FRANCIS SCOTT KEY, the author of the fol_Library of the best American literature Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

poem, was born in Frederick County, Maryland, August 1, 1779.

He was a very able and eloquent lawyer, and one of the most

respectable gentlemen whose lives have ever adorned American

society. He was a man of much literary cultivation and taste,

and his religious poems are not without merit. He died very

suddenly at Baltimore on January 11, 1843. In 1814, when

the British fleet was at the mouth of the Potomac River, and

intended to attack Baltimore, Mr. Key and Mr. Skinner were sent

in a vessel with a flag of truce to obtain the release of some

prisoners the English had taken in their expedition against

Washington. They did not succeed, and were told that they would

be detained till after the attack had been made on Baltimore.

Accordingly, they went in their own vessel, strongly guarded,

with the British fleet, and when they came within sight of Fort

McHenry, a short distance below the city, they could see the

American flag flying on the ramparts. As the day closed in, the

bombardment of the fort commenced, and Mr. Key and Mr. Skinner

remained on deck all night, watching with deep anxiety every

shell that was fired. While the bombardment continued, it was

sufficient proof that the fort had not surrendered. It suddenly

ceased some time before day; but as they had no communication

with any of the enemy’s ships, they did not know whether

the fort had surrendered and their homes and friends were in

danger, or the attack upon it had been abandoned. They paced

the deck the rest of the night in painful suspense, watching

with intense anxiety for the return of day. At length the light

came, and they saw that “our flag was still there,” and soon

they were informed that the attack had failed. In the fervor

of the moment, Mr. Key took an old letter from his pocket, and

on its back wrote the most of this celebrated song, finishing

it as soon as he reached Baltimore. He showed it to his friend

Judge Nicholson, who was so pleased with it that he placed it

at once in the hands of the printer, and in an hour after it

was all over the city, and hailed with enthusiasm, and took

its place at once as a national song. Thus, this patriotic,

impassioned ode became forever associated with the “Stars and

Stripes.”

O! SAY, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming;

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous

fight,

O’er the ramparts we watch’d, were so gallantly streaming?

And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still there;

O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze o’er the towering steep

As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam;

Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream:

’Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

And where is the band who so vauntingly swore,

Mid the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion,

A home and a country they’d leave us no more?

Their blood hath wash’d out their foul footsteps’ pollution;

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave,

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freeman shall stand

Between our loved home and the war’s desolation;

Bless’d with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land

Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation!

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just,

And this be our motto, “In GOD is our trust,”

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

* * * * *

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

BY JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

Born in New York, August 17, 1795; died September 21, 1820.

WHEN Freedom from her mountain height,

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there!

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes

The milky baldric of the skies,

And striped its pure celestial white

With streakings of the morning light;

Then, from his mansion in the sun,

She called her eagle-bearer down,

And gave into his mighty hand

The symbol of her chosen land!

Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear’st aloft thy regal form,

To hear the tempest trumping loud,

And see the lightning lances driven,

When strive the warriors of the storm,

And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven――

Child of the sun! to thee ’tis given

To guard the banner of the free,

To hover in the sulphur smoke,

To ward away the battle-stroke,

And bid its blendings shine afar,

Like rainbows on the cloud of war,

The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,

The sign of hope and triumph high!

When speaks the signal-trumpet tone,

And the long line comes gleaming on,

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,

Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,

Each soldier’s eye shall brightly turn

To where thy sky-born glories burn,

And, as his springing steps advance,

Catch war and vengeance from the glance.

And when the cannon-mouthings loud

Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,

And gory sabres rise and fall

Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall,

Then shall thy meteor glances glow,

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath

Each gallant arm that strikes below

That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave

Thy stars shall glitter o’er the brave

When death, careering on the gale,

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,

And frighted waves rush wildly back

Before the broadside’s reeling rack,

Each dying wanderer of the sea

Shall look at once to heaven and thee,

And smile to see thy splendors fly

In triumph o’er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart’s hope and home,

By angel hands to valor given!

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us!

With freedom’s soil beneath our feet,

And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us!

* * * * *

BLIND MAN AND THE ELEPHANT.

BY JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

Born in Vermont, June 2, 1816; died in Albany, N. Y., March 31,

1887.

