Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over,

Even if the year has done with corn and clover,

With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, it’s true;

Some leaves remain, and some flowers too,

For me and you.

Now see my crops.

[_Offering his produce to September._]

I’ve brought you nuts and hops;

And when the leaf drops, why the walnut drops.

(_October wreathes the hop-vines about September’s neck, and gives her

the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together, but without shutting

the door. She steps into the background; he advances to the hearth,

removes the guard, stirs up the smouldering fire, and arranges several

chestnuts ready to roast._)

OCTOBER.

Crack your first nut, light your first fire,

Roast your chestnuts, crisp on the bar,

Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher;

Logs are as cheery as sun or as star,

Logs we can find wherever we are.

Spring, one soft day, will open the leaves,

Spring, one bright day, will lure back the flowers;

Never fancy my whistling wind grieves,

Never fancy I’ve tears in my showers;

Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours.

(_Sees November approaching._)

OCTOBER.

Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim

And grim,

With dismal ways.

What cheer, November?

NOVEMBER.

(_Entering and shutting the door._)

Nought have I to bring,

Tramping a-chill and shivering,

Except these pine cones for a blaze,――

Except a fog which follows,

And stuffs up all the hollows,――

Except a hoar frost here and there,――

Except some shooting stars,

Which dart their luminous cars,

Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.

(_October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background,

while November throws her pine cones on the fire and sits down

listlessly._)

NOVEMBER.

The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired

Of all that’s high or deep;

There’s naught desired and naught required

Save a sleep.

I rock the cradle of the earth,

I lull her with a sigh;

And know that she will wake to mirth

By and bye.

(_Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the

direction of the door. He knocks._)

NOVEMBER.

(_Calls out without rising._)

Ah, here’s my youngest brother come at last:

Come in, December.

(_He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry,

etc._)

Come in and shut the door,

For now it’s snowing fast;

It snows, and will snow more and more;

Don’t let it drift in on the floor.

But you, you’re all aglow; how can you be

Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold.

DECEMBER.

Nay, no closed doors for me,

But open doors and open hearts and glee

To welcome young and old.

Dimmest and brightest month am I;

My short days end, my lengthening days begin;

What matters more or less sun in the sky,

When all is sun within?

(_He begins making a wreath as he sings._)

Ivy and privet dark as night

I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show,

And holly for a beauty and delight,

And milky mistletoe.

While high above them all I set

Yew twigs and Christmas roses, pure and pale;

Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet

May keep, so sweet and frail;

May keep each merry singing bird,

Of all her happy birds that singing build:

For I’ve a carol which some shepherds heard

Once in a wintry field.

(_While December concludes his song, all the other months troop in

from the garden, or advance out of the background. The twelve join

hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the

Curtain falls._)

――_Christina G. Rossetti._

Illustration: “Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lockinvar?”

Uncle Ned’s Tale.

Well, lads, it was in summer time, and just at morning’s light

We heard the “Boot and Saddle” sound: the foe was then in sight,

Just winding round a distant hill[476] and opening on the plain.

Each trooper looked with careful eye to girth and curb and rein.

We snatched a hasty breakfast――we were old campaigners then:

That morn, of all our splendid corps, we’d scarce one hundred men;

But they were soldiers, tried and true, who’d rather die[477] than

yield;

The rest were scattered far and wide[478] o’er many a hard-fought

field.

Our trumpet now rang sharply out, and at a swinging-pace

We left the bivouac behind;[479] and soon the eye could trace[480]

The columns moving o’er the plain. Oh! ’twas a stirring sight

To see two mighty armies there preparing for the fight:

To watch the heavy masses, as, with practised, steady wheel,

They opened out in slender lines of brightly flashing steel.

Our place was on the farther flank,[481] behind some rising ground,

That hid the stirring scene from view; but soon a booming sound

Proclaimed the opening of the fight. Then war’s loud thunder rolled,

And hurtling shells and whistling balls their deadly message told.

We hoped to have a gallant day; our hearts were all aglow;

We longed for one wild, sweeping charge,[482] to chase the flying foe

Our troopers marked the hours glide by, but still no orders came:

They clutched their swords[483] and muttered words ’twere better not

to name.

For hours the loud artillery roared――the sun was at its height――

Still there we lay behind the hill,[484] shut out from all the fight!

We heard the maddened charging yells, the ringing British cheers,

And all the din of glorious war kept sounding in our ears.

Our hearts with fierce impatience throbbed, we cursed the very hill

That hid the sight: the evening fell, and we were idle still.

The horses, too, were almost wild, and told with angry snort

And blazing eye their fierce desire to join the savage sport.

When lower still the sun had sunk, and with it all our hope,

A horseman, soiled with smoke and sweat, came dashing down the

slope.[485]

He bore the wished-for orders. “At last!” our Colonel cried:

And as he read the brief dispatch, his glance was filled with pride.

Then he who bore the orders, in a low, emphatic tone,

The stern, expressive sentence spake “He _said it must be done_!”

“It _shall_ be done!” our Colonel cried. “Men, look to strap and

girth,

We’ve work to do this day, will prove what every man is worth;

Ay, work, my lads, will make amends for all our long delay――

The General says on us depends the fortune of the day!”

No order needed we to mount――each man was in his place,

And stern and dangerous was the look on every veteran face.

We trotted sharply up the hill,[486] and halted on the brow,

And then that glorious field appeared.[487] Oh! lad, I see it now!

But little time had we to spare for idle gazing then:

Beneath us in the valley,[488] stood a dark-clad mass of men:

It cut the British line in two. Our Colonel shouted, “There![489]

Behold your work! Our orders are _to charge and break that square_!”

Each trooper drew a heavy breath, then gathered up his reins,

And pressed the helmet o’er his brow, the horses tossed their manes

In protest fierce against the curb, and spurned[490] the springy

heath,

Impatient for the trumpet’s sound to bid them rush to death.

Well, boy, that moment seemed an hour: at last we heard the words――

“Dragoons! I know you’ll follow me. Ride steady, men! Draw swords!”

The trumpet sounded: off[491] we dashed, at first with steady pace,

But growing swifter as we went. Oh, ’twas a gallant race!

Three-fourths the ground was left behind: the loud and thrilling

“Charge!”

Rang out; but fairly frantic now, we needed not to urge

With voice or rein our gallant steeds, or touch their foaming flanks,

They seemed to fly. Now straight in front[492] appeared the kneeling

ranks.

Above them waved[493] a standard broad: we saw their rifles raised――

A moment more, with awful crash, the deadly volley blazed.

The bullets whistled through our ranks, and many a trooper fell;

But we were left. What cared we then? but onward rushing still!

Again the crash roared fiercely out; but on![494] still madly on!

We heard the shrieks of dying men, but recked not who was gone.

We gored the horses’ foaming flanks, and on through smoke and glare.

We wildly dashed, with clenched teeth. We had no thought, no care!

Then came a sudden, sweeping rush. Again with savage heel

I struck my horse: with awful bound he rose right o’er[495] their

steel!

Well, friend, I cannot tell you how that dreadful leap was made,

But there I rode, inside the square, and grasped[496] a reeking blade.

I cared not that I was alone, my eyes seemed filled with blood:

I never thought a man could feel in such a murderous mood.

I parried not, nor guarded thrusts; I felt not pain nor wound,

But madly spurred the frantic horse, and swept my sword around.[497]

I tried to reach the standard sheet; but there at last was foiled.

The gallant horse was jaded now, and from the steel recoiled.

They saw his fright, and pressed him then; his terror made him rear,

And falling back he crushed[498] their ranks and broke their guarded

square!

My comrades[499] saw the gap he made, and soon came dashing in:

They raised me up, I felt no hurt, but mingled in the din.

I’d seen some savage work before, but never was engaged

In such a wild and savage fight as now around me raged.

The foe had ceased their firing, and now plied the deadly steel:

Though all our men were wounded then, no pain they seemed to feel.

No groans escaped from those who fell, but horrid oaths instead,

And scowling looks of hate were on the features of the dead.

The fight was round the standard: though outnumbered ten to one,

We held our ground,――ay, more than that,――we still kept pushing

on.[500]

Our men now made a desperate rush to take the flag by storm.

I seized the pole,[501] a blow came down and crushed my outstretched

arm.

I felt a sudden thrill of pain, but that soon passed away;

And with a devilish thirst for blood, again I joined the fray.

At last we rallied all our strength, and charged o’er heaps of slain:

Some fought to death; some wavered――then fled[502] across the plain.

Well, boy, the rest is all confused: there was a fearful rout;

I saw our troopers chase the foe, and heard their maddened shout.

Then came a blank: my senses reeled, I know not how I fell;

I seemed to grapple with a foe, but that I cannot tell.

My mind was gone: when it came back I saw the moon[503] on high,

Around me all was still[504] as death. I gazed[505] up at the sky,

And watched the glimmering stars above,――so quiet did they seem,――

And all that dreadful field appeared like some wild, fearful[506]

dream.

But memory soon came back again, and cleared my wandering brain,

And then from every joint and limb shot fiery darts of pain.

My throat was parched, the burning thirst increased with every breath;

I made no effort to arise, but wished and prayed for death.

My bridle arm was broken, and lay throbbing on the sward,

But something still my right hand grasped: I thought it was my sword.

I raised[507] my hand to cast it off,――no reeking blade was there;

Then life and strength returned,――I beheld the Standard of the Square!

With bounding heart I gained my feet. Oh! then I wished to live,

’Twas strange the strength and love of life that standard seemed to

give!

I gazed around: far down the vale I saw a camp-fire’s glow.[508]

With wandering step I ran that way,――I recked not friend or foe.

Though stumbling now o’er heaps of dead, now o’er a stiffened horse,

I heeded not, but watched the light, and held my onward course.

But soon that flash of strength had failed, and checked my feverish

speed;

Again my throat was all ablaze, my wounds began to bleed.

I knew that if I fell again my chance of life was gone.

So, leaning on the standard pole, I still kept struggling on.

At length I neared the camp-fire: there were scarlet jackets round,

And swords and brazen helmets lay strewn upon the ground.

Some distance off, in order ranged, stood men,[509]――about a score:

O God! ’twas all that now remained of my old gallant corps!

The muster-roll was being called: to every well-known name

I heard the solemn answer――“Dead!” At length my own turn came.

I paused to hear,――a comrade answered, “Dead! I saw him fall!”

I could not move another step, I tried in vain to call.

My life was flowing fast, and all around was gathering haze,

And o’er the heather tops I watched my comrades’ cheerful blaze.

I thought such anguish as I felt was more than man could bear,

O God! it was an awful thing to die with help so near!

And death was stealing o’er me: with the strength of wild despair.

I raised the standard o’er my head, and waved it through the air.

