THE READING-CLUB.
THE DRUMMER’S BETROTHED.
“Douce est la morte qui vient en bien aimant.”
Our liege lord, the Duc de Bretagne,
To deadly battle for the king
Summons sent from Nantes to Mortagne,
In the plain and on the mountain,
To warriors of his following.
Barons they are, whose gleaming arms
Adorn the moated castle’s crest,
Proud knights, grown old midst war’s alarms
Esquires, and footmen with their arms;
And my betrothed went with the rest.
He went to Aquitaine, and, though
Among the drummers he’s enrolled,
He seemed a captain, marching slow,
With haughty head, and eyes aglow,
And doublet glittering with gold.
Since then nor peace nor rest I know.
Joining his lot with mine, I’ve cried
To my St. Brigitte, bending low,
Watch well his guardian angel, so
That he shall never leave his side!
I said to our abbé one night,
Pray for our soldiers, messire, pray!
And since he loves to see their light,
I left three candles burning bright
Before St. Gildas’ shrine next day.
And to Our Lady of Lorette
I promised in my cruel fright
To wear—and see, I wear it yet—
A ruff with pilgrim’s cockles set,
Close hid from curious sight.
No loving letters has he penned
While far away where battles rage:
Though life and love be near their end.
The vassal has no squire to send,
The vassal’s sweetheart has no page.
To-day the duke returns in state,
With him my love, a soldier tried,
No longer lowly in estate.
I lift my head, bowed down of late,
And my bliss blossoms into pride.
The duke brings home triumphantly,
Worn and soiled, the flag that’s floated
O’er his camp. Come all with me
To the old gate, the troops to see,
And the prince and my betrothèd.
To see the horse, with trappings gay
Caparisoned, his lord to bear,
Advance, retreat, with conscious neigh,
Tossing his head till its array
Of plumes like flaming torches flare.
To see—O sisters, why so slow?—
The drums that lead my hero on,
The drums that in the sunlight glow,
That throb beneath his tireless blow
Till the heart throbs in unison.
And, best of all, to see his face!
I worked his cloak with broidery fair:
He’ll look like one of princely race,
And with a more than princely grace
His plumèd helm he’ll wear.
The impious Egyptian bent
Close above me last night, hissing,
(God help us!) “You are confident!
Drums will sound till the air is rent,
But one drummer will be missing.”
But I hope still, so much I’ve prayed!
Though, with her hand outstretched to where
Among the tombs her home she made,
Her snake’s eyes gleaming through the shade,
She said: “We’ll meet to-morrow there.”
No more dark fancies! Hear how loud
The drums beat! Sisters, let us go.
See how the ladies fair and proud
The purple-hung pavilions crowd,
Where banners float and flowers glow.
The escort comes, by pikemen led,
Then, not to-day in armor tried,
In gleaming silken robes instead,
And velvet-capped each haughty head,
The barons, under flags flung wide.
And robèd priests pass, chanting low,
And heralds, riding milk-white steeds,
Escutcheons on their corslets show
Their masters’ rank, won long ago
By some ancestor’s mighty deeds.
In Persian mail magnificent,
Feared of all hell, the Templars ride;
Then, all in buff, with bows unbent,
The long array of archers, sent
From far Lausanne, march side by side.
The duke is near; his banners fling
Their folds o’er squire and cavalier;
The captured ensigns seem to cling
About their standards, sorrowing.
Look, the drummers are almost here!
* * * * *
Silent, smiling, she turned her head,
Scanned the close ranks with eager eye.
The crowd pressed close; no word she said,
But fell among them cold and dead—
The drummers had passed by.
_By M. Cecile Brown, from the French of Victor Hugo._
JOHN LELAND’S EXAMINATION.
Up on the heights in the Old Dominion, where the houses are few, and
many of the mountaineers know little of the settlements below, a man
of God lived who took to preaching the gospel in his own rude way.
He was a man of strong character and clear common sense. He could
just read the Bible—that was all; but he got at the heart of things
as his ministry showed, and drew near to the heart of his Master. He
was a very plain preacher, a most careless and unguarded man. He told
the people the truth without any apologies, with all kindness and
tenderness of heart. Many were turned from sin unto righteousness; and
the presbytery, in whose bounds his work was, determined to ordain him,
simply on the ground of his efficiency and clear call to the ministry,
though he had no education. He objected. They persisted. Finally the
day was appointed, and a large company from the mountains and the
valleys below gathered to witness the examination for licensing and
ordination of this strange character. All knew that there would be
something entertaining in his answers. The presbytery assembled, the
congregation looking on. John Leland took his place in front, dropping
his head into his hands. The moderator simply stated the object of the
meeting, addressing Mr. Leland. The latter looked up and said,—
“Mr. Moderator, I’ll tell you all I know. It won’t take long,” and down
his head went into his hands again. A smile went around the assembly.
_Moderator._ Mr. Leland, do you believe that God had a people, chosen
and elect before the foundations of the world?
_Leland._ I don’t know what God was doin’ before he made the world.
Don’t know any thin’ about it. I a’n’t a educated man.
_Moderator._ Yes, but you must understand me. You certainly believe
that God had a people chosen and elect from all eternity?
_Leland._ No. I don’t believe that. They couldn’t a’ been our kind o’
folks, anyway; because ours are made out of the dust of the earth, you
know.
_Moderator._ Mr. Leland, we have heard of your Christian life, of
your efficiency and your success, and we are met to ordain you to the
ministry of the gospel. This is a solemn occasion, and you must not
make light of the questions. Now, I want to know if you believe in the
total depravity of mankind?
_Leland._ No, I don’t, if you mean by that that men are as bad as they
can be; for the Devil a’n’t any worse’n that, you know.
_Moderator._ Do you believe in imputed righteousness, and that it is
sufficient to save all who have faith?
_Leland._ I don’t know any righteousness that will save a man who won’t
do right himself.
_Moderator._ Do you believe in the final perseverance of the saints?
_Leland._ I don’t know what that means.
_Moderator._ Well, you believe that all who are converted will be kept,
and not fall away?
_Leland._ Oh, I don’t know how it is down in the settlements, among the
educated; but I tell you up where we live, we have the awfulest cases
of backsliding.
_Moderator._ But, Mr. Leland, you certainly believe that when a man is
converted he will be kept in some way, and finally saved?
_Leland._ I cannot tell much about that, till I am saved myself. Don’t
know any thing about it now.
_Moderator._ You feel that you are called to preach the gospel?
_Leland._ No, I never heard any one call me.
_Moderator._ We do not mean that you heard a voice—any thing said—but
that you are called.
_Leland._ Well, Mr. Moderator, if there wasn’t any voice, or any thing
said, don’t know how there could be any call. Never heard any.
_Moderator._ You believe it is your duty to preach the gospel to all
creatures?
_Leland._ No. I don’t believe it my duty to preach to the Dutch, for
instance. I can’t talk Dutch. If the Lord wanted me to preach to them,
in some way I could talk Dutch; but I can’t, I never tried.
_Moderator._ Mr. Leland, you certainly desire to see all men come to
repentance, and turn to righteousness. Your acts show that. We have
heard of your self-sacrificing spirit, your love for mankind, and all
your good works to win sinners to the gospel and repentance.
_Leland._ Mr. Moderator, I’ll tell you the honest truth. I am a little
ashamed of it; but it is God’s truth just as I tell you. Some days I do
feel that way; and then again, some of them act so bad, I don’t care if
the Devil gets half of them.
After the presbytery had retired to take counsel over the matter, they
returned and announced that while his answers had not been entirely
satisfactory in every respect, nevertheless, in view of his efficiency
in preaching, they had voted to ordain him, which they proceeded to
do in the usual manner. After it was over, Mr. Leland lifted his head
out of his hands, straightened himself up, and stood his full height.
Looking first at the moderator, and then all round him, he said,—
“Brethren, I’ve put you to a heap o’ trouble. I don’t know any thin’
about your doctrines, ’n’ I told you I didn’t. I’ve been doin’ the best
I could, preachin’ the gospel as I found it in the Bible. Now, you
see, I don’t know any thing else. Another thing: when the apostles put
their hands on a man’s head, I read that the man had some power, or
some sense, or some knowledge, that he hadn’t afore. But now, brethren,
honest and true, right out, you’ve all had your hands on me, and I am
just as big a fool as ever I was. But I thank you, nevertheless: I’m
very much obleeged to you.”
And so they let him go.
THE SEPTEMBER GALE.
I’m not a chicken: I have seen
Full many a chill September;
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember.
The day before my kite-string snapped,
And, I my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;
For me two storms were brewing!
It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing:
There was a heavy sigh or two
Before the fire was flashing;
A little stir among the clouds
Before they rent asunder;
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.
Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled!
They seemed like bursting craters!
And oaks lay scattered on the ground
As if they were p’taters;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,—
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying:
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And sent them all a-flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,—
I lost my Sunday breeches!
I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I saw them chase the clouds as if
The Devil had been in them.
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood’s only riches,—
“Farewell, farewell,” I faintly cried,
“My breeches! Oh my breeches!”
That night I saw them in my dreams;
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The wind had whistled through them;
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.
I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever;
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever, and forever!
And not till time has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches.
_O. W. Holmes_
AT THE RISING OF THE MOON.
“Oh, then! tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall,
Tell me why you hurry so?”
“Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen;”
And his cheeks were all aglow.
“I bear ordhers from the captain:
Get you ready, quick and soon;
For the pikes must be together
At the risin’ of the moon.”
“Oh, then! tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall,
Where the gatherin’ is to be?”
“In the ould spot by the river,
Right well known to you and me.
One word more—for signal token,
Whistle up the marchin’ tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder
By the risin’ of the moon.”
Out from many a mud-wall cabin,
Eyes were watching through that night:
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the valley,
Like the banshee’s lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing,
At the risin’ of the moon.
There beside the singing river
That dark mass of men was seen,
Far above the shining weapons
Hung their own beloved green.
“Death to every foe and traitor!
Forward, strike the marchin’ tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom!
’Tis the risin’ of the moon.”
Well, they fought for poor old Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate.
(Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of Ninety-eight!)
Yet, thank God, e’en still are beating
Hearts in manhood’s burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps
At the risin’ of the moon!
_Leo Casey._
THE SADDEST SIGHT.
When a woman her home would decorate,
She stops not at obstacles small or great;
But the funniest sight her trials afford
Is when madam essays to saw a board.
With her knee on a plank, and the plank on a chair,
She poises her saw with a knowing air,
Makes several wild rasps at the pencilled line,
And is off with a whizz the reverse of fine.
With lips compressed she gets down to work,
And crosses the timber jerkity-jerk;
She can’t keep to the line, her knee slips askew;
But she keeps to the work till the board splits in two.
She has damaged the chair, she has ruined the saw,
Her back is aching, her hands are raw,
And she finds, when she tries to fit her prize,
It’s an inch too short of the requisite size.
NEBULOUS PHILOSOPHY.
She came from Concord’s classic shades, on Reason’s throne she sat,
And wove intricate arguments to prove, in language pat,
The Whichness of the Wherefore, and the Thusness of the That.
She scorned ignoble subjects, each grovelling household care,
But tuned her lofty soul to prove the Airness of the Air,
And twisted skeins of logic round the Whatness of the Where.
To lower natures leaving the dollars, and the sense,
She soared above the level of commonplace pretence,
And moulded treatises which prove the Thatness of the Thence.