IT was six men of Indostan

To learning much inclined,

Who went to see the elephant

(Though all of them were blind,)

That each by observation

Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the elephant,

And, happening to fall

Against his broad and sturdy side,

At once began to bawl:

“God bless me! but the elephant

Is very like a wall!”

The Second, feeling of the tusk,

Cried: “Ho! what have we here

So very round and smooth and sharp?

To me ’tis mighty clear

This wonder of an elephant

Is very like a spear!”

The Third approached the animal,

And, happening to take

The squirming trunk within his hands,

Thus boldly up and spake:

“I see,” quoth he, “the elephant

Is very like a snake!”

The Fourth reached out his eager hand,

And felt about the knee,

“What most this wondrous beast is like

Is mighty plain,” quoth he;

“Tis clear enough the elephant

Is very like a tree!”

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,

Said: “E’en the blindest man

Can tell what this resembles most;

Deny the fact who can,

This marvel of an elephant,

Is very like a fan!”

The Sixth no sooner had begun

About the beast to grope,

Than, seizing on the swinging tail

That fell within his scope,

“I see,” quoth he, “the elephant

Is very like a rope!”

And so these men of Indostan

Disputed loud and long,

Each in his own opinion

Exceeding stiff and strong,

Though each was partly in the right,

And all were in the wrong!

MORAL.

So, oft in theologic wars

The disputants, I ween,

Rail on in utter ignorance

Of what each other mean,

And prate about an elephant

Not one of them has seen!

* * * * *

HAIL, COLUMBIA!

BY JOSEPH HOPKINSON.

Born 1770; died 1842. The following interesting story is told

concerning the writing of this now famous patriotic song.

“It was written in the summer of 1798, when war with France

was thought to be inevitable. Congress was then in session in

Philadelphia, deliberating upon that important subject, and

acts of hostility had actually taken place. The contest between

England and France was raging, and the people of the United

States were divided into parties for the one side or the other,

some thinking that policy and duty required us to espouse the

cause of republican France, as she was called; while others

were for connecting ourselves with England, under the belief

that she was the great conservative power of good principles

and safe government. The violation of our rights by both

belligerents was forcing us from the just and wise policy of

President WASHINGTON, which was to do equal justice to both,

to take part with neither, but to preserve a strict and honest

neutrality between them. The prospect of a rupture with France

was exceedingly offensive to the portion of the people who

espoused her cause; and the violence of the spirit of party

has never risen higher, I think not so high, in our country, as

it did at that time, upon that question. The theatre was then

open in our city. A young man belonging to it, whose talent

was as a singer, was about to take his benefit. I had known

him when he was at school. On this acquaintance, he called on

me one Saturday afternoon, his benefit being announced for the

following Monday. His prospects were very disheartening; but

he said that if he could get a patriotic song adapted to the

tune of the ‘President’s March’, he did not doubt of a full

house; that the poets of the theatrical corps had been trying

to accomplish it, but had not succeeded. I told him I would

try what I could do for him. He came the next afternoon, and

the song, such as it was, was ready for him. The object of

the author was to get up an _American spirit_, which should be

independent of and above the interests, passions, and policy

of both belligerents, and look and feel exclusively for our own

honor and rights. No allusion is made to France or England, or

the quarrel between them, or to the question which was most in

fault in their treatment of us. Of course the song found favor

with both parties, for both were Americans: at least, neither

could disavow the sentiments and feelings it inculcated. Such

is the history of this song, which has endured infinitely

beyond the expectation of the author, as it is beyond any merit

it can boast of, except that of being truly and exclusively

patriotic in its sentiments and spirit.”

HAIL, Columbia! happy land!

Hail, ye heroes! heaven-born band!

Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cause,

And when the storm of war was gone,

Enjoy’d the peace your valor won.

Let independence be our boast,

Ever mindful what it cost;

Ever grateful for the prize;

Let its altar reach the skies.

Firm――united――let us be,

Rallying round our liberty;

As a band of brothers join’d,

Peace and safety we shall find.

Immortal patriots! rise once more;

Defend your rights, defend your shore;

Let no rude foe, with impious hand,

Let no rude foe with impious hand,

Invade the shrine where sacred lies

Of toil and blood the well-earn’d prize.