Then all grew dim: the fire, the men, all vanished from my sight,

My senses reeled: I know no more of that eventful night.

’Twas weeks before my mind came back: I knew not where I lay,

But kindly hands were round me, and old comrades came each day.

They told me how the waving flag that night had caught their eye,

And how they found me bleeding there, and thought that I must die;

No wonder ’twas with all their care, I soon began to mend.

The General came to see me, too, with all his brilliant train,

But what he said, or how I felt, to tell you now ’twere vain.

Enough, I soon grew strong again; the wished-for route had come,

And all the gallant veteran troops set out with cheers for home.

We soon arrived; and then my lads, ’twould thrill your hearts to hear

How England welcomed home her sons with many a ringing cheer.

But tush! what boots it now to speak of what was said or done,

The victory was dearly bought, our bravest hearts were gone.

Ere long the King reviewed us. Ah! that memory is sweet.

They made me bear the foreign flag, and lay it at his feet.

I parted from my brave old corps: ’twere matter, friends, for tears,

To leave the kind old comrades I had ridden with for years.

I was no longer fit for war, my wanderings had to cease.

There, boys, I’ve told you all my tale, now let me smoke in peace.

――_James Boyle O’Reilly._

_Published by special permission._

GESTURES.

[476] H. F.

[477] D. F.

[478] B. H. O.

[479] H. B.

[480] H. Sw.

[481] H. L.

[482] B. H. F.

[483] Sp.

[484] H. L.

[485] Left H. O.

[486] A. F.

[487] B. D. O.

[488] D. F.

[489] Ind. D. F.

[490] V. D. L.

[491] H. F.

[492] H. F.

[493] Sp.

[494] B. H. F.

[495] Sp.

[496] Raised Fists.

[497] Sp.

[498] P. D. B.

[499] D. B.

[500] H. F.

[501] Grasp.

[502] Left H. L.

[503] A. O.

[504] B. P. H. O.

[505] Look up.

[506] V. H. O.

[507] Raise hand.

[508] D. F.

[509] H. F.

Read This if You Can.

Geoffrey, surnamed Winthrop, sat in the depot at Chicago waiting for

his train and reading the _Tribune_, when a squadron of street Arabs

(incomparable for squalor), thronged from a neighboring alley,

uttering hideous cries, accompanied by inimitable GESTURES of heinous

exultation, as they tortured an humble black and tan dog.

“You little blackguards!” cried Winthrop, stepping outside and

confronting them, adding the inquiry, “Whose dog is that?”

“That audacious Caucasian has the bravado to interfere with our

clique,” tauntingly shrieked the indisputable little ruffian,

exhibiting combativeness.

“What will you take for him?” asked the lenient Geoffrey, ignoring the

venial tirade.

“Twenty-seven cents,” piquantly answered the ribald urchin, grabbing

the crouching dog by the nape.

“You can buy licorice and share with the indicorous coadjutors of your

condemnable cruelty,” said Winthrop, paying the price and taking the

dog from the boy. Then catching up his valise and umbrella, he

hastened to his train. Winthrop, satisfied himself that his sleek

protégé was not wounded, and then cleared the cement from the pretty

collar, and read these words:

“Leicester. Licensed, No. 1770.”

Hearing the pronunciation of his name, the docile canine expressed

gratitude and pleasure, and then sank exhausted at his new patron’s

feet and slept.

Among the other passengers was a magazine contributor, writing

vagaries of Indian literature, also two physicians, a somber,

irrevocable, irrefragable allopathist, and a genial homeopathist, who

made a specialty of bronchitis. Two peremptory attorneys from the

legislature of Iowa were discussing the politics of the epoch, and the

details of national finance, while a wan, dolorous person, wearing

concave glasses, alternately ate troches and almonds for a sedative,

and sought condolence in a high lamentable treble from a lethargic and

somewhat deaf and enervate comrade not yet acclimated.

Near three exemplary brethren (probably sinecurists) sat a group of

humorous youths; and a jocose sailor (from Asia) in a blouse waist and

tarpaulin hat, was amusing his patriotic juvenile listeners by

relating a series of the most extraordinary legends extant, suggested

by the contents of a knapsack, which he was calmly and leisurely

arranging in a pyramidal form on a three-legged stool. Above swung

figured placards, with museum and lyceum advertisements too verbose to

be misconstrued.

A mature matron of medium height and her comely daughter soon entered

the car, and took seats in front of Winthrop (who recalled having seen

them one Tuesday in February in the parquet of a theatre). The young

lady had recently made her debut into society at a musical soiree at

her aunt’s. She had an exquisite bouquet of flowers that exhaled sweet

perfume. She said to her parent, “Mamma, shall we ever find our lost

Leicester?”

Geoffrey immediately addressed her, saying, as he presented his card――

“Pardon my apparent intrusiveness; but prithee, have you lost a pet

dog?”

The explanation that he had been stolen was scarcely necessary, for

Leicester, just awakening, vehemently expressed his inexplicable joy

by buoyantly vibrating between the two like the sounding lever used in

telegraphy (for to neither of them would he show partiality) till,

succumbing to ennui, he purported to take a recess, and sat on his

haunches, complacently contemplating his friends. It was truly an

interesting picture.

They reached their destination ere the sun was beneath the horizon.

Often during the summer Winthrop gallantly rowed from the quay with

the naive and blithe Beatrice, in her jaunty yachting suit, but no

coquetry shone from the depths of her azure eyes. Little Less, their

jocund confidante and courier (and who was as sagacious as a spaniel)

always attended them on these occasions, and whene’er they rambled

through the woodland paths. While the band played Beethoven,

Mendelssohn, Bach, and others, they promenaded the long corridors of

the hotel. And one evening, as Beatrice lighted the gas by the etagere

in her charming boudoir in their suite of rooms, there glistened

brilliantly a valuable solitaire diamond on her finger.

Let us look into the future for the sequel to perfect this romance,

and around a cheerful hearth we see again Geoffrey and Beatrice, who

are paying due homage to their tiny friend Leicester.

――_Quarterly Elocutionist._

[Illustration: “Away then! I am locked in one of them.

If you do love me, you will find me out.”]

The Ivy-Clad Ruin.[510]

’Tis the old, old church that for years I’ve known,

And with ivy green are its walls o’ergrown;

All its ancient splendor has passed away,

And there’s naught remaining but grim decay;

The pale moonbeams glimmer the windows through,

And the roofless floor is all damp with dew;

Both the pious priest and his flock are gone,

And the gravestones watch o’er their dead alone.

Oh, how oft I’ve passed thro’ the spacious aisle

And have met the throng with a friendly smile;

In the bygone days when I saw them kneel,

When I felt the thrill of the organ’s peal;

But the forms I knew enter here no more,

And no footsteps fall on the mouldy floor;

There’s but one thing left that with life I’ve seen――

’Tis the faithful vine of the ivy green.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

[510] By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of the copyright.

“Yes, I’m Guilty.”

“Yes, I’m guilty,” the prisoner said,

As he wiped his eyes and bowed his head.

“Guilty of all the crimes you name;

But this yere lad is not to blame.

’Twas I alone who raised the row,

And, Judge, if you please, I’ll tell yer how.

You see, this boy is pale and slim;

We calls him saint.――His name is Tim.――

He’s like a preacher in his ways:――

He never drinks, or swears, or plays,

But kinder sighs and weeps all day;

’Twould break yer heart to hear him pray.

Why, sir, many and many a night,

When grub was scarce and I was tight,

No food, no fire, no light to see,

When home was hell, if hell there be,

I’ve seen that boy in darkness kneel,

And pray such words as cut like steel;

Which somehow warmed and lit the room,

And sorter chased away the gloom.

Smile if you must, but facts are facts,

And deeds are deeds, and acts are acts;

And though I’m black as sin can be

His prayers have done a heap for me,

And make me think that God, perhaps,

Sent him on earth to save us chaps.

This man what squealed and pulled us in,

He keeps a place called Fiddlers’ Inn,

Where faiks, and snides, and lawless scamps

Connive and plot with thieves and tramps.

Well, Tim and me, we didn’t know

Just what to do or where to go,

And so we stayed with him last night.

And this is how we had the fight:

They wanted Tim to take a drink,

But he refused, as you may think,

And told them how the flowing bowl

Contained the fire that kills the soul.

‘Drink! Drink!’ they cried, ‘this foaming beer;

’Twill make you strong and give you cheer.

Let preachers groan and prate of sin,

But give to us the flowing gin!’

Then Tim knelt down beside his chair,

And offered up this little prayer:

‘Help me, dear Lord,’ the child began,

As down his cheeks the big tears ran,

‘To keep the pledge I gave to you,

And make me strong, and good, and true.

I’ve done my best to do what’s right,

But, Lord, I’m sad and weak to-night.

Father, mother, oh, plead for me――

Tell Christ I long with you to be!’

‘Get up, you brat, don’t pray ’round here,’

The landlord yelled with rage and fear,

Then, like a brute, he hit the lad,

Which made my blood just b’iling mad.

I guess I must uv hurt his head,

For I struck hard for the man that’s dead.

No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me:

His dad was killed in ’sixty-three.

Shot at the front, where bursting shell

And cannon sang their song of hell,

And muskets hissed with fiery breath,

As brave men fell to their tune of death.

I promised his father before he died,

As the life blood rushed from his wounded side,

I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy,

That I’d protect his darling boy.

I simply did what his father would,

And helped the weak, as all men should.

Yes, I knocked him down and blacked his eye,

And used him rough I’ll not deny;

But think of it, Judge, a chap like him

Striking the likes of little Tim.

If I did wrong, send me below,

But spare the son of comrade Joe.――

You forgive him; and me? Oh, no!

A fact? God bless you! Come, Tim, let’s go.”

――_J. M. Munyon._

The Enchanted Shirt.

The King was sick. His cheek was red,

And his eye was clear and bright;

He ate and drank with a kingly zest,

And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know,

And the doctors came by the score.

They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,

And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came,

And one was as poor as a rat,――

He had passed his life in studious toil,

And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book;

His patients gave him no trouble;

If they recovered, they paid him well;

If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue,

As the King on his couch reclined;

In succession they thumped his august chest,

But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, “You’re as sound as a nut.”

“Hang him up,” roared the King in a gale――

In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;

The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,

And thus his prescription ran――

_The King will be well if he sleeps one night

In the shirt of a happy man._

* * * * *

Wide o’er the realm the couriers rode,

And fast their horses ran,

And many they saw, and to many they spoke,

But they found no Happy Man....

They saw two men by the roadside sit,

And both bemoaned their lot;

For one had buried his wife, he said,

And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate,

A beggar lay whistling there!

He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled

On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked

At the scamp so blithe and gay;

And one of them said, “Heaven save you friend!