Her glorious purpose to reveal the Thinkfulness of the Thought,
To trace each line by Somewhat on the Somehow’s surface wrought,
To picture forms of Whynot’s from the Whatnot’s meaning caught;
To cultivate our spirits with the Whyfore’s classic flow,
To benefit the Thereness with the Highness of the How,
To flood the dark with radiance from the Thisness of the Now.
“What good has she accomplished?” Oh, never doubt her thus!
It must be useful to reveal the Plusness of the Plus,
To illustrate with corkscrew words the Whichness of the Us.
Mock not, poor common mortal, when thoughts like these appear,
Illumining our labor with the Howness of the Here,
And blazing like a comet through the Nowness of the Near.
Some day in Realms Eternal such grand mist-haunted souls,
Inscribe their words of Whichness on Whereforeantic scrolls,
In that great world of Muchness which through the Maybe rolls.
Then shall we each acknowledge the Whyness of the Whence;
Each understand completely with Sensefulness of Sense,
The Thusness of the Therefore, the Thatness of the Thence.
_J. Edgar Jones._
AT ARLINGTON.
The broken column, reared in air,
To him who made our country great,
Can almost cast its shadow where
The victims of a grand despair
In long, long ranks of death await
The last loud trump, the judgment sun,
Which comes for all, and soon or late
Will come for those at Arlington.
In that vast sepulchre repose
The thousands reaped from every fray;
The men in blue who once uprose
In battle front to smite their foes—
The Spartan bands who wore the gray.
The combat o’er, the death-hug done,
In summer blaze or winter’s snows,
They keep the truce at Arlington.
And, almost lost in myriad graves
Of those who gained the unequal fight,
Are mounds that hide Confederate braves,
Who reck not how the north wind raves,
In dazzling day or dimmest night.
O’er those who lost and those who won
Death holds no parley which was right—
Jehovah judges Arlington.
The dead had rest; the dove of peace,
Brooded o’er both with equal wings;
To both had come that great surcease,
The last omnipotent release
From all the world’s delirious stings,
To bugle deaf and signal gun
They slept, like heroes of old Greece,
Beneath the glebe at Arlington.
And in the Spring’s benignant reign,
The sweet May woke her harp of pines,
Teaching her choir a thrilling strain
Of jubilee to land and main.
She danced in emerald down the lines,
Denying largess bright to none.
She saw no difference in the signs
That told who slept at Arlington.
She gave her grasses and her showers
To all alike who dreamed in dust;
Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers
Amid the jasmine buds and flowers,
And piped with an impartial trust.
Waifs of the air and liberal sun!
Their guileless glees were kind and just
To friend and foe at Arlington.
And ’mid the generous spring there came
Some women of the land who strove
To make this funeral field of fame
Glad as the May God’s altar flame
With rosy wreaths of mutual love.
Unmindful who had lost or won,
They scorned the jargon of a name—
No North, no South, at Arlington.
_James R. Randall._
A LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.
Admiring my flowers, sir? P’raps you’d step inside the gate, and
walk round my little place? It ain’t big, but there’s plenty of
variety,—violets and cabbages, roses and artichokes. Any one that
didn’t care for flowers ’ud be sure to find beauty in them young spring
onions. People’s ideas differ very much, there ain’t a doubt of it. One
man’s very happy over a glass of whiskey and water, and another thinks
every thing ’ud go straight in this ’ere world if we all drank tea and
lemonade. And it’s right enough: it keeps things even. We should have
the world a very one-sided affair if everybody pulled the same way.
Philosopher, am I? Well, I dunno. I’ve got a theory to be sure—every
one has nowadays; and mine is, that there is a joke to be found in
every mortal thing if only we look in the right place for it. But some
people don’t know how to look for it. Why, sir, if you’ll believe it, I
was talking to a man yesterday that couldn’t see any thing to laugh at
in the naval demonstration.
Am I independent? Well, I makes money by my fruit and vegetables, if
that’s what you mean. But there’s so many ways of being independent.
One man marries a woman with £20,000 a year, and calls that
independence. Another votes on the strongest side, and calls that being
independent. One takes up every new-fangled idea that comes out, and
says he’s independent. Some calls impudence independence. There’s not
a name as fits so many different articles. No! I’ve never bin married.
Somehow, I don’t think married men see the fun in every thing same as
single ones. I don’t mean to be disrespectful to the ladies, but I do
think they enjoy a good cry more than a good laugh. Was I ever in love?
and did I laugh then? Why, yes, never laughed heartier in my life. It’s
a good many years ago now. I was living in lodgings down Clerkenwell
way, and the landlady’s daughter was as pretty a creature as ever
you see, bright and cheery, like a robin, when first I knew her.
But, by and by, she grew pale and peaky,—used to go about the house
without singing, and had such big, sad-looking eyes. Her home wasn’t
a particularly happy one, for her mother was a nagger. Perhaps you’ve
never come across a woman of that pertikler character. Well, then, you
should say double the prayers of ordinary people; for you’ve much to be
thankful for. I never looked at her without feeling that her husband
must have been very happy indeed when he got to heaven. I sometimes
think, sir, that women of this sort might be made use of, and prisons,
and all other kind of punishment, done away with: perhaps, though, the
lunatic asylums ’ud get too full.
Well, I grew to be quite intimate with Bessie; and one evening, I don’t
know how it was, she told me all her troubles. She was engaged to a
young man; and her mother wouldn’t consent to them marrying, and was
always worrying her to break it off. I asked her if there were any
thing against him. Nothing, except that her mother had taken a dislike
to him: he wasn’t very strong, but he was the best, cleverest, dearest
fellow that ever lived. All the time she was talking I felt a gnawing
sort of pain somewhere in my inside. First, I thought I must be hungry;
but, when I came to eat, all my food seemed to get in my throat, and
stick there. This won’t do, old fellow, thinks I: there must be a joke
to be got out of it somewhere. So I set to consider; and there, clear
enough, it was. Why, the joke ’ud be to let Bessie marry her young man,
and see the pretty cheeks grow round and pink again. But how to do it,
there was the rub. I began to cultivate the old lady’s society with a
view to finding out her weak point: for, being a woman, of course she
had a weak point; and, being a very ugly woman, what do you think it
was? Why, vanity, to be sure. I soon noticed a change in her. She took
her hair out of paper every day, instead of only on Sundays, as she
had been used to do; and she put on a clean cap sometimes, and smirked
whenever I passed her. Why, here’s a bigger joke than I bargained for,
thinks I! While I’ve been studying the woman to find out her weak
point, she thinks I’ve been admiring her. But I soon saw what use
I could make of this. I went down into the kitchen when she wasn’t
busy,—I knew it would be rather too hot other times,—and I got
talking about Bessie. “It’s strange,” I says, “that a fine-looking girl
like that shouldn’t have a sweetheart. Things was different when you
was younger, I’ll be bound.”
“As for that,” says she, “Bessie has a sweetheart; but I don’t approve
of him. He’s not exactly the sort of man I expected for her.”
“But, lor’,” I says, “you wouldn’t go and keep that girl single! Think
what harm you may do yourself. You can’t be so cruel as to give up
all idea of marrying agin! Why, you don’t look forty.” That wasn’t
an untruth, for she looked fifty. She tossed her head, and told me
to go along. I didn’t go along. I says, “There’s no doubt lots of
young fellows ’ud be glad enough of a good-looking wife like you, but
mightn’t care for a daughter as old as Miss Bessie.” This seemed to
strike her very much. I followed it up, got talking to her day after
day, and always led the conversation to the same point. At last one day
when I came home from work, she says, “It’s all settled. Bessie’s going
to be married, and her Tom’s coming here this evening.” Then I went up
to my own room, and laughed till I cried. Presently I heard the little
girl run up-stairs as she hadn’t run for many a long day, and I knew
she’d gone to put on a smart ribbon for Tom’s sake. She tapped at my
door as she passed. Would I come down? somebody was there, and wanted
to know me. I called out that I was busy, and couldn’t come; and she
went away. But after about an hour she came again. I was sitting in the
dark, thinking of a good many things; and before I had time to speak
she was down on her knees beside me, and hiding her face.
“You told me you were busy,” she said; “and here you are all in the
dark and cold, and I can’t bear any one to be dull or lonely to-night,
because I’m so very, very happy. And I know it’s all through you.
Mother would never have given in of her own accord. You’ve always been
my friend when I wanted one very badly; and now you must be angry with
me, or you wouldn’t stay away to-night. And you won’t even speak to me.
Oh, whatever I’ve done to vex you, don’t think of it any more!”
She nestled up to me so close that her hair touched my coat-sleeve, and
her pretty eyes looked up all swimming with tears. I ground my teeth,
and clinched my hands, or—or I don’t know what I mightn’t ha’ done.
You see the joke of this, sir, don’t you? Here was the girl crying, and
asking me to forgive her, and like her a little; and there was I—not
disliking her a bit all the time. Ha, ha, ha! I had a hearty laugh at
her, and hurried with her down-stairs, and was introduced to Tom, and
I talked to the old lady, and drank the young people’s health, and was
as happy as possible. And on the wedding-day I gave her away as if I
had been her father; and I sang a song and danced: and, when the time
came for Bessie to go away with her husband, I dried her eyes; for at
the last moment the tender-hearted little thing broke down, and cried,
and kissed us all, and asked her mother not to feel angry with her for
leaving her all alone; and then the mother cried, and what with having
so many eyes to wipe, I found myself wiping my own just as if it all
weren’t a tremendous joke.
How have they got on since? ’Bout as well as most people, I suppose;
she loves him, and takes care of him. And the mother’s softened down
a bit since she’s bin a grandmother. And as to my godson, there
never was such a boy. I have him with me as much as possible, and he’s
beginning to see the joke of every thing almost as much as I do myself.
And when I die, all this little place’ll belong to him, and he’ll be a
rich man: so my death’ll be the biggest joke of all, you see, sir.
THE SONG OF THE DRUM.
Dr-r-rum! Dr-r-rum!
Dr-r-rum! Drum! Drum!
With a rap, and a tap, and a rolling beat,
And a sound on the ground of the tramp of feet,
Keeping step they come,
With the sound of the drum,
With the rolling and the beating of the drum.
And away fly the people as if driven for their lives!
Scudding out as if possessed from their daily human hives,
With a flurry,
And a scurry,
In a most outrageous hurry,
Out of counting house and office,
Out of store and room and shop,
Don’t ask them any questions,
For they haven’t time to stop,
Till they meet in the street,
Touching shoulders, crushing feet,
Millionnaire and humble tradesman, and the man who toils for
bread,
And up in one direction turned is every eager head.
Hear the crowd
Cry aloud!
What a mixed and motley set!
And anon
Running on
While the drum is distant yet,
Making every one forget
Any business on which the mind is set.
Oh, the drum is full of life!
And its stirring sound is rife
With an inspiration wonderful to break the listless mood
Of the indolent, and all,
When its martial echoes fall,
Like the touch of sudden fire to excite the sluggish blood.
And this is the song,
As the soldiers march along,
Head erect—keeping time
To the rolling and the rhyme
Of the quick reiteration of the drummers hollow chime.
“Fame is eternal—glories supernal,
Heroes the wreaths shall share,
Victors the crowns shall wear.
March on!
Brave and true,
Steady, on!
Dare and do;
On to the contest whose struggle elates you!
