Fear not, little one, come hither.
CHILD.--_(coming towards her)._ Is it you? Father seeks you.
LEAH.--His very image. _(kisses her,)_ What is your name, my darling?
CHILD.--Leah.
LEAH.--What say you? Leah?
CHILD.--Did you know the other Leah?--she whom mother and father speak of
so often, and for whom every night I must pray?
LEAH.--_(With emotion, kissing her, and giving her a withered rose-
wreath, which she takes from inside her dress)_ Take this, my pretty
one.
CHILD.--A rose-wreath?
LEAH--Take it, and give it your father. Say to him your little prayer has
been heard, and that Leah--_(emotion)_--Leah forgives. _(going,
returns again, kisses child, and with extended arms and choking voice.)_
Bless, you, darling! _(extending arms to house.)_ And you, and you--
and all--and all'. _(goes to fence, totters, and sinks down, endeavoring
to exit.)_
_Enter Rudolf and Madalena from house._
RUD.--Not here!
CHILD--_(running to Madalena.)_ See, mother, see what the strange
woman gave me. _(showing wreath.)_
MAD.--_(not noticing child)_ Where is she?
CHILD.--She has gone away _(running to Rudolf with wreath.)_ See,
father.
RUD.--_(taking wreath.)_ A rose-wreath. Great heaven, Madalena, it
must have been Leah; it is my wreath. Leah!
MAD.--It was she!
RUD.--Yes, it was Leah. By this token we are reconciled. _(Leah
moans.)_ Ha, what sound is that?
MAD.--_(going to the prostrate figure.)_ Quick, Rudolf! It is she.
_(they run to her, raise her up, and bear her to front.)_
LEAH.--_(feebly.)_ I tried to go, but my strength forsook me. I shall,
at least, then, die here!
RUD.--Die! No, no; speak not of dying, you shall live!
LEAH.--No; I am too happy to live. See, Madalena, I take his hand, but it
is to place it in yours. All is over. _(sinks into their arms.)_
SCENE FROM PIZARRO.
SCENE I.--A Dungeon.
_Alonzo in chains--A sentinel walking near._
ALONZO. (c.)--For the last time, I have beheld the quivering lustre of the
stars. For the last time, O, sun! (and soon the hour), I shall behold thy
rising, and thy level beams melting the pale mists of morn to glittering
dew drops. Then comes my death, and in the morning of my day, I fall,
which--no, Alonzo, date not the life which thou hast run, by the mean
reckoning of the hours and days, which thou has breathed:--a life spent
worthily should be measured by a nobler line; by deeds, not years. They
only have lived long, who have lived virtuously. Surely, even now, thin
streaks of glimmering light steal on the darkness of the East. If so, my
life is but one hour more. I will not watch the coming dawn; but in the
darkness of my cell, my last prayer to thee, Power Supreme! shall be for my
wife and child! Grant them to dwell in innocence and peace; grant health
and purity of mind--all else is worthless.
[_Enters the cavern_, R. U. E.
SEN.--Who's there? answer quickly! Who's there?
ROL.--(_within._) A friar come to visit your prisoner. (_enters_,
L. U. E. _disguised as a monk._) Inform me, friend, is not Alonzo, the
Spanish prisoner, confined in this dungeon?
SEN.--(c.) He is.
ROL.--I must speak with him.
SEN.--You must not. (_stopping him with his spear._)
ROL.--He is my friend.
SEN.--Not if he were your brother.
ROL.--What is to be his fate?
SEN.--He dies at sunrise.
ROL.--Ha! Then I am come in time.
SEN.--Just--to witness his death.
ROL.--Soldier, I must speak to him.
SEN.--Back, back--It is impossible.
ROL.--I do entreat you, but for one moment.
SEN.--You entreat in vain--my orders are most strict.
ROL.--Look on this wedge of massive gold--look on these precious gems. In
thy own land they will be wealth for thee and thine--beyond thy hope or
wish. Take them--they are thine. Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo.
SEN.--Away!--wouldst thou corrupt me? Me! an old Castilian! I know my duty
better.
ROL.--Soldier!--hast thou a wife?
SEN.--I have.
ROL.--Hast thou children?
SEN.--Four--honest, lovely boys.
ROL.--Where didst thou leave them?
SEN.--In my native village; even in the cot where myself was born.
ROL.--Dost thou love thy children and thy wife?
SEN.--Do I love them! God knows my heart--I do.
ROL.--Soldier! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death in this
strange land. What would be thy last request?
SEN.--That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife
and children.
ROL.--Oh! but if that comrade was at thy prison gate, and should there be
told--thy fellow-soldier dies at sunset, yet thou shalt not for a moment
see him, nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children or his
wretched wife, what would'st thou think of him, who thus could drive thy
comrade from the door?
SEN.--How?
ROL.--Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come but to receive for her, and
for her babe, the last blessing of my friend.
SEN.--Go in. [_Shoulders his spear and walks to_ L. U. E.
ROL. (c.)--Oh, holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not of
our earth a creature bearing form, and life--human or savage--native of the
forest wild, or giddy air--around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord
entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will
to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne, the blood-stained vulture
cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the
cygnet's down, and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits
not more gently.--Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate!
Alonzo! Alonzo, my friend! Ha! in gentle sleep! Alonzo--rise!
ALON.--How, is my hour elapsed? Well, (_Returning from the recess_ R.
U. E.) I am ready.
ROL.--Alonzo, know me.
ALON.--What voice is that?
ROL.--'Tis Rolla's. [_Takes off his disguise._
ALON.--Rolla, my friend (_Embraces him._) Heavens!--how could'st thou
pass the guard?--Did this habit--
ROL.--There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise I tore from
the dead body of a friar as I passed our field of battle; it has gained me
entrance to thy dungeon: now, take it thou and fly.
ALON.--And Rolla--
ROL.--Will remain here in thy place.
ALON.--And die for me? No! Rather eternal tortures rack me.
ROL.--I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's;
and from thy prison soon will thy arm deliver me. Or, should it be
otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain standing alone amid the sandy
desert--nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art--a husband and
a father; the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy
life. Go! go, Alonzo! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy child!
ALON.--Urge me not thus, my friend! I had prepared to die in peace.
ROL.--To die in peace! devoting her thou'st sworn to live for to madness,
misery, and death! For, be assured, the state I left her in forbids all
hope, but from thy quick return.
ALON.--Oh, God!
ROL.--If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well. I think thou
hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word, and shrunk from its
fulfilment. And by the heart of truth, I swear, if thou art proudly
obstinate to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in
thee; no power that sways the will of man shalt stir me hence; and thoul't
but have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the
assured conviction that Cora and thy child--are lost forever.
ALON.--Oh, Rolla! you distract me!
ROL.--Begone! A moment's further pause, and all is lost. The dawn
approaches. Fear not for me; I will treat with Pizarro, as for surrender
and submission. I shall gain time, doubt not, whilst thou, with a chosen
band, passing the secret way, may'st at night return, release thy friend,
and bear him back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo! Even now I hear the
frantic Cora call thee! Haste, Alonzo! Haste! Haste!
ALON.--Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honour and from right.
ROL.--Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend?
ALON.--Oh! my preserver! [_Embracing him._
ROL.--I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek.--Go! I am rewarded.
(_Throwing the Friar's garment over him._) There, conceal thy face;
and that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee!
ALON.--At night we meet again. Then, so aid me Heaven! I return to save or
perish with thee. [_Exit_ L.U.E.
ROL. (_Looking after him._)--He has passed the outer porch--he is
safe! He will soon embrace his wife and child! Now, Cora, did'st thou not
wrong me? This is the first time throughout my life, I ever deceived man.
Forgive me, God of Truth! if I am wrong. Alonzo flatters himself that we
shall meet again! Yes, there! (_Lifting his hands to heaven._)--
assuredly we shall meet again; there, possess in peace, the joys of
everlasting love, and friendship--on earth imperfect and embittered. I will
retire, lest the guard return before Alonzo may have passed their lines.
[_Retires into the cavern._
ACT V
SCENE I.--_A thick forest. A dreadful storm._ CORA _has covered her
child in a bed of leaves and moss,_ R. U. E.