You seem to be happy to-day.”

“O yes, fair sirs,” the rascal laughed,

And his voice rang free and glad;

“An idle man has so much to do

That he never has time to be sad.”

“This is our man,” the courier said;

“Our luck has led us aright.

I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,

For the loan of your shirt to-night.”

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,

And laughed till his face was black;

“I would do it,” said he, and he roared with the fun,

“But I haven’t a shirt to my back.”

* * * * *

Each day to the King the reports came in

Of his unsuccessful spies,

And the sad panorama of human woes

Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life,

And his maladies hatched in gloom;

He opened his windows and let the air

Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled

In his own appointed way;

And the people blessed him, the land was glad,

And the King was well and gay.

――_Col. John Hay._

Fra Giacomo.

Alas, Fra Giacomo,

Too late!――but follow me;[511]

Hush![512] draw the curtain[513]――so!――

She is dead,[514] quite dead, you see.

Poor little lady! she lies

With the light gone out of her eyes,

But her features still wear[515] that soft

Gray, meditative expression,

Which you[516] must have noticed oft,

And admired, too, at confession.

How saintly she looks[517] and how meek!

Though this[518] be the chamber of death,

I fancy I feel her breath[519]

As I kiss her on the cheek.

With that pensive, religious face,

She has gone to a holier place![520]

And I hardly appreciated her――

Her praying, fasting, confessing,

Poorly,[521] I own, I mated her;

I thought her too cold, and rated[522] her

For her endless image-caressing.

Too saintly for me by far,

As pure and as cold as a star,[523]

Not fashioned for kissing and pressing――

But made for a heavenly crown.

Ay, father, let us go down――

But first, if you please, your blessing![524]

Wine?[525] _No?_ Come, come, you must!

You’ll bless it with your prayers,

And quaff a cup, I trust,

To the health of the saint[526] up stairs!

My heart[527] is aching so!

And I feel so weary and sad

Through the blow that I have had――

You’ll sit,[528] Fra Giacomo?

My friend! (and a friend I rank you)

For the sake of that saint[529],――nay, nay![530]

Here’s the wine[531]――as you love me, stay!

’Tis Montepulciano!――Thank you.[532]

Heigho! ’Tis now six summers

Since I won that angel and married her:

I was rich,[533] not old, and carried her

Off in the face of all comers.

So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!

A tenderer morsel, I swear,

Never made the dull black coal[534]

Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare.

Your pardon![535]――nay, keep your chair!

I wander a little, but mean

No offence to the gray gabardine:

Of the church,[536] Fra Giacomo,

I’m a faithful upholder,[537] you know.

But (humor me![538]) she was as sweet

As the saints in yon[539] convent windows,

So gentle, so meek, so discreet,

She knew not what lust does or sin does.

I’ll confess, though, before we were one

I deemed her less saintly, and thought

The blood in her veins had caught

Some natural warmth from the sun.[540]

I was wrong[541]――I was blind as a bat――

Brute[542] that I was, how I blundered!

Though such a mistake as that

Might have occurred as pat

To ninety-nine men in a hundred.[543]

Yourself,[544] for example: you’ve seen her?

Spite[545] her modest and pious demeanor,

And the manner so nice and precise,

Seemed there not color and light,[546]

Bright motion and appetite,

That were scarcely consistent with _ice_?[547]

Externals implying, you see,

Internals less saintly than human!

Pray speak,[548] for between you and me

You’re not a bad judge of a woman!

A jest――but a jest![549]... Very true:[550]

’Tis hardly becoming to jest,

And that saint upstairs[551] at rest――

Her soul may be listening, too!

Well may your visage[552] turn yellow――

I was always a brute[553] of a fellow!

To think how I doubted and doubted,

Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554]

That golden-haired angel――and solely

Because she was zealous and holy!

Noon and night and morn

She devoted herself to piety;

Not[555] that she seemed to scorn

Or dislike[556] her husband’s society;

But the claims of her _soul_[557] superseded

All that I[558] asked for or needed,

And her thoughts were far away[559]

From the level of sinful clay,

And she trembled if earthly matters

Interfered with her _aves_ and _paters_.[560]

Poor dove, she so fluttered[561] in flying

Above the dim vapors of hell――

Bent on self-sanctifying――

That she never thought of trying

To save her husband as well.

And while she was duly elected

For a place in the heavenly roll,[562]

I (brute[563] that I was!) suspected

Her manner[564] of saving her soul.

So half for the fun of the thing,

What did I (blasphemer![565]) but fling

On my shoulders[566] the gown of a monk――

Whom I managed for that very day

To get safely out of the way[567]――

And seat me, half sober, half drunk,

With the cowl thrown over my face;

In the father confessor’s place.

_Eheu! benedicite!_[568]

In her orthodox sweet simplicity,

With that pensive, gray expression

She sighfully knelt[569] at confession,

While I bit my lips till they bled,

And dug my nails into my hand,[570]

And heard with averted head[571]

What I’d guessed,[572] and could understand.

Every word was a serpent’s sting,

But wrapt[573] in my gloomy gown,

I sat, like a marble thing,

As she told me all![574] SIT DOWN![575]

More wine,[576] Fra Giacomo!

One cup――if you love me! No?

What, have these dry lips drank

So deep of the sweets of pleasure――

_Sub rosa_,[577] but quite without measure――

That Montepulciano tastes rank?

Come, drink![578] ’twill bring the streaks

Of crimson back to your cheeks;[579]

Come, drink again to the saint[580]

Whose virtues you loved to paint,

Who stretched on her wifely bed,

With the tender gray expression

You used to admire at confession,

Lies POISONED,[581] overhead!

Sit still[582]――or by Heaven, you die![583]

Face to face,[584] soul to soul, you and I

Have settled accounts in a fine

Pleasant fashion,[585] over our wine.

Stir not,[586] and seek not to fly――

Nay, whether or not, you are mine!

Thank Montepulciano[587] for giving

You death in such delicate sips;

’Tis not every monk ceases living

With so pleasant a taste on his lips;

But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,

Take this![588] and this! and this!

* * * * *

Cover him over, Pietro,[589]

And bury him in the court below[590]――

You can be secret, lad, I know!

And, hark you,[591] then to the convent[592] go――

Bid every bell[593] in the convent toll,

And the monks say mass for your mistress’[594] soul.

――_Robert Buchanan._

GESTURES.

[511] H. O.

[512] L. P. H. O.

[513] Sp.

[514] D. O.

[515] P. D. O.

[516] L. H. O.

[517] Look to D. O.

[518] B. H. O.

[519] Stoop.

[520] A. O.

[521] P. D. O.

[522] V. H. O.

[523] Ind. A. O.

[524] Kneel.

[525] H. O.

[526] L. A. O.

[527] Sp.

[528] H. O.

[529] L. A. O.

[530] P. H. O.

[531] H. O.

[532] Bow and sit at left of a table.

[533] B. H. O.

[534] Lean forward.

[535] P. H. O.

[536] L. H. O.

[537] A. O.

[538] V. Con.

[539] L. H. L.

[540] A. O.

[541] P. H. O.

[542] B. Cli. D.

[543] B. H. O.

[544] H. O.

[545] V. H. O.

[546] H. O.

[547] P. H. O.

[548] H. O.

[549] V. H. O.

[550] P. H. O.

[551] L. A. O.

[552] H. O.

[553] B. Cli. D.

[554] V. Con.

[555] B. H. O. Con.

[556] V. H. O.

[557] L. H. O.

[558] To left.

[559] L. H. L.

[560] Hand applied.

[561] Sp.

[562] A. O.

[563] Cli. D.

[564] H. O.

[565] V. H. O.

[566] Sp.

[567] L. H. O.

[568] B. V. Par. H. O.

[569] D. E.

[570] Sp.

[571] Sp.

[572] Ind. H. O.

[573] Sp.

[574] Fist on table.

[575] Rise and P. H. O.

[576] Offer wine.

[577] P. H. O.

[578] B. H. O.

[579] H. O.

[580] L. A. O. sustained.

[581] L. Point up forcibly.

[582] P. H. O.

[583] D. O.

[584] Fold arms and face to right.

[585] B. H. O.

[586] P. H. E.

[587] Point to table.

[588] Cross to right and stab.

[589] Look to left and P. D. O.

[590] D. L.

[591] L. Ind. H. O.

[592] L. H. L.

[593] L. A. O.

[594] L. Point up.

A Grain of Truth.

The luxury derived in doing good

Is oft the only recompense men get

For kindly deeds; e’en toil of years is paid

Too oft with ingrate acts, and motives pure

As angel thoughts are powerless to stay

Suspicion’s tongue; but, oh, ’tis sweet to know

Our duty has been done ’twixt man and man,

To feel we have been loyal to ourselves;

To know one voice at least proclaims us true,

The whispered voice of God, within our hearts!

――_George M. Vickers_.

The Corsican.

This piece is most effective if given sitting by the right side of a

table.

Well, Michel, the luck seems against[595] you to-night,

You do nothing but lose;――it may change? You are right,[596]

For Dame Fortune’s a jade that one never can trust;

She may smile on our labors, but one[597] always must

Keep both eyes wide open――your play,[598]――mine again,――

Or he’ll pay[599] for his confidence, fifty to ten.

Pshaw! don’t[600] be faint-hearted――another deal, try;

Now don’t swear,――what’s the use? You may win by and by:

Why! what are these?[601] Jewels? Your dead wife’s, you say?

You’ll stake them against all I’ve won here to-day?

You’ve nothing but these? All’s lost?――(_the end’s near!_)[602]

Well, put the stones there;[603] why, how white you appear!

You’re faint from reverses; ho![604] landlord! I say――

A flask of your best without any delay:

Come, drink, man; ’twill cheer you――tut![605] have no reserve;

Here’s to your success![606] Ha! that strengthens one’s nerve.

I’ll deal the cards first; ’tis your turn――come, begin;

Just think of the stakes you will have if you win.

Have you ever seen Paris? Were born there? Indeed!

They say ’tis a place where a man must take heed[607]

Lest his money and life be not taken away

In a hurry,――one moment[608]――’tis my turn to play.

A strange tale I’ve heard――no offence――of their mode,

And the close-cutting rules of their well-prepared code;

This narrative’s true;――at least, so I’ve been told.――

A young Corsican noble, scarce twenty years old――

A mere boy in years, but with wealth at command,

And a title as proud as the best in the land――

About twelve years ago to gay Paris repaired,

To see life as ’tis there to be seen, and――get snared.[609]

With some friends like himself,――young, thoughtless and gay,[610]

He managed to while time and money away.[611]

Among other places, the gossips all tell,――

He was brought to a flash,[612] gilded gaming hell,

Kept by a certain French Count――have a care![613]

You play wildly; now put your best there;――

By a certain French Count, De la Fontelle by name,

And his wife, a bewitching, heart-damaging dame;

As well-matched a pair for their devilish trade,

As the fiend incarnate[614] had e’er till then made.

