, and the wind howled
dismally outside. The lamps grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows
upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the corner, then
another. I looked in that direction. She had risen from her seat, and
oh! the look of agony on the poor pinched face.

"I can't believe it," she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands. "Oh! I
can't believe it! My babies! my babies! how often have I held them in my
arms and kissed them; and how often they used to say back to me, 'Ise
love you, mamma,' and now, O God! they've turned against me. Where am I
going? To the poorhouse! No! no! no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the

And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in prayer:

"O God! spare me this and take me home! O God, spare me this disgrace;
spare me!"

The wind rose higher and swept through the crevices, icy cold. How it
moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is hurt. I began to
shake, but the kneeling figure never stirred. The thin shawl had
dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Simmons turned over and drew his
blanket more closely about him.

Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly; the other two had
gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so dark.

At last she became quieter and ceased to moan. Then I grew drowsy, and
kind of lost the run of things after I had struck twelve, when some one
entered the depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the
brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I
could see 'twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her
upon the shoulder. She started up and turned her face wildly around. I
heard him say:--

"'Tis train time, ma'am. Come!"

A look of joy came over her face.

"I am ready," she whispered.

"Then give me your pass, ma'am."

She reached him a worn old book, which he took, and from it read

"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you

"That's the pass over our road, ma'am. Are you ready?"

The light died away, and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the
stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his lantern. The
whistle sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and
shook the old woman.

"Wake up, marm; 'tis train time."

But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white set face, and,
dropping his lantern, fled.

The up train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made
a move that way.

The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to
death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the
verdict "apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up.

But the last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so
unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of
that night, I know she went out on the other train, that never stopped
at the poorhouse.



     Of all the bonny buds that blow,
         In bright or cloudy weather,
     Of all the flowers that come and go,
         The whole twelve moons together,
     This little purple pansy brings,
     Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.

     I had a little lover once,
         Who used to give me posies;
     His eyes were blue as hyacinths,
         His lips were red as roses;
     And everybody loved to praise
     His pretty looks and winsome ways.

     The girls that went to school with me
         Made little jealous speeches,
     Because he brought me royally
        His biggest plums and peaches,
     And always at the door would wait,
     To carry home my books and slate.

     They couldn't see--with pout and fling--
         "The mighty fascination
     About that little snub-nosed thing,
         To win such admiration;
     As if there weren't a dozen girls
     With nicer eyes and longer curls!"

     And this I knew as well as they,
         And never could see clearly
     Why, more than Marion or May,
         I should be loved so dearly.
     So once I asked him, why was this;
     He only answered with a kiss;

     Until I teased him: "Tell me why,
         I want to know the reason."
     Then from the garden-bed close by
         (The pansies were in season)
     He plucked and gave a flower to me,
     With sweet and simple gravity.

     "The garden is in bloom," he said,
         "With lilies pale and slender,
     With roses and verbenas red,
         And fuchsias' purple splendor;
     But over and above the rest,
     This little heart's-ease suits me best."

     "Am I your little heart's-ease, then?"
         I asked with blushing pleasure.
     He answered "Yes!" and "Yes!" again--
         "Heart's-ease and dearest treasure;"
     That the round world and all the sea
     Held nothing half so sweet as me!

     I listened with a proud delight,
         Too rare for words to capture,
     Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight,
         Would come to chill my rapture.
     Could I foresee the tender bloom
     Of pansies round a little tomb?

     Life holds some stern experience,
         As most of us discover,
     And I've had other losses since
         I lost my little lover;
     But still this purple pansy brings
     Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.




     At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
     And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:
     "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"
     Then spake Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;
     But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
     And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick,
     We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

     Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;
     You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
     But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore;
     I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
     To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

     So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,
     Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
     But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
     Very carefully and slow,
     Men of Bideford and Devon,
     And we laid them on the ballast down below;
     For we brought them all aboard,
     And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
     To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

     He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
     And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight
     With his huge sea castles heaving upon the weather bow.
     "Shall we fight or shall we fly?
     Good Sir Richard, let us know,
     For to fight is but to die!
     There'll be little of us left, by the time this sun be set."
     And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen;
     Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
     For I never turned my back upon Don or Devil yet."

     Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so
     The little "Revenge" ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe,
     With her hundred fighters on deck and her ninety sick below;
     For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were
     And the little "Revenge" ran on, thro' the long sea-lane between.

     Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and
     Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
     Running on and on, till delay'd
     By their mountain-like "San Philip," that, of fifteen hundred tons,
     And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
     Took the breath from our sails and we stay'd.
     And while now the great "San Philip" hung above us like a cloud
     Whence the thunderbolt will fall
     Long and loud,
     Four galleons drew away
     From the Spanish fleet that day,
     And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
     And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

     And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer
     But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
     Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons
     Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and
     Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and
       her shame,
     For some were sunk, and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us
       no more--
     God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

     For he said: "Fight on! fight on!"
     Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;
     And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone,
     With a grisly wound to be dressed, he had left the deck,
     But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
     And himself he was wounded again, in the side and the head,
     And he said: "Fight on! fight on!"

     And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer
     And the Spanish fleet, with broken sides, lay round us, all in a
     But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still
       could sting,
     So they watched what the end would be.
     And we had not fought them in vain,
     But in perilous plight were we,
     Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
     And half of the rest of us maim'd for life
     In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife.

     And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
     And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it
     And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;
     But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:
     "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
     As may never be fought again!
     We have won great glory, my men!
     And a day less or more
     At sea or ashore,
     We die--does it matter when?
     Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain!
     Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

     And the gunner said: "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:
     "We have children, we have wives,
     And the Lord hath spared our lives.
     We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
     We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."
     And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

     And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
     Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last.
     And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
     But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
     "I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true;
     I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do;
     With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"
     And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

     And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
     And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap,
     That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
     Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
     But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,
     And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew,
     And away she sail'd with her loss, and long'd for her own;
     When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,
     And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan,
     And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
     And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
     Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and
       their flags,
     And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of
     And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags,
     To be lost evermore in the main.



It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent,
gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle.
It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky
was cloudless, the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and
gold, the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But
the tread of legions shook the ground, from every bush shot the glimmer
of the rifle barrel, on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet.
Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two
armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground and a
chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of
death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red
cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with
leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty

Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on
which they stood came a rider on a black horse, rushing towards the
distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and
his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the
sharp blade quivers through the air, he points to the distant battle and
lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over
the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there through intervals of
cannon-smoke you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier,
mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with
British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may
see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away
off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a
magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black
horse dashing, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle?

Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick
hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer-coats
stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee
before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing forward,
their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. At this
moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The
unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of
a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now, cowards! advance another step and
I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol
in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British
soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you

This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his
comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but
thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British
advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer.
They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch
the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown
rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke
is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling
along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start
back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That
black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused
conflict, a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped
around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.

Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider
went, there followed victory. At last, towards the setting of the sun,
the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus Heights,
must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too
steep--that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men
to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron
man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But
look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here,
crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon
his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he
lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living
fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts
toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black
steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he
falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on towards the
fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec!
come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the
rock. Now, British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens
and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry
if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke
clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls
dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for
quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting
yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he
falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball.

Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then
bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it
bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the
storming of Quebec. The rider of the black horse was Benedict Arnold.



     Methought the stars were blinking bright,
       And the old brig's sails unfurl'd;
     I said: "I will sail to my love this night,
       At the other side of the world."
     I stepp'd aboard--we sail'd so fast--
       The sun shot up from the bourn;
     But a dove that perch'd upon the mast
       Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
         O fair dove! O fond dove!
           And dove with the white, white breast--
         Let me alone, the dream is my own,
           And my heart is full of rest.

     My true love fares on this great hill,
       Feeding his sheep for aye;
     I look'd in his hut, but all was still,
       My love was gone away.
     I went to gaze in the forest creek,
       And the dove mourn'd on apace;
     No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
       Rose up to show me his place.
         O last love! O first love!
           My love with the true, true heart,
         To think I have come to this your home,
           And yet--we are apart!

     My love! He stood at my right hand,
       His eyes were grave and sweet;
     Methought he said: "In this far land,
       O, is it thus we meet?
     Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
       I have no place, no part,
     No dwelling more by sea or shore,
       But only in thy heart."
         O fair dove! O fond dove!
           Till night rose over the bourn,
         The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,
           Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.



     "O Mary go and call the cattle home,
       And call the cattle home,
       And call the cattle home,
       Across the sands o' Dee!"
     The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
       And all alone went she.

     The creeping tide came up along the sand,
       And o'er and o'er the sand,
       And round and round the sand,
       As far as eye could see;
     The blinding mist came down and hid the land--
       And never home came she.

     "Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
       A tress o' golden hair,
       O' drowned maiden's hair
       Above the nets at sea?
     Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
       Among the stakes o' Dee."

     They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
       The cruel, crawling foam,
       The cruel, hungry foam,--
       To her grave beside the sea;
     But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
       Across the sands o' Dee.



The following advertisement appeared in the morning papers:

     EDUCATION.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall at
     the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in
     Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with
     pocket money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all
     languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry,
     astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra,
     single-stick, if required, writing, arithmetic, fortification, and
     every other branch of classical literature. Terms twenty guineas
     per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr.
     Squeers is in town and attends daily, from one till four, at the
     Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual
     salary, five pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred.

Nicholas Nickleby obtained the above situation, having found that it was
not absolutely necessary to have acquired the degree, and arrived at the
inn, to join Mr. Squeers, at eight o'clock of a November morning. He
found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with five little boys
in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small
measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but
he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.
"This is two penn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said Squeers, looking
down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an
accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.

"That's two penn'orth, sir," replied the waiter.

"What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London! Just fill that mug
up with lukewarm water, William, will you?"

"To the very top, sir? Why, the milk will be drowned."

"Never you mind that. Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered that
thick bread and butter for three, did you?"

"Coming directly, sir."

"You needn't hurry yourself, there's plenty of time. Conquer your
passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he uttered this
moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and
recognized Nicholas.

"Sit down, Mr. Nickleby. Here we are, a-breakfasting, you see! Oh!
that's the milk and water, is it, William? Very good; don't forget the
bread and butter presently. Ah! here's richness! Think of the many
beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little
boys. A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?"

"Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas.

"When I say number one, the boy on the left hand nearest the window may
take a drink; and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in,
and so till we come to number five which is the last boy. Are you ready?

"Yes, sir," cried all the little boys.

"That's right, keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your
appetites, boys, and you've conquered human nature. This is the way we
inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby. Number one may take a drink."

Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make
him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who
gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process
was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.

"And now," said Squeers, dividing the bread for three into as many
portions as there were children, "You had better look sharp with your
breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy
leaves off.--Ah! I thought it wouldn't be long; put what you haven't had
time to eat in here, boys! You'll want it on the road." Which they
certainly did, for the air was cool, and the journey was long and
tiresome. However, they arrived quite safely; and Nicholas, weary,
retired to rest.

In the morning he was taken to the school-room accompanied by Squeers.

"There, this is our shop, Nickleby." It was a crowded scene. A bare and
dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part might be of
glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copybooks and paper. Pale
and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, little faces, which should
have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering.
There was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone
and its helplessness alone remaining--truly an incipient Hell. A few
minutes having elapsed, Squeers called up the first class.

"This is the first class in English, spelling, and philosophy,
Nickleby. We'll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now then,
where's the first boy?"

"Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor window."

"So he is, to be sure. We go upon the practical mode of teaching,
Nickleby, the regular educational system. C-l-e-a-n, clean. Verb active.
To make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder. A casement.
When a boy knows this out of his book he goes and does it. It's just the
same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy?"

"Please, sir, he's weeding the garden."

"To be sure, so he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney,
bottinney. Noun substantive. A knowledge of plants. When a boy learns
that bottinney is a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's
our system, Nickleby. Third boy, what's a horse?"

"A beast, sir."

"So it is. A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped is Latin for beast, as
everybody that's gone through the grammar knows, or else where's the use
of havin' grammars at all? As you're perfect in that, go and look after
my horse, and rub him down well or I'll rub you down. The rest of the
class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for
it's washing day to-morrow and they want the coppers filled."

So saying, he dismissed his first class to their experiments in
practical philosophy.

It was Squeers's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of
report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis. They were
therefore soon recalled from the house, window, garden, stable, and cow
yard, and Mr. Squeers entered the room. A deathlike silence immediately

"Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you as
strong and as well as ever."

According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at
this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sighs of extra strength with
the chill on.

"I have seen the parents of some boys, and they're so glad to hear how
their sons are getting on, that there's no prospect at all of their
going away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon for
all parties. But I've had disappointments to contend against. Bolder's
father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?

"Here he is, please, sir."

"Come here, Bolder," said Squeers.

An unhealthy boy with warts all over his hands, stepped from his place
to the Master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers's face.

"Bolder, if your father thinks that because--why, what's this, sir?"

As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket,
and surveyed the warts with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.

"What do you call this, sir?"

"I can't help it, indeed, sir. They will come; it's the dirty work, I
think, sir--at least I don't know what it is, sir, but it's not my

"Bolder, you're an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last
thrashing did you no good, we'll see what another will do towards
beating it out of you."

With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers
fell upon the boy and caned him soundly; not leaving off, indeed, until
his arm was tired out.

"There, rub away as hard as you like, you won't rub that off in a hurry.
Now let us see. A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey. Oh! Cobbey's
grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking, which is
all the news his sister sends, except eighteen pence, which will just
pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you
take the money?

"Graymarsh, he's the next. Stand up, Graymarsh. Graymarsh's aunt is very
glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends her respectful
compliments to Mrs. Squeers and thinks she must be an angel. She
likewise thinks that Mr. Squeers is too good for this world, but hopes
he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent the two
pairs of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a
tract instead, and hopes that Graymarsh will put his trust in
Providence. Hopes, above all, that he will study in everything to please
Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that
he will love master Squeers, and not object to sleeping five in a bed,
which no Christian should. Ah! a delightful letter. Very affecting

"Mobbs!--Mobbs's mother-in-law took to her bed on hearing that he
wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know,
by an early post, where he expects to go to if he quarrels with his
vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's
liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was
told her in the London newspapers--not by Mr. Squeers, for he's too kind
and good to set anybody against anybody. She is sorry to find he is
discontented, which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will
flog him into a happier state of mind. With which view she has also
stopped his half penny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed
knife with a cork-screw in it to the missionaries, which she had bought
on purpose for him. A sulky state of feeling won't do. Cheerfulness and
contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!"

Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of
good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired, with as good
cause as a boy need have.

This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and
Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the
boys in the school-room which was very cold, and where a meal of bread
was served out shortly after dark.

There was a small stove at that corner of the room which was nearest
the master's desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, depressed and

As he was absorbed in his meditations, he all at once encountered the
upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a
few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had
paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was
observed, shrank back, as if expecting a blow.

"You need not fear me. Are you cold?"


"You are shivering."

"I'm not cold. I'm used to it."

There was such an obvious fear of giving offense in his manner, and he
was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help
exclaiming, "Poor fellow!"

"Oh dear, oh dear! my heart will break. It will, it will!" said Smike.

"Hush! Be a man; you are nearly one by years. God help you!"

"By years! Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of them since I was
a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where are they all?"

"Of whom do you speak? Tell me."

"My friends, myself--my--oh! what sufferings mine have been!"

"There is always hope."

"No, no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that died here?"

"I was not here, you know."

"Why, I was with him at night, and when it was all silent, he cried no
more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see
faces round his bed that came from home. He said they smiled, and talked
to him; and he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you

"Yes, yes," rejoined Nicholas.

"What faces will smile on me when I die? Who will talk to me in those
long nights? They cannot come from home; they would frighten me if they
did, for I shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me,
alive or dead. No hope, no hope!"

The bell rang to bed; and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual
listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a
heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards--no, not retired, there was no
retirement there--followed to his dirty and crowded dormitory.


[13] Adapted by E. P. Trueblood from "Nicholas Nickleby."



     "She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;
     Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!"

     They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair;
     On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

     Over her eyes, that gazed too much,
     They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

     With a tender touch they closed up well
     The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

     About her brows and beautiful face
     They tied her veil and her marriage lace,

     And drew on her feet her white silk shoes--
     Which were the whitest no eye could choose--

     And over her bosom they crossed her hands.
     "Come away!" they said; "God understands."

     And there was silence, and nothing there
     But silence, and scents of eglantere,

     And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;
     And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."

     And they held their breath till they left the room,
     With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.

     But he who loved her too well to dread
     The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,--

     He lit his lamp, and took the key
     And turned it,--alone again,--he and she.

     He and she; but she would not speak,
     Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.

     He and she; yet she would not smile,
     Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.

     He and she; still she did not move
     To any one passionate whisper of love.

     Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath,
     Is there no voice, no language of death?

     "Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,
     But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?

     "See now; I will listen with soul, not ear;
     What was the secret of dying, dear?

     "Was it the infinite wonder of all
     That you ever could let life's flower fall?

     "Or was it a greater marvel to feel
     The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

     "Was the miracle greater to find how deep
     Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

     "Did life roll back its records, dear,
     And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

     "And was it the innermost heart of the bliss
     To find out so, what a wisdom love is?

     "Oh, perfect dead! Oh, dead most dear,
     I hold the breath of my soul to hear!

     "I listen as deep as to horrible hell,
     As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.

     "There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,
     To make you so placid from head to feet!

     "I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,
     And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,--

     "I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid
     His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

     "You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,
     Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,

     "The very strangest and suddenest thing
     Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

     Ah, foolish world! Oh, most kind dead!
     Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

     Who will believe that he heard her say,
     With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:

     "The utmost wonder is this,--I hear
     And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

     "And am your angel, who was your bride,
     And know that, though dead, I have never died."




     Jist after the war, in the year '98,
     As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate,
     'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got,
     To hang him by trial--barrin' such as was shot.
     An' the bravest an' hardiest Boy iv them all
     Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall.

     An' it's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught,
     An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought;
     An' it's many the one can remember right well
     The quare things he did: an' it's oft I heerd tell
     How he frightened the magistrates in Chirbally,
     An' 'scaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley;
     How he leathered the yeoman, himself agin four,
     An' stretched the two strongest on ould Golteemore.
     But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,
     An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best;
     Afther many a brave action of power and pride,
     An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side,
     An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
     In the darkness of night he was taken at last.

     Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
     For the door of the prison must close on you soon.
     Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
     An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still.
     Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake,
     And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake!
     An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail,
     An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail.

     Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone,
     The terrible day iv the thrial kem on,
     There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
     An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword-in-hand;
     An' the courthouse so full that the people were bothered,
     An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered;
     An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,
     An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead;
     An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big
     With his gown on his back, and an illegant wig;
     An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas said
     The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
     An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock,
     An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.
     For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
     An' he looked at the bars so firm and so strong,
     An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,
     A chance to escape, nor a word to defend;
     An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
     As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
     And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
     An' Jim didn't understand it nor mind it a taste,
     An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,
     "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?"
     An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread,
     An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:
     "My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetime
     I thought any treason, or did any crime
     That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
     The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
     Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow
     Before God and the world I would answer you, No!
     But if you would ask me, as I think it like,
     If in the Rebellion I carried a pike,
     An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,
     An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,
     I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again,
     Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then
     In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dhry,
     An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."

     Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
     An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;
     By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap!
     In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
     Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by,
     Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:
     "O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word!
     The crather is young, have mercy, my lord;
     He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';
     You don't know him, my lord--O, don't give him to ruin!
     He's the kindliest crathur, the tindherest-hearted;
     Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted!
     Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
     An' God will forgive you--O, don't say the word!"

     That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,
     When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
     An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
     The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;
     An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,
     But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break;
     But at last, by the strength of his high-mountin' pride,
     He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide;
     "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart,
     For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;
     And God knows it's better than wand'ring in fear
     On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
     To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast,
     From labor and sorrow, forever shall rest.
     Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
     Don't make me seem broken, in this my last hour;
     For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,
     No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"

     Then toward the Judge Shamus bent down his head,
     An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said.
     The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
     An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;
     But why are the men standin' idle so late?
     An' why do the crowds gather fast in the strate?
     What come they to talk of? what come they to see?
     An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?
     O Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast,
     May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;
     Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
     When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die!--

     At last they threw open the big prison-gate,
     An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state,
     An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it,
     Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.
     An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,
     Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin',
     A wild, wailin' sound kem on by degrees,
     Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.
     On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,
     An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on;
     An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,
     A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.
     Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
     An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;
     An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground,
     An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round.

     Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,
     Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill;
     An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,
     For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare;
     An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.
     But the good priest did more, for his hands he unbound,
     An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground;
     Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabers;
     He's not down! he's alive! now stand to him, neighbors!
     Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,--
     By the heavens, he's free!--than thunder more loud,
     By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken--
     One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
     The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
     An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;
     To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,
     An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.
     Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
     But if you want hangin', it's yourselves you must hang.



     If all the ships I have at sea--
     Should come a-sailing home to me,
     Ah well! the harbor could not hold
     So many ships as there would be,
     If all my ships came home to me.

     If half my ships now out at sea
     Should come a-sailing home to me,
     Ah well! I should have wealth as great
     As any king that sits in state,
     So rich the treasure there would be
     In half my ships now out at sea.

     If but one ship I have at sea
     Should come a-sailing home to me,
     Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown,
     For if the others all went down,
     Still rich and glad and proud I'd be,
     If that one ship came home to me.

     If that one ship went down at sea,
     And all the others came to me,
     Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,
     Of riches, glory, honor, gold,
     The poorest soul on earth I'd be,
     If that one ship came not to me.

     Oh, skies, be calm, oh, winds, blow free!
     Blow all my ships safe home to me!
     But if thou sendest some awrack,
     To never more come sailing back,
     Send any--all that skim the sea,
     But send my love ship back to me.


[14] By permission of the author.



"I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, that not a
father in all this broad land made so precious a gift,--no, not one. The
dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute, at his post; I
know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and
reliable he was! I know he only fell asleep one little second;--he was
so young, and not strong, that boy of mine! Why, he was as tall as I,
and only eighteen! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep
when doing sentinel duty! Twenty-four hours, the telegram said,--only
twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now?"

"We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, soothingly.

"Yes, yes; let us hope; God is very merciful!"

"'I should be ashamed, father!' Bennie said, 'when I am a man, to think
I never used this great right arm,'--and he held it out so proudly
before me,--'for my country, when it needed it! Palsy it rather than
keep it at the plow!'

"'Go then, go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you!' God has kept him, I
think, Mr. Allan!" and the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as
if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them.

"Like the apple of His eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not!"

Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not shed a
tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed it. She
had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now she
answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a
neighbor's hand a letter. "It is from him," was all she said.

It was like a message from the dead! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could
not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held it
toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child.

The minister opened it, and read as follows:

"DEAR FATHER:--When this reaches you, I shall be in eternity. At first,
it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so much now, that it
has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me; but that I
may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on
the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be
fighting gloriously; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly
betraying it,--to die for neglect of duty! O father, I wonder the very
thought does not kill me! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to
write you all about it; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I
cannot now.

"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother I would look after her boy;
and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong
when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night,
I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Toward night we
went in on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very
heavy, everybody else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not
lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was
all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to
be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I
could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I
did not know it until--well, until it was too late."

"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I knew Bennie was
not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post."

"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve,--given to me by
circumstances,--'time to write to you,' our good Colonel says. Forgive
him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could;
and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is
broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die
in my stead.

"I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, father! Tell
them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they
will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me: it is very
hard to bear! Good-by, father! God seems near and dear to me; not at all
as if He wished me to perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for His
poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with Him
and my Saviour in a better--better life."

A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said

"To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home
from pasture, and precious little Blossom standing on the back stoop,
waiting for me--but I shall never, never come! God bless you all!
Forgive your poor Bennie."

Late that night the door of the "back stoop" opened softly, and a little
figure glided out, and down the footpath that led to the road by the
mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to
the right nor to the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and
folding her hands as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl
stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the
conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the
tear-stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern he held in
his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all; and no father
could have cared more tenderly for his only child than he for our little

She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her
brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell her
father where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with
her; no good, kind heart, like the President's, could refuse to be
melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor
hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, now, might be the means of
saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom
reached the Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House.

The President had but just seated himself to his morning's task, of
overlooking and signing important papers, when, without one word of
announcement, the door softly opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes,
and folded hands, stood before him.

"Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, "what do you
want so bright and early in the morning?"

"Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered Blossom.

"Bennie? Who is Bennie?"

"My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post."

"Oh, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. "I
remember! It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of
special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable

"So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely; "but poor Bennie was so
tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was
Jemmie's night, not his; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never
thought about himself, that he was tired, too."

"What is this you say, child? Come here; I do not understand," and the
kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justification
of an offense.

Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and
turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he seemed, and he
was President of the United States, too! A dim thought of this kind
passed for a moment through Blossom's mind; but she told her simple and
straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read.

He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines,
and rang his bell.

Blossom heard this order given: "SEND THIS DISPATCH AT ONCE."

The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go home, my child, and
tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence,
even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln
thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or--wait until
to-morrow; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced
death; he shall go with you."

"God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard
and registered the request?

Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House
with his little sister. He was called into the President's private room,
and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said: "The
soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the act
so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and
Blossom took their way to the Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at
the Mill Depot to welcome them back; and as Farmer Owen's hand grasped
that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say
fervently, "THE LORD BE PRAISED!"



     Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
     Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
     Dream of battled fields no more,
     Days of danger, nights of waking.
     In our isle's enchanted hall,
     Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
     Fairy strains of music fall,
     Every sense in slumber dewing.

     Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
     Dream of fighting fields no more;
     Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
     Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

     Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
     While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
     Dream not, with the rising sun,
     Bugles here shall sound reveillé;
     Sleep! the deer is in his den;
     Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
     Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen
     How thy gallant steed lay dying.

     Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
     Think not of the rising sun,
     For at dawning to assail ye
     Here no bugles sound reveillé.


[15] From "Lady of the Lake."



     My short and happy day is done;
     The long and lonely night comes on
     And at my door the pale horse stands
     To carry me to distant lands.

     His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof,
       Sounds dreadful as a gathering storm;
     And I must leave this sheltering roof
       And joys of life so soft and warm.

     Tender and warm the joys of life--
       Good friends, the faithful and the true;
     My rosy children and my wife,
       So sweet to kiss, so fair to view.

     So sweet to kiss, so fair to view,
     The night comes on, the lights burn blue;
     And at my door the pale horse stands
     To bear me forth to unknown lands.


[16] By permission of Mrs. Hay.



The great old-fashioned clock struck twelve, but as yet not one of the
boys had stirred. All were listening too intently to what Carl von Weber
was saying to notice the time. Around one of the grand pianos a group of
boys was gathered. Perched on the top of it was a bright, merry-looking
boy of fourteen. By his side sat a pale, delicate little fellow, with a
pair of soft, dark eyes, which were fixed in eager attention upon Carl's
face. Below, and leaning carelessly upon the piano, was Raoul von
Falkenstein, a dark, handsome boy of fifteen.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, scornfully, after Carl had finished. "Is that
all? just for a few paltry thalers and a beggarly violin, to work myself
to death? No! I don't think I shall trouble myself about it."

"Oh, Raoul!" cried Franz, the little fellow who sat by Carl, "you forget
that it is to be the most beautiful violin in Germany, and to be given
to us by the Empress herself. And the two hundred thalers--just think of
that!" and Franz's dark eyes grew bright to think what he could do with

"Really," returned Raoul, insolently, "you don't mean to say that you
are going to try! Why, the last time you played you broke down

The color mounted into Franz's face, and the tears came into his eyes;
and Carl cried out, angrily:

"For shame! you know very well that it was only fright that made Franz

"Don't mind him," he said, putting his arm around his friend's neck, "he
is only hateful, as he always is. Let us go and see who is to be chosen
for the concert. Come, Franz!"

"No, Carl," said his friend, quietly; "I would rather stay here. You go
and find out, and then come and tell me."

The Empress once a year gave a prize to the school, but this year it
was to be finer than usual, and her Majesty had sent to Herr Bach and
requested him to choose five of his best boys, each of whom was to
compose a piece of his own. No one was to see it until the end of three
weeks, when they were to play it at a grand concert, which the imperial
family were to attend with the whole court. Franz was very anxious to be
chosen, for he wanted the prize very much. He thought how pleased the
mother would be, and he thought how hard she worked to give her little
boy a musical education, and how many comforts the thalers would buy.
Oh, he would work hard for it. The dear mother would be so surprised.
And he fell into a brown study, from which he was awakened by feeling a
pair of strong arms around him, and being frantically whirled around the
room, while a voice shouted in his ear:

"We've got it! We're chosen--you, Gottfried, Johann, old hateful Raoul,
and I!"

The boys worked very hard, for there was only a short time given them.
Franz put his whole soul into his composition, and made himself almost
sick over it. Raoul went about declaring, in his usual contemptuous
manner, that he did not intend to kill himself over it, but secretly he
worked with great industry.

One lovely moonlight night, as he sat by his window composing, for the
moon was so bright he could see very well, he impatiently flung his pen
down and muttered, "There is no use; I can never do it; this will never
do!" and began angrily to tear up one of the music sheets, when suddenly
he stopped and raised his head and listened intently. Such a lovely
melody, so soft and clear, rising and falling in the sweetest cadences,
now growing louder and louder in a wild, passionate crescendo, and then
dying slowly away!

For a moment, the boy remained silent; then, suddenly springing to his
feet, he cried:

"It is Franz! I know it, for no one but he could write anything so
beautiful. But it shall be mine, for it is the piece that will gain the
prize! Ah, Franz, I play before you, and what I play shall be--"

He stopped, and the moonlight streaming in at the window glanced across
the room, and revealed a look of half triumph, half shame on his dark,
haughty face. Why had he stopped? Perhaps his guardian angel stood
behind him, warning him against what he was about to do. For a moment, a
fierce struggle seemed to take possession of the boy, between his good
and his evil spirit. But, alas! the evil conquered, and, sitting down,
he wrote off what he had heard, aided by his wonderful memory; and,
after an hour, he threw down the piece, finished. Then, with an exulting
smile, he cried, "The prize is mine!" and, throwing himself on the bed,
he fell into a troubled sleep.

The time had come at last for the great concert, and the boys were so
excited they could hardly keep still; even Franz, whose cheeks glowed
with a brilliant hectic flush, and whose eyes were strangely bright. The
hall was crowded. The imperial family was there, together with the whole

The concert began with an overture from the orchestra. Then came
Fraulein, the prima donna of the Imperial Opera, and then the boys. Carl
came first, and played a brilliant, sparkling little piece, and was
loudly applauded; next Gottfried and Johann, and then Raoul. When he
stepped out upon the platform, his handsome face and fine form seemed to
make an impression on the audience, for they remained perfectly silent.
Raoul commenced. At first Franz paid no attention to him, then suddenly
he started. The melody flowed on; louder and louder, clearer and clearer
it rose. Franz stood motionless, listening in strained, fixed attention,
until at last, overcome with grief and astonishment, he sank upon the
floor and cried out piteously, with tears streaming down his face:

"Oh, Raoul! Raoul! how could you, could you do it--my own little piece
that I loved so much? Oh, mother! mother!"--and, burying his head in
his arms, he sobbed in an agony of grief.

He heard the burst of applause that greeted his piece--not Raoul's; he
heard it all, but moved not until he heard Carl say:

"Come, Franz! it's time to go. They are all waiting for you; but I am
afraid that Raoul has won the prize."

What should he do, he wondered? And then he thought perhaps the kind
Father in heaven would help him. So, breathing a little prayer in his
heart, he walked calmly forth upon the platform.

At first, he trembled so that he could hardly begin; then a sudden
inspiration seemed to come to him--a quick light swept across his face.
He raised the violin to his shoulder and began.

The audience at first paid no attention; but presently all became quiet,
and they leaned forward in breathless attention. What a wonderful song
it was!--for it was a song. The violin seemed almost to speak, and so
softly and sweetly and with such exquisite pathos were the notes drawn
forth that the eyes of many were filled with tears. For it was pouring
out all little Franz's griefs and sorrows; it was telling how the little
heart was almost broken by the treachery of the friend; it was telling
how hard he had worked to win, for the dear mother's sake; and it was
telling, and the notes grew sweeter as it told, how the good God had not
forsaken him. The boy seemed almost inspired; his eyes were raised to
heaven, and his face glowed with a rapt delight, as he improvised his
beautiful song. Not a sound was heard; it seemed as if all were turned
to stone, so intense was the silence. His heart seemed to grow lighter
of its burden, and the song burst into a wild, sweet carol, that rang
rich and clear through the hall; and then it changed and grew so soft it
could hardly be heard, and at last it died away.

For a moment the vast audience seemed spell-bound; then, all rising with
one uncontrollable impulse, and breaking into a tempest of applause
that rocked the building to its very foundations, they rained down
bouquets on his head.

But the boy stood with a far-off look in his large and beautiful eyes,
and then, giving a little sigh, fell heavily to the floor.

When he returned to consciousness, he heard a voice say, "Poor child!"
It seemed like Herr Bach's; and then he heard Carl say, in a sobbing
voice, "Franz! dear Franz!" Why did they pity him, he wondered; and then
it all came back to him--the prize, the violin, and Raoul.

"Where is the violin?" he murmured.

"It will be here in a moment," some one said.

Then he saw the pale, remorseful face of Raoul, who said: "Dear little
Franz, forgive me!"

The boy raised his hand and pointed to heaven, and said, softly: "Dear
Raoul, I forgive you!"--and then all the pain and bitterness in his
heart against Raoul died out.

The sweet face of the Empress, made lovely by its look of tender pity,
bent over him, and she kissed him and murmured, "Poor little one!" Then
she placed the beautiful violin in his arms, and the thalers in his

And so, with the famed violin and bright thalers clasped close on his
breast, the life-light died out of his eyes, and little Franz fell



     Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
     Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise,
     My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream,
     Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

     Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,
     Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
     Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
     I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

     How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills!
     Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills,
     There daily I wander as noon rises high,
     My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

     How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below!
     Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
     There oft as mild evening sweeps over the lea,
     The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

     Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
     And winds by my cot where my Mary resides;
     How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
     As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.

     Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
     Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,
     My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
     Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.



       "Violet's blue--Diddle, diddle!
         Lavender's green.
       When I am King--Diddle, diddle!
         You shall be Queen."
                          "Mother Goose Melodies."

     You shall have crown--Diddle, diddle!
         Jewels and gold,
     Damasks and lace--Diddle, diddle!
         Centuries old.

     Pages behind--Diddle, diddle!
         Heralds before,
     And all the state--Diddle, diddle!
         Queens had of yore.

     But when you're queen--Diddle, diddle!
         And I am king,
     Will your eyes shine--Diddle, diddle!
         Will my lips sing,

     As they do now--Diddle, diddle!
         When we are still,
     Poor country-folk--Diddle, diddle!
         Plain Jack and Jill?

     Can our hearts beat--Diddle, diddle!
         Our love unfold,
     Prisoned in pomp--Diddle, diddle!
         Girdled with gold?

     Love thrives alone--Diddle, diddle!
         In open air;
     Where pageants are--Diddle, diddle!
         Love is not there.

     When skies are blue--Diddle, diddle!
         And fields are green,
     I will be king--Diddle, diddle!
         You shall be queen.

     Queen of Day-dreams--Diddle, diddle!
         King of No-lands,
     With full-filled hearts--Diddle, diddle!
         And empty hands.

     Let others king--Diddle, diddle!
         And queen, who will:
     We're better so--Diddle, diddle!
         Plain Jack and Jill.


[17] From "Under a Fool's Cap," published by Kegan Paul, French & Co.,



     Whither, midst falling dew,
       While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
     Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
       Thy solitary way?

     Vainly the fowler's eye
       Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
     As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
       Thy figure floats along.

     Seek'st thou the plashy brink
       Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
     Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
       On the chafed ocean-side?

     There is a power whose care
       Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
     The desert and illimitable air--
       Lone wandering, but not lost.

     All day thy wings have fanned,
       At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
     Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
       Though the dark night is near.

     And soon that toil shall end;
       Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
     And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
       Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

     Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
       Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
     Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
       And shall not soon depart:

     He who, from zone to zone,
       Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
     In the long way that I must tread alone,
       Will lead my steps aright.


[18] By permission of D. Appleton & Co., publishers.



     "Bring it from the oaken press; full fifty years ago
     I sewed those seams, my heart all full of youth and hope and Joe--
     Joe, whose wife I was to be--my lover, strong and brown,
     Captain of the stanchest craft that sailed from Gloucester town.
     It seems a worthless thing to hold so carefully in store,
     This poor, old, faded bridal dress, which no bride ever wore;
     Cut in the curious style of half a century ago,
     With scanty skirt and 'broidered bands--my own hands shaped it so.
     Niece Hester, spread it on my bed--my eyes grow blind with tears;
     I touch its limp and yellow folds, and lo! the long dead years
     Come trooping back like churchyard ghosts. This was my
     'Twas made the year the equinox brought woe to Gloucester town.

     "Ah, I remember well the night I walked the beach with him--
     The moon was rising just above the ocean's purple rim,
     And all the savage Cape Ann rocks shone in her mellow light;
     The time was spring, and heaven itself seemed close to us that
     We heard the cool waves beat the shore, the seabird's startled cry;
     Like spirits in the dark, we saw the coasters flitting by.
     High in their towers the beacons burned, like wintry embers red,
     From Ipswich, down the rough sea-line, to crag-girt Marblehead.
     'I love you, Nan!' Joe said, at last, in his grave, simple way--
     I'd felt the words a-coming, child, for many a long, glad day.
     I hung my head, he kissed me--oh, sweetest hour of life!
     A stammering word, a sigh, and I was Joe's own promised wife.

     "But fishing-folks have much to do; my lover could not stay--
     The gallant Gloucester fleet was bound to waters far away,
     Where wild storms swoop, and shattering fogs muster their dim, gray
     And spread a winding-sheet for men upon the fatal Banks.
     And he, my Joe, must go to reap the harvest of the deep,
     While I, like other women, stayed behind to mourn and weep,
     And I would see his face no more till autumn woods were brown.
     His schooner _Nan_ was swift and new, the pride of Gloucester town;
     He called her by my name. ''Tis sure to bring me luck,' said Joe.
     She spread her wings, and through my tears I stood and watched her

     "The days grew hot and long; I sewed the crisp and shining seams
     Of this, my wedding-gown, and dreamed a thousand happy dreams
     Of future years and Joe, while leaf and bud and sweet marsh-flower
     I fashioned on the muslin fine, for many a patient hour.
     In Gloucester wood the wild rose bloomed, and shed its sweets and
     And dry and tawny grew the grass along the marshes wide.
     The last stitch in my gown was set; I looked across the sea--
     'Fly fast, oh, time, fly fast!' I said, 'and bring him home to me;
     And I will deck my yellow hair and don my bridal gown,
     The day the gallant fishing-fleet comes back to Gloucester town!'

     "The rough skies darkened o'er the deep, loud blew the autumn
     With anxious eyes the fishers' wives watched for the home-bound
     From Gloucester shore, and Rockport crags, lashed by the breakers
     From cottage doors of Beverly, and rocks of Marblehead.
     Ah, child, with trembling hand I set my candle at the pane,
     With fainting heart and choking breath, I heard the dolorous rain--
     The sea that beat the groaning beach with wild and thunderous
     The black death calling, calling from the savage equinox;
     The flap of sails, the crash of masts, or so it seemed to me,
     And cries of strong men drowning in the clutches of the sea.

     "I never wore my wedding-gown, so crisp and fine and fair;
     I never decked with bridal flowers my pretty yellow hair,
     No bridegroom came to claim me when the autumn leaves were sear,
     For there was bitter wailing on the rugged coast that year;
     And vain was further vigil from its rocks and beaches brown
     For never did the fishing-fleet sail back to Gloucester town.

     "'Twas fifty years ago. There, child, put back the faded dress,
     My winding-sheet of youth and hope, into the oaken press.
     My life hath known no other joy, my heart no other glow,
     Feeble and worn, it still beats on in faithful love for Joe;
     And, like some hulk cast on a shore by waters sore distressed,
     I wait until he calls me from his own good place of rest."

     She woke at dawn and lifted up her head so old and gray,
     And stared across the sandy beach, and o'er the low blue bay.
     It was the hour when mists depart and midnight phantoms flee,
     The rosy sun was blushing red along the splendid sea.
     A rapture lit her face. "The bay is white with sails!" she cried,
     "They sweep it like the silver foam of waves at rising tide--
     Sails from an unknown sea. Oh, haste and bring my wedding-gown--
     It is the long-lost fishing-fleet come back to Gloucester town!
     And look! his _Nan_ leads all the rest. Dear Lord, I see my Joe!
     He beckons from her shining deck--haste, friends, for I must go.
     The old, old light is in his eyes, the old smile on his lips;
     All grand and pale he stands among the crowding, white-winged
     This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride.
     Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand--here--take it!"
     Then she died.



     The icy gale that hurled the snow
     Against the window pane,
     And rattled the sash with a merry clash
     Used not its strength in vain;
     For now and then a wee flake sifted
     Through the loose ill-fitting frame,
     By the warmer breezes each was lifted
     All melting as they came.

     The baby stood with shining eyes,
     Her hands upon the sill;
     She watched each flake and the course 'twould take,
     And her voice was never still.
     'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?"
     And, "Where's all the beauty gone?
     What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow,
     When it gets in where it's warm?"

     I smiled that day, but seldom now
     Does the thought of smiling come;
     A phantom shape, a bow of crape,
     And my sweet little child went home.
     O Father, "Where does the whiteness go?
     And whither's the beauty flown?
     Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow'
     On my cheek as I face the storm?"

     Again the wild wind hurls the snow
     Against the frosted pane
     And a few flakes dash through the rattling sash,
     While I hear those words again.
     The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hill
     Where a little mound is seen,
     And they cover it softly and tenderly
     As the grass with its cloak of green.


[19] By permission of the author.



         In the green solitudes
         Of the deep, shady woods
     Thy lot is kindly cast, and life to thee
     Is like a gust of rarest minstrelsy.

         The winds of May and June
         Hum many a tender tune,
     Blowing above thy leafy hiding-place,
     Kissing, all thrilled with joy, thy modest face.

         About thee float and glow
         Rare insects, hovering low,
     And round thee glance thin streams of delicate grass,
     Plashing their odors on thee as they pass.

         The sheen of brilliant wings
         Songs of shy, flitting things,
     The low, mysterious melodies that thrill
     Through every summer wood, thy sweet life fill.

         Oh bloom! all joy is thine,
         All loves around thee shine,
     The thousand hearts of nature throb for thee,
     Her thousand voices praise thee tenderly.

         Oh bloom of purest glory,
         Flower of love's gentlest story,
     Forever keep thy petals fresh and fair,
     Forever send thy sweetness down the air!

         I'll put thee in my song,
         With all thy joys along,
     At which some sunny hearts may sunnier grow,
     And frozen ones may gently slip their snow.


[20] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton,
Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers of this author's works.



     Zoroaster a young Persian and Nehushta a Hebrew maiden were
     betrothed lovers; an unfortunate misunderstanding separated them
     and, in a fit of jealousy, Nehushta became a wife of Darius, king
     of the Persians. Zoroaster entered the priesthood and later became
     the high priest of the temple in the king's palace. In a subsequent
     interview with the high priest, Nehushta discovers that her
     jealousy was groundless, but it was now too late to correct her
     unhappy mistake. In the meantime Nehushta had incurred the jealousy
     and hatred of another wife of Darius, who, in the absence of the
     king, planned the massacre of the priests of the temple and
     Nehushta and her servants.

Four days after the king's departure, Nehushta was wandering in the
gardens as the sun was going down. Just then a strange sound echoed far
off among the hills, an unearthly cry that rang high in the air and
struck the dark crags and doubled in the echo and died away in short,
faint pulsations of sound. She started slightly, she had never heard
such a sound before. Again that strange cry rang out and echoed and died
away. Her slave women gathered about her.

"What is it?" asked Nehushta.

"The war cry of the children of Anak is like that," said a little Syrian

Nehushta pushed the slaves aside and fled towards the palace. The truth
had flashed across her. Some armed force was collecting on the hills to
descend upon the palace. But one thought filled her mind. She must find
Zoroaster and warn him.

Through the garden she ran, and up the broad steps to the portico.
Slaves were moving about under the colonnade, lighting the great torches
that burned there all night. They had not heard the strange cries from
the hills. As she entered the great hall, she heard the cry again.

"Go, my little maid, in one direction and I will go in another, and
search out Zoroaster, the high priest, and bring him."

The girl turned and ran through the halls, and Nehushta went another way
upon her search. Something within her told her that she was in great
danger, and the calm she had seen in the palace could not allay the
terror of that cry she had heard three times from the hills. Just then
the Syrian maid came running in and fell breathless at Nehushta's feet.

"Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the mountains are upon
us--they cover the hills--they are closing every entrance--the people in
the lower palace are all slain."

"Where is Zoroaster?"

"He is in the temple with the priests--by this time he is surely
slain--he could know of nothing going on--fly, fly!"

"On which side are they coming?"

"From the hills, from the hills they are descending in thousands."

"Go you all to the farther window, leap down upon the balcony--it is
scarce a man's height,--follow it to the end past the corner where it
joins the main wall of the garden. Run along upon the wall till you find
a place where you can descend. Through the gardens you can easily reach
the road. Fly, and save yourselves in the darkness." But before she had
half finished, the last of the slave women, mad with terror,

"Why do you not go with the rest, my little maid?" asked Nehushta.

"I have eaten thy bread, shall I leave thee in the hour of death?"

"Go, child, I have seen thy devotion; thou must not perish."

But the Syrian leaped to her feet as she answered:

"I am a bondwoman, but I am a daughter of Israel, even as thou art.
Though all the others leave thee, I will not. It may be I can help

"Thou art a brave child; I must go to Zoroaster; stay thou here, hide
thyself among the curtains, escape by the window if any one come to harm
thee." She turned and went rapidly out.

But the maid grasped the knife in her girdle, and stole upon her
mistress's steps. The din rose louder every moment--the shrieks of
wounded women with the moaning of wounded men, the clash of swords and
arms, and a quick, loud rattle, as half a dozen arrows struck the wall

Onward flew Nehushta till she reached the temple door; then she
listened. Faintly through the thick walls she could hear the sound of
the evening chant. The priests were all within with Zoroaster,
unconscious of their danger. Nehushta tried the door. The great bronze
gates were locked, and though she pushed with her whole strength, they
would not move a hair's breadth.

"Press the nail nearest the middle," said a small voice. Nehushta
started. It was the little Syrian slave. She put her hand upon the round
head of the nail and pressed. The door opened, turning noiselessly upon
its hinges. The seventy priests, in even rank, stood round. Solemnly the
chant rose round the sacred fire upon the black stone altar. Zoroaster
stood before it, his hands lifted in prayer. But Nehushta with a sudden
cry broke their melody.

"Zoroaster--fly--there is yet time! The enemy are come in thousands;
they are in the palace. There is barely time!"

The high priest turned calmly, his face unmoved, although the priests
ceased their chanting and gathered about their chief in fear. As their
voices ceased, a low roar was heard from without as though the ocean
were beating at the gates.

"Go thou and save thyself," said Zoroaster. "I will not go. If it be the
will of the All-Wise that I perish, I will perish before this altar. Go
thou quickly and save thyself while there is yet time."

But Nehushta took his hand in hers, and gazed into his calm eyes.

"Knowest thou not, Zoroaster, that I would rather die with thee than
live with any other? I swear to thee, by the God of my fathers, I will
not leave thee!"

"There is no more time! There is no more time! Ye are all dead men!
Behold, they are breaking down the doors!"

As she spoke the noise of some heavy mass striking against the bronze
gates echoed like thunder through the temple, and at each blow a chorus
of hideous yells rose, wild and long drawn out.

"Can none of you save Zoroaster?" cried Nehushta.

But Zoroaster gently said:

"Ye cannot save me, for my hour is come; we must die like men, and like
priests of the Lord before His altar;" and, raising one hand to heaven,
he chanted:

         "Praise we the all-wise God
     Who hath made and created the years and the ages;
         Praise Him who rides on death,
     In whose hand are all power and honor and glory;
         Who made the day of life,
     That should rise up and lighten the shadow of death."

With a crash the great bronze doors gave way, and fell clanging in. In
an instant the temple was filled with a swarm of hideous men. Their
swords gleamed aloft as they passed forward, and their yells rent the
roof. They had hoped for treasure--they saw but a handful of
white-robed, unarmed men. Their rage knew no bounds, and their screams
rose more piercing than ever, as they surrounded the doomed band, and
dyed their blades in the blood that flowed red over the white vestures.

The priests struggled like brave men, but the foe were a hundred to one.
A sharp blade fell swiftly and the brave little slave fell shrieking to
the floor.

Nehushta's eyes met the high priest's triumphant gaze and her hands
clasped his wildly.

"Oh, Zoroaster, my beloved, my beloved! Say not any more that I am
unfaithful, for I have been faithful even unto death, and I shall be
with you beyond the stars for ever!"

"Beyond the stars and for ever!" he cried; "in the light of the glory of
God most high!"

The keen sword flashed and severed Nehushta's neck and found its sheath
in her lover's heart; and they fell down dead together.





     Our father's God! from out whose hand
     The centuries fall like grains of sand,
     We meet to-day, united, free
     And loyal to our land and Thee,
     To thank Thee for the era done,
     And trust Thee for the opening one.

     Here where of old, by Thy design,
     The fathers spake that word of Thine
     Whose echo is the glad refrain
     Of rended bolt and falling chain,
     To grace our festal time, from all
     The zones of earth, our guests we call.

     Be with us while the New World greets
     The Old World thronging all its streets
     Unveiling all the triumphs won
     By art or toil beneath the sun;
     And unto common good ordain
     This rivalship of hand and brain.

     Thou, who hast here in concord furled
     The war flags of a gathered world,
     Beneath the Western skies fulfill
     The Orient's mission of good-will,
     And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,
     Send back its Argonauts of peace.

     For art and labor met in truce,
     For beauty made the bride of use,
     We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave
     The austere virtues strong to save,
     The honor proof to place or gold,
     The manhood never bought nor sold!

     Oh, make Thou us, through centuries long,
     In peace secure, in justice strong;
     Around our gift of freedom draw
     The safeguards of Thy righteous law;
     And, cast in some diviner mold,
     Let the new cycle shame the old!


[21] By permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin &
Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.



     This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
       Sails the unshadowed main,--
       The venturous bark that flings
     On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings,
     In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
       And coral reefs lie bare,
     Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

     Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
       Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
       And every chambered cell,
     Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
     As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
       Before thee lies revealed,--
     Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

     Year after year beheld the silent toil
       That spread his lustrous coil;
       Still, as the spiral grew,
     He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
     Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
       Built up its idle door,
     Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

     Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
       Child of the wandering sea,
       Cast from her lap, forlorn!
     From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
     Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
       While on mine ear it rings,
     Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

     Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
       As the swift seasons roll!
       Leave thy low-vaulted past!
     Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
     Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
       Till thou at length art free,
     Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!


[22] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton,
Mifflin and Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.



     Sunset and evening star
       And one clear call for me!
     And may there be no moaning of the bar
       When I put out to sea.

     But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
       Too full for sound and foam
     When that which drew from out the boundless deep
       Turns again home.

     Twilight and evening bell
       And after that the dark;
     And may there be no sadness of farewell
       When I embark;

     For though from out our bourne of time and place
       The flood may bear me far,
     I hope to see my Pilot face to face
       When I have crossed the bar.



     The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
     And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
     And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
     When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

     Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
     That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
     Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath flown,
     That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

     For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
     And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
     And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
     And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

     And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
     But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
     And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
     And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

     And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
     With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
     And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
     The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

     And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
     And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
     And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
     Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!



     Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,
     On thee, from the hill top looking down;
     And the heifer that lows on the upland farm,
     Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
     The sexton, tolling the bell at noon,
     Dreams not that great Napoleon
     Stops his horse and lists with delight,
     As his files sweep round yon distant height;
     Nor knowest thou what argument
     Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath lent;
         All are needed by each one--
         Nothing is fair or good alone.

     I caught the linnet's note from heaven,
       Singing at dawn, on the alder bough;
     I brought him home in his nest at even:
       He sings the song; but it pleases not now;
     For I did not bring home the river and sky;
     He sang to my ear--they sing to my eye.

     The delicate shell lay on the shore;
     The bubbles of the latest wave
     Fresh pearls to their emerald gave;
     And the bellowing of the savage sea
     Greeted their safe escape to me.
     I wiped away the weeds and foam,
     And fetched my sea-born treasures home;
     But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
     Had left their beauty on the shore,
     With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar
         Nor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair;
         Their concord is beyond compare.


[23] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton,
Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers.




               It is done!
         Clang of bell and roar of gun
     Send the tidings up and down.
         How the belfries rock and reel!
         How the great guns, peal on peal,
     Fling the joy from town to town!

               Ring, O bells!
         Every stroke exulting tells
     Of the burial hour of crime.
         Loud and long, that all may hear.
         Ring for every listening ear
     Of Eternity and Time!

               Let us kneel!
         God's own voice is in that peal,
     And this spot is holy ground.
         Lord, forgive us! What are we,
         That our eyes this glory see,
     That our ears have heard the sound!

               For the Lord
         On the whirlwind is abroad;
     In the earthquake he has spoken;
         He has smitten with his thunder
         The iron walls asunder,
     And the gates of brass are broken!

               Loud and long
         Lift the old exulting song;
     Sing with Miriam by the sea
         He has cast the mighty down;
         Horse and rider sink and drown;
     "He hath triumphed gloriously!"

               Did we dare
         In our agony of prayer,
     Ask for more than He has done?
         When was ever his right hand
         Over any time or land
     Stretched as now beneath the sun!

               How they pale,
         Ancient myth and song and tale,
     In this wonder of our days,
         When the cruel rod of war
         Blossoms white with righteous law,
     And the wrath of man is praise!

               Blotted out!
         All within and all about
     Shall a fresher life begin;
         Freer breathe the universe
         As it rolls its heavy curse
     On the dead and buried sin!

               It is done!
         In the circuit of the sun
     Shall the sound thereof go forth.
         It shall bid the sad rejoice,
         It shall give the dumb a voice,
     It shall belt with joy the earth!

               Ring and swing,
         Bells of joy! On morning's wing
     Send the song of praise abroad!
         With a sound of broken chains
         Tell the nations that He reigns,
     Who alone is Lord and God!


[24] By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of
this author's works.



     The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast,
     And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed,
     And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er,
     When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England

     Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,--
     Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of
     Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,--
     They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of
       lofty cheer.

     Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard and the sea!
     And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems of the
     The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' foam,
     And the rocking pines of the forest roared;--this was their welcome

     There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band;
     Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's
     There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth;
     There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of

     What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine?
     The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--They sought a faith's pure
     Aye, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod!
     They have left unstained what there they found,--freedom to worship



     When a deed is done for freedom, through the broad earth's aching
     Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from East to West;
     And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb,
     To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime
     Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of time.

     For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along
     Round the earth's electric circle the swift flash of right or
     Whether conscious or unconscious, yet humanity's vast frame
     Through its ocean-sundered fibers feels the gush of joy or shame--
     In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.

     Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,
     In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;
     Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or
     Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,
     And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

     Backward look across the ages, and the beacon moments see
     That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through oblivion's
     Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry
     Of those crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's
       chaff must fly;
     Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.

     Careless seems the great avenger; history's pages but record
     One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;
     Truth forever on the scaffold, wrong forever on the throne,
     Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,
     Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own.

     We see dimly in the present what is small and what is great;
     Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate!
     But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,
     List the ominous stern whisper from the delphic cave within,
     "They enslave their children's children who make compromise with

     Then to side with truth is noble when we share her wretched crust,
     Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be
     Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside,
     Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,
     And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.

     Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes--they were souls that stood
     While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone;
     Stood serene and down the future, saw the golden beam incline
     To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine
     By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.

     By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,
     Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back,
     And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned
     One new word of that grand credo which in prophet-hearts hath
     Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven

     For humanity sweeps onward; where to-day the martyr stands,
     On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands;
     Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn,
     While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return
     To glean up the scattered ashes into history's golden urn.

     'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves
     Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves.
     Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;
     Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their
     Turn those tracks toward past or future that make Plymouth Rock

     They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our
     Smothering in their holy ashes freedom's new-lit altar fires.
     Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to
     From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away
     To light the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?

     New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth;
     They must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of truth;
     Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! We ourselves must Pilgrims be,
     Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter
     Nor attempt the future's portal with the past's blood-rusted key.


[25] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized
publishers of this author's works.



     God of our fathers, known of old--
     Lord of our far-flung battle line--
     Beneath whose awful hand we hold
     Dominion over palm and pine;
     Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
     Lest we forget,--lest we forget.

     The tumult and the shouting dies,
     The captains and the kings depart--
     Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
     An humble and a contrite heart.
     Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
     Lest we forget,--lest we forget.

     If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
     Wild tongues that have not thee in awe--
     Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
     Or lesser breeds without the Law--
     Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
     Lest we forget,--lest we forget!

     For heathen heart that puts her trust
     In reeking tube and iron shard--
     All valiant dust that builds on dust,
     And guarding calls not thee to guard,
     For frantic boast and foolish word,
     Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!



All true work is sacred; in all true hand-labor, there is something of
divineness. Labor, wide as the earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of
the brow; and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart;
which includes all Kepler's calculations, Newton's meditations, all
sciences, all spoken epics, all acted heroism, martyrdoms--up to that
"Agony of bloody sweat," which all men have called divine! Oh, brother,
if this is not "worship," then, I say, the more pity for worship; for
this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's sky!

Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil? Complain not. Look
up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow-workmen there, in God's Eternity;
surviving there, they alone surviving; sacred Band of the Immortals,
celestial Body-guard of the Empire of Mind. Even in the weak human
memory they survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods; they alone
surviving; peopling the immeasured solitudes of Time! To thee Heaven,
though severe, is not unkind; Heaven is kind--as a noble mother; as that
Spartan mother, saying, while she gave her son his shield, "With it, my
son, or upon it!" Thou, too, shalt return home, in honor to thy
far-distant home, doubt it not--if in the battle thou keep thy shield.



     What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod
     Its Maker meant not should be trod
     By man, the image of his God,
         Erect and free,
     Unscourged by superstition's rod
         To bow the knee?

     What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
     'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap,
     In dews that Heavens far distant weep,
         Their turf may bloom,
     Or Genii twine beneath the deep
         Their coral tomb.

     But strew his ashes to the wind,
     Whose sword or voice has saved mankind,
     And is he dead, whose glorious mind
         Lifts thine on high?
     To live in hearts we leave behind
         Is not to die!

     Is't death to fall for Freedom's right?
     He's dead alone that lacks her light!
     And murder sullies, in Heaven's sight
         The sword he draws.
     What can alone ennoble fight?
         A noble cause.

     What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth
     To sacred thoughts in souls of worth.
     Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
         Earth's compass round,
     And your high priesthood shall make earth
         All hallowed ground.




     Harvard University after mature consideration has proclaimed that
     in the history of eloquence there are seven great orators who stand
     preëminent above other orators whom the world calls great. A
     visitor to that venerable institution of learning, on coming to
     Memorial Hall, will find at the theater end, on the outside and
     just above the cornice, seven niches containing gigantic busts of
     these seven orators: Demosthenes, the Greek; Cicero, the Roman;
     Chrysostom, the Asiatic Greek; Bossuet, the Frenchman; Chatham, the
     Englishman; Burke, the Irishman; and Webster, the American.

     It is in furtherance of this idea that we have selected short
     passages of eloquence from each of these men; and also with the
     threefold purpose of acquainting young students with masterpieces
     of oratory since the dawn of history, of providing passages well
     worth committing to memory, and offering extracts well suited for
     practice in public speaking.



Men of Athens, if any one regard without uneasiness the might and
dominion of Philip, and imagine that it threatens no danger to the
state, or that all his preparations are not against you, I marvel, and
would entreat you every one to hear briefly from me the reasons why I am
led to form a contrary expectation, and why I deem Philip an enemy;
that, if I appear to have the clearer foresight, you may hearken to me;
if they, who have such confidence and trust in Philip, you may give your
adherence to them.

What did Philip first make himself master of after the peace? Thermopylæ
and the Phocian state. And how used he his power? He chose to act for
the benefit of Thebes, not of Athens. Why so? Because, I conceive,
measuring his calculations by ambition, by his desire of universal
empire, without regard to peace, quiet, or justice, he saw plainly that
to a people of our character and principles nothing could he offer or
give that would induce you for self-interest to sacrifice any of the
Greeks to him. He sees that you, having respect for justice, dreading
the infamy of the thing, and exercising proper forethought, would oppose
him in any such attempt as much as if you were at war. But the Thebans,
he expected, would, in return for the services done them, allow him in
everything else to have his way, and, so far from thwarting or impeding
him, would fight on his side if he required it. You are judged by these
to be the only people incapable of betraying for lucre the national
rights of Greece, or bartering your attachment to her for any obligation
or benefit. And this opinion of you he has naturally formed, not only
from a view of present times, but by reflection on the past. For
assuredly he finds and hears that your ancestors, who might have
governed the rest of Greece on terms of submitting to Persia, not only
spurned the proposal when Alexander, this man's ancestor, came as herald
to negotiate, but preferred to abandon their country and endure any
suffering, and thereafter achieved such exploits as all the world loves
to remember,--though none could ever speak them worthily, and therefore
I must be silent, for their deeds are too mighty to be uttered in words.
But the forefathers of the Thebans either joined the barbarian's army or
did not oppose it; and therefore he knows that they will selfishly
embrace their advantage, without considering the common interest of the
Greeks. He thought then if he chose your friendship, it must be on just
principles; if he attached himself to them, he should find auxiliaries
of his ambition. This is the reason of his preferring them to you both
then and now. For certainly he does not see them with a larger navy than
you, nor has he acquired an inland empire and renounced that of the sea
and the ports, nor does he forget the professions and promises on which
he obtained the peace.

I cannot think that Philip, either if he was forced into his former
measures, or if he were now giving up the Thebans, would pertinaciously
oppose their enemies; his present conduct rather shows that he adopted
those measures by choice. All things prove to a correct observer that
his whole plan of action is against our state. And this has now become
to him a sort of necessity. Consider. He desires empire; he conceives
you to be his only opponents. He has been for some time wronging you, as
his own conscience best informs him, since, by retaining what belongs to
you, he secures the rest of his dominion. He knows that he is plotting
against you, and that you are aware of it; and supposing you to have
intelligence, he thinks you must hate him; he is alarmed, expecting some
disaster, unless he hastens to prevent you. Therefore he is awake and on
the watch against us; he courts certain people, who from cupidity, he
thinks, will be satisfied with the present, and from dullness of
understanding will foresee none of the consequences.

I imagine that what Philip is doing will grieve you hereafter more than
it does now. I see the thing progressing, and would that my surmises
were false, but I doubt it is too near already. So when you are able no
longer to disregard events, when, instead of hearing from me or others
that these measures are against Athens, you all see it yourselves and
know it for certain, I expect you will be wrathful and exasperated. I
fear then, as your ambassadors have concealed the purpose for which they
know they were corrupted, those who endeavor to repair what the others
have lost may chance to encounter your resentment, for I see it is a
practice with many to vent their anger, not upon the guilty, but on
persons most in their power. Had you not been then deceived there would
be nothing to distress the state. Philip would certainly never have
prevailed at sea and come to Attica with a fleet, nor would he have
marched with a land force by Phocis and Thermopylæ; he must either have
acted honorably, observing the peace and keeping quiet, or been
immediately in a war similar to that which made him desire the peace.
Enough has been said to awaken recollection. Grant, O ye gods, it be not
all fully confirmed! Though he may deserve death I would have no man
punished to the damage and danger of the country.