On for the conflict where duty awaits you!
There is the foe—advance and attack!
Drive every enemy—back—back—BACK!
Who cares for pain or for danger or woe?
Here are our colors—and there is the foe!”
And so begins the fight,
(God knows how it may end!)
But we strive for the right,
(May God the right defend!)
For country and for home,
For freedom and for truth,
And freely to that cause we give the sturdy strength of youth,
And freely in that cause we shed the blood that makes it strong,
While we march to death and glory to the drum’s inspiring song.
* * * * *
Again, all is still.
On the side of the hill
Lies silent the camp in the shadow of night,
The soldiers are sleeping;
The sentinel walks in the moon’s silver light,
His silent watch keeping.
Hark! What is that? ’tis a step. “Who goes there?”
No answer—black forms swiftly darken the air!
The enemy comes! awake! AWAKE!
How terrible are the alarms that break
On the ear of the sleeper, and call him for war!
Hear the roll—hear the call—hear the hurried command,
Not a breath—still as death—the regiments stand.
Forward! Advance and attack! Where? There!
See the dark forms through the dew-laden air!
Cannons roar—bullets pour—squadrons march,
Battalions—companies—regiments, charge!
And all the red front of the terrible fight
Glows like the conflict of demons at night.
Still, hearts are but human,
Man, born of woman,
Seeing his brother fall, all his flesh creeps,
Seeing unheeded fresh wounds all bleeding,
Sick of the sight of war, shudders and weeps.
And the soldier sheds tears
On the face of his foe.
And the drummer is dumb
In the sight of that woe.
Now when the hero lies silent in death,
The end having come,
Shorn of its echoing glory, what saith
The dull muffled drum?
“Soldier sleep—
Drum—drum!
Soldier, rest—
Drum—drum!
In the breast of the earth whence we come,
We come!
All your toil
Is done,
And the fight
Is won.
Soldier, sleep—Soldier, rest!” says the drum,
“Drum—drum!”
And this is the song, as we march along,
That the hollow drum sings to the gathering throng;
With the rap, and the tap, and the rolling beat,
With the sound on the ground of the tramp of feet,
Keeping step they come,
With the sounding drum,
With the rolling and the beating of the drum.
_I. E. Diekenga_
THE BRAVEST BOY IN TOWN.
He lived in the Cumberland Valley,
And his name was Jamie Brown;
But it changed one day, so the neighbors say,
To the “Bravest Boy in Town.”
’Twas the time when the Southern soldiers,
Under Early’s mad command,
O’er the border made their dashing raid
From the north of Maryland;
And Chambersburg, unransomed,
In smouldering ruins slept;
While up the vale, like a fiery gale,
The rebel raiders swept.
And a squad of gray-clad horsemen
Came thundering o’er the bridge,
Where peaceful cows in the meadows browse
At the foot of the great Blue Ridge;
And on till they reached the village
That fair in the valley lay,
Defenceless then—for its loyal men
At the front were far away.
“Pillage and spoil and plunder!”
This was the fearful word
That the Widow Brown, in gazing down
From her latticed window, heard.
’Neath the boughs of the sheltering oak-tree
The leader bared his head,
As left and right, until out of sight,
His dusty gray-coats sped.
Then he called “Halloo, within there!”
A gentle, fair-haired dame
Across the floor to the open door
In gracious answer came.
“Here, stable my horse, you woman!”
The soldier’s tones were rude;
“Then bestir yourself, and from yonder shelf
Set out your store of food!”
For her guest she spread the table;
She motioned him to his place
With a gesture proud; then the widow bowed,
And gently asked a grace.
“‘If thine enemy hunger, feed him!’
I obey, dear Christ,” she said.
A creeping blush, with its scarlet flush,
O’er the face of the soldier spread.
He rose. “You have said it, madame!
Standing within your doors
Is the rebel foe; but as forth they go
They shall trouble not you nor yours!”
Alas for the word of the leader!
Alas for the soldier’s vow!
When the captain’s men rode down the glen,
They drove the widow’s cow.
It was then the fearless Jamie
Sprang up with flashing eyes,
And in spite of tears and his mother’s fears,
On the gray mare off he flies.
Like a wild young Tam O’Shanter
He plunged with piercing whoop,
O’er field and brook, till he overtook
The straggling rebel troop,—
Laden with spoil and plunder,
And laughing and shouting still.
As with cattle and sheep they lazily creep
Through the dust o’er the winding hill.
“Oh the coward crowd!” cried Jamie.
“There’s Brindle! I’ll teach them now!”
And with headlong stride, at the captain’s side,
He called for his mother’s cow.
“Who are _you_, and who is your mother?
I promised she should not miss?
Well! upon my word, have I never heard
Of assurance like to this!”
“Is your word the word of a soldier?”
And the young lad faced his foes,
As a jeering laugh, in anger half
And half in sport, arose.
But the captain drew his sabre,
And spoke with lowering brow,—
“Fall back into line! The joke is mine!
Surrender the widow’s cow!”
And a capital joke they thought it,
That a barefoot lad of ten
Should demand his due—and get it too—
In the face of forty men.
And the rollicking rebel raiders
Forgot themselves somehow,
And three cheers gave for the hero brave,
And three for the brindle cow.
He lived in the Cumberland Valley,
And his name _was_ Jamie Brown;
But it changed that day, so the neighbors say,
To the “Bravest Boy in Town.”
_Emma Huntington Nason, in “Wide Awake.”_
BRER RABBIT AND THE BUTTER.
“De anemules an’ de beastesses,” said Uncle Remus, shaking his coffee
around in the bottom of his tin cup, in order to gather up all the
sugar, “dey kep’ on gettin’ mo’ and mo’ familious wid wunner nudder,
twel bimeby, ’twant long ’fo’ Brer Rabbit, en Brer Fox, en Brer Possum
got ter sorter bunchin’ der perwishions tergedder in de same house.
Arter while de roof sorter ’gun ter leak, en one day Brer Rabbit, en
Brer Fox, en Brer Possum ’semble fer ter see ef dey couldn’t kinder
patch her up. Dey had a big day’s wuk in front un um, en den dey fotch
der dinner wid um. Dey lumped de vittles up in one pile, en de butter
w’at Brer Fox brung dey goes en puts in de spring-house fer ter keep
cool, en den dey wen’ ter wuk, en ’twan’t long ’fo’ Brer Rabbit’s
stummuck ’gun ter sorter growl en pester ’im. Dat butter of Brer Fox’s
sot heavy on his mine, en his mouf water eve’y time he ’member ’bout
it. Presen’ly he say ter hisself dat he bleedzd ter have a nip at dat
butter, en den he lay his plans, he did. Fus news you know, w’ile dey
was all wukkin’ ’long, Brer Rabbit raise his head quick en fling his
years forred en holler out,—
“‘Here I is. W’at you want wid me?’ en off he went like sump’n wuz
arter ’im.
“He sailed ’roun’, old Brer Rabbit did, en arter he make sho dat nobody
ain’t foller’n ’im, inter de spring-’ouse he bounces, en dar he stays
twel he git a bait er butter. Den he santer on back en go to wuk.
“‘Whar you bin?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘I hear my chilluns callin’ me,’ says Brer Rabbit, sezee, ’en I hatter
go see w’at dey want. My ole ’oman done gone en tuck mighty sick,’
sezee.
“Dey wuk on twel bimeby de butter tas’e so good dat ole Brer Rabbit
want some mo’. Den he raise up his head, he did, en holler out,—
“‘Heyo! Wait! I’m a comin’!’ en off he put.
“Dis time he stay right smart while, en w’en he git back Brer Fox ax
him whar he bin.
“‘I bin ter see my ole ’oman, en she’s a sinkin’,’ sezee.
“Dreckly Brer Rabbit hear um callin’ ’im ag’in, en off he goes, en
dis time, bless yo’ soul, he gets de butter out so clear dat he kin
see hisse’f in de bottom er de bucket. He scrape it clean en lick it
dry, en den he go back ter wuk lookin’ mo’ samer den a nigger w’at de
patter-rollers bin had holt up.
“‘How’s yo’ ole ’oman dis time?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘I’m oblije ter you, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but I’m
fear’d she’s done gone by, now,’ en dat sorter make Brer Fox en Brer
Possum feel in moanin’ wid Brer Rabbit.
“Bimeby, w’en dinner-time come, dey all got out der vittles, but Brer
Rabbit keep on lookin’ lonesome, en Brer Fox and Brer Possum, dey
sorter rustle ’roun’ for ter see ef dey can’t make Brer Rabbit feel
sorter splimmy.”
“What is that, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.
“Sorter splannny, honey—sorter like he’s in a crowd—sorter like his
ole ’oman ain’t dead ez she mout be. You know how fokes duz w’en dey
gits whar people’s a moanin’.”
The little boy didn’t know, fortunately for him, and Uncle Remus went
on,—
“Brer Fox and Brer Possum rustle roun’, dey did, gittin’ out de
vittles, en bimeby Brer Fox say, sezee,—
“‘Brer Possum, you run down to de spring en fetch de butter, en I’ll
sail ’roun’ yer en set de table,’ sezee.
“Brer Possum he lope off arter de butter, en dreckly here he comes
lopin’ back, wid his years a trimblin’, en his tongue a hangin’ out.
Brer Fox, he holler out,—
“‘W’at de matter now, Brer Possum?’ sezee.
“‘You all better run yer, fokes,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee. ‘De las’ drap
er dat butter done gone.’
“‘Whar she gone?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘Look like she dried up,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee.
“Den Brer Rabbit he look sorter wise, he did, en he up’n say, sezee,—
“‘I speck dat butter melt in somebody’s mouf,’ sezee.
“Den dey went down ter de spring wid Brer Possum, en sho ’nuff de
butter wuz gone. W’ile dey was sputin’ over der wunderment, Brer Rabbit
say he see tracks all ’roun’ dar, en he p’int out dat ef dey’ll all
go ter sleep, he kin ketch de chap w’at stole de butter. Den dey all
lie down, en Brer Fox en Brer Possum dey soon drapt off ter sleep; but
Brer Rabbit he stay ’wake, en w’en de time come, he raise up easy en
smear Brer Possum’s mouf wid de butter on his paws, en den he run off
en nibble up de bes’ er de dinner w’at dey lef’ layin’ out, en den he
come back en wake up Brer Fox, en show ’im de butter on Brer Possum’s
mouf. Den dey wake Brer Possum up, en tell ’im about it; but c’ose Brer
Possum ’ny it to de las’. Brer Fox, dough, he’s a kinder lawyer, en he
argafy dis way,—dat Brer Possum wuz de fus one at de butter, en de fus
one fer ter miss it, en, mo’n dat, dar hung de signs on his mouf. Brer
Possum see dat dey got ’im jammed up in a cornder, en den he up en say
dat de way fer ter ketch de man w’at stole de butter is ter bil’ a big
bresh-heap en set her afier, en all hands try ter jump over, en de one
w’at fall in, den he de chap w’at stole de butter. Brer Rabbit and Brer
Fox dey bofe ’gree, dey did; en dey whirl in en b’il’ de bresh-heap, en
dey b’il’ her high, en dey b’il’ her wide, en den dey totch her off.