Well, into this hell-trap of splendor and guilt,[615]

Young Malletti――his name――was dragged;――see, you have spilt

All your wine;――you are nervous from play: fill once more;――

And then like the rest,[616] I imagine, before

He well was aware or his own thoughts could tell,

He madly in love with the fair Countess fell.

He was handsome and rich, young, easily led――

A most opportune prize, and so easily bled.

She so skillfully――women, what devils[617] are ye!――

Lured him on till no longer the power had he

Or the will to resist;――I’ve just played the knave;――

Till his honor and soul into her hands he gave――

Heaven curse[618] her! It makes a man crazy to think

How these fair, smiling creatures will drag to the brink

Of destruction a poor, silly fool:――You are pale,

And no wonder; the blood leaves the heart at the tale.

But, mind you, the husband with eyes turned away――[619]

Unconscious――ha! ha! of what passed every day,――

To his own affairs kept, nor with her interfered;

She could manage her own; but the end was soon neared.

His money at last was all gone, and he then

Turned to her――to her love appealed,[620] but when

On his two knees, with words full of fond love, the young

Noble knelt[621] with his proud heart and spirit sore wrung,――

And abjectly――God! yes, abjectly[622] sued,――

But your pardon; I feel so deeply imbued

With the sense of this wrong, that the throats I could seize――

A neck in each grasp――and complacently squeeze[623]

Out the life of these two devils, breath after breath,

Till my eager revenge would be stopped but by death.

Well, in spite of his burning entreaties, this pair,

With laughter and blows――ay, what wouldn’t they dare?――

The young noble seized, and out[624] he was thrown

Like a dog;――he who never till that time had known

The harsh tone of insult. But come,[625] give me some wine;

Such a tale would stir more than your feelings[626] and mine:[627]

For all[628] who have souls and have hearts not of stone

Can judge of the tumult his soul must have known,

When robbed of his money,[629] his honor,[630] his life,[631]

By this Judas incarnate and syren-tongued wife,

He found himself out on the streets,[632] treated worse

Than the veriest menial or slave.[633] May the curse

Of the injured their foul souls pursue![634] But, howe’er,

Young Malletti that night to this house did repair,

And in her own bed the fair serpent slew;――

Drove his knife to the hilt in her heart;[635]――Wouldn’t you?[636]――

And cut her white throat――ay! he left a grand mark,――

But the husband escaped from the house[637] in the dark――

The cowardly cur![638] But you suffer; your frame

Is all trembling. Ah! Michel, your nature’s[639] the same

As my own, full of tenderness, gentle and weak;

As regards now its sympathy ’tis that I speak.

But come, play again; ’tis the last trick; I drink[640]

To your health and success! Ha! ha! One would think

From your looks you were pale with some terrible fear.

There’s nothing to dread,――there are none but us here,

And the days of dark murder in secret are o’er:――

Ace! King! I win. Though mine is the gain,

It gives me, friend Michel, less pleasure than pain.

But let us return to our sheep, as they say

In la belle France, your land ever charming and gay.

Young Malletti was captured, convicted I’m told,

To the galleys[641] was sent,――a life sentence, too:

Now I think ’twas too much for his just crime――don’t you?

But mark![642] two years since――ay! this very day,――

The convicts rebelled, and some few got away,

And among them Malletti.――Why, man, how you shake!

And what a strange, terrified look your eyes take!

Well, Malletti had Corsican blood in his veins,――

Such blood as ne’er cools while on earth[643] there remains

The being or thing that had offered insult:

He no rest, peace or happiness ever would know,

Till dead[644] at his feet he the Count would lay low.

He searched France from north to south,[645] England went

through,[646]

And at last of his old foe discovered a clue:

He found him disguised both in feature and name;――

Come, Michel, what ails you? Your drinking’s too tame.

Here, fill up your goblet;[647] I’ll give you a toast;[648]

Dios! man; what a face! It would frighten a ghost;

Here’s success to all men who the life blood may spill

Of such as the Count and his wife! But sit still,[649]

And wait till my narrative ends. ’Tis a queer

Story, take it in all, but true――never fear.

I’m sorry you lost, Michel, sorry indeed,

And feel that at my hands some succor[650] you need,

Which you shall receive――ay! shall, on my life.

These gems are superb![651] They belonged to your wife?

’Tis the fortune of cards;――a full purse to-day;

To-morrow like smoke-clouds it all melts away.[652]

But, no doubt, you’re eager and anxious to know

What held back the young noble’s long-wished-for blow:

Ah! he wished his revenge to be perfect, complete,

A sort of a climax. Revenge must be sweet;

That is, if we judge from Malletti’s standpoint.

What unction with which his keen sword to anoint!

Well, at the card table day following day,

The two were engaged, and strangely to say,

The Count lost every sou[653] in the world he possessed;

And at last by reverses became so hard pressed

That he staked his wife’s jewels;――_ha, ha! don’t stir yet!_[654]

But wait, dearest Michel, my friend, till I get

To the end. Well, the jewels he staked and _he lost_.

Then Malletti uprose from his seat[655] and crossed

To the side of the Count, _as I now do to you,――

Keep your seat――we’re alone――none can hear:――

Revenge is so sweet when the cost was so dear_;――

He drew a stiletto[656]――in this manner,――see!

And plunged it with joy to the hilt――_look at me!

Ha! you know me, vile caitiff! What, mercy! Forgive!_

The seconds are numbered that you have to live:

This moment takes out of my life all the pain,

And wipes out the stain on my honor again.

Thy struggles are useless,――’tis _revenge’s_ fell clasp

That holds thee resistless within its close grasp.

_Look your last on my face_, while thus with a blow[657]

I send your black soul to the regions below;――[658]

_There_[659]――Count de la Fontelle; now join your fair spouse

In the chambers of hell,[660] and keep your carouse――

Ha! that twinge again;[661]――twice I felt it before,――

And a drowsy sensation[662] seems now stealing o’er

All my frame;――God of heaven! what is this?[663] Can it be?

Poisoned![664] Ha! slave![665] thou hast done too for me.――

What pain darts across me![666] My blood is on fire!

My brain reels,――Oh, mercy! is’t thus I expire![667]

Help! help! Oh, will no one attend to my cry!

Must I in my agony unaided lie,

And suffer the torment the damned[668] only feel!

Ha! no;――I’ve a friend left in thee, faithful steel:[669]

Thou shalt end all and quickly;――thy virtue I’ll try;

Ah, Count! thou art well avenged;――_thus――thus![670] I die!_

――_Thos. F. Wilford, A. M._

GESTURES.

[595] H. O.

[596] Con. V.

[597] Ind. H. O.

[598] In this and the passages following that speak of the play,

imitate motions of card playing.

[599] H. O.

[600] V. H. O.

[601] Sp.

[602] Speak to left with L. hand in front of mouth.

[603] Motion to table.

[604] To left.

[605] Con. V.

[606] Sp.

[607] Ind.

[608] Con. V.

[609] P. H. O.

[610] B. H. O.

[611] L. H. Sw.

[612] A. O.

[613] P. H. O.

[614] Cli.

[615] H. O.

[616] B. H. O.

[617] L. Cli. D.

[618] B. Cli. D.

[619] V. H. O.

[620] B. H. F.

[621] B. D. F.

[622] B. P. D. F.

[623] Sp.

[624] B. Par. to L. H. O.

[625] H. O.

[626] H. O.

[627] To self.

[628] B. H. O.

[629] H. O.

[630], [631] Imp.

[632] L. H. O.

[633] L. D. O.

[634] P. H. F.

[635] Sp.

[636] H. O.

[637] L. H. O.

[638] L. P. D. O.

[639] H. O.

[640] Sp.

[641] L. H. L.

[642] H. O.

[643] Ind.

[644] D. F.

[645] D. F.

[646] L. H. Sw.

[647], [648] Sp.

[649] P. H. O.

[650] B. H. O.

[651] Sp.

[652] A. Sw.

[653] Ind.

[654] P. H. O.

[655] Rise and cross in front of table.

[656] Sp.

[657] Sp.

[658] Sheathe dagger.

[659] P. D. O.

[660] D. F.

[661] Hand on breast.

[662] Hand to head.

[663] Take up wine glass.

[664] Replace it.

[665] D. O.

[666] Strong dramatic action.

[667] Sit.

[668] B. Cli.

[669] Draw dagger.

[670] Stab.

[Illustration: “Two fox-tails float and drift and drive adown the

stream.”]

All Wrong.

A FARCE, IN ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

JOHN DUPEWELL, _a rogue_.

OLIVER OPENFACE, _benevolent old gent_.

TOMMY, _a street fakir_.

POLICEMAN.

TILLY, _Openface’s daughter_.

PEDESTRIANS.

SCENE: A City Street in the Morning.

(_Tommy discovered standing in centre of stage, near flat, holding a

string in right hand, to which are attached several small rubber

balloons inflated with gas._)

* * * * *

TOMMY.――Well, here goes for another hard day’s work. This standin’ on

yer feet, an’ shoutin’ all day is wicked on the toes and lungs. Hello!

here comes a swell. Balloons! balloons! Here’s yer genuine rubber air

wessels filled with gas!

(_Enter Dupewell――Left._)

DUPEWELL (_Swinging cane and not noticing Tommy_).――Something must be

done to raise the wind.

TOMMY.――Balloons! balloons! balloons!

DUPEWELL.――Shut up! shut up, sir! Your goods are too suggestive of the

present state of my stomach.

TOMMY.――Don’t lean on me that way; I’m a poor boy, I want to be

encouraged, for me stock’s light, trade’s dull, and both pockets is

empty.

DUPEWELL.――Poor fellow! Perhaps I can give you a start in life, but it

all depends upon――

TOMMY.――Oh, sir, I never had nobody to take me by the hand and say,

“Tommy, here’s a chance, take it!” I’ve been lookin’ for a openin’ all

me life――

DUPEWELL.――And the biggest kind of a one right under your nose.

(_Points cane at Tommy’s mouth._)

TOMMY.――I can’t see it.

DUPEWELL.――Well, I’ll explain. How many balloons have you sold to-day?

TOMMY.――Not one; haven’t broke a string.

DUPEWELL.――Good! People are beginning to throng the street. Now

listen; if you will strictly obey all my instructions, I will to-night

give you more cash, and a squarer meal than your pockets ever held or

your palate ever tasted.

TOMMY.――That’s what I dreamed last night; I seed a great big――

DUPEWELL.――Never mind your dream. What do you want for your balloons,

all of them?