CORA. (_Sitting on bank by child,_ R.)--Oh, Nature! thou hast not the
strength of love. My anxious spirit is untired in its march; my wearied
shivering frame sinks under it. And for thee, my boy, when faint beneath
thy lovely burden, could I refuse to give thy slumbers that poor bed of
rest! Oh, my child! were I assured thy poor father breathes no more, how
quickly would I lay me down by thy dear side!--but down--down forever!
(_Thunder and lightning._) I ask thee not, unpitying storm to abate
thy rage, in mercy to poor Cora's misery; nor while thy thunders spare his
slumbers, will I disturb my sleeping cherub, though Heaven knows I wish to
hear the voice of life, and feel that life is near me. But I will endure
all while what I have of reason holds. (_Thunder and lightning._)
Still, still implacable!--unfeeling elements! yet still dost thou sleep,
my smiling innocent! Oh, Death! when wilt thou grant to this babe's mother
such repose? Sure I may shield thee better from the storm: my veil may--
ALON. (_Without_ L.)--Cora!
CORA (_Runs to_ C.) Ha!
ALON.--Cora!
CORA--Oh, my heart. Sweet Heaven, deceive me not. Is it not Alonzo's voice?
ALON. (_Louder_)--Cora!
CORA (L. C.)--It is--it is Alonzo!
ALON. (_Very loud_) Cora! my beloved!
CORA (L.) Alonzo! Here!--here!--Alonzo!
[_Runs out._
* * * * *
THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT.
The King is reported to have dismounted before the battle commenced, and to
have fought on foot.
Hollinshed states that the English army consisted of 15,000, and the French
of 60,000 horse and 40,000 infantry--in all, 100,000. Walsingham and
Harding represent the English as but 9,000, and other authors say that the
number of French amounted to 150,000. Fabian says the French were 40,000,
and the English only 7,000. The battle lasted only three hours.
The noble Duke of Gloucester, the king's brother, pushing himself too
vigorously on his horse into the conflict, was grievously wounded, and cast
down to the earth, by the blows of the French, for whose protection the
King being interested, he bravely leapt against his enemies in defence of
his brother, defended him with his own body, and plucked and guarded him
from the raging malice of the enemy, sustaining perils of war scarcely
possible to be borne.
_Nicolas's History of Agincourt_.
During the battle the Duke of Alençon most valiantly broke through the
English lines, and advanced fighting near the King--inasmuch that he
wounded and struck down the Duke of York. King Henry seeing this stepped
forth to his aid, and as he was leaning down to aid him the Duke of Alençon
gave him a blow on his helmet that struck off part of his crown. The King's
guards on this surrounded him, when seeing he could no way escape death but
by surrendering, he lifted up his arms and said to the King, "I am the Duke
of Alençon, and yield myself to you." But as the King was holding out his
hand to receive his pledge he was put to death by the guards.
_Monstrelet._
* * * * *
GLOSTER, BEDFORD, EXETER, SALISBURY, ERPINGHAM,
_and_ WESTMORELAND _discovered_.
GLO. Where is the king?
BED. The king himself is rode to view their battle.
WEST. Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.
EXE. There's five to one; besides they're all fresh.
'Tis a fearful odds.
If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,
Then joyfully my noble lord of Bedford,
My dear Lord Gloster, and my good Lord Exeter
And my kind kinsman, warriors all--adieu!
WEST. O that we now had here
_Enter_ KING HENRY, _attended_.
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!
K. HEN. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland?--No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater share of honour.
O, do not wish one more;
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian,
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say to-morrow is Saint Crispian:
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars;
And say, these wounds I had on Crispin's day
Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,--
Harry, the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,--
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd:
This story shall the good man teach his son:
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd:
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon St. Crispin's day.
_Enter_ GOWER.
GOWER. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed
The French are bravely in their battles set,
And will with all expedience charge on us.
K. HEN. All things are ready, if our minds be so.
WEST. Perish the man whose mind is backward now!
K. HEN. Thou dost not wish more help from England,
coz?
WEST. Heaven's will, my liege, I would you and I alone,
Without more help could fight this royal battle!
K. HEN. Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men;
Which likes me better than to wish us one.--
You know your places: God be with you all!
_Enter_ MONTJOY _and attendants._
MONT. Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry
If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,
Before thy most assured overthrow:
For, certainly, thou art so near the gulf
Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,
The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind
Thy followers of repentance; that their souls
May make a peaceful and a sweet retire
From off these fields, where (wretches) their poor bodies
Must lie and fester.
K. HEN Who hath sent thee now?
MONT. The Constable of France.
K. HEN. I pray thee, bear my former answer back?
Bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones.
Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?
The man that once did sell the lion's skin
While the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him.
Let me speak proudly:--Tell the Constable,
We are but warriors for the working-day;
Our gayness and our gilt, are all besmirch'd
With rainy marching in the painful field;
There's not a piece of feather in our host
(Good argument, I hope, we will not fly),
And time hath worn us into slovenry;
But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim:
And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night
They'll be in fresher robes; or they will pluck
The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers' heads,
And turn them out of service. If they do this,
(As if God please, they shall), my ransom then
Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour;
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald;
They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints;
Which if they have as I will leave 'em them
Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.
MONT. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well:
Thou never shalt hear herald any more. [_Exit._
K. HEN. I fear thou'lt once more come again for ransom.
_Enter the_ DUKE OF YORK.
YORK. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg
The leading of the vaward.
K. HEN. Take it, brave York--Now, soldiers, march away:--
And how, thou pleasest God, dispose the day!
[_Exeunt._
* * * * *
THE QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.
CASSIUS. That you have wronged me doth appear in this:
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella
For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein my letters (praying on his side,
Because I knew the man) were slighted of.
BRUTUS. You wronged yourself to write in such a case.
CAS. In such a time as this it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear its comment.
BRU. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers.
CAS. I an itching palm?
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or by the gods! this speech were else your last.
BRU. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore, hide its head.
CAS. Chastisement!
BRU. Remember March, the Ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for justice sake?
What! I shall one of us
That struck the foremost man of all this world
But for supporting robbers--shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honours
For so much trash as may be graspéd thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
CAS. Brutus, bay not me.
I'll not endure it. You forget yourself
To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
BRU. Go to, you are not, Cassius.
CAS. I am.
BRU. I say you are not.
CAS. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself:
Have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther.
BRU. Away, slight man!
CAS. I'st possible?
BRU. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frightened when a madman stares?
CAS. Must I endure all this?
BRU. All this! ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break.
Go show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods!
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for from this day forth
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.
CAS. Is it come to this?
BRU. You say you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true;
And it shall please me well. For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
CAS. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus;
I said an elder soldier, not a better.
Did I say better?
BRU. If you did, I care not.
CAS. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus, have moved me.
BRU. Peace, peace! You durst not so have tempted him.
CAS. I _durst_ not?
BRU. No.
CAS. What _durst_ not tempt him?
BRU. For your life you durst not.
CAS. Do not presume too much upon my love;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
BRU. You _have_ done that you _should_ be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;
For I can raise no money by vile means.
By heavens! I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me! Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods! with all your thunderbolts
Dash him to pieces.
CAS. I denied you not.
BRU. You did.
CA. I did not: he was but a fool
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart,
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities;
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
BRU. I do not till you practise them on me.
CAS. You love me not.
BRU. I do not like your faults.
CAS. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
BRU. A flatterer's would not, though they did appear
As huge as high Olympus.
CAS. Come, Antony! and young Octavius, come!
Revenge yourself alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is a-weary of the world--
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learn'd and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast--within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:
If that thou need'st a Roman's, take it forth!
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart.
Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for I know
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.
BRU. Sheath your dagger;
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
O, Cassius, you are yokéd with a man
That carries anger as the flint bears fire,
Who, much enforcèd, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.
CAS. Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him?
BRU. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.
CAS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
BRU. And my heart too. (_Embracing._)
CAS. O, Brutus!
BRU. What's the matter?
CAS. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humour which my mother gave me
Makes me forgetful?
BRIT. Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
_Shakespeare._
* * * * *
SCENES FROM HAMLET.
HAMLET _and_ GHOST _discovered_.
HAMLET, (C) Whither wilt thou lead me? speak!
I'll go no further.
GHOST. (L. C.) Mark me.
HAM. (R. C.) I will.
GHOST. My hour is almost come
When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames
Must render up myself.
HAM. Alas, poor ghost!
GHOST. Pity me not; but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold.
HAM. Speak, I am bound to hear.
GHOST. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
HAM. What?