[26] From the Second Philippic delivered at Athens, 344 B.C.



Who is there who does not see that Antonius has been adjudged to be an
enemy? For what else can we call him, when the Senate decides that
extraordinary honors are to be devised for those men who are leading
armies against him? What, did not the Martial legion decide by its
resolutions that Antonius was an enemy before the Senate had come to any
resolution? For if he be not an enemy, we must inevitably decide that
those men who have deserted the consul are enemies. Admirably and
seasonably, O Romans, have you by your cries sanctioned the noble
conduct of the men of the Martial legion, who have come over to the
authority of the Senate, to your liberty, and to the whole republic, and
have abandoned that enemy and robber and parricide of his country. Nor
did they display only their spirit and courage in doing this, but their
caution and wisdom also. They encamped at Alba, in a city convenient,
fortified, full of brave men and loyal and virtuous citizens. The fourth
legion imitated and also joined the army of Caius Cæsar.

What more adverse decisions, O Marcus Antonius, can you want? Cæsar, who
has levied an army against you, is extolled to the skies. The legions
are praised in the most complimentary manner, which have abandoned you,
which were sent for into Italy by you, and which, if you had been chosen
to be a consul rather than an enemy, were wholly devoted to you. And the
fearless and honest decision of those legions is confirmed by the Senate
and is approved of by the whole Roman people. Do you suppose that the
municipal towns and the colonies and the prefectures have any other
opinion? All men are agreed with one mind, so that every one who wishes
the State to be saved must take every sort of arms against that
pestilence. What, does the opinion of Decimus Brutus which has this day
reached us appear to any one deserving of being lightly esteemed? The
family and name of Brutus has been by some especial kindness and
liberality of the immortal gods given to the republic, for the purpose
of at one time establishing, and at another of recovering, the liberty
of the Roman people. What has been the opinion which Decimus Brutus has
formed of Marcus Antonius? He excludes him from his province. He opposes
him with his army. He rouses all Gaul to war, which is already aroused
of its own accord, and in consequence of the judgment which it has
already formed. If Antonius be consul, Brutus is an enemy. Can we then
doubt which of these alternatives is the fact?

And just as you now with one mind and one voice affirm that you
entertain no doubt, so did the Senate just now decree that Decimus
Brutus deserved excellently well of the republic, inasmuch as he was
defending the authority of the Senate and the liberty and empire of the
Roman people. Defending it against whom? Why, against an enemy. For what
other sort of defense deserves praise? In the next place the province of
Gaul is praised and is deservedly complimented in most honorable
language by the Senate for resisting Antonius. But if that province
considered him the consul, and still refused to receive him it would be
guilty of great wickedness. For all the provinces belong to the consul
of right, and are bound to obey him. Decimus Brutus, imperator and
consul-elect, a citizen born for the republic, denies that he is consul.
Gaul denies it. All Italy denies it. The Senate denies it. You deny it.
Who then thinks he is consul except a few robbers? I think that at
present not only men but the immortal gods have all united together to
preserve this republic. For if the immortal gods foreshow us the future,
by means of portents and prodigies, then it has been openly revealed to
us that punishment is near at hand to him, and liberty to us. Or if it
was impossible for such unanimity on the part of all men to exist
without the inspiration of the gods, in either case how can we doubt as
to the inclination of the heavenly deities?

I will act therefore as commanders are in the habit of doing when their
army is ready for battle, who although they see their soldiers ready to
engage, still address an exhortation to them; and in like manner I will
exhort you who are already eager and burning to recover your liberty.
You have not to war against an enemy with whom it is possible to make
peace on any terms whatever. For he does not now desire your slavery, as
he did before, but he is angry now and thirsts for your blood. No sport
appears more delightful to him than bloodshed and slaughter and the
massacre of citizens before his eyes. You have not, O Romans, to deal
with a wicked and profligate man, but with an unnatural, and savage
beast. And since he has fallen into a well let him be buried in it. For
if he escapes out of it there will be no inhumanity of torture which it
will be possible to avoid. But he is at present hemmed in, pressed, and
besieged by those troops which we already have, and will soon be still
more so by those which in a few days the new consuls will levy. Apply
yourselves then to this business, as you are doing. Never have you shown
greater unanimity in any cause, never have you been so cordially united
with the Senate. And no wonder: for the question now is not in what
condition we are to live, but whether we are to live at all, or to
perish with torture and ignominy.


[27] Taken from the Fourth Philippic, delivered in the Forum at Rome.



I am ashamed and blush to see unbecoming groups of women pass along the
mart, tearing their hair, cutting their arms and cheeks, and all this
under the eyes of the Greeks. For what will they not say? What will they
not utter concerning us? Are these the men who philosophize about a
resurrection? How poorly their actions agree with their opinions! In
words they philosophize about a resurrection, but they act just like
those who do not acknowledge a resurrection. If they fully believed in a
resurrection they would not act thus; if they had really persuaded
themselves that a deceased friend had departed to a better state they
would not thus mourn. These things and more than these, the unbelievers
say when they hear those lamentations. Let us then be ashamed, and be
more moderate, and not occasion so much harm to ourselves and to those
who are looking on us.

For on what account, tell me, do you thus weep for one departed? Because
he was a bad man? You ought on that very account to be thankful, since
the occasions of wickedness are now cut off. Because he was good and
kind? If so, you ought to rejoice, since he has been soon removed before
wickedness had corrupted him; and he has gone away to a world where he
stands ever secure, and there is no room even to mistrust a change.
Because he was a youth? For that, too, praise Him who has taken him,
because He has speedily called him to a better lot. Because he was an
aged man? On this account also give thanks and glorify Him that has
taken him. Be ashamed of your manner of burial. All this is not that
you may weep and lament and afflict yourselves, but that you may render
thanks to Him who has taken the departed.

When men are called to some high office, multitudes with praises on
their lips assemble to escort them at their departure to their stations,
so do all with abundant praise join to send forward, as to a greater
honor, those of the pious who have departed. Death is rest, a
deliverance from the exhausting labors and cares of this world. When,
then, thou seest a relative departing yield not to despondency; give
thyself to reflection; examine thy conscience; cherish the thought that
after a little while this end awaits thee also. Be more considerate; let
another's death excite thee to salutary fear; shake off all indolence;
examine your past deeds; quit your sins and commence a happy change.

We differ from unbelievers in our estimate of things. The unbeliever
surveys the heaven and worships it, because he thinks it a divinity; he
looks to the earth and makes himself a servant to it, and longs for the
things of sense. But not so with us. We survey the heaven and admire Him
that made it, for we believe it not to be a god, but a work of God. I
look on the whole creation, and am led by it to the Creator. He looks on
wealth and longs for and laments; I see poverty and rejoice. I see
things in one light, he in another. Just so in regard to death. He sees
a corpse and thinks of it as a corpse; I see a corpse and behold sleep
rather than death. And as in regard to books, both learned persons and
unlearned see them with the same eyes, but not with the same
understanding. To the unlearned the mere shapes of letters appear, while
the learned discover the sense that lies within those letters. So in
respect to affairs in general, we all see what takes place with the same
eyes, but not with the same understanding and judgment. Since,
therefore, in all other things we differ from them, shall we agree with
them in our sentiments respecting death? Consider to whom the departed
has gone. He has gone where Paul is, and the whole company of the
saints. Consider how he shall arise, with what glory and with what


It is a mischief when one who teaches will in words impugn the teachings
by his deeds. This has been the cause of many evils in the churches.
Wherefore pardon me, I beseech you, if my discourse dwells long on this
evil affection. Many take a great deal of pains to be able to stand up
in public and make a long speech; and if they get applause from the
multitude, it is to them as if they had gained the very kingdom of
heaven; but if silence follows the close of their speech the defection
that falls upon their spirits from the silence is worse than hell
itself. This has turned the churches upside down, because you desire not
to hear a discourse calculated to lead to compunction, but one that may
delight you from the sound and composition of the words, as though you
were listening to singers and minstrels. When we idly busy ourselves
about beautiful expressions and the composition and harmony of our
sentences in order that we might not profit; when we make it our aim to
be admired, not to instruct; to delight, not prick to the heart; to be
applauded and depart with praise, not to correct men's manners, we do
wrong. Believe me, I speak what I feel, when as I discourse, I hear
myself applauded, at the moment I feel it as a man; I am delighted and
give way to the pleasurable feeling; but when I get home and bethink me
that those who applauded received no benefit from my discourse, but
whatever benefit they ought to have got they lost it while applauding
and praising, I am in pain, and groan and weep, and feel as if I had
spoken all in vain. I say to myself what profit comes to me from my
labors, while the hearers do not choose to benefit by what they hear
from me?

Even the heathen philosophers--we hear of their discoursing, and
nowhere do we find that noisy applause accompanied their words; we hear
of the apostles making public speeches, and yet nowhere do the accounts
add that in the midst of their discourses the hearers interrupted the
speaker with loud expressions of approbation. Christ spoke publicly on
the mount, yet no one said aught until He had finished His discourse.
How shall the hearer be otherwise than ridiculous? Nay, he will be
deemed a flatterer and his praise no better than irony, when he declares
that the teacher spoke beautifully; but what he said, this he cannot
tell. This has all the appearance of adulation. For when, indeed, one
has been hearing minstrels and players, it is no wonder if such has been
the case with him, seeing he looks not how to utter the strain in the
same manner; but where the matter is not an exhibition of song or of
voice, but the drift and purport of thoughts and wise reflections, and
it is easy for every one to tell and report what was said, how can he
but deserve the accusation, who cannot tell what the matter was for
which he praised the speaker? Nothing so becomes the church as silence
and good order.

Noise belongs to the theaters, and baths, and public processions, and
market-places; but where doctrines, and such doctrines, are the subject
of teaching, there should be stillness and quiet, and calm reflection,
and a haven of much repose. These things I beseech and entreat; for I go
about in quest of ways by which I shall be enabled to profit your souls.
And no small way I take this to be; it will profit not you only, but us
also. So shall we not be carried away with pride, not be tempted to love
praises and honor, not be led to speak those things which delight, but
those things that profit: so shall we lay the whole stress of our time
and diligence, not upon arts of composition and beauties of expression,
but upon the matter and meaning of the thoughts.

Is not all nature decked with stillness and silence? Over all the face
of heaven is scattered the charm of repose. On this account we are evil
spoken of even among the Gentiles, as though we did all for display and
ostentation. But if this be prevented the love of the chief seats will
also be extinguished. It is sufficient, if any one be enamored of
praise, that he should obtain it after having been heard, when all is
gathered in. Yea, I beseech you that doing all things according to God's
will, we may be found worthy of the mercy which is from Him, through the
grace and compassion of His only Son.



Our lamentations ought to break forth at the loss of so great a man. But
for the love of truth and the shame of those who despise it, listen once
more to that noble testimony which he bore to it in dying. Informed by
his confessor that if our heart is not entirely right with God, we must,
in our addresses, ask God Himself to make it such as He pleases, and
address Him in the affecting language of David, "O God, create in me a
clean heart," the Prince is arrested by the words, pauses, as if
occupied with some great thought; then calling the ecclesiastic who had
suggested the idea, he says: "I have never doubted the mysteries of
religion, as some have reported." Christians, you ought to believe him,
for in the state he then was he owed to the world nothing but truth.

What was then taking place in his soul? What new light dawned upon him?
What sudden ray pierced the cloud, and instantly dissipated, not only
all the darkness of sense, but the very shadows, and if I dare to say
it, the sacred obscurities of faith? What then became of those splendid
titles by which our pride is flattered? On the very verge of glory, and
in the dawning of a light so beautiful, how rapidly vanish the phantoms
of the world! How dim appears the splendor of the most glorious victory!
How profoundly we despise the glory of the world, and how deeply regret
that our eyes were ever dazzled by its radiance! Come, ye people, or
rather ye princes and lords, ye judges of the earth, and ye who open to
man the portals of heaven; and more than all others, ye princes and
princesses, nobles descended from a long line of kings, lights of
France, but to-day in gloom, and covered with your grief, as with a
cloud, come and see how little remains of a birth so august, a grandeur
so high, a glory so dazzling. Look around on all sides, and see all that
magnificence and devotion can do to honor so great a hero; titles and
inscriptions, vain signs of that which is no more--shadows which weep
around a tomb, fragile images of a grief which time sweeps away with
everything else; columns which seem as if they would bear to heaven the
magnificent evidence of our emptiness; nothing, indeed, is wanting in
all these honors but him to whom they are rendered! Weep then over these
feeble remains of human life; weep over that mournful immortality we
give to heroes. But draw near, especially ye who run with such ardor the
career of glory, intrepid and warrior spirits! Who was more worthy to
command you, and in whom did you find command more honorable? Mourn then
that great captain, and weeping, say: "Here is the man that led us
through all hazards, under whom were formed so many renowned captains,
raised by his example to the highest honors of war; his shadow might yet
gain battles, and lo! in his silence his very name animates us, and at
the same time warns us, that to find at death some rest from our toils,
and not arrive unprepared at our eternal dwelling, we must, with an
earthly king, yet serve the king of heaven."

Serve then that immortal and ever merciful King, who will value a sigh
or a cup of cold water, given in His name, more than all others will
value the shedding of your blood. And begin to reckon the time of your
useful services from the day on which you gave yourselves to so
beneficent a Master. Will not ye too come, ye whom he honored by making
you his friends? To whatever extent you enjoyed his confidence, come
all of you, and surround his tomb. Mingle your prayers with your tears;
and while admiring, in so great a prince, a friendship so excellent, an
intercourse so sweet, preserve the remembrance of a hero whose goodness
equaled his courage. Thus may he ever prove your cherished instructor;
thus may you profit by his virtues; and may his death, which you
deplore, serve you at once for consolation and example.

For myself, if permitted, after all others, to render the last offices
at his tomb, O Prince, the worthy subject of our praises and regrets,
thou wilt live forever in my memory. There will thy image be traced, but
not with that bold aspect which promises victory. No, I would see in you
nothing which death can efface. You will have in that image only
immortal traits. I shall behold you such as you were in your last hours
under the hand of God, when His glory began to dawn upon you. There
shall I see you more triumphant than at Fribourg and at Rocroy; and
ravished by so glorious a triumph, I shall give thanks in the beautiful
words of the well-beloved disciple, "This is the victory that overcometh
the world, even our faith." Enjoy, O Prince, this victory, enjoy it
forever, through the everlasting efficacy of that sacrifice.



I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. I cannot
concur in a blind and servile address, which approves and endeavors to
sanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped disgrace and
misfortune upon us. This, my lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment!
It is not a time for adulation. The smoothness of flattery cannot now
avail; cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now
necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must
dispel 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 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." It is a shameful truth that not only the power and strength
of this country are wasting away and expiring, but her well-earned
glories, her true honor and substantial dignity, are sacrificed.

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 known. 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. Your armies in the last
war effected everything that could be effected; and what was it? It cost
a numerous army, under the command of a most able general, a long and
laborious campaign, to expel five thousand Frenchmen from French
America. My lords, you cannot conquer America.

What is your present situation there? We do not know the worst; but we
know that in three campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much.
Besides the sufferings, perhaps total loss, of the northern force, the
best-appointed army that ever took the field, commanded by Sir William
Howe, has retired from the American lines. As to conquest, I repeat, it
is impossible. 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 overrun them with the mercenary 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


[28] Delivered in the House of Lords, Nov. 18, 1777.


My lords, no man wishes for the due dependence of America on this
country more than I do. To preserve it, and not confirm that state of
independence into which your measures hitherto have driven them, is the
object which we ought to unite in attaining. The Americans, contending
for their rights against arbitrary exactions, I love and admire. It is
the struggle of free and virtuous patriots. America was indeed the
fountain of our wealth, the nerve of our strength, the nursery and basis
of our naval power. It is our duty, therefore, my lords, if we wish to
save our country, most seriously to endeavor the recovery of these most
beneficial subjects; and in this perilous crisis, perhaps the present
moment may be the only one in which we can hope for success.

I would impart to them every enjoyment and freedom which the colonizing
subjects of a free state can possess, or wish to possess; and I do not
see why they should not enjoy every fundamental right in their property,
and every original substantial liberty, which Devonshire or Surrey, or
the county I live in, or any other county in England, can claim;
reserving always as the sacred right of the mother country the due
constitutional dependency of the colonies. The inherent supremacy of the
state in regulating and protecting the navigation and commerce of all
her subjects is necessary for the mutual benefit and preservation of
every part, to constitute and preserve the prosperous arrangement of the
whole empire.

You cannot conciliate America by your present measures. You cannot
subdue her by your present, or by any measures. What, then, can you do?
You cannot conquer, you cannot gain, but you can address; you can lull
the fears and anxieties of the moment into an ignorance of the danger
that should produce them. But, my lords, the time demands the language
of truth. We must not now apply the flattering unction of servile
compliance or blind complaisance. In a just and necessary war to
maintain the rights or honor of my country, I would strip the shirt from
my back to support it. But in such a war as this, unjust in principle,
impracticable in its means, and ruinous in its consequences, I would not
contribute a single effort, nor a single shilling. I do not call for
vengeance on the heads of those who have been guilty; I only recommend
to them to make their retreat; and let them make haste, or they may be
assured that speedy and condign punishment will overtake them.

My lords, I have submitted to you, with the freedom and truth which I
think my duty, my sentiments on this awful situation. I have laid before
you the ruin of your power, the disgrace of your reputation, the
pollution of your discipline, the contamination of your morals, the
complication of calamities, foreign and domestic, that overwhelm your
sinking country. Your dearest interests, your own liberties, the
constitution itself, totters to the foundation. All this disgraceful
danger, this multitude of misery, is the monstrous offspring of this
unnatural war. We have been deceived and deluded too long. Let us now
stop short. This is the crisis, the only crisis of time and situation,
to give us a possibility of escape from the fatal effects of our
delusions. But if, in an obstinate and infatuated perseverance in folly,
we slavishly echo the peremptory words this day presented to us, nothing
can save this devoted country from complete and final ruin.

Is it possible, can it be believed, that ministers are yet blind to this
impending destruction? I did hope that instead of this false and empty
vanity, this overweening pride, that ministers would have humbled
themselves in their errors, would have confessed and retracted them, and
by an active though a late repentance, have endeavored to redeem them.
But, my lords, since they had neither sagacity to foresee, nor justice
nor humanity to shun, these oppressive calamities; since not even severe
experience can make them feel, nor the imminent ruin of their country
awaken them from their stupefaction, the guardian care of Parliament
must interpose. I shall, therefore, my lords, propose an amendment to
the address to his Majesty, to recommend an immediate cessation of
hostilities and the commencement of a treaty to restore peace and
liberty to America, strength and happiness to England, security and
permanent prosperity to both countries.



My lords, you have now heard the principles on which Mr. Hastings
governs the part of Asia subjected to the British empire. Here he has
declared his opinion, that he is a despotic prince; that he is to use
arbitrary power; and, of course, all his acts are covered with that
shield. "I know," says he, "the Constitution of Asia only from its
practice." Will your lordships submit to hear the corrupt practices of
mankind made the principles of Government?

He have arbitrary power! My lords, the East India Company have not
arbitrary power to give him; the King has no arbitrary power to give
him; your lordships have not; nor the Commons; nor the whole
Legislature. We have no arbitrary power to give, because arbitrary power
is a thing which neither any man can hold nor any man can give. No man
can lawfully govern himself according to his own will, much less can one
person be governed by the will of another. We are all born in
subjection, all born equally, high and low, governors and governed, in
subjection to one great, immutable, preëxistent law, prior to all our
devices, and prior to all our contrivances, paramount to all our ideas,
and all our sensations, antecedent to our very existence, by which we
are knit and connected in the eternal frame of the universe, out of
which we cannot stir.

This great law does not arise from our conventions or compacts; on the
contrary, it gives to our conventions and compacts all the force and
sanction they can have;--it does not arise from our vain institutions.
Every good gift is of God; all power is of God;--and He, who has given
the power, and from whom alone it originates, will never suffer the
exercise of it to be practiced upon any less solid foundation than the
power itself. If then all dominion of man over man is the effect of the
divine disposition, it is bound by the eternal laws of Him that gave it,
with which no human authority can dispense; neither he that exercises
it, nor even those who are subject to it. And if they were mad enough to
make an express compact that should release their magistrate from his
duty, and should declare their lives, liberties, and properties
dependent upon, not rules and laws, but his mere capricious will, that
covenant would be void.

This arbitrary power is not to be had by conquest. Nor can any
sovereign have it by succession; for no man can succeed to fraud,
rapine, and violence. Those who give and those who receive arbitrary
power are alike criminal; and there is no man but is bound to resist it
to the best of his power, wherever it shall show its face to the world.
Law and arbitrary power are in eternal enmity. Name me a magistrate, and
I will name property; name me power, and I will name protection. It is a
contradiction in terms; it is blasphemy in religion, it is wickedness in
politics, to say that any man can have arbitrary power. In every patent
of office the duty is included. For what else does a magistrate exist?
To suppose for power, is an absurdity in idea. Judges are guided and
governed by the eternal laws of justice, to which we are all subject. We
may bite our chains, if we will; but we shall be made to know ourselves,
and be taught that man is born to be governed by law; and he that will
substitute will in the place of it, is an enemy to God.

My lords, I do not mean to go further than just to remind your lordships
of this,--that Mr. Hastings' government was one whole system of
oppression, of robbery of individuals, of spoliation of the public, and
of supersession of the whole system of the English Government, in order
to vest in the worst of the natives all the power that could possibly
exist in any government; in order to defeat the ends which all
governments ought, in common, to have in view. In the name of the
Commons of England, I charge all this villainy upon Warren Hastings in
this last moment of my application to you.

My lords, what is it that we want here to a great act of national
justice? Do we want a cause, my lords? You have the cause of oppressed
princes, of desolated provinces, and of wasted kingdoms. Do you want a
criminal, my lords? When was there so much iniquity ever laid to the
charge of any one? No, my lords, you must not look to punish any other
such delinquent from India. Warren Hastings has not left substance
enough in India to nourish such another delinquent.

Therefore, it is with confidence that, ordered by the Commons of Great
Britain, I impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I
impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Britain in Parliament
assembled, whose parliamentary trust he has abused. I impeach him in the
name of the Commons of Great Britain, whose national character he has
dishonored. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose
laws, rights and liberties he has subverted. I impeach him in the name
of the people of India, whose property he has destroyed, whose country
he has laid waste and desolate. I impeach him in the name of human
nature itself, which he has cruelly outraged, injured and oppressed, in
both sexes. And I impeach him in the name and by the virtue of those
eternal laws of justice, which ought equally to pervade every age,
condition, rank, and situation in the world.


[29] On the 15th of February, 1788, Edmund Burke began a four days'
speech in the impeachment of Warren Hastings.


Sir, I have in general no very exalted opinion of the virtue of paper
government; nor of any politics in which the plan is to be wholly
separated from the execution. But when I saw that anger and violence
prevailed every day more and more, and that things were hastening
towards an incurable alienation of our colonies, I confess my caution
gave way. I felt this as one of those few moments in which decorum
yields to a higher duty. Public calamity is a mighty leveler; and there
are occasions when any chance of doing good must be laid hold on, even
by the most inconsiderable person. To restore order and repose to an
empire so great and so distracted as ours, is, merely in the attempt, an
undertaking that would ennoble the flights of the highest genius, and
obtain pardon for the efforts of the meanest understanding.

The proposition is peace. Not peace through the medium of war; not
peace to be hunted through the labyrinth of intricate and endless
negotiations; not peace to arise out of universal discord fomented, from
principle, in all parts of the empire. It is simple peace; sought in its
natural course, and in its ordinary haunts. It is peace sought in the
spirit of peace, and laid in principles purely pacific. I propose, by
removing the ground of the difference, and by restoring the former
unsuspecting confidence of the colonies in the Mother Country, to give
permanent satisfaction to your people; and to reconcile them to each
other in the same act and by the bond of the very same interest which
reconciles them to British government.

The principle of this proceeding is large enough for my purpose. I mean
to give peace. Peace implies reconciliation; and where there has been a
material dispute, reconciliation does in a manner always imply
concession on the one part or on the other. In this state of things I
make no difficulty in affirming that the proposal ought to originate
from us. Great and acknowledged force is not impaired, either in effect
or in opinion, by an unwillingness to exert itself. The superior power
may offer peace with honor and with safety. Such an offer from such a
power will be attributed to magnanimity. But the concessions of the weak
are the concessions of fear. When such an one is disarmed, he is wholly
at the mercy of his superior; and he loses forever that time and those
chances, which, as they happen to all men, are the strength and
resources of all inferior power.

The leading questions on which you must this day decide, are these two:
First, whether you ought to concede; and secondly, what your concession
ought to be. On the first of these questions we have gained some ground.
But I am sensible that a good deal more is still to be done. Indeed,
Sir, to enable us to determine both on the one and the other of these
great questions with a firm and precise judgment, I think it may be
necessary to consider distinctly the true nature and the peculiar
circumstances of the object which we have before us; because after all
our struggle, whether we will or not, we must govern America according
to that nature and to those circumstances, and not according to our own
imaginations, nor according to abstract ideas of right.

America, gentlemen say, is a noble object. It is an object well worth
fighting for. Certainly it is, if fighting a people be the best way of
gaining them. Gentlemen in this respect will be led to their choice of
means by their complexions and their habits. Those who understand the
military art will of course have some predilection for it. Those who
wield the thunder of the state may have more confidence in the efficacy
of arms. But I confess my opinion is much more in favor of prudent
management than of force. The use of force alone is but temporary. It
may subdue for a moment, but it does not remove the necessity of
subduing again; and a nation is not governed which is perpetually to be

My next objection is its uncertainty. Terror is not always the effect of
force, and an armament is not a victory. If you do not succeed, you are
without resource; for, conciliation failing, force remains; but, force
failing, no further hope of reconciliation is left. Power and authority
are sometimes bought by kindness; but they can never be begged as alms
by an impoverished and defeated violence. Nothing less will content me
than whole America. I do not choose to consume its strength along with
our own, because in all parts it is the British strength that I consume.
I do not choose to be caught by a foreign enemy at the end of this
exhausting conflict; and still less in the midst of it. I may escape;
but I can make no insurance against such an event. Let me add, that I do
not choose to break the American spirit; because it is the spirit that
has made the country.

In the character of the Americans, a love of freedom is the
predominating feature which marks and distinguishes the whole; and as
an ardent is always a jealous affection, your colonies become
suspicious, restive, and untractable whenever they see the least attempt
to wrest from them by force, or shuffle from them by chicanery, what
they think the only advantage worth living for. This fierce spirit of
liberty is stronger in the English colonies probably than in any other
people of the earth.

Sir, from these six sources--of descent, of form of government, of
religion in the northern provinces, of manners in the southern, of
education, of the remoteness of situation from the first mover of
government--from all these causes a fierce spirit of liberty has grown
up. It has grown with the growth of the people in your colonies, and
increased with the increase of their wealth; a spirit that unhappily
meeting with an exercise of power in England which, however lawful, is
not reconcilable to any ideas of liberty, has kindled this flame that is
ready to consume us.

I am much against any further experiments which tend to put to the proof
any more of these allowed opinions which contribute so much to the
public tranquillity. In effect, we suffer as much at home by this
loosening of all ties, and this concussion of all established opinions,
as we do abroad; for in order to prove that the Americans have no right
to their liberties, we are every day endeavoring to subvert the maxims
which preserve the whole spirit of our own. To prove that the Americans
ought not to be free, we are obliged to depreciate the value of freedom
itself; and we never seem to gain a paltry advantage over them in debate
without attacking some of those principles, or deriding some of those
feelings, for which our ancestors have shed their blood.

The temper and character which prevail in our colonies are, I am afraid,
unalterable by any human art. We cannot, I fear, falsify the pedigree of
this fierce people, and persuade them that they are not sprung from a
nation in whose veins the blood of freedom circulates. The language in
which they would hear you tell them this tale would detect the
imposition; your speech would betray you. An Englishman is the unfittest
person on earth to argue another Englishman into slavery.

But let us suppose all these moral difficulties got over. The ocean
remains. You cannot pump this dry; and as long as it continues in its
present bed, so long all the causes which weaken authority by distance
will continue. If, then, the removal of the causes of this spirit of
American liberty be for the greater part, or rather entirely,
impracticable; if the ideas of criminal process be inapplicable--or, if
applicable, are in the highest degree inexpedient--what way yet remains?
No way is open but to comply with the American spirit as necessary; or,
if you please, to submit to it as a necessary evil.


[30] Delivered in the House of Commons, March 22, 1775.


Reflect, sirs, that when you have fixed a quota of taxation for every
colony, you have not provided for prompt and punctual payment. You must
make new Boston Port Bills, new restraining laws, new acts for dragging
men to England for trial. You must send out new fleets, new armies. All
is to begin again. From this day forward the empire is never to know an
hour's tranquillity. An intestine fire will be kept alive in the bowels
of the colonies, which one time or other must consume this whole empire.

Instead of a standing revenue, you will therefore have a perpetual
quarrel. Indeed, the noble lord who proposed this project seems himself
to be of that opinion. His project was rather designed for breaking the
union of the colonies than for establishing a revenue. But whatever his
views may be, as I propose the peace and union of the colonies as the
very foundation of my plan, it cannot accord with one whose foundation
is perpetual discord.

Compare the two. This I offer to give you is plain and simple; the other
full of perplexed and intricate mazes. This is mild; that harsh. This
is found by experience effectual for its purposes; the other is a new
project. This is universal; the other calculated for certain colonies
only. This is immediate in its conciliatory operation; the other remote,
contingent, full of hazard. Mine is what becomes the dignity of a ruling
people--gratuitous, unconditional, and not held out as a matter of
bargain and sale. I have done my duty in proposing it to you. I have
indeed tired you by a long discourse; but this is the misfortune of
those to whose influence nothing will be conceded, and who must win
every inch of their ground by argument. You have heard me with goodness.
May you decide with wisdom! For my part, I feel my mind greatly
disburdened by what I have done to-day. I have been the less fearful of
trying your patience, because, on this subject, I mean to spare it
altogether in future. I have this comfort, that in every stage of the
American affairs I have steadily opposed the measures that have produced
the confusion, and may bring on the destruction, of this empire. I now
go so far as to risk a proposal of my own. If I cannot give peace to my
country, I give it to my conscience.

My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which grows from
common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal
protection. These are ties which, though light as air, are as strong as
links of iron. Let the colonists always keep the idea of their civil
rights associated with your government,--they will cling and grapple to
you, and no force under heaven will be of power to tear them from their
allegiance. But let it be once understood that your government may be
one thing, and their privileges another, that these two things may exist
without any mutual relation, the cement is gone--the cohesion is
loosened--and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as
you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of this country as
the sanctuary of liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our common
faith, wherever the chosen race and sons of England worship freedom,
they will turn their faces towards you. The more they multiply, the more
friends you will have; the more ardently they love liberty, the more
perfect will be their obedience. Until you become lost to all feeling of
your true interest and your natural dignity, freedom they can have from
none but you.

This is the commodity of price of which you have the monopoly. This is
the true Act of Navigation which binds to you the commerce of the
colonies, and through them secures to you the wealth of the world. Deny
them this participation of freedom, and you break that sole bond which
originally made, and must still preserve, the unity of the empire. Do
not entertain so weak an imagination as that your registers and your
bonds, your affidavits and your sufferances, are what form the great
securities of your commerce. Do not dream that your letters of office,
and your instructions, are the things that hold together the great
contexture of the mysterious whole. These things do not make your
government. Dead instruments, passive tools as they are, it is the
spirit of the English communion that gives all their life and efficacy
to them. It is the spirit of the English Constitution which, infused
through the mighty mass, pervades, feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies
every part of the empire, even down to the minutest member. Is it not
the same virtue which does everything for us here in England? It is the
love of the people; it is the attachment to their government, from the
sense of the deep stake they have in such a glorious institution, which
gives you your army and your navy, and infuses into both that liberal
obedience without which your army would be a base rabble, and your navy
nothing but rotten timber.

All this, I know well enough, will sound wild and chimerical to the
profane herd of those vulgar and mechanical politicians who have no
place among us; a sort of people who think that nothing exists but what
is gross and material, and who, therefore, far from being qualified to
be directors of the great movement of empire, are not fit to turn a
wheel in the machine. But to men truly initiated and rightly taught,
these ruling and master principles which, in the opinion of such men as
I have mentioned, have no substantial existence, are in truth
everything, and all in all. Magnanimity in politics is the truest
wisdom; and a great empire and little minds go ill together. We ought to
elevate our minds to the greatness of that trust to which the order of
providence has called us. By adverting to the dignity of this high
calling our ancestors have turned a savage wilderness into a glorious
empire, and have made the most extensive and the only honorable
conquests--not by destroying, but by promoting the wealth, the number,
the happiness, of the human race. Let us get an American revenue as we
have got an American empire. English privileges have made it all that it
is; English privileges alone will make it all it can be.



This uncounted multitude before me and around me proves the feeling
which the occasion has excited. These thousands of human faces, glowing
with sympathy and joy, and from the impulses of a common gratitude
turned reverently to heaven in this spacious temple of the firmament,
proclaim that the day, the place and the purpose of our assembling have
made a deep impression on our hearts.

If, indeed, there be anything in local association fit to affect the
mind of man, we need not strive to repress the emotions which agitate us
here. We are among the sepulchers of our fathers. We are on ground,
distinguished by their valor, their constancy and the shedding of their
blood. We are here, not to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor draw
into notice an obscure and unknown spot. If our humble purpose had never
been conceived, if we ourselves had never been born, the 17th of June,
1775, would have been a day on which all subsequent history would have
poured its light, and the eminence where we stand a point of attraction
to the eyes of successive generations. But we are Americans. We live in
what may be called the early age of this great continent; and we know
that our posterity, through all time, are here to enjoy and suffer the
allotments of humanity. We see before us a probable train of great
events; we know that our own fortunes have been happily cast; and it is
natural, therefore, that we should be moved by the contemplation of
occurrences which have guided our destiny before many of us were born,
and settled the condition in which we should pass that portion of our
existence which God allows to men on earth.

But the great event in the history of the continent, which we are now
met here to commemorate, that prodigy of modern times, at once the
wonder and the blessing of the world, is the American Revolution. In a
day of extraordinary prosperity and happiness, of high national honor,
distinction, and power, we are brought together, in this place, by our
love of country, by our admiration of exalted character, by our
gratitude for signal services and patriotic devotion.

The Society whose organ I am was formed for the purpose of rearing some
honorable and durable monument to the memory of the early friends of
American Independence. They have thought, that for this object no time
could be more propitious than the present prosperous and peaceful
period; that no place could claim preference over this memorable spot;
and that no day could be more auspicious to the undertaking, than the
anniversary of the battle which was here fought. The foundation of that
monument we have now laid. With solemnities suited to the occasion, with
prayers to Almighty God for his blessing, and in the midst of this cloud
of witnesses, we have begun the work. We trust it will be prosecuted,
and that, springing from a broad foundation, rising high in massive
solidity and unadorned grandeur, it may remain as long as heaven permits
the works of man to last, a fit emblem, both of the events in memory of
which it is raised, and of the gratitude of those who have reared it.

We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is most safely
deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind. We know, that if we
could cause this structure to ascend, not only till it reached the
skies, but till it pierced them, its broad surfaces could still contain
but part of that which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread
over the earth, and which history charges itself with making known to
all future times. We know that no inscription on entablatures less broad
than the earth itself can carry information of the events we commemorate
where it has not already gone; and that no structure, which shall not
outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men, can prolong the
memorial. But our object is, by this edifice, to show our own deep sense
of the value and importance of the achievements of our ancestors; and,
by presenting this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive similar
sentiments, and to foster a constant regard for the principles of the
Revolution. Human beings are composed, not of reason only, but of
imagination also, and sentiment; and that is neither wasted nor
misapplied which is appropriated to the purpose of giving right
direction to sentiments, and opening proper springs of feeling in the

Let it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate national
hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It is higher,
purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the spirit of national
independence, and we wish that the light of peace may rest upon it
forever. We rear a memorial of our conviction of that unmeasured benefit
which has been conferred on our own land, and of the happy influences
which have been produced, by the same events, on the general interests
of mankind. We come, as Americans, to mark a spot which must forever be
dear to us and our posterity. We wish that whosoever, in all coming
time, shall turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not
undistinguished where the first great battle of the Revolution was
fought. We wish that this structure may proclaim the magnitude and
importance of that event to every class and every age. We wish that
infancy may learn the purpose of its erection from maternal lips, and
that weary and withered age may behold it, and be solaced by the
recollections which it suggests. We wish that labor may look up here,
and be proud, in the midst of its toil. We wish that, in those days of
disaster, which, as they come upon all nations, must be expected to come
upon us also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, and be
assured that the foundations of our national power are still strong. We
wish that this column, rising towards heaven among the pointed spires of
so many temples dedicated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all
minds, a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We wish, finally,
that the last object to the sight of him who leaves his native shore,
and the first to gladden him who revisits it, may be something which
shall remind him of the liberty and glory of his country. Let it rise!
let it rise, till it meet the sun in his coming; let the earliest light
of the morning gild it, and parting day linger and play on its


[31] This and the following extract taken from an address delivered at
the laying of the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, June 17,


Venerable men! you have come down to us from a former generation. Heaven
has bounteously lengthened out your lives, that you might behold this
joyous day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour,
with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the
strife for your country. Behold, how altered! The same heavens are
indeed over your heads; the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all else
how changed! You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed
volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground
strewed with the dead and the dying; the impetuous charge; the steady
and successful repulse; the loud call to repeated assault; the summoning
of all that is manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely
and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in
war and death;--all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no
more. All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and
roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children and countrymen
in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the
issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of the
whole happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with a
universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position
appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to
cling around it, are not means of annoyance to you, but your country's
own means of distinction and defense. All is peace; and God has granted
you this sight of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the
grave. He has allowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your
patriotic toils; and he has allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to
meet you here, and in the name of the present generation, in the name of
your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you!

But, alas! you are not all here! Time and the sword have thinned your
ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, Pomeroy, Bridge! our eyes
seek for you in vain amid this broken band. You are gathered to your
fathers, and live only to your own country in her grateful remembrance
and your own bright example. But let us not too much grieve, that you
have met the common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know
that your work had been nobly and successfully accomplished. You lived
to see your country's independence established, and to sheathe your
swords from war. On the light of Liberty you saw arise the light of
peace, like

           "another morn,
     Risen on mid-noon;"

and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless.

But, ah! Him! the first great martyr in this great cause! Him! the
premature victim of his own self-devoting heart! Him! the head of our
civil councils, and the destined leader of our military bands, whom
nothing brought hither but the unquenchable fire of his own spirit! Him!
cut off by Providence in the hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick
gloom; falling ere he saw the star of his country rise; pouring out his
generous blood like water, before he knew whether it would fertilize a
land of freedom or of bondage!--how shall I struggle with the emotions
that stifle the utterance of thy name! Our poor work may perish; but
thine shall endure! This monument may molder away; the solid ground it
rests upon may sink down to a level with the sea; but thy memory shall
not fail! Wheresoever among men a heart shall be found that beats to the
transports of patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim
kindred with thy spirit.

Veterans! you are the remnant of many a well-fought field. You bring
with you marks of honor from Trenton and Monmouth, from Yorktown,
Camden, Bennington, and Saratoga. Veterans of half a century! when in
your youthful days you put everything at hazard in your country's cause,
good as that cause was, and sanguine as youth is, still your fondest
hopes did not stretch onward to an hour like this! At a period to which
you could not reasonably have expected to arrive, at a moment of
national prosperity such as you could never have foreseen, you are now
met here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive the
overflowings of a universal gratitude.

But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts inform me that
even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that a tumult of contending
feelings rushes upon you. The images of the dead, as well as the persons
of the living, present themselves before you. The scene overwhelms you,
and I turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon your
declining years, and bless them! And when you shall here have exchanged
your embraces, when you shall once more have pressed the hands which
have been so often extended to give succor in adversity, or grasped in
the exultation of victory, then look abroad upon this lovely land which
your young valor defended, and mark the happiness with which it is
filled; yea, look abroad upon the whole earth, and see what a name you
have contributed to give your country, and what a praise you have added
to freedom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which beam
upon your last days from the improved condition of mankind!


America has furnished to the world the character of Washington! And if
our American institutions had done nothing else, that alone would have
entitled them to the respect of mankind. Washington! "First in war,
first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen!" Washington
is all our own! The enthusiastic veneration and regard in which the
people of the United States hold him, prove them to be worthy of such a
countryman; while his reputation abroad reflects the highest honor on
his country. I would cheerfully put the question to-day to the
intelligence of Europe and the world, what character of the century,
upon the whole, stands out in the relief of history, most pure, most
respectable, most sublime; and I doubt not, that, by a suffrage
approaching to unanimity, the answer would be Washington!

The structure now standing before us, by its uprightness, its solidity,
its durability, is no unfit emblem of his character. His public virtues
and public principles were as firm as the earth on which it stands; his
personal motives, as pure as the serene heaven in which its summit is
lost. But, indeed, though a fit, it is an inadequate emblem. Towering
high above the column which our hands have builded, beheld, not by the
inhabitants of a single city or a single State, but by all the families
of man, ascends the colossal grandeur of the character and life of
Washington. In all the constituents of the one, in all the acts of the
other, in all its titles to immortal love, admiration, and renown, it is
an American production. It is the embodiment and vindication of our
transatlantic liberty. Born upon our soil, of parents also born upon it;
never for a moment having had sight of the Old World; instructed,
according to the modes of his time, only in the spare, plain, but
wholesome elementary knowledge which our institutions provide for the
children of the people; growing up beneath and penetrated by the genuine
influences of American society; living from infancy to manhood and age
amidst our expanding, but not luxurious civilization; partaking in our
great destiny of labor, our long contest with unreclaimed nature and
uncivilized man, our agony of glory, the war of Independence, our great
victory of peace, the formation of the Union, and the establishment of
the Constitution,--he is all, all our own! Washington is ours.

I claim him for America. In all the perils, in every darkened moment of
the state, in the midst of the reproaches of enemies and the misgivings
of friends, I turn to that transcendent name for courage and for
consolation. To him who denies or doubts whether our fervid liberty can
be combined with law, with order, with the security of property, with
the pursuits and advancement of happiness; to him who denies that our
forms of government are capable of producing exaltation of soul, and the
passion of true glory; to him who denies that we have contributed
anything to the stock of great lessons and great examples;--to all these
I reply by pointing to Washington!


[32] From the Second Bunker Hill Oration, delivered June 17, 1843.


The selections under this division are taken from speeches which
represent six of the greatest victories in the history of American
eloquence: (1) Patrick Henry before the Virginia Convention, (2)
Alexander Hamilton before the New York Convention, (3) Daniel Webster in
Reply to Hayne in the Senate, (4) Wendell Phillips on the Murder of
Lovejoy, (5) Abraham Lincoln in his debates with Douglas, and (6) Henry
Ward Beecher in his speeches in England in defence of the American



     This speech was delivered March 20, 1775, in the Virginia
     Convention. Although the measures he advocated sent a shock of
     consternation through the conservative assembly and caused them to
     oppose the resolutions with all their power, yet all objections
     were swept away and the measures were adopted.

Mr. President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of
hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to
the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the
part of wise men engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty?
Are we disposed to be of the number of those who having eyes see not,
and having ears hear not, the things which so nearly concern their
temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost,
I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst and to provide
for it.

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of
experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past.
And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the
conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those
hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and
the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been
lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet.
Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how
this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike
preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and
armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown
ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to
win back our love?

Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and
subjugation, the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen,
sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to
submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has
Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world to call for all
this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are
meant for us. They can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind
and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so
long forging. And what have we to oppose them? Shall we try argument?
Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything
new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in
every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall
we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find
which have not been already exhausted?

Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have
done everything that could be done to avert the storm that is now coming
on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we
have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its
interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and
Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have
produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been
disregarded; and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the
throne! In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of
peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we
wish to be free; if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable
privileges for which we have been so long contending; if we mean not
basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long
engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the
glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight! I
repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts
is all that is left us!

They tell us, sir, that we are weak, unable to cope with so formidable
an adversary; but when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week,
or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a
British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather
strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of
effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the
delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and
foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which
the God of Nature hath placed in our power.

Three millions of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such
a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which
our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our
battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of
nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The
battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the
active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base
enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest.
There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are
forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is
inevitable, and let it come! I repeat, it, sir, let it come!

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace,
peace! but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale
that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of
resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we
here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life
so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains
and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may
take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!



     In the summer of 1788 the New York Convention assembled at
     Poughkeepsie to consider the question of the ratification of the
     Constitution of the United States. Forty-six of the sixty-five
     delegates at first stoutly opposed ratification. Hamilton in a
     series of speeches upheld the Constitution, and when the vote was
     taken a majority of three sustained his position. The following is
     an extract from one of those speeches:

The honorable member who spoke yesterday went into an explanation of a
variety of circumstances, to prove the expediency of a change in our
National Government, and the necessity of a firm Union. At the same time
he described the great advantages which this state, in particular,
receives from the Confederacy, and its peculiar weaknesses when
abstracted from the Union. In doing this he advanced a variety of
arguments which deserve serious consideration.

Sir, it appears to me extraordinary, that while the gentlemen in one
breath acknowledge that the old Confederation requires many material
amendments, they should in the next deny that its defects have been the
cause of our political weakness and the consequent calamities of our
country. We contend that the radical vice in the old Confederation is
that the laws of the Union apply only to States in their corporate
capacity. Has not every man who has been in our Legislature experienced
the truth of this position? It is inseparable from the disposition of
bodies who have a constitutional power of resistance to examine the
merits of a law. The States have almost uniformly weighed the
requisitions by their own local interests, and have only executed them
so far as answered their particular convenience or advantage. Hence
there have ever been thirteen different bodies to judge of the measures
of Congress, and the operations of Government have been distracted by
their taking different courses. Those which were to be benefited have
complied with the requisitions; others have totally disregarded them.
Have not all of us been witnesses to the unhappy embarrassments which
resulted from these proceedings? Even during the late war, while the
pressure of common danger connected strongly the bond of our union, and
incited to vigorous exertion, we have felt many distressing effects of
the important system. How have we seen this State, though most exposed
to the calamities of the war, complying in an unexampled manner with the
federal requisitions, and compelled by the delinquency of others to bear
most unusual burdens! Our misfortunes in a great degree proceeded from
the want of vigor in the Continental Government.

From the delinquency of those States which have suffered little by the
war, we naturally conclude that they have made no efforts; and a
knowledge of human nature will teach us that their ease and security
have been a principal cause of their want of exertion. While danger is
distant its impression is weak, and while it affects only our neighbors
we have few motives to provide against it. Sir, if we have national
objects to pursue we must have national revenues. If you make
requisitions and they are not complied with what is to be done? It has
been observed to coerce the States is one of the maddest projects that
was ever devised. A failure of compliance will never be confined to a
single State. This being the case can we suppose it wise to hazard a
civil war? Suppose Massachusetts, or any large State, should refuse and
Congress should attempt to compel them, would they not have influence to
procure assistance, especially from those States which are in the same
situation as themselves? What picture does this idea present to our
view? A complying State at war with a non-complying State; Congress
marching the troops of one State into the bosom of another; this State
collecting auxiliaries and forming, perhaps, a majority against its
federal head. Here is a nation at war with itself. Can any reasonable
man be well disposed toward a government which makes war and carnage the
only means of supporting itself--a government that can exist only by the
sword? Every such war must involve the innocent with the guilty. This
single consideration should be sufficient to dispose every peaceable
citizen against such a government.

But can we believe that one State will ever suffer itself to be used as
an instrument of coercion? The thing is a dream; it is impossible. Then
we are brought to this dilemma--either a federal standing army is to
enforce the requisitions, or the federal treasury is left without
supplies, and the Government without support. What, sir, is the cure for
this great evil? Nothing, but to enable the national laws to operate on
individuals in the same manner as those of the States do. This is the
true reasoning upon the subject, sir. The gentlemen appear to
acknowledge its force; and yet, while they yield to the principle, they
seem to fear its application to the government.

What, then, shall we do? Shall we take the old Confederation as a basis
of a new system? Can this be the object of the gentlemen? Certainly not.
Will any man who entertains a wish for the safety of his country trust
the sword and purse with a single assembly organized on principles so
defective, so rotten? Though we might give to such a government certain
powers with safety, yet to give them the full and unlimited powers of
taxation and the national forces would be to establish a despotism, the
definition of which is, a government in which all power is concentrated
in a single body. To take the old Confederation and fashion it upon
these principles would be establishing a power which would destroy the
liberties of the people. These considerations show clearly that a
government totally different must be instituted. They had weight in the
convention who formed the new system. It was seen that the necessary
powers were too great to be trusted to a single body; they therefore
formed two branches and divided the powers that each might be a check
upon the other. This was the result of their wisdom and I presume every
reasonable man will agree to it. The more this subject is explained the
more clear and convincing it will appear to every member of this body.
The fundamental principle of the old Confederation is defective; we must
totally eradicate and discard this principle before we can expect an
efficient government.



     This speech was delivered in the Senate, January 26, 1830. The
     doctrine of Nullification and State Rights had been set forth with
     great zeal and ability by Senator Hayne of South Carolina. The
     arguments were overthrown by the masterly speech of Webster.

If anything be found in the national Constitution, either by original
provision or subsequent interpretation, which ought not to be in it, the
people know how to get rid of it. If any construction unacceptable to
them be established, so as to become practically a part of the
Constitution, they will amend it at their own sovereign pleasure. But
while the people choose to maintain it as it is, while they are
satisfied with it, and refuse to change it, who has given, or who can
give, to the State legislatures a right to alter it either by
interference, construction, or otherwise? Gentlemen do not seem to
recollect that the people have any power to do anything for themselves.
They imagine there is no safety for them, any longer than they are under
the close guardianship of the State legislatures. Sir, the people have
not trusted their safety, in regard to the general Constitution, to
these hands. They have required other security, and taken other bonds.

They have chosen to trust themselves, first, to the plain words of the
instrument, and to such construction as the government itself, in
doubtful cases, should put on its own powers, under its oaths of office,
and subject to its responsibility to them; just as the people of a State
trust their own State governments with a similar power. Secondly, they
have reposed their trust in the efficacy of frequent elections, and in
their own power to remove their own servants and agents whenever they
see cause. Thirdly, they have reposed trust in the judicial power,
which, in order that it might be trustworthy, they have made as
respectable, as disinterested, and as independent as was practicable.
Fourthly, they have seen fit to rely, in case of necessity or high
expediency, on their known and admitted power to alter or amend the
Constitution peaceably and quietly, whenever experience shall point out
defects or imperfections. And, finally, the people of the United States
have at no time, in no way, directly or indirectly, authorized any State
legislature to construe or interpret their high instrument of
government; much less to interfere by their own power to arrest its
course and operation.

I have thus stated the reasons of my dissent to the doctrines which have
been advanced and maintained. I am conscious of having detained you and
the Senate much too long. I was drawn into the debate with no previous
deliberation, such as is suited to the discussion of so grave and
important a subject. But it is a subject of which my heart is full, and
I have not been willing to suppress the utterance of its spontaneous
sentiments. I cannot, even now, persuade myself to relinquish it,
without expressing once more my deep conviction that, since it respects
nothing less than the union of the states, it is of most vital and
essential importance to public happiness.

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 that we are
chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That
Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues in the severe
school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered
finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign
influences, these great interests immediately awoke as from the dead,
and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has
teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings; and although
our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our 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 in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed
the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together
shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the
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
counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be
mainly bent on considering, not how the Union should be best preserved,
but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be
broken up and destroyed.

While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects
spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to
penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may
not rise! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies
behind! When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the
Sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored
fragments of a once glorious 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 honored
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 afterwards;" but
everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on
all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and
in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to
every true American heart,--Liberty and Union, now and for ever, one and



     On November 7, 1837, Elijah P. Lovejoy, an anti-slavery editor, was
     shot by a mob at Alton, Ill., while defending his printing-press
     from destruction. Prominent citizens of Boston called a meeting, on
     December 8, to condemn the act of the mob. The Attorney-General of
     Massachusetts opposed the resolutions of condemnation, defended the
     mob, and declared that "Lovejoy died as the fool dieth." Wendell
     Phillips said to a friend, "Such a speech made in Faneuil Hall must
     be answered in Faneuil Hall." He made his way to the platform and
     spoke in part as follows:

Mr. Chairman, We have met for the freest discussion of these
resolutions, and the events which gave rise to them. I hope I shall be
permitted to express my surprise at the sentiments of the last speaker,
surprise not only at such sentiments from such a man, but at the
applause they have received within these walls. A comparison has been
drawn between the events of the Revolution and the tragedy at Alton. We
have heard it asserted here, in Faneuil Hall, that Great Britain had a
right to tax the colonies, and we have heard the mob at Alton, the
drunken murderers of Lovejoy, compared to those patriot fathers who
threw the tea overboard. Fellow-citizens, is this Fanueil Hall doctrine?
The mob at Alton were met to wrest from a citizen his just rights, met
to resist the laws. We have been told that our fathers did the same, and
the glorious mantle of Revolutionary precedent has been thrown over the
mobs of our day. To make out their title to such defense the gentleman
says that the British Parliament had a right to tax these colonies. It
is manifest that without this his parallel falls to the ground, for
Lovejoy had stationed himself within constitutional bulwarks. He was not
only defending the freedom of the press, but he was under his own roof
in arms with the sanction of the civil authority. The men who assailed
him went against and over the laws. The mob as the gentleman terms
it,--mob, forsooth! certainly we sons of the tea spillers are a
marvelously patient generation!--the "orderly mob" which assembled in
the Old South to destroy the tea were met to resist, not the laws,--but
illegal exactions. Shame on the American who calls the tea-tax and
stamp-act laws! Our fathers resisted, not the king's prerogative, but
the king's usurpation. To find any other account, you must read our
Revolutionary history upside down. Our State archives are loaded with
arguments of John Adams to prove the taxes laid by the British
Parliament unconstitutional, beyond its power. It was not till this was
made out that the men of New England rushed to arms.

The arguments of the Council Chamber and the House of Representatives
preceded and sanctioned the contest. To draw the argument of our
ancestors into a precedent for mobs, for a right to resist laws we
ourselves have enacted, is an insult to their memory. The difference
between the excitements of those days and our own, which the gentleman
in kindness to the latter has overlooked, is simply this: the men of our
day went for the right as secured by the laws. They were the people
rising to sustain the laws and constitution of the Province. The rioters
of our day go for their own wills, right or wrong. Sir, when I heard the
gentleman lay down principles which place the murderers of Alton side by
side with Otis and Hancock, with Quincy and Adams, I thought those
pictured lips[33] would have broken into voice to rebuke the recreant
American, the slanderer of the dead. The gentleman said that he should
sink into insignificance if he dared to gainsay the principles of these
resolutions. Sir, for the sentiments he has uttered on soil consecrated
by the prayers of Puritans and the blood of patriots, the earth should
have yawned and swallowed him up.

The gentleman says Lovejoy was presumptuous and imprudent, he "died as
the fool dieth." And a reverend clergyman of the city tells us that no
citizen has a right to publish opinions disagreeable to the community!
If any mob follows such publication on him rests the guilt. He must wait
forsooth till the people come up to it and agree with him. This libel on
liberty goes on to say that the want of right to speak as we think is an
evil inseparable from republican institutions. If this be so what are
they worth? Welcome the despotism of the Sultan where one knows what he
may publish and what he may not, rather than the tyranny of this
many-headed monster the mob, where we know not what we may do or say
till some fellow-citizen has tried it and paid for the lesson with his
life. This clerical absurdity chooses as a check for the abuses of the
press, not the law but the dread of the mob. By so doing it deprives not
only the individual and the minority of their rights, but the majority
also, since the expression of their opinion may sometimes provoke
disturbance from the minority. A few men may make a mob as well as many.
The majority then have no right as Christian men, to utter their
sentiments if by any possibility it may lead to a mob. Shades of Hugh
Peters and John Cotton, save us from such pulpits!

Imprudent to defend the liberty of the press! Why? Because the defense
was unsuccessful? Does success gild crime into patriotism, and the want
of it change heroic self-devotion into imprudence? Was Hampden imprudent
when he drew the sword and threw away the scabbard? Yet he, judged by
that single hour, was unsuccessful. After a short exile the race he
hated sat again upon the throne.

Imagine yourself present when the first news of Bunker Hill battle
reached a New England town. The tale would have run thus, "The patriots
are routed, the redcoats victorious, Warren lies dead upon the field."
With what scorn would that Tory have been received who should have
charged Warren with imprudence, who should have said that, bred as a
physician, he was "out of place" in the battle, and "died as the fool
dieth!" How would the intimation have been received that Warren and his
associates should have waited a better time?

Presumptuous to assert the freedom of the press on American ground! Is
the assertion of such freedom before the age? So much before the age as
to leave one no right to make it because it displeases the community?
Who invents this libel on his country? It is this very thing that
entitles Lovejoy to greater praise. The disputed right which provoked
the revolution--taxation without representation--is far beneath that for
which he died. As much as thought is better than money, so much is the
cause in which Lovejoy died nobler than a mere question of taxes. James
Otis thundered in this hall when the king did but touch his pocket.
Imagine if you can his indignant eloquence had England offered to put a
gag upon his lips.


[33] Phillips points to portraits in the hall.



     An extract from a speech delivered at Alton, Ill., October 15,
     1858. It is taken from one of a series of seven speeches delivered
     in joint debate with Douglas in the Senatorial campaign in
     Illinois. Lincoln lost the Senatorship but won the Presidency by
     this series of speeches.

Fellow-citizens, I have not only made the declaration that I do not mean
to produce a conflict between the states, but I have tried to show by
fair reasoning that I propose nothing but what has a most peaceful
tendency. The quotation that "a house divided against itself cannot
stand," and which has proved so offensive to Judge Douglas, was part of
the same thing. He tries to show that variety in the domestic
institutions of the different states is necessary and indispensable. I
do not dispute it. I very readily agree with him that it would be
foolish for us to insist upon having a cranberry law here in Illinois
where we have no cranberries, because they have a cranberry law in
Indiana where they have cranberries. I should insist that it would be
exceedingly wrong in us to deny to Virginia the right to enact oyster
laws, where they have oysters, because we want no such laws here. If we
here raise a barrel of flour more than we want and the Louisianians
raise a barrel of sugar more than they want, it is of mutual advantage
to exchange. That produces commerce, brings us together and makes us
better friends. These mutual accommodations bind together the different
parts of this Union. Instead of being a thing to "divide the house" they
tend to sustain it, they are the props of the house tending always to
hold it up.

But is it true that all the difficulty and agitation we have in regard
to this institution of slavery springs from office seeking, from the
mere ambition of politicians? Is that the truth? How many times have we
had danger from this question? Go back to the days of the Missouri
Compromise. Go back to the Nullification question, at the bottom of
which lay this same slavery question. Go back to the time of the
annexation of Texas. Go back to the troubles that led to the Compromise
of 1850. You will find that every time, with the single exception of the
Nullification question, they sprung from an endeavor to spread this
institution. There never was a party in the history of this country, and
there probably never will be, of sufficient strength to disturb the
general peace of the country. Parties themselves may be divided and
quarrel on minor questions. Yet it extends not beyond the parties

The Judge alludes very often in the course of his remarks to the
exclusive right which the states have to decide for themselves. I agree
with him very readily that the different states have the right. Our
controversy with him is in regard to the new territories. We agree that
when the states come in as states they have the right and the power to
do as they please. We have no power as citizens of the free states or in
our federal capacity as members of the federal Union through the general
government to disturb slavery in the states where it exists. What I
insist upon is that the new territories shall be kept free from it while
in the territorial condition. Judge Douglas assumes that we have no
interest in them, that we have no right whatever to interfere. I think
we have some interest. I think that as white men we have. Do we not wish
for an outlet for our surplus population, if I may so express myself? Do
we not feel an interest in getting to that outlet with such institutions
as we would like to have prevail there? If you go to the territory
opposed to slavery and another man comes to the same ground with his
slave, upon the assumption that the things are equal, it turns out that
he has the equal right all his way and you have no part of it your way.

The real issue in this controversy is the sentiment on the part of one
class that looks upon the institution of slavery as a wrong, and of
another class that does not look upon it as wrong. It is the sentiment
around which all their actions, all their arguments circle, from which
all their propositions radiate. They look upon it as being a moral,
social, and political wrong. Has anything ever threatened the existence
of this Union save this very institution of slavery? What is it that we
hold most dear amongst us? Our own liberty and prosperity. What has ever
threatened our liberty and prosperity except this institution of
slavery? If this be true, how do you propose to improve the condition of
things by enlarging it? You may have a cancer upon your person and not
be able to cut it out lest you bleed to death, but surely it is no way
to cure it to graft it and spread it over your body. That is no proper
way of treating what you regard as wrong.

That is the real issue. That is the issue that will continue in this
country when these poor tongues of Judge Douglas and myself are silent.
It is the eternal struggle between these two principles, right and
wrong, throughout the world. They are the two principles that have stood
face to face from the beginning of time, and will ever continue to
struggle. The one is the common right of humanity and the other is the
divine right of kings. It is the same principle in whatever shape it
develops itself. It is the same spirit that says, "You work and toil and
earn bread and I'll eat it." No matter in what shape it comes, whether
from the mouth of a king who seeks to bestride the people of his own
nation and live by the fruit of their labor, or from one race of men as
an apology for enslaving another race, it is the same tyrannical



     Taken from a speech delivered in London, October 20, 1863. In a
     series of five speeches in order at Manchester, Glasgow, Edinburgh,
     Liverpool, and London, Henry Ward Beecher changed the attitude of
     the English nation from one of open hostility to the Union to
     neutrality and even to favor. It is doubtful if there ever was a
     greater triumph in the history of eloquence.

This war began by the act of the South, firing at the old flag that had
covered both sections with glory and protection. The attack made upon us
was under circumstances which inflicted immediate humiliation and
threatened us with final subjugation. The Southerners held all the keys
of the country. They had robbed our arsenals. They had made our treasury
bankrupt. They had possession of the most important offices in the army
and navy. They had the advantage of having long anticipated and prepared
for the conflict. We knew not whom to trust. One man failed and another
man failed. Men, pensioned by the Government, lived on the salary of the
Government only to have better opportunity to stab and betray it. And
for the North to have lain down like a spaniel, to have given up the
land that every child in America is taught, as every child in Britain is
taught, to regard as his sacred right and his trust, to have given up
the mouths of our own rivers and our mountain citadels without a blow,
would have marked the North in all future history as craven and mean.

Second, the honor and safety of that grand experiment, self-government
by free institutions, demanded that so flagitious a violation of the
first principles of legality should not carry off impunity and reward,
thereafter enabling the minority in every party conflict to turn and say
to the majority, "If you don't give us our way we will make war." Oh,
Englishmen, would you let a minority dictate in such a way to you? The
principle thus introduced would literally have no end, would carry the
nation back to its original elements of isolated states. Nor is there
any reason why it should stop with states. If every treaty may be
overthrown by which states have been settled into a nation, what form of
political union may not on like grounds be severed? There is the same
force in the doctrine of secession in the application of counties as in
the application to states, and if it be right for a state or a county to
secede, it is equally right for a town or a city. This doctrine of
secession is a huge revolving millstone that grinds the national life to
powder. It is anarchy in velvet, and national destruction clothed in
soft phrases. No people with patriotism and honor will give up territory
without a struggle for it. Would you give it up? It is said that the
states are owners of their territory! It is theirs to use not theirs to
run away with. We have equal right with them to enter it. I would like
to ask those English gentlemen who hold that it is right for a state to
secede when it pleases, how they would like it if the county of Kent
would try the experiment. The men who cry out for secession of the
Southern States in America would say, "Kent seceding? Ah, circumstances
alter cases."