While offering peace sincere and just,

In Heaven we place a manly trust,

That truth and justice will prevail,

And every scheme of bondage fail.

Firm――united, etc.

Sound, sound the trump of Fame!

Let WASHINGTON’s great name

Ring through the world with loud applause,

Ring through the world with loud applause;

Let every clime to Freedom dear

Listen with a joyful ear.

With equal skill and godlike power,

He governs in the fearful hour

Of horrid war; or guides, with ease,

The happier times of honest peace.

Firm――united, etc.

Behold the chief who now commands,

Once more to serve his country stands,――

The rock on which the storm will beat,

The rock on which the storm will beat;

But, arm’d in virtue firm and true,

His hopes are fix’d on Heaven and you.

When Hope was sinking in dismay,

And glooms obscured Columbia’s day,

His steady mind, from changes free,

Resolved on death or liberty.

Firm――united, etc.

* * * * *

BETTY AND THE BEAR.

HUMOROUS.

IN a pioneer’s cabin out West, so they say,

A great big black grizzly trotted one day,

And seated himself on the hearth, and began

To lap the contents of a two-gallon pan

Of milk and potatoes,――an excellent meal,――

And then looked about to see what he could steal.

The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep,

And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep

Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there,

And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear.

So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering _frow_,

“Thar’s a bar in the kitchen as big’s a cow!”

“A what?” “Why, a bar!” “Well, murder him, then!”

“Yes, Betty, I will, if you’ll first venture in.”

So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized,

While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed.

As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows,

Now on his forehead, and now on his nose,

Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within,

“Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin,

Now a rap on the ribs, now a knock on the snout,

Now poke with the poker, and poke his eyes out.”

So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty _alone_,

At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone.

Now when the old man saw the bear was no more,

He ventured to poke his nose out of the door,

And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor.

Then off to the neighbors he hastened to tell

All the wonderful things that that morning befell;

And he published the marvelous story afar,

How “_me_ and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar!

O yes, come and see, all the neighbors hev sid it,

Come see what we did, ME and Betty, we did it.”

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

Illustration: Visit of Sᵗ Nicholas

BY CLEMENT C. MOORE.

Born in New York, July 15, 1779; died in Rhode Island, July 10,

1863.

TWAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds

While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;

When what to my wondering eyes should appear

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

Illustration: (‡ Fireplace with stockings)

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

Illustration: (‡ Santa with reindeer)

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow.

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face, and a little round belly

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump――a right jolly old elf――

And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to the sleigh, to the team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle,

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

Illustration: (‡ Santa getting into chimney)

* * * * *

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

Born in Pennsylvania in 1802; died in 1864.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,

And I’ll protect it now.

’Twas my forefather’s hand

That placed it near his cot;

There, woodman, let it stand,

Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown

Are spread o’er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down?

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

O, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade;

In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played.

My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my hand――

Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,

Close as thy bark, old friend!

Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.

Old tree! the storm still brave!

And, woodman, leave the spot;

While I’ve a hand to save,

Thy axe shall hurt it not.

* * * * *

SANCTITY OF TREATIES, 1796.

BY FISHER AMES.

An American Statesman and writer; born in Dedham, Massachusetts,

1758, and died July 4, 1808.

WE are either to execute this treaty or break our faith. To expatiate

on the value of public faith may pass with some men for declamation:

to such men I have nothing to say.

What is patriotism? Is it a narrow affection for a spot where a

man was born? Are the very clods where we tread entitled to this

ardent preference, because they are greener? No, sir; this is not

the character of the virtue. It soars higher for its object. It is

an extended self-love, mingling with all the enjoyments of life, and

twisting itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It is thus

we obey the laws of society because they are the laws of virtue. In

their authority we see, not the array of force and terror, but the

venerable image of our country’s honor. Every good citizen makes that

honor his own, and cherishes it, not only as precious, but as sacred.

He is willing to risk his life in its defence, and is conscious that

he gains protection while he gives it.

What rights of a citizen will be deemed inviolable, when a State

renounces the principles that constitute their security? Or, if his

life should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments be, in a country

odious in the eye of strangers, and dishonored in his own? Could he

look with affection and veneration to such a country, as his parent?