GHOST. I am thy father's spirit:
Doomed for a certain term to walk the night;
And, for the day, confined to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature,
Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end,
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood: List, list, oh, list!--
If thou didst ever thy dear father love--
HAM. Oh, heaven!
GHOST. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
HAM. Murder!
GHOST. Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
HAM. Haste me to know it, that I, with wings as swift
As meditation, or the thoughts of love,
May sweep to my revenge.
GHOST. I find thee apt.
Now, Hamlet, hear:
Tis given out, that sleeping in my orchard,
A serpent stung me; so that the whole ear of Denmark
Is, by a forged process of my death,
Rankly abused: but know, thou noble youth,
The serpent that did sting thy father's life
Now wears his crown.
HAM. Oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle?
GHOST. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,
Won to his shameful lust
The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen:
Oh, Hamlet, what a falling off was there!
From me, whose love was of that dignity,
That it went hand in hand, even with the vow
I made to her in marriage; and to decline
Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor
To those of mine!--
But, soft, methinks I scent the morning air--
Brief let me be:--sleeping within mine orchard,
My custom always of the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
With juice of cursed hebenon in a phial,
And in the porches of mine ears did pour
The leperous distilment: whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of man,
That swift as quicksilver it courses through
The natural gates and alleys of the body;
So it did mine.
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatched
Cut off, even in the blossoms of my sin,
No reck'ning made, but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head.
HAM. Oh, horrible! Oh, horrible! most horrible!
GHOST. It thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;
Let not the royal bed of Denmark be
A couch for luxury and damned incest,
But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to Heaven,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To goad and sting her. Fare thee well at once
The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire.
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me. (_Vanishes_, L. C)
HAM. (R.) Hold, hold, my heart;
And you my sinews, grow not instant old,
But bear me stiffly up. (C.) Remember thee?
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe. Remember thee?
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all forms, all pressures past,
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmixed with baser matter; yes, by heaven,
I have sworn it.
_Shakespeare._
* * * * *
HAMLET'S ADVICE TO THE PLAYERS.
HAMLET _and_ PLAYER _discovered._
HAMLET. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced
it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth
it, as many of our players do, I had as lieve the town-crier
spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your
hand thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent,
tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion,
you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give
it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul, to hear a
robustious, periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters,
to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who,
for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable
dumb shows, and noise! I would have such a fellow
whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod
pray you avoid it.
1ST ACT. (R.) I warrant your honour.
HAM. Be not too tame, neither; but let your own discretion
be your tutor: suit the action to the word, and
the word to the action; with this special observance, that
you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything so
overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both
at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the
mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature,
scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the
time, his form and pressure. Now this, over done, or
come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, can
not but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which
one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of
others. Oh, there be players that I have seen play--and
heard others praise, and that highly--not to speak it profanely,
that neither having the accent of Christians, nor
the gait of Christian, Pagan, or man, have so strutted,
and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen
had made men, and not made them well, they
imitated humanity so abominably.
1ST ACT. I hope we have reformed that indifferently
with us.
HAM. (C.) Oh, reform it altogether. And let those that
play your clowns speak no more than is set down for
them: for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to
set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too;
though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the
play be then to be considered: that's villainous; and shows
a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make
you ready. Horatio! (_Exit 1st Actor_, L.)
_Enter_ HORATIO, R.
HORATIO, (R.)--Here, sweet lord, at your service.
HAM.--Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man
As e'er my conversation coped withal.
HOR.--Oh, my dear lord!--
HAM.--Nay, do not think I flatter:
For what advancement may I hope from thee,
That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits,
To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?
No, let the candid tongue lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice,
And could of men distinguish her election,
She hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been
As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing;
A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards
Hast tae'n with equal thanks: and blessed are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled,
That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger
To sound what stop she please; give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, aye, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee. Something too much of this.
There is a play to-night before the king
One scene of it comes near the circumstance
Which I have told thee of my father's death.
I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot,
Even with the very comment of thy soul
Observe mine uncle; if his occulted guilt
Do not itself unkennel in one speech,
It is a damned ghost that we have seen,
And my imaginations are as foul
As Vulcan's stithy; give him heedful note.
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face,
And, after, we will both our judgments join
In censure of his seeming.
HOR.--Well, my lord.
HAM--They are coming to the play, I must be idle.
Get you a place (_Goes and stands_, R)
* * * * *
HAMLET AND HIS MOTHER.
HAMLET--Leave wringing of your hands, peace, sit you down,
And let me wring your heart, for so I shall,
If it be made of penetrable stuff;
If damnéd custom have not brassed it so,
That it be proof and bulwark against sense.
QUEEN--What have I done, that thou dar'st wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me?
HAM--Such an act,
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty;
Calls virtue, hypocrite, takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And sets a blister there; makes marriage-vows
As false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul; and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words: Heaven's face doth glow;
Yea, this solidity and compound mass,
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act.
QUEEN.--Ah me, what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?
HAM.--Look here, upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See, what a grace was seated on this brow:
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man:
This was your husband.--Look you now, what follows:
Here is your husband; like a mildewed ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love: for, at your age,
The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment
Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,
Else, could you not have motion: but, sure, that sense
Is apoplexed: for madness would not err;
Nor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thralled,
But it reserved some quantity of choice,
To serve in such a difference. What devil was't
That thus hath cozened you at hoodman-blind?
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling, sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope.
O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,
To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,
And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame,
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge;
Since frost itself as actively doth burn,
And reason panders will.
QUEEN. O Hamlet, speak no more:
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grainéd spots
As will not leave their tinct.
O, speak to me no more:
These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;
No more, sweet Hamlet!
HAM. A murderer, and a villain:
A slave, that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,
And put it in his pocket.
QUEEN. No more.
_Enter_ GHOST.
HAM. A king of shreds and patches,--
Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,
You heavenly guards!--What would your gracious figure?
QUEEN. Alas, he's mad!
HAM. Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by
The important acting of your dread command?
O, say!
GHOST. Do not forget: this visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But look! amazement on thy mother sits:
O, step between her and her fighting soul,
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works,
Speak to her, Hamlet.
HAM. How is it with you, lady?
QUEEN. Alas, how is't with you,
That you do bend your eye on vacancy,
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;
And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,
Your bedded hair, like life in excrements,
Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son,
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?
HAM. On him! on him! Look you, how pale he glares!
His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones,
Would make them capable.--Do not look upon me;
Lest, with this piteous action, you convert
My stern effects: then what I have to do
Will want true colour; tears, perchance for blood.
QUEEN. To whom do you speak this?
HAM. Do you see nothing there?
QUEEN. Nothing at all; yet all, that is, I see.
HAM. Nor did you nothing hear?
QUEEN. No, nothing, but ourselves.
HAM. Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!
My father, in his habit as he lived!
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!
[_Exit_ GHOST.
QUEEN. This is the very coinage of your brain:
This bodiless creation ecstasy
Is very cunning in.
HAM. Ecstasy!
My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful music: it is not madness
That I have uttered: bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word; which madness
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass, but my madness, speaks:
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;
Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;
And do not spread the compost on the weeds
To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue;
For in the fatness of these pursy times,
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg,
Yea, curb and woo, for leave to do him good.
QUEEN. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!
HAM. O, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
Good night: but go not to mine uncle's room;
Assume a virtue, if you have it not
Once more, good night:
And when you are desirous to be blessed,
I'll blessing beg of you.
I must be cruel, only to be kind:
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
_Shakespeare._
* * * * *
MACBETH.
ACT II.--SCENE I.
MACBETH. Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee--
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from a heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before,--There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one-half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep: witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings: and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, toward his design
Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The very stones prate of my where-about,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.--Whilst I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
[_A bell rings_.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. [_Exit_.
* * * * *
SCENE II.--_The same._
_Enter Lady Macbeth._
LADY M. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold:
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire:--
Hark! Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd,
The fatal bellman which gives the stern'st good night.
He is about it: The doors are open;
And the surfeited grooms do mock their charge with snores:
I have drugged their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live, or die.
MACB. [_Within,_] Who's there?--what, hoa!
LADY M. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd,
And 'tis not done:--the attempt, and not the deed,
Confound us:--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready,
He could not miss them.--Had he not resembled
My father as he slept I had done't--My husband!
_Enter Macbeth._
MACB. I have done the deed:--Didst thou not hear a noise?--
LADY M. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.