TOMMY.――Fifty cents.

DUPEWELL.――If I purchase them, will you enter my employ at once, and

promise to obey me, unquestioned, in all things?

TOMMY.――When do you eat breakfast?

DUPEWELL.――In a short time; as soon as we attend to a small affair. Do

you solemnly――

TOMMY.――Hold on! I never swear. I’ll be bound, I’ll affirm, I’ll

promise to agree; but don’t ask me to swear; ’tain’t right.

DUPEWELL.――That will answer; your word will do. (_Takes half-dollar

from pocket and looks at it._) (_Aside_.)――Farewell ’till next we

meet. (_Aloud._)――Well, sir, here is the money.

TOMMY (_Taking money_).――Here’s your balloons.

DUPEWELL.――I don’t want them just now. Tommy, loan me that coin a few

minutes.

TOMMY (_backing away_).――Can’t do that.

DUPEWELL (_angrily_).――What! disobey my first request? Besides, you

hold good collateral. (_Points to balloons._)

TOMMY (_aside_).――This is a bad openin’; he’s leanin’ on me heavy at

the start. (_Hands money to Dupewell._) I don’t see how I’m to make a

profit on this sale.

DUPEWELL (_hurriedly_).――Tut! Now for business; mark what I say; there

are some persons coming this way. I’ll step off in this direction a

few paces. Watch me. When I raise my hat, let your balloons go, fall

on your knees and groan; say nothing to any one, but groan in reply to

every question. I will attend to the rest.

TOMMY.――Let me hold the fifty cents.

DUPEWELL.――Silence. (_Exit L._)

TOMMY (_looking after Dupewell_).――That’s a queer fellow. I think I’ll

skeet. Oh! there goes his hat. (_Lets the balloons go, falls on his

knees and groans._)

(_Enter Oliver Openface――R._)

OPENFACE (_trying to assist Tommy to arise_).――My poor fellow, what

ails you? Do tell me, are you sick?

(_Re-enter Dupewell――R._)

(_Tommy groans and looks upward._)

DUPEWELL (_to Openface_).――Sad! sad! Know the man well; worthy

case――sick wife――eleven children, oldest four years――wounded in late

war――lost his balloons; look! (_Points upward._)

OPENFACE.――Ah, I see. (_Pulls out handkerchief and wipes eyes._) What

shall we do?

DUPEWELL.――Make donation――encourage honesty. (_Hands fifty cents to

Tommy, who takes it and groans._)

OPENFACE (_examining his wallet_).――I have nothing less than a

fifty-dollar bill. (_Holds note in his hand._)

(_Dupewell takes note._)

OPENFACE.――Hold on, there. (_Reaches for note._)

DUPEWELL.――No, no! Let this poor man get it changed around the corner;

thoroughly honest――trusted him with thousands――be responsible myself.

(_Aside to Tommy_)――Meet me at the Hero’s Inn. (_Makes believe to give

note to Tommy, but puts it in his own pocket._) (_Aloud_) Go, now!

Run! The gentleman’s waiting. (_Exit Tommy, running._)

DUPEWELL (_touching Openface on arm and pointing up_).――How small

those balloons appear; a mere speck.

OPENFACE (_looking up_).――I cannot see them; my eyes are too old.

DUPEWELL (_points_).――See! There they go! (_Takes wallet from

Openface’s pocket._) See! see!

OPENFACE (_impatiently_).――I’d like to see that fellow coming with my

change.

DUPEWELL (_starting to go_).――I’ll see what keeps him.

OPENFACE.――But hold on――

DUPEWELL (_aside_).――That’s what I intend to do. (_Taps wallet._)

(_Aloud._)――Be back in a second. (_Exit R.――hurriedly._)

OPENFACE.――I just recollect that there is a dollar bill in the middle

pocket of my wallet; see what time I could have saved if――(_feels in

his pockets_)――if――if――I had only――(_still feeling in his

pockets_)――if I had only thought of it before. (_Discovers that his

wallet is gone._) Come back you, there! Watch! Thieves!

(_Falls on his knees_) Police! Police!

(_Enter Policeman――R._)

POLICEMAN (_poking Openface in side with club_).――Git up! Git up!

OPENFACE.――Police! I’m robbed, I’m――I’m――murder!

(_Enter Pedestrians――Running._)

POLICEMAN.――He’s got ’em bad; a genteel case of the tremmens.

(_Pedestrians laugh._)

POLICEMAN.――Somebody git a push-cart; there’s one down at the corner

grocery.

PEDESTRIAN.――I’ll go, I’ll go! (_Exit._)

OPENFACE (_attempts to rise_).――Let me up, let me get up, I’m a――――

POLICEMAN (_putting him down again_).――Keep quiet; I’ve ordered the

carriage; I’ll watch the snakes.

(_Pedestrians laugh._)

OPENFACE.――Let me speak.

POLICEMAN (_to pedestrians_).――Here comes a lady. Clear the sidewalk.

(_Pedestrians gather around Openface so that Tilly cannot

see him._)

POLICEMAN (_aside_).――What a beauty!

(_Enter Tilly, carrying parasol._)

TILLY.――Dear me! I wonder what has happened.

OPENFACE.――I am a gentleman, let me go! I have been basely robbed, let

me go, I say!

POLICEMAN.――Shut up! shut up!

TILLY.――That voice, that beloved voice! Surely I have heard that voice

before!

POLICEMAN (_bowing low_).――No doubt, lady, you have often listened to

my tones when I’ve been on the beat――――

PEDESTRIAN (_aside_).――Which is all the time.

TILLY.――I do not mean your voice.

OPENFACE (_groans_).――Let me rise.

TILLY.――’Tis he! My father!

POLICEMAN (_motioning her away_).――Go home, Miss, go home; he’s got

’em bad; he wouldn’t know you.

TILLY (_places handkerchief to her eyes_).――My heart will surely

break.

POLICEMAN.――Oh! now we’ll get him off in good shape; here comes the

push-cart.

(_Enter Pedestrian, carrying an arm chair._)

POLICEMAN.――Why didn’t you bring the barrow?

PEDESTRIAN.――The groceryman just left with a load of onions and won’t

be back for an hour.

POLICEMAN.――Make way for the chair.

(_Pedestrians divide to R. and L._)

OPENFACE (_stands up_).――I will go straight to the Mayor and enter a

complaint.

TILLY (_rushes to Openface_).――My father!

OPENFACE.――My darling child! (_They embrace._)

TILLY.――Oh, how did it happen?

POLICEMAN.――What’s this mean?

OPENFACE.――It means that I have been swindled on the highway, and that

you have treated me in a villainous manner.

PEDESTRIANS.――Hear! hear!

(_Enter Dupewell and Tommy. The latter wears a straw hat and

long linen duster._)

OPENFACE.――I will give one hundred dollars for the arrest of the

thieves!

TILLY.――And I will owe a debt of gratitude that years can ne’er

efface.

TOMMY (_aside_).――This is the opening I’ve been looking for. Here’s a

chance for a fortune and a wife.――(_Seizes Dupewell._)――(_Aloud_)――

Here’s the thief!

DUPEWELL (_takes wallet from his breast and slips it into Tommy’s

pocket_).――’Tis false, I deny the charge!

POLICEMAN (_arrests Dupewell_).――Is this the man?

OPENFACE.――He looks like one of the thieves, but I am not certain; the

other one I could identify at once by his clothes.

POLICEMAN.――If you cannot identify him I must let him go. (_Releases

Dupewell._)

DUPEWELL.――Pity must give way to justice;――(_Points to Tommy_)――Seize

him, he is the robber!

POLICEMAN.――Ah, ha! Come here. (_Taking hold of Tommy._)

DUPEWELL.――Feel his pockets, search him.

TOMMY.――You’re welcome to feel in these pockets. I’ve got nothing but

loose change, the proceeds of a horse I just sold.

POLICEMAN.――Let me see. (_Taking wallet from Tommy’s pocket._) Is this

your property? (_Hands it to Openface._)

OPENFACE.――It is; and yet I never saw this man before!

TOMMY.――Of course he didn’t.

DUPEWELL.――Take off his coat and hat.

POLICEMAN.――Come sir; take them off!

TOMMY (_struggles to escape_).――I didn’t take it; I didn’t, I didn’t,

let me go!

DUPEWELL (_assists to remove Tommy’s hat and duster_).――Now――(_to

Openface_),――is this the culprit?

OPENFACE.――It is; just as the rascal appeared when he committed the

crime.

DUPEWELL.――I claim the reward.

OPENFACE.――Come home with me. You shall dine with me; I will then

reward you; you shall be my friend for life!

POLICEMAN.――Bring the chair here.

TILLY.――Never mind sir; papa will order a coupé.

POLICEMAN.――It is for this rogue. (_Tommy is forced into_ _the chair,

after which it is raised up by two pedestrians, a third using Tommy’s

legs for shafts._)

TOMMY.――Bad luck’s leanin’ on me heavy――at last I’ve found an openin’;

but it’s the openin’ of the jail door. Ah! it’s all wrong, it’s all

wrong.

(_All form in line with Tommy at the head; Dupewell supports Tilly on

his arm; next Openface and Pedestrians._)

POLICEMAN.――Forward, march!

(_March is played by Piano or Orchestra, while procession

countermarches._)

TOMMY (_kicking in chair_).――It’s all wrong! It’s all wrong! wrong!

Balloons! balloons! it’s all wrong.

OPENFACE.――Hold! (_The procession halts._) My dear sir, (_to

Dupewell_) the cry of balloons! balloons! from that young man in the

chair reminds me that I had my wallet when you called my attention to

the fugitive balloons that were growing smaller and smaller as they

arose in the air!

DUPEWELL.――Well, sir!

OPENFACE.――It is not well, sir, for you, sir, for I had my wallet

then, and it was only after you left me that I missed it. Release the

unhappy youth and let the iron talons of the law clutch this monstrous

scoundrel who would fasten his crime upon a verdant youth.

(_Tommy is released and Dupewell is placed in the chair._)

TOMMY.――Luck’s openin’ an’ shuttin’ like an alligator’s jaw; where’ll

it end?

TILLY.――You shall go home with us; we will try to educate you and give

you profitable employment.

OPENFACE.――It is even so; I will get you a government appointment,

but! but, sir! hereafter beware of taking up with strangers in matters

of business; bad associates have ruined many a man. Let the phalanx

move.

(_Music continues._)

POLICEMAN.――Forward, march!

(_Procession countermarches._)

DUPEWELL (_kicking_).――It’s all wrong! it’s all wrong! it’s all wrong!

[CURTAIN.]

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Go Fan Yourself.