One more reason why we will not let this people go is because we do not
want to become a military people. A great many say America is becoming
too strong, she is dangerous to the peace of the world. But if you
permit or favor this division, the South becomes a military nation and
the North is compelled to become a military nation. Along a line of 1500
miles she must have forts and men to garrison them. Now any nation that
has a large standing army is in great danger of losing its liberties.
Before this war the legal size of the national army was 25,000. If the
country were divided then we should have two great military nations
taking its place. And if America by this ill-advised disruption is
forced to have a standing army, like a boy with a knife she will always
want to whittle with it. It is the interest then of the world, that the
nation should be united, and that it should be under the control of that
part of America that has always been for peace.

The religious minded among our people feel that in the territory
committed to us there is a high and solemn trust, a national trust. We
are taught that in some sense the world itself is a field, and every
Christian nation acknowledges a certain responsibility for the moral
condition of the globe. But how much nearer does it come when it is
one's own country! And the church of America is coming to feel more and
more that God gave us this country not merely for material
aggrandizement, but for a glorious triumph of the church of Christ.
Therefore we undertook to rid the territory of slavery. Since slavery
has divested itself of its municipal protection and has become a
declared public enemy, it is our duty to strike down slavery which would
blight this territory. These truths are not exaggerated, they are
diminished rather than magnified in my statement, and you cannot tell
how powerfully they are influencing us unless you are standing in our
midst in America; you cannot understand how firm that national feeling
is which God has bred in the North on this subject. It is deeper than
the sea, it is firmer than the hills, it is serene as the sky over our
head where God dwells.

We believe that the war is a test of our institutions, that it is a
life-and-death struggle between the two principles of liberty and
slavery, that it is the cause of the common people the world over. We
believe that every struggling nationality on the globe will be stronger
if we conquer this odious oligarchy of slavery and that every oppressed
people in the world will be weaker if we fail. The sober American
regards the war as part of that awful yet glorious struggle which has
been going on for hundreds of years in every nation between right and
wrong, between virtue and vice, between liberty and despotism, between
freedom and bondage. It carries with it the whole future condition of
our vast continent, its laws, its policy, its fate. And standing in view
of these tremendous realities we have consecrated all that we have, our
children, our wealth, our national strength, and we lay them all on the
altar and say, "It is better that they should all perish than that the
North should falter and betray this trust of God, this hope of the
oppressed, this western civilization." If we say this of ourselves,
shall we say less of the slave-holders? If we are willing to do these
things, shall we say, "Stop the war for their sakes!" If we say this of
ourselves, shall we have more pity for the rebellious, for slavery
seeking to blacken a continent with its awful evil, desecrating the
social phrase, "National Independence," by seeking only an independence
that shall enable them to treat four millions of human beings as
chattels? Shall we be tenderer over them than over ourselves? Standing
by my cradle, standing by my hearth, standing by the altar of the
church, standing by all the places that mark the name and memory of
heroic men who poured out their lives for principle, I declare that in
ten or twenty years of war we will sacrifice everything we have for
principle. If the love of popular liberty is dead in Great Britain you
will not understand us, but if the love of liberty lives as it once
lived, and has worthy successors of those renowned men that were our
ancestors as much as yours, and whose example and principles we inherit
as so much seed corn in a new and fertile land, then you will understand
our firm invincible determination to fight this war through at all
hazards and at every cost.



Can there be in our age any peace that is not honorable, any war that is
not dishonorable? The true honor of a nation is conspicuous only in
deeds of justice and beneficence, securing and advancing human
happiness. In the clear eye of that Christian judgment which must yet
prevail, vain are the victories of war, infamous its spoils. He is the
benefactor, and worthy of honor, who carries comfort to wretchedness,
dries the tear of sorrow, relieves the unfortunate, feeds the hungry,
clothes the naked, does justice, enlightens the ignorant, unfastens the
fetters of the slave, and finally, by virtuous genius, in art,
literature, science, enlivens and exalts the hours of life, or by
generous example, inspires a love for God and man. This is the Christian
hero; this is the man of honor in a Christian land. He is no benefactor,
nor worthy of honor, whatever his worldly renown, whose life is absorbed
in feats of brute force, who renounces the great law of Christian
brotherhood, whose vocation is blood.

Fellow-citizens, this criminal and impious custom of war, which all
condemn in the case of individuals, is openly avowed by our own country,
and by other countries of the great Christian Federation, nay, that it
is expressly established by international law, as the proper mode of
determining justice between nations,--while the feats of hardihood by
which it is waged, and the triumphs of its fields, are exalted beyond
all other labors, whether of learning, industry, or benevolence, as the
wellspring of glory. Alas! upon our own heads be the judgment of
barbarism which we pronounce upon those who have gone before!

Who has taught you, O man! thus to find glory in an act, performed by a
nation, which you condemn as a crime or a barbarism, when committed by
an individual? In what vain conceit of wisdom and virtue do you find
this incongruous morality? Where is it declared that God, who is no
respecter of persons, is a respecter of multitudes? Whence do you draw
these partial laws of an impartial God? Man is immortal; but nations are
mortal. Man has a higher destiny than nations. Can nations be less
amenable to the supreme moral law? Each individual is an atom of the
mass. Must not the mass, in its conscience, be like the individuals of
which it is composed? Shall the mass, in relation with other masses, do
what individuals in relation with each other may not do? As in the
physical creation, so in the moral, there is but one rule for the
individual and the mass. It was the lofty discovery of Newton, that the
simple law which determines the fall of an apple prevails everywhere
throughout the universe, reaching from earth to heaven, and controlling
the infinite motions of the spheres. So, with equal scope, another
simple law, the law of right, which binds the individual, binds also two
or three when gathered together, binds conventions and congregations of
men, binds villages, towns, and cities, binds states, nations, and
races, clasps the whole human family in its embrace, and binds in
self-imposed bonds, a just and omnipotent God.

Stripped of all delusive apology and tried by that comprehensive law
under which nations are set to the bar like common men, war falls from
glory into barbarous guilt, taking its place among bloody
transgressions, while its flaming honors are turned into shame. Painful
to existing prejudice as this may be, we must learn to abhor it, as we
abhor similar transgressions by vulgar offenders. Every word of
reprobation which the enlightened conscience now fastens upon the savage
combatant in trial by battle, or which it applies to the unhappy being
who in murderous duel takes the life of his fellow-man, belongs also to
the nation that appeals to war. Amidst the thunders of Sinai God
declared, "Thou shalt not kill"; and the voice of these thunders, with
this commandment, is prolonged to our own day in the echoes of Christian
churches. What mortal shall restrict the application of these words? Who
on earth is empowered to vary or abridge the commandments of God? Who
shall presume to declare that this injunction was directed, not to
nations, but to individuals only; not to many, but to one only; that one
man shall not kill but that many may; that one man shall not slay in
duel, but that a nation may slay a multitude in the duel of war; that
each individual is forbidden to destroy the life of a single human
being, but that a nation is not forbidden to cut off by the sword a
whole people? We are struck with horror and our hair stands on end, at
the report of a single murder; we think of the soul hurried to final
account; we hunt the murderer; and Government puts forth its energies
to secure his punishment. Viewed in the unclouded light of truth, what
is war but organized murder, murder of malice aforethought, in cold
blood, under sanction of impious law, through the operation of extensive
machinery of crime, with innumerable hands, at incalculable cost of
money, by subtle contrivances of cunning and skill, or amidst the
fiendish atrocities of the savage, brutal assault. The outrages, which,
under most solemn sanction, it permits and invokes for professed
purposes of justice, cannot be authorized by any human power; and they
must rise in overwhelming judgment, not only against those who wield the
weapons of battle, but more still against all who uphold its monstrous

Oh, when shall the St. Louis of the nations arise, and in the spirit of
true greatness, proclaim that henceforward forever the great trial by
battle shall cease, that war shall be abolished throughout the
commonwealth of civilization, that a spectacle so degrading shall never
be allowed again to take place, and that it is the duty of nations,
involving the highest and wisest policy, to establish love between each
other, and, in all respects, at all times, with all persons, whether
their own people or the people of other lands, to be governed by the
sacred law of right, as between man and man.


[34] From the "True Grandeur of Nations," delivered in Boston, July 4,



A thoughtful mind, when it sees a nation's flag, sees not the flag only,
but the nation itself; and whatever may be its symbols, its insignia, he
reads chiefly in the flag the government, the principles, the truths,
the history, which belong to the nation which sets it forth.

When the French tricolor rolls out to the wind, we see France. When the
new-found Italian flag is unfurled, we see resurrected Italy. When the
other three-cornered Hungarian flag shall be lifted to the wind, we
shall see in it the long-buried but never dead principles of Hungarian
liberty. When the united crosses of St. Andrew and St. George on a fiery
ground set forth the banner of Old England, we see not the cloth merely;
there rises up before the mind the noble aspect of that monarchy, which,
more than any other on the globe, has advanced its banner for liberty,
law, and national prosperity. This nation has a banner, too; and
wherever it streamed abroad, men saw daybreak bursting on their eyes,
for the American flag has been the symbol of liberty, and men rejoiced
in it. Not another flag on the globe had such an errand, or went forth
upon the sea carrying everywhere, the world around, such hope for the
captive, and such glorious tidings.

The stars upon it were to the pining nations like the morning stars of
God, and the stripes upon it were beams of morning light. As at early
dawn the stars stand first, and then it grows light, and then as the sun
advances, that light breaks into banks and streaming lines of color, the
glowing red and intense white striving together and ribbing the horizon
with bars effulgent, so on the American flag, stars and beams of
many-colored light shine out together. And wherever the flag comes, and
men behold it, they see in its sacred emblazonry no rampant lion and
fierce eagle, but only light, and every fold significant of liberty.

The history of this banner is all on one side. Under it rode Washington
and his armies; before it Burgoyne laid down his arms. It waved on the
highlands at West Point; it floated over old Fort Montgomery. When
Arnold would have surrendered these valuable fortresses and precious
legacies, his night was turned into day, and his treachery was driven
away by the beams of light from this starry banner. It cheered our army,
driven from New York, in their solitary pilgrimage through New Jersey.
It streamed in light over Valley Forge and Morristown. It crossed the
waters rolling with ice at Trenton; and when its stars gleamed in the
cold morning with victory, a new day of hope dawned on the despondency
of the nation. And when, at length, the long years of war were drawing
to a close, underneath the folds of this immortal banner sat Washington
while Yorktown surrendered its hosts and our Revolutionary struggles
ended with victory.

Let us, then, twine each thread of the glorious tissue of our country's
flag about our heartstrings; and looking upon our homes and catching the
spirit that breathes upon us from the battle-fields of our fathers, let
us resolve, come weal or woe, we will, in life and in death, now and
forever, stand by the Stars and Stripes. They have been unfurled from
the snows of Canada to the plains of New Orleans, in the halls of the
Montezumas and amid the solitude of every sea; and everywhere, as the
luminous symbol of resistless and beneficent power, they have led the
brave to victory and to glory. They have floated over our cradles; let
it be our prayer and our struggle that they shall float over our graves.


[35] By permission of the publishers, Fords, Howard & Hulbert.



The day for the provincial and the transient has passed in American
statesmanship. To-day our destiny is brooding over every sea. We are
dealing with the world and with the unborn years. We are dealing with
the larger duties that ever crowned and burdened human brows. American
statesmanship must be as broad as American destiny and as brave as
American duty. And American statesmanship will be all this if it draws
its inspiration from the masterful American people and their imperial

For the American people have never taken fear for a counselor. They
have never taken doubt for a guide. They have obeyed the impulses of
their blood. They have hearkened to the voice of our God. They have
surmounted insuperable obstacles on the wings of a mighty faith; they
have solved insoluble problems by the sovereign rule of liberty; they
have made the bosom of the ocean and the heart of the wilderness their
home; they have subdued nature and told history a new tale. Let American
statesmanship listen to the heart-beats of the American people in the
present hour and there will be no confusion, no hesitation, no craven
doubt. The faith of the Mayflower, as it sailed into the storm-fringed
horizon, is with us yet. The courage of Lexington and Bunker Hill is
with us yet. The spirit of Hamilton and Jefferson and Jackson and Seward
and Grant is with us yet. The unconquerable heart of the pioneer still
beats within American breasts, and the American flag advances still in
its ceaseless and imperial progress, with law and order and Christian
civilization trooping beneath its sacred folds.

The American people are the propagandists and not the misers of liberty.
He who no longer believes in the vitality of the American people, in the
immortality and saving grace of free institutions, in the imperial
greatness of American destiny, belongs not in the councils of the
American Nation, but in the somber Cabinets of the decaying races of the
world. The American people are not perishing; they are just beginning
their real career. The full sunrise of the day which peculiarly belongs
to the American people in the progress of human events has flooded all
the world at last; and we will live each golden moment of our mighty day
in a way as great as the day itself.


[36] By permission of the author.



Now let me ask you, what is this people about which so many men in
England at this moment are writing and speaking and thinking with
harshness? Two centuries ago multitudes of the people of this country
found a refuge on the North American Continent, escaping from the
tyranny of the Stuarts, and from the bigotry of Laud. Many noble spirits
from our country made great experiments in favor of human freedom on
that continent. Bancroft, the great historian of his country, has said,
"The history of the colonization of America is the history of the crimes
of Europe."

From that time down to our own period America has admitted the wanderers
from every clime. Since 1815, a time which many here remember, and which
is within my lifetime, more than three millions of persons have
emigrated from the United Kingdom to the United States. During the
fifteen years from 1845 to 1860 more than two million persons left the
shores of the United Kingdom as emigrants to North America.

At this very moment, then, there are millions in the United States who
personally have been citizens of this country. They found a home in the
far West, they subdued the wilderness, they met with plenty there and
became a great people. There may be men in England who dislike democracy
and who hate a republic. But of this I am certain that only
misrepresentation the most gross or calumny the most wicked can sever
the tie which unites the great mass of the people of this country with
their friends and relatives beyond the Atlantic.

Now whether the Union will be restored I know not. But this I think I
know, that in a few years, a very few years, the twenty millions of
freemen in the North will be thirty or even fifty millions, a population
equal to that of this kingdom. When that time comes I pray that it may
not be said amongst them that, in the darkest hour of their country's
trials, England, the land of their fathers, looked on with icy coldness
and saw unmoved the perils and calamities of their children. As for me I
have but this to say, if all other tongues are silent, mine shall speak
for that policy which gives hope to the bondsmen of the South and which
tends to generous thoughts and generous words and generous deeds between
the two great nations who speak the English language, and from their
origin are alike entitled to the English name.



The government which breaks treaties with respect to missionaries and
takes no steps to protect them will easily yield to the temptation to
infringe on the rights of other citizens. Is it not possible that
because our government has allowed outrages against our missionaries to
go on since 1883 in Turkey,--highway robbery, brutal assault,
destruction of buildings,--without any demonstration beyond peaceful and
patient argument, the Ottoman government is now proceeding in so
highhanded a manner to prevent by false allegations the importation of
our flour and our pork? A nation which allows one class of citizens, who
are of the purest character and most unselfish spirit, to be insulted
and outraged with impunity in a foreign land must not be surprised if
other classes of its citizens are also imposed upon and wronged in that
land, wherever selfish interests are invoked against them.

Careful observation will show that our large mercantile interests are
likely to be imperiled by our neglect to insist on the rights which
citizens of any honorable calling are entitled to under treaties of
international law. A display of force does not necessarily mean war. It
is certainly an emphatic mode of making a demand. It often insures a
prompt settlement of difficulties, which, if allowed to drag on and
accumulate, would end in war. Therefore, wisely and opportunely made, a
proper demonstration in support of a just demand may obviate the
ultimate necessity of war.

The problem is not a simple one for the government. If it does nothing
but register requests for justice, injustice may be done, not only to
missionaries, but also to other citizens. Those dilatory, oriental
governments, embarrassed by so many difficult problems of internal
administration, do not willingly act except under some pressure. And
pressure which is not war and which will probably not lead to war, can
be brought to bear by diplomatic and naval agencies.

Our government was never in so good a condition to pursue such a policy.
It has a prestige among oriental nations before unknown. Its voice, when
it speaks with an imperative tone, will now be heard. The question for
it is far larger than a missionary question. An influential American
citizen has lately written me from an oriental country where our
requests have received little attention, saying: "If our government
proposes to do nothing for American citizens they should say so and turn
us over to the care of the British embassy."

Such language as that makes one's blood tingle and stirs us to ask
afresh, not alone as friends of missionaries, but as American citizens,
what policy will our nation adopt to secure the rights of all our
countrymen of whatever pursuit who are dwelling under treaty guarantees
in China and Turkey? The friends of missions ask no exceptional favors
from the government. They simply seek for such protection as their
fellow-citizens need.

It is, of course, for our government to say at what time and by what
methods it shall act. It is sometimes wise and even necessary for a
government to postpone seeking a settlement of difficulties with a
foreign power, even when it is clear that a settlement is highly
desirable. Great exigencies may require delays. We must exercise the
patience which patriotism calls for. But we may be permitted without
impropriety to express our desire and our opinion that our government
should find some way to make it absolutely clear to oriental countries
that it intends to secure the protection for all our citizens, including
missionaries, to which they are entitled by treaties and by
international law.



Slavery has been as we all know the huge, foul blot upon the fame of the
American Republic. It is an outrage against human right and against
divine law, but the pride, the passion of man, will not permit its
peaceable extinction. Is not this war the penalty which inexorable
justice exacts from America, North and South, for the enormous guilt of
cherishing that frightful iniquity of slavery for the last eighty years?
The leaders of this revolt propose this monstrous thing,--that over a
territory forty times as large as England the blight and curse of
slavery shall be forever perpetuated.

I cannot believe that such a fate can befall that fair land, stricken as
it now is with the ravages of war. I cannot believe that civilization in
its journey with the sun will sink into endless night to gratify the
ambition of leaders of this revolt, who seek to

     "Wade through slaughter to a throne,
     And shut the gates of mercy on mankind."

I have a far other and brighter vision before my gaze. It may be but a
vision, but I will cherish it. I see one vast confederation stretching
from the frozen North in unbroken line to the glowing South, and from
the wild billows of the Atlantic, westward to the calmer waters of the
Pacific main,--and I see one people, and one law, and one language, and
one faith, and over all that wide continent the home of freedom and a
refuge for the oppressed of every race and of every clime.



Ladies and Gentlemen, Before I come to the resolution which I have
undertaken to move, there are certain subjects which I wish to clear out
of the way. There are most important distinctions to be drawn on the
ground that the sufferers under the present misrule and the horribly
accumulated outrages of the last two years are our own
fellow-Christians. But we do not prosecute the cause we have in hand
upon the ground that they are our fellow-Christians. This is no crusade
against Mohammedanism. This is no declaration of an altered policy or
sentiment as regards our Mohammedan fellow-subjects in India. Nay, more;
I will say that it is no declaration of universal condemnation of the
Mohammedans of the Turkish Empire. On the contrary, amid the dismal and
heartrending reports of which we have had to read and hear so much, one
of the rare touches of comfort and relief has been that in spite of the
perpetration of massacres by the agents of the Government, in spite of
the countenance given to massacre by the highest authority, there have
been good and generous Mohammedans who have resisted these misdeeds to
the uttermost of their power, who have established for themselves a
claim to our sympathy and our admiration.

Although it is true that those persons are Christians on whose behalf we
move, I confidently affirm, and you will back me in my affirmation, that
if instead of being Christians they were themselves Mohammedans, Hindus,
Buddhists, or Confucianists--they would have precisely the same claims
upon our support; and the motives which have brought us here to-day
would be incumbent upon us with the same force and with the same
sacredness that we recognize at the present moment.

There is another distinction, gentlemen, less conspicuous, that I would
wish to draw your attention to. You have been discouraged by the
attitude or by the tone of several of the Continental Governments. Do
not too hastily assume that in that attitude and tone they are faithful
representatives of the people whom they rule. The ground on which we
stand here is not British nor European, but human. Nothing narrower than
humanity could pretend for a moment justly to represent it.

It may have occurred to some that atrocities which it is hardly possible
to exaggerate have been boldly denied; and we are told by the Government
of Turkey that the destruction of life which has taken place is not the
work of either the Sultan or his agents, but is the work of
revolutionaries and agitators.

In answer to this we may say that we do not rely upon the reports of
revolutionaries or agitators. We rely upon the responsible reports of
our public men. Nay, more; while we know that there are those among the
six Powers who have shown every disposition to treat the case of the
Sultan with all the leniency, with all the friendship that they could,
yet every one of them concurs in the statements upon which we stand, and
in giving an entire denial to counter-statements of the Turkish
Government. The guilt of massacre, and not of massacre only but of every
other horror that has been transacted, rests upon that Government. And
to the guilt of massacre is added the impudence of denial, and this
process will continue--how long? Just as long as you, as Europe, are
contented to hear it. Recollect that eighteen months or more have passed
since the first of those gigantic massacres was perpetrated, and when
that occurrence took place it was thought to be so extraordinary that it
was without precedent in the past; for Bulgaria becomes pale by the side
of Armenia. But alas! that massacre, gigantic as it was, has been
followed up so that one has grown into a series. To the work of murder
was added the work of lust, the work of torture, the work of pillage,
the work of starvation, and every accessory that it was possible for
human wickedness to devise. To all other manifestations which had
formerly been displayed in the face of the world there was added
consummate insolence.

Come what may, let us extract ourselves from an ambiguous position. Let
us have nothing to do with countenance of, and so renounce and condemn,
neutrality; and let us present ourselves to Her Majesty's Ministers,
promising them in good faith our ungrudging and our enthusiastic
support in every effort which they may make to express by word and by
deed their detestation of acts, not yet perhaps having reached their
consummation, but which already have come to such a magnitude and such a
depth of atrocity that they constitute the most terrible and most
monstrous series of proceedings that have ever been recorded in the
dismal and deplorable history of human crime.



     Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
     He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are
     He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:
             His truth is marching on.

     I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps;
     They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
     I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:
             His day is marching on.

     I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
     "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal,
     Let the hero born of woman crush the serpent with his heel,
             Since God is marching on."

     He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat,
     He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat.
     Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
             Our God is marching on.

     In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
     With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me;
     As He died to make men holy let us die to make men free,
             While God is marching on.


[37] By special permission of the author.



I was a boy ten years old when the troops marched away to defend
Washington. I saw the troops, month after month, pour through the
streets of Boston. I saw Shaw go forth at the head of his black
regiment, and Bartlett, shattered in body but dauntless in soul, ride by
to carry what was left of him once more to the battlefields of the
Republic. I saw Andrew, standing bareheaded on the steps of the State
House, bid the men godspeed. I cannot remember the words he said, but I
can never forget the fervid eloquence which brought tears to the eyes
and fire to the hearts of all who listened. To my boyish mind one thing
alone was clear, that the soldiers, as they marched past, were all, in
that supreme hour, heroes and patriots. Other feelings have, in the
progress of time, altered much, but amid many changes that simple belief
of boyhood has never altered.

And you, brave men who wore the gray, would be the first to hold me or
any other son of the North in just contempt if I should say that now it
was all over I thought the North was wrong and the result of the war a
mistake. To the men who fought the battles of the Confederacy we hold
out our hands freely, frankly and gladly. We have no bitter memories to
revive, no reproaches to utter. Differ in politics and in a thousand
other ways we must and shall in all good nature, but never let us differ
with each other on sectional or state lines, by race or creed.

We welcome you, soldiers of Virginia, as others more eloquent than I
have said, to New England. We welcome you to old Massachusetts. We
welcome you to Boston and to Faneuil Hall. In your presence here, and at
the sound of your voices beneath this historic roof, the years roll
back, and we see the figure and hear again the ringing tones of your
great orator, Patrick Henry, declaring to the first Continental
Congress, "The distinctions between Virginians, Pennsylvanians, New
Yorkers, and New Englanders are no more. I am not a Virginian, but an

A distinguished Frenchman, as he stood among the graves at Arlington,
said: "Only a great people is capable of a great civil war." Let us add
with thankful hearts that only a great people is capable of a great
reconciliation. Side by side, Virginia and Massachusetts led the
colonies into the War for Independence. Side by side, they founded the
government of the United States. Morgan and Greene, Lee and Knox,
Moultrie and Prescott, men of the South and men of the North, fought
shoulder to shoulder, and wore the same uniform of buff and blue,--the
uniform of Washington.

Mere sentiment all this, some may say. But it is sentiment, true
sentiment, that has moved the world. Sentiment fought the war, and
sentiment has reunited us. When the war was closed it was proposed to
give Governor Andrew, who had sacrificed health and strength and
property in his public duties, some immediately lucrative office. A
friend asked him if he would take such a place. "No," said he; "I have
stood as high priest between the horns of the altar, and I have poured
out upon it the best blood of Massachusetts, and I cannot take money for
that." Mere sentiment truly, but the sentiment which ennobles and
uplifts mankind.

So I say that the sentiment manifested by your presence here, brethren
of Virginia, sitting side by side with those who wore the blue, tells
us that if war should break again upon the country, the sons of Virginia
and Massachusetts would, as in the olden days, stand once more shoulder
to shoulder, with no distinction in the colors that they wear. It is
fraught with tidings of peace on earth, and you may read its meaning in
the words on yonder picture, "Liberty and union, now and forever, one
and inseparable!"



When the demon sees that man is weak he gives him a blow with a hatchet,
to make him fall into sin, but when he sees him strong he strikes him
down with an axe. If there be a young woman, honest and well brought up,
he sets an immoral youth near her, and with all kinds of flattery
deceives her, and makes her fall into sin. Here the devil has dealt a
blow with an axe. Here is an honorable citizen, he enters the courts of
the great lords; there is the axe, and so well sharpened, that no
strength of virtue can resist it. But we are in these days in a sadder
plight; the demon has called his followers for the harvest, and has
struck terrible blows upon the doors of the temple. The doors are those
which lead into the house, and the prelates are those who should lead
the faithful into the church of Christ. It is because of this that the
devil has dealt his great blows, and broken the doors to pieces. It is
for this that good pastors are no longer to be found in the church. Do
ye not perceive that they are bringing everything to ruin? They have no
judgment. They can make no distinction between good and evil, between
truth and falsehood, between sweet and bitter. Things good appear to
them evil, things true to them false, the sweet are to them bitter, the
bitter sweet. Ye see prelates prostrating themselves before earthly
affections and earthly things; they no longer lay to heart the care of
souls; it is enough for them if they receive their incomes; the sermons
of their preachers are composed to please princes, and be magnified by
them. But something worse yet remains; not only have they destroyed the
church of God, but have erected one according to a fashion of their own.
This is the modern church, no longer built with living stones, that is,
by Christians established in a living faith, and so formed of love. Go
to Rome and through all Christendom, in the houses of the great prelates
and the great lords, nothing is thought of but poetry and the art of

Go and see, and you will find them with books of the humanities in their
hands, and giving themselves up to the belief that they know how to lead
the souls of men aright by Virgil, Horace, and Cicero. Do you wish to
see the church guided by the hand of the astrologer? Ye will not find
either prelate or great lord who is not in confidential intercourse with
some astrologer, who predicts to him the hour when he must ride or
engage in some other affair. These same great lords do not dare to move
a step contrary to what their astrologer tells them. There are only two
things in that temple in which they find delight, and these are the
paintings, and the gilding with which it is covered.

It is thus that in our church there are many beautiful external
ceremonies in the solemnization of the holy offices, splendid vestments
and draperies, with gold and silver candlesticks, and many chalices, all
of which have a majestic effect. There you see great prelates, wearing
golden miters, set with precious stones, on their heads, and with silver
crosiers, standing before the altar with copes of brocade, slowly
intoning vespers and other masses with much ceremony, accompanied by an
organ and singers, until ye become quite stupefied; and these men appear
to you to be men of great gravity and holiness, and ye believe that they
are incapable of error, and they themselves believe that all they say
and do is commanded by the gospel to be observed.

Men feed upon those vanities, and rejoice in those ceremonies, and say
that the church of Christ was never in so flourishing a state, and that
divine worship was never so well conducted as in this day; and that the
first prelates were very contemptible preachers in comparison with those
of modern times. They certainly had not so many golden miters, nor so
many chalices; and they parted with those they had to relieve the
necessities of the poor; our prelates get their chalices by taking that
from the poor which is their support. But dost thou know what I would
say? In the primitive church there were wooden chalices and golden
prelates; but now the church has golden chalices and wooden prelates.
They have established amongst us the festivals of the devil, they
believe not in God, and make a mockery of the mysteries of our religion.

What doest thou, O Lord? Why slumberest thou? Arise and take the church
out of the hands of the devil, out of the hands of tyrants, out of the
hands of wicked prelates. Hast thou forgotten thy church? Dost thou not
love her? Hast thou no care for her? We are become, O Lord, the
opprobrium of the nations; Turks are masters of Constantinople; we have
lost Asia, we have lost Greece, we are become tributaries of infidels. O
Lord God, thou hast dealt with us as an angry father, thou hast banished
us from before thee! Hasten the punishment and the scourge that there
may be a speedy return to thee! Pour out thy wrath upon the nations!

Be not scandalized, my brethren, by these words; rather consider that
when the good wish for punishment, it is because they wish to see evil
driven away and the blessed reign of Jesus Christ triumphant throughout
the world. We have no other hope left us, unless the sword of the Lord
threatens the earth.



I would be presumptuous, indeed, to present myself against the
distinguished gentlemen to whom you have listened if this were a mere
measuring of abilities; but this is not a contest between persons. The
humblest citizen in all the land, when clad in the armor of a righteous
cause, is stronger than all the hosts of error. I come to speak to you
in defense of a cause as holy as the cause of liberty--the cause of
humanity. We object to bringing this question down to the level of
persons. The individual is but an atom; he is born, he acts, he dies;
but principles are eternal; and this has been a contest over a

When you come before us and tell us that we are about to disturb your
business interests, we reply that you have disturbed our business
interests by your course. We say to you that you have made the
definition of a business man too limited in its application. The man who
is employed for wages is as much a business man as his employer; the
attorney in a country town is as much a business man as the corporation
counsel in a great metropolis; the merchant at the cross-roads store is
as much a business man as the merchant of New York; the farmer who goes
forth in the morning and toils all day, who begins in spring and toils
all summer, and who by the application of brain and muscle to the
natural resources of the country creates wealth, is as much a business
man as the man who goes upon the Board of Trade and bets upon the price
of grain; the miners who go down a thousand feet into the earth, or
climb two thousand feet upon the cliffs, and bring forth from their
hiding-places the precious metals to be poured into the channels of
trade are as much business men as the few financial magnates who, in a
back room, corner the money of the world. We come to speak of this
broader class of business men.

Ah, my friends, we say not one word against those who live upon the
Atlantic Coast, but the hardy pioneers who have braved all the dangers
of the wilderness, who have made the desert to blossom as the rose--the
pioneers away out there, who rear their children near to Nature's heart,
where they can mingle their voices with the voices of the birds--out
there where they have erected schoolhouses for the education of their
young, churches where they praise their Creator, and cemeteries where
rest the ashes of their dead--these people, we say, are as deserving of
the consideration of our party as any people in this country. It is for
these that we speak. We do not come as aggressors. Our war is not a war
of conquest; we are fighting in the defense of our homes, our families,
and posterity. We have petitioned, and our petitions have been scorned;
we have entreated, and our entreaties have been disregarded; we have
begged, and they have mocked when our calamity came. We beg no longer;
we entreat no more; we petition no more. We defy them!

We say in our platform that we believe that the right to coin and issue
money is a function of government. We believe it. We believe that it is
a part of sovereignty, and can no more with safety be delegated to
private individuals than we could afford to delegate to private
individuals the power to make penal statutes or levy taxes. Mr.
Jefferson seems to have differed in opinion from the gentleman who has
addressed us on the part of the minority. Those who are opposed to this
proposition tell us that the issue of paper money is a function of the
bank, and that the government ought to go out of the banking business. I
stand with Jefferson rather than with them, and tell them, as he did,
that the issue of money is a function of government, and that the banks
ought to go out of the governing business.

And now, my friends, let me come to the paramount issue. If they ask us
why it is that we say more on the money question than we say upon the
tariff question, I reply that, if protection has slain its thousands,
the gold standard has slain its tens of thousands. If they ask us why we
do not embody in our platform all the things that we believe in, we
reply that when we have restored the money of the Constitution all other
necessary reforms will be possible; but that until this is done there is
no other reform that can be accomplished.

Why is it that within three months such a change has come over the
country? Three months ago when it was confidently asserted that those
who believe in the gold standard would frame our platform and nominate
our candidates, even the advocates of the gold standard did not think
that we could elect a President. Why this change? Ah, my friends, is not
the reason for the change evident to any one who will look at the
matter? No private character, however pure, no personal popularity,
however great, can protect from the avenging wrath of an indignant
people a man who will declare that he is in favor of fastening the gold
standard upon this country, or who is willing to surrender the right of
self-government and place the legislative control of our affairs in the
hands of foreign potentates and powers.

We go forth confident that we shall win. Why? Because upon the paramount
issue of this campaign there is not a spot of ground upon which the
enemy will dare to challenge battle. If they tell us that the gold
standard is a good thing, we shall point to their platform and tell them
that their platform pledges the party to get rid of the gold standard
and substitute bimetallism. If the gold standard is a good thing, why
try to get rid of it? If the gold standard is a bad thing, why should we
wait until other nations are willing to help us to let go? Here is the
line of battle, and we care not upon which issue they force the fight;
we are prepared to meet them on either issue or on both. If they tell
us that the gold standard is the standard of civilization, we reply to
them that this, the most enlightened of all the nations of the earth,
has never declared for a gold standard and that both the great parties
this year are declaring against it. If the gold standard is the standard
of civilization, why should we not have it? If they come to meet us on
that issue, we can present the history of our nation.

More than that; we can tell them that they will search the pages of
history in vain to find a single instance where the common people of any
land have ever declared themselves in favor of the gold standard. They
can find where the holders of fixed investments have declared for a gold
standard, but not where the masses have. There are two ideas of
government. There are those who believe that, if you will only legislate
to make the well-to-do prosperous, their prosperity will leak through on
those below. The Democratic idea, however, has been that if you
legislate to make the masses prosperous, their prosperity will find its
way up through every class which rests upon them. You come to us and
tell us that the great cities are in favor of the gold standard; we
reply that the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile prairies.
Burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring
up again as if by magic; but destroy our farms and the grass will grow
in the streets of every city in the country.

My friends, we declare that this nation is able to legislate for its own
people on every question, without waiting for the aid or consent of any
other nation on earth; and upon that issue we expect to carry every
state in the Union. I shall not slander the inhabitants of the fair
State of Massachusetts nor the inhabitants of the State of New York by
saying that, when they are confronted with the proposition, they will
declare that this nation is not able to attend to its own business. It
is the issue of 1776 over again. Our ancestors, when but three millions
in number, had the courage to declare their political independence of
every other nation; shall we, their descendants, when we have grown to
seventy millions, declare that we are less independent than our

No, my friends, that will never be the verdict of our people. Therefore,
we care not upon what lines the battle is fought. If they say
bimetallism is good, but that we cannot have it until other nations help
us, we reply that, instead of having a gold standard because England
has, we will restore bimetallism, and then let England have bimetallism
because the United States has it. If they dare to come out in the open
field and defend the gold standard as a good thing, we will fight them
to the uttermost. Having behind us the producing masses of this nation
and the world, supported by the commercial interests, the laboring
interests and the toilers everywhere, we will answer their demand for a
gold standard by saying to them: You shall not press down upon the brow
of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a
cross of gold.


[38] From a speech delivered in the city of Chicago before the
Democratic National Convention of 1896.



At this crisis and juncture, when every instant is priceless, the Senate
proceeds by unanimous consent to consider resolutions of the highest
privilege, and reverently pauses in obedience to the holiest impulses of
human nature to contemplate the profoundest mystery of human
destiny--the mystery of death. In the democracy of death all men at
least are equal. There is neither rank, nor station, nor prerogative in
the republic of the grave.

At that fatal threshold the philosopher ceases to be wise and the song
of the poet is silent. At that fatal threshold Dives relinquishes his
millions and Lazarus his rags. The poor man is as rich as the richest
and the rich man is as poor as the pauper. The creditor loses his usury
and the debtor is acquitted of his obligation. The proud man surrenders
his dignity, the politician his honors, the worldling his pleasures.
James Nelson Burnes, whose life and virtues we commemorate to-day, was a
man whom Plutarch might have described and Vandyke portrayed. Massive,
rugged and robust, in motion slow, in speech serious and deliberate,
grave in aspect, serious in demeanor, of antique and heroic mold, the
incarnation of force. As I looked for the last time upon that
countenance, from which no glance of friendly recognition nor word of
welcome came, I reflected upon the impenetrable and insoluble mystery of

If death be the end, if the life of Burnes terminated upon "this bank
and shoal of time," if no morning is to dawn upon the night in which he
sleeps, then sorrow has no consolation, and this impressive and solemn
ceremony which we observe to-day has no more significance than the
painted pageant of the stage. If the existence of Burnes was but a
troubled dream, his death oblivion, what avails it that the Senate
should pause to recount his virtues? Neither veneration nor reverence is
due the dead if they are but dust; no cenotaph should be reared to
preserve for posterity the memory of their achievements if those who
come after them are to be only their successors in annihilation and
extinction. If in this world only we have hope and consciousness duty
must be a chimera; our pleasures and our passions should be the guides
of conduct, and virtue is indeed a superstition if life ends at the
grave. This is the conclusion which the philosophy of negation must
accept at last. Such is the felicity of those degrading precepts which
make the epitaph the end. If the life of Burnes is as a taper that is
burned out then we treasure his memory and his example in vain, and the
latest prayer of his departing spirit has no more sanctity to us, who
soon or late must follow him, than the whisper of winds that stir the
leaves of the protesting forest, or the murmur of the waves that break
upon the complaining shore.



On the morning of Saturday, July second, the President was a contented
and happy man--not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly,
happy. On his way to the railroad-station, to which he drove slowly, in
conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of
leisure and a keen anticipation of pleasure, his talk was all in the
grateful and gratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial
his administration was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular
favor and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties confronting
him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind
him, and not before him; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he
loved, now recovering from an illness which had but lately disquieted
and at times almost unnerved him; that he was going to his alma mater to
renew the most cherished associations of his young manhood, and to
exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had followed
every step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his
college course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift
of his countrymen.

Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this
world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a
happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him, no slightest premonition
of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant.
One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching
peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless,
doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave.

Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the
very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of Murder he
was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes,
its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death. And
he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned
and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment,
but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony that was not
less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he
looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes,
whose lips may tell? What brilliant broken plans, what baffled high
ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what
bitter rending of sweet household ties! Behind him a proud, expectant
nation; a great host of sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother
wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of
his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged
from childhood's day of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons
just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day, and every
day rewarding, a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager,
rejoicing power to meet all demand. Before him, desolation and great
darkness! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with
instant, profound, and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal
weakness, he became the center of a nation's love, enshrined in the
prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not
share with him his suffering. He trod the winepress alone. With
unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took
leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard
the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the divine decree.

As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. The
stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of
pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison-walls, from its
oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness.
Gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to
the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should
will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold
voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze he
looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders, on its far sails
whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves rolling shoreward
to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening
arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the
stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only
the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence
of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a farther
shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal


[39] From a memorial oration delivered in the House of Representatives,
February 27, 1882, published by Henry Bill Publishing Co., Norwich,



Returning to the hills, Toussaint issued the only proclamation which
bears his name, and breathes vengeance: "My children, France comes to
make us slaves. God gave us liberty. France has no right to take it
away. Burn the cities, destroy the harvests, tear up the roads with
cannon, poison the wells. Show the white man the hell he comes to make";
and he was obeyed.

When the great William of Orange saw Louis XIV. cover Holland with
troops, he said: "Break down the dikes, give Holland back to ocean"; and
Europe said, "Sublime!" When Alexander saw the armies of France descend
upon Russia, he said: "Burn Moscow, starve back the invaders!" and
Europe said, "Sublime!" This black saw all Europe come to crush him,
and gave to his people the same heroic example of defiance.

Holland lent sixty ships. England promised by special message to be
neutral; and you know neutrality means sneering at freedom, and sending
arms to tyrants. England promised neutrality, and the black looked out
and saw the whole civilized world marshaled against him. America, full
of slaves, was of course hostile. Only the Yankee sold him poor muskets
at a very high price. Mounting his horse, and riding to the eastern end
of the island, he looked out on a sight such as no native had ever seen
before. Sixty ships of the line, crowded by the best soldiers of Europe,
rounded the point. They were soldiers who had never yet met an equal,
whose tread, like Cæsar's, had shaken Europe: soldiers who had scaled
the Pyramids, and planted the French banners on the walls of Rome. He
looked a moment, counted the flotilla, let the reins fall on the neck of
his horse, and turning to Christophe, exclaimed: "All France is come to
Hayti; they can only come to make us slaves; and we are lost!"

Toussaint was too dangerous to be left at large. So they summoned him to
attend a council; he went, and the moment he entered the room the
officers drew their swords and told him he was a prisoner. They put him
on shipboard and weighed anchor for France. As the island faded from his
sight he turned to the captain and said, "You think you have rooted up
the tree of liberty, but I am only a branch; I have planted the tree so
deep that all France can never root it up."

He was sent to a dungeon twelve feet by twenty, built wholly of stone,
with a narrow window, high up on one side, looking out on the snows of
Switzerland. In this living tomb the child of the sunny tropics was left
to die. But he did not die fast enough. Napoleon ordered the commandant
to go into Switzerland, to carry the keys of the dungeon with him and
stay four days. When he returned, Toussaint was found starved to death.

Napoleon, that imperial assassin, was taken, twelve years later, to his
prison at St. Helena, planned for a tomb, as he had planned that of
Toussaint, and there he whined away his dying hours in pitiful
complaints. God grant that when some future Plutarch shall weigh the
great men of our epoch, he do not put that whining child of St. Helena
into one scale, and into the other the negro, meeting death like a
Roman, without a murmur, in the solitude of his icy dungeon.


[40] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.



Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this
continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the
proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a
great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived
and so dedicated, can long endure.

We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have met to dedicate
a portion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their
lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper
that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we
cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living
and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it far beyond our power to
add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we
say here; but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated to the unfinished work
that they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be
here dedicated to the great task remaining before us; that from these
honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they
here gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly
resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation
shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that government of
the people, by the people and for the people, shall not perish from the



     This speech was a part of a very impressive Shinto ceremony in
     which the Commander-in-Chief of the Japanese fleets addressed the
     spirits of the officers and sailors who lost their lives during the
     war with Russia. For simple eloquence it has seldom been surpassed.

The clouds of war have disappeared from sea and from shore, and the
whole city, with a peaceful, placid heart like that of a child, goes out
to meet the men who shared life and death with you, and who now return
triumphant under the imperial standard, while their families wait for
them at the gates of their homes.

Looking back, we recall how, bearing the bitter cold and enduring the
fierce heat, you fought again and again with our strong foe, and while
the issue of the contest was still uncertain you went before us to the
grave, leaving us to envy the glory you had won by your loyal deaths. We
longed to imitate you in paying the debt to sovereign and country. Your
valiant and vehement fighting always achieved success. In no combat did
you fail to conquer. Throughout ten months the attack on Port Arthur
continued and the result was determined. In the Sea of Japan a single
annihilating effort decided the issue. Thenceforth the enemy's shadow
disappeared from the face of the ocean. This success had its origin in
the infinite virtues of the emperor, but it could not have been achieved
had not you, forgetting yourselves, sacrificed your lives in the public
service. The war is over. We who return in triumph see signs of joy
everywhere. But we remember that we cannot share it with you, and
mingled feelings of sadness and rejoicing struggle painfully for
expression. The triumph of to-day has been purchased by your glorious
deaths, and your loyalty and valor will inspire our navy, guarding the
imperial land for all time.

We here perform this rite of worship to your spirits, and speaking
something of our sad thoughts, pray you to come and receive the
offerings we make.



Mr. President: This step of secession, once taken, can never be
recalled; and all the baleful and withering consequences that must
follow, will rest on the convention for all coming time. When we and our
posterity shall see our lovely South desolated by the demon of war,
which this act of yours will inevitably invite and call forth; when our
green fields of waving harvest shall be trodden down by the murderous
soldiery and fiery car of war sweeping over our land; our temples of
justice laid in ashes; all the horrors and desolation of war upon us;
who but this Convention will be held responsible for it? And who but him
who shall have given his vote for this unwise and ill-timed measure, as
I honestly think and believe, shall be held to strict account for this
suicidal act by the present generation, and probably cursed and
execrated by posterity for all coming time, for the wide and desolating
ruin that will inevitably follow this act you now propose to perpetrate?
Pause, I entreat you, and consider for a moment what reasons you can
give, that will even satisfy yourselves in calmer moments--what reason
you can give to your fellow-sufferers in the calamity that it will bring
upon us. What reasons can you give to the nations of the earth to
justify it? They will be the calm and deliberate judges in the case; and
what cause or one overt act can you name or point, on which to rest the
plea of justification? What right has the North assailed? What interest
of the South has been invaded? What justice has been denied? And what
claim founded in justice and right has been withheld? Can either of you
to-day name one governmental act of wrong, deliberately and purposely
done by the government of Washington, of which the South has a right to
complain? I challenge the answer. While, on the other hand, let me show
the facts, of which I wish you to judge, and I will only state facts
which are clear and undeniable, and which now stand as records authentic
in the history of our country. When we of the South demanded the
slave-trade, or the importation of Africans for the cultivation of our
lands, did they not yield the right for twenty years? When we asked a
three-fifths representation in Congress for our slaves, was it not
granted? When we asked and demanded the return of any fugitive from
justice, or the recovery of those persons owing labor or allegiance, was
it not incorporated in the Constitution, and again ratified and
strengthened by the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850? But do you reply that in
many instances they have violated this compact, and have not been
faithful to their engagements? As individual and local communities, they
may have done so; but not by the sanction of government; for that has
always been true to Southern interests. Again, gentlemen, look at
another act; when we have asked that more territory should be added,
that we might spread the institution of slavery, have they not yielded
to our demands in giving us Louisiana, Florida, and Texas? From these,
four States have been carved, and ample territory for four more is to be
added in due time, if you, by this unwise and impolitic act, do not
destroy this hope, and, perhaps, by it lose all, and have your last
slave wrenched from you by stern military rule, as South America and
Mexico were; or by the vindictive decree of a universal emancipation
which may reasonably be expected to follow.

But, again, gentlemen, what have we to gain by this proposed change of
our relation to the general government? We have always had the control
of it, and can yet, if we remain in it, and are as united as we have
been. We have had a majority of the Presidents chosen from the South, as
well as the control and management of most of those chosen from the
North. We have had sixty years of Southern Presidents to their
twenty-four, thus controlling the executive department. So of the judges
of the Supreme Court, we have had eighteen from the South and but eleven
from the North; although nearly four-fifths of the judicial business has
arisen in the free states, yet a majority of the Court has always been
from the South. This we have required so as to guard against any
interpretation of the Constitution unfavorable to us. In like manner we
have been equally watchful to guard our interests in the legislative
branch of government. In choosing the presidents of the Senate, we have
had twenty-four to their eleven. Speakers of the House we have had
twenty-three, and they twelve. While the majority of the
representatives, from their greater population, have always been from
the North, yet we have generally secured the Speaker, because he, to a
great extent, shapes and controls the legislation of the country. Nor
have we had less control in every other department of the general
government. Attorney-generals we have had fourteen, while the North have
had but five. Foreign ministers we have had eighty-six and they but
fifty-four. While three-fourths of the business which demands diplomatic
agents abroad is clearly from the free states, from their greater
commercial interest, yet we have had the principal embassies, so as to
secure the world-markets for our cotton, tobacco, and sugar on the best
possible terms. We have had a vast majority of the higher offices of
both army and navy, while a larger proportion of the soldiers and
sailors were drawn from the North. Again, from official documents, we
learn that a fraction over three-fourths of the revenue collected for
the support of the government has uniformly been raised from the North.

Leaving out of view, for the present, the countless millions of dollars
you must expend in a war with the North; with tens of thousands of your
sons and brothers slain in battle, and offered up as sacrifices upon the
altar of your ambition--and for what, we ask again? Is it for the
overthrow of the American government, established by our common
ancestry, cemented and built up by their sweat and blood, and founded on
the broad principles of right, justice, and humanity? And as such, I
must declare here, as I have often done before, and which has been
repeated by the greatest and wisest of statesmen and patriots, in this
and other lands, that it is the best and freest government--the most
equal in its rights, the most just in its decisions, the most lenient in
its measures, and the most aspiring in its principles, to elevate the
race of men, that the sun of heaven ever shone upon. Now, for you to
attempt to overthrow such a government as this, under which we have
lived for more than three-quarters of a century--in which we have gained
our wealth, our standing as a nation, our domestic safety, while the
elements of peril are around us, with peace and tranquillity accompanied
with unbounded prosperity and rights unassailed--is the height of
madness, folly, and wickedness, to which I neither lend my sanction nor
my vote.


[41] Delivered at the Georgia State Convention, January, 1861.



Oh, brilliant and incomparable Grady! We lay for a season thy precious
dust beneath the soil that bore and cherished thee, but we fling back
against all our brightening skies the thoughtless speech that calls thee
dead! God reigns and His purpose lives, and although these brave lips
are silent here, the seeds sown in his incarnate eloquence will sprinkle
patriots through the years to come, and perpetuate thy living in a race
of nobler men!

But all our words are empty, and they mock the air. If we should speak
the eulogy that fills this day, let us build within the city that he
loved, a monument tall as his services, and noble as the place he
filled. Let every Georgian lend a hand, and as it rises to confront in
majesty his darkened home, let the widow who weeps there be told that
every stone that makes it has been sawn from the sound prosperity that
he builded, and that the light which plays upon its summit is, in
afterglow, the sunshine that he brought into the world.

And for the rest--silence. The sweetest thing about his funeral was that
no sound broke the stillness save the reading of the Scriptures, and the
melody of music. No fire that can be kindled upon the altar of speech
can relume the radiant spark that perished yesterday. No blaze born in
all our eulogy can burn beside the sunlight of his useful life. After
all, there is nothing grander than such living.

I have seen the light that gleamed from the headlight of some giant
engine rushing onward through the darkness, heedless of opposition,
fearless of danger, and I thought it was grand. I have seen the light
come over the eastern hills in glory, driving the hazy darkness like
mist before a sea-born gale, till leaf and tree and blade of grass
glittered in the myriad diamonds of the morning ray, and I thought it
was grand. I have seen the light that leaped at midnight athwart the
storm-swept sky, shivering over chaotic clouds, mid howling winds, till
cloud and darkness and the shadow-haunted earth flashed into mid-day
splendor, and I knew it was grand. But the grandest thing next to the
radiance that flows from the Almighty Throne is the light of a noble
and beautiful life, wrapping itself in benediction round the destinies
of men, and finding its home in the blessed bosom of the Everlasting



The art of war is yet held even among Christians to be an honorable
pursuit. It shall be for another age to appreciate the more exalted
character of the art of benevolence which, in blessed contrast with the
misery, the degradation, the wickedness of war, shall shine resplendent
in the true grandeur of peace. Then shall the soul thrill with a nobler
heroism than that of battle. Peaceful industry, with untold multitudes
of cheerful and beneficent laborers, shall be its gladsome token.
Literature, full of sympathy and comfort for the heart of man, shall
appear in garments of purer glory than she has yet assumed. Science
shall extend the bounds of knowledge and power, adding unimaginable
strength to the hands of men, opening innumerable resources in the earth
and revealing new secrets and harmonies in the skies.

The increasing beneficence and intelligence of our own day, the
broad-spread sympathy with suffering, the widening thoughts of men, the
longings of the heart for a higher condition on earth, the unfulfilled
promises of Christian progress are the auspicious auguries of this happy
future. As early voyagers over untried realms of waste we have already
observed the signs of land. The green and fresh red berries have floated
by our bark, the odors of the shore fan our faces, nay, we may seem to
descry the distant gleam of light, and hear from the more earnest
observers, as Columbus heard, after midnight from the masthead of the
Pinta, the joyful cry of "Land! Land!" and lo! a new world broke upon
his early morning gaze.



I went to Washington the other day and I stood on the Capitol hill, and
my heart beat quick as I looked at the towering marble of my country's
Capitol, and a mist gathered in my eyes as I thought of its tremendous
significance, of the armies and the treasury, and the judges and the
President, and the Congress and the courts, and all that was gathered
there; and I felt that the sun in all its course could not look down on
a better sight than that majestic home of a Republic that had taught the
world its best lessons of liberty. And I felt that if honor and wisdom
and justice dwelt therein, the world would at last owe that great house,
in which the ark of the covenant of my country is lodged, its final
uplifting and its regeneration.

But a few days afterwards I went to visit a friend in the country, a
modest man, with a quiet country home. It was just a simple,
unpretentious house, set about with great trees and encircled in meadow
and field rich with the promise of harvest; the fragrance of the pink
and the hollyhock in the front yard was mingled with the aroma of the
orchard and the garden, and the resonant clucking of poultry and the hum
of bees. Inside was quiet, cleanliness, thrift and comfort.

Outside there stood my friend, the master, a simple, independent,
upright man, with no mortgage on his roof, no lien on his growing
crops--master of his land and master of himself. There was the old
father, an aged and trembling man, but happy in the heart and home of
his son. And, as he started to enter his home, the hand of the old man
went down on the young man's shoulder, laying there the unspeakable
blessing of an honored and honorable father, and ennobling it with the
knighthood of the fifth commandment. And as we approached the door the
mother came, a happy smile lighting up her face, while with the rich
music of her heart she bade her husband and her son welcome to their
home. Beyond was the housewife, busy with her domestic affairs, the
loving helpmate of her husband. Down the lane came the children after
the cows, singing sweetly, as like birds they sought the quiet of their

So the night came down on that house, falling gently as the wing of an
unseen dove. And the old man, while a startled bird called from the
forest and the trees thrilled with the cricket's cry, and the stars were
falling from the sky, called the family around him and took the Bible
from the table and called them to their knees. The little baby hid in
the folds of its mother's dress while he closed the record of that day
by calling down God's blessing on that simple home. While I gazed, the
vision of the marble Capitol faded; forgotten were its treasuries and
its majesty; and I said, "Surely here in the house of the people lodge
at last the strength and the responsibility of this government, the hope
and the promise of this Republic."



Gentlemen have said that it was I who inspired the Hungarian people. I
cannot accept the praise. No, it was not I who inspired the Hungarian
people, it was the Hungarian people who inspired me. Whatever I thought
and still think, whatever I felt and still feel, is but the pulsation of
that heart which in the breast of my people beats. The glory of battle
is for the historic leaders. Theirs are the laurels of immortality. And
yet in encountering the danger, they knew that, alive or dead, their
names would, on the lips of people, forever live.

How different the fortune, how nobler, how purer the heroism of those
children of the people who went forth freely to meet death in their
country's cause, knowing that where they fell they would lie
undistinguished and unknown, their names unhonored and unsung.
Animated, nevertheless, by the love of freedom and the fatherland, they
went forth calmly singing their national anthems till, rushing upon the
batteries whose cross fires vomited upon them death and destruction,
they took them without firing a shot,--those who fell falling with the
shout, "Hurrah for Hungary!" And so they died by thousands--the unnamed
demigods! Such is the people of Hungary. Still it is said it is I who
have inspired them. No! a thousand times, no! It is they who have
inspired me.



Ladies and Gentlemen, I am glad to be again in the City of Buffalo and
exchange greetings with her people, to whose generous hospitality I am
not a stranger, and with whose good will I have been repeatedly and
signally honored. Expositions are the timekeepers of progress. They
record the world's advancement. They stimulate the energy, enterprise
and intellect of the people and quicken human genius. They go into the
home. They broaden and brighten the daily life of the people. They open
mighty storehouses of information to the student.

The wisdom and energy of all the nations are none too great for the
world's work. The success of art, science, industry and invention is an
international asset and a common glory. After all, how near one to the
other is every part of the world. Modern inventions have brought into
close relation widely separated peoples, and made them better
acquainted. Geographic and political divisions will continue to exist,
but distances have been effaced.

Swift ships and fast trains are becoming cosmopolitan. They invade
fields which a few years ago were impenetrable. The world's products are
exchanged as never before, and with increasing transportation facilities
come increasing knowledge and trade. Prices are fixed with mathematical
precision by supply and demand. The world's selling prices are regulated
by market and crop reports. We travel greater distances in a shorter
space of time, and with more ease than was ever dreamed of by the

Isolation is no longer possible or desirable. The same important news is
read, though in different languages, the same day in all Christendom.
The telegraph keeps us advised of what is occurring everywhere, and the
press foreshadows, with more or less accuracy, the plans and purposes of
the nations. Market prices of products and of securities are hourly
known in every commercial mart, and the investments of the people extend
beyond their own national boundaries into the remotest parts of the
earth. Vast transactions are conducted and international exchanges are
made by the tick of the cable. Every event of interest is immediately

The quick gathering and transmission of news, like rapid transit, are of
recent origin, and are only made possible by the genius of the inventor
and the courage of the investor. It took a special messenger of the
government, with every facility known at the time for rapid travel,
nineteen days to go from the City of Washington to New Orleans with a
message to General Jackson that the war with England had ceased and a
treaty of peace had been signed.

How different now! We reached General Miles in Porto Rico by cable, and
he was able through the military telegraph to stop his army on the
firing line with the message that the United States and Spain had signed
a protocol suspending hostilities. We knew almost instantly of the first
shots fired at Santiago, and the subsequent surrender of the Spanish
forces was known at Washington within less than an hour of its
consummation. The first ship of Cervera's fleet had hardly emerged from
that historic harbor when the fact was flashed to our capital and the
swift destruction that followed was announced immediately through the
wonderful medium of telegraphy.

At the beginning of the nineteenth century there was not a mile of steam
railroad on the globe. Now there are enough miles to make its circuit
many times. Then there was not a line of electric telegraph; now we have
vast mileage traversing all lands and all seas. God and man have linked
the nations together. No nation can longer be indifferent to any other.
And as we are brought more and more in touch with each other the less
occasion there is for misunderstandings and the stronger the
disposition, when we have differences, to adjust them in the court of
arbitration, which is the noblest forum for the settlement of
international disputes.

The period of exclusiveness is past. The expansion of our trade and
commerce is the pressing problem. Commercial wars are unprofitable. A
policy of good will and friendly trade relations will prevent reprisals.
Reciprocity treaties are in harmony with the spirit of the times;
measures of retaliation are not. If perchance some of our tariffs are no
longer needed for revenue or to encourage and protect our industries at
home, why should they not be employed to extend and promote our markets

Then, too, we have inadequate steamship service. New lines of steamers
have already been put in commission between the Pacific coast ports of
the United States and those on the western coasts of Mexico and Central
and South America. These should be followed up with direct steamship
lines between the eastern coast of the United States and South American
ports. One of the needs of the times is direct commercial lines from our
vast fields of production to the fields of consumption that we have but
barely touched.

Next in advantage to having the thing to sell is to have the convenience
to carry it to the buyer. We must encourage our merchant marine. We must
have more ships. They must be under the American flag, built and manned
and owned by Americans. These will not be profitable in a commercial
sense; they will be messengers of peace and amity wherever they go.

We must build the isthmian canal, which will unite the two oceans and
give a straight line of water communication with the western coasts of
Central America, South America and Mexico. The construction of a Pacific
cable cannot be longer postponed.

In the furtherance of these objects of national interest and concern you
are performing an important part. This exposition would have touched the
heart of that American statesman whose mind was ever alert and thought
ever constant for a larger commerce and a truer fraternity of the
republics of the new world. His broad American spirit is felt and
manifested here. He needs no identification to an assemblage of
Americans anywhere, for the name of Blaine is inseparably associated
with the pan-American movement, which finds this practical and
substantial expression and which we all hope will be firmly advanced by
the pan-American congress that assembles this autumn in the capital of

The good work will go on. It cannot be stopped. These buildings will
disappear, this creation of art and beauty and industry will perish from
sight, but their influence will remain to

     "Make it live beyond its too short living
     With praises and thanksgiving."

Who can tell the new thoughts that have been awakened, and ambitions
fired, and the high achievements that will be wrought through this

Gentlemen, let us ever remember that our interest is in concord, not
conflict, and that our real eminence rests in the victories of peace,
not those of war. We hope that all who are represented here may be moved
to higher and nobler effort for their own and the world's good, and that
out of this city may come not only greater commerce and trade for us
all, but, more essential than these, relations of mutual respect,
confidence and friendship which will deepen and endure. Our earnest
prayer is that God will graciously vouchsafe prosperity, happiness and
peace to all our neighbors and like blessings to all the peoples and
powers of earth.


[42] His last speech, delivered at the Buffalo Exposition, September 5,



I may without impropriety remind the House that the voices which usually
pleaded the cause of Irish self-government in Irish affairs have within
these walls during the last seven years been almost entirely mute. I
return therefore to the period of 1886, when a proposition of this kind
was submitted on the part of the government, and I beg to remind the
House of the position then taken up by all the promoters of these
measures. We said that we had arrived at a point in our transactions
with Ireland where the two roads parted. "You have," we said, "to choose
one or the other." One is the way of Irish autonomy according to the
conceptions I have just referred to, the other is the way of coercion.

What has been the result of the dilemma as it was then put forward on
this side of the House and repelled by the other? Has our contention
that the choice lay between autonomy and coercion been justified or not?
What has become of each and all of these important schemes for giving
Ireland self-government in provinces and giving her even a central
establishment in Dublin with limited powers? All vanished into thin
air, but the reality remains. The roads were still there, autonomy or
coercion. The choice lay between them, and the choice made was to repel
autonomy and embrace coercion.

In 1886 for the first time coercion was imposed on Ireland in the shape
of a permanent law added to the statute book. This state of things
constituted an offense against the harmony and traditions of
self-government. It was a distinct and violent breach of the promise on
the faith of which union was obtained. The permanent system of
repression inflicted upon the country a state of things which could not
continue to exist. It was impossible to bring the inhabitants of the
country under coercion into sympathy with the coercion power.

It was then prophesied confidently that Irishmen would take their places
in the Cabinet of the United Kingdom, but it has been my honored destiny
to sit in Cabinet with no less than sixty to seventy statesmen, of whom
only one, the Duke of Wellington, was an Irishman, while Castlereagh was
the only other Irishman who has sat in the Cabinet since union. Pitt
promised equal laws when the union was formed, but the broken promises
made to Ireland are unhappily written in indelible characters in the
history of the country. It is to me astonishing that so little weight is
attached by many to the fact that Irish wishes of self-government were
represented only by a small minority.

Now what voting power are the eighty members to have? Ireland is to be
represented here fully; that is my first postulate. My second postulate
is that Ireland is to be invested with separate powers, subject, no
doubt, to imperial authority. Ireland is to be endowed with separate
powers over Irish affairs. Then the question before us is: Is she or is
she not to vote so strongly upon matters purely British? There are
reasons both ways. We cannot cut them off in a manner perfectly clean
and clear from these questions. We cannot find an absolutely accurate
line of cleavage between questions that are imperial questions and those
that are Irish questions. Unless Irish members vote on all questions you
break the parliamentary tradition. The presence of eighty members with
only limited powers of voting is a serious breach of that tradition,
which ought to be made the subject of most careful consideration.