Did you not speak? MACB. When?
LADY M. Now.
MACB. As I descended?
LADY M. Ay. MACB. Hark!--
Who lies i' the second chamber?
LADY M. Donalbain.
MACB. This is a sorry sight. [_Looking on his hands._
LADY M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
MACB. There's one did laugh in his sleep,
And one cried "murther!" that they did wake each other;
I stood and heard them: but they did say their prayers,
And address'd them again to sleep.
LADY M. There are two lodg'd together.
MACB. One cried, "God bless us!" and "Amen," the other;
As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen,"
When they did say, God bless us.
LADY M. Consider it not so deeply.
MACB. But wherefore could I not pronounce, "Amen?"
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.
LADY M. These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
MACB. Methought, I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murther sleep,"--the innocent sleep;
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
LADY M. What do you mean?
MACB. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house:
"Glamis hath murther'd sleep: and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more!"
LADY M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things--Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.--
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: go, carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.
MACB. I'll go no more
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on't again I dare not.
LADY M. Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers; the sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.
[_Exit. Knocking within._
MACB. Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine,
Making the green one red.
_Re-enter Lady Macbeth._
LADY M. My hands are of your colour; but I shame
To wear a heart so white. [_Knock_.] I hear a knocking
At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber;
A little water clears us of this deed;
How easy is it then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended.--[_Knocking_.] Hark! more knocking:
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers:--Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.
MACB. To know my deed, 'twere best not to know myself.
[_Knocking_
Wake Duncan with thy knocking; I would thou could'st'
[_Exeunt._
* * * * *
SLEEP-WALKING SCENE FROM MACBETH.
ACT V.
SCENE I.--_Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.
Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a waiting Gentlewoman._
DOCT. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your
report. When was it she last walked?
GENT. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her
bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper,
fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to
bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.
DOCT. A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of
sleep, and do the effects of watching.--In this slumbery agitation,
besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have
you heard her say?
GENT. That, sir, which I will not report after her.
DOCT. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should.
GENT. Neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech.
_Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper._
Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast
asleep. Observe her: stand close.
DOCT. How came she by that light?
GENT. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her
command.
DOCT. You see, her eyes are open.
GENT. Ay, but their sense is shut.
DOCT. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.
GENT. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands.
I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.
LADY M. Yet here's a spot.
DOCT. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my
remembrance the more strongly.
LADY M. Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One; Two: Why, then 'tis time to do
't!--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeared! What need
we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--Yet who
would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him!
DOCT. Do you mark that?
LADY M. The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?--What, will these
hands ne'er be clean?--No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar
all with this starting.
DOCT. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.
GENT. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows
what she has known.
LADY M. Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia
will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!
DOCT. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.
GENT. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the
whole body.
DOCT. Well, well, well,--
GENT. Pray God it be, sir.
DOCT. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have
walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.
LADY M. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--I tell
you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave.
DOCT. Even so?
LADY M. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come,
come, give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to
bed.
_Exit Lady Macbeth._
* * * * *
KING JOHN.
ACT III.
SCENE III.
KING JOHN _and_ HUBERT.
K. JOHN. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert.
We owe thee much; within this wall of flesh
There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love:
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,--
But I will fit it with some better time.
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.
HUB. I am much bounden to your majesty.
K. JOHN. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet;
But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say,--but let it go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton and too full of gauds,
To give me audience:--If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound on into the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy--thick,
(Which else, runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes;)
Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone.
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
Then, in despite of brooded, watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
But ah, I will not:--Yet I love thee well:
And, by my troth, I think, thou lov'st me well.
HUB. So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heaven, I would do it.
K. JOHN. Do not I know thou would'st?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy; I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread
He lies before me: Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper. HUB. And I'll keep him so,
That he shall not offend your majesty.
K. JOHN. Death. HUB. My lord?
K. JOHN. A grave. HUB. He shall not live.
K. JOHN. Enough.
I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee.
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:
Remember.--
* * * * *
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
HUBERT _and_ ARTHUR.
HUB. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand
Within the arras; when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,
And bind the boy, which you will find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.
1. ATTEND. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
HUB. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to't.--
_Exeunt_ Attendants.
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.
_Enter Arthur._
ARTH. Good morrow, Hubert.
HUB. Good morrow, little prince.
ARTH. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince), as may be.--You are sad.
HUB. Indeed, I have been merrier.
ARTH. Mercy on me!
Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him:
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
No, indeed, is 't not; And I would to heaven
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
HUB. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [_Aside._
ARTH. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:
In sooth, I would you were a little sick;
That I might sit all night, and watch with you;
I warrant I love you more than you do me.
HUB. His words do take possession of my bosom.--
Read here, young Arthur [_Shewing a paper._
How now, foolish rheum. [_Aside._
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must be brief; lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?
ARTH. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
HUB. Young boy, I must. ARTH. And will you?
HUB. And I will.
ARTH. Have you the heart? When your head did but ake,
I knit my hand-kercher about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me),
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning; do, an if you will;
If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must.--Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you?
HUB. I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
ARTH. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench his fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence;
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?
And if an angel should have come to me,
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd him. No tongue but Hubert's--
HUB. Come forth. [_Stamps.
Re-enter_ Attendants, _with Cords, Irons, etc._
Do as I bid you do.
ARTH. O, save me, Hubert, save me? my eyes are out,
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
HUB. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
ARTH. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly:
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.
HUB. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
IST. ATTEND. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.
[_Exeunt_ Attendants.
ARTH. Alas! I then have chid away my friend;
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:--
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.
HUB. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
ARTH. Is there no remedy?
HUB. None, but to lose your eyes.
ARTH. O heaven!--that there were a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
HUB. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.
ARTH. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes;
Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert!
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes;
Though to no use, but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.
HUB. I can heat it, boy.
ARTH. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us'd
In undeserv'd extremes: See else yourself;
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.
HUB. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
ARTH. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes;
And, like a dog that is compelled to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
All things that you should use to do me wrong
Deny their office; only you do lack
That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.
HUB. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes;
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.
ARTH. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while
You were disguised.
HUB. Peace: no more. Adieu;
Your uncle must not know but you are dead;
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports.
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.
ARTH. O heaven!--I thank you, Hubert.
HUB Silence; no more: Go closely in with me.
Much danger do I undergo for thee. [_Exeunt_
* * * * *
ROMEO AND JULIET.
BALCONY SCENE.
ROMEO. He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
[JULIET _appears on the Balcony, and sits down._
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid, art far more fair than she.
"It is my lady; Oh! it is my love:
Oh, that she knew she were!"
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses: I will answer it.
I am too bold. Oh, were those eyes in heaven,
They would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
JULIET. Ah, me!
ROMEO. She speaks, she speaks!
Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
To the upturned wond'ring eyes of mortals,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
JULIET. Oh, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
ROMEO. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
JULIET. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title! Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.
ROMEO. I take thee at thy word!
Call me but love, I will forswear my name
And never more be Romeo.
JULIET. What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night
So stumblest on my counsel?
ROMEO. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am!
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee.
JULIET. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound!
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
ROMEO. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
JULIET. How cam'st thou hither?--tell me--and for what?
The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb;
And the place, death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
ROMEO. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out;
And what love can do, that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.
JULIET. If they do see thee here, they'll murder thee.
ROMEO. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords! look thou but sweet,
And I, am proof against their enmity.
JULIET. I would not, for the world, they saw thee here.
By whose direction found'st thou out this place?
ROMEO. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire;
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far
As that vast shore washed by the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.
JULIET. Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night!
Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny
What I have spoke! But farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say--Ay;
And I will take thy word! yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false; at lover's perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully!
Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo! but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond:
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light!
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st ere I was ware,
My true love's passion; therefore, pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night has so discovered.
ROMEO. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear--
JULIET. Oh! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon
That monthly changes in her circled orb;
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
ROMEO. What shall I swear by?
JULIET. Do not swear at all;
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.
ROMEO. If my true heart's love--
JULIET. Well, do not swear! Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night;
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
Ere one can say--'It lightens.' Sweet, good-night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good-night, good-night!--as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast!
ROMEO. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
ROMEO. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;
And yet I would it were to give again.
ROMEO. Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
JULIET. But to be frank, and give it thee again.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea;
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have; for both are infinite.
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!
NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!