The sense of having one would die within him; he would blush for his

patriotism, if he retained any,――and justly, for it would be a vice.

He would be a banished man in his native land.

I see no exception to the respect that is paid among nations to the

law of good faith. It is the philosophy of politics, the religion of

governments. It is observed by barbarians. A whiff of tobacco smoke

or a string of beads gives not merely binding force, but sanctity, to

treaties. Even in Algiers, a truce may be bought for money; but when

ratified, even Algiers is too wise, or too just, to disown and annul

its obligation.

* * * * *

THE BLOOM WAS ON THE ALDER AND THE TASSEL ON THE CORN.

BY DONN PIATT.

Born in Ohio in 1819.

I HEARD the bob-white whistle in the dewy breath of morn;

The bloom was on the alder and the tassel on the corn.

I stood with beating heart beside the babbling Mac-o-chee,

To see my love come down the glen to keep her tryst with me.

I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along,

And pause to pluck a flower or hear the thrush’s song.

Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen,

She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little queen.

Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden shone,

For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth unknown.

The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on bended

knee

For love this gracious princess gave, with all her heart, to

me.

So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she stood,

With all the freshness of a girl in flush of womanhood.

I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine,

And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her to be mine.

’Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dim-lit

dream――

’Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the rippling

stream;

’Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south winds

sigh,

More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, low reply.

The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life,

To mould its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife.

’Tis said that angels watch o’er men, commissioned from above;

My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to me her love.

Ah! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dim with

tears――

I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone years,

For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy morn,

With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the corn.

* * * * *

THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

BY J. Q. ADAMS.

John Quincy Adams, the sixth President of the United States,

was born at Quincy, Massachusetts, July 11, 1767. He died at

Washington in 1848.

THE Declaration of Independence! The interest which, in that paper,

has survived the occasion upon which it was issued,――the interest

which is of every age and every clime,――the interest which quickens

with the lapse of years, spreads as it grows old, and brightens as it

recedes,――is in the principles which it proclaims. It was the first

solemn declaration by a nation of the only legitimate foundation of

civil government. It was the corner-stone of a new fabric, destined

to cover the surface of the globe. It demolished, at a stroke, the

lawfulness of all governments founded upon conquest. It swept away all

the rubbish of accumulated centuries of servitude. It announced, in

practical form to the world, the transcendent truth of the inalienable

sovereignty of the people. It proved that the social compact was no

figment of the imagination, but a real, solid, and sacred bond of the

social union.

From the day of this declaration, the people of North America were no

longer the fragment of a distant empire, imploring justice and mercy

from an inexorable master, in another hemisphere. They were no longer

children, appealing in vain to the sympathies of a heartless mother;

no longer subjects, leaning upon the shattered columns of royal

promises, and invoking the faith of parchment to secure their rights.

They were a nation, asserting as of right, and maintained by war, its

own existence. A nation was born in a day.

“How many ages hence

Shall this, their lofty scene, be acted o’er,

In States unborn, and accents yet unknown?”

It will be acted o’er, fellow-citizens, but it can never be repeated.

It stands, and must forever stand, alone; a beacon on the summit

of the mountain, to which all the inhabitants of the earth may turn

their eyes, for a genial and saving light, till time shall be lost in

eternity and this globe itself dissolve, nor leave a wreck behind. It

stands forever, a light of admonition to the rulers of men, a light

of salvation and redemption to the oppressed. So long as this planet

shall be inhabited by human beings, so long as man shall be of a

social nature, so long as government shall be necessary to the great

moral purposes of society, so long as it shall be abused to the

purposes of oppression,――so long shall this declaration hold out, to

the sovereign and to the subject, the extent and the boundaries of

their respective rights and duties, founded in the laws of nature and

of nature’s God.

* * * * *

WASHINGTON’S ADDRESS TO HIS SOLDIERS

BEFORE THE BATTLE OF LONG ISLAND, 1776.

BY GEORGE WASHINGTON.

Born 1732; died 1799.

THE time is now near at hand which must probably determine whether

Americans are to be freemen or slaves; whether they are to have any

property they can call their own; whether their houses and farms are

to be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves consigned to a state of

wretchedness from which no human efforts will deliver them. The fate

of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and

conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us only

the choice of a brave resistance, or the most abject submission. We

have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or to die.