Now come the reasons against the universal voting powers. It is
difficult to say: Everything on that side Irish, everything on this side
imperial. That, I think, you cannot do. If you ask me for a proportion,
I say nine-tenths, perhaps nineteen-twentieths, of the business of
Parliament can without difficulty be classed as Irish or imperial. It
would be a great anomaly if these eighty Irish members should come here
continually to intervene in questions purely and absolutely British. If
some large question or controversy in British affairs should then come
up, causing a deep and vital severing of the two great parties in this
House, and the members of those parties knew that they could bring over
eighty members from Ireland to support their views, I am afraid a case
like that would open a possible door to dangerous political intrigue.
The whole subject is full of thorns and brambles, but our object is the
autonomy and self-government of Ireland in all matters properly Irish.

I wish to supply the keynote to the financial part of the legislation.
That keynote is to be found in the provision included in our plans from
the first, and wisely and generously acceded to by Ireland through her
representatives, that there is to be but one system of legislation as
far as external things are concerned that will be found to entail very
important consequences. It has guided us to the conclusion at which we
arrived of unity of commercial legislation for the three kingdoms. By
adopting this keynote we can attain to the most valuable results and
will be likely to avoid the clashing of agents of the Imperial and
agents of the Irish Government. We can make, under cover of this
proposal, a larger and more liberal transfer to Ireland in the
management of her own affairs than we could make if we proceeded on any
other principles. The principle to which we are bound to give effect in
Ireland is: Ireland has to bear a fair share of imperial expenditure.

I will now release the House from the painful consideration of details
which it has pursued with unexampled patience. I must say, however, for
my own part that I never will and never can be a party to bequeathing to
my country the continuance of this heritage of discord which has been
handed down from generation to generation, with hardly momentary
interruption, through seven centuries--this heritage of discord, with
all the evils that follow in its train. I wish no part in that process.
It would be misery for me if I had foregone or omitted in these closing
years of my life any measure it was possible for me to take toward
upholding and promoting the cause which I believe to be the cause--not
of one party or one nation--but of all parties and all nations. To these
nations, viewing them as I do, with their vast opportunities, under a
living union for power and happiness, to these nations I say: Let me
entreat you--if it were my latest breath I would so entreat you--let the
dead bury their dead, and cast behind you former recollections of bygone
evils; cherish love and sustain one another through all the vicissitudes
of human affairs in times that are to come.


[43] Delivered in the House of Commons, February 13, 1893.



The past century has not, the century to come will not have, a figure so
grand as that of Abraham Lincoln, because as evil disappears so
disappears heroism also.

I have often contemplated and described his life. Born in a cabin of
Kentucky, of parents who could hardly read; born a new Moses in the
solitude of the desert, where are forged all great and obstinate
thoughts, monotonous like the desert, and growing up among those
primeval forests, which, with their fragrance, send a cloud of incense,
and, with their murmurs, a cloud of prayers to heaven; a boatman at
eight years in the impetuous current of the Ohio, and at seventeen in
the vast and tranquil waters of the Mississippi; later, a woodman, with
axe and arm felling the immemorial trees, to open a way to unexplored
regions for his tribe of wandering workers; reading no other book than
the Bible, the book of great sorrows and great hopes, dictated often by
prophets to the sound of fetters they dragged through Nineveh and
Babylon; a child of Nature; in a word, by one of those miracles only
comprehensible among free peoples, he fought for the country, and was
raised by his fellow-citizens to the Congress at Washington, and by the
nation to the Presidency of the Republic; and when the evil grew more
virulent, when those States were dissolved, when the slave-holders
uttered their war-cry and the slaves their groans of despair, humblest
of the humble before his conscience, greatest of the great before
history, ascends the Capitol, the greatest moral height of our time, and
strong and serene with his conscience and his thought; before him a
veteran army, hostile Europe behind him, England favoring the South,
France encouraging reaction in Mexico, in his hands the riven country;
he arms two millions of men, gathers half a million of horses, sends his
artillery twelve hundred miles in a week, from the banks of the Potomac
to the shores of the Tennessee; fights more than six hundred battles;
renews before Richmond the deeds of Alexander, of Cæsar; and, after
having emancipated three million slaves, that nothing might be wanting,
he dies in the very moment of victory--like Christ, like Socrates, like
all redeemers, at the foot of his work. His work! sublime achievement!
over which humanity shall eternally shed its tears, and God his



In the great drama of the rebellion there were two acts. The first was
the war, with its battles and sieges, its victories and defeats, its
sufferings and tears. Just as the curtain was lifting on the second and
final act, the restoration of peace and liberty, the evil spirit of the
rebellion, in the fury of despair, nerved and directed the hand of an
assassin to strike down the chief character in both. It was no one man
who killed Abraham Lincoln; it was the embodied spirit of treason and
slavery, inspired with fearful and despairing hate, that struck him down
in the moment of the nation's supremest joy.

Sir, there are times in the history of men and nations when they stand
so near the veil that separates mortals from immortals, time from
eternity, and men from God that they can almost hear the beatings and
pulsations of the heart of the Infinite. Through such a time has this
nation passed.

When two hundred and fifty thousand brave spirits passed from the field
of honor, through that thin veil, to the presence of God, and when at
last its parting folds admitted the martyr President to the company of
those dead heroes of the Republic, the nation stood so near the veil
that the whispers of God were heard by the children of men. Awe-stricken
by his voice, the American people knelt in tearful reverence and made a
solemn covenant with Him and with each other that this nation should be
saved from its enemies, that all its glories should be restored, and, on
the ruins of slavery and treason, the temples of freedom and justice
should be built, and should survive forever.

It remains for us, consecrated by that great event and under a covenant
with God, to keep that faith, to go forward in the great work until it
shall be completed. Following the lead of that great man, and obeying
the high behests of God, let us remember that:

     "He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
     He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat;
     Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!
                   Our God is marching on."



I thank you, Mr. Chairman; I thank you, gentlemen--all of you--for your
too generous and amiable welcome. I esteem it a great privilege to meet
so many representatives of an estate which, more than any other, at this
hour controls the world. It is my daily duty in Washington to confer
with the able and distinguished representatives of civilized sovereigns
and states. But we are all aware that the days of personal government
are gone forever; that behind us, and behind the rulers we represent,
there stands the vast, irresistible power of public opinion, which in
the last resort must decide all the questions we discuss, and whose
judgment is final. In your persons I greet the organs and exponents of
that tremendous power with all the respect which is due to you and your
constituency, deeply sensible of the honor which has been done me in
making me the mouthpiece of the sentiment of appreciation and regard
with which the nation welcomes you to this great festival of peace and
of progress.

Upon none of the arts or professions has the tremendous acceleration of
progress in recent years had more effect than upon that of which you are
the representatives. We easily grow used to miracles; it will seem a
mere commonplace when I say that all the wonders of the magicians
invented by those ingenious oriental poets who wrote the "Arabian
Nights" pale before the stupendous facts which you handle in your daily
lives. The air has scarcely ceased to vibrate with the utterances of
kings and rulers in the older realms when their words are read in the
streets of St. Louis and on the farms of Nebraska. The telegraph is too
quick for the calendar; you may read in your evening paper a dispatch
from the antipodes with a date of the following day. The details of a
battle on the shores of the Hermit Kingdom, a land which a few years ago
was hidden in the mists of legend, are printed and commented on before
the blood of the wounded has ceased to flow. Almost before the smoke of
the conflict has lifted we read the obituaries of the unsepultured dead.
And not only do you record with the swiftness of thought these incidents
of war and violence, but the daily victories of truth over error, of
light over darkness; the spread of commerce in distant seas, the
inventions of industry, the discoveries of science, are all placed
instantly within the knowledge of millions. The seeds of thought,
perfected in one climate, blossom and fructify under every sky, in every
nationality which the sun visits.

With these miraculous facilities, with this unlimited power, comes also
an enormous responsibility in the face of God and man. I am not here to
preach to you a gospel whose lessons are known to you far better than to
me. I am not calling sinners to repentance, but I am following a good
tradition in stirring up the pure minds of the righteous by way of
remembrance. It is well for us to reflect on the vast import, the
endless chain of results, of that globe-encircling speech you address
each day to the world. Your winged words have no fixed flight; like the
lightning, they traverse the ether according to laws of their own. They
light in every clime; they influence a thousand different varieties of
minds and manners. How vastly important is it, then, that the sentiments
they convey should be those of good will rather than of malevolence,
those of national concord rather than of prejudice, those of peace
rather than of hostility. The temptation to the contrary is almost
irresistible. I acknowledge with contrition how often I have fallen by
the way. It is far more amusing to attack than to defend, to excite than
to soothe. But the highest victory of great power is that of
self-restraint, and it would be a beneficent result of this memorable
meeting, this oecumenical council of the press, if it taught us
all--the brethren of this mighty priesthood--that mutual knowledge of
each other which should modify prejudices, restrain acerbity of thought
and expression, and tend in some degree to bring in that blessed time--

     "When light shall spread and man be liker man
      Through all the season of the Golden Year."

What better school was ever seen in which to learn the lesson of mutual
esteem and forbearance than this great exposition? The nations of the
earth are met here in friendly competition. The first thing that strikes
the visitor is the infinite diversity of thought and effort which
characterizes the several exhibits; but a closer study every day reveals
a resemblance of mind and purpose more marvelous still. Integrity,
industry, the intelligent adaptation of means to ends, are everywhere
the indispensable conditions of success. Honest work, honest dealing,
these qualities mark the winner in every part of the world. The artist,
the poet, the artisan, and the statesman, they everywhere stand or fall
through the lack or the possession of similar qualities. How shall one
people hate or despise another when we have seen how like us they are in
most respects, and how superior they are in some! Why should we not
revert to the ancient wisdom which regarded nothing human as alien, and
to the words of Holy Writ which remind us that the Almighty has made all
men brethren?

In the name of the President--writer, soldier, and statesman, eminent in
all three professions and in all equally an advocate of justice, peace,
and good will--I bid you a cordial welcome, with the prayer that this
meeting of the representatives of the world's intelligence may be
fruitful in advantage to the press of all nations and may bring us
somewhat nearer to the dawn of the day of peace on earth and good will
among men. Let us remember that we are met to celebrate the transfer of
a vast empire from one nation to another without the firing of a shot,
without the shedding of one drop of blood. If the press of the world
would adopt and persist in the high resolve that war should be no more,
the clangor of arms would cease from the rising of the sun to its going
down, and we could fancy that at last our ears, no longer stunned by the
din of armies, might hear the morning stars singing together and all the
sons of God shouting for joy.


[44] Address of the Secretary of State at the opening of the Press
Parliament of the World, at St. Louis, on the 19th of May, 1904. Used by
permission of Mrs. Hay.



In Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress" you may recall the description of the
Man with the Muck-rake, the man who could look no way but downward, with
the muck-rake in his hand; who was offered a celestial crown for his
muck-rake, but who would neither look up nor regard the crown he was
offered, but continued to rake to himself the filth of the floor.

In "Pilgrim's Progress" the Man with the Muck-rake is set forth as the
example of him whose vision is fixed on carnal instead of on spiritual
things. Yet he also typifies the man who in this life consistently
refuses to see aught that is lofty, and fixes his eyes with solemn
intentness only on that which is vile and debasing. Now, it is very
necessary that we should not flinch from seeing what is vile and
debasing. There is filth on the floor, and it must be scraped up with
the muck-rake; and there are times and places where this service is the
most needed of all the services that can be performed. But the man who
never does anything else, who never thinks or speaks or writes, save of
his feats with the muck-rake, speedily becomes, not a help to society,
not an incitement to good, but one of the most potent forces for evil.

There are, in the body politic, economic and social, many and grave
evils, and there is urgent necessity for the sternest war upon them.
There should be relentless exposure of and attack upon every evil man,
whether politician or business man, every evil practice, whether in
politics, in business, or in social life. I hail as a benefactor every
writer or speaker, every man who, on the platform, or in book, magazine,
or newspaper, with merciless severity makes such attack, provided always
that he in his turn remembers that the attack is of use only if it is
absolutely truthful. The liar is no whit better than the thief, and if
his mendacity takes the form of slander, he may be worse than most
thieves. It puts a premium upon knavery untruthfully to attack an honest
man, or even with hysterical exaggeration to assail a bad man with
untruth. An epidemic of indiscriminate assault upon character does not
good, but very great harm. The soul of every scoundrel is gladdened
whenever an honest man is assailed, or even when a scoundrel is
untruthfully assailed.

Now, it is easy to twist out of shape what I have just said, easy to
affect to misunderstand it, and, if it is slurred over in repetition,
not difficult really to misunderstand it. Some persons are sincerely
incapable of understanding that to denounce mud-slinging does not mean
the indorsement of whitewashing; and both the interested individuals who
need whitewashing, and those others who practice mud-slinging, like to
encourage such confusion of ideas. One of the chief counts against those
who make indiscriminate assault upon men in business or men in public
life, is that they invite a reaction which is sure to tell powerfully in
favor of the unscrupulous scoundrel who really ought to be attacked, who
ought to be exposed, who ought, if possible, to be put in the
penitentiary. If Aristides is praised overmuch as just, people get tired
of hearing it; and overcensure of the unjust finally and from similar
reasons results in their favor.

Any excess is almost sure to invite a reaction; and, unfortunately, the
reaction, instead of taking the form of punishment of those guilty of
the excess, is very apt to take the form either of punishment of the
unoffending or of giving immunity, and even strength, to offenders. The
effort to make financial or political profit out of the destruction of
character can only result in public calamity. Gross and reckless
assaults on character, whether on the stump or in newspaper, magazine,
or book, create a morbid and vicious public sentiment, and at the same
time act as a profound deterrent to able men of normal sensitiveness and
tend to prevent them from entering the public service at any price. As
an instance in point, I may mention that one serious difficulty
encountered in getting the right type of men to dig the Panama Canal is
the certainty that they will be exposed, both without, and, I am sorry
to say, sometimes within Congress, to utterly reckless assaults on their
character and capacity.

At the risk of repetition let me say again that my plea is, not for
immunity to but for the most unsparing exposure of the politician who
betrays his trust, of the big business man who makes or spends his
fortune in illegitimate or corrupt ways. There should be a resolute
effort to hunt every such man out of the position he has disgraced.
Expose the crime, and hunt down the criminal; but remember that even in
the case of crime, if it is attacked in sensational, lurid, and
untruthful fashion, the attack may do more damage to the public mind
than the crime itself. It is because I feel that there should be no
rest in the endless war against the forces of evil that I ask that the
war be conducted with sanity as well as with resolution. The men with
the muck-rakes are often indispensable to the well-being of society; but
only if they know when to stop raking the muck, and to look upward to
the celestial crown above them, to the crown of worthy endeavor. There
are beautiful things above and round about them; and if they gradually
grow to feel that the whole world is nothing but muck, their power of
usefulness is gone. If the whole picture is painted black, there remains
no hue whereby to single out the rascals for distinction from their
fellows. Such painting finally induces a kind of moral color-blindness;
and people affected by it come to the conclusion that no man is really
black, and no man really white, but they are all gray. In other words,
they neither believe in the truth of the attack, nor in the honesty of
the man who is attacked; they grow as suspicious of the accusation as of
the offense; it becomes well-nigh hopeless to stir them either to wrath
against wrong-doing or to enthusiasm for what is right; and such a
mental attitude in the public gives hope to every knave, and is the
despair of honest men.

To assail the great and admitted evils of our political and industrial
life with such crude and sweeping generalizations as to include decent
men in the general condemnation means the searing of the public
conscience. There results a general attitude either of cynical belief in
and indifference to public corruption or else of a distrustful inability
to discriminate between the good and the bad. Either attitude is fraught
with untold damage to the country as a whole. The fool who has not sense
to discriminate between what is good and what is bad is well-nigh as
dangerous as the man who does discriminate and yet chooses the bad.
There is nothing more distressing to every good patriot, to every good
American, than the hard, scoffing spirit which treats the allegation of
dishonesty in a public man as a cause for laughter. Such laughter is
worse than the crackling of thorns under a pot, for it denotes not
merely the vacant mind, but the heart in which high emotions have been
choked before they could grow to fruition.

There is any amount of good in the world, and there never was a time
when loftier and more disinterested work for the betterment of mankind
was being done than now. The forces that tend for evil are great and
terrible, but the forces of truth and love and courage and honesty and
generosity and sympathy are also stronger than ever before. It is a
foolish and timid, no less than a wicked thing, to blink the fact that
the forces of evil are strong, but it is even worse to fail to take into
account the strength of the forces that tell for good. Hysterical
sensationalism is the very poorest weapon wherewith to fight for lasting
righteousness. The men who, with stern sobriety and truth, assail the
many evils of our time, whether in the public press, or in magazines, or
in books, are the leaders and allies of all engaged in the work for
social and political betterment. But if they give good reason for
distrust of what they say, if they chill the ardor of those who demand
truth as a primary virtue, they thereby betray the good cause, and play
into the hands of the very men against whom they are nominally at

At this moment we are passing through a period of great unrest--social,
political, and industrial unrest. It is of the utmost importance for our
future that this should prove to be not the unrest of mere
rebelliousness against life, of mere dissatisfaction with the inevitable
inequality of conditions, but the unrest of a resolute and eager
ambition to secure the betterment of the individual and the nation. So
far as this movement of agitation throughout the country takes the form
of a fierce discontent with evil, of a determination to punish the
authors of evil, whether in industry or politics, the feeling is to be
heartily welcomed as a sign of healthy life.

If, on the other hand, it turns into a mere crusade of appetite against
appetite, of a contest between the brutal greed of the "have-nots" and
the brutal greed of the "haves," then it has no significance for good,
but only for evil. If it seeks to establish a line of cleavage, not
along the line which divides good men from bad, but along that other
line, running at right angles thereto, which divides those who are well
off from those who are less well off, then it will be fraught with
immeasurable harm to the body politic.

We can no more and no less afford to condone evil in the man of capital
than evil in the man of no capital. The wealthy man who exults because
there is a failure of justice in the effort to bring some trust magnate
to an account for his misdeeds is as bad as, and no worse than, the
so-called labor leader who clamorously strives to excite a foul class
feeling on behalf of some other labor leader who is implicated in
murder. One attitude is as bad as the other, and no worse; in each case
the accused is entitled to exact justice; and in neither case is there
need of action by others which can be construed into an expression of
sympathy for crime.

It is a prime necessity that if the present unrest is to result in
permanent good the emotion shall be translated into action, and that the
action shall be marked by honesty, sanity and self-restraint. There is
mighty little good in a mere spasm of reform. The reform that counts is
that which comes through steady, continuous growth; violent emotionalism
leads to exhaustion....

The first requisite in the public servants who are to deal in this shape
with corporations, whether as legislators or as executives, is honesty.
This honesty can be no respecter of persons. There can be no such thing
as unilateral honesty. The danger is not really from corrupt
corporations; it springs from the corruption itself, whether exercised
for or against corporations.

The eighth commandment reads, "Thou shalt not steal." It does not read,
"Thou shalt not steal from the rich man." It does not read, "Thou shalt
not steal from the poor man." It reads simply and plainly, "Thou shalt
not steal." No good whatever will come from that warped and mock
morality which denounces the misdeeds of men of wealth and forgets the
misdeeds practiced at their expense; which denounces bribery, but blinds
itself to blackmail; which foams with rage if a corporation secures
favors by improper methods, and merely leers with hideous mirth if the
corporation is itself wronged. The only public servant who can be
trusted honestly to protect the rights of the public against the misdeed
of a corporation is that public man who will just as surely protect the
corporation itself from wrongful aggression. If a public man is willing
to yield to popular clamor and do wrong to the men of wealth or to rich
corporations, it may be set down as certain that if the opportunity
comes he will secretly and furtively do wrong to the public in the
interest of a corporation.

But, in addition to honesty, we need sanity. No honesty will make a
public man useful if that man is timid or foolish, if he is a hot-headed
zealot or an impracticable visionary. As we strive for reform we find
that it is not at all merely the case of a long uphill pull. On the
contrary, there is almost as much of breeching work as of collar work;
to depend only on traces means that there will soon be a runaway and an
upset. The men of wealth who to-day are trying to prevent the regulation
and control of their business in the interest of the public by the
proper Government authorities will not succeed, in my judgment, in
checking the progress of the movement. But if they did succeed they
would find that they had sown the wind and would surely reap the
whirlwind, for they would ultimately provoke the violent excesses which
accompany a reform coming by convulsion instead of by steady and natural

On the other hand, the wild preachers of unrest and discontent, the wild
agitators against the entire existing order, the men who act crookedly,
whether because of sinister design or from mere puzzleheadedness, the
men who preach destruction without proposing any substitute for what
they intend to destroy, or who propose a substitute which would be far
worse than the existing evils--all these men are the most dangerous
opponents of real reform. If they get their way, they will lead the
people into a deeper pit than any into which they could fall under the
present system. If they fail to get their way, they will still do
incalculable harm by provoking the kind of reaction which, in its revolt
against the senseless evil of their teaching, would enthrone more
securely than ever the very evils which their misguided followers
believe they are attacking.

More important than aught else is the development of the broadest
sympathy of man for man. The welfare of the wage-worker, the welfare of
the tiller of the soil, upon these depend the welfare of the entire
country; their good is not to be sought in pulling down others; but
their good must be the prime object of all our statesmanship.

Materially we must strive to secure a broader economic opportunity for
all men, so that each shall have a better chance to show the stuff of
which he is made. Spiritually and ethically we must strive to bring
about clean living and right thinking. We appreciate that the things of
the body are important; but we appreciate also that the things of the
soul are immeasurably more important. The foundation stone of national
life is, and ever must be, the high individual character of the average


[45] From an address delivered by the President at the laying of the
corner-stone of the Office Building of the House of Representatives,
April 14, 1906.



The war of twenty months' duration is now a thing of the past, and our
united squadron, having completed its functions, is to be herewith
dispersed. But our duties as naval men are not at all lightened for that
reason. To preserve in perpetuity the fruits of this war, to promote to
ever greater heights of prosperity the fortunes of the country, the
navy, which, irrespective of peace or war, has to stand between the
Empire and shocks from abroad, must always maintain its strength at sea
and must be prepared to meet any emergency.

This strength does not consist solely in ships and armaments, it
consists also in material ability to utilize such agents. When we
understand that one gun that scores a hundred per cent of hits is a
match for a hundred of the enemy's guns each of which scores only one
per cent, it becomes evident that we sailors must have recourse before
everything to the strength which is over and above externals. The
triumphs recently won by our navy are largely to be attributed to the
habitual training which enabled us to garner the fruits of the fighting.
If, then, we infer the future from the past, we recognize that, though
wars may cease, we cannot abandon ourselves to ease and rest. A
soldier's whole life is one continuous and unceasing battle, and there
is no reason why his responsibilities should vary with the state of the
times. In days of crisis he has to display his strength, in days of
peace to accumulate it, thus perpetually and uniquely discharging his
duties to the full.

If men calling themselves sailors grasp at the pleasures of peace, they
will learn the lesson that, however fine in appearance their engines of
war, those, like a house built on the sand, will fall at the first
approach of the storm.

When in ancient times we conquered Korea that country remained over four
hundred years under our control, only to be lost by Japan as soon as our
navy had declined. Again, when under the sway of the Tokugawa in modern
days our armaments were neglected, the coming of a few American ships
threw us into distress. On the other hand, the British navy, which won
the battles of the Nile and of Trafalgar, not only made England as
secure as a great mountain, but also by thenceforth carefully
maintaining its strength and keeping it on a level with the world's
progress has safeguarded that country's interests and promoted its

Such lessons, whether ancient or modern, occidental or oriental, though
to some extent they are the outcome of political happenings, must be
regarded as in the main the natural result of whether the soldier
remembers war in the day of peace. We naval men who have survived the
war must plan future developments and seek not to fall behind the
progress of the time. If, keeping the instructions of our Sovereign ever
graven on our hearts, we serve him earnestly and diligently, and putting
forth our full strength await what the hour may bring forth, we shall
then have discharged our great duty of perpetually guarding our country.


[46] Address at the dispersal of the squadron at the close of the
Russo-Japanese war.



Citizens of a great, free, and prosperous country, we come hither to
honor the men, our fathers, who on this spot struck the first blow in
the contest which made our country independent. Here, beneath the hills
they trod, by the peaceful river on whose shores they dwelt, amidst the
fields that they sowed and reaped, we come to tell their story, to try
ourselves by their lofty standard, to know if we are their worthy
children; and, standing reverently where they stood and fought and died,
to swear before God and each other, that government of the people, by
the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

The minute man of the Revolution! And who was he? He was the husband and
father, who left the plough in the furrow, the hammer on the bench, and,
kissing his wife and children, marched to die or to be free! He was the
old, the middle-aged, the young. He was Captain Miles, of Acton, who
reproved his men for jesting on the march! He was Deacon Josiah Haines,
of Sudbury, eighty years old, who marched with his company to South
Bridge, at Concord, then joined in that hot pursuit to Lexington, and
fell as gloriously as Warren at Bunker Hill. He was James Hayward, of
Acton, twenty-two years old, foremost in that deadly race from
Charlestown to Concord, who raised his piece at the same moment with a
British soldier, each exclaiming, "You are a dead man!" The Briton
dropped, shot through the heart. Hayward fell mortally wounded.
"Father," said he, "I started with forty balls; I have three left. I
never did such a day's work before. Tell mother not to mourn too much;
and tell her whom I love more than my mother that I am not sorry I
turned out."

The last living link with the Revolution has long been broken; and we
who stand here to-day have a sympathy with the men at the old North
Bridge, which those who preceded us here at earlier celebrations could
not know. With them war was a name and a tradition. When they assembled
to celebrate this day, they saw a little group of tottering forms, whose
pride was that, before living memory, they had been minute men of
American Independence.

But with us, how changed! War is no longer a tradition, half romantic
and obscure. It has ravaged how many of our homes, it has wrung how many
of the hearts before me? North and South, we know the pang. We do not
count around us a few feeble veterans of the contest, but we are girt
with a cloud of witnesses. Behold them here to-day, sharing in these
pious and peaceful rites, the honored citizens whose glory it is that
they were minute men of American liberty and union! These men of to-day
interpret to us, with resistless eloquence, the men and the times we
commemorate. Now, if never before, we understand the Revolution. Now, we
know the secrets of those old hearts and homes.

No royal governor sits in yon stately capitol; no hostile fleet for many
a year has vexed the waters of our coast; nor is any army but our own
ever likely to tread our soil. Not such are our enemies to-day. They do
not come proudly stepping to the drum-beat, with bayonets flashing in
the morning sun. But wherever party spirit shall strain the ancient
guarantees of freedom, or bigotry and ignorance of caste shall strike at
equal rights, or corruption shall poison the very springs of national
life, there, minute men of liberty, are your Lexington Green and Concord
Bridge! And, as you love your country and your kind, and would have your
children rise up and call you blessed, spare not the enemy! Over the
hills, out of the earth, down from the clouds, pour in resistless might!
Fire from every rock and tree, from door and window, from hearth-stone
and chamber; hang upon his flank and rear from morn to sunset, and so
through a land blazing with holy indignation, hurl the hordes of
ignorance and corruption and injustice back, back in utter defeat and



Upon this field consecrated by American valor we meet to consecrate
ourselves to American union. In this hallowed ground lie buried, not
only brave soldiers of the blue and the gray, but the passions of war,
the jealousies of sections, and the bitter root of all our national
differences, human slavery. Here long and angry controversies of
political dogma, of material interest, and of local pride and tradition,
came to their decisive struggle. As the fate of Christendom was
determined at Tours, that of American Independence at Saratoga, and that
of modern Europe at Waterloo, the destiny of the American Union was
decided at Gettysburg. A hundred other famous fields there are of the
same American bravery in the same tremendous strife; fields whose proud
and terrible tale history and song will never tire of telling. But it is
here that the struggle touched its highest point. Here broke the fiery
crest of that invading wave of war.

This is one of the historic fields of the world, and to us Americans no
other has an interest so profound. Marathon and Arbela, Worcester and
Valmy, even our own Bunker Hill and Saratoga and Yorktown, fields of
undying fame, have not for us a significance so vital and so beneficent
as this field of Gettysburg. Around its chief and central interest
gather associations of felicitous significance. Like the House of
Delegates in Williamsburg, where Patrick Henry roused Virginia to
resistance; like Faneuil Hall in Boston, where Samuel Adams lifted New
England to independence; like Carpenter's Hall in Philadelphia, where
the Continental Congress assembled, this field is invested with the
undying charm of famous words fitly spoken. While yet the echoes of the
battle might have seemed to linger in the awed and grieving air, stood
the sad and patient and devoted man, whose burden was greater than that
of any man of his generation, and as greatly borne as any solemn
responsibility in human history. Upon this field he spoke the few simple
words which enshrine the significance of the great controversy and which
have become a part of this historic scene, to endure with the memory of
Gettysburg, and to touch the heart and exalt the hope of every American
from the gulf to the lakes and from ocean to ocean, so long as this
valley shall smile with spring and glow with autumn, and day and night
and seed time and harvest shall not fail.

To-day his prophetic vision is fulfilled. The murmur of these hosts of
peace encamped upon this field of war, this universal voice of friendly
greeting and congratulation, these cheers of the gray echoing the cheers
of the blue, what are they but the answering music of those chords of
memory; the swelling chorus of the Union responding to the better
angels of our nature? If there be joy in Heaven this day, it is in the
heart of Abraham Lincoln as he looks down upon this field of Gettysburg.

But that the glory of this day, and of America, and of human nature, may
be full, it is the veterans and survivors of the armies whose tremendous
conflict interpreted the Constitution, who to-day, here upon the field
of battle and upon its twenty-fifth anniversary, clasp friendly hands of
sympathy to salute a common victory. This is a spectacle without
precedent in history. No field of the cloth of gold, or of the grounded
arms, no splendid scene of the royal adjustment of conquests, the
diplomatic settlement of treaties, or the papal incitement of crusades,
rivals in moral grandeur and significance this simple pageant.

The sun of Gettysburg rose on the 1st of July and saw the army of the
gray already advancing in line of battle; the army of the blue still
hastening eagerly forward and converging to this point. The glory of
midsummer filled this landscape as if nature had arrayed a fitting scene
for a transcendent event. Once more the unquailing lines so long arrayed
against each other stood face to face. Once more the inexpressible
emotion mingled of yearning memory, of fond affection, of dread
foreboding, of high hope, of patriotic enthusiasm and of stern resolve,
swept for a moment over thousands of brave hearts, and the next instant
the overwhelming storm of battle burst. For three long, proud, immortal
days it raged and swayed, the earth trembling, the air quivering, the
sky obscured; with shouting charge, and rattling volley, the thundering
cannonade piling the ground with mangled and bleeding blue and gray, the
old, the young, but always and everywhere the devoted and the brave.
Doubtful the battle hung and paused. Then a formidable bolt of war was
forged on yonder wooded height and launched with withering blasts and
roar of fire against the foe. It was a living bolt and sped as if
resistless. It reached and touched the flaming line of the embattled
blue. It pierced the line. For one brief moment in the sharp agony of
mortal strife it held its own. It was the supreme moment of the peril of
the Union. It was the heroic crisis of the war. But the fiery force was
spent. In one last, wild, tumultuous struggle brave men dashed headlong
against men as brave, and the next moment that awful bolt of daring
courage was melted in the fervent heat of an equal valor, and the battle
of Gettysburg was fought.

If the rising sun of the Fourth of July, 1863, looked upon a sad and
unwonted scene, a desolated battlefield, upon which the combatants upon
either side had been American citizens, yet those combatants could they
have seen aright would have hailed that day as more glorious than ever
before. For as the children of Israel beheld Moses descending amid the
clouds and thunder of the sacred mount bearing the divinely illuminated
law, so from that smoking and blood-drenched field on which all hope of
future union might seem to have perished utterly, they would have seen a
more perfect union rising, with the constitution at last immutably
interpreted, and they would have heard, before they were uttered by
human lips, the words of which Gettysburg is the immortal pledge to
mankind, government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall
not perish from the earth.


[47] Delivered at Gettysburg, July 3, 1888. The occasion was a reunion
of the Blue and the Gray on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the great



Napoleon thought France was too small, that Europe should bow down to
him. But as soon as this idea took possession of his soul he became
powerless, while he meditated the subjugation of Russia. He who holds
the winds in his power, gathered the snows from the north and blew them
upon his six hundred thousand men. They fled, they froze, they
perished. And now the mighty Napoleon, who had resolved on universal
dominion, is summoned to answer for the violation of that ancient law,
"Thou shalt not covet anything which is thy neighbor's." And how is the
mighty fallen! He beneath whose proud footstep Europe trembled, he is
now an exile at Elba, and now, finally a prisoner on the rock of St.
Helena, and there on a barren island, in an unfrequented sea, in the
crater of an extinguished volcano, there is the death-bed of the mighty
conqueror. And all his annexations have come to that! His last hour has
now come, and he, the man of destiny, he who had rocked the world as in
the throes of an earthquake, is now powerless--even as a beggar, so he
died. On the wings of a tempest, that raged with unwonted fury, up to
the throne of the only power that controlled him while he lived, went
the fiery soul of that wonderful warrior, another witness to the
existence of that eternal decree, that they who do not rule in
righteousness shall perish from the earth.



A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon, a
magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity, and
gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at
last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and
thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.

I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I
saw him at Toulon. I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of
Paris. I saw him at the head of the army of Italy. I saw him crossing
the bridge of Lodi with the tricolor in his hand. I saw him in Egypt in
the shadows of the Pyramids. I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the
eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo, at
Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow
and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's
withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster, driven by
a million bayonets back upon Paris--clutched like a wild beast--banished
to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his
genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and
Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him
at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the
sad and solemn sea.

I thought of the orphans and widows he had made, of the tears that had
been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him,
pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said, "I would
rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather
have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes
growing purple in the amorous kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather
have been that poor peasant, with my loving wife by my side, knitting as
the day died out of the sky, with my children upon my knees and their
arms about me. I would rather have been that man, and gone down to the
tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that
imperial impersonation of force and murder, known as Napoleon the


[48] By permission of C. P. Farrell, publisher.



When this government was founded there were no great individual or
corporate fortunes, and commerce and industry were being carried on very
much as they had been carried on in the days when Nineveh and Babylon
stood in the Mesopotamian Valley. Sails, oars, wheels--those were the
instruments of commerce. The pack train, the wagon train, the row boat,
the sailing craft--those were the methods of commerce. Everything has
been revolutionized in the business world since then, and the progress
of civilization from being a dribble has become a torrent. There was no
particular need at that time of bothering as to whether the nation or
the state had control of corporations. They were easy to control. Now,
however, the exact reverse is the case. And remember when I say
corporations I do not mean merely trusts, technically so-called, merely
combinations of corporations, or corporations under certain peculiar
conditions. For instance, some time ago the Attorney General took action
against a certain trust. There was considerable discussion as to whether
the trust aimed at would not seek to get out from under the law by
becoming a single corporation. Now I want laws that will enable us to
deal with any evil no matter what shape it takes.

I want to see the government able to get at it definitely, so that the
action of the government cannot be evaded by any turning within or
without federal or state statutes. At present we have really no
efficient control over a big corporation which does business in more
than one state. Frequently the corporation has nothing whatever to do
with the state in which it is incorporated except to get incorporated;
and all its business may be done in entirely different
communities--communities which may object very much to the methods of
incorporation in the state named. I do not believe that you can get any
action by any state, I do not believe it practicable to get action by
all the states that will give us satisfactory control of the trusts, of
big corporations; and the result is at present that we have a great,
powerful, artificial creation which has no creator to which it is
responsible. The creator creates it and then it goes and operates
somewhere else, and there is no interest on the part of the creator to
deal with it. It does not do anything where the creator has power; it
operates entirely outside of the creator's jurisdiction.

It is, of course, a mere truism to say that the corporation is the
creature of the state, that the state is sovereign. There should be a
real and not a nominal sovereign, some one sovereign to which the
corporation shall be really and not nominally responsible. At present if
we pass laws nobody can tell whether they will amount to anything. That
has two bad effects. In the first place, the corporation becomes
indifferent to the lawmaking body; and in the next place, the lawmaking
body gets into that most pernicious custom of passing a law not with
reference to what will be done under it, but with reference to its
effects upon the opinions of the voters. That is a bad thing. When any
body of lawmakers passes a law, not simply with reference to whether
that law will do good or ill, but with the knowledge that not much will
come of it, and yet that perhaps the people as a whole will like to see
it on the statute books--it does not speak well for the lawmakers, and
it does not speak well for the people either. What I hope to see is
power given to the national legislature which shall make the control
real. It would be an excellent thing if you could have all the states
act on somewhat similar lines so that you would make it unnecessary for
the national government to act; but all of you know perfectly well that
the states will not act on similar lines. No advance whatever has been
made in the direction of intelligent dealing by the states as a
collective body with those great corporations.

I am not advocating anything very revolutionary. I am advocating action
to prevent anything revolutionary. Now if we can get adequate control by
the nation of these great corporations, then we can pass legislation
which will give us the power of regulation and supervision over them.
If the nation had that power, I should advocate as strenuously as I know
how that the power should be exercised with extreme caution and


[49] From a speech delivered at Symphony Hall, Boston, August 25, 1902.



The love we feel for that race you cannot measure nor comprehend. As I
attest it here, the spirit of my old black mammy from her home up there
looks down to bless, and through the tumult of this night steals the
sweet music of her croonings as thirty years ago she held me in her
black arms and led me smiling into sleep. This scene vanishes as I
speak, and I catch a vision of an old Southern home, with its lofty
pillars, and its white pigeons fluttering down through the golden air. I
see women with strained and anxious faces, and children alert yet
helpless. I see night come down with its dangers and its apprehensions,
and in a big homely room I feel on my tired head the touch of loving
hands, and I thank God that she is safe in her sanctuary, because her
slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or on guard at her chamber door,
put a black man's loyalty between her and danger.

I catch another vision. The crisis of battle, a soldier struck,
staggering, fallen. I see a slave, scuffling through the smoke, winding
his black arms about the fallen form, reckless of the hurtling
death--bending his trusty face to catch the words that tremble on the
stricken lips. I see him by the weary bedside, ministering with
uncomplaining patience, praying with all his humble heart that God will
lift his master up, until death comes in mercy and in honor to still the
soldier's agony and seal the soldier's life. I see him by the open
grave, mute, motionless, uncovered, suffering for the death of him who
in life fought against his freedom. I see him when the mound is heaped
and the great drama of his life is closed, turn away and with downcast
eyes and uncertain step start out into new and strange fields,
faltering, struggling, but moving on, until his shambling figure is lost
in the light of this better and brighter day. And out into this new
world--strange to me as to him, dazzling, bewildering both--I follow!
And may God forget my people when they forget these.



The great comprehensive truths, written in letters of living light on
every page of our history,--the language addressed by every past age of
New England to all future ages, is this: Human happiness has no perfect
security but freedom; freedom, none but virtue; virtue, none but
knowledge; and neither freedom, nor virtue, nor knowledge, has any vigor
or immortal hope, except in the principles of the Christian faith, and
in the sanctions of the Christian religion.

Men of Massachusetts! citizens of Boston! descendants of the early
immigrants! consider your blessings; consider your duties. You have an
inheritance acquired by the labors and sufferings of six successive
generations of ancestors. They founded the fabric of your prosperity in
a severe and masculine morality, having intelligence for its cement, and
religion for its groundwork. Continue to build on the same foundation,
and by the same principles let the extending temple of your country's
freedom rise in the spirit of ancient times, in proportions of
intellectual and moral architecture,--just, simple, and sublime.



"There was a South of slavery and secession--that South is dead. There
is a South of union and freedom--that South, thank God, is living,
breathing, growing every hour." These words, delivered from the immortal
lips of Benjamin H. Hill, at Tammany Hall, in 1866, true then and true
now, I shall make my text to-night.

Mr. President and Gentlemen: Let me express to you my appreciation of
the kindness by which I am permitted to address you. I make this abrupt
acknowledgment advisedly, for I feel that if, when I raise my provincial
voice in this ancient and august presence, I could find courage for no
more than the opening sentence, it would be well if in that sentence I
had met in a rough sense my obligation as a guest, and had perished, so
to speak, with courtesy on my lips and grace in my heart. Permitted,
through your kindness, to catch my second wind, let me say that I
appreciate the significance of being the first Southerner to speak at
this board, which bears the substance, if it surpasses the semblance, of
original New England hospitality--and honors the sentiment that in turn
honors you, but in which my personality is lost, and the compliment to
my people made plain.

My friends, Dr. Talmage has told you that the typical American has yet
to come. Let me tell you that he has already come. Great types, like
valuable plants, are slow to flower and fruit. But from the union of the
colonists, Puritans and Cavaliers, from the straightening of their
purposes and the crossing of their blood, slow perfecting through a
century, came he who stands as the first typical American, the first who
comprehended within himself all the strength and gentleness, all the
majesty and grace of this republic--Abraham Lincoln. He was the sum of
Puritan and Cavalier, for in his ardent nature were fused the virtues of
both, and in the depths of his great soul the faults of both were lost.
He was greater than Puritan, greater than Cavalier, in that he was
American, and that in his honest form were first gathered the vast and
thrilling forces of his ideal government--charging it with such
tremendous meaning and elevating it above human suffering that
martyrdom, though infamously aimed, came as a fitting crown to a life
consecrated from the cradle to human liberty. Let us, each cherishing
the traditions and honoring his fathers, build with reverent hands to
the type of this simple but sublime life, in which all types are
honored, and in our common glory as Americans there will be plenty and
to spare for your forefathers and for mine.

Dr. Talmage has drawn for you, with a master's hand, the picture of your
returning armies. He has told you how, in the pomp and circumstance of
war, they came back to you, marching with proud and victorious tread,
reading their glory in a nation's eyes! Will you bear with me while I
tell you of another army that sought its home at the close of the late
war--an army that marched home in defeat and not in victory--in pathos
and not in splendor, but in glory that equaled yours, and to hearts as
loving as ever welcomed heroes home! Let me picture to you the footsore
Confederate soldier, as buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole
which was to bear testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith,
he turned his face southward from Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of
him as ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and
wounds. Having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the
hands of his comrades in silence, and lifting his tear-stained and
pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot old Virginia hills,
pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful
journey. What does he find--let me ask you who went to your homes eager
to find, in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four
years' sacrifice--what does he find when, having followed the
battle-stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading death not half
so much as surrender, he reaches the home he left so prosperous and
beautiful? He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves
free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money
worthless, his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away;
his people without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and the
burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very
traditions are gone. Without money, credit, employment, material, or
training; and beside all this, confronted with the gravest problem that
ever met human intelligence--the establishing of a status for the vast
body of his liberated slaves.

What does he do--this hero in gray with a heart of gold? Does he sit
down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. Surely God, who had
stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin
was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration swifter. The
soldier stepped from the trenches into the furrow; horses that had
charged Federal guns marched before the plow, and fields that ran red
with human blood in April were green with the harvest in June; women
reared in luxury cut up their dresses and made breeches for their
husbands, and, with a patience and heroism that fit women always as a
garment, gave their hands to work. There was little bitterness in all
this. Cheerfulness and frankness prevailed.

Never was nobler duty confided to human hands than the uplifting and
upbuilding of the prostrate and bleeding South--misguided, perhaps, but
beautiful in her suffering, and honest, brave and generous always. In
the record of her social, industrial and political lustration we await
with confidence the verdict of the world.

The new South is enamored of her new work. Her soul is stirred with the
breath of a new life. The light of a grander day is falling fair on her
face. She is thrilling with the consciousness of growing power and
prosperity. As she stands upright, full-statured and equal among the
people of the earth, breathing the keen air and looking out upon the
expanded horizon, she understands that her emancipation came because
through the inscrutable wisdom of God her honest purpose was crossed,
and her brave armies were beaten.

This is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. The South has
nothing for which to apologize. She believes that the late struggle
between the States was war and not rebellion; revolution and not
conspiracy, and that her convictions were as honest as yours. I should
be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the South and to my own convictions
if I did not make this plain in this presence. The South has nothing to
take back. In my native town of Athens is a monument that crowns its
central hill--a plain, white shaft. Deep cut into its shining side is a
name dear to me above the names of men--that of a brave and simple man
who died in brave and simple faith. Not for all the glories of New
England, from Plymouth Rock all the way, would I exchange the heritage
he left me in his soldier's death. To the foot of that shaft I shall
send my children's children to reverence him who ennobled their name
with his heroic blood. But, sir, speaking from the shadow of that
memory, which I honor as I do nothing else on earth, I say that the
cause in which he suffered and for which he gave his life was adjudged
by higher and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad that the
omniscient God held the balance of battle in His Almighty hand and that
human slavery was swept forever from American soil, and the American
Union was saved from the wreck of war.

This message, Mr. President, comes to you from consecrated ground. Every
foot of soil about the city in which I live is as sacred as a
battle-ground of the republic. Every hill that invests it is hallowed to
you by the blood of your brothers who died for your victory, and doubly
hallowed to us by the blood of those who died hopeless, but undaunted,
in defeat--sacred soil to all of us--rich with memories that make us
purer and stronger and better--silent but stanch witnesses in its red
desolation of the matchless valor of American hearts and the deathless
glory of American arms--speaking an eloquent witness in its white peace
and prosperity to the indissoluble union of American States and the
imperishable brotherhood of the American people.

Now, what answer has New England to this message? Will she permit the
prejudice of war to remain in the hearts of the conquerors, when it has
died in the hearts of the conquered? Will she transmit this prejudice to
the next generation, that in their hearts which never felt the generous
ardor of conflict it may perpetuate itself? Will she withhold, save in
strained courtesy, the hand which straight from his soldier's heart
Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox? Will she make the vision of a
restored and happy people, which gathered above the couch of your dying
captain, filling his heart with grace, touching his lips with praise,
and glorifying his path to the grave--will she make this vision, on
which the last sigh of his expiring soul breathed a benediction, a cheat
and delusion? If she does, the South, never abject in asking for
comradeship, must accept with dignity its refusal; but if she does not
refuse to accept in frankness and sincerity this message of good will
and friendship, then will the prophecy of Webster, delivered in this
very society forty years ago amid tremendous applause, be verified in
its fullest sense, when he said: "Standing hand to hand and clasping
hands, we should remain united as we have been for sixty years, citizens
of the same country, members of the same government, united, all united
now and united forever." There have been difficulties, contentions, and
controversies, but I tell you that in my judgment,

                           "Those opened eyes,
     Which like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
     All of one nature, of one substance bred,
     Did lately meet in th' intestine shock,
     Shall now, in mutual, well beseeming ranks,
     March all one way."



I do not think I exaggerate when I say that never since God made
Demosthenes has He made a man better fitted for a great work than He did
Daniel O'Connell.

You may say that I am partial to my hero, but John Randolph of Roanoke,
who hated an Irishman almost as much as he did a Yankee, when he got to
London and heard O'Connell, the old slaveholder threw up his hands and
exclaimed, "This is the man, those are the lips, the most eloquent that
speak English in my day," and I think he was right.

Webster could address a bench of judges; Everett could charm a college;
Choate could delude a jury; Clay could magnetize a senate; and Tom
Corwin could hold the mob in his right hand, but no one of these men
could do more than this one thing. The wonder about O'Connell was that
he could out-talk Corwin, he could charm a college better than Everett,
and leave Henry Clay himself far behind in magnetizing a senate.

It has been my privilege to have heard all the great orators of America
who have become singularly famed about the world's circumference. I know
what was the majesty of Webster; I know what it was to melt under the
magnetism of Henry Clay; I have seen eloquence in the iron logic of
Calhoun; but O'Connell was Webster, Clay, and Calhoun in one. Before the
courts, logic; at the bar of the senate, unanswerable and dignified; on
the platform, grace, wit, and pathos; before the masses, a whole man.
Emerson says, "There is no true eloquence, unless there is a man behind
the speech." Daniel O'Connell was listened to because all England and
Ireland knew that there was a man behind the speech,--one who could be
neither bought, bullied, nor cheated.

When I was in Naples, I asked Thomas Fowell Buxton, "Is Daniel
O'Connell an honest man?" "As honest a man as ever breathed," said he,
and then he told me the following story: "When, in 1830, O'Connell first
entered Parliament, the anti-slavery cause was so weak that it had only
Lushington and myself to speak for it, and we agreed that when he spoke
I should cheer him up, and when I spoke he should cheer me, and these
were the only cheers we ever got. O'Connell came with one Irish member
to support him. A large party of members (I think Buxton said
twenty-seven) whom we called the West India interest, the Bristol party,
the slave party, went to him, saying, 'O'Connell, at last you are in the
House, with one helper. If you never go down to Freemason's Hall with
Buxton and Brougham, here are twenty-seven votes for you on every Irish
question. If you work with those Abolitionists, count us always against

"It was a terrible temptation. How many a so-called statesman would have
yielded! O'Connell said, 'Gentlemen, God knows I speak for the saddest
people the sun sees; but may my right hand forget its cunning and my
tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if to help Ireland--even
Ireland--I forget the negro one single hour.' From that day," said
Buxton, "Lushington and I never went into the lobby that O'Connell did
not follow us."

And then, besides his irreproachable character he had what is half the
power of a popular orator, he had a majestic presence. A little
O'Connell would have been no O'Connell at all. In youth he had the brow
of a Jupiter and a stature of Apollo. Sydney Smith says of Lord John
Russell's five feet, when he went down to Yorkshire after the Reform
Bill had passed, the stalwart hunters of Yorkshire exclaimed, "What,
that little shrimp, he carry the Reform Bill!" "No, no!" said Smith, "he
was a large man, but the labors of the bill shrunk him."

I remember the story Russell Lowell tells of Webster; when a year or two
before his death, the Whig party thought of dissolution, Webster came
home from Washington and went down to Faneuil Hall to protest, and four
thousand of his fellow Whigs came out; drawing himself up to his
loftiest proportion, his brow charged with thunder, before the listening
thousands, he said, "Gentlemen, I am a Whig, a Massachusetts Whig, a
Faneuil Hall Whig, a revolutionary Whig, a constitutional Whig. If you
break up the Whig party, sir, where am I to go?" And says Lowell, "We
all held our breath, thinking where he could go. But if he had been five
feet three, we should have said, 'Who cares where you go?'"

Well, O'Connell had all that; and true nature seemed to be speaking all
over him. It would have been a pleasure even to look at him if he had
not spoken at all, and all you thought of was a greyhound.

And then he had what so few American speakers have, a voice that sounded
the gamut. I heard him once in Exeter Hall say, "Americans, I send my
voice careering across the Atlantic like a thunderstorm, to tell the
slave-holders of the Carolinas that God's thunderbolts are hot, and to
remind the negro that the dawn of his redemption is drawing near," and I
seemed to hear his voice reverberating and reëchoing back to Boston from
the Rocky Mountains.

And then, with the slightest possible flavor of an Irish brogue, he
would tell a story that would make all Exeter Hall laugh, and the next
moment there would be tears in his voice, like an old song, and five
thousand men would be in tears. And all the while no effort--he seemed
only breathing.

     "As effortless as woodland nooks
      Send violets up and paint them blue."


[50] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.



I venture to prophesy there are those now living who will see this
favored land among the most powerful on earth; able, sir, to take care
of herself, without resorting to that policy which is always so
dangerous, though sometimes unavoidable, of calling in foreign aid. Yes,
sir, they will see her great in arts and in arms, her golden harvests
waving over fields of immeasurable extent, her commerce permeating the
most distant seas. But, sir, you must have men, you cannot get along
without them. Those heavy forests of valuable timber under which your
lands are groaning must be cleared away. Those vast riches which cover
the face of your soil as well as those which lie hid in its bosom are to
be developed and gathered only by the skill and enterprise of men. Your
timber must be worked up into ships to transport the productions of the
soil from which it has been cleared. Then you must have commercial men
and commercial capital to take off your productions and find the best
markets for them abroad. Your great want, sir, is the want of men, and
these you must have and will have speedily if you are wise.

Do you ask how you are to get them? Open your doors and they will come
in. The population of the Old World is full to overflowing. That
population is oppressed by the government under which they live. They
are already standing on tiptoe on their native shores and looking to
your coasts with wistful and longing eyes. They see here a land blessed
with natural and political advantages, which are not equaled by those of
any other country upon earth, a land upon which a gracious Providence
hath emptied the horn of abundance, a land over which peace hath now
stretched forth her white wings, and where content and plenty lie down
at every door.

Sir, they see something still more attractive than all this. They see a
land where Liberty hath taken up her abode, that Liberty whom they had
considered a fabled goddess existing only in the fancies of poets. They
see her here a real divinity, her altars rising on every hand throughout
these happy states, her glories chanted by three millions of tongues and
the whole region smiling under her blessed influence. Let but this, our
celestial goddess, stretch forth her fair hands toward the people of the
Old World, and you will see them pouring in from the North, from the
South, from the East, and from the West. Your wilderness will be cleared
and settled, your deserts will smile, your ranks will be filled, and you
will soon be in a condition to defy the powers of any adversary.



To-day, a century after Washington, we are called to a vision as
inspiring and imperative as that which came to him as he rode up the
Mohawk, and to a greater organizing work than that which he performed
with such wisdom, courage, patience, and success. He was commanded to
organize a nation; we are commanded to organize the world. He saw that
the time had come when our power and our true interests must be measured
on a continental scale; we are warned that the time has come when we
must conceive of our power and our true interests by the measure of
mankind. Let no man think himself any longer in the first place as a New
England man, as a New Yorker, as a Virginian, but all of us
Americans,--that was the vision and message of Washington; and that
insight and that law, coming to petty, prejudiced, jealous, and
disordered states, put an end to chaos and brought peace, prosperity,
strength, largeness of life, and an ever broadening horizon. Let no man
think of himself any longer in the first place as an American, as an
Englishman, a Spaniard, a Frenchman, a German, a Russian, but all men in
the first place citizens of the world,--that is the message which has
been thundered in the ears of Washington's America in these eventful and
surprising years as it was never done before. It took a civil war to
teach Gadsden's Carolina and Washington's Virginia that the interests
of the nation are above those of the state, and that a state can only
then be true to itself and its duty when it remembers that there is a
lower and a higher, and knows well what that lower and that higher are.
Virginia and Massachusetts have no less genuine and worthy pride as
states, they do not put to smaller or less vital use their sacred
history and heritage, their great sons are no less their sons, because
they bowed their heads to the baptism of a nation which must measure its
powers and duties on a continental scale. They know that national life
into which they are incorporated as the nobler and more commanding life.
The nation is organized. Its logic was shaped finally in the fiery forge
of war.

The nation is the largest thing we have yet got organized. We must
organize the world. Unending jealousies, commercial clash, friction of
law, paralysis of industry, financial disorder, the misdirection and
miscarriage of good energy, mischievous ignorance and prejudice,
incalculable waste, chronic alarm, and devastating wars are before us
until we do it. That is the lesson of the hour. The relations and
interdependence of the nations of Christendom have become, by the
amazing advance of civilization in the century, closer, complexer, and
more imperious far than the relations of Massachusetts, Pennsylvania,
and Georgia, when Washington from the heights of the Alleghanies looked
into the West and thought of the continent. Yet France and Germany,
England and Russia, America and Spain, in their great burrs of guns,
jealous of each other, distrustful, envious, afraid, go on in their
separate, incoöperant, abortive ways, keeping God's earth in chaos, when
a great wisdom and great virtue like Washington's a hundred years ago
would convert them into a family of nations, into a federation and
fraternity, with a comprehensive law, an efficient police, and a
purposeful economy.

In the Parliament House at Westminster, among the scenes from English
history painted on the walls, the American is most stirred when he comes
to the Departure of the Pilgrim Fathers to found New England.
England--the England descended from the England which "harried them
out"--will not let that scene go as a part of American history only, but
claims it now as one of the proudest scenes in her own history, too. So
the American will no more view Wyclif and Shakespeare and Cromwell and
Milton and Gladstone as chiefly Englishmen, but as fellow-citizens,--as
he views Victor Hugo and Kant and Tolstoï and Mazzini. The American is
to be pitied who does not feel himself native to Stratford and to
London, as to St. Louis or St. Paul,--native to Leyden and to Weimar and
Geneva. Each narrower circle only gains in richness and in sacredness
and power as it expands into the larger; each community and state and
nation, as it enters into a broader and completer organic life. This is
the divine message to the world. Let there be peace; let there be order;
and, that there may be, let us know what manner of men we are. "Peace on
earth!"--that was the first Christmas greeting; and the first Christian
argument upon the hill of Mars,--"God hath made of one blood all nations
of men."


[51] By permission of the author.



I appeal to History! Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can
all the wealth of a universal commerce, can all the achievements of this
world's wisdom, secure to empire the permanency of its possessions?
Alas! Troy thought so once; yet the land of Priam lives only in song!
Thebes thought so once; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and her
very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intended to commemorate.
So thought Palmyra--where is she? So thought the countries of
Demosthenes and the Spartan; yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid
slave, and Athens insulted by the servile, mindless, and enervate
Ottoman. In his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined
immortality; and all its vanities, from the palace to the tomb, have,
with their ruins, erased the very impression of his footsteps. The days
of their glory are as if they had never been; and the island that was
then a speck, rude and neglected in the barren ocean, now rivals the
ubiquity of their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their
philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration of their
bards. Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, that England, proud
and potent as she appears, may not, one day, be what Athens is, and the
young America yet soar to be what Athens was! Who shall say, that, when
the European column shall have moldered, and the night of barbarism
obscured its very ruins, that mighty continent may not emerge from the
horizon to rule, for its time, sovereign of the ascendant!


[52] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.



When we undertake to criticise the Pilgrims, we ought first to ask
ourselves the question, where would they be to-day? Indeed, to be as
good as our fathers, we must be better. Imitation is not discipleship.
Thee and thou, a stationary hat, bad grammar and worse manners, with an
ugly coat, are not George Fox to-day. You will recognize him in any one
who rises from the lap of artificial life, flings away its softness, and
startles you with the sight of a man. Neither do I acknowledge the right
of Plymouth to the whole rock. No, the rock underlies all America; it
only crops out here. It has cropped out a great many times in our
history. You may recognize it always. Old Putnam stood upon it at
Bunker Hill, when he said to the Yankee boys: "Don't fire till you see
the whites of their eyes." Ingraham had it for ballast when he put his
little sloop between two Austrian frigates, and threatened to blow them
out of the water if they did not respect the flag of the United States
in the case of Martin Koozta. Jefferson had it for a writing-desk when
he drafted the Declaration of Independence and the "Statute of Religious
Liberty" for Virginia. Lovejoy rested his musket upon it when they would
not let him print his paper at Alton, and he said: "Death or free
speech!" Ay! it cropped out again. Garrison had it for an imposing-stone
when he looked into the faces of seventeen millions of angry men, and
printed his sublime pledge, "I will not retreat a single inch, and I
will be heard."

If I were going to raise a monument to the Pilgrims, I know where I
should place it. I should place one corner-stone on the rock, and the
other on that level spot where fifty of the one hundred were buried
before the winter was over; but the remainder closed up shoulder to
shoulder as firm, unflinching, hopeful as ever. Yes, death rather than
compromise of Elizabeth. I would write on their monument two mottoes:
One, "The Right is more than our Country!" and over the graves of the
fifty: "Death, rather than Compromise!"

How true it is that the Pilgrims originated no new truth! How true it
is, also, that it is not truth which agitates the world! Plato in the
groves of the Academy sounded on and on to the utmost depth of
philosophy, but Athens was quiet. Calling around him the choicest minds
of Greece, he pointed out the worthlessness of their altars and shame of
public life, but Athens was quiet. It was all speculation. When Socrates
walked the streets of Athens, and, questioning every-day life, struck
the altar till the faith of the passer-by faltered, it came close to
action; and immediately they gave him hemlock, for the city was turned
upside down. What the Pilgrims gave the world was not thought, but
action. Men, calling themselves thinkers, had been creeping along the
Mediterranean, from headland to headland, in their timidity; the
Pilgrims launched boldly out into the Atlantic and trusted God. That is
the claim they have upon posterity. It was action that made them what
they were.


[53] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.



The old Athenian life and our American life have much in common. The
resemblances between Greek character and ours are marked. Those little
Greek democracies were more like our great one than almost any
intervening states. They offer us more pertinent examples and warnings
than almost any other; and they are of peculiar value for us in this,
that their history is rounded and complete, and in it we can see the
various conflicting principles and tendencies working themselves out to
the end, and so learn the full lesson of their logic. Pericles and
Demosthenes speak to America as well as to Athens; and we may well
domesticate their admonitions here to-day and emphasize them to our
people and ourselves as the words of fellow-citizens, of Washington and
Jefferson, of Sumner and Emerson. If the life and burning eloquence of
Demosthenes teach anything, if the rounded period of history whose
darkness he lights up teaches anything, they teach the vitality and the
imperious moment of the appeal, in times of danger and temptation, to
the fathers and to the great past, to the history and the teachings
which in times of soberness have ever had the nation's highest honor. No
nation which is virtuous and vital will ever be slave to the past; at
the command of virtue and of vision it will snap precedent like a reed.
But every people of seriousness, stability, and character is a reverent
people; and when a people's reverence for its noble ancestors, its
sacred oracles and its venerable charters ceases to be sturdy and
becomes sentimental, much more when it ceases to exist at all, then the
hour of that people's decay and doom hast struck. On this anniversary of
the Declaration of Independence, let us remember and vow never to forget
that when it becomes general or popular among us, as it has become
common, to flout at the Declaration and its principles; whenever the
nation commits itself to courses which for the sake of consistency and
respectability invite and compel its disparagement; when our politics
does not match our poetry and cannot be sung; when Washington and
Jefferson and Sumner and Lincoln cease to be quoted in our cabinet and
at our helm, then it is not well with us, but ill, and it is time to
study the compass.

It is right to say, and let us remember it on this sacred anniversary,
as an inspiration to duty, that Boston has been the center of the two
great movements in our history, the movement which gave us independence
and the movement which purged the land of slavery. If we could rear on
Boston Common a monument upon which, around the central form of Samuel
Adams, should be grouped the figures of James Otis and John Adams, John
Hancock and Joseph Warren and their associates, how much that monument
would represent of what was most dynamic in the days which led up to the
American Revolution! If we could rear beside it a monument upon which,
around the central figure of William Lloyd Garrison, should stand
Wendell Phillips, Parker and Channing, Lowell and Emerson, Sumner and
Andrew, how much would be represented by that group of what was most
potent in the anti-slavery struggle! When the final history is written
of the great social and industrial revolution into which we have already
far advanced, and which will continue until there exists throughout the
republic an industrial equality as great as the political equality which
we now enjoy or claim to enjoy, it will be seen that here, too, Boston
has done her conspicuous part. And when we survey the movement in behalf
of the overthrow of war, in behalf of the peace of nations and the
organization of the world, the preëminent task of our own time, we shall
find that in this great movement Boston has led America; I think it is
not too much to claim that she has led the world. As it was the glory of
Boston and of Massachusetts, proudest of cities and commonwealths,
strongest in patriotism, to lead the country in the assertion of
national sovereignty against every false emphasis of state rights, in
that long struggle which nearly cost the nation its life, and which made
it forever impossible for the American to say henceforth, "My state is
first," so it has been their glory to lead in the creation of the
sentiment which meets the peculiar problem and menace of our own age,
enabling and inspiring men to harmonize their politics and their
religion, and know that their first allegiance is not to their nation
but to humanity.

