new suit.
_Kitty._ If you could just see it! It's such a love of a bonnet! Do
let me run down and ask Miss Thompson to send it up for you to look
at.
_Mrs. C._ I've no objection to that; and if you think you need it more
than Harry does his new suit, why--
_Kitty._ You'll let me have it. That's a good, dear mother. I know you
wouldn't refuse. I'll run to Miss Thompson's. I won't be gone long. I
suppose I am selfish; but then, mother, it's such a love of a bonnet.
[_Exit_, L.
_Mrs. C._ (_Sits in a rocking-chair._) Dear child, it is hard to
refuse her! But one should be made of money to keep up with the
extravagant fashions of the day.
_Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R.
_Aunt H._ Angelina, what on airth have them air Joneses got for
dinner? I've sot and sot at that air front winder till I've got a
crick in my back a tryin' to find out whether it's lamb or mutton.
It's something roasted, anyhow.
_Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins, you are very inquisitive!
_Aunt H._ Inquisitive! Law sakes, do hear the child talk! Neow, what
harm kin there be in tryin' to find eout what your neighbors have got
for dinner? I mean to put on my bunnet and run acrost and see. I know
they've got apple dumplin's, for I see the hired gal throw the parin's
out into the yard.
_Mrs. C._ Run across! Don't dream of such a thing!
_Aunt H._ Well, I'm goin' up stairs to git my specs and have another
good look, anyhow; for I'm jest dyin' to know whether it's lamb or
mutton. Land sakes! what's the use of livin', ef you can't know how
other folks live? [_Exit_, R.
_Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins!--She's gone! Dear me, she does worry me
terribly! What will our neighbors think of us?
_Enter_ KATY DOOLAN, L.
_Katy._ If you plase, mam, may I coome in?
_Mrs. C._ Certainly, Katy. What's the matter?
_Katy._ If you plase, mam, I have a letther; and would you plase rade
it for me?
_Mrs. C._ (_Takes letter._) Certainly, Katy. From your lover?
_Katy._ Indeed, mam, I have no lover. It's my cousin, mam.
_Mrs. C._ O, your cousin. (_Opens letter._) "Light ov my sowl!" Why,
this cannot be your cousin.
_Katy._ Indade, indade, it be, sure! It's only the insinivatin' way he
has, mam!
_Mrs. C._ (_Reads._) "Bewitchin' Katy! and how are ye's onyhow? I take
my pin in hand to till ye's I am yurs, in good hilth and sphirits;
and it's hopin' ye's the same, truly! The pulsitations uv my heart
are batin' wid the love I bears ye's, darlin' Katy! the fairest
flower--niver mind the blot--that iver bloomed an the family tree uv
Phil Doolan uv Tipperary, dead and gone this siven years, bliss his
sowl,--and how are ye's? An' by the same token that I loves ye's much,
I sind by the ixpriss, freight paid, a new bunnit, which my cousin
Biddy Ryan, for my dear love, have made for ye's charmin' Katy Doolan!
Wear it nixt ye's heart! And if ye git it before this letther coomes
to hand, ye's may know it is from
Your ever sighin',
Wid love for ye's dyin',
CORNALIUS RYAN.
P.S. If ye's don't resave this letther, sind me word uv mouth by the
man who fetches the bunnit."
_Mrs. C._ That's a very loving epistle.
_Katy._ Pistol, it is? Faith, I thought it was a letther.
_Mrs. C._ And so it is; and a very loving one! Your _cousin_ has sent
you a new bonnet.
_Katy._ Is it in the letther, mam!
_Mrs. C._ It is coming by express.
_Katy._ Sure, he might sind it in the letther, and save expinse. What
will I do?
_Mrs. C._ Wait patiently until the bonnet arrives.
_Katy._ Will Cornalius coome wid it?
_Mrs. C._ I think not. The expressman will bring it.
_Katy._ Sure, I don't want the ixpressman. It's Cornalius I want.
_Mrs. C._ This cousin of yours seems very affectionate. Are you going
to marry him some day?
_Katy._ Some day?--yis, mam. He tould me, Would I? and I axed him,
Yes. What will I do with the letther, mam?
_Mrs. C._ Keep it with your treasures. It should be precious to you.