JULIET. Anon, good Nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again. [_Exit from balcony_.
ROMEO. Oh! blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering sweet to be substantial.
_Re-enter Juliet, above_.
JULIET. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay;
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.
NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!
JULIET. I come anon! But, if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee--
NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!
JULIET. By and by, I come!--
To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief.
To-morrow will I send.
ROMEO. So thrive my soul--
JULIET. A thousand times good-night! [_Exit_.]
ROMEO. A thousand times the worse to want thy light.
_Re-enter Juliet_
JULIET. Hist! Romeo, hist! Oh, for a falconer's voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,
With repetition of my Romeo's name.
ROMEO. It is my love that calls upon my name!
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!
JULIET. Romeo!
ROMEO. My dear!
JULIET. At what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?
ROMEO. At the hour of nine.
JULIET. I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.
ROMEO. Let me stand here till thou remember it.
JULIET. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there
Remembering how I love thy company.
ROMEO. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.
JULIET. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone,
And yet no further than a wanton's bird;
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of its liberty.
ROMEO. I would I were thy bird.
JULIET. Sweet, so would I!
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing
Good-night, good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow
That I shall say--Good-night, till it be morrow.
[_Exit from balcony_]
ROMEO. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell;
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.
_Shakespeare_
* * * * *
THE POTION SCENE.
(_Romeo and Juliet_.)
JULIET'S CHAMBER.
_Enter Juliet and Nurse_.
JULIET. Ay, those attires are best;--but gentle nurse.
I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night;
For I have need of many orisons
To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin.
_Enter Lady Capulet_.
LADY C. What are you busy? Do you need my help?
JULIET. No, madam; we have culled such necessaries.
As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:
So please you, let me now be left alone,
And let the nurse this night sit up with you;
For, I am sure, you have your hands full all,
In this so sudden business.
LADY C. Then, good-night!
Get thee to bed, and rest! for thou hast need.
[_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse_.
JULIET. Farewell!--Heaven knows when we shall meet again--
I have a faint cold fear, thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of life:
I'll call them back again to comfort me.
Nurse!--What should she do here?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
[_Takes out the phial_.
Come, phial--
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I of force be married to the Count?
No, no;--this shall forbid it!--[_Draws a dagger_.]--Lie thou there.--
What, if it be a poison which the friar
Subtly hath ministered to have me dead,
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonoured,
Because he married me before to Romeo?
I fear it is; and yet, methinks it should not;
For he hath still been tried a holy man.
I will not entertain so bad a thought.--
How, if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
Or, if I live, is it not very like,
The horrible conceit of death and night
Together with the terror of the place,--
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
Where, for these many hundred years, the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are packed,
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort;--
Oh, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environéd with all these hideous fears,
And madly play with my forefathers' joints,--
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?--
Oh, look! methinks, I see my cousin's ghost
Seeking out Romeo:--Stay, Tybalt, stay!--
Romeo, I come; this do I drink to thee.--
_[Drinks the contents of the phial._
Oh, potent draught, thou hast chilled me to the heart!--
My head turns round;--my senses fail me.--
Oh, Romeo! Romeo!-- _[Throws herself on the bed._
* * * * *
THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
Oh, is it a phantom? a dream of the night?
A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight?
The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain
Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain,
To and fro, up and down.
But it is not the wind
That is lifting it now; and it is not the mind
That hath moulded that vision.
A pale woman enters,
As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer,
There, all in a slumb'rous and shadowy glimmer,
The sufferer sees that still form floating on,
And feels faintly aware that he is not alone.
She is flitting before him. She pauses She stands
By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands
On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing
Softly, softly, the sore wounds: the hot blood-stained dressing
Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals
Thro' the racked weary frame; and throughout it, he feels
The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood.
Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood
Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him,
And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before him,
It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping!
A soft voice says--'Sleep!'
And he sleeps: he is sleeping.
He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there:
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care
Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering
The aspect of all things around him.
Revering
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest
Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly
Sigh'd--'Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly
'And minist'ring spirit!
A whisper serene
Slid softer than silence--'The Soeur Seraphine,
'A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire
'Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire,
'For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave.
'Thou didst not shun death: shun not life. 'Tis more brave
To live than to die. Sleep!'
He sleeps: he is sleeping.
He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping
The skies with chill splendour. And there, never flitting,
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting.
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning,
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.
He said:
'If thou be of the living, and not of the dead,
'Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing
'Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing
'Thy mission of mercy! whence art thou?
'O son
'Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One
'Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead;
'To thee, and to others, alive yet'--she said--
'So long as there liveth the poor gift in me
'Of this ministration; to them, and to thee,
'Dead in all things beside. A French nun, whose vocation
'Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation.
'Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe,
'There her land! there her kindred!'
She bent down to smooth
The hot pillow, and added--'Yet more than another
'Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother,
'I know them--I know them.'
'Oh can it be? you!
'My dearest, dear father! my mother! you knew,
'You know them?'
She bow'd, half averting her head
In silence.
He brokenly, timidly said,
'Do they know I am thus?'
'Hush!'--she smiled as she drew
From her bosom two letters; and--can it be true?
That beloved and familiar writing!
He burst
Into tears--'My poor mother,--my father! the worst
'Will have reached them!'
'No, no!' she exclaimed with a smile,
'They know you are living; they know that meanwhile
'I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!'
But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot
Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd.
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest;
And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping,
The calm voice say--'Sleep!'
And he sleeps, he is sleeping'
* * * * *
SIM'S LITTLE GIRL.
Come out here, George Burks. Put that glass down--can't wait a minute.
Business particular--concerns the Company.
I don't often meddle in other folks' business, do I? When a tough old
fellow like me sets out to warn a body, you may know its because he sees
sore need of it. _Just takin' drinks for good fellowship?_ Yes, I know
all 'bout that. Been there myself. Sit down on the edge of the platform
here.
Of all the men in the world, I take it, engineers ought to be the last to
touch the bottle. We have life and property trusted to our hands. Ours is a
grand business--I don't think folks looks at it as they ought to. Remember
when I was a young fellow, like you, just set up with an engine, I used to
feel like a strong angel, or somethin', rushin' over the country, makin'
that iron beast do just as I wanted him to. The power sort of made me think
fast.
I was doin' well when I married, and I did well long afterwards. We had a
nice home, the little woman and me: our hearts were set on each other, and
she was a little proud of her engineer--she used to say so, anyhow. She was
sort of mild and tender with her tongue. Not one of your loud ones. And
pretty, too. But you know what it is to love a woman, George Burks--I saw
you walking with a blue-eyed little thing last Sunday.
After a while we had the little girl. We talked a good deal about what we
should call her, my wife and I. We went clean through the Bible, and set
down all the fine story names we heard of. But nothin' seemed to suit. I
used to puzzle the whole length of my route to find a name for that little
girl. My wife wanted to call her Endora Isabel. But that sounded like
folderol. Then we had up Rebeccar, and Maud, and Amanda Ann, and what not.
Finally, whenever I looked at her, I seemed to see "Katie." She looked
Katie. I took to calling her Katie, and she learned it--so Katie she was.
I tell you, George, that was a child to be noticed. She was rounder and
prettier made'n a wax figger; her eyes was bigger and blacker'n any grown
woman's you ever saw, set like stars under her forehead, and her hair was
that light kind that all runs to curls and glitter.
Soon's she could toddle, she used to come dancin' to meet me. I've soiled
a-many of her white pinafores buryin' my face in them before I was washed,
and sort of prayin' soft like under the roof of my heart, "God bless my
baby! God bless my little lamb!"
As she grew older, I used to talk to her about engin'--even took her into
my cab, and showed the 'tachments of the engin', and learned her signals
and such things. She tuk such an interest, and was the smartest little
thing! Seemed as if she had always knowed 'em. She loved the road. Remember
once hearing her say to a playmate: "There's my papa. He's an engineer.
Don't you wish he was your papa?"
My home was close by the track. Often and often the little girl stood in
our green yard, waving her mite of a hand as we rushed by.
Well, one day I started on my home trip, full of that good fellowship you
was imbibin' awhile ago. Made the engine whizz! We was awful jolly, the
fireman and me. Never was drunk when I got on my engine before, or the
Company would have shipped me. Warn't no such time made on that road before
nor since. I had just sense enough to know what I was about, but not enough
to handle an emergency. We fairly roared down on the trestle that stood at
the entrance of our town.