When moist with perspiration,

When the mercury is high,

When stung to aggravation,

When your tongue and lips are dry

Then fretting’s worse than folly,

Rather let this be your rule――

Shake off all melancholy,

Go and fan yourself――keep cool.

Go fan yourself, cease growling,

Just remember who you are;

Stop snarling, snapping, scowling,

It will pay you better far.

If toiling melts your collars,

Recollect that life’s a school――

That all the lucky scholars

Win the prize by keeping cool.

Go fan yourself when heated,

Set the motto to a tune,

And let it be repeated

Though December ’tis or June;

Since mortal man is fickle

And his brother oft doth fool,

Just keep the saw in pickle,

Go and fan yourself――keep cool.

――_George M. Vickers._

Nell.

You’re a kind[671] woman, Nan! Ay, kind and true![672]

God[673] will be good to faithful folk like you!

You knew my Ned?

A better,[674] kinder lad never drew breath.

We loved each other true, and we were wed

In church, like some who took him to his death;[675]

A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost[676]

His senses when he took a drop too much.

Drink[677] did it all――drink made him mad when cross’d――

He was a poor man, and they’re hard[678] on such.

O Nan! that night! that night!

When I was sitting in this[679] very chair,

Watching and waiting in the candle-light,

And heard[680] his foot come creaking up the stair,

And turned and saw him standing yonder,[681] white

And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!

And when I caught[682] his arm and called in fright,

He pushed[683] me, swore, and to the door[684] he pass’d

To lock and bar[685] it fast.

Then down he drops[686] just like a lump of lead,

Holding his brow,[687] shaking, and growing whiter,

And――Nan!――just then the light[688] seem’d growing brighter,

And I could see the hands[689] that held his head,

All red![690] all bloody red!

What could I do but scream? He groaned to hear,

Jump’d to his feet, and gripped[691] me by the wrist;

“Be still,[692] or I shall kill thee, Nell!” he hiss’d.

And I was still for fear.

“They’re after[693] me――I’ve knifed a man!” he said,

“Be still![694]――the drink――drink did it!――he is dead!”[695]

Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn’t weep;

All I could do was cling[696] to Ned and hark,[697]

And Ned was cold,[698] cold, cold, as if asleep,

But breathing hard and deep.

The candle[699] flicker’d out――the room grew dark[700]

And――Nan!――although my heart[701] was true and tried――

When all grew cold[702] and dim,

I shuddered[703]――not for fear of them outside,[704]

But just afraid to be alone with him.[705]

“Ned! Ned!”[706] I whisper’d――and he moan’d and shook,

But did not heed or look!

“Ned! Ned![707] speak, lad! tell me[708] it is not true!”

At that he raised his head and look’d so wild;

Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw

His arms around[709] me, crying like a child,

And held me close――and not a word was spoken,

While I clung tighter to his heart and press’d him,

And did not fear him, though my heart was broken,

But kiss’d his poor stain’d hands, and cried, and bless’d[710] him!

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold

With sound[711] of falling rain――

When I could see his face,[712] and it look’d old,

Like the pinch’d face of one that dies[713] in pain;

Well, though we heard folk stirring[714] in the sun,

We never thought to hide away or run,

Until we heard those voices[715] in the street,

That hurrying of feet,

And Ned leap’d up,[716] and knew that they had come.

“Run, Ned!”[717] I cried, but he was deaf and dumb;

“Hide, Ned!”[718] I scream’d, and held him; “Hide thee, man!”[719]

He stared with blood-shot eyes and hearken’d, Nan!

And all the rest[720] is like a dream――the sound

Of knocking[721] at the door――

A rush of men――a struggle on the ground[722]――

A mist――a tramp――a roar;

For when I got my senses back again,

The room was empty,[723] and my head[724] went round!

God[725] help him? God _will_ help him! Ay, no fear![726]

It was the drink,[727] not Ned[728]――he meant no wrong;

So kind! So good!――and I am useless[729] here,

Now he is lost that loved me true and long.

… That night before he died,

I didn’t cry――my heart[730] was hard and dried;

But when the clocks[731] went “one,” I took my shawl

To cover up my face, and stole away,

And walk’d[732] along the silent streets, where all

Look’d cold[733] and still and gray,

And on[734] I went, and stood in Leicester Square,

But just as “three” was sounded close at hand

I started and turn’d east,[735] before I knew,

Then down Saint Martin’s Lane, along the Strand,

And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo.

Some men and lads went by,

And turning round, I gazed,[736] and watch’d ’em go,

Then felt that they were going to see him die,[737]

And drew my shawl[738] more tight, and follow’d slow.[739]

More people pass’d me, a country cart with hay

Stopp’d close beside[740] me, and two or three

Talk’d about _it_![741] I moan’d, and crept[742] away!

Next came a hollow sound[743] I knew full well,

For something gripped[744] me round the heart!――and then

There came the solemn tolling[745] of a bell!

O God! O God![746] how could[747] I sit close by,

And neither scream nor cry?

As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,

I listen’d,[748] listen’d, listen’d, still and dumb,

While the folk murmur’d, and the death-bell[749] toll’d,

And the day brighten’d,[750] and his time had come.

… Till, Nan!――all else was silent[751] but the knell

Of the slow bell![752]

And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,

And what I waited for[753] I couldn’t tell――

At last there came a groaning deep and great――

St. Paul’s struck “eight”[754]――

I scream’d, and seem’d to turn to fire and fell![755]

God[756] bless him, live or dead!

He never meant no wrong, was kind and true.

They’ve wrought their fill of spite[757] upon his head.

Why didn’t they be kind, and take me[758] too?

And there’s the dear old things[759] he used to wear,

And there’s[760] a lock of hair.

And Ned, my Ned! is fast asleep,[761] and cannot hear me call.

God bless you,[762] Nan, for all you’ve done and said!

But don’t mind me, my heart[763] is broke, that’s all![764]

――_Robert Buchanan._

GESTURES.

[671] H. F.

[672] H. O.

[673] A. F.

[674] H. O.

[675] D. F.

[676] H. L.

[677] B. Cli. D.

[678] P. H. O.

[679] P. H. O.

[680] Raise hand to listen.

[681] H. O.

[682] Sp.

[683] L. V. H. L.

[684] H. O.

[685] V. H. O.

[686] D. O.

[687] B. to head.

[688] L. H. Sw.

[689] D. O.

[690] B. V. Par. to D. O.

[691] L. Sp.

[692] Speak to left.

[693] H. L.

[694] L. P. H. O.

[695] B. Cli. D.

[696] H. O.

[697] Raise hand to listen.

[698] P. D. O.

[699] L. H. O.

[700] B. V. H. O.

[701] Hand to heart.

[702] B. P. H. O.

[703] B. Cli. and shudder.

[704] H. O.

[705] D. O.

[706], [707] B. Par. to D. O.

[708] Clasp hands.

[709] Sp. continued.

[710] P. H. O.

[711] Lis.

[712] D. O.

[713] P. D. O.

[714], [715] H. O.

[716] Raise P.

[717], [718], [719] L. H. L.

[720] B. H. O.

[721] H. O.

[722] D. O.

[723] B. H. O.

[724] Hand to head.

[725] Look to left.

[726] L. V. H. O.

[727] H. F.

[728] H. L.

[729] B. D. L.

[730] Hand to heart.

[731] Raise hand to listen.

[732] H. Sw.

[733] Turn to P.

[734] H. O.

[735] Left, continuous gesture to “Waterloo.”

[736] H. O.

[737] B. Cli. D.

[738] Sp.

[739] H. O.

[740] L. H. O.

[741] B. Cli. D.

[742] H. O.

[743] Lis.

[744] Sp.

[745] B. Sp.

[746] Raise B. Cli.

[747] B. Cli. D.

[748] Lis.

[749] A. O.

[750] B. H. O.

[751] P. H. O.

[752] A. O.

[753] B. H. F.

[754] A. O.

[755] B. D. F.

[756] A. F.

[757] P. H. O.

[758] To self.

[759] H. O.

[760] Sp.

[761] H. L.

[762] L. P. H. O

[763] Hand on heart.

[764] H. O.

A Soldier’s Offering.

The laurel wreath of glory

That decks the soldier’s grave,

Is but the finished story,

The record of the brave;

And he who dared the danger,

Who battled well and true,

To honor was no stranger,

Though garbed in gray or blue

Go, strip your choicest bowers,

Where blossoms sweet abound,

Then scatter free your flowers

Upon each moss-grown mound;

Though shaded by the North’s tall pine

Or South’s palmetto tree,

Let sprays that soldiers’ graves entwine,

A soldier’s tribute be.

――_George M. Vickers._

[Illustration: “Ha, ha, ha! well, I believe I do bear a part with a

tolerable grace.”]

The Ruling Passion.

She had never mailed a letter before, and so she approached the stamp

clerk’s window with the same air that she would enter a dry goods

store.

“I would like to look at some stamps, please,” she said.

“What denomination do you want?” asked the clerk.

“Denomination!” This was remarked in surprise. She hadn’t supposed

that stamps belonged to any church at all.

“Yes,” replied the clerk, who saw no necessity for holding a lengthy

palaver over the sale of a stamp, especially when other people were

waiting. “Is it for a letter or a newspaper?”

“Oh, I want to send a letter to my Uncle John; he’s just moved to――”

“Then you need a two-cent stamp,” interrupted the clerk, offering her

one of that value.

“I hardly like that color,” she observed, holding the brick-tinted

stamp up to the light and surveying it critically.

The clerk looked at her in astonishment. In his long experience in the

postal business he had never before met a customer who objected to the

color of the stamps.

“That is a two-cent stamp, madame. Please stand aside and let the

gentleman behind you come up.”

“Haven’t you got them in any other color?” she asked, wholly oblivious

to the “gentleman behind.”

The clerk began to act cross.

“I never did like that shade of red,” she added.

“There is only one color,” he replied, curtly.

“That is strange,” she mused. “I’d think you’d keep them in different

shades, so that there’d be some choice.”

The clerk said nothing, but he kept getting crosser every minute, and

murmurs of disapprobation began to rise from the ever-lengthening line

of people who would have been thankful to get their stamps without

criticizing their hue.

“You are sure you have none in a brighter red, or even in a different

color――Nile green, or seal brown, or jubilee blue, for instance?”

“You can put two one-cent stamps on your letter if you like,” said the

clerk, who began to see that the customer could not be frowned away

from the window.

“Let me see them, please.”

Two blue stamps were solemnly handed to her, and the crowd began to

hope that at last she was suited.

“Ah, that will do,” she said, as she took up the one-cent stamps and

eyed them as if they were samples of dress goods. “I like that shade

better. I’ll take only one, if you please.”