W’en she got ter blazin’ up good, Brer Rabbit he tuck de fus turn. He
sorter step back, look ’roun’ en giggle, en over he went mo’ samer
den a bird fly in’. Den come Brer Fox. He got back little fudder,
en spit on his han’s, en den lit out en made de jump, en he come so
nigh gettin’ in dat de een’ er his tail kotch afier. Ain’t you never
see no fox, honey?” inquired Uncle Remus in a tone that implied both
conciliation and information.
The little boy thought probably he had, but he wouldn’t commit himself.
“Well, den,” continued the old man, “nex’ time you see one un um, you
look right close en see ef de een’ er his tail ain’t white. Hit’s des
like I tell you. Dey b’ars de skyar er dat bresh-heap down ter dis day.
Dey er marked—dat’s w’at dey is—dey er marked.”
“And what about Brother Possum?” asked the boy.
“Old Brer Possum, he tuck a runnin’ start, he did, en he come lumberin’
’long, en he hit—ker blam!—right in de middle er de fier, en dat waz
de las’ er old Brer Possum.”
“But, Uncle Remus, Brother Possum didn’t steal the butter after all,”
said the little boy, who was not at all satisfied with such summary
injustice.
“Dat w’at make I say w’at I duz, honey. In dis worrul, lots er folks is
gotter souffer fer udder folkes’ sins. Look like hit’s mighty on wrong;
but hit’s des dat a way. Tribbalashun seem like she’s a waitin’ roun’
de cornder fer ter ketch one en all un us, honey.”
_Harris._
THE LOVES OF A LIFE.
Love! Love is the flight of the soul towards God, towards the great,
the sublime, and the beautiful, which are the shadow of God upon earth.
Love your family, the partner of your life, those around you ready to
share your joys and sorrows, the dead who were dear to you, and to
whom you were dear. But let your love be the love taught you by Dante
and by us,—the love of souls that aspire together, and do not grovel
on the earth in search of a felicity which is not the destiny of the
creature here to reach; do not yield to a delusion which inevitably
would degrade you into egotism. To love, is to promise, and to receive
a promise for the future. God has given us love, that the weary soul
may give and receive support upon the way of life. It is a flower which
springs up on the path of duty, but which cannot change its course.
Purify, strengthen, and improve yourselves by loving. Ever act—even
at the price of increasing her earthly trials—so that the sister soul
united to your own may never need, here or elsewhere, to blush through
you or for you. The time will come when from the height of a new life,
embracing the whole past and comprehending its secret, you will smile
together at the sorrows you have endured, the trials you have overcome.
Love your country. Your country is the land where your parents sleep,
where is spoken that language in which the chosen of your heart,
blushing, whispered the first word of love; it is the house that God
has given you, that, by striving to perfect yourselves therein, you
may prepare to ascend to him. It is your name, your glory, your sign
among the peoples. Give to it your thought, your counsel, your blood.
Raise it up, great and beautiful, as foretold by our great men. And
see that you leave it uncontaminated by any trace of falsehood, or of
servitude, unprofaned by dismemberment. Let it be one, as the thought
of God. You are twenty-four millions of men, endowed with active,
splendid faculties, with a tradition of glory the envy of the nations
of Europe; an immense future is before you, your eyes are raised to the
loveliest heaven, and around you smiles the loveliest land in Europe;
you are encircled by the Alps and the sea, boundaries marked out by
the finger of God for a people of giants. And you must be such, or
nothing. Let not a man of that twenty-four millions remain excluded
from the fraternal bond which shall join you together; let not a look
be raised to that heaven, which is not that of a free man. Let Rome
be the ark of your redemption, the temple of your nation. Has she not
twice been the temple of the destinies of Europe? In Rome two extinct
worlds, the Pagan and the Papal, meet each other like the double jewels
of a diadem; and you must draw from thence a third world, greater than
the other two. From Rome, the Holy City, the City of Love (_Amor_),
the purest and wisest among you, elected by the vote, and strengthened
by the inspiration, of a whole people, shall give forth the pact that
shall unite us in one, and represent us in the future alliance of the
peoples. Until then you have no country, or you have it contaminated.
Love humanity. You can only ascertain your own mission from the aim
placed by God before humanity at large. God has given you your country
as cradle, humanity as mother, and you can only love your brethren of
the cradle in loving your common mother. Beyond the Alps, beyond the
sea, are other peoples, now fighting, or preparing to fight, the holy
fight of independence, of nationality, of liberty: other peoples
striving by different routes to reach the same goal,—improvement,
association, and the foundation of an authority which shall put an end
to moral anarchy, and link again earth to heaven, and which mankind
may love and obey without remorse or shame. Unite with them, they will
unite with you. Do not invoke their aid where your single arm can
suffice to conquer; but say to them, that the hour will shortly sound
for a terrible struggle between right and blind force, and that in that
hour you will ever be found with those who have raised the same banner
as yourselves.
And love, young men, love and reverence above every thing the ideal.
The ideal is the word of God, superior to every country, superior to
humanity; it is the country of the spirit, the city of the soul, in
which all are brethren who believe in the inviolability of thought,
and in the dignity of our immortal soul; and the baptism of this
fraternity is martyrdom. From that high sphere spring the _principles_
which alone can redeem the peoples. Arise for them! and not from
impatience of suffering, or dread of evil. Anger, pride, ambition, and
the desire of material prosperity are arms common to the peoples and
their oppressors; and, even should you conquer with them to-day, you
will fall again to-morrow: but principles belong to the peoples alone,
and their oppressors can find no arms to oppose them. Adore enthusiasm.
Worship the dreams of the virgin soul, and the visions of early youth,
for they are the perfume of paradise, which the soul preserves in
issuing from the hands of its Creator. Respect above all things your
conscience; have upon your lips the truth that God has placed in your
hearts, and, while working together in harmony in all that tends to the
emancipation of our soil, even with those who differ from you, yet ever
bear erect your own banner, and boldly promulgate your faith.
_Mazzini_
THE PRISONER.
Closed in by four gray walls,
Grim, and grimy, and hard!
One only break in the slimy dark,
A window, iron-barred!
Quivering on tiptoe there,
I spy at the world without,
And wearily scan that blue sea-bay,
Where the white sails glide about.
I gaze, till my hot eyes ache
With the changeful, flashing light:
That billowy blue, so _terribly_ blue;
That white, so _intensely_ white!
And I step from my trembling hold
Down on the loathsome floor;
Then bruised, half-blinded, and sick,
I climb, and gaze once more.
Out of this fearful dun-light,—
Darkness “made visible,”—
I gaze on the summer sunlight
Which never visits my cell,—
Out on yon summer-glory
Flooding the golden sand;
And I sigh for the distant freedom:
I weep for my far-off land!
So I cling to the bars, and wonder
If my lot will ever be
To float in that skifflet yonder,
Home o’er that tempting sea.
Oh! I loathe the foreign banner,
With its fluttering, flaunting brag;
And my soul is sad and weary,
Heart-sick for the dear old flag!
Oh! could I loose from her moorings,
Could I reach yon tiny boat,
With what glad, wild heart-boundings.
Away, away I’d float!
But the sunbeams lie still and burning,
On ocean and on land,
While scarce by one breezy flutter
Is my burning forehead fanned.
’Tis maddening!—this awful still,
Round me in my hollow stone!
Though yonder the glad notes thrill,
I hear not, I hear not one!
But out of my terrible silence,
I can _see_ these voices yonder,
While over my tugging heart-strings
Creep echoes, dearer, fonder.
I ache for liberty,
Over the far blue sea,
O’er the blue sea so wide!
And I hear the angels singing,
“Keeping time,
In silver rhyme”
With that boat so slowly swinging,
On the restless, heaving tide.
Ripple, dipple,
Plashing, dashing,
The wavelets sleepily lap the shore;
Lazily, hazily;
Drearily, wearily,
I cling here, listening o’er and o’er—
To the sobbing oozing gurgle
Slushing underneath the keel,
And the restless, dipping murmur
Which I cannot know by the outward ear,
The tide is too far for me to hear,
But deep in my soul I _feel_.
And I see yon boat so slowly swinging:
I hear the far-off home-bells ringing,
Ringing through my heart!
Sweet bells of home, I _must_ be free:
Yon skiff shall bear me o’er the sea,
If but these stanchions part!
Then will I dare the tempest’s wrath,
While seeking out the homeward path,
For liberty’s dear sake;
And my frail bark shall boldly drift,
Where mightier ships have passed, and left
Lines of snow-foam in their wake.
Ha! the iron bars are loosening!
So! gently on the floor!
I am mad for yon shifting sea,
Frantic I’ll spring to liberty!
Now! there goes one bar more!
Another! And now I’m free! I’m free!
Wide is my path to liberty;
For a sailor’s foot and hand
Make light of castle-wall,
In its rugged fall
To the golden strand.
Down! down! down!
Beneath the castle’s frown!
Surely, I fell!
For blood is flowing, and wounds are wide:
I know it, I know it, ’tis life’s full tide,
In crimson swell!
The boat is empty, I lie on the sand,
Far from those bells of my own dear land!
I am dying, alone, but free!
Out in God’s glorious sun and light,
Loyal in heart, and true in hand,
To the royal flag of my native land!
Dying, BUT FREE,
By the solemn sea!
Mother, good-night!
THE OLD CANTEEN.
Send it up to the garret? Well, no, what’s the harm,
If it hangs like a horseshoe to serve as a charm?
Had its day? to be sure. Matches ill with things here!
Shall I sack the old friend just because it is queer?
Thing of beauty ’tis not; but a joy none the less,
As my hot lips remember its old-time caress,
And I think on the solace once gurgling between
My lips from that old battered tin canteen.
It has hung by my side in the long, weary tramp;
Been my friend in the bivouac, barracks, and camp,
In the triumph, the capture, advance, and retreat,
More than light to my path, more than guide to my feet.
Sweeter nectar ne’er flowed, howe’er sparkling and cold,
From out chalice of silver or goblet of gold,
For a king or emperor, princess or queen,
Than to me, from the mouth of that old canteen.
It has cheered the desponding on many a night,
Till their laughing eyes gleamed in the camp’s fire-light;
Whether guns stood at silence, or boomed at short range,
It was always on duty, though ’twould not be strange
If in somnolent periods, just after “taps,”
Some colonel or captain disturbed at his naps
May have felt a suspicion—that spirits unseen
Had somehow bedeviled that old canteen.
But I think on the time when in lulls of the strife
It has called the far look in dim eyes back to life,
Helped to stanch the quick blood beginning to pour,
Softened broad, gaping wounds that were stiffened and sore,
Moistened thin, livid lips, so despairing of breath,
They could only speak thanks in the quiver of death.
If an angel of mercy ever hovered between
This world and the next, ’twas that old canteen.
Then banish it not, as a profitless thing;
Were it hung in a palace, it well might swing,
To tell in its mute, allegorical way
How the citizen volunteer won the day.
How he bravely, unflinchingly, grandly won,
And how, when the death-dealing work was done,
’Twas as easy his passion from war to wean
As his mouth from the lips of the old canteen.
By and by, when all hate for the rage with the Bars,
Is forgotten in love for the “Stripes and the Stars,”
When Columbia rules every thing solid and sole
From her one ship-canal to the ice at the pole,
When the Grand-Army men have obeyed the last call,
And the Mayflowers and violets bloom for us all,
Then, away in some garret, the cobwebs may screen
My battered, old, cloth-covered tin canteen.
AUNT SOPHRONIA TABOR AT THE OPERA.
“So this is the uproar? Well, isn’t this a monster big building?