In this our Commonwealth and city have but been true to the sublime
pointings and ideals of the leaders of the Revolution and the founders
of the Republic, whom we celebrate to-day. Independence for the sake of
independence, a new nation for the sake of a new nation,--that was not
the aim and motive of our fathers. Their dream was of a new nation of
juster institutions and more equal laws, a nation in which should dwell
righteousness, and which should mark a new era among men. It should be
especially an era of peace and brotherhood among the nations. They hated
war. They believed that the time had come when the bloody dispensation
of war, with all its terrible wickedness and waste, should cease; and
their ambition and high hope was that their new republic might lead in
the new dispensation of peace and order and mutual regard.


[54] From an oration delivered before the city government and citizens
of Boston, at Faneuil Hall, July 4, 1903. Used by permission of the



Nothing in the whole compass of legislation is so solemn as a
declaration of war. By nothing do a people incur such tremendous
responsibility. Unless justly waged, war involves a people in the guilt
of murder. The state which, without the command of justice and God,
sends out fleets and armies to slaughter fellow-creatures, must answer
for the blood it sheds, as truly as the assassin for the death of his
victim. Oh, how loudly does the voice of blood cry to heaven from the
field of battle! Undoubtedly the men whose names have come down to us
with the loudest shouts of ages stand now before the tribunal of eternal
justice condemned as murderers; and the victories which have been
thought to encircle a nation with glory have fixed the same brand on
multitudes in the sight of the final and Almighty Judge. How essential
is it to a nation's honor that it should engage in war with a full
conviction of rectitude!

But there is one more condition of an honorable war. A nation should
engage in it with unfeigned sorrow. It should beseech the throne of
grace with earnest supplication that the dreadful office of destroying
fellow-beings may not be imposed on it. War concentrates all the
varieties of human misery, and a nation which can inflict these without
sorrow contracts deeper infamy than from cowardice. It is essentially
barbarous, and will be looked back upon by enlightened and Christian
ages with the horror with which we recall the atrocities of savage
tribes. Let it be remembered that the calamities of war, its slaughter,
famine, and desolation, instead of being confined to its criminal
authors, fall chiefly on multitudes who have had no share in provoking
and no voice in proclaiming it; and let not a nation talk of its honor
which has no sympathy with woes, which is steeled to the most terrible
sufferings of humanity.

When recently the suggestion of war was thrown out to this people, what
reception did it meet? Was it viewed at once in the light in which a
Christian nation should immediately and most earnestly consider it? Was
it received as a proposition to slaughter thousands of our
fellow-creatures? Did we feel as if threatened with a calamity more
fearful than earthquakes, famine, or pestilence? The blight which might
fall on our prosperity drew attention; but the thought of devoting as a
people, our power and resources to the destruction of mankind, of those
whom a common nature, whom reason, conscience, and Christianity command
us to love and save,--did this thrill us with horror? Did the solemn
inquiry break forth through our land, Is the dreadful necessity indeed
laid upon us to send abroad death and woe? No. There was little
manifestation of the sensibility with which men and Christians should
look such an evil in the face.

As a people we are still seared and blinded to the crimes and miseries
of war. The principles of honor, to which the barbarism and infatuation
of dark ages gave birth, prevail among us. The generous, merciful spirit
of our religion is little understood. The law of love preached from the
cross and written in the blood of the Saviour is trampled upon by public
men. The true dignity of man, which consists in breathing and cherishing
God's spirit of justice and philanthropy towards every human being, is
counted folly in comparison with that spirit of vindictiveness and
self-aggrandizement which turns our earth into an image of the abodes of
the damned. How long will the friends of humanity, of religion, of
Christ, silently, passively, uncomplainingly, suffer the men of this
world, the ambitious, vindictive, and selfish, to array them against
their brethren in conflicts which they condemn and abhor? Shall not
truth, humanity, and the mild and holy spirit of Christianity find a
voice to rebuke and awe the wickedness which precipitates nations into
war, and to startle and awaken nations to their fearful responsibility
in taking arms against the children of their Father in heaven? Prince of
Peace! Saviour of men! speak in thine own voice of love, power, and
fearful warning; and redeem the world, for which thou hast died, from
lawless and cruel passions, from the spirit of rapine and murder, from
the powers of darkness and hell!


[55] From a speech delivered in Boston, January 25, 1835.



Scotland! There is magic in the sound. Statesmen, scholars, divines,
heroes, poets! Do you want exemplars worthy of study and imitation?
Where will you find them brighter than in Scotland? Where can you find
them purer than in Scotland? Here, no Solon, indulging imagination, has
pictured the perfectibility of man; no Lycurgus, viewing him through the
medium of human frailty alone, has left for his government an iron code,
graven on eternal adamant; no Plato, dreaming in the luxurious gardens
of the Academy, has fancied what he should be, and bequeathed a republic
of love; but sages, knowing his weakness, have appealed to his
understanding, cherished his virtues, and chastised his vices.

Friends of learning! would you do homage at the shrine of literature?
would you visit her clearest founts? Go to Scotland! Are you
philosophers, seeking to explore the hidden mysteries of mind? Bend to
the genius of Stewart. Student, merchant, or mechanic! do you seek
usefulness? Consult the pages of Black and of Adam Smith. Grave
barrister! would you know the law, the true, sole expression of the
people's will? There stands the mighty Mansfield.

Do we look for high examples of noble daring? Where shall we find them
brighter than in Scotland? From the "bonny highland heather" of her
lofty summits, to the modest lily of the vale, not a flower but has
blushed with patriot blood. From the proud foaming crest of the Solway,
to the calm, polished breast of Loch Katrine, not a river, not a lake,
but has swelled with the life tide of freedom. Would you witness
greatness? Contemplate a Wallace and a Bruce. They fought not for
honors, for party, for conquest; 'twas for their country and their
country's good, religion, law, and liberty.



Fellow-countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the
Presidential office, there is less occasion for extended address than
there was at first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to
be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now at the expiration of four
years, during which public declarations have been constantly called
forth on every point and phase of the great contest which absorbs the
attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new
could be presented. On the occasion corresponding to this, four years
ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All
dreaded it; all sought to avoid it.

While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted
altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the
city seeking to destroy it with war, seeking to dissolve the Union and
divide the effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one
of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other
would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came. One eighth
of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally
over the Union, but localized in the Southern part of it. These slaves
constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this
interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate,
and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would
rend the Union by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more
than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party
expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already
attained. Neither anticipated that the cause might cease with or even
before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier
triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding.

Both read the same Bible and prayed to the same God, and each invoked
His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare
to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of
other men's faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The
prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered
fully. The Almighty has His own purpose.

Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war
may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the
wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited
toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash
shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three
thousand years ago, so still must it be said that "the judgments of the
Lord are true and righteous altogether."

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the
right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the
work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who
shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans; to do
all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among
ourselves and with all nations.



We have made a good beginning here to-day. While extremists may find
some fault with our moderation they should recollect that "the battle is
not always to the strong nor the race to the swift." In grave
emergencies moderation is generally safer than radicalism; and as this
struggle is likely to be long and earnest we must not, by our action,
repel any who are in sympathy with us, but rather win all that we can to
our standard. Our friends who urge an appeal to arms with so much force
and eloquence should recollect that the government is arrayed against us
and that the numbers are now arrayed against us as well and we should
repel friends rather than gain them by anything savoring of
revolutionary methods.

As it now stands we must appeal to the sober sense and patriotism of the
people. We will make converts day by day; we will grow strong by
calmness and moderation; we will grow strong by the violence and
injustice of our adversaries. And, unless truth be a mockery and justice
a hollow lie, we will be in the majority after a while, and then the
revolution which we will accomplish will be none the less radical from
being the result of pacific measures. The battle of freedom is to be
fought out on principle. Slavery is a violation of eternal right. We
have temporized with it from the necessities of our condition; but as
sure as God reigns and school children read, that foul lie can never be
consecrated into God's hallowed truth!

One great trouble in the matter is that slavery is an insidious and
crafty power, and gains equally by open violence of the brutal as well
as by sly management of the peaceful. Once let slavery get planted in a
locality, by ever so weak or doubtful a title, and in ever so small
numbers, and it is like the Canada thistle, you can't root it out. You
yourself may detest slavery; but your neighbor has five or six slaves,
and he is an excellent neighbor, or your son has married his daughter,
and they beg you to help save their property, and you vote against your
interest and principles to accommodate a neighbor, hoping that your vote
will be on the losing side. And others do the same; and in those ways
slavery gets a sure foothold. And when that is done the whole mighty
Union--the force of the Nation--is committed to its support.

It is a very strange thing, and not solvable by any moral law that I
know of, that if a man loses his horses the whole country will turn out
to help hang the thief; but if a man a shade or two darker than I am is
himself stolen the same crowd will hang one who aids in restoring him to
liberty. Such are the inconsistencies of slavery, where a horse is more
sacred than a man; and the essence of squatter or popular sovereignty--I
don't care how you call it--is that if one man chooses to make a slave
of another no third man shall be allowed to object. And if you can do
this in free Kansas, and it is allowed to stand, the next thing you will
see is shiploads of negroes from Africa at the wharf at Charleston; for
one thing is as truly lawful as the other; and these are the notions we
have got to stamp out, else they will stamp us out. But we cannot be
free men if this is, by our national choice, to be a land of slavery.
Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves; and,
under the rule of a just God, cannot long retain it.

The conclusion of all this is that we must restore the Missouri
Compromise. We must highly resolve that Kansas must be free! We must
reinstate the birthday promise of the Republic; we must reaffirm the
Declaration of Independence; we must make good in essence as well as in
form Madison's avowal that "the word slave ought not to appear in the
Constitution"; and we must even go further, and decree that only local
law, and not that time-honored instrument, shall shelter a slaveholder.
We must make this a land of liberty in fact, as it is in name. But in
seeking to attain these results, so indispensable if the liberty which
is our pride and boast shall endure, we will be loyal to the
Constitution and to the "flag of our Union," and no matter what our
grievance, even though Kansas shall come in as a slave State; and no
matter what theirs, even if we shall restore the compromise, we will say
to the Southern disunionists, We won't go out of the Union, and you

But let us, meanwhile, appeal to the sense and patriotism of the people,
and not to their prejudices; let us spread the floods of enthusiasm here
aroused all over the vast prairies so suggestive of freedom. There is
both a power and a magic in popular opinion. To that let us now appeal;
and while, in all probability, no resort to force will be needed, our
moderation and forbearance will stand us in good stead when, if ever, we
must make an appeal to battle and to the God of hosts!


[56] From the celebrated "last speech," made at Bloomington, Ill., May
29, 1856.



The American people have got this one question to answer. They may
answer it now; they can take ten years, or twenty years, or a
generation, or a century to think of it. But it will not down. They must
answer it in the end: Can you lawfully buy with money or get by brute
force of arms the right to hold in subjugation an unwilling people and
to impose on them such constitution as you, and not they, think best for

The question will be answered soberly and deliberately and quietly as
the American people are wont to answer great questions of duty. It will
be answered, not in any turbulent assembly, amid shouting and clapping
of hands and stamping of feet. It will be answered in the churches and
in the schools and in the colleges, it will be answered in fifteen
million American homes, and it will be answered as it has always been
answered. It will be answered right.

I have sometimes fancied that we might erect here in the capital of the
country a column to American liberty which alone might rival in height
the beautiful and simple shaft which we have erected to the fame of the
father of the country. I can fancy each generation bringing its
inscription, which should recite its own contribution to the great
structure of which the column should be but the symbol.

The generation of the Puritan and the Pilgrim and the Huguenot claims
the place of honor at the base. "I brought the torch of freedom across
the sea. I cleared the forest. I subdued the savage and the wild beast.
I laid in Christian liberty and law the foundations of empire. I left
the seashore to penetrate the wilderness. I planted schools and colleges
and courts and churches. I stood by the side of England on many a
hard-fought field. I helped humble the power of France. I saw the lilies
go down before the lion at Louisburg and Quebec. I carried the cross of
St. George in triumph in Martinique and Havana."

Then comes the generation of the revolutionary time. "I encountered the
power of England. I declared and won the independence of my country. I
placed that declaration on the eternal principles of justice and
righteousness, which all mankind have read, and on which all mankind
will one day stand. I affirmed the dignity of human nature and the right
of the people to govern themselves. I created the Supreme Court and the
Senate. For the first time in history I made the right of the people to
govern themselves safe, and established institutions for that end which
will endure forever."

The next generation says, "I encountered England again. I vindicated the
right of an American ship to sail the seas the wide world over without
molestation. I made the American sailor as safe at the ends of the
earth as my fathers had made the American farmer safe in his home. I
proclaimed the Monroe Doctrine in the face of the Holy Alliance, under
which sixteen republics have joined the family of nations. I filled the
western hemisphere with republics from the lakes to Cape Horn, each
controlling its own destiny in safety and in honor."

Then comes the next generation: "I did the mighty deeds which in your
younger years you saw and which your fathers told. I saved the Union. I
put down the rebellion. I freed the slave. I made of every slave a free
man and of every free man a citizen and of every citizen a voter. I paid
the debt. I brought in conciliation and peace instead of war. I devised
the homestead system. I covered the prairie and the plain with happy
homes and with mighty states. I crossed the continent and joined
together the seas with my great railroads. I declared the manufacturing
independence of America, as my fathers affirmed its political
independence. I made my country the richest, freest, strongest, happiest
people on the face of the earth."

And now what have we to say? Are we to have a place in that honorable
company? Must we engrave on that column, "We repealed the Declaration of
Independence. We changed the Monroe doctrine from a doctrine of eternal
righteousness and justice, resting on the consent of the governed, to a
doctrine of brutal selfishness, looking only to our own advantage. We
crushed the only republic in Asia. We made war on the only Christian
people in the East. We converted a war of glory to a war of shame. We
vulgarized the American flag. We introduced perfidy into the practice of
war. We inflicted torture on unarmed men to extort confession. We
established reconcentrado camps. We devastated provinces. We baffled the
aspirations of a people for liberty?"

No, Mr. President, never! never! Other and better counsels will yet
prevail. The hours are long in the life of a great people. The
irrevocable step is not yet taken. Let us at least have this to say,
"We, too, have kept the faith of the fathers. We took Cuba by the hand.
We delivered her from her age-long bondage. We welcomed her to the
family of nations. We set mankind an example never beheld before of
moderation in victory. We led hesitating and halting Europe to the
deliverance of their beleaguered ambassadors in China. We marched
through a hostile country, a country cruel and barbarous, without anger
or revenge. We returned benefit for injury, and pity for cruelty. We
made the name of America beloved in the East as in the West. We kept
faith with the Filipino people. We kept faith with our own destiny. We
kept our national honor unsullied. The flag which we received without a
rent we handed down without a stain!"


[57] United States Senate, May 22, 1902.



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 these 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, without
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 treaties had not smiled, languish on the
distant coast? Student 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 storm, beating upon the
houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare
meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a
blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its
last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the
sea?--was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken
company to their melancholy 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?



Our fatherland is in danger. Citizens, to arms! to arms! Unless the
whole nation rise up as one man to defend itself all the noble blood
already shed is in vain. People of Hungary, will you die under the
exterminating sword of the Russians? If not, defend yourselves. Will you
look on while the Kossacks of the far north tread under foot the bodies
of your fathers, mothers, wives and children? If not, defend yourselves.
Will you see a part of your fellow-citizens sent to the wilds of
Siberia, made to serve in the wars of tyrants, or bleed under the
murderous knout? If not, defend yourselves. Will you behold your
villages in flames, and your harvests destroyed? Will you die of hunger
on the land which your sweat has made fertile? If not, defend



The American patriot is the soldier of civilization. One hundred years
ago the republic was first born, but the roots from which it sprung grew
and flourished for centuries. The beginning of republicanism is not of
American origin nor of any one country or nation of the world. The
beginning of republicanism was not upon this soil but upon the soil
trodden by the Lord. It was not first announced by the booming of the
cannon and the pealing of the liberty bell, but when the star of
Bethlehem shone over the place where the new-born babe was in the manger
and the songs of the angels told of "Peace on earth, good will toward

This right is the crowning glory of man's progress. It is the natural
attitude of Christian civilization. A government based upon the equality
of all men before the law is based upon the principle of equality of all
men in the sight of God. Democracy is Christianity applied to
civilization. From the very moment the Savior of mankind told his
disciples to go forth and preach his word it became unavoidable that the
triumphs of Christianity would mean the destruction of every form of
government based upon inequality of man. The first champions of freedom
were the apostles who preached the word of Christ. The advent of
feudalism in Europe seemed as if a dark night had set over the face of
the world. Man had conquered territory by the sword and was forced to
defend it by the torch. In the face of that condition of civilization
Christianity proceeded to teach the doctrine that the weak and strong
were equal in the sight of heaven.

Columbus was the natural outcome of conditions which had been in course
of preparation for years. The Old World, with its prejudices and
barbarism, was unfit for the planting of the germ of freedom, and so
Providence guided the bark of Columbus to the shores of America. Here
the tree of liberty was planted under circumstances which encouraged its
growth and insured its life. Nowhere is the providence of God more
visible. Here was the virgin soil to be conquered. Here were forests to
be felled; a strong arm was of more use in cutting down a tree than the
lineage of a thousand years. The value of the settler was not the blood
which flowed in his veins, but the power of his muscles and the strength
of his will. Then the dignity of labor was raised to a pitch unknown to
this world. They did not come here to enrich themselves with gold. They
did not come here to plunder the soil and return to Spain to spend the
proceeds in riot. They were men in whose hearts liberty never died. They
sought this continent that they might create liberty, and they did it.
Their labor was fruitful.


[58] Auditorium, Chicago, April 30, 1894. By permission of the author.



The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great
struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation, the
music of boisterous drums, the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see
thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators. We see the
pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those
assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers.
We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the
great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are
walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they
adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as
they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing
babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some
are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts
again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and
kisses--divine mingling of agony and love! And some are talking with
wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to
drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the
wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms--standing in the
sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves; she answers by
holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever.

We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags,
keeping time to the grand, wild music of war; marching down the streets
of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies, down to
the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go with
them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all
the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with
them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in
ravines running with blood, in the furrows of old fields. We are with
them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the
life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced
by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the
whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We
are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can
never tell what they endured. We are at home when the news comes that
they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We
see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief.

The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings
governed by the lash; we see them bound hand and foot; we hear the
strokes of cruel whips; we see the hounds tracking women through tangled
swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty
unspeakable! Outrage infinite! Four million bodies in chains--four
million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother,
father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this
was done under our own beautiful banner of the free. The past rises
before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken
fetters fall. These heroes die. We look. Instead of slaves we see men
and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction-block,
the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and
schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and crime and cruelty and
fear, we see the faces of the free.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty; they died for us. They are
at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they
rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the
tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows
of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the
windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars; they are
at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found
the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the soldiers living and
dead: Cheers for the living and tears for the dead.


[59] By permission of the publisher, C. P. Farrell.



It is a great mistake to think, as many are apt to do when some terrible
war overwhelms some part of the world, that war is on the increase among
men and that we are probably on the eve of a portentous new era of it.
The temptation to think so is strong when two or three such wars come at
the same time, waged by enlightened nations which we had fondly trusted
had got beyond such wickedness and folly. But there is no warrant for
the belief. There is seldom real warrant for any fear that the world
generally is going backward, although it would be stupid not to see that
there come many days which are far behind many yesterdays in insight, in
ideals, and in conduct. The long view is the encouraging view, the view
of progress.

We have entered a new century. As one looks back over the nineteenth
century, which has closed, as one reads perhaps some brief historical
survey of the century, it is worth while to ask oneself whether one
would rather live in 1800 or in 1900, in the world pictured in the first
pages of the book or that pictured in the last pages. The serious man
can give but one answer. The England and France and Germany and Italy
and Spain of the end of the century were, when every deduction has been
made on particular points, vastly more habitable, better places to live
in, than the same countries at the beginning of the century. The
brilliant historian of the administration of Jefferson paints a masterly
picture of the life of our own people in 1800. Every aspect of the
social and intellectual life of the time is treated with marvelous
fullness of detail and in the most graphic and impressive way; and there
is an element of hope and buoyancy, of prophecy and promise, pervading
the pages, which is at once inspiring and sobering. Yes, surely one
would rather live in the United States at the beginning of the twentieth
century than at the beginning of the nineteenth. The century has been on
the whole emphatically a period of progress. The same was true of the
century before, and of the century before that.

What has been true concerning progress in general during the last few
centuries has been especially true of progress out of the habit of war
toward the habit of peace. Events at the close of the nineteenth century
have been indeed deplorable; they were also deplored--and this is the
significant thing--more than such events were ever deplored before. The
body of protest against unnecessary and unrighteous wars becomes
steadily larger, bolder, and more outspoken; the public conscience is
more troubled by them; more and more men perceive their wastefulness and
wrong, and discern the more excellent way; and to-morrow the total of
protesting insight and morality shall be great enough to tip the balance
and hold the tempted, ruffling nation to self-restraint, respect for
others, and respect for civilization. There was much less war in
Christendom during the nineteenth century than during the eighteenth,
and there will be less during the twentieth century than during the
nineteenth. The steady and sure progress of the world is toward the
supplanting of the ways of greed and violence among nations by the
methods of reason, legality, and mutual regard. As one travels over
Europe, one is never far from some great battle-field. In Scotland one
remembers how half a dozen centuries ago one clan was continually
fighting with another, this group of clans warring with that, or all
were leagued together against one Edward or another advancing with his
archers from beyond the Tweed. The English armies fighting at Falkirk
and Bannockburn and Halidon were straightway--they or their
successors--in France fighting at Crécy and Poitiers and Agincourt. The
wars between England and France were interminable; and so were the wars
between France and other nations. There were civil wars and religious
wars and wars of succession; seven-years wars and thirty-years wars and
hundred-years wars. War was the regular vocation of nations, the
profession of arms the chief profession, peace merely an occasional
respite, in no sense to be reckoned on or presumed to endure as the
natural condition of things.

All this has been fundamentally changed. Europe bends under the burden
of her great armies and multiplies her costly battleships, and we say
that it is wasteful and barbarous; but the soldiers and ships are almost
never used. We grieve and blush at the shameful wars of subjugation in
our own time; but these wars were anachronisms, sporadic survivals of
courses common and universally approved three hundred years ago, when
men did not blush for them, but not typical of the tendencies and
civilization of the present age. The true exponent of the world's best
judgment and increasing purpose and policy, as the twentieth century
begins, is not the warring in Luzon and the Transvaal, but the Hague
Tribunal. For a century the states in the United States, because we have
had a Supreme Court, have settled there, and not by combat, their
boundary disputes and other quarrels, graver often than many which have
plunged European nations into war, while most of us have not known even
of the fact of litigation. To-day, because an International Tribunal
exists, the Venezuelan imbroglio is referred to it, which else might
have gone on to the dread arbitrament of arms. Such references will
multiply; the legal way instead of the fighting way will become easy,
will become common, will become instinctive, will become universal; war
will hasten after the duel, to be loathed and to be laughed at, and to
cease to be at all; the cannon will follow the rack to the chamber of
horrors; and nations when they disagree will not go into battle, but
into court. This is the sure end of the process which the broad survey
of history reveals. The critical student of war becomes the sure prophet
of peace.


[60] By permission of the author.



It matters very little what immediate spot may be the birth-place of
such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no country can
appropriate him; the boon of providence to the human race, his fame is
eternity and his residence creation. Though it was the defeat of our
arms and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in
which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered and the earth rocked,
yet when the storm passed how pure was the climate that it cleared; how
bright in the brow of the firmament was the planet which it revealed to

In the production of Washington, it does really appear as if nature were
endeavoring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the
ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of the
new. Individual instances no doubt there were; splendid exemplifications
of some single qualification. Cæsar was merciful, Scipio was continent,
Hannibal was patient; but it was reserved for Washington to blend them
all in one, and like the lovely _chef d'oeuvre_ of the Grecian artist,
to exhibit in one glow of associated beauty the pride of every model and
the perfection of every master. As a general he marshaled the peasant
into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the absence of experience; as
a statesman he enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most
comprehensive system of general advantage; and such was the wisdom of
his views and the philosophy of his counsels that to the soldier and the
statesman he almost added the character of the sage. A conqueror, he was
untainted with the crime of blood; a revolutionist, he was free from any
stain of treason; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country
called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity
stained it, victory returned it.

If he had paused here, history might have doubted what station to assign
him, whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers, her heroes or
her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career and banishes
all hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having emancipated a
hemisphere, resigned his crown and preferred the retirement of domestic
life to the adoration of a land he might be almost said to have created?

     "How shall we rank thee upon glory's page,
     Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage?
     All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee,
     Far less than all thou hast forborne to be!"

Such, sir, is the testimony of one not to be accused of partiality in
his estimate of America. Happy, proud America! the lightnings of heaven
yielded to your philosophy! The temptations of earth could not seduce
your patriotism!

I have the honor, sir, of proposing to you as a toast,

     "The immortal memory of George Washington."


[61] Delivered at a dinner on Dinas Island, Lake Killarney, Ireland,
given in honor of Mr. O. H. Payne (afterward Senator Payne) of Ohio.





     My mother she's so good to me
     Ef I was good as I could be,
     I couldn't be as good--no, sir!
     Can't any boy be good as her!

     She loves me when I'm glad er mad;
     She loves me when I'm good er bad;
     An' what's a funniest thing, she says
     She loves me when she punishes.

     I don't like her to punish me;
     That don't hurt, but it hurts to see
     Her cryin'--nen I cry; an' nen
     We both cry--an' be good again.

     She loves me when she cuts and sews
     My little cloak and Sunday clothes;
     An' when my pa comes home to tea,
     She loves him most as much as me.

     She laughs an' tells him all I said.
     An' grabs me up an' pats my head;
     An' I hug her, an' I hug my pa,
     An' love him purt' nigh much es ma.


[62] Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill
Company. From "Rhymes of Childhood," copyright, 1900.



     I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!
       I'm got ear-ache, an' ma can't make
         It quit a-tall;
         An' Carlo bite my rubber-ball
       An' puncture it; an' Sis she take
     An' poke my knife down through the stable-floor
         An' loozed it--blame it all!
     But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more!

     An' Aunt Mame wrote she's a-comin', an' she can't--
         Folks is come there!--An' I don't care,
           She is my Aunt!
         An' my eyes stings; an' I'm
         Ist coughin' all the time,
     An' hurts me so, an' where my side's so sore
         Granpa felt where, an' he
         Says "maybe it's pleurasy!"
     But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more!

     An' I climbed up an' nen falled off the fence,
       An' Herbert he ist laugh at me!
           An' my fi'-cents
     It sticked in my tin bank, an' I ist tore
         Purt' nigh my thumbnail off, a-tryin' to git
         It out--nen smash it!--An it's in there yit!
     But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more!

     Oo! I'm so wickud!--An' my breath's so hot--
         Ist like I run an' don't rest none
     But ist run on when I ought to not;
           Yes, an' my chin
       An' lip's all warpy, an' my teeth's so fast,
       An' 's a place in my throat I can't swaller past--
         An' they all hurt so!--
         An' oh, my--oh!
           I'm a-startin' a'gin--
     I'm a-startin ag'in, but I won't, fer shore!--
     I ist ain't goin' to cry no more, no more!


[63] Used by special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill
Company. From "His Pa's Romance," copyright, 1903.



     Caught Susanner whistlin'; well,
     It's most nigh too good to tell.
     'Twould 'a' b'en too good to see
     Ef it hadn't b'en fur me,
     Comin' up so soft an' sly
     That she didn' hear me nigh.
     I was pokin' round that day,
     An' ez I come down the way,
     First her whistle strikes my ears,--
     Then her gingham dress appears;
     So with soft step up I slips.
     Oh, them dewy, rosy lips!
     Ripe ez cherries, red an' round,
     Puckered up to make the sound.
     She was lookin' in the spring,
     Whistlin' to beat anything,--
     "Kitty Dale" er "In the sweet."
     I was just so mortal beat
     That I can't quite ricoleck
     What the toon was, but I 'speck
     'Twas some hymn er other, fur
     Hymny things is jest like her.
     Well she went on fur awhile
     With her face all in a smile,
     An' I never moved, but stood
     Stiller'n a piece o' wood--
     Wouldn't wink ner wouldn't stir,
     But a-gazin' right at her,
     Tell she turns an' sees me--my!
     Thought at first she'd try to fly.
     But she blushed an' stood her ground.
     Then, a-slyly lookin' round,
     She says: "Did you hear me, Ben?"
     "Whistlin' woman, crowin' hen,"
     Says I, lookin' awful stern.
     Then the red commenced to burn
     In them cheeks o' hern. Why, la!
     Reddest red you ever saw--
     Pineys wa'n't a circumstance.
     You'd a' noticed in a glance
     She was pow'rful shamed an' skeart;
     But she looked so sweet an' peart,
     That a idee struck my head;
     So I up an' slowly said:
     "Woman whistlin' brings shore harm,
     Jest one thing'll break the charm."
     "And what's that?" "Oh, my!" says I,
     "I don't like to tell you." "Why?"
     Says Susanner. "Well, you see
     It would kinder fall on me."
     Course I knowed that she'd insist,--
     So I says: "You must be kissed
     By the man that heard you whistle;
     Everybody says that this'll
     Break the charm and set you free
     From the threat'nin' penalty."
     She was blushin' fit to kill,
     But she answered, kinder still:
     "I don't want to have no harm,
     Please come, Ben, an' break the charm."
     Did I break that charm?--oh, well,
     There's some things I mustn't tell.
     I remember, afterwhile,
     Her a-sayin' with a smile:
     "Oh, you quit,--you sassy dunce,
     You jest caught me whistlin' once."


[64] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co.



     When I come in f'om de co'n-fiel' aftah wukin' ha'd all day,
     It's amazin' nice to fin' my suppah all erpon de way;
     An' it's nice to smell de coffee bubblin' ovah in de pot,
     An' it's fine to see de meat a-sizzlin' teasin'-lak an' hot.

     But when suppah time is ovah an' de things is cl'ared away,
     Den de happy hours dat foller are de sweetes' ob de day.
     When my co'n-cob pipe is sta'ted, an' de smoke is drawin' prime,
     My ole 'ooman says, "I reckon, Ike, it's candle-lightin' time."

     Den de chillun snuggle up to me and all commence to call,
     "Oh, say, daddy, now it's time to make de shadders on de wall."
     So I puts my han's togethah--evah daddy knows de way--
     An' de chillun snuggle closer roun' es I begin to say,

     "Fus thing, hyeah come mistah Rabbit, don' you see him wuk his
     Huh uh! dis mus' be a donky; look how innercent he 'pears!
     Dah's de ole black swan a-swimmin', ain't she got a' awfu' neck?
     Who's dis feller dat's a-comin'? why, dat's ole dog Tray I 'spec!"

     Dat's de way I run on, tryin' fer to please 'em all I can;
     Den I hollahs, "Now be keerful, dis hyeah las' 's de buga-man!"
     An' dey runs an' hides dey faces; dey ain't skeered--dey's lettin'
     But de play ain't raaly ovah twell dat buga-man is gone.

     So I jes' takes up my banjo an' I plays a little chune,
     An' you see dem hai'ds come peepin' out to listen mighty soon.
     Den my wife say, "Sich a pappy fer to give you sich a fright!
     Jes' you go to bed, an' leave him, say yo' prayers, an' say good


[65] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of
Lowly Life," 1896.



     There were three young maids of Lee,
     And they were fair as fair can be;
     And they had lovers three times three,
     For they were fair as fair can be,
     These three young maids of Lee.

     But these young maids they cannot find
     A lover each to suit her mind;
     The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,
     The rich young lord not rich enough,
     And one's too poor, and one too tall,
     And one an inch too short for them all.
     "Others pick and choose, and why not we?
     We can very well wait," said these maids of Lee.

     There were three young maids of Lee,
     And they were fair as fair can be;
     And they had lovers three times three,
     For they were fair as fair can be,
     These three young maids of Lee.

     There are three old maids of Lee,
     And they are old as old can be;
     And one is deaf, and one can't see,
     And they all are cross as a gallows tree,
     These three old maids of Lee.

     Now, if any one chanced--'tis a chance remote--
     One single charm in these maids to note,
     He need not a poet nor handsome be,
     For one is deaf, and one can't see;
     He need not woo on his bended knee,
     For they all are willing as willing can be;
     He may take the one or the two or the three,
     If he'll only take them away from Lee.

     There are three old maids at Lee,
     And they are cross as cross can be;
     And there they are, and there they'll be,
     To the end of the chapter, one, two, three,
     These three old maids of Lee!



I am thirteen years old and Jill is eleven and a quarter. Jill is my
brother. That isn't his name, you know; his name is Timothy and mine is
George Zacharias; but they call us Jack and Jill.

Well, Jill and I had an invitation to Aunt John's this summer, and that
was how we happened to be there.

I'd rather go to Aunt John's than any place in the world. When I was a
little fellow I used to think I'd rather go to Aunt John's than to
Heaven. But I never dared to tell.

She invited us to come on the twelfth of August. It takes all day to get
there. She lives at Little River in New Hampshire, way up. You have to
wait at South Lawrence in a poky little depot, and you get some played
out--at least I don't, but Jill does. So we bought a paper and Jill sat
up and read it. When he'd sat a minute and read along--

"Look here!" said he.

"Look where?" said I.

"Why, there's going to be a comet," said Jill.

"Who cares?" said I.

Jill laid down the paper, and crunched a pop-corn all up before he
answered that, then said he, "I don't see why father didn't tell us. I
suppose he thought we'd be frightened, or something. Why, s'posing the
world did come to an end? That's what this paper says. 'It is pre--'
where is my place? Oh! I see--'predicted by learned men that a comet
will come into con-conjunction with our plant'--no--'our planet this
night. Whether we shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space, or
suffocated with n-o-x--noxious gases, or scorched to a helpless crisp,
or blasted at once, eternal an-ni-hi--'" A gust of wind grabbed the
paper out of Jill's hand just then, and took it out of the window; so I
never heard the rest.

"Father isn't a goose," said I. "He didn't think it worth while
mentioning. He isn't going to be afraid of a comet at his time of life."
So we didn't think any more about the comet till we got to Aunt John's,
where we found company. It wasn't a relation, only an old school friend,
and her name was Miss Togy; she had come without an invitation, but had
to have the spare room because she was a lady. That was how Jill and I
came to be put in the little chimney bedroom.

That little chimney bedroom is the funniest place you ever slept in.
There had been a chimney once, and it ran up by the window, and
grandfather had it taken away. It was a big, old-fashioned chimney, and
it left the funniest little gouge in the room, so the bed went in as
nice as could be. We couldn't see much but the ceiling when we got to

"It's pretty dark," said Jill; "I shouldn't wonder if it did blow up a
storm a little--wouldn't it scare--Miss--Bogy!"

"Togy," said I.

"Well, T-o--" said Jill; and right in the middle of it he went off as
sound as a weasel.

The next thing I can remember is a horrible noise. I can't think of but
one thing in this world it was like, and that isn't in this world so
much. I mean the last trumpet, with the angel blowing as he blows in my
old primer. The next thing I remember is hearing Jill sit up in bed--for
I couldn't see him, it was so dark--and his piping out the other half of
Miss Togy's name just as he had left it when he went to sleep.

"Gy--Bogy!--Fogy!--Soaky!--Oh," said Jill, coming to at last, "I
thought--why, what's up?"

I was up, but I couldn't tell what else was for a little while. I went
to the window. It was as dark as a great rat-hole out-of-doors, all but
a streak of lightning and an awful thunder, as if the world was cracking
all to pieces.

"Come to bed!" shouted Jill, "you'll get struck, and then that will kill

I went back to bed, for I didn't know what else to do, and we crawled
down under the clothes and covered ourselves all up.

"W-would--you--call--Aunt--John?" asked Jill. He was most choked. I came
up for air.

"No," said I, "I don't think I'd call Aunt John." I should have liked to
call her by that time, but then I should have felt ashamed.

"I s'pose she has got her hands full with Miss Croaky, anyway,"
chattered Jill, bobbing up and under again. By that time the storm was
the worst storm I had ever seen in my life. It grew worse and
worse--thunder, lightning, and wind--wind, lightning, and thunder; rain
and roar and awfulness. I don't know how to tell how awful it was.

In the middle of the biggest peal we'd had yet, up jumped Jill. "Jack!"
said he, "that comet!" I'd never thought of the comet till that minute;
I felt an ugly feeling and cold all over. "It is the comet!" said Jill.
"It is the day of judgment, Jack."

Then it happened. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to get my
head under the clothes. First there was a creak, then a crash, then we
felt a shake as if a giant pushed his shoulder up through the floor and
shoved us. Then we doubled up. And then we began to fall. The floor
opened, and we went through. I heard the bed-post hit as we went by.
Then I felt another crash; then we began to fall again; then we bumped
down hard. After that we stopped falling. I lay still. My heels were
doubled up over my head. I thought my neck would break. But I never
dared to stir, for I thought I was dead. By and by I wondered if Jill
were dead too, so I undoubled my neck a little and found some air. It
seemed just as uncomfortable to breathe without air when you were dead
as when you weren't.

I called out softly, "Jill!" no answer. "Jill!" not a sound. "O--Jill!"
But he did not speak, so then I knew Jill must be dead, at any rate. I
couldn't help wondering why he was so much deader than I that he
couldn't answer a fellow. Pretty soon I heard a rustling noise under my
feet, then a weak, sick kind of a voice, just the kind of a noise I
always supposed ghosts would make if they could talk.


"Is that you, Jill?"

"I--suppose--so. Is it you, Jack?"

"Yes. Are you dead?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

"I guess I must be if you are. How awfully dark it is."

"Awfully dark! It must have been the comet."

"Yes; did you get much hurt?"

"Not much--I say, Jack?"


"It is the judgment day."

Jill broke up, so did I; we lay as still as we could. If it were the
judgment day--"Jill!" said I.

"Oh, dear me!" sobbed Jill.

We were both crying by that time, and I don't feel ashamed to own up,

"If I'd known," said I, "that the day of judgment was coming on the
twelfth of August, I wouldn't have been so mean about that jack-knife of
yours with the notch in it."

"And I wouldn't have eaten your luncheon that day last winter when I got
mad at you," said Jill.

"Nor we wouldn't have cheated mother about smoking, vacations," said I.

"I'd never have played with the Bailey boys out behind the barn," said

"I wonder where the comet went to?" said I.

"'Whether we shall be plunged into,'" quoted Jill, in a horrible
whisper, from that dreadful newspaper, "'shall be plunged into a wild
vortex of angry space--or suffocated with noxious gases--or scorched to
a helpless crisp--or blasted--'"

"When do you think they will come after us?" I interrupted Jill.

That very minute somebody came. We heard a step and then another, then a
heavy bang. Jill howled out a little. I didn't, for I was thinking how
the cellar door banged like that. Then came a voice, an awful hoarse and
trembling voice as ever you heard.

"George Zacharias!"

Then I knew it must be the judgment day and that the angel had me in
court to answer him, for you couldn't expect an angel to call you Jack
after you was dead.

"George Zacharias!" said the awful voice again. I didn't know what else
to do, I was so frightened, so I just hollered out "Here!" as I do at

"Timothy!" came the voice once more.

Now Jill had a bright idea. Up he shouted, "Absent!" at the top of his

"George! Jack! Jill! where are you? Are you killed? Oh, wait a minute
and I'll bring a light."

This did not sound so much like judgment day as it did like Aunt John. I
began to feel better. So did Jill. I sat up. So did he. It wasn't a
minute till the light came into sight, and something that looked like a
cellar door, the cellar steps, and Aunt John's spotted wrapper, and Miss
Togy in a night-gown, away behind as white as a ghost. Aunt John held
the light above her head and looked down. I don't believe I shall ever
see an angel that will make me feel any better to look at than Aunt John
did that night.

"O you blessed boys!" said Aunt John--she was laughing and crying
together. "To think that you should have fallen through the old chimney
to the cellar floor and be sitting there alive in such a funny heap as

And that was just what we had done. The old flooring (not very secure)
had given away in the storm; and we'd gone down through two stories,
where the chimney ought to have been, jam! into the cellar on the coal
heap, and all as good as ever excepting the bedstead.


[66] From "Trot's Wedding Journey."



     Dat's a mighty quare tale, 'bout de appile tree
         In de pah'dise gyardin, whar Adam runned free,
     Whar de butter-flies drunk honey wid ole mammy bee.
         Talk about yo good times, I bet you he had 'em--Adam--
     Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree.

     He woke one mawnin wid a pullin at he sleeve;
         He open his eye, an' dar was Eve--
     He shook her han', wid a "Honey, don' grieve.
         You's de only gal on earth for me
     An' dats de truf, believe."
         Talk about yo good times, I'll bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
     Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree.

     Den Eve took a bite er de appile fruit
         En Adam he bit, en den dey scoot.
     Dar's whar de niggah leahn de quick cally hoot,
         Ben a runnin' ever since from somebody's boot.
     En runned en hide behin' de fig tree--Adam--
         Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree.

     Dey had der frolics, en dey had dere flings,
         Den arter dat, de fun tuck wings,
     Honey's mighty sweet, but bees has stings
         An' dey came into de shadder dat de storm cloud brings.
     Talk about yo hahd times, u-h-m uhm,
         I bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
     Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree.

     Kase outer de gyardin dey had fur tuh skin.
         Ter fin' de crack whar Satan crept in
     Dey sarch fur and wide, dey sarch mighty well.
         Eve, she knowed, but she 'fused fur ter tell.
     Ole Satan's trail was all rubbed out
         'Ceppen a track er two, whar he walked about.
     Talk about troubles, I bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
         Adam en Eve, en all dere kin.

     Well, when dey got back de gate wuz shut.
         An' dat wuz de pay, what Adam got.
     In dat gyardin he went no moh.
         De ober-seer gib him a shobel en a hoe,
     A mule, en a plow, en a swingle tree,
         Talk about yo hahd times, I bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
     En all uh his chillen bofe slave en free.

     En de chillen ob Adam, en de chillen's kin,
         Dey all got smeared wid de pitch ob sin.
     Dey shut dere eyes, to de great here-atter,
         En flung sin aroun', wid a turrible splatter.
     En cahooted wid Satan, en dat wat de matter--
         An' troubles, well. I bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
     De chillen ob Adam, what forgot ter pray, dey had 'em,
         And dey keep on a hadden 'em down tuh dis day.

     But dat wa'n't de las' ob de appile tree,
         Kase she scatter her seeds bofe fur en free,
     And dat's whut de mattah wid you en me,
         I knows de feelin's what brought on de fall,
     Dat same ole appile, an' ole Satan's call,
         Lor' bless yo chile, I knows 'em all.

     I'm kinder lop-sided en pigeon toed
         But jes' you watch me keep in de middle ob de road.
     Kase de troubles I'se got is a mighty heavy load.
         Talk about troubles, I got 'em en had 'em,
     Same as Adam.

     An' don' yo see I mighty well know
         Dat I got 'em from Adam long ago,
     From Adam en Eve en de appile tree,
         When dey runned free
         In de pahdise gyardin
         Wid butter-flies en honey bee?


[67] By permission of D. Appleton & Co.



Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage consisting of one
part syrup, two parts quinine and fifteen parts strong waters.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna.

"I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping
his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! It feels as if a dhray had
r-run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not. Well, ye'er lucky. Ye'er
a lucky man.

"I wint to McGuire's wake las' week. They give him a dacent sind-off. No
porther. An' himsilf looked natural--as fine a corpse as iver Gavin laid
out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as pr-roud iv McGuire as if he
ownded him; fetched half th' town in to look at him an' give ivery wan
iv thim his ca-ards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint.
'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinty-five, thanks be,' says
Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me ca-ards,' he says. 'I hope
ye'll not forget me,' he says.

"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lasteways 'tis me opinion iv it, though
th' docther says I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th'
McGuires is a clane fam'ly, but th' docther says a bug got into me
system. 'What sort iv bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Yez have
Mickrobes in ye'er lung,'he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thims th' lah
grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it
has growed an' multiplied till ye'er system does be full iv thim,' he
says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'ma-archin' an' counthermarchin'
through ye.' 'Glory be to th' saints,' says I. 'Had I betther swallow
some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has had a fallin'
out an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he
says, 'an lave thim alone,' he says. 'Whin they find who they're in,' he
says, 'they'll quit ye.'

"So I wint to bed an' waited, while th' Mickrobes had fun with me.
Monday all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up
late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wur-ruds come up
bechune th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wixford an' th' whole pa-arty
wint over to me lift lung, where they could get th' air, an' had it out.
Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine an'
manetime some Mickrobes that was wur-r-kin' f'r th' tiliphone comp'ny
got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes
an' climbed all night long.

"They was tired out th' nex' day till about 5 o'clock, whin thim that
was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms an' I knew they're was goin'
to be doings in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes in me head do but
invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' avnin'. They all come. Oh, by
gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At 6 o'clock they begun to
move fr'm me shins to me thrawt. They come in platoons an' squads an'
dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands an' more thin wan
hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes in dhrays. A throlley
line was started up me back an ivry car r-run into a wagon load iv scrap
iron at th' base iv me skull.

"Th' Mickrobes in me head must've done thimsilves proud. Ivery few
minutes some wan iv th' kids 'd be sint out with th' can an' I'd say to
mesilf: 'There they go, carryin' th' trade to Schwartzmeister's because
I'm sick an' can't wait on thim.' I was daffy, Jawn, d'ye mind? Th'
likes iv me fillin' a pitcher f'r a little boy-bug! Ho, ho! Such
dhreams. An' they had a game iv forty-fives, an' there was wan Mickrobe
there that larned to play th' game in th' County Tipp'rary, where 'tis
played on stone, an' iv'ry time he led thrumps he'd like to knock me
head off. 'Who's thrick is that?' says th' Tipp'rary Mickrobe. 'Tis
mine,' says a little red-headed Mickrobe fr'm th' County Roscommon. They
tipped over th' chairs an' tables, an' in less time thin it takes to
tell th' whole pa-arty was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back
iv me skull an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin'
leppin' matches in me forehead, but they all stopped to mix in. Oh,
'twas a grand shindig--tin millions iv thim min, women an' childher
rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', icepicks an' hurlin' sticks,
clubs, brickbats an' beer kags flyin' in th' air. How manny iv thim was
kilt I'll niver know, f'r I wint as daft as a hen an' dhreamt iv
organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign club, that'd sweep th' prim'ries an'
maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up me legs was as weak as
a day-old babby's an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no
more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an'
excipt thim wist iv Ireland fenians--th' Mickrobes."



Looking wearily over the far-stretching fields of corn, the leaves
twisting in the heat, and contemplating the discouraging cotton
prospect, old Uncle Henry, the plantation carpenter, said, half
jestingly to a negro passing, "Uncle Ben, why don't you pray for rain?"

"Ef I had faith enough, I could fetch er rain, for don't de Book say, ef
you have faith as er mustard seed you can move mountains? I say you done
parted from de faith, Unc' Henry. Ef you was still en de faith, an' ask
anythin', you goin' ter git it."

"Why don't you ask fer er million dollars; what you hoein' out dah en de
sun fer, when all you got ter do is ter ask de Lord fer money?"

"Dat ain't de question, dat ain't hit. You dodgin' now!"

"No, I ain't dodgin'--"

"Yes, you is. De Lord don't sen' ter people what dey axes fer deyse'ves.
He only sen' blessin's. Ef I ax fer er million er money, hit 'u'd be
'cause I'd natch'ly want ter quit work, an' dat's erg'in' his law. By de
sweat er de brow de Book says, dat's how hit's got ter come ef hit come

"Well, why don't you git rain, then? Hyah's Mr. Ed'ards waitin' an'
waitin' fer rain, payin' you ter hoe, an' one good rain 'd do more fer
him 'n all the hoein' in the worl'."

"I didn't say I could fetch rain, Unc' Henry, I didn't say hit!"

"What did you say then?"

"I said, ef I had faith."

"You b'lieve ef you had faith you could fetch er rain?"

"Yes, I do!"

"Well, ain't dat faith? Ef you b'lieve hit, hit's faith. Trouble is, you
don't b'lieve hit yo'se'f."

"Yes I do. You done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry, dat's what ails

"No, I ain't parted from no faith, but I got too much sense ter b'lieve
any man can git rain by asking fer hit."

"Don't de Book say, 'Ask, an' you shall receive'?"

"Not rain. Hit mean grace. When hit comes ter rain, de Lord don't let
nobody fool wid him; he look atter de rain, 'specially hisse'f. Why,
man, look at hit right! S'pose two men side by side pray diffunt--an'
wid faith--what happen? Yonder's Mr. Ed'ards's oats ter be cut nex'
week, an' on 'tother side de fence Unc' Jim's gyarden burnin' up. Mr.
Ed'ards wants dry weather, an' Jim want rain, an' dey bofe pray deir own
way! Bofe got faith, now, bofe got faith, an' one pray fer rain while
t'other pray fer dry weather; what de Lord goin' do? Is he goin' ter
split er rain on dat fence? Answer me! Don't turn yo' back ter me;
answer me, Ben!"

"You want my answer?"

"Yes, I want hit. Don't stan' dah a stammerin'! What de Lord goin' do?"

"You want my answer? Well, hyah 'tis. De Lord 'u'd sen' 'nough rain to
help de gyarden, but not 'nough ter hurt de oats. Dat's my answer!"

"You don't know what you all talkin' bout! Send 'nough rain ter help de
gyarden, an' not 'nough to hurt de oats! You reckon Mr. Ed'ards let er
nigger stay on dis place an' pray fer rain when he cuttin' oats? You
reckon er nigger goin' ter come hyah an' run er market-gyarden wid 'im
on sheers, an' him er prayin' fer dry wedder when cabbage oughter be
headin' up? No, sah! You c'n pray fer grace, an' when you gits grace
you're all right, rain er no rain; but you better not resk yo'se'f on
rain. Folks got ter have somebody ter settle when hit shall rain, an'
when hit sha'n't rain. Faith ain' got nothin' ter do 'ith hit. It takes
horse sense. Why, ef de Lord was ter tie er rope to de flood-gates, an'
let hit down hyah ter be pulled when dey need rain, somebody'd git
killed ev'y time dey pulled hit. Folks wid oats ter cut 'u'd lie out wid
dey guns an' gyard dat rope, an' folks wid cabbages 'd be sneakin' up in
de dyark tryin' ter git hold er hit. Fus' thing you know, er cem'tery
grow up roun' dyah an' nobody lef' ter pull de rope!"

"Faith 'u'd fetch it. Yes, sah, hit'll fetch hit."

"You got any?"

"Not 'nough ter fetch rain."

"Yo' fam'bly got any?"

"Not 'nough fer rain."

"Well den it look like faith es 'bout as scyarce an' hard ter git as
rain. Has Macedony Church got any?"


"Got 'nough fer rain?"


"Well den you go down dyah to prayer-meeting ter-night; an' take yo'
fambly, an' all de niggers in de settlement what' got faith,--don't get
none but faith niggers,--an' see ef you git er rain. You git rain, an'
I'll give up. I hyah you all been prayin' fer me ter come in
chu'ch--cause de ole roof wants patchin' I reckon. Git de rain an' you
gits me too. Go on, an' try hit. I ain't got no time ter waste. Fus'
thing you know, rain'll be pourin' down, an' dat dah chu'ch'll be
leakin' faster'n a sieve. You goin' ter git rain, Ben?"

"Yes, I'm going' ter try. An' ef we have faith we'll git hit. Hit's a
dry moon; ain't narry drop of water dyah, but faith c'n do hit."

The next morning a thin little cloud floated out of the brazen east, a
mere ghost of a cloud, and from it was sifted down for about two minutes
the poorest apology that nature ever made to injured verdure. Soon it
passed into nothingness, and the full sun blazed over the parched land
once more. A triumphant laugh was heard out where the hands were hoeing,
and Ben's voice was recognized above all the others. They were
congratulating him upon his success, when up came old Henry, his sack
of carpenter's tools on his back. Ben shouted,

"Hello, Unc' Henry. I told you we'd fetch hit."

"Ben, did you say hit only taks faith as er grain er mustard seed ter
move er mountain?"

"Yes, sah."

"Well now, hyah's de whole of Macedony Church, full of faith niggers, a
prayin' for rain, an' de whole pack o' 'em can't lay de dust!"



     Superintindint wuz Flannigan;
     Boss of the siction wuz Finnigin;
     Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack
     An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back,
     Finnigin writ it to Flannigan,
     Afther the wrick wuz all on agin.
     That is, this Finnigin
     Repoorted to Flannigan.

     Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan
     He writ tin pages--did Finnigin.
     An' he tould jist how the smash occurred--
     Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd
     Did Finnigin write to Flannigan
     Afther the cars had gone on agin.
     That wuz how Finnigin
     Repoorted to Flannigan.

     Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin--
     Had more idjucation--had Flannigan;
     An' it wore 'm clane an' complately out
     To tell what Finnigin writ about
     In his writin' to Muster Flannigan.
     So he writed back to Finnigin:
     "Don't do sich a sin agin!
     Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"

     Whin Finnigin got this frum Flannigan,
     He blushed rosy rid--did Finnigin;
     An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole moonth's pa-ay
     That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay
     Befoore Sup'rintindint--that's Flannigan--
     Gits a whack at this very same sin agin.
     From Finnigin to Flannigan
     Repoorts won't be long agin."

     Wan da-ay on the siction of Finnigin,
     On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan,
     A rail give way on a bit av a curve,
     An' some kyears went off as they made the swerve.
     "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin,
     "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan,"
     An' he winked at McGorrigan
     As married a Finnigin.

     He wus shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin,
     As minny a railroader's been agin,
     An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright
     In Finnigin's shanty all that night--
     Bilin' down his repoort, wuz Finnigin.
     An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan:
     Off agin, on agin,
     Gone agin.--Finnigin."


[68] By permission of the author.



     [A story of how Gavroche, a street gamin of Paris, uses for a home
     the monument built in the form of a huge elephant, which Napoleon
     Bonaparte erected in 1823.]

The forest has a bird. Paris a child. The bird is called a sparrow. The
child--a gamin. This little being is joyous; he has not food every day;
no shoes on his feet; not much clothing on his body. He runs, he swears
like a convict, he haunts all the wine shops, knows all the thieves--but
he has no evil in his heart. Little Gavroche was one of these. He had
been dispatched into life with a kick and had simply taken flight. The
pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart.

One evening, little Gavroche was skipping along an alley, hands in his
pockets and singing merrily, when he came upon a young man who had a
wild, happy look in his eye, but no hat on his head.

"Whoa there, monsieur, where's your roof? You've got enough light in
them blinkers of yours to light up my apartments--say, monsieur, you're
either crazy or you've had an awful good time!"

"Be off with you, imp."

"Say, did you know there wus a goin' ter be war in this town in a few
days and I'm goin' to enlist as general of the
army--Forward--March--Say, monsieur, I believe I know you, yes, sir,
I've seen you down in that Napoleon meetin' way down there in that

"Oh, be off with you, imp!"

"Yes, sir, I'm goin' now. Sorry I can't walk with you further, but
business calls me in the other direction.

"Good evenin', monsieur--Watch out there. Can't ye see where yer goin'?
Little more an' ye'd been eatin' the dandelions! Good evenin',

A little further down the street, Gavroche was standing scrutinizing a
shop window, when two little children came up to him crying.

"What's the matter with you, brats?"

"Boo-hoo--we--ain't got no place to sleep."

"The idea a bawlin' about that. Come along with me, I'll give ye a place
to sleep. Say, hev ye got any shiners?"


"Well, come along with me. I'm rich. Ye can't hear 'em rattle, but all
is not gold that rattles."

"Monsieur, we--boo-hoo--we asked that barber man over there to let us
get warm in his store and--and--he wouldn't do--it--boo-hoo!"

"Well, now, don't bawl about that. He don't know no better. He's an
Englishman. But I'll jes' take a note of that insult. [Takes paper from
his pocket and writes.]--Get even with Barber at 63 Rue Saint Antoine.
Too mean to occupy space here below. There now! that'll fix 'em. Hurry
along here now or my hotel will be closed.--Say, brats, you stay here a
minute. There is a poor little girl what's cold and she ain't got
nothin' around her. You stay here till I gits back.

"There, little girl, take my scarf and put around you. This kind of life
is alright fer boys but it's pretty tough on girls. Brr! it's rather
chilly. And I'll eat a piece out o' Hades if it ain't re-raining again."

"Monsieur, boo-hoo--we--ain't had nothin' to eat--since--morning."

"Well, now don't bawl about that. Let me see--oh, here's a shop. Shovel
in here.

"Boy, give us five centimes worth o' bread."

"For how many?"

"Well, there seem to be two uv 'em.

"Here--now take that--brat senior, and you take that, brat junior--now
grub away. Ram that into your muzzle. Don't you understand? Well,
classically speaking--eat. Well, I thought ye knew how to do that.
[Whistles Marseillaise until they have finished, then stops suddenly and
says to the boy behind the counter.]--Say, ain't them two nice specimens
to be bawlin' jes' 'cause they ain't got no home?

"Hey there, are ye through? Well, shovel out, then. We've got to hurry
or the elephant will have closed down his ears. Hey there, Montparnasse!
See my two kids?"

"Well, where did you get them, Gavroche?"

"Oh, a gentleman made me a present of 'em, down the street--say, they've
got hides like linseed plasters, hain't they?"

"Where are you taking them, Gavroche?"

"To my lodging--the Elephant."

"The Elephant!"

"Yes--the El-e-phant. Any complaints?"

"You don't mean Napoleon's monument?"

"I mean Napoleon's monument--You see when Napoleon left for Elba, he put
me in charge of the Elephant. Forward, march, there, brats! Good
evenin', Montparnasse."

On arriving at the Elephant, Gavroche climbed up and then invited his
friends to come up.

"Hey, there, brat senior--see that ladder? Well, put your foot on--Now
ye ain't agoin' ter be afraid are ye? Here, give me your
hands--Now--up--There, you stand still now, till I git yer little
brother up--Here, brat junior. Oh, can't you reach that ladder? Well,
step on the Elephant's corn then--That's the way--Now--up--There! Now,
gentlemen, you're on the inside of the Elephant. Don't ye feel something
like Jonah? But stop yer talkin' now fer we're goin' straight ter bed.
This way to yer sleepin' apartments--Here, brat junior, we'll wrap you
up in this blanket."

"O, thank you, sir. It's so nice and warm."

"Well, that's what the monkeys thought. Here, senior, you take this
mattress. Ye see, I stole these from the Jardin de Plants. But I told
the animals over there that they were fer the Elephant and they said
that was all right. Are ye in bed? Now I am goin' ter suppress de
candelabra. [Blows out candle.] Whew! listen to it rain. How the rain do
be runnin' down the legs of this here house. That's first class thunder
too. Whew! that's no slouch uv a streak uv lightnin' nuther. Here, calm
down there, gentlemen, or ye'll topple over this edifice. Time ter sleep
now, good-night. Shut yer peepers!"

"Oh, sir?"


"What's that noise?"


"Oh, sir."


"What is rats?"




"Why don't you get a cat?"

"Oh--I--I did have--a cat and--and the rats eat 'er up."

"Boo-hoo. Will they eat us up too?"

"Ah--no--they won't eat you. You ain't got enough meat on you. Besides I
got 'em all screened off with a wire. They can't get at ye. See here--Ef
yer goin' ter be afraid, take hold er my hand an' I'll lay down long
side o' yer and go ter sleep--Now I fergot ter tell you gentlemen that
when ye wake up--I'll be gone, fer business calls me early, but ye're to
make this yer home jes' as long as yer wants ter and come here jes'
whenever yer wants ter. Now fer the last time--good-night!"


[69] A dramatization from "Les Misérables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins.



She was a small girl, but her sense of the ridiculous was tremendous.
All summer long she sat on the sand and was nice to two boys, a
sub-freshman and a sophomore. The sub-freshman's name was Valiant; he
had a complexion that women envied, he was small and dainty and smelled
sweet. The other, whose name was Buckley, was bigger and much more

One day the girl decided it would be fun to make them hate each other,
and after that, when they were all three together, the sophomore would
tell her how hard his class would haze the freshman in the Fall, while
the sub-freshman only gazed out over the water and smiled. But one day
the sophomore made a remark about "pretty pink-cheeked boys," which had
better been left unsaid. Then arose the younger one and shaking
impressively a slender pink-nailed finger he spoke, "You had better not
try to haze me, Will Buckley."

In the good old days you had only to casually drop a word to a freshman
on the way to recitation to wait for you when evening came, and he would
turn up promptly, take his little dose meekly and go back to bed a
better boy for it. But all that is changed now.

Twice had Buckley waited near the house where Valiant ate his dinner. He
had tried several ways of getting into the house where Valiant lived,
but without success; then for three successive nights he waited in an
alley near by; on the third night Valiant came, but with him an upper
classman friend. Buckley kept in the shadow but Valiant called out, "Oh,
is that you, Mr. Buckley? How do you do? Aren't you coming in to see
me?" Which was decidedly fresh.

"Not now, I'll drop in later. Which is your room?"

"That room up there, see?"

The next night Buckley got his gang together. They decided that a dip in
the canal would be excellent for Valiant's health; if he felt cold after
that he could climb a telephone pole for exercise. It was nearly two
o'clock when they carried a ladder into the alley way. This was a
particularly nervy go. A young professor and his young wife had a suite
of rooms in this house; it was moonlight, and a certain owl-eyed proctor
was pretty sure to pass not far away; but if they hurried they thought
they could send a man up and get away without being caught.

Buckley was to get in the window, which was open, it being a warm night,
the others were to hustle away with the ladder, and wait for him at a
street several blocks distant. There was no doubt but that Valiant would
have to come with him.

Buckley climbed up, got one foot over the sill, and was in the room. He
leaned out and raised his hand. Silently the ladder disappeared. He
turned and started across the room; when a soft voice said, "Is that
you, dear?"

Then before all the blood in his body had time to freeze, he stepped out
of the moonlight into the shadow and whispered, "Shsss!" Instinct made
him do this.

Across the silence the soft voice came again, "Oh, I'm not asleep. But
why did you stay so long, Guy dear?"

Buckley heard the squeaking of a bed-spring and as his knees stiffened
he spied coming toward him something white with two black streaks
hanging half way down, which as the thing came into the moonlight, he
saw to be long braids of dark hair. It was a tall, slender figure
clothed in a white garment. The face was young and beautiful. Buckley
closed his eyes. But it came nearer and nearer. He stood up perfectly
rigid in the darkness as two soft arms reached up and met about his

Buckley did not budge and the soft voice began, "You have not forgiven
me yet." It began to sob. "You know I did not mean it. Won't you forgive
me? Tell me you do forgive me. Say it with your own lips, Guy dear.
Speak to me, my husband!" Buckley didn't. A soft, fragrant hand came up
along his cheek, which tingled, and over his eyes, which quivered. For
fully a half minute he tried to think what to do, then he gritted his
teeth and placed one arm about her waist and threw the other around her
neck in such a way that he could draw it tight if necessary. Suddenly
she raised her head, gave one startled look into his face, and with a
shuddering gasp, she recoiled.

"For Heaven's sake, don't scream--I can explain!"

"Ugh, oh, let go! Who--let me go, or I'll screa-ch-ch-ch!"

Buckley pressed on the windpipe, feeling like three or four murderers as
he did so. "Oh, please, if you scream it'll only make things awfully
awkward. I got in here by mistake. Oh, please keep quiet. Promise me
you'll not cry out, and I'll let you go."

"Yes, yes, I promise," said the scared voice. Buckley released his
grasp. She fled across the room. He thought she was making for the door
and sprang to stop her, but she only snatched up an afghan or something
from the sofa, and holding it about her, retreated to the dark part of
the room, moaning, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"I don't know who you are, but I wish you wouldn't cry. Please be calm.
It's all a big mistake, I thought I was coming to my own room--"

"Your own room!"