_Katy._ Faith, thin I'll put it in the savings bank with my money. I'm
obliged, to ye's Mrs. Clipper, mam. If you plase, what was that last
in the letther?
_Mrs. C._
"Your ever sighin',
Wid love for ye's dyin',
Cornalius Ryan."
_Katy._ O, don't, ma'am! Ye's make me blush wid the shame I fail. Och!
it's a quare darlin', wid all his sighin', is Cornalius Ryan! Och,
musha! it's an illigant lad he is, onyhow! [_Exit_, L.
_Mrs. C._ So we are to have another new bonnet in the family! Well,
Katy is a good girl, and I hope will get a good husband, as well as a
new bonnet.
[_Exit_, L.
_Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R., _with a bandbox._
_Aunt H._ It's mutton! I was determined to find eout, and I have! I
saw that air Jones boy a playin' in the street, and I asked him
what his folks had got for dinner, and he said mutton, and neow I'm
satisfied on that air p'int. I wonder what's in this 'ere bandbox!
I saw that express cart stop here, and the man said it was for Miss
Kitty somebody; of course, Angelina's darter. I do wonder what it is!
(_Opens box._) Well I declare! A spic span new bunnet! (_Takes out a
very large, gaudily-trimmed bonnet._) And sich a bunnet! Ribbons
and lace, flowers and feathers! Now that's jest what I call a tasty
bunnet! I mean to try it on. It'll jest suit my complexion. Law sakes!
here comes Kitty! 'Twon't do to let her know I've been at her things!
(_Puts bonnet back into box, and places it behind the table._)
_Enter_ KITTY, L.,
_Kitty._ O, aunt Hopkins! Where's mother?
_Aunt H._ Land sakes! I don't know no more than the child unborn!
_Kitty._ Dear me! Here are Mrs. Fastone and Dora coming up the steps!
What shall I do?
_Aunt H._ Why, let 'em in, of course!
_Kitty._ Has my new bonnet come yet?
_Aunt H._ Indeed it has! And sich a beauty!
_Kitty._ O, I'm so glad! But where is it?
_Aunt H._ Down there behind the table. I hain't teched it; only jest
took a peep.
_Kitty._ I'll let Miss Dora see that some people can dress as well as
some other people. Aunt Hopkins, you must manage to draw attention to
my new bonnet while the visitors are here, to give me an opportunity
to show it.
_Aunt H._ Why, I'll take it right eout the fust hing.
_Kitty._ No, no! that would be too abrupt. Manage to speak of bonnets;
but do not show it until they ask to see it.
_Aunt H._ Well, I guess I know heow to do it genteelly.
_Enter_ KATY, L.
_Katy._ Two ladies to see you, miss. (_Crosses to_ R.)
_Kitty._ Where's mother, Katy?
_Katy._ Gone to the butcher's, miss. [_Exit_ R.
_Aunt H._ Butcher's? Wal, I do hope she'll git some mutton, for the
Joneses has it; and we ought to be as genteel as our neighbours.
_Enter_ MRS. FASTONE _and_ DORA, L., _very elegantly attired_.
_Mrs. F._ My dear child, how do you do?
_Kitty._ (_Shaking hands with her, and afterwards with_ DORA.) I'm
delighted to see you! Hope you are quite well, and Dora.
_Mrs. F._ Quite well--aren't you, Dora?
_Dora._ Quite, mamma.
_Kitty._ Pray be seated, ladies. (_They sit on lounge._) Mrs. Hopkins,
Mrs. Fastone.
_Aunt H._ (_Steps over and shakes hands._) Hope you are pretty well,
ma'am, and you, too, miss, though you do look awful delicate! And
how's your husband? He's a broker--ain't he? (_Sits in rocking-chair,
and keeps it in motion._)
_Mrs. F._ Yes, Mrs. Hopkins, Mr. Fastone is a broker, engaged day
after day in the busy vortex of fluctuating enterprises.
_Aunt H._ Well, I never hearn tell of that business afore; but I
s'pose it's profitable, or you couldn't afford to dress so. Is that a
silk or a poplin you've got on?
_Kitty._ (_Brings her chair; sits_, C.) Aunt Hopkins!--Mother has
stepped out to make a call.