I had a tipsy eye out, and, George, as we was flyin' through the suburbs, I
see my little girl on the track ahead, wavin' a red flag and standin' stock
still!
The air seemed full of Katies. I could have stopped the engine if I'd only
had sense enough to know what to take hold of to reverse her! But I was too
drunk! And that grand little angel stood up to it, trying to warn us in
time, and we just swept right along into a pile of ties some wretch had
placed on the track!--right over my baby! Oh, my baby! Go away, George.
There! And do you want me to tell you how that mangled little mass killed
her mother? And do you want me to tell you I walked alive a murderer of my
own child, who stood up to save me? And do you want me to tell you the good
fellowship you were drinkin' awhile ago brought all this on me?
You'll let this pass by, makin' up your mind to be moderate. Hope you will.
I was a moderate un.
(Oh, God! Oh, my baby!)
_Mary Hartwell._
* * * * *
PRAYER.
More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day:
For what are men better than sheep or goats,
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friends?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
_Tennyson._
* * * * *
EXPERIENCE WITH EUROPEAN GUIDES.
European guides know about enough English to tangle everything up so that a
man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart,--
the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show
you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would,--and if you interrupt and
throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All
their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners
and listening to their bursts of admiration.
It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what
prompts children to say "smart" things and do absurd ones, and in other
ways "show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out
in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news.
Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is,
every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect
ecstacies of admiration! He gets so that he could not by any possibility
live in a soberer atmosphere.
After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more,--we never
admired anything,--we never showed anything but impassable faces and stupid
indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to
display. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever
since. We have made some of those people savage at times, but we never lost
our serenity.
The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his
countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more
imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes
natural to him.
The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because
Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before
any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had
swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation,--full of
impatience. He said:--
"Come wis me, genteelmen!--come! I show you ze letter writing by
Christopher Colombo!--write it himself!--write it wis his own hand!--come!"
He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys
and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us.
The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with
his finger:--
"What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher
Colombo!--write it himself!"
We looked indifferent,--unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very
deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of
interest,--
"Ah,--Ferguson,--what--what did you say was the name of the party who wrote
this?"
"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"
Another deliberate examination.
"Ah,--did he write it himself, or,--or, how?"
"He write it himself!--Christopher Colombo! he's own handwriting, write by
himself!"
Then the doctor laid the document down and said,--
"Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write
better than that."
"But zis is ze great Christo--"
"I don't care who it is! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn't
think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a
good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot
them out!--and if you haven't, drive on!"
We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more
venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said,--
"Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us! I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent
bust Christopher Colombo!--splendid, grand, magnificent!"
He brought us before the beautiful bust,--for it was beautiful,--and sprang
back and struck an attitude,--
"Ah, look, genteelmen!--beautiful, grand,--bust Christopher Columbo!--
beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!"
The doctor put up his eye-glass,--procured for such occasions:--
"Ah,--what did you say this gentleman's name was?"
"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"
"Christopher Colombo,--the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he
do?"
"Discover America!--discover America--oh, ze diable!"
"Discover America? No,--that statement will hardly wash. We are just from
America ourselves. Christopher Colombo,--pleasant name,--is--is he dead?"
"Oh, corpo di Bacco!--three hundred year!"
"What did he die of?"
"I do not know. I cannot tell."
"Small-pox, think?"
"I do not know, genteelmen,--I do not know what he die of!"
"Measles, likely?"
"Maybe,--maybe. I do not know,--I think he die of something."
"Parents living?"
"Im-posseeble"
"Ah,--which is the bust and which is the pedestal?"
"Santa Maria!--zis ze bust!--zis ze pedestal!"
"Ah, I see, I see,--happy combination,--very happy combination, indeed. Is
--is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust."
That joke was lost on the foreigner,--guides cannot master the subtleties
of the American joke.
We have made it interesting for this Roman guide.
Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful
world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even
admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else
ever did in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He
walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted
all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest
in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder
till the last,--a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world,
perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure this time that some of his old
enthusiasm came back to him:--
"See, genteelmen!--Mummy! Mummy!"
The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.
"Ah,--Ferguson,--what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name
was?"
"Name?--he got no name!--Mummy!--'Gyptian mummy!"
"Yes, yes. Born here?"
"No. 'Gyptian mummy!"
"Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?"
"No! Not Frenchman, not Roman! Born in Egypta!"
"Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely.
Mummy,--mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed! Is--ah!--is he dead?"
"Oh, sacré bleu! been dead three thousan' year!"
The doctor turned on him savagely:--
"Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing us for
Chinamen, because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose
your vile secondhand carcasses on us! Thunder and lightning! I've a notion
to--to--if you've got a nice, fresh corpse fetch him out!--or we'll brain
you!"
However, he has paid us back partly, and without knowing it. He came to the
hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavoured, as well as he
could, to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he
meant. He finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The
observation was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good
thing for a guide to say.
Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering
subject we have had yet. We shall be sorry to part with him. We have
enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are
harassed with doubts.
_Mark Twain._
* * * * *
FIRST EXPERIENCE.
A very intelligent Irishman tells the following incident of his experience
in America: I came to this country several years ago, and, as soon as I
arrived, hired out to a gentleman who farmed a few acres. He showed me over
the premises, the stables, the cow, and where the corn, hay, oats, etc.,
were kept, and then sent me in to my supper. After supper, he said to me,
"James, you may feed the cow, and give her corn in the ear." I went out and
walked about, thinking, "what could he mean? Had I understood him?" I
scratched my head, then resolved I would enquire again; so I went into the
library where my master was writing very busily and he answered me without
looking up: "I thought I told you to give the cow some corn in the ear."
I went out more puzzled than ever. What sort of an animal must this Yankee
cow be? I examined her mouth and ears. The teeth were good, and the ears
like those of kine in the old country. Dripping with sweat, I entered my
master's presence once more "Please, sir, you bid me give the cow some corn
_in the ear_, but didn't you mean the _mouth?_" He looked at me a
moment, and then burst into such a convulsion of laughter, that I made for
the stable as fast as my feet could take me, thinking I was in the service
of a crazy man.
* * * * *
POOR LITTLE JOE.
Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey,
Fur I've brought you sumpin great.
Apples? No, a deal sight better!
Don't you take no interest, wait'
Flowers, Joe,--I know'd you'd like 'em--
Ain't them scrumptious, ain't them high
Tears, my boy, what's them fur, Joey?
There--poor little Joe--don't cry.
I was skippin' past a winder,
Where a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes--
Each one climbin' from a pot.
Every bush had flowers on it;
Pretty! Mebbe' not! Oh no'
Wish you could a-seen'm growin',
It was such a stunnin show.
Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
Lyin' here so sick and weak,
Never knowin' any comfort,
And I puts on lots o' cheek;
"Missus," says I, "if yo please, mum,
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus,
Never seed one, I suppose."
Then I told her all about you--
How I bringed you up,--poor Joe!
(Lackin' women-folks to do it)
Sich a imp you was, you know--
Till yer got that awful tumble,
Jist as I had broke yer in
(Hard work, too), to earn yer livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.
How that tumble crippled of you--
So's you couldn't hyper much--
Joe, it hurted when I see you
For the first time with your crutch.
"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,
'Pears to weaken every day."
Joe, she up and went to cuttin'--
That's the how of this bokay.
Say! it seems to me, ole feller,
You is quite yourself to-night;
Kind o' chirk, it's been a fortnight
Sence your eyes have been so bright.
Better! well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe,
Smellin' of them's made you happy?
Well, I thought it would, you know.
Never see the country did you?
Flowers growin' everywhere!
Sometime when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven! 'M--I spose so;
Dunno much about it though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.
But I've heerd it hinted somewheres,
That in heaven's golden gates,
Things is everlastin' cheerful,
B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't get hungry;
So good people when they dies,
Finds themselves well-fixed for ever--
Joe, my boy, wot ails your eyes?
Thought they looked a Jittle singler.
Oh no! don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made for such as you is--
Joe, what makes you look so queer?
Here--wake up! Oh, don't look that way!
Joe, my boy, hold up your head!
Here's your flowers you dropped 'em, Joey.
Oh, my Joe! can he be dead?
_Peleg Arkwright._
* * * * *
NIAGARA.