"I mean my classmate's room,--I mean I thought a freshman roomed here.
You aren't half so sorry as I am--oh, yes, you are--I mean I'm awfully
sorry, and wish to apologize. I didn't mean anything."

"Mean anything!"

"Really I didn't. If you'll only let me go down and promise not to wake
the house before I get out, why no one will ever know anything about it
and I'll promise not to do it again."

"Just as soon as I get my breath I mean to wake up the whole house, and
the whole town if I can." Buckley started across the room.


"You promised not to scream."

"You forced me to promise. I am going to scream."

The bold, bad sophomore went down on his knees with his hands clasped
toward the dark where the voice came from. "Oh, don't, please don't.
Have pity on me."

"You stay right there in the moonlight."

"Right here?"

"Right there, and if you dare to move I'll scream with all my might."
Buckley shivered and froze stiff.

And then he began to plead. "Please, oh, please, whoever you are, won't
you forgive me and let me go? I wouldn't harm a girl for the world. I'll
be fired--I mean expelled from college--I'll be disgraced for life.

"Stop! While it may be true that you did not break into my room with
intent to rob or injure a defenseless woman, yet, by your own confession
you came to torment a weaker person. You came to haze a freshman. And
when my husband--"

"Have mercy, have mercy. If I'm fired from college I'll be disgraced for
life. All my prospects will be blighted; my life will be ruined, and my
mother's heart broken."

She gave a little hysterical sob:--

"For your poor mother's sake, go!"

"Oh, thank you with all my heart. My mother would too if she could know.
I don't deserve to be treated so well. I shall always think of you as my
merciful benefactress. I can never forgive myself for causing you pain.
Oh, thank you," and Buckley the proud sophomore groveled out of the

Next morning he received a letter, which read as follows:

     "Just as a tall woman looks short in a man's make-up, so does a
     short man look tall in a woman's make-up, and you should know that
     blondes are hard to recognize in brunette wigs. You ought to know
     that a real girl wouldn't have behaved quite that way. You see you
     still have a number of things to learn, even though you are a soph.
     Hoping that you will learn to forgive yourself, I am,

                           "Your merciful benefactress,
                                                    "H. G. VALIANT."



     A Hindoo died, a happy thing to do,
     When twenty years united to a shrew.
     Released, he hopefully for entrance cries
     Before the gates of Brahma's paradise.

     "Hast thou been through purgatory?" Brahma said,
     "No, but I've been married," and he hung his head.
     "Come in, come in, and welcome too, my son,
     Marriage and purgatory are as one."

     In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door,
     And knew the peace he ne'er had known before.
     But scarce had he entered the garden fair,
     When another Hindoo asked admission there.

     The self-same question, Brahma asked,
     "Hast thou been through purgatory?"
     "No, what then?" "Thou canst not enter," did the God reply.
     "Why, he that entered first was there no more than I."

     "All that is true, but he has married been,
     And so on earth, had suffered from all sin."
     "Married, 'tis well, I've been married twice."
     "Begone, we'll have no fools in Paradise."



     If I knew the box where the smiles are kept,
     No matter how large the key,
     Or strong the bolt, I would try so hard,
     'Twould open, I know, for me.
     Then over the land and sea broadcast,
     I'd scatter the smiles to play,
     That the children's faces might hold them fast
     For many and many a day.

     If I knew a box that was large enough
     To hold all the frowns I meet,
     I would like to gather them, every one,
     From the nursery, school and street,
     Then, holding and folding I'd pack them in,
     And turning the monster key
     I'd hire a giant to drop the box,
     Into the depths of the sea.



I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment
for some slight ailment of which I had a touch--hay fever, I fancy it
was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an
unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently
study diseases generally. I forget which was the first distemper I
plunged into--some fearful, devastating scourge I know--and, before I
had glanced half down the list of "premonitory symptoms," it was borne
in upon me that I had fairly got it.

I sat for a while, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of
despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever--read
the symptoms--discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for
months without knowing it--wondered what else I had got; turned up St.
Vitus's Dance--found, as I expected, that I had that too,--began to get
interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom and so
started alphabetically--read up ague, and learned that I was sickening
for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another
fortnight. Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a
modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for
years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed
to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six
letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was
housemaid's knee.

I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort
of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this invidious
reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I
reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and
grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid's knee. Gout,
in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my
being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from
boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there
was nothing else the matter with me.

I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a
medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class!
Students would have no need to "walk the hospitals," if they had me. I
was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk around me,
and, after that, take their diploma.

Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I
felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of
a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I
made a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart.
I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been
induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the
time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted
myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I
went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could
not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out
as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it
with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I
could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had
scarlet fever.

I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse,
and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing,
when I fancy I'm ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going
to him now. "What a doctor wants," I said, "is practice. He shall have
me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of
your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases
each." So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:

"Well, what's the matter with you?"

I said:

"I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the
matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had
finished. But I will tell you what is not the matter with me. I have
not got housemaid's knee. Why I have not got housemaid's knee, I cannot
tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else,
however, I have got."

And I told him how I came to discover it all.

Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and
then he hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it--a cowardly
thing to do, I call it--and immediately afterward butted me with the
side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription,
and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out.

I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's and handed it in.
The man read it and then handed it back. He said he didn't keep it.

I said:

"You are a chemist?"

"I am a chemist. If I was a coöperative store and family hotel combined
I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me."

I read the prescription. It ran:

                  "1 lb. beefsteak, every 6 hours,
                   1 ten-mile walk every morning,
                   1 bed at 11 sharp every night.
     And don't stuff up your head with things you don't understand."


[70] From "Three Men in a Boat," published by Henry Holt & Co.



     Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time,
     An' says you must make it a rule
     To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn,
     An' never be absent from school.
     Remember the story of Elihu Burrit,
     An' how he clum up to the top,
     Got all the knowledge 'at ever he had
     Down in a blacksmithing shop!
     Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
             Mebbe he did--
               I dunno!
     O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top,
     Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop.

     She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor,
     But full of ambition an' brains;
     An' studied philosophy all his hull life,
     An' see what he got for his pains!
     He brought electricity out of the sky,
     With a kite an' a bottle an' key,
     An' we're owing him more 'n any one else
     For all the bright lights 'at we see.
     Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
             Mebbe he did--
               I dunno!
     O' course what's allers been hinderin' me
     Is not havin' any kite, lightning, er key.

     Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all
     An' used to split rails when a boy;
     An' General Grant was a tanner by trade
     An' lived way out in Ill'nois.
     So when the great war in the South first broke out
     He stood on the side o' the right,
     An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things
     He won nearly every blamed fight.
     Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
             Mebbe he did--
               I dunno!
     Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight,
     For I ain't never had any battles to fight.

     She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees
     When he first thought up his big scheme,
     An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too,
     An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream.
     But Queen Isabella jest listened to him,
     'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth,
     'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said,
     "Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!"
     Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
             Mebbe he did--
               I dunno!
     O' course that may be, but then you must allow
     They ain't no land to discover jest now!


[71] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.



     Tell you what I like the best--
       'Long about knee-deep in June,
         'Bout the time strawberries melt
       On the vine,--some afternoon
     Like to jes' git out and rest,
         And not work at nothin' else!

     Orchard's where I'd ruther be--
     Needn't fence it in fer me!
       Jes' the whole sky overhead,
         And the whole airth underneath--
         Sorto' so's a man kin breathe
       Like he ort, and kind o' has
     Elbow-room to keerlessly
       Sprawl out len'thways on the grass
         Where the shadders thick and soft
       As the kivvers on the bed
         Mother fixes in the loft
     Allus, when they's company!

     Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there--
       S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer
         Through the wavin' leaves above
         Like a feller 'at's in love
       And don't know it, ner don't kere!
       Ever'thing you hear and see
         Got some sort o' interest--
         Maybe find a bluebird's nest
       Tucked up there conveenently
       Fer the boy 'at's apt to be
       Up some other apple-tree!
     Watch the swallers skootin' past
     'Bout as peert as you could ast;
       Er the Bob-white raise and whiz
       Where some other's whistle is.

     Ketch a shadder down below,
     And look up to find the crow--
     Er a hawk,--away up there,
     'Pearantly froze in the air!--
     Hear the old hen squak, and squat
       Over ever' chick she's got,
     Suddent-like--And she knows where
       That-air hawk is, well as you!--
       You jes' bet yer life she do!--
         Eyes a-glitterin' like glass,
         Waitin' till he makes a pass!

     Pee-wees' singin', to express
       My opinion, 's second class,
     Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;
         Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,
     Weedin' out the lonesomeness;
       Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass,
         In them base-ball clothes o' his,
     Sportin' 'round the orchard jes'
     Like he owned the premises!
       Sun out in the fields kin sizz,
     But flat on yer back, I guess,
       In the shade's where glory is!
         That's jes' what I'd like to do
         Stiddy fer a year er two!

     Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in
     Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in
       My convictions!--'long about
         Here in June especially!--
         Under some old apple-tree,
     Jes' a-restin' through and through,
       I could git along without
         Nothin else at all to do
         Only jes' a-wishin' you
       Was a-gittin' there like me,
       And June war eternity!

     Lay out there and try to see
     Jes' how lazy you kin be!--
       Tumble round and souse yer head
     In the clover-bloom, er pull
         Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes,
         And peek through it at the skies,
       Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,
         Maybe, smilin' back at you
     In betwixt the beautiful
         Clouds o' gold and white and blue!--
       Month a man kin railly love--
       June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

     March ain't never nothin' new!
     Aprile's altogether too
       Brash fer me! and May--I jes'
       'Bominate its promises,--
     Little hints o' sunshine and
     Green around the timber-land--
       A few blossoms, and a few
       Chip-birds, and a sprout er two--
     Drap asleep, and it turns in
     'Fore daylight and snows ag'in!--

     But when June comes--Clear my th'oat
       With wild honey!--Rench my hair
     In the dew! and hold my coat!
         Whoop out loud! and th'ow my hat!--
       June wants me, and I'm to spare!
       Spread them shadders anywhere,
       I'll git down and waller there,
         And obleeged to you at that!


[72] From "Afterwhiles," published by the Bobbs-Merrill Co.,
Indianapolis, Ind.



     I don't go much on religion,
       I never ain't had no show;
     But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,
       On the handful o' things I know.
     I don't pan out on the prophets,
       And free-will and that sort of thing,
     But I believe in God and the angels,
       Ever sence one night last spring.

     I come into town with some turnips,
       And my little Gabe come along--
     No four-year-old in the country
       Could beat him for pretty and strong,
     Peart and chipper and sassy,
       Always ready to swear and fight--
     And I'd larnt him to chew terbacker,
       Jest to keep his milk teeth white.

     The snow come down like a blanket
       As I passed by Taggart's store;
     I went in for a jug of molasses
       And left the team at the door.
     They scared at something and started--
       I heard one little squall,
     And hell-to-split over the prairie
       Went team, Little Breeches and all.

     Hell-to-split over the prairie!
       I was almost froze with skeer;
     But we rousted up some torches,
       And searched for 'em far and near.
     At last we struck hosses and wagon,
       Snowed under a soft white mound,
     Upsot, dead beat--but of little Gabe
       No hide nor hair was found.

     And here all hope soured on me,
       Of my fellow-critters' aid--
     I jest flopped down on my marrow bones,
       Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.
     By this the torches was played out,
       And me and Isrul Parr
     Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
       That he said was somewhar thar.

     We found it at last, and a little shed
       Where they shut up the lambs at night;
     We looked in, and seen them huddled thar,
       So warm and sleepy and white.
     And thar sat Little Breeches and chirped,
       As peart as ever you see,
     "I want a chaw of terbacker,
       And that's what's the matter with me."

     How did he get thar? Angels.
       He could never have walked in that storm,
     They just scooped down and toted him
       To whar it was safe and warm;
     And I think that saving a little child
       And bringing him to his own,
     Is a derned sight better business
       Than loafing around the Throne.


[73] By permission of Mrs. Hay.



     When first I saw sweet Peggy,
     'Twas on a market-day;
     A low-backed car she drove, and sat
     Upon a truss of hay;
     But when that hay was blooming grass,
     And decked with flowers of spring,
     No flower was there that could compare
     With the blooming girl I sing.
     As she sat in the low-backed car,
     The man at the turnpike bar
     Never asked for the toll,
     But just rubbed his owld poll,
     And looked after the low-backed car.

     In battle's wild commotion,
     The proud and mighty Mars
     With hostile scythes demands his tithes
     Of death--in warlike cars;
     While Peggy, peaceful goddess,
     Has darts in her bright eyes
     That knock men down in the market-town,
     As right and left they fly;
     While she sits in her low-backed car:
     Than battle more dangerous far--
     For the doctor's art
     Cannot cure the heart
     That is hit from that low-backed car.

     Sweet Peggy round her cart, sir,
     Has strings of ducks and geese,
     But the scores of hearts she slaughters
     By far outnumber these;
     While she among her poultry sits,
     Just like a turtle-dove,
     Well worth the cage, I do engage,
     Of the blooming god of love;
     While she sits in her low-backed car,
     The lovers come near and far,
     And envy the chicken
     That Peggy is pickin'
     As she sits in her low-backed car.

     Oh! I'd rather own that car, sir,
     With Peggy by my side,
     Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
     And a lady for my bride;
     For the lady would sit forninst me,
     On a cushion made with taste,
     While Peggy would sit beside me,
     With my arm around her waist,
     While we drove in the low-backed car
     To be married by Father Maher;
     Oh! my heart would beat high
     At her glance and her sigh,
     Though it beat in a low-backed car.



     Now, whah d'ye s'pose dat chile is?
       My, he's got a head!
     He's a-hidin' frum his mammy
       'Case it's time to go to bed.

     Hyah, you, Petah Johnsing!
       Come inside dat fence.
     I done tole you yes'day
       You didn't hab no sense.

     What's dat? A-waitin' fo' yo' daddy?
       (Bress his little hea't!)
     Why, chile! Yo' daddy won't be comin'
       Froo dat woodsy pa't

     At dis time ob de ebenin'.
       Don't you see dat moon?
     Dat's de sign dat spooks
       'Ll be a-trablin' soon.

     I b'lieve I see 'em
       Comin'--Massy me!
     As sho' as you is breavin'
       Dar's one behind dat tree!

     Ha! Ha! I t'ought dat 'd bring him.
       Come hyah, sweety hon',
     Come to yo' ole mammy,
       An' if dose spookies come

     An' want my pickaninny,
       I'll swat 'em in de face;
     I'll take dar flowin' ga'ments,
       An' jest wipe up de place.

     I'll take dat ar bu'nt hoe-cake,
       An' hit 'em on de head,
     Till dey'll be glad to go away,
       An' let my baby go to bed.

     So, don't cry no mo', my honey,
       Jes' close yo' little eye,
     An' mammy'll rock ye in her a'ms,
       An' sing de--
         Close yo' eye,
           Mammy's little dusky baby;
         Close yo' eye,
           Mammy's little baby boy,
         Den hush-a-bye."

     Now, what's de mattah, honey?
       Ain't you neber gwine ter sleep?
     Dose spookies ain't a-comin';
       Dey's gwine off down de street.

     Now shet yo' eyes up tight,
       An' go right off to sleep;
     An' to-morrow for yo' breakfus'
       You'll hab' possum for to eat.

     So, don't cry no mo', my honey,
       Jes' close yo' little eye,
     While mammy rocks you in her a'ms
       An' sings de--
         "Lullaby," etc.



     By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
     There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me;
     For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say:
     "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
               Come you back to Mandalay,
               Where the old Flotilla lay:
       Can't you 'ear their paddles chuckin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
               On the road to Mandalay,
               Where the flyin'-fishes play,
       An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

     'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
     An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
     An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
     An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
               Bloomin' idol made o' mud--
               Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
       Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
               On the road to Mandalay--

     When the mist was on the rice fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
     She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "_Kullalo-lo_!"
     With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek
     We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
               Elephints a-pilin' teak
               In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
     Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
               On the road to Mandalay--

     But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,
     An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay;
     An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells:
     "If you've 'eard the East a-callin,' why, you won't 'eed nothin'
               No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
               But them spicy garlic smells
     An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells!
               On the road to Mandalay--

     I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones,
     An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
     Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
     An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
               Beefy face an' grubby 'and--
               Law! wot do they understand?
       I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener, land!
               On the road to Mandalay--

     Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst,
     Where there aren't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a
     For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be--
     By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea--
               On the road to Mandalay,
               Where the old Flotilla lay,
       With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
               On the road to Mandalay,
               Where the flyin'-fishes play,
       An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!



Well one time Mr. Rabbit an' Mr. Coon live close ter one anudder in de
same neighborhoods. How dey does now I ain't a-tellin' you, but in dem
days dey wa'n't no hard feelin's 'twixt um. Dey jest went along like two
ole cronies. Mr. Rabbit he was a fisherman an' Mr. Coon he was a
fisherman. But Mr. Rabbit he kotch fish, an' Mr. Coon he fished for
frogs. Mr. Rabbit he had mighty good luck, and Mr. Coon he had mighty
bad luck. Mr. Rabbit he got fat an' slick an' Mr. Coon he got po' an'
sick. Hit went on dis-a-way tell one day Mr. Coon met Mr. Rabbit in de
big road. Dey shook han's dey did, an' den Mr. Coon he 'low: "Brer
Rabbit, whar you git sech a fine chance er fish?" Mr. Rabbit laugh an'
say, "I kotch 'em outen de river, Brer Coon. All I got to do is to bait
my hook," sezee.

Den Mr. Coon he shake his head an' 'low, "Den how come I ain't ketch no
frogs?" Mr. Rabbit sat down in de road an' scratched fer fleas an' den
he 'low, "It's kaze you done make um all mad, Brer Coon. One time in de
dark er de moon, you slipped down ter de branch an' kotch de ole king
frog, an' ever sence dat time, w'enever you er passin' by, you kin year
um sing out, fus' one an' den anudder, 'Yer he come! Dar he goes! Hit
'im in de eye! Hit 'im in de eye! Mash 'im an' smash 'im! Mash 'im an'
smash 'im!' Yasser, dat w'at dey say. I year um constant, Brer Coon, an'
dat des w'at dey say."

Den Mr. Coon up an' say, "Ef dat de way dey gwine on, how de name er
goodness kin I ketch um, Brer Rabbit. I bleege ter have sumfin ter eat
fer me an' my fambly connection."

Mr. Rabbit sorter grin in de corner ob de mouf an' den he say, "Well,
Brer Coon, bein' ez you bin so sociable 'long wid me, an' ain't never
showed your toofies w'en I pull yo' tail, I'll des whirl in an' hep you

Mr. Coon he say, "Thanky, thanky, Brer Rabbit!"

Mr. Rabbit hang his fish on a tree lim an' say, "Now, Brer Coon, you
bleege ter do dis lik' I tell you." Mr. Coon 'lowed dat he would ef de
good Lawd spared 'im.

Den Mr. Rabbit say, "Now, Brer Coon, you des rack down yonder an' git on
de big san-bar 'twix' de river an' de branch. Wen you git dar you mus'
stagger like you sick, an' den you mus' whirl roun' an' roun' an' drap
down lak you dead. Arter you drap down, you mus' sorter jerk yo' legs
once er twice an' den you mus' lay right still. If fly light on yo' nose
let 'im stay dar. Don't move; don't wink yo' eye; don't switch yo' tail.
Des lay right dar an' 'twont' be long for yo' hear from me. Yit don't
yo' move till I give de word."

Mr. Coon he paced off he did, an' done des like Mr. Rabbit told him. He
staggered roun' on de san'-bank, an' den he drapped down dead. Atter so
long a time, Mr. Rabbit come lopin' 'long, an' soon's he got dar he
squall out, "Coon dead!" Dis rousted de frogs, an' dey stuck dey heads
up fer ter see w'at all de rippet was about. One great big green frog up
an' holler, "W'at de matter? W'at de matter?" He talk like he got bad
cold. Mr. Rabbit he 'low, "Coon dead!" Frog say, "Don't believe it!
Don't believe it!" N'er frog say, "Yes, he is! Yes, he is!" Little bit
er one say, "No, he ain't! No, he ain't!"

Dey keep on sputin till bimeby hit look like all de frogs in de
neighborhood wuz dar. Mr. Rabbit look like he ain't a-kearin' what dey
do er say. He sot down dar in de san' like he gwine in moanin' fer Mr.
Coon. De frogs kep' gittin' closer and closer. Mr. Coon he ain't move.
W'en a fly'd git on 'im, Mr. Rabbit he'd bresh 'im off.

Bimeby he 'low, "Ef you want ter git 'im outin de way, now's you time,
cousin frogs. Des whirl in an' bury 'im, deep in de san'."

Big old frog say, "How we gwine ter do it? How we gwine ter do it?"

Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Dig de san' out from under 'im an' let 'im down in de
hole." Den de frogs dey went ter work sure enough. Dey mus' 'a' been a
hundred un um, an' dey make dat san' fly.

Mr. Coon he ain't move. De frogs dey dig an' scratch in de san' tell
atter while dey had a right smaht hole an' Mr. Coon wuz down in dar.

Bimeby Big Frog holler, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?"

Mr. Rabbit' low, "Kin you jump out?"

Big Frog say, "Yes, I kin! Yes, I kin!"

Mr. Rabbit say, "Den 'tain't deep nuff."

Den de frogs dey dig an' dey dig tell bimeby Big Frog say, "Dis deep
nuff? Dis deep nuff?" Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say,
"I des kin! I des kin!" Mr. Rabbit say, "Dig it deeper." All de frogs
keep on diggin' tell bimeby Big Frog holler out, "Dis deep nuff? Dis
deep nuff?"

Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, "No, I can't! No, I
can't! Come he'p me! Come he'p me!"

Den Mr. Rabbit bust out laffin' an' holler out, "Rise up, sandy, an' git
yo' meat." An' Mr. Coon riz.


[74] By permission of D. Appleton & Co.



     Ah, the buxom girls that helped the boys--
     The nobler Helens of humbler Troys--
     As they stripped the husks with rustling fold
     From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold,

     By the candle-light in pumpkin bowls,
     And the gleams that showed fantastic holes
     In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin,
     From the hermit glim set up within;

     By the rarer light in girlish eyes
     As dark as wells, or as blue as skies.
     I hear the laugh when the ear is red,
     I see the blush with the forfeit paid,

     The cedar cakes with the ancient twist,
     The cider cup that the girls have kissed.
     And I see the fiddler through the dusk
     As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!"

     The boys and girls in a double row
     Wait face to face till the magic bow
     Shall whip the tune from the violin,
     And the merry pulse of the feet begin.

     In shirt of check, and tallowed hair,
     The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair
     Like Moses' basket stranded there
             On the brink of Father Nile.
     He feels the fiddle's slender neck,
     Picks out the note, with thrum and check;
     And times the tune with nod and beck,
             And thinks it a weary while.
     All ready! Now he gives the call,
     Cries, "_Honor to the ladies_!" All
     The jolly tides of laughter fall
             And ebb in a happy smile.

     "_Begin_." D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string,
     "_First couple join right hands and swing_!"
     As light as any blue-bird's wing
             "_Swing once and a half times round_."
     Whirls Mary Martin all in blue--
     Calico gown and stockings new,
     And tinted eyes that tell you true,
             Dance all to the dancing sound.

     She flits about big Moses Brown,
     Who holds her hands to keep her down
     And thinks her hair a golden crown,
             And his heart turns over once!
     His cheek with Mary's breath is wet,
     It gives a second somerset!
     He means to win the maiden yet,
             Alas, for the awkward dance!

     "Your stoga boot has crushed my toe!"
     "I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe!"
     "You clumsy fellow!" "_Pass below_!"
             And the first pair dance apart.
     Then "_Forward six_!" advance, retreat,
     Like midges gay in sunbeam street.
     'Tis Money Musk by merry feet
             And the Money Musk by heart!

     "_Three quarters round your partner swing!
     Across the set_!" The rafters ring,
     The girls and boys have taken wing
             And have brought their roses out!
     'Tis "_Forward six_!" with rustic grace,
     Ah, rarer far than--"_Swing to place_!"
     Than golden clouds of old point-lace
             They bring the dance about.

     Then clasping hands all--"_Right and left_!"
     All swiftly weave the measure deft
     Across the woof in loving weft,
             And the Money Musk is done!
     Oh, dancers of the rustling husk,
     Good night, sweet hearts, 'tis growing dusk,
     Good night for aye to Money Musk,
             For the heavy march begun!



The Colonel had been detained at his office, but had sent word that I
was to wait for him. Chad was serving the coffee. "My Marsa John," he
remarked, filling the cup with the smoking beverage, "never drank
nuffin' but tea, eben at de big dinners when all de gemmen had coffee in
de little cups--dat's one ob 'em you's drinkin' out ob now; dey ain't
mo' 'an fo' on 'em left. Old marsa would have his pot of tea. Henny
useter make it for him; makes it now for Miss Nancy.

"Henny was a young gal den, long 'fo' we was married. Henny b'longed to
Colonel Lloyd Barbour, on de next plantation to ourn.

"Mo' coffee, Major?" I handed Chad the empty cup. He refilled it, and
went straight on without drawing breath.

"Wust scrape I eber got into wid old Marsa John was ober Henny. I tell
ye she was a harricane in dem days. She come into de kitchen one time
where I was helpin' git de dinner ready an' de cook had gone to de
spring-house, an' she says:

"'Chad, what ye cookin' dat smells so nice?'

"'Dat's a goose,' I says, 'cookin' for Marsa John's dinner. We got
quality,' says I, pintin' to de dinin'-room do'.

"'Quality!' she says. 'Spec' I know what de quality is. Dat's for you
and de cook.'

"Wid dat she grabs a caarvin' knife from de table, opens de do' ob de
big oven, cuts off a leg ob de goose, an' dis'pears round de kitchen
corner wid de leg in her mouf.

"'Fo' I knowed whar I was Marsa John come to de kitchen do' an' says,
'Gittin' late, Chad; bring in de dinner.' You see, Major, dey ain't no
up an' down-stairs in de big house, like it is yer; kitchen an'
dinin'-room all on de same flo'.

"Well, sah, I was scared to def, but I tuk dat goose an' laid him wid de
cut side down on de bottom of de pan 'fo' de cook got back, put some
dressin' an' stuffin' ober him, an' shet de stove do'. Den I tuk de
sweet potatoes an' de hominy an' put 'em on de table, an' den I went
back in de kitchen to git de baked ham. I put on de ham an' some mo'
dishes, an' marsa says, lookin' up:

"'I t'ought dere was a roast goose, Chad?'

"'I ain't yerd nothin' 'bout no goose,' I says. 'I'll ask de cook.'

"Next minute I hyerd old marsa a-hollerin:

"'Mammy Jane, ain't we got a goose?'

"'Lord-a-massy! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu'thless nigger, ain't you tuk
dat goose out yit?'

"'Is we got a goose?' said I.

"'Is we got a goose? Didn't you help pick it?'

"I see whar my hair was short, an' I snatched up a hot dish from de
hearth, opened de oven do', an' slide de goose in jes as he was, an' lay
him down befo' Marsa John.

"'Now see what de ladies 'll have for dinner,' says ole marsa, pickin'
up his carvin' knife.

"'What'll you take for dinner, Miss?' says I. 'Baked ham?'

"'No,' says she, lookin' up to whar Marsa John sat. 'I think I'll take a
leg ob dat goose.'

"Well, marsa cut off de leg an' put a little stuffin' an' gravy on wid a
spoon, an' says to me, 'Chad, see what dat gemman 'll have.'

"'What'll you take for dinner, sah?' says I. 'Nice breast o' goose, or
slice o' ham?'

"'No; I think I'll take a leg ob dat goose.'

"I didn't say nuffin', but I knowed bery well he wa'n't a-gwine to git
it. But you oughter seen ole marsa lookin' for de udder leg ob dat
goose! He rolled him ober on de dish, dis way an' dat way, an' den he
jabbed dat ole bone-handled carvin' fork in him an' hel' him up ober de
dish, an' looked under him an' on top ob him, an' den he says, kinder
sad like:

"'Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?'

"'It didn't hab none,' says I.

"'You mean to say dat de gooses on my plantation on'y got one leg?'

"'Some ob 'em has an' some ob 'em ain't. You see, marsa, we got two
kinds in de pond, an' we was a little hurried to-day, so Mammy Jane
cooked dis one 'cause I cotched it fust.'

"'Well,' said he, 'I'll settle wid ye after dinner.'

"Well, dar I was shiverin' an' shakin' in my shoes, an' droppin' gravy,
an' spillin' de wine on de table-cloth, I was dat shuck up; an' when de
dinner was ober he calls all de ladies an' gemmen, an' says, 'Now come
down to de duck-pond. I'm gwine ter show dis nigger dat all de gooses on
my plantation got mo' den one leg.'

"I followed 'long, trapesin' after de whole kit an' b'ilin', an' when we
got to de pond"--here Chad nearly went into a convulsion with suppressed
laughter--"dar was de gooses sittin' on a log in de middle of dat ole
green goose-pond wid one leg stuck down--so--an' de udder tucked under
de wing."

Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my chair, the tears
running down his cheeks.

"'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray goose! Dat's
de berry match ob de one we had to-day.'

"Den de ladies all hollered an' de gemmen laughed so loud dey hyerd 'em
at de big house.

"'Stop, you black scoun'rel!' Marsa John says, his face gittin' white
an' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket. 'Shoo!'

"Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame grasshopper if
ebery one ob dem gooses didn't put down de udder leg!

"'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober my head, 'I'll
show you.'

"'Stop, Marsa John!' I hollered; ''tain't fair, 'tain't fair.'

"'Why ain't it fair?' says he.

"''Cause,' says I, 'you didn't say "Shoo!" to de goose what was on de

"And did he thrash you?"

"Marsa John? No, sah! He laughed loud as anybody; an' den dat night he
says to me as I was puttin' some wood on de fire, 'Chad, where did dat
leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him all about Henny, an' how I was
'fraid the gal would git whipped, an' how she was on'y a-foolin',
thinkin' it was my goose; an' den old marsa look in de fire a long time,
an' den he says: 'Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?'

"'Yes, marsa,' says I.

"Well, de nex' mawnin' Marse John had his black hoss saddled, an' I held
de stir'up fur him to git on, an' he rode ober to de Barbour plantation
an' didn't come back till plumb black night. When he come up I held de
lantern so I could see his face, for I wa'n't easy in my mind all day;
but it was all bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's.

"'Chad,' he says, handin' me de bridle reins, 'I bought yo' Henny dis
evenin' from Colonel Barbour, she's comin' ober to-morrow, an' you can
bofe git married next Sunday.'"


[75] Used by permission of and arrangement with Messrs. Houghton,
Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass., publishers of the works of F. Hopkinson



     Nothing to do but work,
         Nothing to eat but food,
     Nothing to wear but clothes
         To keep one from going nude.

     Nothing to breathe but air,
         Quick as a flash 'tis gone;
     Nowhere to fall but off,
         Nowhere to stand but on.

     Nothing to comb but hair,
         Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
     Nothing to weep but tears,
         Nothing to bury but dead.

     Nothing to sing but songs,
         Ah, well, alas! alack!
     Nowhere to go but out,
         Nowhere to come but back.

     Nothing to see but sights,
         Nothing to quench but thirst,
     Nothing to have but what we've got,
         Thus thro' life we are cursed.

     Nothing to strike but a gait;
         Everything moves that goes.
     Nothing at all but common sense
         Can ever withstand these woes.


[76] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.



I vant to dold you vat it is, dot's a putty nice play. De first dime dot
you see Leah, she runs cross a pridge, mit some fellers chasin' her mit
putty big shticks. Dey ketch her right in de middle of der edge, und der
leader (dot's de villen), he sez of her, "Dot it's better ven she dies,
und dot he coodent allow it dot she can lif." Und de oder fellers
hollers out, "So ve vill;" "Gife her some deth;" "Kill her putty quick;"
"Shmack her of der jaw," und such dings; und chust as dey vill kill her,
de priest says of dem, "Don'd you do dot," und dey shtop dot putty
quick. In der nexd seen, dot Leah meets Rudolph (dot's her feller) in de
voods. Before dot he comes in, she sits of de bottom of a cross, und she
don'd look pooty lifely, und she says, "Rudolph, how is dot, dot you
don'd come und see about me? You didn't shpeak of me for tree days
long. I vant to dold you vot it is, dot ain't some luf. I don'd like
dot." Vell, Rudolph he don'd was dere, so he coodent sed something. But
ven he comes in, she dells of him dot she lufs him orful, und he says
dot he guess he lufs her orful too, und vants to know vood she leef dot
place, and go oud in some oder country mit him. Und she says, "I told
you, I vill;" und he says, "Dot's all right," und he tells her he vill
meet her soon, und dey vill go vay dogedder. Den he kisses her und goes
oud, und she feels honkey dory bout dot.

Vell, in der nexd seen, Rudolph's old man finds oud all about dot, und
he don'd feel putty goot; und he says of Rudolph, "Vood you leef me, und
go mit dot gal?" und Rudolph feels putty bad. He don'd know vot he shall
do. Und der old man he says, "I dold you vot I'll do. De skoolmaster
(dot's de villen) says dot she might dook some money to go vay. Now,
Rudolph, my poy, I'll gif de skoolmaster sum money to gif do her, und if
she don'd dook dot money, I'll let you marry dot gal." Ven Rudolph hears
dis, he chumps mit joyness, und says, "Fader, fader, dot's all righd.
Dot's pully. I baed you anydings she voodent dook dot money." Vell, de
old man gif de skoolmaster de money, und dells him dot he shall offer
dot of her. Vell, dot pluddy skoolmaster comes back und says dot Leah
dook dot gold right avay, ven she didn't do dot. Den de old man says,
"Didn't I told you so?" und Rudolph gits so vild dot he svears dot she
can't haf someding more to do mit him. So ven Leah vill meet him in de
voods, he don'd vas dere, und she feels orful, und goes avay. Bime-by
she comes up to Rudolph's house. She feels putty bad, und she knocks of
de door. De old man comes oud, und says, "Got out of dot, you orful
vooman. Don'd you come round after my boy again, else I put you in de
dooms." Und she says, "Chust let me see Rudolph vonce, und I vill vander
avay." So den Rudolph comes oud, und she vants to rush of his arms, but
dot pluddy fool voodent allow dot. He chucks her avay, und says, "Don'd
you touch me, uf you please, you deceitfulness gal." I dold you vot it
is, dot looks ruff for dot poor gal. Und she is extonished, und says,
"Vot is dis aboud dot?" Und Rudolph, orful mad, says, "Got oudsiedt, you
ignomonous vooman." Und she feels so orful she coodent said a vord, und
she goes oud.

Afterwards, Rudolph gits married to anoder gal in a shurch. Vell, Leah,
who is vandering eferyveres, happens to go in dot shurchyard to cry,
chust at de same dime of Rudolph's marriage, vich she don'd know
someding aboud. Putty soon she hears de organ, und she says dere is some
beeples gitten married, und dot it vill do her unhappiness goot if she
sees dot. So she looks in de vinder, und ven she sees who dot is, my
graciousness, don'd she holler, und shvears vengeance. Putty soon
Rudolph chumps oud indo der shurchyard to got some air. He says he don't
feel putty good. Putty soon dey see each oder, und dey had a orful dime.
He says of her, "Leah, how is dot you been here?" Und she says mit big
scornfulness, "God oud of dot, you beat. How is dot, you got cheek to
talk of me afder dot vitch you hafe done?" Den he says, "Vell, vot for
you dook dot gold, you false-hearded leetle gal?" und she says, "Vot
gold is dot? I didn't dook some gold." Und he says, "Don'd you dold a
lie about dot!" She says slowfully, "I told you I didn't dook some gold.
Vot gold is dot?" Und den Rudolph tells her all aboud dot, und she says,
"Dot is a orful lie. I didn't seen some gold;" und she adds mit much
sarkasmness, "Und you beliefed I dook dot gold. Dot's de vorst I efer
heered. Now, on accound of dot, I vill gif you a few gurses." Und den
she swears mit orful voices dot Mister Kain's gurse should git on him,
und dot he coodent never git any happiness eferyvere, no matter vere he
is. Den she valks off. Vell, den a long dime passes avay, und den you
see Rudolph's farm. He has got a nice vife, und a putiful leetle child.
Putty soon Leah comes in, being shased, as ushual, by fellers mit
shticks. She looks like she didn't ead someding for two monds. Rudolph's
vife sends off dot mop, und Leah gits avay again. Den dat nice leedle
child comes oud, und Leah comes back; und ven she sees dot child, don'd
she feel orful aboud dot, und she says mit affectfulness, "Come here,
leedle child, I voodn'd harm you;" und dot nice leedle child goes righd
up, and Leah chumps on her, und grabs her in her arms, und gries, and
kisses her. Oh! my graciousness don'd she gry aboud dot. You got to blow
your noses righd avay. I vant to dold you vat it is, dot looks pully.

Und den she says vile she gries, "Leedle childs, don'd you got some
names?" Und dot leedle child shpeaks oud so nice, pless her leedle hard,
und says, "Oh! yes. My name dot's Leah, und my papa tells me dot I shall
pray for you efery nighd." Oh! my goodnessness, don'd Leah gry orful ven
she hears dot. I dold you vat it is, dot's a shplaindid ding. Und quick
come dem tears in your eyes und you look up ad de vall, so dot nobody
can'd see dot, und you make oud you don'd care aboud it. But your eyes
gits fulled up so quick dot you couldn'd keep dem in, und de tears comes
down of your face like a shnow storm, und den you don'd care a tarn if
efery body sees dot. Und Leah kisses her und gries like dot her heart's
broke, und she dooks off dot gurse from Rudolph und goes avay. De child
den dell her fader and muder aboud dot, und dey pring her back. Den dot
mop comes back und vill kill her again, but she exposes dot skoolmaster,
dot villen, und dot fixes him. Den she falls down in Rudolph's arms, und
your eyes gits fulled up again, und you can'd see someding more. I like
to haf as many glasses of beer as dere is gryin' chust now. You couldn't
help dot any vay. Und if I see a gal vot don'd gry in dot piece, I
voodn't marry dot gal, efen if her fader owned a pig prewery. Und if I
see a feller vot don'd gry, I voodn't dook a trink of lager bier mit
him. Vell, afder de piece is oud, you feel so bad, und so goot, dot you
must ead a few pieces of hot stuff do drife avay der plues. But I told
you vat it is, dot's a pully piece, I baed you, don'd it?



     I long have been puzzled to guess,
       And so I have frequently said,
     What the reason could really be
       That I never have happened to wed;
     But now it is perfectly clear
       I am under a natural ban;
     The girls are already assigned--
       And I'm a superfluous man!

     Those clever statistical chaps
       Declare the numerical run
     Of women and men in the world
       Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one:
     And hence in the pairing, you see,
       Since wooing and wedding began,
     For every connubial score
       They've got a superfluous man!

     By twenties and twenties they go,
       And giddily rush to their fate,
     For none of the number, of course,
       Can fail of the conjugal mate;
     But while they are yielding in scores
       To nature's inflexible plan,
     There's never a woman for me--
       For I'm a superfluous man!

     It isn't that I am a churl,
       To solitude over-inclined,
     It isn't that I am at fault
       In morals or manners or mind;
     Then what is the reason, you ask,
       I'm still with the bachelor clan?
     I merely was numbered amiss--
       And I'm a superfluous man!

     It isn't that I am in want
       Of personal beauty or grace,
     For many a man with a wife
       Is uglier far in the face.
     Indeed, among elegant men
       I fancy myself in the van;
     But what is the value of that,
       When I'm a superfluous man?

     Although I am fond of the girls,
       For aught I could ever discern,
     The tender emotion I feel
       Is one that they never return;
     'Tis idle to quarrel with fate,
       For, struggle as hard as I can,
     They're mated already, you know,
       And I'm a superfluous man!

     No wonder I grumble at times,
       With women so pretty and plenty,
     To know that I never was born
       To figure as one of the Twenty;
     But yet, when the average lot
       With critical vision I scan,
     I think it may be for the best
       That I'm a superfluous man!



     There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took,
     For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook."
     And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day,
             And they met--in the usual way.

     Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by,
     But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie;
     "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!"
             And he was--in the usual way.

     So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about,
     But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out;
     And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not
             But she did--in the usual way.

     Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh
     As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by;
     "We must say good-by," she whispered by the alders old and gray,
             And they did--in the usual way.

     And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro,
     And day by day the fishes swam securely down below,
     Till this little story ended, as such little stories may,
             Very much--in the usual way.

     And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo?
     Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do?
     Does he cherish her and love her? does she honor and obey?
             Well, they do--in the usual way.



     One morning, fifty years ago,--
     When apple trees were white with snow
     Of fragrant blossoms, and the air
     Was spellbound with the perfume rare,--
     Upon a farm horse, large and lean,
     And lazy with its double load,
     A sun-browned youth and maid were seen
     Jogging along the winding road.

     Blue were the arches of the skies;
     But bluer were that maiden's eyes.
     The dewdrops on the grass were bright;
     But brighter was the loving light
     That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid,
     Where those bright eyes of blue were hid;
     Adown the shoulders brown and bare
     Rolled the soft waves of golden hair,
     Where, almost strangled with the spray,
     The sun, a willing sufferer, lay.

     It was the fairest sight, I ween,
     That the young man had ever seen;
     And with his features all aglow,
     The happy fellow told her so!
     And she without the least surprise
     Looked on him with those heavenly eyes;
     Saw underneath that shade of tan
     The handsome features of a man;
     And with a joy but rarely known
     She drew that dear face to her own,
     And by her bridal bonnet hid--
     I cannot tell you what she did!

     So, on they ride until among
     The new-born leaves with dewdrops hung,
     The parsonage, arrayed in white,
     Peers out,--a more than welcome sight.
     Then, with a cloud upon his face,
     "What shall we do," he turned to say,
     "Should he refuse to take his pay
     From what is in the pillow-case?"
     And glancing down his eye surveyed
     The pillow-case before him laid,
     Whose contents reaching to its hem,
     Might purchase endless joy for them.
     The maiden answers, "Let us wait,
     To borrow trouble where's the need?"
     Then, at the parson's squeaking gate
     Halted the more than willing steed.

     Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung;
     The latchless gate behind him swung.
     The knocker of that startled door,
     Struck as it never was before,
     Brought the whole household pale with fright;
     And there, with blushes on his cheek,
     So bashful he could hardly speak,
     The farmer met their wondering sight.

     The groom goes in, his errand tells,
     And, as the parson nods, he leans
     Far o'er the window-sill and yells,
     "Come in! He says he'll take the beans!"

     Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound,
     She and the bean-bag reached the ground.
     Then, clasping with each dimpled arm
     The precious product of the farm,
     She bears it through the open door;
     And, down upon the parlor floor,
     Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.

     Ah! happy were their songs that day,
     When man and wife they rode away.
     But happier this chorus still
     Which echoed through those woodland scenes:
     "God bless the priest of Whitinsville!
     God bless the man who took the beans!"



     G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy--
       Put dat music book away;
     What's de use to keep on tryin'?
       Ef you practice twell you're gray,
     You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin'
       Lak de ones dat rants and rings
     F'om de kitchen to de big woods
       When Malindy sings.

     You ain't got de nachel o'gans
       Fu' to make de soun' come right,
     You ain't got de tunes an' twistin's
       Fu' to make it sweet an' light.
     Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy,
       An' I'm tellin' you fu' true,
     When hit comes to raal right singin'
       'Tain't no easy thing to do.

     Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah,
       Lookin' at de lines an' dots,
     When dey ain't no one kin sense it,
       An' de chune comes in, in spots;
     But fu' real melojous music,
       Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings,
     Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me
       When Malindy sings.

     Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy?
       Blessed soul, tek up de cross!
     Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey?
       Well, you don't know what you los'.
     Y'ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin',
       Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things,
     Hush dey moufs an' hides dey faces
       When Malindy sings.

     Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin',
       Lay his fiddle on de she'f;
     Mockin' bird quit tryin' to whistle,
       'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f.
     Folks a-playin' on de banjo
       Draps dey fingahs on de strings--
     Bless yo' soul--fu'gits to move 'em,
       When Malindy sings.

     She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs,
       "Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah
     Sinnahs' tremblin' steps an' voices,
       Timid-lak, a-drawin' neah;
     Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages,"
       Simply to de cross she clings,
     An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin'
       When Malindy sings.

     Who dat says dat humble praises
       Wif de Master nevah counts?
     Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music,
       Ez hit rises up an' mounts--
     Floatin' by de hills an' valleys,
       Way above dis buryin' sod,
     Ez hit makes its way to glory
       To de very gates of God!

     Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music
       Of an edicated band;
     An' it's dearah dan de battle's
       Song o' triumph in de lan'.
     It seems holier dan evenin'
       When de solemn chu'ch-bell rings,
     Ez I sit an' calmly listen
       While Malindy sings.

     Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me!
       Mandy, mek dat chile keep still;
     Don't you hyeah de echoes callin',
       F'om de valley to de hill?
     Let me listen, I can hyeah it,
       Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings,
     Sof' an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,"
       Ez Malindy sings.


[77] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of the
Hearthside," 1899.



     With klingle, klangle, klingle,
     Way down the dusty dingle,
     The cows are coming home;
     Now sweet and clear and faint and low,
     The airy tinklings come and go,
     Like chimings from some far off tower,
     Or patterings of some April shower
           That makes the daisies grow;
           Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,
           'Way down the darkening dingle
           The cows come slowly home;
     And old-time friends and twilight plays,
     And starry nights and sunny days,
     Come trooping up the misty ways
           When the cows come home.

           With jingle, jangle, jingle,
           Soft tunes that sweetly mingle,
           The cows are coming home.
     Malvine and Pearl and Florimel,
     Dekamp, Redrose and Gretchen Schnell,
     Queen Bell and Sylph and Spangled Sue--
     Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo"
           And clang her silver bell;
           Goling, golang, golinglelingle,
           With faint far sounds that mingle,
           The cows come slowly home;
     And mother-songs of long-gone years,
     And baby joys and childish tears,
     And youthful hopes and youthful fears,
           When the cows come home.

           With ringle, rangle, ringle,
           By twos and threes and single
           The cows are coming home.
     Through violet air we see the town
     And the summer sun a slipping down,
     And the maple in the hazel glade
     Throws down the path a longer shade,
           And the hills are growing brown;
           To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleringle,
           By threes and fours and single
           The cows are coming home;
     The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,
     The same sweet June-day rest and calm,
     The same sweet scent of bud and balm,
           When the cows come home.

           With tinkle, tankle, tinkle,
           Through fern and periwinkle
           The cows are coming home;
     A-loitering in the checkered stream
     Where the sun-rays glance and gleam,
     Clarine, Peachbloom and Phoebe Phillis
     Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies
           In a drowsy dream;
           To-link, to-lank, to-linklelinkle,
           O'er banks with butter cups a-twinkle,
           The cows come slowly home;
     And up through memory's deep ravine
     Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen,
     And the crescent of the silver queen,
          When the cows come home.

           With klingle, klangle, klingle,
           With loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle
           The cows are coming home;
     And over there in Merlin hill,
     Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will;
     The dew drops lie on the tangled vines,
     And over the poplars Venus shines,
           And over the silent mill;
           Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle
           With ting-a-ling and jingle
           The cows come slowly home;
     Let down the bars, let in the train
     Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain,
     For dear old times come back again,
           When the cows come home.





     'Twas twilight, and the early lighted lamps
     Were flickering down into the Arno's tide
     While yet the daylight lingered in the skies,
     Silvering and paling, when I saw him first.
     I was returning from my work, and paused
     Upon the bridge of Santa Trinita
     To rest, and think how fair our Florence is.
     And I remember, o'er the hazy hills,
     Far, far away, how exquisitely fair
     The twilight seemed that night. My heart was soft
     With tender longings, misted with a dim,
     Sad pleasure as a mirror with the breath.
     Ah, never will those feelings come again!

     I was in a mood to take a stamp
     From any passing chance, even like those clouds
     That caught the tenderest thrill of dying day,
     When, by some inward sense, I know not what,
     I felt that I was gazed at, drawn away
     By eyes that had a strange magnetic will.
     And so I turned from those far hills to see--
     A stranger? No; even then he did not seem
     A stranger, but as one I once had known,
     Not here in Florence, not in any place,
     But somewhere in my spirit known and seen.
     I felt his eyes were fixed upon me,
     And a sweet, serious smile was on his lips:
     Nor could I help but look and smile again.

     I know not what it was went to and fro
     Between us in that swift smile and glance.
     We neither spoke;
     But something went that thrilled me through and through.
     And that quick clash of souls
     Had struck a spark that set my soul on fire.

     And I was happy, oh, so happy then!
     It seemed as if this earth could never add
     One little drop more to the joy I owned,
     For all that passionate torrent pent within
     My heart had found its utterance and response.

     He was Venetian, and that radiant hair
     We black-haired girls so covet haloed round
     His sunny northern face and soft blue eyes.
     I know not why he loved me--me, so black,
     With this black skin that every Roman has,
     With this black hair, black eyes, that I so hate.

     Why loved he not Beata? she is fair,
     But yet he often swore to me Beata's body
     Was not worth one half my finger,
     And then kissed me full upon the mouth as if to seal his oath;
     Ah! glorious seal--I feel those lips there now!
     And on my forehead, too, one kiss still glows
     Like a great star.
     Ah! well! those days are gone. No! no!
     They are not gone; I love him madly now.
     I love him madly as I loved him then.

     Ah, God! how blissfully those days went by!
     You could not fill a golden cup more full
     Of rubied wine than was my heart with joy.
     Long mornings in his studio, there I sat
     And heard his voice; or, when he did not speak,
     I felt his presence like a rich perfume,
     Fill all my thoughts.
     I was his model. Hours and hours I posed
     For him to paint his Cleopatra, fierce,
     With her squared brows, and full Egyptian lips;
     A great gold serpent on her rounded arm,
     And a broad band of gold around her head.

     At last the autumn came, the stricken, bleeding autumn.
     Something weighed upon his mind I could not understand.
     I knew all was not right, yet dared not ask.
     At last few words made all things plain;
     "Love, I must go to Venice." "Must?" "Yes, must."
     "Then I go, too." "No, no; ah, Nina, no.
     Four weeks pass swiftly; one short month, and then
     I shall return to Florence, and to you."

     Vain were my words. He went, alas! he went
     With all the sunshine, and I wore alone
     The weary weeks out of that hateful month.
     Another month I waited, nervous, fierce
     With love's impatience. When that month was gone
     My heart was all afire; I could not stay.
     Consumed with jealous fears that wore me down
     Into a fever, necklace, earrings--all
     I sold, and on to Venice rushed. How long
     That dreary, never-ending journey seemed!
     I cursed the hills up which we slowly dragged,
     The long, flat plains of Lombardy I cursed,
     That kept me back from Venice.

     But at last in a black gondola I swam along
     The sea-built city, and my heart was big
     With the glad thought that I was near to him.
     Yes, gladness came upon me that soft night,
     And jealousy was hushed, and hope led on
     My dancing heart. In vain I strove to curb
     My glad impatience--I must see him then,
     At once, that very night; I could not wait
     The tardy morning--'twas a year away.
     I only gave the gondolier his name,
     And said, "You know him?" "Yes."
     "Then row me quick to where he is."

     He bowed and on he went,
     And as we swept along, I leaned me out
     And dragged my burning fingers in the wave,
     My hurried heart forecasting to itself our meeting,
     What he'd say and think,
     How I should hang upon his neck and say:
     "I could not longer live without you, dear."

     At last we paused. The gondolier said,
     "This is the palace." I was struck aghast.
     It flared with lights, that from the windows gleamed
     And trickled down into the black canal.
     "Stop! stop!" I cried; "'tis some mistake.
     Why are these lights? This palace is not his.
     He owns no palace." "Pardon," answered he,
     "I fancied the signora wished to see
     The marriage festa--and all Venice knows
     The bride receives to-night." "What bride, whose bride?"
     I asked, impatient. "Count Alberti's bride,
     Whose else?" he answered, with a shrug. My heart,
     From its glad, singing height, dropped like a lark
     Shot dead, at these few words. The whole world reeled,
     And for a moment I was crushed and stunned.
     Then came the wild revulsion of despair;
     Then, calm more dreadful than the fiercest pain.
     "Row me to the steps," I said. I leaped
     On their wet edge, and stared in at the door
     Where all was hurry, rush, and flare of light.

     My eyes ran, lightning, zigzag, through the crowd
     In search of him--he was not there. Ah, God!
     I breathed. He was not there! I inly cursed
     My unbelief, and turned me round to go.
     There was a sudden murmur near the door,
     And I beheld him--walking at her side.
     Oh! cursèd be the hour I saw that sight,
     And cursèd be the place! I saw those eyes
     That used to look such passion into mine
     Turned with the selfsame look to other eyes,
     Yes, light blue eyes, that upward gazed at him.
     I could not bear their bliss.
     I scarcely knew what happened then; I knew
     I felt for the stiletto in my vest
     With purpose that was half mechanical,
     As if a demon used my hand for his.
     I felt the red blood singing through my brain,
     I struck--before me, at my feet, she fell.

     Who was the queen then? Ah! your rank and wealth,
     Your pearls and splendors--what did they avail
     Against the sharp stiletto's little point?
     You should have thought of that before you dared--
     You had all the world beside--to steal
     The only treasure that the Roman girl e'er had.
     You will not smile again as then you smiled.
     Thank God, you'll never smile again for him!
     I was avenged, avenged, until I saw
     The dreadful look he gave me as he turned
     From her dead face and looked in mine. Ah, God!
     It haunts me, scares me, will not let me sleep.

     When will he come and tell me he forgives
     And loves me still? Oh, bid him come,
     Come quickly, come and let me die in peace.
     I could not help it; I was mad;
     But I repent, I suffer; he at least
     Should pity and forgive. Oh, make him come
     And say he loves me, and then let me die.
     I shall be ready then to die; but now
     I cannot think of God; my heart is hell,
     Until I know he loves me still.



Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man
who was traveling on foot, entered the little town of Digne, France.

It would be difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched
appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thick-set and robust. He
might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a
drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, which, burned and
tanned by the sun and wind, was dripping with perspiration. He wore a
cravat which was twisted into a long string; trousers of blue drilling
worn and threadbare, and an old gray tattered blouse, patched on one of
the elbows with a bit of green cotton cloth, sewed on with a twine
string. On his back, a soldier's knapsack, well buckled and perfectly
new; in his hand, an enormous knotty stick. Iron-shod shoes enveloped
his stockingless feet.

No one knew him. He was evidently a chance passer-by, but nevertheless
he directed his footsteps toward the village inn (the best in the
country-side), and entered the kitchen. The host, on hearing the door
open, addressed him without lifting his eyes from the stove.

"What is it this morning?"

"Food and lodging."

"Nothing easier--by paying for it."

"I have money, I can pay."

"In that case we are at your service."

"When will dinner be ready?"


While the newcomer was depositing his knapsack upon the floor, the host
tore off the corner of an old newspaper, wrote a line or two on the
margin and handed it to a lad standing near. After whispering a few
words in his ear, the lad set off at a run toward the town hall. In a
few moments he returned, bringing the paper. The host read it
attentively, remained silent a moment and then took a step in the
direction of the traveler.

"I cannot receive you, sir!"

"What! Are you afraid I won't pay you? I have money--I can pay."

"You have money, but I have no room."

"Well, put me in the stable."

"The horses occupy all the space there."

"In the loft then--But come, we can settle that after dinner."

"I cannot give you your dinner."

"Bah! I'm hungry. I have been on foot since sunrise and I wish to eat."

"Well, I have nothing."

"Nothing--and all that?"

"All that is engaged by messieurs and wagoners,--twelve of them."

"There's enough food there for twenty."

"I tell you, it is all engaged and paid for in advance."

"Well, I'm at a public inn and hungry. I shall remain."

"Stop! Do you want me to tell you who you are--you are Jean

The man dropped his head, picked up his knapsack and took his
departure.... That evening the Bishop of the little town of Digne was
sitting with his sister and housekeeper, talking over his day's work
among his parishioners, when there came a violent knock at the door.

"Come in--"

The door opened; a man entered and without waiting for the Bishop to
speak, he cried out--"See here--My name is Jean Valjean. I have been
nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was released and am now
on my way to Pontarlier. This evening when I came into these parts, I
went to an inn and they turned me out. I went to another and they said
"Be gone." I went to the prison; the jailer would not take me in. I went
to a dog's kennel; the dog bit me and drove me off as though he had been
a man. I went to the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no
stars. I returned to the city. Yonder, in the square, a good woman
tapped me on the shoulder and told me to knock here, and I have knocked.
What is this place? Do you keep an inn? Are you willing that I should

"Ah, Madam Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will set another place."

"No, that's not it. I'm a galley-slave--a convict--Here's my yellow
passport, read that, but no--I can read, I learned in the galleys.
[Reads.] 'Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been nineteen years in
the galleys. Five years for burglary and theft and fourteen years for
having attempted to escape on four different occasions. He--is--a
very--dangerous--man'--There, that's what bars me out. Will you give me
something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable?"

"Madam Magloire, you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove--Now
sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We will sup in a few moments and your
bed will be prepared while we are supping."

"What, you call me sir--You do not drive me out? A bed, with sheets,
like the rest of the world? It has been nineteen years since I slept in
a bed. Pardon me, monsieur inn-keeper,--what is your name?"

"I am only an old priest who lives here."

"Then you will not demand my money of me?"

"No--keep your money. How much have you?"

"One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous."

"How long did it take you to earn that?"

"Nineteen years."

"Nineteen years! Madam Magloire, you will place the silver fork and
spoon as near the fire as possible. The north wind blows harsh on the
Alps to-night. You must be cold, sir."

"Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not despise me? You receive me into your
house? You light your candles for me? Yet I have not concealed from you
who I am."

"You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house. This is the
house of Jesus Christ. That door does not ask of him who enters, whether
he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry,
you are welcome. But do not thank me; do not say that I receive you into
my house. You are more at home here than I am. Everything in this house
belongs to you. Besides, what need have I to know your name, for I knew
that before you told me."

"What! You knew what I was called?"

"Yes, you are called 'my brother.'"

"Oh--stop! I--was very hungry when I came in here, but now--my--my
hunger is all gone. Oh--you are--so--good--to me."

"You have suffered much. You have come from a very sad place--but
listen! There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of
one repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If
you emerge from that place with thoughts of evil and wrath against
mankind, you are to be pitied; but if you emerge with thoughts of peace
and good will, you are more deserving than any of us. But now, Monsieur,
since you have supped, I will conduct you to your room. This is your
room, sir. May you pass a good night, and to-morrow before you leave us
you must drink a cup of warm milk."

"Ah, is this true? Do you lodge me close to yourself like this? How do
you know that I am not a murderer?"

"That is the concern of the good God. Good night, brother. Good night."


[78] An adaptation from "Les Misérables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins.



     I want free life, and I want fresh air;
     And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
     The crack of the whips like shots in a battle,
     The mellay of horns and hoofs and heads
     That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;
     The green beneath and the blue above,
     And dash and danger, and life and love.
     And Lasca!

       Lasca used to ride
     On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side,
     With blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur;
     I laughed with joy as I looked at her.
     Little knew she of books or of creeds;
     An _Ave Maria_ sufficed her needs;
     Little she cared, save to be by my side,
     To ride with me, and ever to ride,
     From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.
     She was as bold as the billows that beat,
       She was as wild as the breezes that blow;
     From her little head to her little feet
       She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
     By each gust of passion; a sapling pine,
     That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,
     And wars with the wind when the weather is rough
     Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
     She would hunger that I might eat,
     Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
     But once, when I made her jealous for fun,
     At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,
     One Sunday in San Antonio,
     To a glorious girl on the Alamo,
     She drew from her belt a dear little dagger,
     And--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger!
     An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,
     And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night;
     But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound
     Her torn _rebosa_ about the wound,
     That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count
       In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

     Her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown--
       Her hair was darker than her eye;
     And something in her smile and frown,
       Curled crimson lip and instep high,
     Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
     Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
     The vigorous vintage of old Spain.
     She was alive in every limb
       With feeling, to the finger tips;
     And when the sun is like a fire,
     And sky one shining, soft sapphire,
       One does not drink in little sips.
     The air was heavy, the night was hot,
     I sat by her side, and forgot--forgot
     The herd that were taking their rest,
     Forgot that the air was close opprest,
     That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
     In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon--
     That once let the herd at its breath take fright,
     Nothing on earth can stop the flight;
     And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,
     Who falls in front of their mad stampede!
     Was that thunder? I grasped the cord
     Of my swift mustang without a word.
     I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.
     Away! on a hot chase down the wind!
     But never was fox-hunt half so hard
     And never was steed so little spared;
     For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared,
       In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

     The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
     There was one chance left, and you have but one,
     Halt! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;
       Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance,
     And if the steers in their frantic course
       Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
     You may thank your star; if not, good-by
     To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,
     And the open air and the open sky,
       In Texas, down by the Rio Grande!

     The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt
     For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,
     Down came the mustang, and down came we,
       Clinging together, and--what was the rest?
       A body that spread itself on my breast.
     Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
       Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;
     Then came thunder in my ears,
     As over us surged the sea of steers,
     Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
     And when I could rise--
     Lasca was dead!
     I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
     And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;
     And there she is lying, and no one knows;
     And the summer shines and the winter snows;
     For many a day the flowers have spread
     A pall of petals over her head;
     And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air,
     And the sly coyote trots here and there,
     And the black snake glides and glitters and slides
       Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree;
     And the buzzard sails on,
     And comes and is gone,
       Stately and still like a ship at sea;
     And I wonder why I do not care
     For the things that are like the things that were.
     Does half my heart lie buried there
       In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?



Russia was threatened by a Tartar invasion. The commander of the Russian
troops was the Czar's brother, the Grand Duke, now stationed at Irkutsk.
Suddenly all communication between him and the Czar was cut off by the
enemy, under the leadership of Ivan Ogareff, a traitor, who had sworn to
betray Russia and to kill the Grand Duke. It became necessary to send a
messenger to the Grand Duke to warn him of his danger, and Michael
Strogoff was chosen for that purpose. He was brought before the Czar,
who looked this magnificent specimen of manhood full in the face. Then:
"Thy name?"

"Michael Strogoff, sire."

"Thy rank?"

"Captain in the Corps of Couriers to the Czar."

"Thou dost know Siberia?"

"I am a Siberian."

"A native of--?"

"Omsk, sire."

"Hast thou relations there?"

"Yes, sire, my aged mother."

The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter
which he held in his hand: "Here is a letter which I charge thee,
Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no
one but him."

"I will deliver it, sire."

"The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious
country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this

"I will traverse it."

"Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet
thee on the way."

"I will beware of him."

"Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all
Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke." (Hands him

"This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke."

"Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your native land."

That very night Michael Strogoff started on his perilous journey. His
path was constantly beset with dangers, but not until he reached Omsk
did his greatest trial come. He had feared that he might see his mother
in passing through the town. They stopped only for dinner and the danger
was almost past, when, just as they were leaving the posting-house to
renew their journey, suddenly a cry made him tremble--a cry which
penetrated to the depths of his soul--and these two words rushed into
his ear, "My son!" His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him!
Trembling she smiled upon him and stretched forth her arms to him.
Michael Strogoff stepped forward; he was about to throw himself--when
the thought of duty, the serious danger to himself and mother, in this
unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great was his self-command that
not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public
room, and among them were perhaps spies, and was it not known that the
son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the Corps of Couriers to the Czar?
Michael Strogoff did not move.

"Michael!" cried his mother.

"Who are you, my good woman?"

"Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?"

"You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you."

Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said, "Art
thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?"

Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms.
But if he yielded now, it was all over with him, with her, with his
mission, with his oath! Completely master of himself, he closed his
eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother.