_Aunt H._ No, she hain't; she's only gone to the butcher's.
_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, what is the news?
_Mrs. F._ Well, really nothing. I am dying of _ennui_, the world is
so quiet; no excitement to move the placid waters of fashionable
society--is there, Dora?
_Dora._ Nothing, mamma.
_Mrs. F._ Nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to wear,--is there,
Dora?
_Dora._ Nothing, mamma.
_Aunt H._ Nothing to wear! Yes, there's bunnets.
_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, you are quite correct.
_Mrs. F._ Mrs. Hopkins spoke of bonnets. I have been so disappointed!
Thompson had a perfect love of a bonnet that I had quite set my
heart upon for Dora; but it is gone, and the poor child is almost
broken-hearted--ain't you, Dora?
_Dora._ Quite, mamma.
_Kitty._ I am very sorry, for bonnets are so hard to find. I have been
very much perplexed about them myself. They are so very commonplace;
no air of refinement about them.
_Mrs. F._ None, whatever--is there, Dora?
_Dora._ None, mamma.
_Kitty._ I've just had a new one sent home, but it doesn't suit me.
_Aunt H._ Why, Kitty, how you talk! It's a regular beauty!
_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--It is not what I wanted, but Thompson said it
was the most stylish she had.
_Mrs. F._ Thompson! Did you get it of Thompson?
_Kitty._ Yes, all my bonnets come from Thompson.
_Mrs. F._ Do let me see it!
_Aunt H._ (_Jumps up._) I'll show it to you right off. It's an eligunt
bunnet. (_Gets bandbox._)
_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!
_Aunt H._ Neow don't aunt Hopkins me! for I'm going to show 'em jest
how it looks on yer; set still; for if there's anything I pride myself
on, it's showin' off a bunnet. (_Stands behind_ KITTY, _puts the
bonnet on her head, and ties it._) There! ain't that a beauty?
_Mrs. F._ Why! what a hor--a handsome bonnet! Did you ever see
anything like it, Dora?
_Dora._ Never, mamma!
_Aunt H._ That's the style, marm.
_Mrs. F._ Really! I want to know! And this is Thompson's most stylish
bonnet! Really, how the fashions do change! Did you ever, Dora!
_Dora._ Never, mamma!
_Kitty._ (_Aside._) I do believe they are laughing! Aunt Hopkins, I
cannot get it off! You've tied it in a hard knot!
_Mrs. F._ It's very becoming--isn't it, Dora?
_Dora._ O, very, mamma.
_Mrs. F._ (_Aside to_ DORA.)--What a horrid fright!
_Dora._ Frightful, mamma!
_Mrs. F._ I believe we must be moving, for I must hurry to Thompson's
and order just such a bonnet for Dora. Good day. You have such a
charming taste--hasn't she, Dora?
_Dora._ Charming, mamma! (_They bow, and exeunt_, L., _with their
handkerchiefs to their mouths, endeavouring to conceal their
laughter._)
_Kitty._ Good day. Call again.--The hateful things! They are laughing
at me. What ails this bonnet. (_Goes to glass._) Goodness gracious;
what a fright! This is not my bonnet. Aunt Hopkins, you've ruined me!
I shall be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. (_Tears off
the bonnet._)
_Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER, R.
_Mrs. C._ Have the Fastones gone?
_Kitty._ I hope so. O, mother, send aunt Hopkins home; she's made me
look ridiculous!
_Aunt H._ Well, I declare! this comes of trying to please folks!
_Mrs. C._ Is _that_ your love of a bonnet, Kitty?
_Kitty._ No, indeed! Aunt Hopkins, where did you get this hateful
thing?
_Aunt H._ Out of that bandbox.
_Kitty._ (_Takes up the cover._) It's marked "Miss Katy Doolan."
You've made a pretty mess of it!
_Aunt H._ Sakes alive! It's the hired gal's! Well, I never!
_Mrs. C._ But where's the bonnet you sent from Thompson's?
_Katy._ (_Outside._) O, murder! that iver I should say this day!
_Enter_ KATY, R., (_holding in her hand an elegant bonnet._)
The mane, stingy blackgurd has sint me this whisp of a bunnet, that
I'll niver git on my head at all at all!