The thoughts are strange that crowd upon my brain
As I look upward to thee! It would seem
As if God poured thee from His hollow hand,
And hung His bow upon thine awful front,
And spake in that loud voice that seemed to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
The sound of many waters; and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch His centuries in the eternal rock!
Deep calleth unto deep, and what are we
That hear the questions of that voice sublime?
O what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side?
Yea, what is all the riot man can make,
In his short life, to thine unceasing roar?
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave
That runs and whispers of thy Maker's might!
_John G. C. Brainard._
* * * * *
WOUNDED.
Let me lie down,
Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
Here low on the trampled grass, where I may see,
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear,
The glad cry of Victory, cheer upon cheer,
Let me lie down.
Oh! it was grand!
Like the tempest we charged in the triumph to share,
The tempest, its fury and thunder were there,
On! on! o'er entrenchments, o'er living, o'er dead,
With the foe under our feet, and our flag overhead,
Oh! it was grand!
Weary and faint,
Prone on the soldier's couch, ah! how can I rest,
With this shot-shattered head, and sabre-pierced breast?
Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought,
Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,--
Wounded and faint.
Dying at last!
My Mother, dear Mother, with meek tearful eye.
Farewell! and God bless you, forever and aye!
Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest:
Dying at last!
I am no saint!
But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,--
"Our Father;" and then says, "Forgive us our sins,"--
Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then
I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say, Amen!
Ah, I'm no saint!
Hark! there's a shout!
Raise me up, comrades, we've conquered, I know,
Up, up, on my feet, with my face to the foe.
Ah! there flies our flag with its star-spangles bright,
The promise of victory, the symbol of might,
Well! may we shout.
I'm mustered out!
Oh! God of our Fathers, our freedom prolong,
And tread down oppression, rebellion, and wrong.
Oh! land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened sod,
I die for the Nation, the Union, and God.
I'm mustered out!
_Anon._
* * * * *
THE WHISTLER.
"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood
While he sat on a corn sheaf, at daylight's decline,--
"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood:
I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine."
"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said,
While an arch smile played over her beautiful face,
"I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid
Would fly to my side and would there take her place."
"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours
Without any magic!" the fair maiden cried:
A favour so slight one's good-nature secures;"
And she playfully seated herself by his side.
"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm
Would work so that not even modesty's check
Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm."
She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck.
"Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine
Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,--
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine;
And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss."
The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,--
"What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make!
For only consider how silly 'twould be
To sit there and whistle for what you might take."
_Robert Story_.
* * * * *
TOM.
Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.
Just listen to this:--
When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through,
And I with it, helpless there, full in my view
What do you think my eyes saw through the fire
That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher?
But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see
The shining. He must have come there after me,
Toddled alone from the cottage without
Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout--
Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men,
Save little Robin!" Again and again
They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall.
I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
"Never mind, baby, sit still like a man!
We're coming to get you as fast as we can."
They could not see him but I could. He sat
Still on a beam, his little straw hat
Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes
Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept,
The roar of the fire up above must have kept
The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name
From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came
Again and again. O God, what a cry!
The axes went faster. I saw the sparks fly
Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat
That scorched them,--when, suddenly, there at their feet
The great beams leaned in--they saw him--then, crash,
Down came the wall! The men made a dash,--
Jumped to get out of the way,--and I thought,
"All's up with poor little Robin!" and brought
Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide
The sight of the child there,--when swift, at my side,
Some one rushed by and went right through the flame,
Straight as a dart--caught the child--and then came
Back with him, choking and crying, but--saved!
Saved safe and sound!
Oh, how the men raved,
Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all
Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall
Where I was lying, away from the fire,
Should fall in and bury me.
Oh! you'd admire,
To see Robin now: he's as bright as a dime,
Deep in some mischief too, most of the time.
Tom, it was saved him. Now, isn't it true
Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?
There's Robin now! See he's strong as a log!
And there comes Tom too--
Yes, Tom is our dog.
_Constance Fenimore Woolsen_
* * * * *
TEMPERANCE.
The need of the hour is a grand tidal wave of total abstinence sweeping
over the land. The strongest protest possible must be made against
intemperance. Total abstinence is the protest. Will it be made with
sufficient force to save the people? This is the vital question for the
future of America, and I might add for the future of religion. What is to
be done? I speak to those who by position, influence, talent, or office
ought to take an interest in the people. In the name of humanity, of
country, of religion, by all the most sacred ties that bind us to our
fellow-men for the love of Him who died for souls, I beseech you, declare
war against intemperance! Arrest its onward march! If total abstinence does
not appear to you the remedy, adopt some other. If you differ from me in
the means you propose, I will not complain. But I will complain in the
bitterness of my soul if you stand by, arms folded, while this dreadful
torrent is sweeping over the land, carrying with it ruin and misery. The
brightest minds and the noblest hearts are numbered among the victims.
Human wrecks whose fortune it has dissipated, whose intellect it has
stifled, are strewn over the land as thick as autumnal leaves in the
forest. Alcohol directly inflames the passions; it is oil poured on the
burning fire. It turns man into an animal; it makes him the demon
incarnate. One week's perusal of the daily paper fills the mind with horror
at the shocking accidents, the suicides, the murders, the ruin of
innocence, and the crimes of all kinds caused by intemperance.
_Rt. Rev. John Ireland._
* * * * *
THE BALD-HEADED MAN.
The other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small boy, boarded a
train at Little Rock. The woman had a careworn expression hanging over her
face like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid questions asked by the boy
were answered by unconscious sighs.
"Ma," said the boy, "that man's like a baby, ain't he?" pointing to a bald-
headed man sitting just in front of them.
"Hush!"
"Why must I hush?"
After a few moments' silence: "Ma, what's the matter with that man's head?
"Hush, I tell you. He's bald."
"What's bald?"
"His head hasn't got any hair on it."
"Did it come off?"
"I guess so."
"Will mine come off?"
"Some time, may be."
"Then I'll be bald, won't I?"
"Yes."
"Will you care?"
"Don't ask so many questions."
After another silence, the boy exclaimed: "Ma, look at that fly on that
man's head."
"If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home."
"Look! There's another fly. Look at 'em fight; look at 'em!"
"Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and looking around,
"what's the matter with that young hyena?"
The woman blushed, stammered out something, and attempted to smooth back
the boy's hair.
"One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy, innocently, following with
his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a newsboy.
"Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed man, "if you don't hush,
I'll have the conductor put you off the train."
The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then
gave him an orange to keep him from crying.
"Ma, have I got red marks on my head?"
"I'll whip you again, if you don't hush."
"Mister," said the boy, after a short silence, "does it hurt to be bald-
headed?"
"Youngster," said the man, "if you'll keep quiet, I'll give you a quarter."
The boy promised, and the money was paid over.
The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading.
"This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. "When I get bald-headed, I'm
goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money?"
The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed: "Madam,
hereafter when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I
always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to
kill the children for making sport of his head, but now I am forced to
believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd, he
would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, I'll
ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here."
"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and as the woman leaned back a
tired sigh escaped from her lips.
* * * * *
A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.
She had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful I
Must be the work of nature to a child
In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That look'd so still and delicate above,
Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the first golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively,--
"Father, dear father, God has made a star."
_Willis_.
* * * * *
EVE'S REGRETS ON QUITTING PARADISE.
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave
Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to spend,
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both! O flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation and my last
At even, which I bred up with tender hand
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names!
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?
Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorn'd
With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee
How shall I part, and whither wander down
Into a lower world, to this obscure
And wild? how shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits?
_Milton_.
* * * * *
READING THE LIST.
"Is there any news of the war?" she said,
"Only a list of the wounded and dead,"
Was the man's reply,
Without lifting his eye
To the face of the woman standing by.
"Tis the very thing I want," she said;
"Read me a list of the wounded and dead."
He read her the list--'twas a sad array
Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray:
In the very midst was a pause to tell
Of a gallant youth, who had fought so well
That his comrades asked, "Who is he, pray?"
"The only son of the widow Gray,"
Was the proud reply
Of his captain nigh.
What ails the woman standing near?
Her face has the ashen hue of fear.
"Well, well, read on: is he wounded? be quick
O God! but my heart is sorrow sick!"
"Is he wounded? no! he fell, they say,
Killed outright on that fatal day!"
But see! the woman has swooned away.
Sadly she opened her eyes to the light;
Slowly recalled the event of the fight;
Faintly she murmured, "Killed outright;
It has caused the death of my only son;
But the battle is fought and the victory won;
The will of the Lord, let it be done!"