"I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman."


"My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Horparoff,
a merchant of Irkutsk," and suddenly he left the room, while for the
last time the words echoed in his ears.

"My son! My son!"

Michael Strogoff remembered--"For God, for the Czar, and for my native
land," and he had by a desperate effort gone. He did not see his old
mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate on a bench. But when the
Postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself.
Suddenly the thought occurred to her: She denied by her own son! It was
impossible! As for being herself deceived, it was equally impossible. It
was certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not
recognized her, it was because he would not, because he ought not,
because he had some strong reason for acting thus. And then, her mother
feelings arising within her, she had only one thought: Can I unwittingly
have ruined him?

"I am mad," she said to her interrogators. "This young man was not my
son; he had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall
end in finding him everywhere."

This occurrence, however, came to the knowledge of Ivan Ogareff, who was
stationed in the town. To obtain possession of any official message,
which, if delivered, would frustrate his plans, and to detain the
courier was his great desire. He succeeded in arresting Michael
Strogoff, and then sent for Marfa to appear before him. Marfa, standing
before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her breast,
and waited.

"You are Marfa Strogoff?" asked Ogareff.


"Do you retract what you said a few hours ago?"


"Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, Courier to the
Czar, has passed through Omsk?"

"I do not know."

"And the man whom you thought you recognized as your son, was not your

"He was not my son."

"And since then, have you seen him among the prisoners?"


"If he were pointed out to you, would you recognize him?"


"Listen! Your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to


"All these men will file before you, and if you do not show me Michael
Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows from the knout as men shall
have passed before you."

On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one by one past Marfa, who
was immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect
indifference. Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms of
his hands bled under the nails which were pressed into the flesh.

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground.
Her dress torn off, left her back bare. A saber was placed before her
breast at a few inches' distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings,
her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel. The Tartar drew himself
up and waited.

"Begin," said Ogareff.

The whip whistled through the air, but, before it fell, a powerful hand
stopped the Tartar's arm. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.

"Michael Strogoff!"

"Ivan Ogareff!" and raising the knout, he struck Ogareff a blow across
the face.

"Blow for blow." Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and in
another instant he would have been slain, but Ogareff stopped them.

"This man is reserved for the Emir's judgment. Search him."

The letter bearing the imperial arms was bound in Michael's bosom; he
had not had time to destroy it. It was handed to Ogareff.

"Your forehead to the ground!" exclaimed Ogareff.


Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were themselves laid on the
ground by a blow from Michael's fist.

"Who is this prisoner?" asked the Emir.

"A Russian spy," answered Ogareff.

In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be
terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then
he pointed to the Koran which was brought him. He opened the sacred
book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in loud voice, a
verse ending in these words: "And he shall no more see the things of
this earth."

"Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp;
then look while you may!"

Michael Strogoff's punishment was not death, but blindness. They drew a
red-hot saber across his eyes, and the courier was blind! After the
Emir's orders were executed, thinking they had robbed Michael Strogoff
of all power to do further harm, the Emir retired with his train, and
Michael was left alone. But his desire to reach the Grand Duke was not
quenched by this terrible calamity. He understood that Ivan Ogareff,
having obtained his seal and commission, would try to reach the Grand
Duke before he, himself, could possibly get there, carrying a false
message, which would betray all Siberia. Michael, after disheartening
trials in finding a trusty companion, finally succeeded and pushed on
towards Irkutsk, only hoping he might reach the place before Ogareff
should betray the city. At last, after a most painful fourteen days'
journey, he is at the very gate of the Governor's palace. Entrance is
easy, for confusion reigns everywhere. But Michael is in time. With his
trusty companion he goes distractedly through the passages. No one heeds
him. Michael opens one of the doors and enters a room flooded with
light, and there he stands face to face with the one whose villainous
hand would one instant later have betrayed all Siberia! "Ivan Ogareff!"
he cries.

On hearing his name pronounced, the wretch starts. His real name known,
all his plans will be frustrated. There is but one thing to be done; to
kill the one who had just uttered it. Ogareff rises and sees the blind
courier! Thinking he has an immense advantage over the blind man, he
throws himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps the arm of his
enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers himself together like
a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his
footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the blind man.
At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast at Michael's
breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man's knife turns aside
the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second attack. Cold
drops stand on Ogareff's brow; he draws back a step and again leaps
forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael's knife has
parried the blow from the traitor's useless sword. Mad with rage and
terror, he gazes into the wide open eyes of the blind man. Those eyes
which seemed to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which did not,
could not, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him.

Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: "He sees! He sees!"

"Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes
saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor
and coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your
life! It is a duel I offer you! My knife against your sword!" The
tears, which his pride in vain endeavored to subdue, welling up from his
heart, had gathered under his eyelids, and volatilized on the cornea,
and the vapor formed by his tears interposing between the glowing saber
and his eyeballs had been sufficient to annihilate the action of the
heat and save his sight. Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but
mustering up all his courage he springs forward. The two blades cross,
but at a touch from Michael's knife the sword flies in splinters, and
the wretch, stabbed to the heart, falls lifeless to the ground. The
crash of the steel attracting the attention of the ducal train, the door
is thrown open, and the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers,
enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying on the ground he
recognizes the man whom he believes to be the Czar's courier. Then in
threatening voice, "Who killed this man."

"I," answered Michael.

"Thy name? I know him! He is the Czar's courier."

"That man, your highness, is not a courier of the Czar! He is Ivan

"Ivan, the traitor?"


"But who are you, then?"

"Michael Strogoff."

"And you come?"

"For God, for the Czar, and for my native land!"



Mrs. Tree was over seventy, but apart from an amazing reticulation of
wrinkles netted close and fine like a woven veil, she showed little sign
of her great age. As she herself said, she had her wits and her teeth,
and she didn't see what any one wanted with more. In her afternoon gown
of plum-colored satin she was a pleasing and picturesque figure. On this
particular afternoon it was with very little ceremony that "Direxia
Hawkes," her life-long servitor, burst into the room. Direxia had been
to market and had brought all the news with her marketing.

"Ithuriel Butters is a singular man, Mis' Tree--he give me a turn just
now, he did so. I says, 'How's Miss Butters now, Ithuriel?' I knew she'd
been real poorly, but I hadn't heard for a considerable time.

"'I ain't no notion,' says he.

"'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says.

"'Just what I say,' says he.

"'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know.
She has consid'able kin 'round here.

"'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I lef her in the burying ground, that's
all I know.'

"Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month and I never knew a single
word about it. They're all singular people, them Butterses."

Just then there was a ring at the door bell and Direxia shuffled away to
answer it; then a man's voice was heard asking some questions. Mrs. Tree
sat alive and alert and called:


"Yes'm. Jest a minit. I'm seein' to something."

"Direxia Hawkes!"

"How you do pester me, Mis' Tree; there's a man at the door and I don't
want to let him stay there alone."

"What does he look like?"

"I don't know, he's a tramp, if he's nothing worse. Most likely he's
stealing the umbrellas while here I stand!"

"Show him in here!"

"What say?"

"Show him in here and don't pretend to be deaf when you hear as well as
I do."

"You don't want him in here, Mis' Tree--he's a tramp, I tell ye, and the
toughest looking"--

"Will you show him in here or shall I come and fetch him?"

"Well! of all the cantankerous,--here! come in, you! She wants to see
you," and a man appeared in the doorway--he was shabbily dressed, but it
was noticeable that the threadbare clothes were clean. Mrs. Tree looked
at him and then looked again.

"What do you want here?"

"I ask for food, I'm hungry."

"Are you a tramp?"

"Yes, Madam!"

"Anything else?"

Just here Direxia burst in with "That'll be enough--you come out in the
kitchen and I'll give you something to eat in a paper bag and you can
take it away with you."

"I shall be pleased to have you take supper with me, sir! Direxia, set a
place for this gentleman."

"I--cannot, Madam!--I thank you, but you must excuse me."

"Why can't you?"

"You must excuse me! If your woman will give me a morsel to eat in the
kitchen, or perhaps I had better go at once."

"Stop! Direxia, go and set another place for supper! Shut the door! Come
here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead
puppy on it. There! I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I
shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson
who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you
like tramping, now?"

"Pretty well; it's all right in the summer, or when a man has his

"See things, hey, new folks, new faces, get ideas, is that it?"

"That begins it, but after a while,--I really think I must go. Madam,
you are very kind but I prefer to go."

"Cat's foot!"

The shabby man laughed helplessly and just then Direxia stuck her head
in at the door and snapped out, "Supper's ready!"

The shabby man seemed in a kind of dream--half unconsciously he put the
old lady into her chair--then at a sign from her he took the seat
opposite--he laid the damask napkin across his knees and winced at the
touch of it as at the touch of a long-forgotten hand. Mrs. Tree talked
on easily, asking questions about the roads he traveled and the people
he met. He answered briefly. Suddenly close at hand a voice spoke.

"Old friends!"

The man started to his feet, white as the napkin he held.

"It's only a parrot! Sit down again. There he is at your elbow. Jocko is
his name. He does my swearing for me. My grandson and a friend of his
taught him that, and I have taught him a few other things besides. Good
Jocko! Speak up, boy!"

"Old friends to talk; old books to read; old wine to drink! Zooks!
Hooray for Arthur and Will! they're the boys!"

"That was my grandson and his friend. What's the matter? Feel faint,

"Yes, I am--faint. I must get out into the air."

"Nothing of the sort! You'll come upstairs and lie down."

"No! no! not in this house. Never! never!"

"Cat's foot! Don't talk to me! Here! give me your arm! Do as I say!

And as they passed up the stairway the parrot cried, "Old friends!" And
Direxia said, "I'm going to loose the bulldog, Mis' Tree, and Deacon
Weight says he'll be over in two minutes."

"There isn't any dog in the house, and Deacon Weight is at Conference,
and won't be back till the last of the week. That will do, Direxia; you
mean well, but you are a ninny-hammer. This way! This is my grandson's
room--he died here--what's the matter--feel faint--hey?"

"Yes!--I do--"

"Come, Willie--come lie down and rest on Arthur's bed--you are tired,

"Mrs. Tree, if you would not be so kind it would not be so hard--I

"Why, so I supposed, or thought it likely. You can have all you want,
without that--there's plenty for you and me. Folks call me close, and I
like to do what I like with my own money. There's plenty, I tell you,
for you and me and the bird. Do you think he knew you, Willie? I believe
he did."

"God knows! When--how did you know me, Mrs. Tree?"

"Get up, Willie Jaquith, and I'll tell you. Sit down; there's the chair
you made together, when you were fifteen. Remember, hey? I knew your
voice at the door, or I thought I did. Then when you wouldn't look at
the bead puppy, I hadn't much doubt; and when I said 'Cat's foot!' and
you laughed, I knew for sure. You've had a hard time, Willie, but you
are the same boy."

"If you would not be kind, I think it would be easier. You ought to give
me up, you know, and let me go to jail. I'm a drunkard and a vagrant,
and worse--but--you won't--do that--you won't do that."

"No! I won't. Hark, there's some one at the door--it's 'Malviny Weight.'
Now you lie down and rest--yes, you will--that press there is full of
Arthur's clothes--then you come down and talk to me--You do as I tell
you, Willie Jaquith, or I'll set the parrot on you; remember when he
bit you for stealing his apple,--there's the scar still on your cheek.
Greatest wonder in the world he didn't put your eye out. Served you
right if he had, too--Yes, Malviny, I'm coming!"

And as Mrs. Tree descended the stairs she was met by Mrs. Weight, who
broke out saying:

"I've waited most an hour to see that tramp come out. Deacon's away, and
I was scairt to death, but I'm a mother and I had to come. How I had the
courage I don't know, when I thought you and Mis' Tree might meet my
eyes both layin' dead in this entry. Where is he? Don't you help or
harbor him now, Direxia Hawkes! I saw his evil eye as he stood on the
doorstep, and I knew by the way he peeked and peered that he was after
no good. Where is he? I know he didn't go out. Hush! Don't say a word!
I'll slip out and round and get Hiram Sawyer. My boys is to
singing-school, and it was a special ordering that I happened to look
out at the window just that moment of time. Where did you say he--"

"Why, good evening, Malviny, what was it you were saying?"

"I'm sure, Mis' Tree, it's not on my own account I come. I'm the last to
intrude, as any one in this village can tell you. But you are an ancient
woman, and your neighbors are bound to protect you when need is. I see
that tramp come in here with my own eyes, and he's here for no good."

"What tramp?"

"Good land, Mis' Tree, didn't you see him? He slipped right in past
Direxia. I see him with these eyes."


"'Most an hour ago. I've been watching ever since. Don't tell me you
didn't know about him bein' here, Mis' Tree, now don't."

"I won't."

"He's hid away somewheres! Direxia Hawkes has hid him; he is an
accomplish of hers. You've always trusted that woman, Mis' Tree, but I
tell you I've had my eye on her these ten years, and now I have found
her out. She's hid him away somewheres, I tell you. There's cupboards
and closets enough in this house to hide a whole gang of cutthroats
in--and when you're abed and asleep they'll have your life, them two,
and run off with your worldly goods that you thought so much of. Would
have, that is, if I hadn't have had a special ordering to look out of
the winder. Oh, how thankful should I be that I kept the use of my
limbs, though I was scairt 'most to death, and am now."

"Yes, they might be useful to you, to get home with, for instance.
There, that will do, Malvina Weight. There is no tramp here. Your
eyesight is failing; there were always weak eyes in your family. There's
no tramp here, and there has been none."

"Mis' Tree! I tell you I see him with these--"

"Bah! don't talk to me! There is no tramp here and there has been
none--what you took for a tramp is a gentleman that's come to stay over
night with me--he's upstairs now--did you lock your door, Malvina--There
are tramps about and if Ephraim's away--well, good-night, Malvina, if
you must go. [She goes out.] Now, Direxia, you shut that door and if
that woman calls again to-night you set the parrot on her."

The next morning found Mrs. Tree an early riser and it was with
eagerness she greeted her visitor.

"You are better this morning, Willie, yes, you are--now go on and tell
me--after all your bad luck you took to drink. That wasn't very
sensible, was it?"

"I didn't care," said William Jaquith. "It helped me to forget a bit at
a time. I thought I could give it up any day, but I didn't. Then--I lost
my place, of course, and started to come East, and had my pocket picked
in Denver, of every cent I had. I tried for work there, but between
sickness and drink I wasn't good for much. I started tramping. I thought
I would tramp--it was last spring, and warm weather coming on--till I'd
got my health back, and then I'd steady down and get some work, and come
back to mother when I was fit to look her in the face. Then--in some
place, I forget--I came upon a King's County paper with mother's death
in it."


"O! I know I wasn't fit to see her--but I lost all hope then."

"Why don't you give up drink?"

"Where's the use? I would if there were any use, but mother is dead."

"Cat's foot--fiddlestick--folderol--fudge! She's no more dead than I am.
Don't talk to me! Hold on to yourself now, Willie Jaquith, and don't
make a scene; it is a thing I cannot abide. It was Maria Jaquith that
died, over at East Corners. Small loss she was, too. None of that family
was ever worth their salt. The fool who writes for the papers put her in
'Mary,' and gave out that she died here in Elmerton just because they
brought her here to bury. They've always buried here in the family lot,
as if they were of some account. I was afraid you might hear of it,
Willie, and wrote to the last place I heard of you in, but of course it
was of no use. Mary Jaquith is alive, I tell you. Now where are you

"To mother!"

"Yes, I would! Sit down, Willie Jaquith; do as I tell you! There! feel
pretty well, hey? Your mother is blind."

"Oh, mother! mother! I have left her alone all this time."

"Exactly! Now don't go into a caniption, because it won't do any good.
Here comes Direxia with your breakfast--you eat it and then we'll go and
see your mother."

Out of doors the morning was bright and clear. Mrs. Malvina Weight,
sweeping her front chamber, with an anxious eye on the house opposite,
saw the door open and Mrs. Tree come out, followed by a tall young man.
The old lady wore the huge black velvet bonnet, surmounted by a bird of
paradise, which she had brought from Paris forty years before, and an
India shawl which had pointed a moral to the pious of Elmerton for more
than that length of time. Mrs. Weight's curiosity knew no bounds when
she saw them turn into the old Jaquith place. She would have been more
astounded if she could have heard Mrs. Tree begin at once with:

"Well, Mary Jaquith, here you sit!"

"Mrs. Tree! Is this you?" asked Mrs. Jaquith; "my dear soul, what brings
you out so early in the morning? Come in! come in! who is with you?"

"I didn't say any one was with me! Don't you go to setting double-action
ears like mine, Mary, because you are not old enough to. How are you?
Obstinate as ever?"

"Take this chair, it's the one you always like. How am I obstinate, dear
Mrs. Tree?"

"If I've asked you once to come and live with me, I've asked you fifty
times," grumbled the old lady, sitting down with a good deal of flutter
and rustle. "There I must stay, left alone at my age, with nobody but
that old goose of a Direxia Hawkes to look after me. And all because you
like to be independent. Set you up! Well, I shan't ask you again, and so
I've come to tell you, Mary Jaquith."

"Dear old friend, you forgive me, I know. You never can have thought for
a moment, seriously, that I could be a burden on your kind hands. There
surely is some one with you, Mrs. Tree! Is it Direxia? Please be seated,
whoever it is."

There was a slight sound, as of a sob checked in the outbreak. Mrs. Tree
shook her head fiercely. The blind woman rose from her seat, very pale.

"Who is it? Be kind, please, and tell me."

"I'm going to tell you," said Mrs. Tree, "if you will have patience for
two minutes, and not drive every idea out of my head with your talk. I
had a visitor last night, Mary--some one came to see me--an old
acquaintance--some one who had seen Willie lately. Now Mary Jaquith, if
you don't sit down,--well, of all the unreasonable women I ever saw!"

The blind woman had stretched out her arms with a heavenly gesture of
appeal,--of welcome, of love unutterable,--and in a moment more her
son's arms were about her and he was crying over and over again,
"Mother, mother, mother!" as if he could not have enough of that word.


[79] An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen.



     Midnight past! Not a sound of aught
       Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.
     I sat by the dying fire, and thought
       Of the dear dead woman upstairs.

     A night of tears! for the gusty rain
       Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;
     And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,
       With her face all white and wet:

     Nobody with me, my watch to keep,
       But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:
     And grief had sent him fast to sleep
       In the chamber up above.

     Nobody else, in the country place
       All round, that knew of my loss beside,
     But the good young priest with the Raphael-face,
       Who confessed her when she died.

     The good young priest is of gentle nerve,
       And my grief had moved him beyond control;
     For his lips grew white, as I could observe,
       When he speeded her parting soul.

     I sat by the dreary hearth alone;
       I thought of the pleasant days of yore.
     I said, "The staff of my life is gone;
       The woman I loved is no more.

     "On her cold, dead bosom my portrait lies
       Which next to her heart she used to wear,--
     Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes
       When my own face was not there.

     "It is set all round with rubies red,
      And pearls which a Peri might have kept;
     For each ruby there my heart hath bled;
       For each pearl my eyes have wept."

     And I said, "The thing is precious to me,
       They will bury her soon in the church-yard clay;
     It lies on her heart, and lost must be,
       If I do not take it away."

     I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,
       And crept up the stairs that creaked from fright,
     Till into the chamber of death I came,
       Where she lay all in white.

     The moon shone over her winding-sheet.
       There, stark she lay on her carven bed;
     Seven burning tapers about her feet,
       And seven about her head.

     As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;
       I turned as I drew the curtains apart;
     I dared not look on the face of death,
       I knew where to find her heart.

     I thought, at first, as my touch fell there,
       It had warmed that heart to life, with love;
     For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,
       And I could feel it move.

     'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow
       O'er the heart of the dead,--from the other side;
     And at once the sweat broke over my brow,
       "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

     Opposite me, by the tapers' light,
       The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
     Stood over the corpse, and all as white,
       And neither of us moved.

     "What do you here, my friend?" ... The man
       Looked first at me, and then at the dead.
     "There is a portrait here," he began;
       "There is. It is mine," I said.

     Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,
       The portrait was, till a month ago,
     When this suffering angel took that out,
       And placed mine there, I know."

     "This woman, she loved me well," said I.
       "A month ago," said my friend to me;
     "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"
       He answered ... "Let us see."

     "Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:
       And whosesoever the portrait prove,
     His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
       Where Death is arraigned by Love."

     We found the portrait there in its place;
       We opened it, by the tapers' shine;
     The gems were all unchanged; the face
       Was--neither his nor mine.

     "One nail drives out another, at least!
       The face of the portrait there," I cried,
     "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest,
       Who confessed her when she died."

     The setting is all of rubies red,
       And pearls which a Peri might have kept;
     For each ruby there my heart hath bled;
       For each pearl my eyes have wept.




True!--nervous--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why
will you say that I am mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily--how
calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once
conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion,
there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had
never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his
eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture--a
pale-blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood
ran cold; and so by degrees--very gradually--I made up my mind to take
the life of the old man, and thus rid my life of him forever.

Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you
should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded--with
what caution--with what foresight--with what dissimulation I went to
work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week
before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch
of his door and opened it--oh, so gently! and then, when I had made an
opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed,
closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you
would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it
slowly--very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's
sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so
far that I could see him as he lay upon the bed. Ha!--would a madman
have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room,
I undid the lantern cautiously--oh, so cautiously--cautiously (for the
hinges creaked) I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon
the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights--every night just
at midnight--but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible
to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the
door. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and
he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled
at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly,
as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back--but no. His room was
as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close
fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see
the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb
slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed
crying out--"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a
muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal
terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief--oh, no!--it was the low,
stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged
with awe. I knew the sound well. I knew that he had been lying awake
ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His
fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy
them causeless, but could not.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie
down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the
lantern. So I opened it--you cannot imagine how stealthily,
stealthily--until at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the
spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open--wide, wide open--and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I
saw it with perfect distinctness--all a dull blue, with a hideous veil
over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see
nothing else of the old man's face or person; for I had directed the ray
as if by instinct, precisely upon the spot.

Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch
makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the
beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of
a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed; I held the
lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon
the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew
quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's
terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every
moment! do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous; so I am.
And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that
old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable
terror. Yet for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the
beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst.

And now a new anxiety seized me--the sound could be heard by a neighbor!
The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell I threw open the lantern
and leaped into the room. He shrieked once--once only. In an instant I
dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then
smiled gayly to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the
heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it
would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man
was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my hand
upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation.
He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe
the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night
waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered
the corpse.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and
deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so
cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye--not even his--could have
detected anything wrong.

When I had made an end of these labors it was four o'clock--still dark
as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the
street door. I went down to open it with a light heart--for what had I
now to fear? Then entered three men who introduced themselves, with
perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by
a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused;
information had been lodged at the police office, and the officers had
been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled--for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The
shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was
absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade
them search--search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed
them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my
confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest
from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect
triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the
corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was
singularly at ease. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and wished
them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still
they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct; it
continued and gained definitiveness--until at length I found that the
noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I grew very pale; but I talked more fluently and with a
heightened voice. Yet the sound increased--and what could I do? It was a
low, dull, quick sound--much such a sound as a watch makes when
enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath--and yet the officers heard it
not. I talked more quickly--more vehemently; but the noise steadily
increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with
heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men--but
the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed--I
raved--I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and
grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually
increased. It grew louder--louder--louder. And still the men chatted
pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?

They heard!--they suspected!--they knew!--they were making a mockery of
my horror! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better
than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could
bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or
die!--and now--again!--hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed--tear up
the planks! here! here! it is the beating of his hideous heart!"



     I had an uncle once--a man
       Of threescore years and three,
     And when my reason's dawn began,
       He'd take me on his knee,
     And often talk, whole winter nights,
       Things that seemed strange to me.

     He was a man of gloomy mood,
       And few his converse sought;
     But, it was said, in solitude
       His conscience with him wrought;
     And then, before his mental eye,
       Some hideous vision brought.

     There was not one in all the house
       Who did not fear his frown,
     Save I, a little, careless child,
       Who gamboled up and down,
     And often peeped into his room,
       And plucked him by his gown.

     I was an orphan and alone--
       My father was his brother,
     And all their lives I knew that they
       Had fondly loved each other;
     And in my uncle's room there hung
       The picture of my mother.

     There was a curtain over it--
       'Twas in a darkened place,
     And few or none had ever looked
       Upon my mother's face;
     Or seen her pale, expressive smile
       Of melancholy grace.

     One night--I do remember well,
       The wind was howling high,
     And through the ancient corridors
       It sounded drearily;
     I sat and read in that old hall;
       My uncle sat close by.

     I read--but little understood
       The words upon the book,
     For with a sidelong glance I marked
       My uncle's fearful look,
     And saw how all his quivering frame
       In strong convulsions shook.

     A silent terror o'er me stole,
       A strange, unusual dread;
     His lips were white as bone--his eyes
       Sunk far down in his head;
     He gazed on me, but 'twas the gaze
       Of the unconscious dead.

     Then suddenly he turned him round,
       And drew aside the veil
     That hung before my mother's face;
       Perchance my eyes might fail,
     But ne'er before that face to me
       Had seemed so ghastly pale.

     "Come hither, boy!" my uncle said--
       I started at the sound;
     'Twas choked and stifled, in his throat,
       And hardly utterance found;
     "Come hither, boy!" then fearfully
       He cast his eyes around.

     "That lady was thy mother once--
       Thou wert her only child;
     O God! I've seen her when she held
       Thee in her arms and smiled--
     She smiled upon thy father, boy,
       'Twas that which drove me wild!

     "He was my brother, but his form
       Was fairer far than mine;
     I grudged not that;--he was the prop
       Of our ancestral line,
     And manly beauty was of him
       A token and a sign.

     "Boy! I had loved her too--nay, more,
       'Twas I who loved her first;
     For months--for years--the golden thought
       Within my soul was nursed;
     He came--he conquered--they were wed--
       My air-blown bubble burst!

     "Then on my mind a shadow fell,
       And evil hopes grew rife;
     The damning thought stuck in my heart,
       And cut me like a knife,
     That she, whom all my days I loved,
       Should be another's wife!

     "I left my home--I left the land--
       I crossed the raging sea;
     In vain--in vain--where'er I turned,
       My memory went with me;
     My whole existence, night and day,
       In memory seemed to be.

     "I came again, I found them here--
       Thou'rt like thy father, boy--
     He doted on that pale face there,
       I've seen them kiss and toy--
     I've seen him locked in her fond arms,
       Wrapped in delirious joy!

     "By Heaven! it was a fearful thing,
       To see my brother now,
     And mark the placid calm that sat
       Forever on his brow,
     That seemed in bitter scorn to say,
       I am more loved than thou!

     "He disappeared--draw nearer, child!--
       He died--no one knew how;
     The murdered body ne'er was found,
       The tale is hushed up now;
     But there was one who rightly guessed
       The hand that struck the blow.

     "It drove her mad--yet not his death--
       No--not his death alone;
     For she had clung to hope, when all
       Knew well that there was none;
     No, boy! it was a sight she saw
       That froze her into stone!

     "I am thy uncle, child--why stare
       So frightfully aghast?--
     The arras waves, but know'st thou not
       'Tis nothing but the blast?
     I, too, have had my fears like these,
       But such vain fears are past.

     "I'll show thee what thy mother saw--
       I feel 'twill ease my breast,
     And this wild tempest-laden night
       Suits with the purpose best.
     Come hither--thou hast often sought
       To open this old chest.

     "It has a secret spring; the touch
       Is known to me alone;
     Slowly I raise the lid, and now--
       What see you, that you groan
     So heavily? That thing is but
       A bare-ribbed skeleton."

     A sudden crash--the lid fell down--
       Three strides he backward gave,
     "Oh, God! it is my brother's self
       Returning from the grave!
     His grasp of lead is on my throat--
       Will no one help or save?"

     That night they laid him on his bed,
       In raving madness tossed;
     He gnashed his teeth, and with wild oaths
       Blasphemed the Holy Ghost;
     And, ere the light of morning broke,
       A sinner's soul was lost.



     The selections in this division are cut, condensed, and adapted for
     practical use as dramas or monologues. In some cases lines of the
     text as well as explanations are written in to connect the scenes
     for clearer unity. For scenes from Shakespeare and readings from
     the Bible, already universally printed and accessible, see the
     indexes and directions as to the omissions of lines in various
     cuttings in Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings," published by
     Messrs. Ginn & Company.




     CHARACTERS: Hans Matthis, keeper of "the Merry Andrew"; Dr. Frantz,
     the magnetizer; the Judge.

     SCENE: Alsatia, in a hamlet at the foot of the mountains;
     Christmas, 1868; a room in an inn. Matthis, a prosperous
     burgomaster, recalls with friends the murder of a Polish Jew,
     fifteen years before. He wonders that the murderer has never been
     apprehended. The sound of sleigh bells is heard and the apparition
     of the Jew appears. Matthis is prostrated by the incident and
     consults a mesmerist, Dr. Frantz, who assures him that he has power
     to compel a criminal to divulge his secret thought. Matthis
     isolates himself and sleeps alone to avoid eavesdropping. On the
     night of his daughter's wedding he makes payment of her dowry, and
     as the money is laid on the table a sleigh bell falls from among
     the gold coins. He seeks his own room, falls asleep and dreams that
     he is before the court and that Dr. Frantz is mesmerizing him.


MAT. Happy fellow! happy fellows all of them! A man may play against
fate if he only prepares his cards--I hold none but good ones in my
hand. Ha, ha! They have their skins full of my best wine, and go home
happy as kings. Ha, ha! there'll be some funny flounderings in the snow
before they reach home. It's singular what magic is melted into
wine--one draught, and all the clouds are sunshine. It's dark! it's very
dark--and, though the wind has fallen, the fine snow sweeps down the
road like a train of phantoms. All is well! You may shake hands with
yourself, Hans Matthis! you have triumphed over both the world and
Heaven! I am so sleepy! If I rest here a--a moment? Ah! One is always
drowsy in cold weather. No one can hear me if I speak--in a dream--no
one--the Jew!--dreams, nonsense! [_Sleeps_.]

_Enter_ DR. FRANTZ _and the_ JUDGE

DR. F. My lord, it is the will of this tribunal which leads me here, not

JUDGE. Can you place that man in the mesmeric sleep?

DR. F. I can. But he is strong-willed, and the task may be hard.

MAT. No, no! I have no fear. [_Shudders; aside_.] Matthis, if you fall
asleep you will be lost!

DR. F. [_to_ MATTHIS]. I will that you should sleep! [_Makes magnetic
passes while looking at_ MATTHIS.]

MAT. No, no!

DR. F. It is my will. He sleeps. What must I ask?

JUDGE. What he did on Christmas Eve, fifteen years ago.

DR. F. I command you to be on the night of December the
four-and-twentieth, year 1853.

MAT. [_softly_]. Yes.

DR. F. What is the hour?

MAT. It is half-past eleven o'clock.

DR. F. Speak! It is my will!

MAT. The customers have left the inn. Catherine and little Annette have
gone to bed. Kaspar comes in and says--the fire in the lime-kiln is
drawing well. I answer: "Very good. Go to bed. I'll go have a look at
it." He goes up stairs. I am alone with the Polish Jew, who is warming
himself at the stove. All are asleep in the village. All I heard was the
sleigh-bell jingling on the Polander's horse in the shed. There was two
feet of snow on the ground. I thought of my want of money. If I did not
have three thousand francs by the end of the month, the inn would be
taken from me. I thought--no one is on the road--'tis night, and the
Polander will be all alone in the snow. He is well-built, and strong.
[_As if he saw the man before him._] I warrant he will hold out stoutly
if any one touches him. Ah! he looks at me with his little gray eyes. I
must do my work! Yes. I shall risk it! I go out. It is black as ink,
except for the falling snow. There would be no footsteps in the road. I
search his sledge--he might have had pistols! but there are none. I will
do it! Hark! no--not a sound, save a child crying--a goat bleating--and
the tramp overhead of the Polander in his chamber. I went in. He comes
down, and puts six francs on the table. I give him change. He looks a
long look at me, and asks how far to Mootzig? Four short leagues, say
I--and wish him a merry journey! He answers: "God bless you!" [_Pause._]
Ho, ho! the belt! the money-belt! He goes--he has gone! [MATTHIS
_stooping, goes a few steps as if following a trail._] The axe--where is
the axe? Ah! here--behind the door! How cold it is! Still falls the
snow, and far above, I see the shooting stars. Haste, Matthis, for the
prize--the money-belt! I follow--out of the village--to the open--how
cold it is! [_Shivers._] Yonder looms up the big bridge--there ripples
the rivulet out of sight under the snow. How the dogs bayed, on Daniel's
farm! and the blacksmith's forge glowed red on the hill-side like a
setting sun. Matthis, slay not the man! You are mad! You will be rich,
and your wife and child will want for nothing! The Polander had no
business to flaunt his money-belt in your face, when you owe money! The
bridge! I am already at the bridge! And no one! how still it is! how
cold! though I am warm--Hark! one o'clock by the village church! and the
moon is rising! Oh! the Jew has passed, and I am right glad of it! No!
what do I hear? the bell! the sleigh-bell. I shall be rich, I shall be
rich, rich, rich! [_The bell tinkles._] Down! I have you, dog of a Jew!
He has his score settled! Not a finger stirs. All is over! Ah! Away
rushes the horse with the sledge! but silently--the bell has been shaken
off! Hark, hark--a step! No! only the wind and a fall of snow. Quick,
quick, the money-belt! 'tis full! it bursts with my eager clutch! ah!
the coins have fallen! here, here and there! And now for home! no,
no--the body--it must not tell its story! [_Rolls up the mantle and puts
it on his shoulder._] Hush! the kiln, the lime-kiln. It is heavy! Into
the fire. Jew! fire and flames for the Jew! Oh! what eyes! with what
eyes does he regard me! Be a man, Matthis, look! look boldly! not even
his bones are left! Now, away with the belt--pocket the gold--that's
right! No one will ever know. The proofs are gone forever!

DR. F. What more shall he be asked?

JUDGE. No more. Wake him and let him see himself. [MATTHIS _sits in the
chair as at first_.]

DR. F. Awake! I will it.

MAT. Where am I? Ah, yes--what have I done? Wretch! I have confessed it
all! I am a lost man!

JUDGE. You stand self-condemned! Inasmuch as Hans Matthis, on the
morning of the 25th of December, 1853, between the hours of midnight and
one o'clock, committed the crime of murder and highway robbery upon the
person of Baruch Koweski, with malice prepense, we condemn him to be
hanged by the neck till death shall ensue. And may Heaven have mercy on
his soul! Usher, let the executioner appear and take charge of the
condemned. [_Curtain._




     CHARACTERS: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and
     heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte,
     the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline.

     Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or nobleman.
     Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in
     educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful
     musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a
     poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent
     insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a
     prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his
     mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of
     winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an untitled man
     after he has revealed his identity, Melnotte enters into a binding

     Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons.

_Enter_ MELNOTTE _as the Prince of Como, leading_ PAULINE

MEL. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position
to merit--not birth.

PAULINE. Why, yes; but still--

MEL. Still what, Pauline?

PAULINE. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man
who has ancestors is like a representative of the past.

MEL. True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is
a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks
true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.

PAULINE. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you,
prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race!

MEL. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on
the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the
incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I honor the
laurels that overshadow the graves of our fathers--it is our fathers I
emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted
my own ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes!

PAULINE. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou
lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of
Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear
to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou
describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if
custom had made thee disdain greatness.

     MEL. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint
          The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers,
          This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep vale
          Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world;
          Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold
          And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies,
          As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
          As I would have thy fate!

     PAULINE.                        My own dear love!

     MEL. A palace lifting to eternal summer
          Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower
          Of coolest foliage, musical with birds,
          Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon
          We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder
          Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens
          Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends
          That were not lovers; no ambition, save
          To excel them all in love; we'd read no books
          That were not tales of love--that we might smile
          To think how poorly eloquence of words
          Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
          And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens
          We'd guess what star should be our home when love
          Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
          Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps,
          And every air was heavy with the sighs
          Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes,
          And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
          I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?

     PAULINE. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang
          Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!
          Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly,
          Who would not love thee like Pauline?

     MEL.                                       Oh, false one!
          It is the prince thou lovest, not the man;
          If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power,
          I had painted poverty, and toil, and care,
          Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; Pauline,
          That is not love.

     PAULINE.               Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince!
          At first, in truth, I might not have been won,
          Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride;
          But now--oh! trust me--couldst thou fall from power
          And sink--

     MEL.            As low as that poor gardener's son
          Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?

     PAULINE.                                 Even then,
          Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear
          By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep
          Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught
          By the poor glittering of a garish flame;
          But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star
          Lures us no more; and by the fatal light
          We cling till death!

     MEL. Angel! [_Aside._] O conscience! conscience!
          It must not be--her love hath grown a torture
          Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant,
          And--ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me.
          I have business with these gentlemen--I--I
          Will forthwith join you.

     PAULINE. I obey, sweet Prince.       [_Exit separately._


     CHARACTERS: Pauline, Claude, and the Widow Melnotte, the mother of

     SCENE: Melnotte's cottage, widow bustling about, a table spread for

WIDOW. So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted
that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately.
She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth; for
though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to
have revealed to her the artifice; which her love only could forgive.
Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought
to be one, and that's almost as good. [_Knock at door._] Ah! here they


WIDOW. Oh, my boy--the pride of my heart!--welcome, welcome. I beg
pardon, ma'am, but I do love him so!

PAULINE. Good woman, I really--why, Prince, what is this?--does the old
lady know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof
of your kind heart; is it not?

MEL. Of my kind heart, ay!

PAULINE. So you know the Prince?

WIDOW. Know him, madam? Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not!

PAULINE. Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild
about her.

MEL. Madam, I--no, I cannot tell her; what a coward is a man who has
lost his honor! Speak to her--speak to her--[_to his mother_] tell her
that--O Heaven, that I were dead!

PAULINE. How confused he looks!--this strange place!--this woman--what
can it mean?--I half suspect--who are you, madam?--who are you? can't
you speak? are you struck dumb?

WIDOW. Claude, you have not deceived her? Ah, shame upon you! I thought
that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all.

PAULINE. All! what! My blood freezes in my veins!

WIDOW. Poor lady--dare I tell her, Claude? Know you not, then, madam,
that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that
you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte?

PAULINE. Your son! hold--hold! do not speak to me. [_Approaches_
MELNOTTE.] Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak--one
word--one look--one smile. I cannot believe--I who loved thee so--I
cannot believe that thou art such a--no, I will not wrong thee by a
harsh word! Speak.

MEL. Leave us. [_To_ WIDOW.] Have pity on her, on me; leave us!

WIDOW. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee
of whom I was so proud! [_Exit._

PAULINE. Her son--her son!

     MEL.  Now, lady, hear me.

     PAULINE.                   Hear thee!
           Ay, speak--her son! have fiends a parent? speak,
           That thou mayst silence curses--speak!

     MEL. No, curse me;
           Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.

     PAULINE [_laughing wildly_]. This is thy palace, where "the
             perfumed light
           Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps,
           And every air is heavy with the sighs
           Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes,
           And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
           I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?"
           This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom!
           O fool--O dupe--O wretch! I see it all.
           The by-word and the jeer of every tongue
           In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch
           Of human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me,
           And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot--
           It cannot be; this is some horrid dream;
           I shall wake soon. [_Touching him._] Art flesh? art man? or
           The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real.
           What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee,
           That thou shouldst crush me thus?

     MEL. Pauline, by pride
           Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride--
           That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold--
           The evil spirit of a bitter love,
           And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
           From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee;
           I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boy
           Tended, unmark'd by thee--a spirit of bloom,
           And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself
           Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
           I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
           Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy.
           And from that hour I grew--what to the last
           I shall be--thine adorer! Well, this love,
           Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
           A fountain of ambition and bright hope;
           I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
           Old gossips tell--how maidens, sprung from kings,
           Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death,
           Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook
           Beside the scepter.
           My father died; and I, the peasant born,
           Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
           Out of the prison of my mean estate;
           And, with such jewels as the exploring mind
           Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom
           From those twin jailers of the daring heart--
           Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grew
           A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages.
           For thee I sought to borrow from each grace,
           And every muse, such attributes as lend
           Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee,
           And passion taught me poesy--of thee,
           And on the painter's canvas grew the life
           Of beauty! Art became the shadow
           Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!
           Men call'd me vain--some mad--I heeded not;
           But still toil'd on--hoped on--for it was sweet,
           If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.

     PAULINE. Why do I cease to hate him!

     MEL. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
           The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
           And set them to thee--such a tribute, lady,
           As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
           The name--appended by the burning heart
           That long'd to show its idol what bright things
           It had created--yea, the enthusiast's name,
           That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn;
           That very hour--when passion, turn'd to wrath,
           Resembled hatred most--when thy disdain
           Made my whole soul a chaos--in that hour
           The tempters, found me a revengeful tool
           For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm--
           It turned and stung thee!

     PAULINE. Love, sir, hath no sting.
           What was the slight of a poor powerless girl
           To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge?
           Oh, how I loved this man!--a serf--a slave!

     MEL. Hold, lady! No, not a slave! Despair is free.
           I will not tell thee of the throes--the struggles--
           The anguish--the remorse. No, let it pass!
           And let me come to such most poor atonement
           Yet in my power. Pauline!--

     PAULINE. No, touch me not!
           I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;
           And I--O Heaven!--a peasant's wife! I'll work--
           Toil--drudge--do what thou wilt--but touch me not!
           Let my wrongs make me sacred!

     MEL. Do not fear me.
           Thou dost not know me, madam; at the altar
           My vengeance ceased--my guilty oath expired!
           Henceforth, no image of some marble saint,
           Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed more
           From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.
           I am thy husband--nay, thou need'st not shudder!--
           Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.
           A marriage thus unholy--unfulfill'd--
           A bond of fraud--is, by the laws of France,
           Made void and null. To-night sleep--sleep in peace.
           To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn
           I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine,
           Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.
           The law shall do thee justice, and restore
           Thy right to bless another with thy love.
           And when them art happy, and hast half forgot
           Him who so loved--so wrong'd thee, think at least
           Heaven left some remnant of the angel still
           In that poor peasant's nature! Ho! my mother!

     _Enter_ WIDOW

           Conduct this lady (she is not my wife;
           She is our guest--our honor'd guest, my mother)
           To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue
           Never, beneath my father's honest roof,
           E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now
           I think thou wilt believe me.
           Go, my mother!

     WIDOW. She is not thy wife!

     MEL. Hush, hush! for mercy's sake!
           Speak not, but go.

     [_Exit_ WIDOW. PAULINE _follows, weeping--turns to look back_.

                                      All angels bless and guard her!




     CHARACTERS: Rip Van Winkle; Derrick Von Beekman, the villain of the
     play, who endeavors to get Rip drunk, in order to have him sign
     away his property; Nick Vedder, the village innkeeper.

     SCENE: The village inn; present, Von Beekman, alone.

_Enter_ RIP, _shaking off the children, who cling about him_

RIP [_to the children_]. Say! hullo, dere, yu Yacob Stein! Let that dog
Schneider alone, will you? Dere, I tole you dat all de time, if you
don'd let him alone he's goin' to bide you! Why, hullo, Derrick! How you
was? Ach, my! Did you hear dem liddle fellers just now? Dey most plague
me crazy. Ha, ha, ha! I like to laugh my outsides in every time I tink
about it. Just now, as we was comin' along togedder, Schneider and me--I
don'd know if you know Schneider myself? Well, he's my dog. Well, dem
liddle fellers, dey took Schneider, und--ha, ha, ha!--dey--ha, ha,
ha!--dey tied a tin kettle mit his tail! Ha, ha, ha! My gracious! Of you
had seen dat dog run! My, how scared he was! Vell, he was a-runnin' an'
de kettle was a-bangin' an'--ha, ha, ha! you believe it, dat dog, he run
right betwixt me an' my legs! Ha, ha, ha! He spill me und all dem leddle
fellers down in de mud togedder. Ha, ha, ha!

VON B. Ah, yes, that's all right, Rip, very funny, very funny; but what
do you say to a glass of liquor, Rip?

RIP. Well, now, Derrick, what do I generally say to a glass? I generally
say it's a good ting, don'd I? Und I generally say a good deal more to
what is in it, dan to de glass.

VON B. Certainly, certainly! Say, hallo, there! Nick Vedder, bring out a
bottle of your best!

RIP. Dat's right--fill 'em up. You wouldn't believe, Derrick, but dat is
de first one I have had to-day. I guess maybe de reason is, I couldn't
got it before. Ah, Derrick, my score is too big! Well, here is your good
health und your family's--may dey all live long and prosper. [_They
drink._] Ach! you may well smack your lips, und go ah, ah! over dat
liquor. You don'd give me such liquor like dat every day, Nick Vedder.
Well, come on, fill 'em up again. Git out mit dat water, Nick Vedder, I
don'd want no water in my liquor. Good liquor und water, Nick Vedder, is
just like man and wife, dey don'd agree well togedder--dat's me und my
wife, any way. Well, come on again. Here is your good health und your
family's, und may dey all live long und prosper!

NICK VEDDER. That's right, Rip; drink away, and "drown your sorrows in
the flowing bowl."

RIP. Drown my sorrows? Ya, dat's all very well, but she don'd drown. My
wife is my sorrow und you can't drown her; she tried it once, but she
couldn't do it. What, didn't you hear about dat, de day what Gretchen
she like to got drownded? Ach, my; dat's de funniest ting in de world.
I'll tell you all about it. It was de same day what we got married. I
bet I don'd forget dat day so long what I live. You know dat Hudson
River what dey git dem boats over--well, dat's de same place. Well, you
know dat boat what Gretchen she was a-goin' to come over in, dat got
upsetted--ya, just went righd by der boddom. But she wasn't in de boat.
Oh, no; if she had been in de boat, well, den, maybe she might have got
drownded. You can't tell anyting at all about a ting like dat!

VON B. Ah, no; but I'm sure, Rip, if Gretchen were to fall into the
water now, you would risk your life to save her.

RIP. Would I? Well, I am not so sure about dat myself. When we was first
got married? Oh, ya; I know I would have done it den, but I don'd know
how it would be now. But it would be a good deal more my duty now as it
was den. Don'd you know, Derrick, when a man gits married a long
time--mit his wife, he gits a good deal attached mit her, und it would
be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. But I don'd know,
Derrick. I am afraid if Gretchen should fall in de water now und should
say, "Rip, Rip! help me oud"--I should say, "Mrs. Van Winkle, I will
just go home and tink about it." Oh, no, Derrick; if Gretchen fall in de
water now she's got to swim, I told you dat--ha, ha, ha, ha! Hullo!
dat's her a-comin' now; I guess it's bedder I go oud! [_Exit_ RIP.


     CHARACTERS: Rip Van Winkle; Gretchen, his wife; Meenie, their
     little daughter.

     SCENE: The dimly lighted kitchen of Rip's cottage. Shortly after
     his conversation with Von Beekman, Rip's wife catches him carousing
     and dancing upon the village green. She drives him away in no very
     gentle fashion, and he runs away from her only to carouse the more.
     Returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he
     puts his head through the open window at the rear, not observing
     his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-bars with
     her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm reception, but seeing
     only his little daughter Meenie, of whom he is very fond, and who
     also loves him very tenderly.

RIP. Meenie! Meenie, my darlin'!

MEENIE. Hush-sh-h. [_Shaking finger, to indicate the presence of her

RIP. Eh! what's de matter? I don'd see not'ing, my darlin'.

MEENIE. 'Sh-sh-sh!

RIP. Eh! what? Say, Meenie, is de ole wild cat home? [GRETCHEN _catches
him quickly by the hair_.] Oh, oh! say, is dat you, Gretchen? Say, dere,
my darlin', my angel, don'd do dat. Let go my head, won'd you? Well,
den, hold on to it so long what you like. [GRETCHEN _releases him_.]
Dere, now, look at dat, see what you done--you gone pull out a whole
handful of hair. What you want to do a ting like dat for? You must want
a bald-headed husband, don'd you?

GRETCHEN. Who was that you called a wild cat?

RIP. Who was dat I called a wild cat? Well, now, let me see, who was dat
I called a wild cat? Dat must 'a' been de same time I come in de winder
dere, wasn't it? Yes, I know, it was de same time. Well, now, let me
see. _[Suddenly.]_ It was de dog Schneider dat I call it.

GRETCHEN. The dog Schneider? That's a likely story.

RIP. Why, of course it is a likely story--ain't he my dog? Well, den, I
call him a wild cat just so much what I like, so dere now. [_Gretchen
begins to weep_.] Oh, well; dere, now, don'd you cry, don'd you cry,
Gretchen; you hear what I said? Lisden now. If you don'd cry, I nefer
drink anoder drop of liquor in my life.

GRETCHEN [_crying_]. Oh, Rip! you have said so many, many times, and you
never kept your word yet.

RIP. Well, I say it dis time, and I mean it.

GRETCHEN. Oh, Rip! if I could only trust you.

RIP. You mustn't suspect me. Can't you see repentance in my eye?

GRETCHEN. Rip, if you will only keep your word, I shall be the happiest
woman in the world.

RIP. You can believe it. I nefer drink anoder drop so long what I live,
if you don'd cry.

GRETCHEN. Oh, Rip, how happy we shall be! And you'll get back all the
village, Rip, just as you used to have it; and you'll fix up our little
house so nicely; and you and I, and our little darling Meenie, here--how
happy we shall be!

RIP. Dere, now! you can be just so happy what you like. Go in de odder
room, go along mit you; I come in dere pooty quick. [_Exit_ GRETCHEN and
MEENIE.] My! I swore off from drinkin' so many, many times, and I never
kept my word yet. [_Taking out bottle._] I don'd believe dere is more as
one good drink in dat bottle, anyway. It's a pity to waste it! You goin'
to drink dat? Well, now, if you do, it is de last one, remember dat, old
feller. Well, here is your goot held, und--

_Enter_ GRETCHEN, _suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him_.

GRETCHEN. Oh, you brute! you paltry thief!

RIP. Hold on dere, my dear, you will spill de liquor.

GRETCHEN. Yes, I will spill it, you drunken scoundrel. [_Throwing away
the bottle._] That's the last drop you ever drink under this roof.

RIP [_slowly, after a moment's silence, as if stunned by her severity_].
Eh! what?

GRETCHEN. Out, I say! you drink no more here.

RIP. What? Gretchen, are you goin' to drive me away?

GRETCHEN. Yes! Acre by acre, foot by foot, you have sold everything that
ever belonged to you for liquor. Thank Heaven, this house is mine, and
you can't sell it.

RIP [_rapidly sobering, as he begins to realize the gravity of the
situation_]. Yours? Yours? Ya, you are right--it is yours; I have got no
home. [_In broken tones, almost sobbing._] But where will I go?

GRETCHEN. Anywhere! out into the storm, to the mountains. There's the
door--never let your face darken it again.

RIP. What, Gretchen! are you goin' to drive me away like a dog on a
night like dis?

GRETCHEN. Yes; out with you! You have no longer a share in me or mine.
[_Breaking down and sobbing with the intensity of her passion._]

RIP [_very slowly and quietly, but with great intensity_]. Well, den, I
will go; you have drive me away like a dog, Gretchen, and I will go. But
remember, Gretchen, after what you have told me here to-night, I can
never come back. You have open de door for me to go; you will never open
it for me to return. But, Gretchen, you tell me dat I have no longer a
chare here. [_Points at the child, who kneels crying at his feet._]
Good-by [_with much emotion_], my darlin'. God bless you! Don'd you
nefer forgit your fader. Gretchen (_with a great sob_), I wipe de
disgrace from your door. Good-by, good-by!

[_Exit_ RIP _into the storm_.


[80] Adapted by Mr. A. P. Burbank.




     CHARACTERS: Mrs. Malaprop, with her bad grammar and ludicrous
     diction; Lydia Languish, in love with Beverley; Sir Anthony
     Absolute, choleric, but kind-hearted.

     SCENE: A dressing room in Mrs. Malaprop's lodgings.


MRS. MALAPROP. There, Sir Anthony, there stands the deliberate
simpleton, who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a
fellow not worth a shilling.

LYDIA. Madam, I thought you once--

MRS. M. You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think
at all: thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would
request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow--to
illiterate him, I say, from your memory.

LYD. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so
easy to forget.

MRS. M. But I say it is, miss! there is nothing on earth so easy as to
forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much
forgot your poor dear uncle, as if he had never existed; and I thought
it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories
don't become a young woman.

LYD. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus?

MRS. M. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you
know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise me
to do as you are bid? Will you take a husband of your friend's choosing?

LYD. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that, had I no preference for any
one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.

MRS. M. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They
don't become a young woman. But, suppose we were going to give you
another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley?

LYD. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my
actions would certainly as far belie my words.

MRS. M. Take yourself to your room! You are fit company for nothing but
your own ill humors.

LYD. Willingly, ma'am; I cannot change for the worse.

MRS. M. There's a little intricate hussy for you! [_Exit._

SIR A. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that is the natural
consequence of teaching girls to read. On my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop,
I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library:
from that moment, I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!

MRS. M. Those are vile places, indeed!

SIR A. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of
diabolical knowledge!

MRS. M. Fie, fie, Sir Anthony! you surely speak laconically.

SIR A. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a
woman know?

MRS. M. Observe me, Sir Anthony--I would by no means wish a daughter of
mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes
a young woman; for instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or
Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such
inflammatory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary for her to
handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments;
but, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a
boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice.
Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as
she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might
know something of the contagious countries; above all, she would be
taught orthodoxy. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know;
and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.

SIR A. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further
with you; though I must confess, that you are a truly moderate and
polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the
question.--But to the more important point in debate--you say you have
no objection to my proposal?

MRS. M. None, I assure you. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony;
but I hope no objection on his side.

SIR A. Objection!--let him object, if he dare!--No, no, Mrs. Malaprop;
Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My
process was always very simple--in his younger days, 'twas "Jack, do
this,"--if he demurred, I knocked him down; and, if he grumbled at that,
I always sent him out of the room.

MRS. M. Aye, and the properest way, o' my conscience!--Nothing is so
conciliating to young people as severity. Well, Sir Anthony, I shall
give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's
invocations; and I hope you will represent her to the Captain as an
object not altogether illegible.

SIR A. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. I must leave you; and
let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the
girl--take my advice, keep a tight hand--if she rejects this proposal,
clap her under lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants
forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive
how she'd come about.

MRS. M. Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her from under my
jurisprudence. [_Exit._


     CHARACTERS: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute, his son.

     SCENE: Captain Absolute's lodgings.


CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so
well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.

SIR ANTHONY. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are
recruiting here, hey?

CAPT. A. Yes, sir; I am on duty.

SIR A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for
I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have
been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not
trouble you long.

CAPT. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty;
and I pray fervently that you may continue so.

SIR A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then,
Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may
continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the
income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but
a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.

CAPT. A. Sir, you are very good.

SIR A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some
figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a
noble independence.

CAPT. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such generosity makes the
gratitude of reason more lively than the sensations even of filial

SIR A. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention; and you shall be
master of a large estate in a few weeks.

CAPT. A. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude. I cannot express
the sense I have of your munificence. Yet, sir, I presume you would not
wish me to quit the army.

SIR A. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses.

CAPT. A. My wife, sir!

SIR A. Aye, aye, settle that between you--settle that between you.

CAPT. A. A wife, sir, did you say?

SIR A. Aye, a wife--why, did not I mention her before?

CAPT. A. Not a word of her, sir.

SIR A. Upon my word, I mustn't forget her, though! Yes, Jack, the
independence I was talking of is by a marriage,--the fortune is saddled
with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference?

CAPT. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me!

SIR A. What's the matter? Just now you were all gratitude and duty.

CAPT. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but
not one word of a wife.

SIR A. Why, what difference does that make? Sir, if you have the estate,
you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands.

CAPT. A. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave to decline
the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady?

SIR A. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and
to marry her directly.

CAPT. A. Sure, sir, that's not very reasonable, to summon my affections
for a lady I know nothing of!

SIR A. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to object to a lady
you know nothing of.

CAPT. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that on
this point I cannot obey you.

SIR A. Hark you, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience; I
have been cool--quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance
itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led--when I have my
own way; but don't put me in a frenzy.

CAPT. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey you.

SIR A. Now, shoot me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live!

CAPT. A. Nay, sir, but hear me.

SIR A. Sir, I won't hear a word--not a word!--not one word! So, give me
your promise by a nod; and I'll tell you what, Jack,--I mean, you
dog,--if you don't--

CAPT. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness;

SIR A. Sir, the lady shall be as ugly as I choose; she shall have a lump
on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye
shall roll like the bull's in Cox's mu-se-um; she shall have a skin like
a mummy, and the beard of a Jew; she shall be all this, sir! yet I'll
make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her

CAPT. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed!

SIR A. None of your sneering, puppy!--no grinning, jackanapes!

CAPT. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life.

SIR A. 'Tis false, sir! I know you are laughing in your sleeve; I know
you'll grin when I am gone, sir!

CAPT. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.

SIR A. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please!
It won't do with me, I promise you.

CAPT. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.

SIR A. I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you
hypocritical young dog! But it won't do!

CAPT. A. Nay, sir, upon my word--

SIR A. So, you will fly out? Can't you be cool, like me? What good can
passion do? Passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent,
overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! Don't provoke me! But you
rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! You play upon the
meekness of my disposition! Yet take care; the patience of a saint may
be overcome at last! But, mark! I give you six hours and a half to
consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do
everything on earth that I choose, why, I may, in time, forgive you. If
not, don't enter the same hemisphere with me; don't dare to breathe the
same air, or use the same light, with me; but get an atmosphere and a
sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a
five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the
interest! I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you! I'll never call you Jack
again! [_Exit_.

CAPT. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hand.


     CHARACTERS: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute.

     SCENE: The North Parade. Captain Absolute has discovered that the
     lady whom his father so peremptorily commanded him to marry is none
     other than Lydia Languish with whom he, under the name of Beverley,
     was plotting an elopement.


CAPT. A. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed!--Whimsical enough, 'faith! My
father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run
away with! He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has
too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; however, I'll read
my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed; but
I can assure him, it is very sincere.--So, so, here he comes. He looks
plaguy gruff! [_Steps aside_.


SIR A. No--I'll die sooner than forgive him! Die, did I say? I'll live
these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had
almost put me out of temper--an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy!
This is my return for putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching
regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever
since! But I have done with him--he's anybody's son for me--I never will
see him more--never--never--never--never.

CAPT. A. Now for a penitential face! [_Comes forward_.

SIR A. Fellow, get out of my way!

CAPT. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you.

SIR A. I see an impudent scoundrel before me.

CAPT. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error,
and to submit entirely to your will.

SIR A. What's that?

CAPT. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on your
past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.

SIR A. Well, sir?

CAPT. A. I have been likewise weighing and balancing, what you were
pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.

SIR A. Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard anything
more sensible in my life. Confound you, you shall be Jack again!

CAPT. A. I am happy in the appellation.

SIR A. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady
really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow,
prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and
rapture--prepare! What think you of Miss Lydia Languish?

CAPT. A. Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?

SIR A. Worcestershire! No! Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop, and her
niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were
last ordered to your regiment?

CAPT. A. Malaprop! Languish! I don't remember ever to have heard the
name before. Yet, stay: I think I do recollect something. Languish,
Languish! She squints, don't she? A little red-haired girl?

SIR A. Squints! A red-haired girl! Zounds, no!

CAPT. A. Then I must have forgot; it can't be the same person.

SIR A. Jack, Jack! what think you of blooming, love-breathing seventeen?

CAPT. A. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent: if I can please you in
the matter, 'tis all I desire.

SIR A. Nay, but, Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so
bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought
of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at
the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! Oh, Jack,
lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not smiling, more sweetly
pouting, more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck! Oh! Jack!

CAPT. A. And which is to be mine, sir; the niece, or the aunt?

SIR A. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you! When I was
of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket!
The aunt, indeed! Odds life! when I ran away with your mother, I would
not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.

CAPT. A. Not to please your father, sir?

SIR A. To please my father--zounds! not to please--Oh! my father? Oddso!
yes, yes! if my father, indeed, had desired--that's quite another
matter. Though he wasn't the indulgent father that I am, Jack.

CAPT. A. I dare say not, sir.

SIR A. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so

CAPT. A. Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I
desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir,
if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or
two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being
very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual
number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back; and though one eye may
be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favor of two,
I would not wish to affect a singularity in that article.

SIR A. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite! a
vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! you're a walking block, fit only
to dust the company's regimentals on! Odds life, I've a great mind to
marry the girl myself!

CAPT. A. I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should think of
addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the
aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady, 'tis the
same to me--I'll marry the niece.

SIR A. Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite,
or--but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a
lie--I'm sure it must. Come, now, off with your demure face; come,
confess, Jack, you have been lying, ha'nt you? You have been playing the
hypocrite, hey? I'll never forgive you, if you ha'nt been lying and
playing the hypocrite.

CAPT. A. I am sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you,
should be so mistaken.

SIR A. Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I'll write a
note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes
shall be the Promethean torch to you; come along, I'll never forgive
you, if you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience; if
you don't, 'egad, I'll marry the girl myself! [_Exeunt._


     CHARACTERS: Mrs. Malaprop; Lydia; Captain Absolute known to Lydia
     as "Beverley"; Sir Anthony; Servant.


MRS M. Why, thou perverse one!--tell me what you can object to in
him?--Isn't he a handsome man?--tell me that. A genteel man? a pretty
figure of a man?

LYD. She little thinks whom she is praising. [_Aside_.] So is Beverley,

MRS. M. No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons don't become a
young woman. No! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman.

LYD. Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen. [_Aside_.

MRS. M. Then he's so well bred;--so full of alacrity and adulation!--He
has so much to say for himself, in such good language, too. His
physiognomy so grammatical; then his presence so noble! I protest, when
I saw him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the play:--"Hesperian
curls--the front of Job himself! an eye, like March, to threaten at
command! a station, like Harry Mercury, new"--Something about
kissing--on a hill--however, the similitude struck me directly.

LYD. How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her mistake!


SERV. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am.

MRS. M. Show them up here. [_Exit_ SERVANT.] Now, Lydia, I insist on
your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show your good breeding, at
least, though you have forgot your duty.

LYD. Madam, I have told you my resolution; I shall not only give him no
encouragement, but I won't even speak to, or look at him.

[_Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door_.


SIR A. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop; come to mitigate the frowns of
unrelenting beauty,--and difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow. I
don't know what's the matter, but if I had not held him by force he'd
have given me the slip.

MRS. M. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair. I am
ashamed for the cause! Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you!--pay your
respects! [_Aside to her_.

SIR A. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected on the worth of
this gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my
alliance. Now, Jack, speak to her.

[_Aside to him_.

CAPT. A. What the devil shall I do? [_Aside_.]--You see, sir, she won't
even look at me while you are here. I knew she wouldn't!--I told you
so.--Let me entreat you, sir, to leave us together!

MRS. M. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece
is very small. Turn round, Lydia, I blush for you! [_Aside to her_.

SIR A. Why don't you begin, Jack? Zounds! sirrah! why don't you speak?
[_Aside to him_.

CAPT. A. Hem! hem! Madam--hem! [CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE _attempts to speak,
then returns to_ SIR ANTHONY.] 'Faith! sir, I am so confounded!--and
so--so confused! I told you I should be so, sir,--I knew it. The--the
tremor of my passion entirely takes away my presence of mind.

SIR A. But it don't take away your voice, does it? Go up, and speak to
her directly!