_Kitty._ That's my bonnet!
_Katy._ Is it, indade? and perhaps ye's be afther claiming the letther
Cornalius Ryan sint wid it.
_Mrs. C._ No, no, Katy; there's a little mistake here. This is your
bonnet.
_Katy._ Faith, now, isn't that a darling, jist! I'll wear it to church
to-morrow, sure.
_Kitty._ Put it on now, Katy; and then take this wisp of a bonnet, as
you call it, to Miss Thompson, with my best compliments and tell her I
have decided not to keep it.
_Mrs. C._ Why, Kitty, I thought your heart was set upon having it.
_Kitty._ So it was, mother; but I shall never dare to wear it, after
the ridiculous appearance I have just made. It's too fine for me. My
conscience gave me a little twinge as I was coming home. Send Harry
the money for his new suit. My old bonnet is quite good enough for me.
_Aunt H._ Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up
for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing
up old bunnets.
_Kitty._ And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins.
Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance
with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will
make a merit of necessity, abandon fashionable society, and be more
humble in my demeanor and in my dress.
_Mrs. C._ Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your
decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of
fashion, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display.
And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far
more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet."
DRAFTED.
MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK.
The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an
agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not
fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:--in the end
the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of
resignation fills the mother's heart:
My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books;
No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie--as delicate, too, in his
looks.
Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my
kitchen at tasks;
He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he
asks?
He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the
best;
Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been
at rest.
Too slender for over much study--why, his master has made him to-day
Go out with his ball on the common--and you have drafted a child
at his play!
"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his
gun,
And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of
Bull Run?
Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall,
"There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert,
"if I am to fall."
"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day
When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot
for Clay.
Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame
We'll lay on the candidate's altar"--and christened the child with
his name.
Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with
harm,
(Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough
little farm,)
That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my
eyes,
That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?
Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there
is no appeal,
But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel?
Five stalwart sons has my neighbour, and never the lot upon one;
Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is
done?
Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his
rest,
With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his
breast?
Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled
or scarred?
My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard!
* * * * *
Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack
to-night,
Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in
flight;
Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is
higher than mine,
And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly
camp-fires shine.
Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide
down in the yard;
That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket
on guard.
Spirits of loving and lost ones--watch softly with Harry to-night,
For to-morrow he goes forth to battle--to arm him for Freedom and
Right!
AN ERUPTION OF MOUNT VESUVIUS.
BULWER.
The following magnificent description of perhaps the most
awful phenomenon in nature, gives full scope for almost every
tone and gesture. Care should, however, be taken that the
natural grandeur of the subject be not marred by a stilted,
pompous, or affected delivery. Let the speaker try to realize
the thought and feelings of a spectator of the dark scene of
desolation, and he cannot go amiss:
The eyes of the crowd beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour
shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic
pine-tree; the trunk, blackness; the branches, 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.
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 theatre trembled;
and beyond, in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs. An
instant more, and the mountain-cloud seemed to roll toward them, dark
and rapid like a torrent; at the same time it cast forth from its
bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with fragments of burning stone! Over
the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over the amphitheatre
itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea,
fell that awful shower!
The cloud advanced, darker, disgorging showers of ashes and pumice
stones; and, amid the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast
up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the half-burning
ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the streets, in
frequent intervals.
The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, at
length settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. But in proportion
as the blackness gathered did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase
in their vivid and scorching glare.
Nor was their horrible beauty confined to their hues of fire. Now
brightly blue, as the most azure depth of a southern sky; now of a
livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro, as the
folds of an enormous serpent; now of a lurid and intolerable crimson,
gushing forth through the columns of smoke far and wide, and lighting
up all Pompeii; then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the
ghost of its own life!
In the pauses of the showers were heard the rumbling of the earth
beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still,
and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and
hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant
mountain.
The ashes, in many places, were already knee-deep; and in some places
immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house-roofs, bore down
along the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more,
with every hour, obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, the
motion of the earth was more sensibly felt; the footing seemed to
slide and creep, nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on
the most level ground.
Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell,
broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught
whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains
beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved, for several
houses and even vineyards had been set on flames; and at various
intervals the fire rose fiercely and sullenly against the solid gloom.