God pity the cheerless widow Gray,
And send from the halls of eternal day
The light of His peace to illumine her way!
* * * * *
LITTLE MARY'S WISH.
"I have seen the first robin of spring, mother dear,
And have heard the brown darling sing;
You said, 'Hear it and wish, and 'twill surely come true;
So I've wished such a beautiful thing!
"I thought I would like to ask something for _you_,
But I couldn't think what there could be
That you'd want while you had all those beautiful things;
Besides, you have papa and me.
"So I wished for a ladder, so long that 'twould stand
One end by our own cottage door,
And the other go up past the moon and the stars
And lean against heaven's white floor.
"Then I'd get you to put on my pretty white dress,
With my sash and my darling new shoes;
Then I'd find some white roses to take up to God--
The most beautiful ones I could choose.
"And you and dear papa would sit on the ground
And kiss me, and tell me 'Good-bye!'
Then I'd go up the ladder far out of your sight,
Till I came to the door in the sky.
"I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight?
If but _one_ little crack I could see,
I would whisper, 'Please, God, let this little, girl in,
She's as tired as she can be!
"She came all alone from the earth to the sky,
For she's always been wanting to see
The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers,
'Please, God, is there room there for me?'
"And then, when the angels had opened the door,
God would say, 'Bring the little child here,'
But he'd speak it so softly I'd not be afraid,
And he'd smile just like you, mother dear
"He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl,
And I'd ask Him to send down for you,
And papa, and cousin, and all that I love--
Oh, dear' don't you wish 'twould come true?"
The next spring time, when the robins came home,
They sang over grasses and flowers
That grew where the foot of the ladder stood,
Whose top reached the heavenly bowers.
And the parents had dressed the pale, still child,
For her flight to the summer land,
In a fair white robe, with one snow white rose
Folded tight in her pulseless hand.
And now at the foot of the ladder they sit,
Looking upward with quiet tears,
Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe
Of the child at the top appears.
_Mrs. L. M. Blinn._
* * * * *
"GOOD-BYE."
Did you ever hear two married women take leave of each other at the gate on
a mild evening? This is how they do it:--"Good-bye!" "Good-bye! Come down
and see us soon." "I will. Good-bye." "Good-bye! Don't forget to come
soon." "No, I won't. Don't you forget to come up." "I won't. Be sure and
bring Sarah Jane with you the next time." "I will. I'd have brought her
this time, but she wasn't very well. She wanted to come awfully." "Did she
now? That was too bad! Be sure and bring her next time." "I will; and you
be sure and bring baby." "I will; I forgot to tell you that he's cut
another tooth." "You don't say so! How many has he now?" "Five. It makes
him awfully cross." "I dare say it does this hot weather. Well, good-bye!
Don't forget to come down." "No, I won't. Don't you forget to come up.
Goodbye!" And they separate.
* * * * *
THE WEDDING FEE.
One morning, fifty years ago,--
When apple trees were white with snow
Of fragrant blossoms, and the air
Was spell-bound with the perfume rare--
Upon a farm horse, large and lean,
And lazy with its double load,
A sun-browned youth, and maid were seen
Jogging along the winding road.
Blue were the arches of the skies;
But bluer were that maiden's eyes.
The dew-drops on the grass were bright;
But brighter was the loving light
That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid,
Where those bright eyes of blue were hid;
Adown the shoulders brown and bare
Rolled the soft waves of golden hair,
Where, almost strangled with the spray,
The sun, a willing sufferer lay.
It was the fairest sight, I ween,
That the young man had ever seen;
And with his features all aglow,
The happy fellow told her so!
And she without the least surprise
Looked on him with those heavenly eyes;
Saw underneath that shade of tan
The handsome features of a man;
And with a joy but rarely known
She drew that dear face to her own,
And by her bridal bonnet hid--
I shall not tell you what she did!
So, on they ride until among
The new-born leaves with dew-drops hung,
The parsonage, arrayed in white,
Peers out,--a more than welcome sight.
Then, with a cloud upon his face.
"What shall we do," he turned to say,
"Should he refuse to take his pay
From what is in the pillow-case?"
And glancing down his eyes surveyed
The pillow-case before him laid,
Whose contents reaching to its hem,
Might purchase endless joy for them.
The maiden answers, "Let us wait;
To borrow trouble where's the need?"
Then, at the parson's squeaking gate
Halted the more than willing steed.
Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung;
The latchless gate behind him swung;
The knocker of that startled door,
Struck as it never was before,
Brought the whole household pale with fright;
And there, with blushes on his cheek,
So bashful he could hardly speak,
The farmer met their wondering sight.
The groom goes in, his errand tells,
And, as the parson nods, he leans
Far o'er the window-sill and yells,
"Come in! He says he'll take the beans!"
Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound
She and the bean-bag reached the ground.
Then, clasping with each dimpled arm
The precious product of the farm,
She bears it through the open door;
And, down upon the parlour floor,
Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.
Ah! happy were their songs that day,
When man and wife they rode away.
But happier this chorus still
Which echoed through those woodland scenes:
"God bless the priest of Whitinsville!
God bless the man who took the beans!"
_R. M. Streeter_.
* * * * *
THE FIREMAN.
'Tis a cold bleak night! with angry roar
The north winds beat and clamour at the door;
The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,
Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;
The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend,
But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;
Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,
Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.
In lofty hails, where fortune takes its ease,
Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;
In happy homes where warmth and comfort meet.
The weary traveller with their smiles to greet;
In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm
Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,
Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light--
"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"
But hark! above the beating of the storm
Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm!
Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light,
And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;
From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,
The ready friend no danger can appal;
Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,
He hurries forth to battle and to save.
From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,
Devouring all they coil themselves about,
The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,
Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.
Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe
In vain attempts their power to overthrow;
With mocking glee they revel with their prey,
Defying human skill to check their way.
And see! far up above the flames hot breath,
Something that's human waits a horrid death;
A little child, with waving golden hair,
Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,
Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,
While sobs of terror shake her tender breast.
And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild,
A mother screams, "O, God! my child! my child!"
Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng
A hardy fireman swiftly moves along;
Mounts sure and fast along the slender way,
Fearing no danger, dreading but delay.
The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path,
Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath;
But up, still up he goes! the goal is won!
His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!
Gone to his death. The wily flames surround
And burn and beat his ladder to the ground,
In flaming columns move with quickened beat
To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat.
Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure,
Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore;
Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live,
Crowned with all honours nobleness can give.
Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears;
Behold! he quickly on the roof appears,
Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm
Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm.
Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance!
Behold how fast the roaring flames advance!
Quick! quick! brave spirits to his rescue fly;
Up! up! by heavens! this hero must not die!
Silence! he comes along the burning road,
Bearing, with tender care, his living load;
Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save
The good, true heart that can so nobly brave.
He's up again! and now he's coming fast!
One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed!
And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain!
A happy mother clasps her child again!
_George M. Baker._
* * * * *
THE LAUNCH OF THE SHIP.
"Build me straight, O worthy Master!
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel,
That shall laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
The merchant's word
Delighted the Master heard;
For his heart was in his work, and the heart
Giveth grace unto every art.
And with a voice that was full of glee,
He answered, "Ere long we will launch
A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch
As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
All is finished! and at length
Has come the bridal day
Of beauty and of strength.
To-day the vessel shall be launched!
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched;
And o'er the bay,
Slowly, in all his splendours dight,
The great sun rises to behold the sight.
The ocean old
Centuries old,
Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
Paces restless to and fro,
Up and down the sands of gold.
His beating heart is not at rest;
And far and wide,
With ceaseless flow,
His beard of snow
Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
He waits impatient for his bride.
There she stands,
With her foot upon the sands,
Decked with flags and streamers gay,
In honour of her marriage-day,
Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
Round her like a veil descending,
Ready to be
The bride of the gray old sea.
Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand;
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs,
And see! she stirs!
She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!
And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,--
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth, and all her charms!"
How beautiful she is! how fair
She lies within those arms that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast and sail and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge, and what a heat,
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock;
'Tis of the wave, and not the rock;
'Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea;
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee:
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
_Longfellow._
* * * * *
ROCK OF AGES.
_"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"_
Sang the lady, soft and low,
And her voice's gentle flow
Rose upon the evening air
With the sweet and solemn prayer:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"