And that chantieleer! It’s got a thousand candles if it has one. It
must have taken a sight of tallow to have run them all!”—“They are
make-believe candles, aunt, with little jets of gas inside to give the
effect of real ones.”—“I want to know! Well, I only wish that your
uncle Peleg was here. You’re sure, Louisa, that this is a perfectly
proper place?”—“Why, aunt, you don’t suppose that papa would consent
to our attending the opera if it were other than a perfectly proper
place, do you?”—“No, no, dear; I suppose not. But somehow you city
folks look upon such things differently from what we do who live in the
country. Dear suz! Louisa, do look way up there in the tiptop of the
house! Did you ever see such a sight of people? Why, excursion-trains
must have run from all over the State. Massy, child! There’s a woman
forgot her bonnet! Do just nudge her, Louisa, and tell her of it. My
Eliza Ann cut just such a caper as that one Sunday last summer,—got
clean into the meeting-house, and half way down the middle aisle,
before she discovered it, and the whole congregation a-giggling and
a-tittering. Your cousin Woodman Harrison shook the whole pew; and
I don’t know but what he’d ’a’ hawhawed right out in meeting if his
father hadn’t ’a’ given him one of his looks. As ’twas, I was afeard
he’d bust a blood-vessel. Just speak to that poor creature, Louisa.
She’ll feel awfully cut up when she finds it out, and ’tis a Christian
duty to tell her.”—“Why, aunt, don’t you know that she is in full
dress, and left her bonnet at home intentionally? See how beautifully
her hair is arranged. You don’t suppose she wanted to cover up all that
elegance, do you?”—“Come bareheaded a-purpose! Well, I do declare!
But, Louisa, where’s the horse-chestnut?”—“The horse-chestnut,
aunt?”—“Yes, child; you said something or other about a horse-chestnut
playing a voluntary or something of that sort.”—“Oh, the orchestra!
Yes, I remember. Don’t you see those gentlemen in front of the
stage?”—“Them men with the fiddles and the bass-viols?”—“Yes. Well,
they compose the orchestra, and the orchestral part of this opera is
particularly fine.”—“I want to know! Belong to the first families, I
suppose. They are an uncommon good-looking set of men. Is Mrs. Patte a
furrener?”—“Yes; she’s a mixture of Spanish and Italian. She was born
in Madrid, but came to the United States when only five years of age,
and remained here until she was nearly seventeen. There, aunt; there’s
the bell, and the curtain will rise in a minute. Yes; see, there it
goes.”—“Louisa!”—“Sh—! listen. I want you to hear Signor Monti. He
is considered a very fine bass.”—“But, Louisa, oughtn’t we to stand
up during prayer-time?”—“You forget, aunt, that this is only a play,
and not a temple.”—“Dear suz! I only wish your uncle Peleg was here.
Somehow it seems kinder unchristian to be play-acting worship.”—“Why,
aunt, there’s no need of your feeling so conscience-stricken. Lots
of church-people come to the opera. It isn’t like the theatre, you
know. It’s more—more—er—well, I can’t just express it, aunt. But,
anyway, people who discountenance the theatre, especially during Lent,
approve of the opera.”—“But, Louisa, what is the matter? La sakes,
child! let’s get out as spry as ever we can! The theatre is all on
fire. Hurry, Louisa! Wish that your uncle Peleg”—“Sh—aunt; do sit
down. It isn’t a fire. It’s only the people applauding because Patti
is on the stage. Don’t you see her?”—“Sakes alive! Is that it? I
thought we was all afire, or Wiggin’s flood had come. So that is Mrs.
Patte. Well, I declare for it! she’s as spry as a cricket, and no
mistake. Why, Louisa, how old is she? She looks scarcely out of her
teens.”—“Oh, aunt, you must not be so practical, and ask such personal
questions. Ladies don’t always want their ages known; but, between
ourselves, she’s over forty.”—“Is it possible? There, they’re at it
again. What is the matter now?”—“Why, Scalchi has appeared. Don’t you
see?”—“What, that dapper little fellow a-bowing and a-scraping and
a-smirking! Is that Mr. Scalchi?”—“That’s Madame Scalchi, aunt; and
she’s taking the part of Arsaces, the commander of the Assyrian army,
you know.”—“Louisa, are you sure that this is a perfectly proper
place? I only wish Peleg was here, for then I shouldn’t feel so sort
a-skerry like and guilty.”—“Now, aunt, we mustn’t speak another word
till the opera is through, because we disturb the people.”—“I suppose
we do; but, whenever any thing happens, you nudge me, and I’ll nudge
you; or we can squeeze hands,—that’s the way Peleg and I do when we go
to the lyceum. It’s sorter social, and everybody can hear just as
well.” Soon outrang the glorious voice. “Bravo! bravo! bravo!”
echoed from all parts of the house “Hooray!”—“Why, Aunt Tabor! sit
down.”—“If Peleg were only here! Hip, hip”—“Aunt, in pity’s name
keep still! Don’t get so excited.”—“Well, I never! The sweat’s just
a-rolling off me, and I am as weak as a rag-baby. I wish I had my
turkey-tail. This mite of a fan of yours don’t give wind enough to cool
a mouse.”—“Now, aunt, do keep quiet. You’ll hear better, and won’t
get so warm.”—“Well, dear, I suppose you are right. But didn’t that
sound like an angel-choir?”—“’Twas certainly very fine. One thing is
sure: you’ve heard Patti at her best.”—“I’m so glad I came; and if
Peleg was only along! But, there, I hain’t going to speak again till
the uproar is over.” And so the opera went on, when, suddenly: “Louisa
Allen, what are them half-nude statutes a-standing up in the back
there? Don’t they realize that the whole congregation can see them?
and haven’t they any modesty?”—“Why, aunt, that’s the ballet.”—“The
what?”—“The ballet, aunt. Look, look! there they come. Isn’t that the
very poetry of”—“Louisa Sophronia Tabor Allen, just you pick up your
regimentals, and follow me; and that quick, too.”—“But, auntie”—“You
needn’t auntie me. Just get your duds together, and we’ll travel. Thank
goodness your uncle Peleg Josiah Tabor is not here! Don’t let me see
you give as much as a glance to where those graceless nudities are,
or, big as you are, I’ll box your ears.”—“Why, aunt”—“Louisa, I only
wish I had my thickest veil, for I am positively ashamed to be caught
in this unchristian scrape. Come, and don’t raise your eyes. There,
thank goodness, we’re in pure air at last!”—“Why, aunt, I thought
you were enjoying the opera!”—“The uproar, Louisa? I have nothing to
say agin the uproar. Them voices would grace a celestial choir. This
I say with all reverence. But that side show! I wouldn’t have had my
Eliza Ann, nor my Woodman Harrison, ’a’ witnessed what we’ve come near
a-witnessing for a thousand-dollar bill. No, not for a ten-thousand
bill. And I am so thankful that your uncle Peleg was not here! Somehow,
Louisa, I feel as if I’d fallen like the blessed Lucifer out of the
moon.”
NEVER TOO LATE.
There is a good and a bad in the wayside inns
On the highways of our lives,
And man can never be free from sins,
No matter how hard he strives;
Yet even when down destruction’s grade
Our thorny pathways trend,
In spite of a thousand errors made,
“It is never too late to mend.”
There are crosses heavy for men to bear,
And passions to conquer too;
There are joys and woes that each must share
Before the journey is through;
But men may be poor for honor’s sake,
And truth and right defend,
And hope will never this promise break,—
“It is never too late to mend.”
’Tis never too late for a noble deed;
For, blessed by the angels’ tears,
It plants in the breasts of men a seed
That will grow in after years;
And words of kindness, of hope, and cheer,
Will always comfort lend:
We must live for love, and banish fear,—
“It is never too late to mend.”
It is never too late to mend, my lad,
No matter what people say:
And no man’s nature is wholly bad,
Even if old and gray:
And in our journey toward the grave,
Until we reach the end,
There is time to change, and time to save,—
“It is never too late to mend.”
_Ernest McGaffey._
A FIGHT WITH A TROUT.
We had been hearing for weeks of a small lake in the heart of
the forest, some ten miles from our camp, which was alive with
trout,—unsophisticated, hungry trout: the inlet to it was described
as stiff with them. In my imagination I saw them lying there in ranks
and rows, each a foot long, three tiers deep, a solid mass. The lake
had never been visited, except by stray sable hunters in the winter,
and was known as Unknown Pond. I determined to explore it fully,
expecting that it would prove to be a delusion, as such haunts of the
trout usually are. Confiding my purpose to Luke, we secretly made our
preparations, and stole away from the shanty one morning at daybreak.
Each of us carried a boat, a pair of blankets, a sack of bread, pork,
and maple sugar; while I had my case of rods, reel, and book of flies,
and Luke had an axe and the kitchen utensils. We think nothing of loads
of this kind in the woods.
* * * * *
A couple of hours before sundown we reached the lake. If I live, to
my dying day I shall never forget its appearance.... But what chiefly
attracted my attention, and amused me, was the boiling of the water,
the bubbling and breaking, as if the lake were a vast kettle with
fire underneath. A tyro would have been astonished at this common
phenomenon; but sportsmen will at once understand me, when I say that
the water _boiled_ with the breaking trout. I began casting, and had
got out perhaps fifty feet of line, and gradually increased it to a
hundred. It is not difficult to learn to cast, but it is difficult to
learn not to jerk off the flies at every throw. Finally, in making a
shorter cast, I saw a splash where the leader fell, and gave an excited
jerk. The next instant I perceived the game, and did not need the
unfeigned “dam” of Luke to convince me that I had snatched his felt hat
from his head, and deposited it among the lilies. Discouraged by this,
we whirled about, and paddled over to the inlet, where a little ripple
was visible in the tinted light. Instantly, upon casting, there was a
rush, a swirl. I struck, and “Got him, by—” Never mind what Luke said
I got him by. “Out on a fly,” continued that irreverent guide; but I
told him to back water, and make for the centre of the lake. The trout,
as soon as he felt the prick of the hook, was off like a shot, and took
out the whole of the line with a rapidity that made it smoke. “Give him
the butt,” shouted Luke. It is the usual remark in such an emergency.
I gave him the butt; and, recognizing the fact and my spirit, the
trout sank to the bottom, and sulked. It is the most dangerous mood
of the trout, for you cannot tell what he will do next. We reeled up
a little, and waited five minutes for him to reflect. A tightening of
the line enraged him, and he soon developed his tactics. Coming to the
surface, he made straight for the boat faster than I could reel in, and
evidently with hostile intentions.
“Look out for him!” cried Luke, as he came flying in the air. I evaded
him by dropping flat in the bottom of the boat; and when I picked my
traps up he was spinning across the lake as if he had a new idea,
but the line was still fast. He did not run far. I gave him the butt
again, a thing he seemed to hate, even as a gift. In a moment the
evil-minded fish, lashing the water in his rage, was coming back
again, making straight for the boat as before. Luke, who was used to
these encounters, having read them in the writings of travellers he
had accompanied, raised his paddle in self-defence. The trout left the
water about ten feet from the boat, and came directly at me with fiery
eyes, his speckled sides flashing like a meteor. I dodged as he whisked
by with a vicious slap of his bifurcated tail, and nearly upset the
boat. The line was, of course, slack: and the danger was, that he would
entangle it about me, and carry away one leg. This was evidently his
game: but I untangled it, and only lost a breast-button or two by the
swift-moving string. The trout plunged into the water with a hissing
sound, and went away again with all the line on the reel. More butt,
more indignation on the part of the captive. The contest had now been
going on for half an hour, and I was getting exhausted. We had been
back and forth across the lake, and around and around the lake. What
I feared was, that the trout would start up the inlet, and wreck us
in the bushes. But he had a new fancy, and began the execution of a
manœuvre which I had never read of. Instead of coming straight toward
us, he took a large circle, swimming rapidly, and gradually contracting
his orbit. I reeled in, and kept my eye on him. Round and round he
went, narrowing the circle. I began to suspect the game, which was to
twist my head off. When he had reduced the radius of his circle to
about twenty-five feet, he struck a tremendous pace through the water.