The citizens had endeavoured to place rows of torches in the most
frequented spots; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the
wind extinguished them.
Suddenly arose an intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through
the darkness which closed around it, the mountain shone, a pile of
fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface,
there seemed to rise two monster-shapes, each confronting each, as
demons contending for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue
of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere; but below, the nether
part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in three
places, adown which flowed serpentine, and irregular rivers of molten
lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they
flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. And through the still
air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon
another, as they were borne down the fiery cataracts, darkening for
one instant the spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the
burnished hues of the flood along which they floated!
Suddenly a duller shade fell over the air; and one of the two gigantic
crests into which the summit had been divided, rocked and waved to and
fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness of which no language can
describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of
fire, down the sides of the mountain. At the same instant gushed
forth a volume of blackest smoke, rolling on, over air, sea and earth.
Another, and another, and another shower of ashes, far more profuse
than before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets, and
darkness once more wrapped them as a veil.
The whole elements of civilization were broken up. If in the darkness,
wife was separated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the
hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing was
left save the law of self-preservation.
A PLEA FOR THE OX.
DUGANNE.
This beautiful poem should be recited with a calm, even devout
dignity; occasionally rising into energetic expression as the
poet apostrophizes the Deity in behalf of the down-trodden:
Of all my Father's herds and flocks,
I love the Ox--the large-eyed Ox!
I think no Christian man would wrong
The Ox--so patient, calm, and strong!
How huge his strength! and yet, with flowers
A child can lead this Ox of ours;
And yoke his ponderous neck, with cords
Made only of the gentlest words.
By fruitful Nile the Ox was Lord;
By Jordan's stream his blood was poured;
In every age--with every clan--
He loves, he serves, he dies for MAN!
And, through the long, long years of God,
Since labouring ADAM delved the sod,
I hear no human voice that mocks
The _hue_ which God hath given His Ox!
While burdening toils bow down his back,
Who asks if he be _white_ or _black?_
And when his generous blood is shed,
Who shall deny its common _red?_
"Ye shall not muzzle"--God hath sworn--
"The Ox, that treadeth out the corn!"
I think no Christian law ordains
That _Ox_ or _Man_ should toil in chains.
So, haply, for an Ox I pray.
That kneels and toils for us this day;
A huge, calm, patient, large-eyed Ox,
Black-skinned, among our herds and flocks.
So long, O righteous Lord! so long
Bowed down, and yet so brave and strong--
I think no Christian, just and true,
Can spurn this poor Ox for his _hue!_
I know not why he shall not toil,
Black-skinned, upon our broad, free soil;
And lift aloft his dusky frame,
Unbranded by a bondman's name!
And struggling still, for nobler goal,
With wakening will and soaring soul,
I know not why his great free strength
May not be our best wealth at length:
That strength which, in the limbs of _slaves_--
Like Egypt's--only piles up graves!
But in the hands of _freemen_ now
May build up states, by axe and plough!--
And rear up souls, as purely white
As angels, clothed with heavenly light;
And yield forth life-blood, richly red
As patriot hearts have ever shed.
God help us! we are veiled within--
Or white or black--with shrouds of skin;
And, at the last, we all shall crave
Small difference in the breadth of grave!
But--when the grass grows, green and calm,
And smells above our dust, like balm--
I think our rest will sweeter be,
If over us the Ox be--_free!_
HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES.
JAMES NACK.
Two Yankee wags, one summer day,
Stopped at a tavern on their way,
Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest,
And woke, to breakfast on the best.
The breakfast over, Tom and Will
Sent for the landlord and the bill;
Will looked it over:--"Very right--
But hold! what wonder meets my sight?
Tom! the surprise is quite a shock!"
"What wonder? where?" "The clock, the clock!"
Tom and the landlord in amaze
Stared at the clock with stupid gaze,
And for a moment neither spoke;
At last the landlord silence broke,--
"You mean the clock that's ticking there?
I see no wonder, I declare!
Though maybe, if the truth were told,
'Tis rather ugly, somewhat old;
Yet time it keeps to half a minute;
But, if you please, what wonder in it?"