CAPT. A. [_draws near_ LYDIA]. [_Aside_.] Now heaven send she may be too
sullen to look round! I must disguise my voice.--Will not Miss Languish
lend an ear to the mild accents of true love? Will not--

SIR A. Why don't you speak out?--not stand croaking like a frog in a

CAPT. A. The--the--excess of my awe, and my--my modesty quite choke me!

SIR A. Ah! your modesty again! Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would
favor us with something more than a side-front.

[MRS. MALAPROP _seems to chide_ LYDIA.

CAPT. A. So! all will out, I see! [_Goes up to_ LYDIA, _speaks softly_.]
Be not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all surprise at present.

LYD. [_aside_]. Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice!--[_Looks round by
degrees, then starts up_.] Is this possible!--my Beverley! how can this
be?--my Beverley!

CAPT. A. Ah! 'tis all over! [_Aside._

SIR A. Beverley!--the devil--Beverley! What can the girl mean? This is
my son, Jack Absolute.

MRS. M. For shame! for shame!--your head runs so on that fellow, that
you have him always in your eyes! beg Captain Absolute's pardon,

LYD. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley!

SIR A. Zounds, the girl's mad!--her brain's turned by reading!

MRS. M. O' my conscience, I believe so!--what do you mean by
Beverley?--you saw Captain Absolute before to-day, there he is: your
husband that shall be.

LYD. With all my soul, ma'am--when I refuse my Beverley--

SIR A. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!--or has this fellow been playing us a
rogue's trick? Come here, sirrah, who the devil are you?

CAPT. A. 'Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; but I'll endeavor to

SIR A. Are you my son, or not?--answer for your mother, you dog, if you
won't for me.

CAPT. A. Ye powers of impudence, befriend me!--[_Aside._]--Sir Anthony,
most assuredly I am your wife's son; Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most
respectful admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate nephew. I
need not tell my Lydia that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing
the singular generosity of her temper, assumed that name, and a station,
which has proved a test of the most disinterested love, which he now
hopes to enjoy, in a more elevated character.

LYD. So!--there will be no elopement after all!

SIR A. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent fellow! To do you
justice, I think I never saw a piece of more consummate assurance! Well,
I am glad you are not the dull insensible varlet you pretend to be,
however! I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you dog--I am.
So, this was your penitence, your duty, and obedience! Ah! you
dissembling villain! Come, we must leave them together, Mrs. Malaprop;
they long to fly into each other's arms. I warrant! Come, Mrs. Malaprop,
we'll not disturb their tenderness; theirs is the time of life for
happiness! [_Sings_.] _Youth's the season made for joy_--hey! odds life!
I'm in such spirits! Permit me, ma'am.

[_Gives his hand to_ MRS. MALAPROP. _Exit singing, and handing her off.
Exit_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE _with_ LYDIA _in the opposite direction._




     CHARACTERS: Beau Brummell, a fastidious aristocrat with luxurious
     tastes and a depleted fortune; Isidore, his valet; Mr. Fotherby,
     his aspiring young protégé.

     SCENE: A handsome apartment in Brummell's house, Calais, France.
     Isidore discovered, in chair, looking over his master's toilette

ISIDORE. Twenty shirts a week, twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs, to say
nothing of thirty cravats and twelve waistcoats--indeed, for people that
cannot pay their servants! Well, he owes me just six thousand three
hundred and thirty-seven francs, ten sous. [_Picks up paper._] Ah, I
see, I'm in the list. It costs something to have the honor of serving
Mr. Brummell--to be chamberlain to His Majesty, the King of Calais! But
he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be
in their debt; still, much as I esteem the honor, I can't afford it any
longer, nor can the laundress, nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred
francs a year for washing! Three clean shirts a day, three cravats!
Boots blacked, soles and all, and with such varnish! But then he has
such exquisite taste! why, he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to
enter his club, because the candidate's boots were polished with bad
blacking. I wonder whether the king will do anything for him? It is Mr.
Brummell's dressing hour, and here he comes.

[_Enter_ BRUMMELL, _letter in hand_. ISIDORE _busies himself piling
cravats upon the side of dressing table, and wheels chair to the
mirror_. BRUMMELL _throws himself in the chair before the glass,
examines the cravats and throws two or three of them away_.

BRUMMELL. Isidore, take those dusters away; the chambermaid has
forgotten them. [_Re-reads the letter_.] Strange girl this; the only
thing I know against her is that she takes soup twice. It's the old
story. Her father wants her to marry a fellow who can keep her, and she
wants to have a young fellow who can't. Well, the young fellow who can't
is the more interesting of the two. I must ask the father to dinner I
suppose--it's a deuced bore; but it will put him under a heavy
obligation. I must make excuses to Ballarat and Gill. Isidore, when I'm
dressed take my compliments to Mr. Davis, and tell him I shall be happy
to see him at dinner to-day.

ISID. Very well, sir. [_Aside_.] To Davis, a retired fellow from the
city! This is a tumble!--I am sorry to trouble you, sir, but----

BRUM. I can't talk to you to-day, Isidore. Give me a cravat.

ISID. [_handing one_]. I am a poor man, and six thousand francs----

BRUM. I understand, Isidore. We'll see--we'll see; don't disturb me.
Zounds! man, haven't you been long enough with me to know that these are
not moments when I can speak or listen? [_Bell rings_.] If that be Mr.
Fotherby, show him in. [_Exit_ ISIDORE.] I intend to form that young
fellow--there's stuff in him. I've noticed that he uses my blacking.
[_Enter_ FOTHERBY _followed by_ ISIDORE.] How d'e do, Fotherby?

FOTHERBY. This admittance is an honor, indeed, sir!

BRUM. My dear fellow, why, what do you call those things upon your feet?

FOTHER. Things on my feet! Shoes, to be sure!

BRUM. Shoes! I thought they were slippers!

FOTHER. You prefer boots then, sir, doubtless?

BRUM. Well, let me see. Humph! Isidore, which do I prefer, boots or

ISID. The Hessian was always your favorite, sir, in London.

BRUM. Right, Isidore--so it was. By-the-bye, I have asked Davis here
to-day. It was a great sacrifice; but as you and the young lady want to
have the old gentleman melted, I resigned myself. I hope he'll keep his
knife out of his mouth.

FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful to you, sir. He wanted Helen to
become old Armand's wife next week.

BRUM. I think he's right; and but for one circumstance, I should be on
Armand's side of the question.

FOTHER. And this circumstance?

BRUM. The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing
that serves him for a waistcoat--an instrument that, he says, has been
in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an
hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. And now
let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen,
plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you
are dressed in execrable taste--all black and white, like a magpie.
Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can
incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. Everything
should fit without a fault. You can't tell what this has cost me--but
then it is a coat--while that thing you wear--I really don't know what
we can call it.

FOTHER. Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my
mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way.

BRUM. Really, my good young friend, you surprise me. Don't you know that
you take medicine--you take a walk--you take a liberty--but you drink
tea! My dear Fotherby, never be bearer of such a dreadful message again.
Isidore! has my Paris wig arrived? Any card or letter?

ISID. No cards, sir. The wig arrived by the diligence.

BRUN. Is the wig fit to put on?

ISID. I have been examining it, and, as the times go, I think it will
do. There is one of the side locks not quite to my taste.

BRUM. Ah! a mat, no doubt--a door-mat! [_Exit_ ISIDORE. _To_ FOTHERBY.]
You see what a gentleman may be reduced to! It's the most fortunate
thing in the world that I never fell in love!

FOTHER. But were you never in love?--never engaged?

BRUM. Engaged?--why, yes, something of the kind; but I discovered that
the lady positively ate cabbage, and so I broke it off.

FOTHER. And so, sir, you will persuade the old gentleman to postpone
Helen's marriage with Armand--while I----

BRUM. My dear young friend, I will tell the old gentleman to do so--you
must see that I could not possibly think of persuading a person who
grows onions in his garden----

FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful----

BRUM. For three weeks exactly--from which time you, at all events, will
begin to wish that I had confined my attention to my own particular
affairs. But the world is ungrateful. I once waved my hand to a
saddler's son from White's window. Well, sir, I owed him five hundred
pounds, and he had afterwards the assurance to ask me for it.

FOTHER. You astonish me!

BRUM. Positive fact. So be cautious, young man, and in your way through
life--if you wave your hand to such a fellow, let it be over a stamped

FOTHER. I shall follow your counsel most scrupulously.

BRUM. There, sir, never let me see you again in those gloves! These,
sir, [_showing his_] are the only gloves for a gentleman. Pray leave
me--I can't bear the sight of them. Meantime, tell your betrothed that I
shall do everything in my power to secure your unhappiness. I have
already spoken to Lord Ballarat about you. I told him you were the
laziest fellow and the best dresser in the town--in fact, cut out by
nature to serve the government. Good-bye--I shall ask you to dine with
me some of these days--but not yet awhile--you must work up to that. And
now, Fotherby, to show you how deep an interest I take in your welfare,
you shall give me your arm to the ramparts. [_Exeunt._


     CHARACTERS: Brummell; Isidore; Fotherby; Nurse; another Old Woman;
     Landlord; Waiter.

     SCENE: Brummell's lodgings in a miserable apartment house at Caen,
     France. Eight years have elapsed. With no means of livelihood and
     pursued by creditors, Brummell is now reduced to abject poverty,
     broken health, and a deranged mind. He is thrown among people of
     low rank and is subjected to many indignities; but to the last he
     clings to his fastidious tastes and is a gentleman among imaginary

OLD NURSE. _in high Norman cap, discovered seated in arm chair, mending
stockings; another_ WOMAN _near her._

NURSE. Yes, my dear, clean out of his mind--that's what he's gone.

OLD WOMAN. Deary me!

NURSE. Aye, and there be folks as says he was once as neat and tidy as a
new sixpence. Now he's as dirty as a George the First halfpenny!

OLD W. Deary me!

NURSE. Aye, child, and he knew lords and dooks--and such like--now it's
anybody as'll give him a dinner. It's time they did something with
him--for put up with his going's on any longer, I cannot! A nuss's is a
horrid life, ain't it, child?

OLD W. 'Orrid--deary me! So this very afternoon that's comin', he's to

NURSE. Aye, child--the landlord's goin' to offer to take him for a walk,
which'll please him--and then take him off to see if the nuns'll have
charity upon him--if not, there's nothing but the street. He wouldn't go
if he know'd it--still he hasn't a copper coin--he's as cunning as any
fox. Have a little drop of somethin' comfortable, child!

OLD W. Deary me!--at this time of day--but I do feel a sinking!

NURSE. It'll do you a world of good. [_Getting bottle_--_a knock._]
Lawk! what an awkward hour for people to call! [_Knock again._]

OLD W. Deary me! Perhaps it's Mr. Brummell.

NURSE. Not it! It's more than he dare do, to knock twice like that. It's
his old man-servant, come to take off that there dirty screen. [_Opens

_Enter_ BRUMMELL--_muddy_--_supported by_ ISIDORE

BRUM. Isidore, give me my dressing gown!

ISID. Dressing gown! that's good--why I never put my own on nowadays!

BRUM. [_talking to himself_]. That screen mustn't go--nor the duchess's
armchair. [_Turning to_ NURSE.] Mind that, nurse, whatever happens to
me, this chair and the screen remain. Ha! ha! what would Ballarat say,

NURSE. There, never mind them folks. Pull your coat off, and put your
dressing gown on, do!

BRUM. Dear me! I hope the ices will be better--the punch I've seen to!
The duchess shall sit here.

NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. That's how he goes on nearly every day. The high
folks he knew have turned his head. Sometimes he makes one of the
waiters announce a lot of folks, as never come, while he, like an old
fool, bows to nobody, and hands nothing to that old chair.

OLD W. What work it must give you.

NURSE [_to_ BRUMMELL]. There, take that muddy coat off, nobody's coming

BRUM. Leave the room and see that everything is ready.

NURSE. Drat it. [_Rings the bell._] I must have the waiter up. He'll
soon manage him.

BRUM. [_rising, totters forward, and arranges his shabby dress_]. Well,
now I'm ready! Hark! I think I hear the first carriage. Sir Harry, no

_Enter_ WAITER

NURSE. Just see to this old man--make him change his coat, for I can't.

WAITER. Well, this is the last of it. Master says he may sleep in the
streets, but he doesn't stay here another night if he knows it. They
won't have him at the asylum without money, and he hasn't a rap.

NURSE. Nor a stick; for there's little enough left to pay my poor wages.

WAITER [_to_ BRUMMELL]. Come, off with the coat!

BRUM. My good fellow, leave it me to-night. I've a few friends coming.
Hush! there's the first arrival. Pray, my good sir, see to my guests.

WAITER. Well, let's humor the old blade once more--he'll be in the
streets to-morrow.

NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. Just notice this tomfoolery, child.

OLD W. Deary me! it almost frightens me. See how pleased he is.

WAITER. Sir Harry Gill!

BRUM. [_advancing ceremoniously, and holding out his hand, and coming
down, as though talking to somebody at his side_]. My dear Harry, I'm
delighted to see you. Were you at the opera last night?

NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. Did you ever hear the like of it?

WAITER. Here goes again! [_Goes as before to door, and throws it open._]
Lord Ballarat!

BRUM. [_advancing as before, and receiving imaginary visitor_]. My good
fellow, I'm sorry I missed you at the club the other night; but I went
into the duchess's box, and----

WAITER. I must stop this. The duchess always comes last, and then he's
satisfied. [_Throwing open the door, and calling pompously._] Her
Highness the Duchess of Canterbury.

BRUM. [_totters to door, bowing very profoundly, and handing the
imaginary duchess to his armchair--leans over the chair, and bows
frequently as he talks_]. Your highness is too good! This is indeed an
honor. Permit me the satisfaction of handing you to your seat. And is
the duke well? And little Nutmeg--is his ear better? Poor little fellow!
I hope you will allow me to give him a charming little collar I have for

WAITER. There, that'll do! [_To_ BRUMMELL.] Come, now, they're all
gone--take your coat off.

BRUM. [_starting, and falling into chair_]. Yes,
gone--gone--true--they're gone! [WAITER _helps him to take his coat
off._] Give me my cap! [NURSE _puts his old velvet cap on._]

WAITER. [_going_]. Call me up again, nurse, if he won't mind you. Do you
hear what I say, Mr. Brummell?

BRUM. Yes--yes--I'll be very good, nurse--I'll be very good.

WAITER. Well, it will be a lucky day when we get rid of this business!

OLD W. But think of the poor creature turned into the streets! He'd die
upon the nighest door-step!

NURSE. Can't be helped--out he goes to-night and no mistake! I'll nuss
him no longer--and the landlord wants the room. The men are comin' to
whitewash it at sunrise to-morrow.

OLD W. Deary me! Well--good-day!

NURSE. Good-day, child. You'll find me at home to-morrow. Good-bye!
[_Exit_ OLD WOMAN.

BRUM. [_tottering to an old bureau, sits before it_]. Dinner at four.
Nurse, nurse! my glass and razors--come!

NURSE. Drat the old man! [_Gives him glass, etc._]

_Enter_ LANDLORD, _followed by_ WAITER

Now he's completely done up!

BRUM. [_politely to_ LANDLORD]. Good morning, monsieur, delighted to

LANDLORD. Hang your compliments--I want no more of them.

BRUM. My good sir, you surprise me!

LAND. [_to_ WAITER]. Get his rubbish together--for out he goes, and no
mistake. [_To_ BRUMMELL.] Now, Mr. Brummell, can you pay me--or can't
you--or won't you?

BRUM. Dear, dear me! We'll talk about it.

LAND. No, we won't. I'll have it--or out you bundle this minute.

BRUM. [_rising_]. Sir, I am a gentleman--a poor one, it is true; and
this hand, fleshless as it is--is strong enough to chastise a man who
forgets it! [BRUMMELL _falls back in chair exhausted._]

LAND. [_to_ WAITER]. Now for it--out with him! [LANDLORD _and_ WAITER
_rush forward, and are about to seize_ BRUMMELL.]


FOTHER. [_pushing back_ LANDLORD _and_ WAITER]. Put your hands on the
old man at your peril.

LAND. Do you know that you are in my house, sir?--stand back!

FOTHER. Do you know that you are in my rooms, sir? [_Throws paper to
him_.] I think you will find that regular. Leave the room.

NURSE [_aside_]. Wonders'll never cease. But the old fool'll spile all
again--you'll see.

LAND. [_aside to Waiter_]. He's paid missus the rent--there's luck!

WAITER. A pretty bit of business I've done for myself. Not a sou for the
waiter, I'll bet. [_Exit_.

FOTHER. [_advancing to_ BRUMMELL]. My dear Mr. Brummell.

BRUM. Really, you have the advantage of me.

FOTHER. You surely remember me, Mr. Brummell. [_To_ NURSE.] The good
sisters will take care of him for the rest of his days. I must take him
to them. Is he always so, my good woman?

NURSE. Poor dear, good, kind old gentleman, not allays. He takes on so
at times.

BRUM. Don't know you in the least. [_Imagines he sees Ballarat_.]
Ballarat! dear old boy! Tut! tut! Ballarat! Well, this is kind. But I
can't be seen in this state.

FOTHER. No. Here you are among friends, my good sir. [_Leading him
out_.] This way, Mr. Brummell, I come from Lord Ballarat.

BRUM. Well--be it so. Ballarat--mind--when you return to England let
them know that, even in this squalor--to his last hour in the
world--Brummell--poor Brummell was a gentleman still. I am ready--I am

[_Exit_ FOTHERBY, _leading_ BRUMMELL, _the_ NURSE _following_.




     CHARACTERS: Count of Lara, a poor nobleman; Beatrice, his wife
     Miriam, a maid, who personates a page.

     SCENE: Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the garden.

     LARA. The third moon of our marriage, Beatrice!
           It hangs in the still twilight, large and full,
           Like a ripe orange.

     BEATRICE. Like an orange? yes,
           But not so red, Count. Then it has no stem.
           Now, as 'tis hidden by those drifts of cloud,
           With one thin edge just glimmering through the dark,
           'Tis like some strange, rich jewel of the east,
           In the cleft side of a mountain.
           And that reminds me--speaking of jewels--love,
           There is a set of turquoise at Malan's,
           Ear-drops and bracelets and a necklace--ah!
           If they were mine.

     LARA. And so they should be, dear,
           Were I Aladdin, and had slaves o' the lamp
           To fetch me ingots. Why, then, Beatrice,
           All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours,
           Although your hand is heavy now with gems
           That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness.
           Oh! so you pout! Why make that full-blown rose
           Into a bud again?

     BEATRICE.                You love me not.

     LARA. A coquette's song.

     BEATRICE.                I sing it.

     LARA.                                A poor song.

     BEATRICE. You love me not, or love me over-much,
           Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear!
           You do not deck me as becomes our state,
           For fear my grandeur should besiege the eyes
           Of Monte, Clari, Marcus, and the rest--
           A precious set! You're jealous, sir!

     LARA.                                      Not I.
           I love you.

     BEATRICE.   Why, that is as easy said
           As any three short words; takes no more breath
           To say, "I hate you." What, sir, have I lived
           Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife,
           And do not know your follies? I will wager
           (If I could trap his countship into this!)
           The rarest kisses I know how to give
           Against the turquoise, that within a month
           You'll grow so jealous--and without a cause,
           Or with a reason thin as window glass--
           That you will ache to kill me!

     LARA.                                 Will you so?
           And I--let us clasp hands and kiss on it.

     BEATRICE. Clasp hands, Sir Trustful; but not kiss--nay, nay!
           I will not pay my forfeit till I lose.

     LARA. And I'll not lose the forfeit.

     BEATRICE.                            We shall see.

                                               [_Exit_ BEATRICE.

     LARA. She has as many fancies as the wind
           Which now, like slumber, lies 'mong spicy isles,
           Then suddenly blows white furrows in the sea!
           Lovely and dangerous is my leopardess.
           To-day, low-lying at my feet; to-morrow,
           With great eyes flashing, threatening doleful death--
           With strokes like velvet! She's no common clay,
           But fire and dew and marble. I'll not throw
           So rare a wonder in the lap o' the world!
           Jealous? I am not jealous--though they say
           Some sorts of love breed jealousy. And yet,
           I would I had not wagered; it implies
           Doubt. If I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile
           And let the cool air fan me. 'Twas not wise.
           'Tis only Folly with its cap and bells
           Can jest with sad things. She seemed earnest, too.
           What if, to pique me, she should overstep
           The pale of modesty, and give bold eyes
           (I could not bear that, nay, not even that!)
           To Marc or Claudian? Why, such things have been
           And no sin dreamed of. I will watch her close.
           There, now, I wrong her.

                                       Yet if she,
           To win the turquoise of me, if she should--
           O cursèd jewels! Would that they were hung
           About the glistening neck of some mermaid
           A thousand fathoms underneath the sea!

                                 [A PAGE _crosses the garden_.

           That page again! 'Tis twice within the week
           The supple-waisted, pretty-ankled knave
           Has crossed my garden at this self-same hour,
           Trolling a canzonetta with an air
           As if he owned the villa. Why, the fop!
           He might have doffed his bonnet as he passed.
           I'll teach him better if he comes again.
           What does he at the villa? O! perchance
           He comes in the evening when his master's out,
           To lisp soft romance in the ready ear
           Of Beatrice's dressing-maid; but then
           She has one lover. Now I think she's two:
           This gaudy popinjay would make the third,
           And that's too many for an honest girl!
           I'll ask the Countess--no, I'll not do that;
           She'd laugh at me; and vow by the Madonna
           This varlet was some noble in disguise,
           Seeking her favor. Then I'd let the light
           Of heaven through his doublet--I would--yes,
           That is, I would, were I a jealous man:
           But then I'm not.

                             When he comes out again
           I'll stop him, question him, and know the truth.
           I cannot sit in the garden of a night
           But he glides by me in his jaunty dress,
           Like a fantastic phantom!--never looks
           To the right nor left, but passes gayly on,
           As if I were a statue. Soft, he comes!
           I'll make him speak, or kill him; then, indeed,
           It were unreasonable to ask it. Soh!
           I'll speak him gently at the first, and then--

_The_ PAGE _enters by a gate in the villa-garden, and walks past the_

           Ho! pretty page, who owns you?

     PAGE.                                No one now.
           Once Signor Juan, but I am his no more.

     LARA. What, then, you stole from him?

     PAGE.                                 O! no, sir, no.
           He had so many intrigues on his hands,
           There was no sleep for me nor night nor day.
           Such carrying of love-favors and pink notes!
           He's gone abroad now, to break other hearts
           And so I left him.

     LARA.                     A frank knave.

     PAGE.                                    To-night
           I've done his latest bidding--

     LARA.                                 As you should--

     PAGE. A duty wed with pleasure--'twas to take
           A message to a countess all forlorn,
           In yonder villa.

     LARA. [_aside_].          Why! that villa's mine!
           A message to a countess all forlorn?
           In yonder villa?

     PAGE.                  Ay, sir. You can see
           The portico among the mulberries,
           Just to the left, there.

     LARA.                           Ay, I see, I see.
           A pretty villa. And the lady's name?

     PAGE. The lady's name, sir?

     LARA.                        Ay, the lady's name.

     PAGE. O! that's a secret which I cannot tell.

     LARA. No? but you shall, though, or I'll strangle you!
           In my strong hands your slender neck would snap
           Like a fragile pipe-stem.

     PAGE.                            You are choking me!
           O! loose your grasp, sir!

     LARA.                            Then the name! the name!

     PAGE. Countess of Lara.

     LARA.                    Not her dressing-maid?

     PAGE. No, no, I said the mistress, not the maid.

     LARA. And then you lied. I never saw two eyes
           So wide and frank but they'd a pliant tongue
           To shape a lie for them. Say you are false!
           Tell me you lie, and I will make you rich,
           I'll stuff your cap with ducats twice a year.

     PAGE. Well, then--I lie.

     LARA.                     Ay, now you lie, indeed!
           I see it in the cunning of your eyes;
           Night cannot hide the Satan leering there.
           Only a little lingering fear of heaven
           Holds me from dirking you between the ribs!

     PAGE. What would you have? I will say nothing, then.

     LARA. Say everything, and end it! Here is gold.
           You brought a billet to the Countess--well?
           What said the billet?

     PAGE.                       Take away your hand.
           And, by St. Mary, I will tell you all.
           There, now, I breathe. You will not harm me, sir?
           Stand six yards off, or I will not a word.
           It seems the Countess promised Signor Juan
           A set of turquoise--

     LARA.                       Turquoise? Ha! that's well.

     PAGE. Just so--wherewith my master was to pay
           Some gaming debts; but yester-night the cards
           Tumbled a golden mountain at his feet;
           And ere he sailed, this morning, Signor Juan
           Gave me a perfumed, amber-tinted note,
           For Countess Lara, which, with some adieus,
           Craved her remembrance morning, noon, and night;
           Her prayers while gone, her smiles when he returned;
           Then told his sudden fortune with the cards,
           And bade her keep the jewels. That is all.

     LARA. All? Is that all? 'T has only cracked my heart!
           A heart, I know, of little, little worth--
           An ill-cut ruby, scarred and scratched before,
           But now quite broken! I have no heart, then;
           Men should not have, when they are wronged like this.
           Out of my sight, thou demon of bad news!

                                                  [_Exit_ LARA.

     PAGE. I did not think 't would work on him like that.
           How pale he grew! Alack! I fear some ill
           Will come of this. I'll to the Countess now,
           And warn her of his madness.
                                                  [_Exit_ PAGE.


     SCENE: Beatrice's chamber. Beatrice sits on a fauteuil in the
     attitude of listening.

     BEATRICE. Hist! that's his step. Miriam, place the lights
           Farther away; keep you behind the screen,
           Breathing no louder than a lily does;
           For if you stir or laugh 'twill ruin all.

     MIRIAM. Laugh! I am faint with terror.

     BEATRICE.                              Then be still.
           Move not for worlds until I touch the bell,
           Then do the thing I told you. Hush! his step
           Sounds in the corridor, and I'm asleep!

LARA _enters. He approaches within a few yards of_ BEATRICE, _pauses,
and looks at her._

     LARA. Asleep!--and guilt can slumber! Guilt can lie
           Down-lidded and soft-breathed like innocence!
           Hath dreams as sweet as childhood's--who can tell?
           Were I an artist, and did wish to paint
           A devil to perfection, I'd not limn
           A hornèd monster, with a leprous skin,
           Red-hot from Pandemonium--not I.
           But with my delicatest tints, I'd paint
           A woman in the glamour of her youth,
           All garmented with loveliness and mystery!
           How fair she is! Her beauty glides between
           Me and my purpose, like a pleading angel.

                                                [BEATRICE _sighs_.

           Her dream's broke, like a bubble, in a sigh.
           She'll waken soon, and that--that must not be!
           I could not kill her if she looked at me.
           I loved her, loved her, by the saints, I did--
           I trust she prayed before she fell asleep!

     BEATRICE [_springing up_]. So, you are come--your dagger in
             your hand?
           Your lips compressed and blanchèd, and your hair
           Tumbled wildly all about your eyes,
           Like a river-god's? O love, you frighten me!
           And you are trembling. Tell me what this means.

     LARA. Oh! nothing, nothing--I did think to write
           A note to Juan, to Signor Juan, my friend
           (Your cousin and my honorable friend);
           But finding neither ink nor paper here,
           I thought to scratch it with my dagger's point
           Upon your bosom, Madam! That is all.

     BEATRICE. You've lost your senses!

     LARA.                              Madam, no, I've found 'em!

     BEATRICE. Then lose them quickly, and be what you were.

     LARA. I was a fool, a dupe--a happy dupe.
           You should have kept me in my ignorance;
           For wisdom makes us wretched, king and clown.
           Countess of Lara, you are false to me!

     BEATRICE. Now, by the saints--

     LARA.                            Now, by the saints, you are!

     BEATRICE. Upon my honor--

     LARA.                        On your honor? fie!
           Swear by the ocean's feathery froth, for that
           Is not so light a substance.

     BEATRICE.                           Hear me, love!

     LARA. Lie to that marble Io! I am sick
           To the heart with lying.

     BEATRICE.                       You've the ear-ache, sir,
           Got with too much believing.

     LARA.                              Beatrice,
           I came to kill you.

     BEATRICE.                  Kiss me, Count, you mean!

     LARA. If killing you be kissing you, why yes.

     BEATRICE. Ho! come not near me with such threatening looks,
           Stand back there, if you love me, or have loved!

[_As_ LARA _advances_, BEATRICE _retreats to the table and rings a small
hand-bell._ MIRIAM, _in the dress of a page, enters from behind the
screen and steps between them_.

     LARA [_starting back_]. The Page? now, curse him! What? no! Miriam?
           Hold! 'twas at twilight, in the villa-garden,
           At dusk, too, on the road to Mantua;
           But here the light falls on you, man or maid!
           Stop now; my brain's bewildered. Stand you there,
           And let me touch you with incredulous hands!
           Wait till I come, nor vanish like a ghost.
           If this be Juan's page, why, where is Miriam?
           If this be Miriam, where's--by all the saints,
           I have been tricked!

     MIRIAM [_laughing_].        By two saints, with your leave!

     LARA. The happiest fool in Italy, for my age!
           And all the damning tales you fed me with,
           You Sprite of Twilight, Imp of the old Moon!--

     MIRIAM [_bowing_]. Were arrant lies as ever woman told;
           And though not mine, I claim the price for them--
           This cap stuffed full of ducats twice a year!

     LARA. A trap! a trap that only caught a fool!
           So thin a plot, I might have seen through it.
           I've lost my reason!

     MIRIAM.                    And your ducats!

     BEATRICE.                                    And
           A certain set of turquoise at Malan's!




     CHARACTERS: Hardcastle, hospitable and urbane, with a touch of
     humor in his nature; Marlow and Hastings who come from London to
     visit the Hardcastles; servants.

     SCENE: Hardcastle's house. Young Marlow and Hastings have journeyed
     from London to the home of Mr. Hardcastle, an old family friend
     whom they have never seen. They are deceived into believing they
     are many miles from their destination when they really have
     arrived. They are told that Mr. Hardcastle's house is a public inn.
     This leads to much confusion. The genial Hardcastle is drilling his

_Enter_ HARDCASTLE, _followed by_ DIGGORY _and three or four awkward_

MR. H. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise I have been
teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places,
and can show that you have been used to good company, without stirring
from home?

ALL. Ay! ay!

MR. H. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then
run in again, like frightened rabbits in a warren.

ALL. No! no!

MR. H. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show
at the side table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough,
are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with
your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger;
and from your head, you blockhead you! See how Diggory carries his
hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter.

DIGGORY. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way,
when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill----

MR. H. You must not be so talkative, Diggory; you must be all attention
to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must
see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not
think of eating.

DIG. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpossible.


_Enter_ SERVANTS, _showing in_ MARLOW _and_ HASTINGS

SERV. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This way.

HAST. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles,
to the comforts of a clean room, and a good fire. Upon my word, a very
well-looking house; antique, but creditable.

MAR. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master
by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn.

HAST. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these
fineries. I have often seen a good side-board, or a marble
chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the bill

MAR. Travelers, George, must pay in all places. The only difference is,
that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are
fleeced and starved.


MR. H. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr.
Marlow? Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to
receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a
hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses
and trunks taken care of.

MAR. [_aside_]. He has got our names from the servants already. [_To_
HARDCASTLE.] We approve your caution and hospitality. [_To_ HASTINGS.] I
have been thinking, George, of changing our traveling dresses in the
morning, I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine.

MR. H. [_putting chairs and tables in order in background_]. I beg, Mr.
Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house.

HAST. I fancy, George, you're right; the first blow is half the battle.
I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold.

MR. H. Mr. Marlow--Mr. Hastings--gentlemen--pray be under no restraint
in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you
please here.

MAR. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may
want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to
secure a retreat.

MR. H. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the
Duke of Marlborough, when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned
the garrison--

MAR. Aye, and we'll summon your garrison, old boy.

MR. H. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five
thousand men--

HAST. What a strange fellow is this!

MR. H. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison,
which might consist of about five thousand men--

MAR. Well, but suppose--

MR. H. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed
with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke
of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him--you must have
heard of George Brooks--I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that
garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So--

MAR. What, my good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the
meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigor.

MR. H. Punch, sir?

MAR. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be
comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know.

MR. H. Here's a cup, sir.

MAR. [_aside_]. So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only let us
have just what he pleases.

MR. H. I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my
own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will
you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our
better acquaintance. [_Drinks_.]

MAR. [_aside_]. A very impudent fellow, this! but he's a character, and
I'll humor him a little. [_Aloud_.] Sir, my service to you. [_Drinks_.]

HAST. [_aside_]. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and
forgets that he's an inn-keeper before he has learned to be a

MAR. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have
a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and
then, at elections, I suppose?

MR. H. No, sir; I have long given that work over.

HAST. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find?

MR. H. Why, no, sir; there was a time, indeed, when I fretted myself
about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding myself
every day grow more angry, and the government no better, I left it to
mend itself. Sir, my service to you. [_Drinks._]

HAST. So that, with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with
receiving your friends within, amusing them without, you lead a good,
pleasant, bustling life of it.

MR. H. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the
differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlor.

MAR. And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than
any in Westminster Hall.

MR. H. Aye, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy.

MAR. [_aside_]. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an
inn-keeper's philosophy.

HAST. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every
quarter. If you find their reason manageable you attack it with your
philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this.
Here's your health, my philosopher.

MR. H. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in
mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of
Belgrade. You shall hear.

MAR. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost time to talk
about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper?

MR. H. For supper, sir? Was ever such a request made to a man in his own

MAR. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make
devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you.

MR. H. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. Why, really, sir, as
for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these
things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them.

MAR. You do, do you?

MR. H. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe they are in actual consultation
upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen.

MAR. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy council. It's a
way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own
supper. Let the cook be called. No offense, I hope, sir.

MR. H. O, no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't know how; our Bridget,
the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we
send for her she might scold us all out of the house.

HAST. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favor. I
always match my appetite to my bill of fare.

MAR. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too.

MR. H. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the
bill of fare for to-night's supper--I believe it's drawn out. Your
manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Gunthorp. It
was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had
eaten it.

_Enter_ ROGER, _with a bill of fare_

HAST. [_aside_]. All upon the high ropes! His uncle a colonel--we shall
soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the
bill of fare. [_Exit_ ROGER.

MAR. What's here? For the first course, for the second course, for the
dessert! The devil, sir! do you think we have brought down the whole
joiner's company, or the corporation of Bedford? two or three little
things, clean and comfortable, will do.

HAST. But let's hear it.

MAR. "For the first course at the top, a pig's face and prune sauce."

HAST. Out with your pig, I say.

MAR. Out with your prune sauce, say I.

MR. H. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with prune
sauce, is very good eating. But, gentlemen, you are my guests, make what
alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or
alter, gentlemen?

MAR. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one
part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much
for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and luggage properly
taken care of.

MR. H. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step.

MAR. Leave that to you? I protest, sir. You must excuse me, I always
look to these things myself.

MR. H. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head.

MAR. You see I'm resolved on it. [_Aside_.] A very troublesome fellow
this as ever I met with.

MR. H. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you.

                                        [_Exeunt_ MARLOW _and_ HASTINGS.

[_Aside_.] This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so
like old-fashioned impudence. What could my old friend Sir Charles
Marlow mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town!
To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a

                                                     [_Exit_ HARDCASTLE.




     CHARACTERS: Pygmalion, an Athenian sculptor; Cynisca, his wife;
     Galatea, an animated statue.

     SCENE: Pygmalion's studio; several classical statues are placed
     about the room; at the back a cabinet containing a statue of
     Galatea, before which curtains are drawn concealing the statue.

       PYG. It all but breathes--therefore it talks aloud!
     It all but moves--therefore it walks and runs!
     It all but lives, and therefore it is life!
     No, no, my love, the thing is cold, dull stone,
     Shaped to a certain form, but still dull stone,
     The lifeless, senseless mockery of life.
     The gods make life, I can make only death!
     Why, my Cynisca, though I stand so well,
     The merest cut-throat, when he plies his trade,
     Makes better death than I with all my skill!

       CYN. Hush, my Pygmalion! the gods are good,
     And they have made thee nearer unto them
     Than other men; this is ingratitude!

       PYG. Not so; has not a monarch's second son
     More cause for anger that he lacks a throne
     Than he whose lot is cast in slavery?

       CYN. Not much more cause, perhaps, but more excuse.
     Now I must go.

       PYG.          So soon, and for so long?

       CYN. One day, 'twill quickly pass away!

       PYG. With those who measure time, by almanacs, no doubt,
     But not with him who knows no days save those
     Born of the sunlight of Cynisca's eyes;
     It will be night with me till she returns.

       CYN. Then sleep it through, Pygmalion! But stay,
     Thou shalt not pass the weary hours alone;
     Now mark thou this--while I'm away from thee,
     There stands my only representative;       [_Withdrawing curtains._
     She is my proxy, and I charge you, sir,
     Be faithful unto her as unto me!
     Into her quietly attentive ear
     Pour all thy treasures of hyperbole,
     And give thy nimble tongue full license, lest
     Disuse should rust its glib machinery;                [_Advancing._
     If thoughts of love should haply crowd on thee,
     There stands my other self, tell them to her,
     She'll listen well; nay, that's ungenerous,
     For she is I, yet lovelier than I,
     And hath no temper, sir, and hath no tongue;
     Thou hast thy license--make good use of it.
     Already I'm half jealous--there!

                                     [_Draws curtain concealing statue._

                                      It's gone.
     The thing is but a statue after all,
     And I am safe in leaving thee with her;
     Farewell, Pygmalion, till I return.                        [_Exit._

       PYG. "The thing is but a statue after all!"
     Cynisca little thought that in those words
     She touched the key-note of my discontent.
     True, I have powers denied to other men;
     Give me a block of senseless marble--Well,
     I'm a magician, and it rests with me
     To say what kernel lies within its shell;
     It shall contain a man, a woman, a child,
     A dozen men and women if I will.
     So far the gods and I run neck and neck,
     Nay, so far I can beat them at their trade;
     I am no bungler--all the men I make
     Are straight limbed fellows, each magnificent
     In the perfection of his manly grace;
     I make no crook-backs; all my men are gods,
     My women, goddesses, in outward form.
     But there's my tether--I can go so far,
     And go no farther--at that point I stop,
     To curse the bonds that hold me sternly back.
     To curse the arrogance of those proud gods,
     Who say, "Thou shalt be greatest among men,
     And yet infinitesimally small!"

       GALATEA [_from behind curtain_]. Pygmalion!

       PYG.                                          Who called?

       GAL.                                              Pygmalion!

     [PYGMALION _tears away curtain and, discovers_ GALATEA _alive_.

       PYG. Ye gods! It lives!

       GAL.                    Pygmalion!

       PYG.                               It speaks!
     I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes!

       GAL. Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion;
     Give me thy hand--both hands--how soft and warm!
     Whence came I?                                         [_Descends._

       PYG. Why, from yonder pedestal.

       GAL. That pedestal! Ah, yes, I recollect.
     There was a time when it was part of me.

       PYG. That time has passed forever, thou art now
     A living, breathing woman, excellent
     In every attribute of womankind.

       GAL. Where am I, then?

       PYG.                   Why, born into the world
     By miracle.

       GAL.        Is this the world?

       PYG.                           It is.

       GAL. This room?

       PYG.            This room is portion of a house;
     The house stands in a grove, the grove itself
     Is one of many, many thousand groves
     In Athens.

       GAL. And is Athens then the world?

       PYG. To an Athenian--Yes--

       GAL.                       And I am one?

       PYG. By birth and parentage, not by descent.

       GAL. But how came I to be?

       PYG.                       Well--let me see.
     Oh--you were quarried in Pentelicus;
     I modeled you in clay--my artisans
     Then roughed you out in marble--I, in turn,
     Brought my artistic skill to bear on you,
     And made you what you are--in all but life--
     The gods completed what I had begun,
     And gave the only gift I could not give.

       GAL. Then is this life?

       PYG.                    It is.

       GAL.                          And not long since
     I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect
     That by some means I knew that I was stone,
     That was the first dull gleam of conscience;
     I became conscious of a chilly self,
     A cold immovable identity,
     I knew that I was stone, and knew no more;
     Then, by an imperceptible advance,
     Came the dim evidence of outer things,
     Seen--darkly and imperfectly--yet seen--
     The walls surrounded me, and I, alone,
     That pedestal--that curtain--then a voice
     That called on Galatea! At that word,
     Which seemed to shake my marble to the core,
     That which was dim before, came evident.
     Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct,
     Vague, meaningless--seemed to resolve themselves
     Into a language I could understand;
     I felt my frame pervaded with a glow
     That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh;
     Its cold hard substance throbbed with active life,
     My limbs grew supple, and I moved--I lived!
     Lived in the ecstasy of new born life;
     Lived in the love of him that fashioned me;
     Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope,
     Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved themselves
     Into one word, that word, Pygmalion!                     [_Kneels._

       PYG. I have no words to tell thee of my joy,
     O woman--perfect in thy loveliness.

       GAL. What is that word? Am I a woman?

       PYG.                                  Yes.

       GAL. Art thou a woman?

       PYG.                   No, I am a man.

       GAL. What is a man?

       PYG.                A being strongly framed,
     To wait on woman, and protect her from
     All ills that strength and courage can avert;
     To work and toil for her, that she may rest;
     To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh;
     To fight and die for her, that she might live!

       GAL. I'm glad I am a woman.               [_He leads her down._

       PYG.                        So am I.

       GAL. That I escape the pains thou hast to bear?

       PYG. That I may undergo those pains for thee.

       GAL. With whom then wouldst thou fight?

       PYG.                                    With any man
     Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain.

       GAL. Then there are other men in this strange world?

       PYG. There are indeed.

       GAL.                   And other women?

       PYG.                                          Yes;
     Though for the moment I'd forgotten it;
     Yes, other women.

       GAL.              And for all of these
     Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep and fight?

       PYG. It is man's duty, if he's called upon,
     To fight for all; he works for those he loves.

       GAL. Then by thy works I know thou lovest me.

       PYG. Indeed, I love thee!

       GAL.                      With what kind of love?

       PYG. I love thee as a sculptor does his work!
     [_Aside._] There is diplomacy in that reply.

       GAL. My love is different in kind to thine;
     I am no sculptor, and I've done no work,
     Yet I do love thee; say--what love is mine?

       PYG. Tell me its symptoms--then I'll answer thee.

       GAL. Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come.
     A sense that I am made by thee for thee,
     That I've no will that is not wholly thine,
     That I've no thought, no hope, no enterprise,
     That does not own thee as its sovereign;
     That I have life, that I may live for thee,
     That I am thine--that thou and I are one!
     What kind of love is that?

       PYG.                       A kind of love
     That I shall run some risk in dealing with.

       GAL. And why, Pygmalion?

       PYG.                     Such love as thine
     A man may not receive, except indeed
     From one who is, or is to be, his wife.

       GAL. Then I will be thy wife.

       PYG.                          That may not be;
     I have a wife--the gods allow but one.

       GAL. Why did the gods then send me here to thee?

       PYG. I cannot say--unless to punish me
     For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer!
     I prayed that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer,
     And now I see the fearful consequence
     That must attend it!

       GAL.                 Yet thou lovest me?

       PYG. Who could look on that face and stifle love?

       GAL. Then I am beautiful?

       PYG.                      Indeed thou art.

       GAL. I wish that I could look upon myself,
     But that's impossible.

       PYG.                   Not so indeed,
     This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold!

       GAL. How beautiful! I am very glad to know
     That both our tastes agree so perfectly;
     Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think
     That aught could be more beautiful than thou,
     Till I behold myself. Believe me, love,
     I could look in this mirror all day long.
     So I'm a woman.

       PYG.            There's no doubt of that!

       GAL. Oh happy maid to be so passing fair!
     And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze,
     At will, upon so beautiful a face.

       PYG. Hush! Galatea--in thine innocence
     Thou sayest things that others would reprove.

       GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong
     To think that one is exquisitely fair?

       PYG. Well, Galatea, it's a sentiment
     That every woman shares with thee;
     They think it--but they keep it to themselves.

       GAL. And is thy wife as beautiful as I?

       PYG. No, Galatea, for in forming thee
     I took her features--lovely in themselves--
     And in the marble made them lovelier still.

       GAL. Oh! then I'm not original?

       PYG.                            Well--no--
     That is--thou hast indeed a prototype,
     But though in stone thou didst resemble her,
     In life, the difference is manifest.

       GAL. I'm very glad that I am lovelier than she.
     And am I better?

       PYG.             That I do not know.

       GAL. Then she has faults.

       PYG.                      Very few indeed;
     Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show
     That she and I are of one common kin.
     I love her all the better for such faults.

       GAL. Tell me some faults and I'll commit them now.

       PYG. There is no hurry; they will come in time;
     Though for that matter, it's a grievous sin
     To sit as lovingly as we sit now.

       GAL. Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk
     As we are sitting, be indeed a sin,
     Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love,
     Is this great fault that I'm committing now
     The kind of fault that only serves to show
     That thou and I are of one common kin?

       PYG. Indeed, I'm very much afraid it is.

       GAL. And dost thou love me better for such fault?

       PYG. Where is the mortal that could answer "no"?

       GAL. Why, then I'm satisfied, Pygmalion;
     Thy wife and I can start on equal terms.
     She loves thee?

       PYG.            Very much.

       GAL.                       I'm glad of that.
     I like thy wife.

       PYG.             And why?

       GAL.                      Our tastes agree.
     We love Pygmalion well, and what is more,
     Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife;
     I'm sure we shall agree.

       PYG. [_aside._]           I doubt it much.

       GAL. Is she within?

       PYG.                No, she is not within.

       GAL. But she'll come back?

       PYG.                       Oh, yes, she will come back.

       GAL. How pleased she'll be to know when she returns,
     That there was some one here to fill her place.

       PYG. Yes, I should say she'd be extremely pleased.

       GAL. Why, there is something in thy voice which says
     That thou art jesting. Is it possible
     To say one thing and mean another?

       PYG.                               Yes,
     It's sometimes done.

       GAL.                 How very wonderful!
     So clever!

       PYG.       And so very useful.

       GAL.                           Yes.
     Teach me the art.

       PYG.              The art will come in time.
     My wife will not be pleased; there--that's the truth.

       GAL. I do not think that I shall like thy wife.
     Tell me more of her.

       PYG.                 Well--

       GAL.                        What did she say
     When last she left thee?

       PYG.                     Humph! Well, let me see;
     Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife,--
     Her solitary representative;
     She feared I should be lonely till she came.
     And counseled me, if thoughts of love should come,
     To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont
     To speak to her.

       GAL. That's right.

       PYG.              But when she spoke
     Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood,
     Which makes a difference.

       GAL.                      It's a strange world;
     A woman loves her husband very much,
     And cannot brook that I should love him too;
     She fears he will be lonely till she comes,
     And will not let me cheer his loneliness;
     She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone,
     And when that stone is brought to life--be dumb!
     It's a strange world, I cannot fathom it.

       PYG. [_aside_]. Let me be brave and put an end to this.
     Come Galatea--till my wife returns,
     My sister shall provide thee with a home;
     Her house is close at hand.

       GAL. Send me not hence
     Pygmalion; let me stay.

       PYG. It may not be.
     Come, Galatea, we shall meet again.

       GAL. Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion!
     But we shall meet again?--and very soon?

       PYG. Yes, very soon.

       GAL. And when thy wife returns,
     She'll let me stay with thee?

       PYG. I do not know.
     [_Aside_]. Why should I hide the truth from her [_aloud_] alas!
     I may not see thee then.

       GAL. Pygmalion!
     What fearful words are these?

       PYG. The bitter truth.
     I may not love thee; I must send thee hence.

       GAL. Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love!
     Was it for this that heaven gave me life?
     Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see,
     I am thy work, thou hast created me;
     The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine!
     Thine! only, and unalterably thine!
     This is the thought with which my soul is charged.
     Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love,
     That thou hast love for her alone. Alas!
     I do not know these things; I only know
     That heaven has sent me here to be with thee.
     Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife,
     Of vows that thou wilt love but her. Alas!
     I do not know these things; I only know
     That heaven, who sent me here, has given me
     One all absorbing duty to discharge--
     To love thee, and to make thee love again.

[PYGMALION _takes her in his arms, and embraces her passionately._]


     CHARACTERS: Pygmalion; Myrine, his sister; Cynisca, his wife;

     SCENE: Pygmalion's studio.

_Enter_ MYRINE

       MYR. Pygmalion's heard that he must lose his wife,
     And swears, by all the gods that reign above,
     He will not live if she deserts him now!
     What--what is to be done?


       GAL.                 Myrine here!
     Where is Pygmalion?

       MYR.                 Oh, wretched girl!
     Art thou not satisfied with all the ill
     Thy heedlessness has worked, that thou art come
     To gaze upon thy victim's misery?
     Well, thou hast come in time!

       GAL.   What dost thou mean?

       MYR. Why, this is what I mean; he will not live,
     Now that Cynisca has deserted him.
     O, girl, his blood will be upon thy head!

       GAL. Pygmalion will not live! Pygmalion die!
     And I, alas, the miserable cause!
     Oh, what is to be done?

       MYR.    I do not know.
     And yet there is one chance, but one alone;
     I'll see Cynisca, and prevail on her
     To meet Pygmalion but once again.

       GAL. But should she come too late? He may not live
     Till she returns.

       MYR.    I'll send him now to thee,
     And tell him that his wife awaits him here.
     He'll take thee for Cynisca; when he speaks
     Answer thou him as if thou wast his wife.

       GAL. Yes, yes, I understand.

       MYR.    Then I'll be gone.
     The gods assist thee in this artifice!              [_Exit_ MYRINE.

       GAL. The gods will help me, for the gods are good.
     [_Kneels._] Oh, heaven, in this great grief I turn to thee,
     Teach me to speak to him, as, ere I lived,
     Cynisca spake to him. Oh, let my voice
     Be to Pygmalion as Cynisca's voice,
     And he will live--for her and not for me--
     Yet he will live. I am the fountain head

_Enter_ PYGMALION, _unobserved, led in by_ MYRINE

     Of all the horrors that surround him now,
     And it is fit that I should suffer this;
     Grant this, my first appeal--I do not ask
     Pygmalion's love; I ask Pygmalion's life.

[PYGMALION _utters an exclamation of joy. She rushes to him and seizes
his hand_.


       PYG.        I have no words in which
     To tell the joy with which I heard that prayer.
     Oh, take me to thine arms, my dearly loved!
     And teach me once again how much I risked
     In risking such a heaven-sent love as thine.

       GAL. [_believing that he refers to her_]. Pygmalion! my love!
     Once more those words! again! say them again!
     Tell me that thou forgivest me the ill
     That I unwittingly have worked on thee!

       PYG. Forgive thee? Why, my wife, I did not dare
     To ask thy pardon, and thou askest mine.
     The compact with thy mistress, Artemis,
     Gave thee a heaven-sent right to punish me.
     I've learnt to take whate'er the gods may send.

[GALATEA, _at first delighted, learns in the course of this speech that_
PYGMALION _takes her for_ CYNISCA, _and expresses extreme horror_.

       GAL. [_with an effort_]. But then, this woman, Galatea--

       PYG.                                                        Well?

       GAL. Thy love for her is dead?

       PYG.                            I had no love. A miracle
     Did crown my handiwork, and brought to life
     The fair creation of my sculptor's skill,
     I yielded to her god-sent influence,
     For I had worshiped her before she lived
     Because she called Cynisca's face to me;
     But when she lived--that love died--word by word.

       GAL. That is well said; thou dost not love her then?
     She is no more to thee than senseless stone?

       PYG. Speak not of her, Cynisca, for I swear

_Enter_ CYNISCA, _unobserved_

     The unhewn marble of Pentelicus
     Hath charms for me, which she, in all her glow
     Of womanly perfection, could not match.

       GAL. I'm very glad to hear that this is so.
     Thou art forgiven!

       PYG.                Thou hast pardoned me,
     And though the law of Artemis declared
     Thy pardon should restore to me the light
     Thine anger took away, I would be blind,
     I would not have mine eyes lest they should rest
     On her who caused me all this bitterness!

       GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion, 'twere better thus;
     If thou couldst look on Galatea now,
     Thy love for her, perchance, might come again.

       PYG. No, no.

       GAL.         They say that she endureth pains
     That mock the power of words.

       PYG.                          It should be so.

       GAL. Hast thou no pity for her?            [CYNISCA _comes down_.

       PYG.                          No, not I.
     The ill that she hath worked on thee, on me,
     And on Myrine, surely were enough
     To make us curse the hour that gave her life.
     She is not fit to live upon this world!

       GAL. Upon this worthy world, thou sayest well.
     The woman shall be seen of thee no more.

[_Takes_ CYNISCA'S _hand and leads her to_ PYGMALION.]

     What wouldst thou with her now? Thou hast thy wife!

[_She substitutes_ CYNISCA _in her place, and retires, weeping_. CYNISCA
_takes him to her arms and kisses him. He recovers his sight_.

       PYG. Cynisca! see! the light of day is mine!
     Once more I look upon thy well loved face!


       MYR. Pygmalion!
     See--Galatea's here!                             [GALATEA _kneels_.

       PYG.                 Away from me,
     Woman or statue! Thou the only blight
     That ever fell upon my love--begone,

                                                [CYNISCA _comforts her_.

     For thou hast been the curse of all who fell
     Within the compass of thy waywardness!

       CYN. No, no; recall those words, Pygmalion,
     Thou knowest not all.

       GAL.                  Nay, let me go from him;
     That curse--his curse still ringing in mine ears,
     For life is bitterer to me than death.  [_She mounts the pedestal_.
     Farewell, Pygmalion, I am not fit
     To live upon this world--this worthy world.
     Farewell, Pygmalion. Farewell, farewell!

                                            [_The curtains conceal her_.

       CYN. Thou art unjust to her as I to thee!
     Hers was the voice that pardoned thee--not mine.
     I knew no pity till she taught it me.
     I heard the words she spoke, and little thought
     That they would find an echo in my heart;
     But so it was. I took them for mine own,
     And asking for thy pardon, pardoned thee!

     PYG. Cynisca! Is this so?

     CYN.                      In truth it is.

     GAL. [_behind curtain_]: Farewell, Pygmalion! Farewell--farewell!

[PYGMALION _tears away the curtain, discovering_ GALATEA _as a statue._


Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 478.

Angell, James B., 220.

Anonymous, 89, 92, 349, 353, 354, 380, 386, 395, 404.

Arnold, Edwin, 110.

Barham, R. H., 54.

Beecher, Henry Ward, 208, 215.

Bell, H. G., 431.

Beveridge, Albert J., 217.

Blaine, James Gillespie, 237.

Bossuet, Jacques Bénigne, 169.

Bright, John, 218, 222.

Brooks, Katherine R., 125.

Browning, Robert, 21.

Bryan, William Jennings, 231.

Bryant, William Cullen, 132.

Burke, Edmund, 175, 178, 182.

Burns, Robert, 129.

Burroughs, John, 53.

Byron, Lord, 147.

Cable, George W., 77.

Campbell, Thomas, 157.

Carlyle, Thomas, 156.

Castelar, Emilio, 258.

Channing, William E., 302.

Chatham, William Pitt, Earl of, 171, 173.

Chrysostom, Saint-John, 165, 167.

Cicero, Marcus Tullius, 162.

Cockran, Bourke, 314.

Cooke, Edmund Vance, 52.

Coolidge, Susan, 42.

Corwin, Thomas, 278.

Crawford, F. Marion, 139.

Curtis, George William, 273, 275.

Delano, Myra S., 37.

Demosthenes, 159.

Dickens, Charles, 15, 103.

Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 325, 327, 389.

Dunne, Finley Peter, 337.

Edwards, Harry Stillwell, 340.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 148.

Everett, Edward, 312.

Field, Eugene, 76.

Flagg, Edmund, 304.

Garfield, James A., 260.

Gilbert, W. S., 493.

Gillilan, S. W., 137, 343.

Gladstone, William E., 222, 255.

Goldsmith, Oliver, 486.

Grady, Henry W., 249, 283, 284.

Graves, John Temple, 246.

Hamilton, Alexander, 196.

Harris, Joel Chandler, 335, 370.

Hay, John, 59, 124, 261, 362.

Hemans, Felicia, 151.

Henry, Daniel, 12, 130.

Henry, Patrick, 193, 292.

Hoar, George F., 309.

Holmes, Oliver W., 145.

Howe, Julia Ward, 225.

Hugo, Victor, 345, 400.

Hunt, Leigh, 57.

Ingalls, John J., 235.

Ingelow, Jean, 47, 101.

Ingersoll, Robert G., 279, 315.

Irving, Washington, 449.

Jenkins, Lucy Dean, 366.

Jerome, Jerome K., 354.

Jerrold, Blanchard, 468.

King, Ben F., 357, 379.

Kingsley, Charles, 102.

Kipling, Rudyard, 155, 368.

Kossuth, Louis, 250, 313.

Le Fanu, Joseph S., 113.

Lincoln, Abraham, 206, 241, 305, 307.

Lippard, George, 98.

Lodge, Henry Cabot, 226.

Longfellow, H. W., 8, 61.

Lover, Samuel, 364.

Lowell, James Russell, 152.

Lytton, Edward Bulwer, 25, 80.

Lytton, Robert Bulwer, 8, 423, 441.

McKinley, William, 251.

Mead, Edwin D., 294, 299, 318.

Mitchell, Agnes E., 391.

Moore, Thomas, 41.

Nadaud, Gustav, 13.

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart, 330.

Phillips, Charles, 321.

Phillips, Wendell, 202, 239, 290, 296, 297.

Pierce, Etta W., 133.

Poe, Edgar Allan, 426.

Quincy, Josiah, 284.

Richards, Laura E., 414.

Riley, James Whitcomb, 323, 324, 359.

Robbins, R. D. C., 118.

Roosevelt, Theodore, 264, 280.

Savonarola, Girolamo, 228.

Saxe, John G., 384.

Scott, Walter, 123.

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 454.

Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 1.

Smith, F. Hopkinson, 375.

Stephens, Alexander H., 243.

Streeter, R. M., 387.

Sumner, Charles, 212, 248.

Taylor, Benjamin F., 373.

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 32, 67, 94, 146.

Thompson, Maurice, 138.

Togo, Admiral Heihaichiro, 242, 271.

Van Dyke, Henry, 72.

Verne, Jules, 408.

Weatherly, F. E., 328.

Webster, Daniel, 185, 188, 191, 199.

Whitman, Walt, 88.

Whittier, John G., 144, 149.

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 117.

Williams, Henry L., 437.



By ROBERT I. FULTON, late of Ohio Wesleyan University, and THOMAS C.
TRUEBLOOD, University of Michigan


(Second Edition)

This book shows the relation of intellect, feeling, and gesture to the
elements of effective expression in oratorical and dramatic art. It
treats the elements of expression in their simplest and most natural
order, showing their application to the various sentiments and emotions,
and provides exercises in the technic of voice and action. In
illustration of the principles full selections as well as illustrative
passages are given, together with the necessary explanation, _xiv_ +
_250 pages_


Accounts of the lives and public careers of twenty-two noted British and
American orators together with selections from their greatest speeches.
The purpose is to point out by concrete example the abstract principles
of public speaking which should guide the beginner. The book aims to
select, adapt, and utilize in a single volume such helpful material as
the student of public speaking can find elsewhere only in many separate
volumes. _403 pages, illustrated_


The number, variety, and interest of the selections are noteworthy. They
include prose and verse from a wide range of writers. Selections are
grouped in fourteen divisions, according to the nature of the subject
matter, _xix_ + _729 pages_



The purpose of the book is to provide material in poetry and oratory
that has never before appeared in books of this character, and to
stimulate interest in the authors represented. Nearly two hundred
selections of varying character are included. _510 pages_



By EDWIN DUBOIS SHURTER, Associate Professor of Public Speaking in the
University of Texas

12mo, cloth, 178 pages

This manual provides an analysis of the art of extempore speaking,
together with specific examples and exercises. It is distinctly modern
in treatment, although drawing also from the rich fund of material in
classical and modern literature.



12mo, cloth, 369 pages

These fifteen orations, edited with introductions and notes, are
intended to furnish models for students of oratory, argumentation, and
debate. The orators represented are Burke, Webster, Lincoln, Phillips,
Curtis, Grady, Watterson, Daniel, Porter, Reed, Beveridge, Cockran,
Schurz, Spalding, and Van Dyke.


By HENRY EVARTS GORDON, late Professor of Public Speaking in the
University of Iowa

12mo, cloth, viii + 315 pages

A fresh and stimulating treatise on the fundamentals of public speaking
from its cultural side, intended primarily for college classes but
easily adaptable to high-school use. A thorough program of study is
provided for speech melody, speech quality, speech rhythm, and speech
dynamics, accompanied by several hundred illustrative selections.




By JOHN HAYS GARDINER, late of Harvard University

A brief course in argumentation to meet the needs of the future average
citizen rather than of the few who go on to law or political life. The
examples used throughout the book and the exercises and questions
suggested for argument are drawn from matters in which young people from
eighteen to twenty-two have a natural, lively interest and which they
argue about in real life. The aim of the book is to develop habits of
analysis and effective presentation of facts which will serve the
student in the practical concerns of later life. _290 pages_


(Revised and Enlarged Edition)

By GEORGE P. BAKER, Harvard University, and H. B. HUNTINGTON, Brown

This book holds an established place as one of the standard textbooks in
the subject. Fundamental matters of analytical investigation, sifting of
evidence, brief-drawing, and persuasive adaptation are clearly
illustrated by numerous extracts and are made teachable by varied
practical exercises. The book as a whole develops intellectual power and
avoids that "predigested" argumentative material which enables a student
easily to remember--and surely to forget--"how to argue." _677 pages_


By JOHN M. BREWER, Los Angeles State Normal School

This textbook treats oral English as a subject independent both of
literature and of written composition. It furnishes the student brief
directions, detailed exercises, and suggestive lists of topics of
every-day interest which will provide material for doing with conscious
direction of thought the things which unconsciously are done in the
pursuit of every other study--arguing, explaining, and telling. It
embodies the latest ideas in the teaching of this subject by
substituting for imitation of masterpieces of eloquence a direct and
effective way of speaking without unnecessary adornment, more fitted to
be of practical use to men and women of to-day. _396 pages_




By HARRY GARFIELD HOUGHTON, University of Wisconsin xi + 333 pages

This textbook aims to teach the student,

     First, how to organize his subject matter into clear and logical
     form for purposes of public utterance.

     Second, how to cultivate his powers of expression so as to enable
     him to convey his ideas most effectively.

The book combines a definite amount of accurately expressed theory with
a maximum of practice. Special emphasis has been laid upon clear and
accurate thinking as the foundation for all expression, and each
principle has been treated in its relation thereto.

The book, while intended primarily for college courses, will also prove
valuable in classes in practical speaking in preparatory schools, as an
aid in declamatory work (for this purpose Chapter II, The Conversational
Mode, and Appendix II, Declamation, are particularly useful), and as a
reference book.


By WARREN C. SHAW, Dartmouth College vii + 240 pages, in Biflex Binder

"The Brief-Maker's Notebook" presents a logical system for analyzing
debaters' propositions and supplies a blank form of brief based upon
this system. It is devised to accomplish several aims:

     1. To enable the debater to use a loose-leaf system of note-taking.

     2. To help him to investigate details of his case without losing
     his grip upon the problem as a whole.

     3. To enable him to write a brief directly from his notes without
     rearranging the material.

     4. To crystallize his methods of analysis.

     5. To apply the theory of argumentation in the preparation of a
     debate and to develop thoroughness and accuracy.

The material consists of sets of forty pages each. Each set is designed
for the complete handling of one proposition.


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