It would be false modesty in a sportsman to say that I was not equal
to the occasion. Instead of turning around with him, as he expected, I
stepped to the bow, braced myself, and let the boat swing. Round went
the fish, and round we went like a top. I saw a line of Mount Marcys
all around the horizon; the rosy tint of the west made a broad bank of
pink along the sky above the tree-tops; the evening star was a perfect
circle of light, a hoop of gold in the heavens. We whirled and reeled,
and reeled and whirled. I was willing to give the malicious beast butt
and line and all, if he would only go the other way for a change.
When I came to myself, Luke was gaffing the trout at the boat-side.
After we had got him in and dressed him, he weighed three-quarters of
a pound! Fish always lose by being “got in and dressed.” It is best
to weigh them while they are in the water. The only really large one
I ever caught, got away with my leader when I first struck him. He
weighed ten pounds.
_Charles Dudley Warner._
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.
O good painter! tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Ay? Well, here is an order for you.
Woods and cornfields, a little brown,—
The picture must not be over-bright,—
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing room
Under their tassels; cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,—
(Ah, good painter, you can’t paint sound!)—
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,—
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all a-blush:
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the selfsame way,
Out of a wilding wayside bush.
Listen closer. When you have done
With woods and cornfields and grazing herds,
A lady the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me.
Oh, if I only could make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman’s soul, and the angel’s face
That are beaming on me all the while!—
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,—
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir: one like me,—
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea,—
God knoweth if he be living now,—
He sailed in the good ship Commodore:
Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, ’tis twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck;
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother’s knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea!
Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn-leaves’ rustling, and of the shade
Of the high hills stretching so still and far,—
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the haystack’s pointed top,
All of a tremble, and ready to drop,
The first half-hour, the great yellow star,
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree,
Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—
Dead at the top,—just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day:—
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,—
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat:
The berries we gave her she wouldn’t eat,
But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.
At last we stood at our mother’s knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me:
I think ’twas solely mine, indeed:
But that’s no matter,—paint it so;
The eyes of our mother (take good heed)
Looking not on the nestful of eggs,
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.
You, sir, know,
That you on the canvas are to repeat
Things that are fairest, things most sweet,—
Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,—
The mother,—the lads, with their bird, at her knee:
But oh that look of reproachful woe!
High as the heavens your name I’ll shout,
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.
_Alice Cary._
FORCIBLE ENTRY.
It happened out on South Hill, nine thousand miles from Maple Street.
The man’s wife had taken up the carpet in the bath-room the day before,
and put all the crooked tacks in a saucer, and put it on a chair.
It is a marvellous thing why women will always save tacks that come
out of the carpet; although it is a matter of record, that, out of
the countless millions of tacks thus laid by, not one was ever used
again, save in the soles of the bare masculine feet. They—the tacks,
not the feet—are stowed away in saucers up on high shelves, in dark
closets, and in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. And on these dusty
perches they remain until the corroding hand of time, and dust, and
spider-webs, and dead flies, and flakes of whitewash, and old bits
of resin, and chunks of sealing-wax, and old steel pens, and similar
accumulations, have filled the saucer to overflowing, when it is taken
down and thrown away by the woman, who petulantly wonders who under
the sun put all that trash in the saucer, and stuck it up there. And
nine times out of ten she charges the crime on her husband. The tenth
time she declares it was the hired girl. And always, before the saucer
of crooked tacks is stowed away on the shelf, it is stuck around for
three or four days on chairs and in corners of the room, spilling out
occasional tacks on the carpet of every bedroom in the house, which
fill the masculine soles with agony, and darken the air of the bedroom
with inartistic but forcible profanity. Nothing is so painful as a
crooked tack in the middle of one’s foot. A broken heart doesn’t hold
half so much anguish, and a boil is a blessing in comparison.
This man who lives so far from Maple Street had a splendid bath; and
when he had rubbed his skin into a glow with a crash-towel as rough as
a pig’s back, he gathered his socks, and, backing up to the only chair
in the room, sat down to put them on.
Every tack in that saucer saw him coming down.
Every last tack smiled in anticipation of the _dénoûment_, and stood on
its head, and reached for him.
Every last solitary individual and collective tack fetched him, got
him, and held to him.
He dropped his socks, and rose from that chair with an abruptness that
knocked his head against the ceiling. He came down, and waltzed wildly
round and round the room, shrieking and yelling, gyrating madly with
his arms, while his eyes stuck out so far they hung down. He howled
until the neighbors besieged the house, yet he wouldn’t let any of
them in. At last his yells died away; but they could hear his breath
hiss between his set teeth, while at short intervals would come a
yell, supplemented by the remark, “There’s another out!” In about
three-quarters of an hour the yells ceased entirely, the window was
opened, and a shower of tacks fell over the assembled and wondering
multitude; while a large saucer skimmed across the street, and smashed
against the side of a house opposite.
Nobody knows what ails the man, for he will not tell any one a thing
about it: but he takes his meals off the mantel-piece all the same;
and, when he sits, he sits down on his hip, for all the world as though
he wore a “tied-back.” But he doesn’t. It’s a tacked-back that ails him.
_J. M. Bailey._
WENDELL PHILLIPS.
The power to discern right amid all the wrappings of interest, and all
the seductions of ambition, was singularly his. To choose the lowly;
for their sake to abandon all favor, all power, all comfort, all
ambition, all greatness,—that was his genius and glory. He confronted
the spirit of the nation and of the age. I had almost said, he set
himself against nature, as if he had been a decree of God overriding
all these other insuperable obstacles. That was his function. Mr.
Phillips was not called to be a universal orator, any more than he was
a universal thinker. In literature and in history he was widely read;
in person most elegant; in manners most accomplished; gentle as a babe;
sweet as a new-blown rose; in voice, clear and silvery. He was not a
man of tempests; he was not an orchestra of a hundred instruments;
he was not an organ, mighty and complex. The nation slept, and God
wanted a trumpet, sharp, far-sounding, narrow, and intense; and that
was Mr. Phillips. The long roll is not particularly agreeable in music
or in times of peace; but it is better than flutes or harps when men
are in a great battle, or are on the point of it. His eloquence was
penetrating and alarming. He did not flow as a mighty gulf-stream: he
did not dash upon the continent as the ocean does; he was not a mighty
rushing river. His eloquence was a flight of arrows, sentence after
sentence, polished, and most of them burning. He shot them one after
the other, and where they struck they slew; always elegant, always
awful. I think scorn in him was as fine as I ever knew it in any human
being. He had that sublime sanctuary in his pride that made him almost
insensitive to what would by other men be considered obloquy. It was as
if he said every day, in himself, “I am not what they are firing at. I
am not there, and I am not that. It is not against me. I am infinitely
superior to what they think me to be. They do not know me.” It was
quiet and unpretentious, but it was there. Conscience and pride were
the two concurrent elements of his nature.
He lived to see the slave emancipated, but not by moral means. He lived
to see the sword cut the fetter. After this had taken place, he was
too young to retire, though too old to gather laurels of literature,
or to seek professional honors. The impulse of humanity was not at all
abated. His soul still flowed on for the great under-masses of mankind;
though, like the Nile, it split up into diverse mouths, and not all of
them were navigable.
After a long and stormy life, his sun went down in glory. All the
English-speaking people on the globe have written among the names that
shall never die, the name of that scoffed, detested, mob-beaten Wendell
Phillips. Boston, that persecuted and would have slain him, is now
exceedingly busy in building his tomb, and rearing his statue. The men
that would not defile their lips with his name are to-day thanking God
that he lived.
He has taught a lesson that the young will do well to take heed
to,—the lesson that the most splendid gifts and opportunities and
ambitions may be best used for the dumb and the lowly. His whole life
is a rebuke to the idea that we are to climb to greatness by climbing
up on the backs of great men; that we are to gain strength by running
with the currents of life; that we can from without add any thing to
the great within that constitutes man. He poured out the precious
ointment of his soul upon the feet of that diffusive Jesus who suffers
here in his poor and despised ones. He has taught the young ambitions,
too, that the way to glory is the way, oftentimes, of adhesion simply
to principle: and that popularity and unpopularity are not things to be
known or considered. Do right and rejoice. If to do right will bring
you into trouble, rejoice that you are counted worthy to suffer with
God and the providences of God in this world.
He belongs to the race of giants, not simply because he was in and of
himself a great soul, but because he bathed in the providence of God,
and came forth scarcely less than a god; because he gave himself to the
work of God upon earth, and inherited thereby, or had reflected upon
him, some of the majesty of his Master. When pygmies are all dead, the
noble countenance of Wendell Phillips will still look forth, radiant
as a rising sun,—a sun that will never set. He has become to us a
lesson, his death an example, his whole history an encouragement to
manhood,—to heroic manhood.
_Henry Ward Beecher._
AUNT PARSONS’S STORY.
I told Hezekiah—that’s my man. People mostly call him Deacon Parsons,
but he never gets any deaconing from me. We were married—“Hezekiah and
Amariah”—that’s going on forty years ago, and he’s jest Hezekiah to
me, and nothin’ more.
Well, as I was saying, says I, “Hezekiah, we aren’t right. I am sure of
it.” And he said, “Of course not. We are poor sinners, Amy; all poor
sinners.” And I said, “Hezekiah, this ‘poor-sinner’ talk has gone on
long enough. I suppose we are poor sinners, but I don’t see any use of
being _mean_ sinners; and there’s one thing I think is real mean.”
It was jest after breakfast: and, as he felt poorly, he hedn’t gone to
the shop yet; and so I had this little talk with him to sort o’ chirk
him up. He knew what I was comin’ to, for we hed had the subject up
before. It was our little church. He always said, “The poor people, and
what should we ever do?” And I always said, “We never shall do nothin’
unless we try.” And so, when I brought the matter up in this way,
he just began bitin’ his toothpick, and said, “What’s up now? Who’s
mean? Amariah, we oughtn’t to speak evil one of another.” Hezekiah
always says “poor sinners,” and doesn’t seem to mind it; but when I
occasionally say “mean sinners,” he somehow gits oneasy. But I was
started, and I meant to free my mind.
So I said, says I, “I was goin’ to confess our sins. Dan’l confessed
for all his people, and I was confessin’ for all our little church.
“Truth is,” says I, “ours is allus called one of the ‘feeble churches,’
and I am tried about it. I’ve raised seven children, and at fourteen
months old every boy and girl of ’em could run alone. And our church
is fourteen years old,” says I; “and it can’t take a step yet without
somebody to hold on by. The Board helps us; and General Jones, good
man, he helps us,—helps too much, I think,—and so we live along; but
we don’t seem to get strong. Our people draw their rations every year
as the Indians do up at the agency, and it doesn’t seem sometimes as if
they ever thought of doing any thing else.