And she handed the other back to the clerk, who took it mechanically,

but managed to add:

“If it’s for a letter you’ll need two. These are one-cent stamps and

letter postage is two cents per ounce.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put two stamps on my letter,” she said; “I don’t

think they will look well.”

“It requires two cents to carry a letter, madame, and you must either

put a two-cent stamp on or two ones. It won’t go without. And I must

ask you to please hurry, for you are keeping a great many people away

from the window.”

“That’s singular. I don’t like the look of two together. You are sure

the other doesn’t come in seal brown, or”――

“No!” thundered the clerk, getting very red in the face.

“Then I’ll have to see if I can’t suit myself elsewhere.”

And she departed.

The clerk replaced his despised red and blue stamps, mopped his

perspiring brow, and began to make up for lost time.

I’m Getting Too Big to Kiss.

The friends of my childhood with pleasure I greet,

Their faces I ever hold dear,

In palace or cottage, on meadow or street,

Wherever they chance to appear.

Then do not misjudge me, and deem me not cold,

Nor call me a queen, haughty miss,

Oh, no one can budge me, so do not be bold,

I’m getting too――too big to kiss.

’Tis hardly a year since the guests of the house,

On leaving, would kiss me adieu,

The parson, the deacon, old Schnider Von Krouse,

Ned Blanc, and the young squire, too.

They called me a treasure, a sweet, roguish maid;

Now nonsense like that is amiss,

Though once ’twas a pleasure, I’m really afraid

That somebody’s too big to kiss.

Now if you should happen by moonlight to walk,

With some one you know very well,

Remember ’tis harmless to laugh and to talk,

Or sweet little stories to tell.

But oh, have a care, girls, and heed me, I pray,

For what I would counsel is this――

Refuse, though his hair curls, and promptly this say:

I’m getting, sir, too big to kiss.

Oh, no, no, no, no, sir! Allow me to pass;

Oh, no, sir, ’tis more than I dare:

That game’s out of fashion (I’m sorry, alas!)

You needn’t look cross as a bear.

Yet still I’ve an ember of pity right here,

I’ll throw you just one kiss like this,

But, sir, you’ll remember, now don’t come so near――

That really I’m too big to kiss.

――_George M. Vickers._

Waiting for the Mail.

It is strange I get no letter――

I have written twenty-four――

And the chances now decidedly are slim;

How I wish my luck was better,

I am really feeling sore,

And my cup of sorrow’s flowing to the brim.

Though my sweetheart’s tall and slender,

With a dark and roguish eye,

And a blushing cheek that shames the blooming rose.

One more letter will I send her,

Then I’ll write a last good-bye,

And so bring my dream of pleasure to a close.

If she’s caught another lover,

Just to make the moments glide,

(Which, without a doubt, she really thinks she ought,)

Then, of course, I’ll look it over,

And continue to confide――

For the best of mortals like a little sport!

But suppose this other fellow

Should, with sly and skillful art,

In the darling girl’s affections fill my place!

’Tis enough to make me bellow,――

’Tis enough to break my heart,――

’Tis enough to make me run and hide my face.

When we parted last December,

Oh, she vowed she’d share my lot;

And to me her silence is a puzzle quite:

Though I happen to remember――

And ’tis strange that I forgot――

That my darling ducky never learned to write!

――_George M. Vickers._

Ben-Hur’s Chariot Race.

The trumpet sounded short and sharp. The starters, one for each

chariot, leaped down, ready to give assistance if any of the fours

proved unmanageable. Again the trumpet blew, and simultaneously the

gate-keepers threw[765] the stalls open. Forth from each stall, like

missiles in a volley from so many great guns, rushed[766] the six

contesting fours――the Corinthian’s, Messala’s, the Athenian’s, the

Byzantine’s, the Sidonian’s, and Ben-Hur’s――and the vast assemblage

rose[767] and, leaping upon the benches, filled[768] the circus with

yells and screams.

The competitors were under view from nearly every part[769] of the

circus, yet the race was not begun; they had first to make

successfully the chalked line, stretched for the purpose of equalizing

the start. If it were dashed upon, discomfiture of man and horses

might occur; on the other hand, to approach it timidly was to incur

the hazard of being thrown behind in the beginning of the race――a

certain loss of the great advantage of being next the wall[770] on the

inner line of the course.

Each driver looked first for the rope, then for the coveted inner

line. With all six aiming at the same point[771] and speeding

furiously, a collision seemed inevitable. Quick the eye, steady the

hand, unerring the judgment required. The fours neared the rope

together. Ben-Hur was on the extreme left[772] of the six. At Messala,

who was more than an antagonist to him, he gave one searching look,

and saw the soul of the man, cunning, cruel, desperate, in a tension

of watchfulness and fierce resolve.

In that brief instant all his former relations with Messala came

before him. First, happy childhood, when, loving and beloved, they

played together. Then, manhood that brought a change in Messala, and

the Roman’s inborn contempt of Jews asserted itself and broke the

friendship. Then the bitter day, when, by the accidental falling of a

loose tile, the Roman procurator was nearly killed, and he, Ben-Hur,

was accused of willfully throwing the missile. One word from Messala

would have saved the family from ruin, but the word was not spoken.

Nay, more, it was Messala that urged on the Roman authorities and

prevented even a fair trial of the case. It was Messala’s influence

that had banished[773] him to the galleys for life, that had consigned

his mother and sister to an uncertain fate, whose very uncertainty was

more torture[774] than their certain death would have been. It was

Messala that had stolen his property and with it had bought the

silence of the authorities on the cruel deeds; and was it not money

that belonged to the House of Hur that Messala was betting with in

this very race? Was it human nature[775] to resist an opportunity for

vengeance like this? No.[776] At whatever cost[777] he would humble

his enemy.

He saw that Messala’s rush would, if there was no collision, and the

rope fell, give him the wall. Therefore, he yielded it for the time.

Just then the trumpeter blew a signal. The judges dropped[778] the

rope. And not an instant too soon, for the hoof of one of Messala’s

horses struck it as it fell. The Roman shook out[779] his long lash,

loosed the reins, leaned forward, and with a triumphant shout[780]

took the wall.

“Jove with _us_![781] Jove with _us_!”[781] yelled the Roman faction,

in a frenzy of delight.

“Jove with us!”[782] screamed a young nobleman.

“He wins![783] Jove with us!” answered his associates.

Messala having passed, the Corinthian was the only contestant on the

Athenian’s right, and to his side he tried to turn his four; but the

wheel of the Byzantine, who was next on the left, struck the

tail-piece of his chariot, knocking[784] his feet from under him.

There was a crash, a scream of rage and fear, and the unfortunate

Athenian fell[785] under the hoofs of his own steeds. Sanballat, a

friend of Ben-Hur, turned to a group of Roman noblemen.

“A hundred sestertii on the Jew!”[786] he cried.

“Taken!”[787] answered one of the group.

“Another hundred on the Jew!” shouted Sanballat. Nobody appeared to

hear him. The situation below was too absorbing, and they were too

busy shouting, “Messala! Messala! Jove with us!”

While the spectators were shivering at the Athenian’s mishap, and the

Sidonian, Byzantine, and Corinthian were striving to avoid involvement

in the ruin, Ben-Hur drew head to the right,[788] and, with all the

speed of his Arabs, darted[789] across the trails of his opponents,

and took the course[790] neck and neck with Messala, though on the

outside. And now, racing together, side by side, a narrow interval

between them, the two neared the second goal. Making the turn here was

considered the most telling test of a charioteer. A hush[791] fell

over the circus. Then, it would seem, Messala observed Ben-Hur and

recognized him, and at once the audacity of the man flamed out.

“Down, Eros![792] up, Mars!”[793] he shouted, whirling his lash.

“Down, Eros! up, Mars!” he repeated, and gave the Arab steeds of

Ben-Hur a cut, the like of which they had never known.

The blow was seen in every quarter. The silence deepened and the

boldest held his breath.[794] The affrighted four sprang forward[795]

as with one impulse, and forward leaped[796] the car. The car trembled

with a dizzy lurch, but Ben-Hur kept his place and gave the horses

free rein, and called to them in a soothing voice, trying to guide

them round[797] the dangerous turn, and before the fever of the people

began to abate he had back the mastery. Nor that only; on approaching

the first goal he was again side by side with Messala, bearing with

him the sympathy and admiration of every one[798] not a Roman. Even

Messala, with all his boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle further.

On[799] whirled the cars. Three rounds were concluded; still Messala

held the inside position; still Ben-Hur moved with him side by side;

still the other competitors followed as before. The contest began to

have the appearance of a double race, Messala and Ben-Hur in the

first, the Corinthian, Sidonian, and Byzantine in the second. In the

fifth round the Sidonian succeeded in getting a place outside Ben-Hur,

but lost it directly. The sixth round was entered upon without change

of relative position. Gradually the speed had been quickened; men and

beasts seemed to know alike that the final crisis was near. The

interest, which from the beginning had centred chiefly in the struggle

between the Roman and the Jew, with an intense general sympathy for

the latter, was fast changing to anxiety on his account. On all the

benches the spectators bent forward, motionless.

“A hundred sestertii on the Jew!”[800] cried Sanballat to the Romans.

There was no reply.

“A talent, or five talents, or ten;[801] choose ye!”

“I will take thy sestertii,” answered a Roman youth.

“Do not so,” interposed a friend.

“Why?”

“Messala has reached his utmost speed. See him[802] lean over his

chariot-rim, the reins loose as flying ribbons, then look at the Jew!”

“By Hercules!” replied the youth, “I see, I see! If the gods help him

not, he will be run away with by the Israelite. No; not yet!

Look![803] Jove with us! Jove with us!”

If it were true that Messala had gained his utmost speed, he was

slowly but certainly beginning to forge ahead. His horses were running

with their heads low down; from the balcony their bodies appeared

actually to skim the earth; their nostrils showed blood-red in

expansion; their eyes seemed straining in their sockets. The good

steeds were doing their best! How long could they keep the pace? It

was but the commencement of the sixth round. On they dashed! As they

neared the second goal, Ben-Hur turned in behind[804] the Roman’s car.

The joy of the Messala faction reached its bound. They screamed, and

howled, and tossed[805] their colors, and Sanballat filled his tablets

with their wagers. Ben-Hur was hardly holding a place at the tail of

his enemy’s car.

Along the home-stretch――sixth round――Messala leading; next him,

pressing close, Ben-Hur. Thus to the first goal, and around it,

Messala, fearful of losing his place, hugged the stony wall with

perilous clasp; a foot to the left[806] and he had been dashed[807] to

pieces; yet when the turn was finished, no man, looking at the

wheel-tracks of the two cars, could have said, “Here[808] went

Messala, there[809] the Jew.” They left but one trace behind them.

And now all the people drew a long breath, for the beginning of the

end was at hand. First, the Sidonian gave the scourge to his four, and

they dashed[810] desperately forward, promising for an instant to go

to the front. The effort ended in promise. Next, the Byzantine and the

Corinthian each made the trial with like result, after which they were

practically out of the race. Thereupon, all the factions except the

Romans joined hope in Ben-Hur, and openly indulged their feeling.

“Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!”[811] they shouted. “Speed thee,[812] Jew!”

“Take the wall now!”

“On![813] loose the Arabs! Give them rein and scourge!”

“Let him not have the turn on thee again. Now or never!”[814]

Either he did not hear, or could not do better, for half-way round the

course and he was still following; at the second goal, even still no

change.

And now, to make the turn, Messala began to draw in[815] his left-hand

steeds. His spirit was high; the Roman genius was still present. On

the pillars,[816] only six hundred feet away, were fame, fortune,

promotion, and a triumph[817] ineffably sweetened by hate,[818] all in

store for him! That moment Ben-Hur leaned forward over his Arabs and

gave them the reins.[819] Out flew[820] the many-folded lash in his

hand; over the backs of the startled steeds it writhed[821] and

hissed,[822] and hissed[823] and writhed[824] again and again, and,

though it fell not, there were both sting and menace in its quick

report. Instantly, not one, but the four as one, answered with a

leap[825] that landed them alongside the Roman’s car. Messala, on the

perilous edge of the goal, heard but dared not look to see what the

awakening portended. The thousands on the benches understood it all.

They saw the four close outside Messala’s outer wheel, Ben-Hur’s inner

wheel behind the other’s car. Then, with a cunning touch[826] of the

reins, Ben-Hur caught Messala’s fragile wheel with the iron-shod point

of his axle and crushed[827] it. There was a crash loud enough to send

a thrill through the circus, and out over[828] the course a spray of

shining white and yellow flinders flew. Down on its right side toppled

the bed of the Roman’s chariot. There was a rebound, as of the axle

hitting the hard earth; another and another; then the car went to

pieces, and Messala, entangled in the reins, pitched forward[829]

headlong, and lay still, crushed, and bleeding, and crippled for life.

Above the noises of the race arose one voice, that of Ben-Hur:

[830]“On, Altair! On, Rigel! What, Antares! dost thou linger now?

Good horse-oho, Aldebaran! I hear them singing in the tents. I hear

the children singing, and the women singing of the stars, of Altair,

Antares, Rigel, Aldebaran, victory――and the song will never end. Well

done! On, Antares! The tribe is waiting for us, and the master is

waiting! ’tis done! ’tis done! Ha! ha! We have overthrown the proud!

The hand that smote us is in the dust! Ours the glory! Ha!

ha!――steady! The work is done――soho! Rest!”

And Ben-Hur turned the goal of victory and revenge,[831] and the race

was won![832]

――_Gen. Lew Wallace._

GESTURES.

[765] B. V. H. F.

[766] H. F.

[767] B. raised P.

[768] B. A. O.

[769] B. H. O.

[770] H. F.

[771] Ind. H. F.

[772] Left H. O.

[773] H. L.

[774] P. D. O.

[775] H. F.

[776] Cli. D.

[777] H. O.

[778] P. Sp.

[779] Sp.

[780] Throw up fist.

[781] B. thrown outward, emphasize _us_.

[782] A. O.

[783] Point to Messala and look around.

[784] V. D. Sw.

[785] D. F.

[786] To left, raise hand.

[787] Ind. H. O.

[788] Sw. to H. O.

[789] Sp.

[790] H. F.

[791] B. P. H. O.

[792] Whip hand Cli. D. F.

[793] Up.

[794] Hand to breast.

[795] H. F.

[796] Imp.

[797] H. Sw.

[798] B. H. O.

[799] H. F.

[800] To left, raise hand.

[801] Repeat.

[802] Ind. H. F.

[803] H. F.

[804] H. F.

[805] A. Sw.

[806] Left H. F. Sp.

[807] Left D. F.

[808] - [809] Designate.

[810] H. F.

[811] A. Sw.

[812] H. F.

[813] H. F.

[814] Cli. raised.

[815] Left Sp.

[816] Ind. H. F.

[817] A. O.

[818] Cli. D.

[819] B. Sp.

[820] Sp.

[821] - [822] - [823] - [824] Motion as expressed.

[825] H. F.

[826] Sp.

[827] P. D. F.

[828] P. D. Sw.

[829] Sp.

[830] Chant this on two tones of the voice, higher pitch for

important words and lower for unimportant, holding reins in

both hands.

[831] A. O.

[832] H. F. strong.

Dolores.

Her old boat loaded with oranges,

Her baby tied on her breast,

Minorcan Dolores bends her oars,

Noting each reed[833] on the swift-moving shores;

But the way is long and the inlet wide――[834]

Can two small hands overcome the tide

Sweeping up from the west?

Four little walls of conquina stone,

Rude thatch of palmetto leaves;

There[835] they have nestled, like birds in a tree,[836]

From winter, and labor, and hunger free,

Taking from earth their small need, but no more;

No thought of the morrow,[837] no laying in store.

No gathering patient sheaves.

Alone in their southern island home,

Through the year of summer days,

The two live on; and the bountiful beach[838]

Clusters its sea-food within his reach;

The two love on, and the tropical land

And life is a shining haze.

Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,

With dreamy, passionate eyes――

Far in the past,[839] lured by Saxon wiles,

A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles,

Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroon

Their children live idly along[840] the lagoon,

Under the Florida skies.[841]

Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,

Ah! their blooming life of love!――

But fever falls, with its withering blight;[842]

Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night;

In vain[843] her poor herbs, in vain[844] her poor prayers,

Her Luiz is mounting the silver-winged stairs

That lead up[845] to heaven above.

So, her old boat loaded with oranges,

Her baby tied on her breast,

Dolores rows off to the ancient town,[846]

Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching down

From the far cold North;[847] they are men who know――

Thus Dolores thinks――how to cure all[848] woe;

Nay, their very touch is blest.

“Oranges! Oranges!”[849] hear her cry,

Through the shaded plaza path;

But the Northern soldiers come marching in

Through the old Spanish city with stir and din;

And silent people[850] stand sullen by,

To see the old flag mount[851] again to the sky――

The flag they had trampled[852] in wrath.

Ah! brown Dolores, will no one hear,

And buy thy little store?

Now north,[853] now south,[854] on the old sea-wall,

But her pitiful tones unheeded fall;

Now east,[855] now west,[856] through the angry town,

Patient she journeys up and down,

Nor misses one surly door.

Then, desperate, up[857] to the dreaded ranks

She carries her passionate suit;

“I have no money,[858] for none would buy;

But come,[859] for God’s sake, or he will die!

Save him――my Luiz――he is so young,”

She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue,

And proffers[860] her store of fruit.

But the Northern soldiers move steadily on,[861]

They hear not, nor understand;

The last blue rank has passed down the street,[862]

She sees but the dust of their marching feet;[863]

They have crossed the whole country,[864] by night and by day,

And marked with their blood every step of the way,

To conquer[865] this Southern land.

They are gone――O despair![866] she turns to the church,[867]

Half fainting, her fruit wet with tears;

“Perhaps de old Saint, who is always dere,

May wake up and take dem to pay for a prayer;

They are very sweet, as the saint will see,

If he would but wake up and listen to me.

But he sleeps, so he never hears.”

She enters;[868] the church is filled[869] with men,

The pallid men of the North;

Each dingy old pew[870] is a sick man’s bed,

Each battered old bench[871] holds a weary head,

The altar candles are swept away,[872]

For vials and knives in shining array,

And a new saint[873] is stepping forth.

He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine,

A saint of a Northern creed,

Clad in a uniform, army blue,

But surely the saints may wear any hue,[874]

Dolores thinks, as he takes her hand,

And hears all her story, and understands

The cry of her desperate need.

An orange he gives to each weary man,[875]

To freshen the fevered mouth,

Then forth[876] they go down the old sea-wall,

And they hear[877] in the dusk the pickets call,

And the row-boat is moored on the shadowy shore,[878]

The Northern saint can manage an oar,

And the boat glides fast[879] to the south.

A healing touch and a holy drink,

A bright little heavenly knife,

And this Northern saint, who prays no prayers,

Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,[880]

And once more Minorcan Luiz’s dark eyes,

In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies,

Rest calm[881] on the awe-stricken wife.

“Oh! dear Nordern saint![882] a shrine will I build,

Wild roses I’ll bring from afar,[883]

De jasmine, orange flower, wood tulips bright,

And dose will I worship each morning and night.”

“Nay, nay![884] poor Dolores, I am but a man,

A surgeon, who binds up, with what skill he can,

The wounds of this heart-breaking man.

“See, build me no shrines, but take this small book,[885]

And teach the brown baby to read.”

He is gone, and Dolores is left on the shore,

She watches the boat[886] till she sees it no more,

She hears[887] the quick musketry all through the night,

She holds fast the book in her pine knot’s red light,

The book of the Northern creed.

* * * * *

The sad war is over, the dear peace has come,

The blue-coated soldiers depart.[888]

The brown baby reads the small book, and the three

Live on in their isle in the Florida sea,

The brown baby learns many things wise and strange,

But all[889] his new English words never can change

The faith of Dolores’ fond heart.

GESTURES.

[833] H. Sw. at side.

[834] B. H. O.

[835] H. O.

[836] A. O.

[837] H. F.

[838] D. O.

[839] H. B.

[840] H. Sw.

[841] Glance up.

[842] P. H. O.

[843] H. L.

[844] Imp.

[845] A. F.

[846] H. F.

[847] Left H. L.

[848] H. O.

[849] Listen.

[850] H. O.

[851] A. O.

[852] P. D. O.

[853] Left H. L.

[854] H. L.

[855] H. F.

[856] H. B.

[857] H. F.

[858] B. D. L.

[859] B. Cla.

[860] B. H. F.

[861] H. Sw.

[862] Look to R. bending forward.

[863] H. L.

[864] B. H. O.

[866] D. F.

[866] B. Cli. D.

[867] H. F.

[868] H. F.

[869] B. H. O.

[870] H. Sw.

[871] Left H. Sw.

[872] V. H. Sw.

[873] H. F.

[874] H. O.

[875] H. Sw.

[876] H. F.

[877] Lis.

[878] D. O.

[879] H. Sw.

[880] A. O.

[881] P. H. O.

[882] B. Cla.

[883] H. L.

[884] V. H. O.

[885] H. O.

[886] Hand over eyes.

[887] Listen.

[888] Left H. L.

[889] B. H. O.

[Illustration: “Wrapped in her blanket, Nekama stands, Scans the

horizon with eager eye.”]

Scene from Merchant of Venice.