“They take it so easy!” I said. “That’s what worries me. I don’t
suppose we could pay all expenses; but we might act as if we wanted to,
and as if we meant to do all we can.
“I read,” says I, “last week about the debt of the Board; and this
week, as I understand,” says I, “our application is going in for
another year, and no particular effort to do any better; and it frets
me. I can’t sleep nights, and I can’t take comfort Sundays. I’ve got to
feelin’ as if we were a kind of perpetual paupers. And that was what I
meant when I said, ‘It is real mean!’ I suppose I said it a little
sharp,” says I, “but I’d rather be sharp than flat any day; and if we
don’t begin to stir ourselves, we shall be flat enough before long, and
shall deserve to be. It grows on me. It has jest been ‘Board, Board,
Board,’ for fourteen years, and I’m tired of it. I never did like
boardin’,” says I; “and even if we were poor, I believe we might do
something toward settin’ up housekeepin’ for ourselves.
“Well, there’s not many of us—about a hundred, I believe; and some of
these is women-folks, and some is jest girls and boys. And we all have
to work hard, and live close; but,” says I, “let us show a disposition,
if nothing more. Hezekiah, if there’s any spirit left in us, let us
show some sort of a disposition.”
And Hezekiah had his toothpick in his teeth, and looked down at his
boots, and rubbed his chin, as he always does when he’s goin’ to say
somethin’. “I think there’s some of us that shows a disposition.”
Of course I understood that hit, but I kep’ still. I kep’ right on with
my argument; and I said, “Yes, and a pretty bad disposition it is. It’s
a disposition to let ourselves be helped when we ought to be helping
ourselves. It’s a disposition to lie still and let somebody carry us.
And we are growing up cripples—only we don’t grow.
“’Kiah,” says I, “do you hear me?” Sometimes when I want to talk a
little he jest shets his eyes, and begins to rock himself back and
forth in the old arm-chair; and he was doin’ that now. So I said,
“’Kiah, do you hear?” And he said, “Some!” and I went on. “I’ve got a
proposition,” says I. And he sort o’ looked up, and said, “Hev you?
Well, between a disposition and a proposition, I guess the proposition
might be better.”
He’s awful sarcrostic, sometimes. But I wasn’t goin’ to get riled,
nor thrown off the track; so I jest said, “Yes; do you and I git two
shillin’s’ worth apiece, a week, out o’ that blessed little church
of ourn, do you think?” says I. “Cos, if we do, I want to give two
shillin’s a week to keep it goin’; and I thought maybe you could do as
much.” So he said he guessed we could stand that; and I said, “That’s
my proposition, and I mean to see if we can’t find somebody else
that’ll do the same. It’ll show disposition, anyway.”
“Well, I suppose you’ll hev your own way,” says he: “you most always
do.” And I said, “Isn’t it most allers a good way?” Then I brought out
my subscription paper. I had it all ready. I didn’t jest know how to
shape it, but I knew it was something about “the sums set opposite our
names;” and so I drawed it up, and took my chances. “You must head
it,” says I, “because you’re the oldest deacon; and I must go on next,
because I am the deacon’s wife; and then I’ll see some of the rest of
the folks.”
So ’Kiah sot down, and put on his specs, and took his pen, but did not
write. “What’s the matter?” says I. And he said, “I’m sort o’ ’shamed
to subscribe two shillin’s. I never signed so little as that for any
thing. I used to give that to the circus when I was nothin’ but a boy,
and I ought to do more than that to support the gospel. Two shillin’ a
week! Why, it’s only a shillin’ a sermon, and all the prayer-meetin’s
throwed in. I can’t go less than fifty cents, I am sure.” So down he
went for fifty cents; and then I signed for a quarter, and then my
sunbonnet went onto my head pretty lively; and says I, “Hezekiah,
there’s some cold potato in the pantry, and you know where to find
the salt; so, if I am not back by dinner-time, don’t be bashful, help
yourself.” And I started.
I called on the Smith family first. I felt sure of them. And they were
just happy. Mr. Smith signed, and so did Mrs. Smith; and Long John,
he came in while we were talkin’, and put his name down; and then
old Grandma Smith, she didn’t want to be left out; so there was four
of ’em. I’ve allers found it a great thing in any good enterprise to
enlist the Smith family. There’s a good many of ’em. Next, I called on
the Joslyns, and next on the Chapins, and then on the Widdy Chadwick,
and so I kept on.
I met a little trouble once or twice, but not much. There was Fussy
Furber; and bein’ trustee, he thought I was out of my spear, he said;
and he wanted it understood that such work belonged to the trustees.
“To be sure,” says I: “I’m glad I’ve found it out. I wish the trustees
had discovered that a leetle sooner.” Then there was sister Puffy
that’s got the asthma. She thought we ought to be lookin’ after “the
sperritooalities.” She said we must get down before the Lord. She
didn’t think churches could be run on money. But I told her I guessed
we should be jest as spiritual to look into our pocketbooks a little,
and I said it was a shame to be ’tarnally beggin’ so of the Board.
She looked dredful solemn when I said that, and I almost felt as I’d
been committin’ profane language. But I hope the Lord will forgive me
if I took any thing in vain. I did not take my call in vain, I tell
you. Mrs. Puffy is good, only she allus wanted to talk so pious; and
she put down her two shillin’s, and then hove a sigh. Then I found the
boys at the cooper-shop, and got seven names there at one lick; and
when the list began to grow, people seemed ashamed to say no; and I
kept gainin’ till I had jest an even hundred, and then I went home.
Well, it was pretty well towards candle-light when I got back, and I
was that tired I didn’t know much of any thing. I’ve washed, and I’ve
scrubbed, and I’ve baked, and I’ve cleaned house, and I’ve biled soap,
and I’ve moved; and I ’low that a’most any one of that sort of thing
is a little exhaustin’. But put your bakin’ and movin’ and bilin’ soap
all together, and it won’t work out as much genuine tired soul and
body as one day with a subscription paper to support the gospel. So
when I sort o’ dropped into a chair, and Hezekiah said, “Well?” I was
past speakin’; and I put my check apron up to my face as I hadn’t done
since I was a young, foolish girl, and cried. I don’t know what I felt
so bad about: I don’t know as I did feel bad. But I felt cry, and I
cried. And ’Kiah, seein’ how it was, felt kind o’ sorry for me, and set
some tea a-steepin’; and when I had had my drink with weepin’, I felt
better. I handed him the subscription paper, and he looked it over as
if he didn’t expect any thing; but soon he began saying, “I never! I
never!” And I said, “Of course you didn’t: you never tried. How much is
it?”—“Why, don’t you know?” says he. “No,” I said: “I ain’t quick in
figures, and I hadn’t time to foot it up. I hope it will make us out
this year three hundred dollars or so.”
“Amy,” says he, “you’re a prodigy—a prodigal, I may say—and you don’t
know it. A hundred names at two shillin’ each gives us twenty-five
dollars a Sunday. Some of ’em may fail, but most of ’em is good; and
there is ten, eleven, thirteen, that sign fifty cents. That’ll make up
what fails. That paper of yourn’ll give us thirteen hundred dollars a
year!” I jumped up like I was shot. “Yes,” he says, “we sha’n’t need
any thing this year from the Board. _This church_, for this year at any
rate, is _self-supporting_.”
We both sot down and kep’ still a minute, when I said kind o’ softly,
“Hezekiah,” says I, “isn’t it about time for prayers?” I was just
chokin’; but, as he took down the Bible, he said, “I guess we’d had
better sing somethin’.” I nodded like, and he just struck in. We often
sing at prayers in the morning; but now it seemed like the Scripter
that says, “He giveth songs in the night.” ’Kiah generally likes the
solemn tunes, too; and we sing “Show pity, Lord,” a great deal; and
this mornin’ we had sung “Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,” ’cause
’Kiah was not feelin’ very well, and we wanted to chirk up a little.
So I just waited to see what metre he’d strike to-night; and would
you believe it? I didn’t know that he knew any sech tune. But off he
started on “Joy to the world, the Lord is come.” I tried to catch on;
but he went off lickerty-switch, like a steam-engine, and I couldn’t
keep up. I was partly laughin’ to see ’Kiah go it, and partly crying
again, my heart was so full; so I doubled up some of the notes, and
jumped over the others; and so we safely reached the end.
But, I tell you, Hezekiah prayed. He allers prays well; but this was
a bran’ new prayer, exactly suited to the occasion. And when Sunday
come, and the minister got up and told what had been done, and said,
“It is all the work of one good woman, and done in one day,” I just got
scared, and wanted to run. And when some of the folks shook hands with
me after meetin’, and said, with tears in their eyes, how I’d saved the
church; and all that, I came awful nigh gettin’ proud. But, as Hezekiah
says, “we’re all poor sinners;” and so I choked it back. But I am glad
I did it; and I don’t believe our church will ever go boarding any more.
_Presbyterian Journal._
THE SOLDIER’S DREAM.
It was the ninth of April—historic month and day!
The day of Lee’s surrender—a score of years away.
The sick-room veiled in midnight; no sound disturbed the air,
Except the sufferer’s breathing, reclining in his chair.
The savior of his country lay face to face with Death,
Whose lean and hungry fingers confined his choking breath:
A panoramic vision illumed his dreamy sight,—
The vision of a lifetime, from dawn to waning light.
A child of sunny summers, beside his mother’s knee,
A youth of earnest purpose, his half-shut eyelids see;
A grave and silent soldier, the pride of the parade,
He rides, as if a Cossack, ’gainst Montezuma’s blade;
A sturdy, sunburnt farmer, within his rustic home,
Beside his blazing hearthstone, who never cares to roam
Except where boon companions, with pipes and foaming beer,
Tell tales of wild adventure, sing songs of hearty cheer.
But hark! the bugle calleth! Its clarions wake the farms,—
“Your country is in danger! To arms, my sons, to arms!”
The streets are black with soldiers; their bristling bayonets gleam,
A hundred thousand marching, as flows a mountain stream.
The dreamer in his vision descries a battle-field;
He hears the cannon echo, he sees battalions yield;
He sees the blue-coats rally, he sees the gray-coats fall,
The ghastly dead and dying, the “stars and bars” their pall
Along the queen of rivers, against her trembling shore,
Volcanic flames are belching, and volleying thunders roar:
Hot shot and shell are crashing, while lurid smoke and flame
Are from a fortress leaping,—a fortress known to fame.
Again the picture changes! The Capitol is seen,
Where rolls the broad Potomac through the banks of ever green:
Not now fraternal kindness disports in festive garb,
But brother, armed ’gainst brother, spurs on his fiery barb.
Brigades and solid squadrons are marching out of camp;
He hears their stirring music, he hears their steady tramp:
The Wilderness the arena, a nation’s life the prize,
Their watchword, “On to Richmond!” He hears their battle-cries.
For days, for weeks together, repulsed, defeated, slain,
As sands restrain old ocean, their ranks roll back again,
Till rising higher, higher, with loud, exultant roar,
The foaming, raging billows sweep o’er the crumbling shore.
Now he sees a planter’s dwelling in Appomattox vale:
The earth is piled in breastworks, ’tis rent with iron hail;
What villages of canvas for men in blue or gray,
What lines of halting columns, in grave or grim array!
Within appear two chieftains, of heroes full a score,
The victors and the vanquished: thank God, the war is o’er!
“The olive-branch shall shield you, the sun of peace shall shine!
This flag,” so says the leader, “this ægis still is thine!”
No lion mien and bearing, no eagle’s eye of pride;
As modest as a schoolboy, the conqueror seeks to hide—,
Hide his speechless joy of triumph by generous act and word,—
He feeds the conquered army! The beggar seems the lord.
The reveille has sounded; ’twill never sound again!
For days, in martial splendor, three hundred thousand men.
From Vicksburg and from Shiloh, Antietam and the sea.
From Shenandoah’s Valley and Gettysburg’s green lea.—
Those cannoneers of Ruin, that hurricane of horse,
With Pestilence behind them, and Carnage in their course;
Those, those—when Pickett’s cohorts were charging wave on wave,—
That stood like granite ledges, the bravest of the brave;
With drums, with banners flying, with triumph in each eye,
The grand review are marching. He sees them passing by
As saw in dream. Napoleon, from that triumphal arch,
That night in phantom phalanx his splendid heroes march.
’Twas like a shield all gory, that sun of Austerlitz!
No bloody, ghostly phantom before our hero flits!
Ye idols of the people, who lead an army well,
Shall wield a nation’s sceptre, in capitols shall dwell!
Past ages grim and hoary their victors loved to crown:
The flaming sword of conquest still wins sublime renown.
All echo and re-echo the glories of the brave;
All, all, a grateful country! bedew the soldier’s grave.
_C. G. Fall._
OVER THE LEFT.
Their deposits were _left over night_ in the bank,—
In a bank without whisper of fault:
The amounts to their credit were placed on the books,
And were left over night in the vault.
_To their credit_, I say it, the bank was locked tight,
Guarding thus against fire and theft;
A patrol on the walk, and a new ’lectric light,
Throwing beams to the _right_ and the _left_.
* * * * *
Just here the cashier he _left over night_,
Taking all but the house and the soil;
And the _long_ and the _short_ of the story is this,—
He was _too long_ of stocks—_short_ of oil.
A receiver was called, and he looked o’er the wreck,
And _received_ those who called—thus bereft.
“_Have you nothing left over?_” they timidly ask:
He answers, “_Yes, over the left_.”
_W. C. Dornin._
THE SEMINOLE’S REPLY.
Blaze, with your serried columns!
I will not bend the knee!
The shackles ne’er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.
I’ve mailed it with the thunder,
When the tempest muttered low;
And where it falls, ye well may dread
The lightning of its blow!
I’ve scared ye in the city,
I’ve scalped ye on the plain;
Go, count your chosen, where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain!
I scorn your proffered treaty!
The pale-face I defy!
Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
And blood my battle-cry!
Some strike for hope of booty,
Some to defend their all—
I battle for the joy I have
To see the white man fall:
I love, among the wounded,
To hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side,
The music of his groan.
Ye’ve trailed me through the forest,
Ye’ve tracked me o’er the stream;
And struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam:
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye, “Come not here!”
I loathe ye in my bosom,
I scorn ye with mine eye;
And I’ll taunt ye with my latest breath,
And fight ye till I die!
I ne’er will ask ye quarter,
And I ne’er will be your slave;
But I’ll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath its wave.
THE DUTCHMAN’S SERENADE.
Vake up, my schveet! Vake up, my lofe!
Der moon dot can’t been seen abofe.
Vake oud your eyes, und dough it’s late,
I’ll make you oud a serenate.
Der shtreet dot’s kinder dampy vet,
Und dhere vas no goot blace to set;
My fiddle’s getting oud of dune,
So blease get vakey wery soon.
O my lofe! my lofely lofe!
Am you avake ub dhere abofe,
Feeling sad und nice to hear
Schneider’s fiddle schrabin near?
Vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear,
Und try to saw if you kin hear
From dem bedclose vat you’m among,
Der little song I’m going to sung:
* * * * *
O lady, vake! Get vake!
Und hear der tale I’ll tell;
Oh, you vot’s schleebin’ sound ub dhere,
I like you pooty vell!
Your plack eyes dhem don’t shine
Ven you’m ashleep—so vake!
(Yes, hurry up, und voke up quick,
For gootness cracious sake!)
My schveet imbatience, lofe,
I hobe you vill oxcuse:
I’m singing schveetly (dhere, py Jinks!
Dhere goes a shtring proke loose!)
O putiful, schveet maid!
Oh, vill she efer voke?
Der moon is mooning—(Jimminy! dhere
Anoder shtring vent proke!)
Oh, say, old schleeby head!
(Now I vas getting mad—
I’ll holler now, und I don’t care
Uf I vake up her dad!)
I say, you schleeby, vake!
Vake oud! Vake loose! Vake ub!
Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch!
Oh, cracious! do vake ub!
* * * * *
Dot girl she schleebed—dot rain it rained,
Und I looked shtoopid like a fool,
Vhen mit my fiddle I shneaked off
So vet und shlobby like a mool!
SCENE FROM “INGOMAR”
CHARACTERS.
INGOMAR. Leader of a band of Alemanni.
PARTHENIA. A Greek girl.
(_Parthenia clasps her hands before her face,
and stands sobbing in the foreground._)
_Ingomar._ (_Who has been standing on a rock looking at the
proceedings of his followers._)
No violence! Ho! how he runs! and now
He stops and cries again! Poor fearful fool!
It must be strange to fear: now, by my troth,
I should like to feel, for once, what ’tis to fear!
But the girl—(_Leaning forward._) Ha! do I see right? you weep.
[_To Parthenia._
Is that the happy temper that you boast?
_Par._ Oh, I shall never see him more!
_Ing._ What! have we
For a silly old man, got now a foolish
And timid weeping girl? I have had enough
Of tears.
_Par._ Enough, indeed, since you but mock them!
I will not—no, I’ll weep no more.
[_She quickly dries her eyes, and retires to the background._[1]
_Ing._ That’s good! come, that looks well;
She is a brave girl! she rules herself, and if
She keep her word, we have made a good exchange—
“I’ll weep no more!” Aha! I like the girl.
And if—Ho! whither goest thou?
[_To Parthenia, who is going off with two goblets._
_Par._ Where should I go? to yonder brook, to cleanse the cups.
_Ing._ No! stay and talk with me.
_Par._ I have duties to perform. [_Going._
_Ing._ Stay—I command you, slave!
_Par._ I am no slave! your hostage, but no slave.
I go to cleanse the cups. [_Exit_ L.
_Ing._ Ho! here’s a self-willed thing—here is a spirit!
[_Mimicking her._
“I will not, I am no slave! I have duties to perform!
Take me for hostage!” and she flung back her head
As though she brought with her a ton of gold!
“I’ll weep no more,”—Aha! an impudent thing.
She pleases me! I love to be opposed;
I love my horse when he rears, my dogs when they snarl,
The mountain torrent, and the sea, when it flings
Its foam up to the stars; such things as these
Fill me with life and joy. Tame indolence
Is living death! the battle of the strong
Alone is life!
[_During this speech Parthenia has returned with the cups
and a bundle of field flowers. She seats herself on a
piece of rock in front._
_Ing._ Ah! she is here again. (_He approaches her, and leans
over her on the rock._) What art thou making there?
_Par._ I? garlands.
_Ing._ Garlands?
(_Musing._) It seems to me as I before had seen her
In a dream! How! Ah, my brother!—he who died
A child—yes, that is it. My little Folko—She
has his dark-brown hair, his sparkling eye:
Even the voice seems known again to me;
I’ll not to sleep—I’ll talk to her. [_Returns to her._
These you call garlands,
And wherefore do you weave them?
_Par._ For these cups.
_Ing._ How?
_Par._ Is it not with you a custom? With us
At home, we love to intertwine with flowers
Our cups and goblets.
_Ing._ What use is such a plaything?
_Par._ Use? They are beautiful; that is their use.
The sight of them makes glad the eye; their scent
Refreshes, cheers. There!
(_Fastens the half-finished garland round a cup and
presents it to him._)
Is not that, now, beautiful?
_Ing._ Ay—by the bright sun! That dark-green mixed
Up with the gay flowers! Thou must teach our women
To weave such garlands.
_Par._ That is soon done: thy wife
Herself shall soon weave wreaths as well as I.
_Ing._ (_Laughing heartily._) My wife! my wife! a woman
Dost thou say?
I thank the gods, not I. This is my wife—
[_Pointing to his accoutrements._
My spear, my shield, my sword; let him who will
Waste cattle, slaves, or gold, to buy a woman;
Not I—not I!
_Par._ To buy a woman?—how?
_Ing._ What is the matter? why dost look so strangely?
_Par._ How! did I hear aright? bargain for brides
As you would slaves—buy them like cattle?
_Ing._ Well, I think a woman fit only for a slave.
We follow our own customs, as you yours.
How do you in your city there?
_Par._ Consult our hearts.
Massilia’s freeborn daughters are not sold,
But bound by choice with bands as light and sweet
As these I hold. Love only buys us there.
_Ing._ Marry for love—what! do you love your husbands?
_Par._ Why marry else?
_Ing._ Marry for love; that’s strange!
I cannot comprehend. I love my horse,
My dogs, my brave companions—but no woman!
What dost thou mean by love—what is it, girl?
_Par._ What is it? ’Tis of all things the most sweet—
The heaven of life—or, so my mother says,
I never felt it.
_Ing._ Never?
_Par._ No, indeed. [_Looking at garland._
Now look how beautiful! Here would I weave
Red flowers if I had them.
_Ing._ Yonder there,
In that thick wood they grow.
_Par._ How sayest thou?
(_Looking off._) Oh, what a lovely red! Go, pluck me some.
_Ing._ (_Starting at the suggestion._)
I go for thee? the master serve the slave!
[_Gazing on her with increasing interest._
And yet, why not? I’ll go—the poor child’s tired.
_Par._ Dost thou hesitate?
_Ing._ No, thou shalt have the flowers
As fresh and dewy as the bush affords.
_[He goes off_, R.
_Par._ (_Holding out the wreath._)
I never yet succeeded half so well.
It will be charming! Charming? and for whom?
Here among savages! no mother here
Looks smiling on it—I am alone, forsaken!
But no, I’ll weep no more! No, none shall say I fear.
_Re-enter Ingomar, with a bunch of flowers, and slowly advancing
towards Parthenia._
_Ing._ (_Aside._)
The little Folko, when in his play he wanted
Flowers or fruit, would so cry “Bring them to me;
Quick! I will have them—these I will have or none;”
Till somehow he compelled me to obey him,
And she, with the same spirit, the same fire—Yes,
there is much of the bright child in her.
Well, she shall be a little brother to me!
There are the flowers. [_He hands her the flowers._
_Par._ Thanks, thanks! Oh, thou hast broken them
Too short off in the stem!
[_She throws some of them on the ground._
_Ing._ Shall I go and get thee more?
_Par._ No: these will do.
_Ing._ Tell me now about your home—I will sit here,
Near thee.
_Par._ Not there: thou art crushing all the flowers.
_Ing._ (_Seating himself at her feet._)
Well, well; I will sit here, then. And now tell me,
What is your name?
_Par._ Parthenia.
_Ing._ Parthenia!
A pretty name! and now, Parthenia, tell me
How that which you call love grows in the soul;
And what love is: ’tis strange, but in that word
There’s something seems like yonder ocean—fathomless.