Our own, our country’s honor, calls upon us for a vigorous and manly

exertion; and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous

to the whole world. Let us, then, rely on the goodness of our cause,

and the aid of the Supreme Being, in whose hands victory is, to

animate and encourage us to great and noble actions. The eyes of all

our countrymen are now upon us; and we shall have their blessings

and praises, if happily we are the instruments of saving them from

the tyranny meditated against them. Let us, therefore, animate

and encourage each other, and show the whole world that a freeman

contending for liberty on his own ground is superior to any slavish

mercenary on earth.

Liberty, property, life, and honor are all at stake. Upon your courage

and conduct rest the hopes of our bleeding and insulted country. Our

wives, children and parents, expect safety from us only; and they have

every reason to believe that Heaven will crown with success so just a

cause. The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by show and appearance;

but remember they have been repulsed on various occasions by a few

brave Americans. Their cause is bad,――their men are conscious of it;

and, if opposed with firmness and coolness on their first onset, with

our advantage of works, and knowledge of the ground, the victory is

most assuredly ours. Every good soldier will be silent and attentive,

wait for orders, and reserve his fire until he is sure of doing

execution.

* * * * *

THE GENERAL GOVERNMENT AND THE STATES.

BY ALEXANDER HAMILTON.

Born in Nevis, one of the West India Islands, in 1757; was

killed by Aaron Burr, in a duel, in 1804.

This speech was delivered in the New York Convention, on the

adoption of the Constitution, 1788.

MR. CHAIRMAN, it has been advanced as a principle, that no government

but a despotism can exist in a very extensive country. This is a

melancholy consideration, indeed. If it were founded on truth, we

ought to dismiss the idea of a republican government, even for the

State of New York. But the position has been misapprehended. Its

application relates only to democracies, where the body of the people

meet to transact business, and where representation is unknown. The

application is wrong in respect to all representative governments,

but especially in relation to a Confederacy of States, in which

the Supreme Legislature has only general powers, and the civil and

domestic concerns of the people are regulated by the laws of the

several States. I insist that it never can be the interest or desire

of the national Legislature to destroy the State Governments. The

blow aimed at the members must give a fatal wound to the head, and

the destruction of the States must be at once a political suicide.

But imagine, for a moment, that a political frenzy should seize

the government; suppose they should make the attempt. Certainly,

sir, it would be forever impracticable. This has been sufficiently

demonstrated by reason and experience. It has been proved that the

members of republics have been, and ever will be, stronger than the

head. Let us attend to one general historical example.

In the ancient feudal governments of Europe, there were, in the first

place, a monarch; subordinate to him, a body of nobles; and subject to

these, the vassals, or the whole body of the people. The authority of

the kings was limited, and that of the barons considerably independent.

The histories of the feudal wars exhibit little more than a series of

successful encroachments on the prerogatives of monarchy.

Here, sir, is one great proof of the superiority which the members

in limited governments possess over their head. As long as the

barons enjoyed the confidence and attachment of the people, they had

the strength of the country on their side, and were irresistible.

I may be told in some instances the barons were overcome; but how

did this happen? Sir, they took advantage of the depression of

the royal authority, and the establishment of their own power, to

oppress and tyrannize over their vassals. As commerce enlarged, and

wealth and civilization increased, the people began to feel their own

weight and consequence; they grew tired of their oppressions; united

their strength with that of their prince, and threw off the yoke of

aristocracy.

These very instances prove what I contend for. They prove that in

whatever direction the popular weight leans, the current of power

will flow; whatever the popular attachments be, there will rest

the political superiority. Sir, can it be supposed that the State

Governments will become the oppressors of the people? Will they

forfeit their affections? Will they combine to destroy the liberties

and happiness of their fellow-citizens, for the sole purpose of

involving themselves in ruin? God forbid! The idea, sir, is shocking!

It outrages every feeling of humanity and every dictate of common

sense!

* * * * *

WHAT SAVED THE UNION.

BY GENERAL U. S. GRANT.

Born 1822; died 1885. From a speech delivered on the Fourth of

July at Hamburg.

I SHARE with you in all the pleasure and gratitude which Americans so

far away should feel on this anniversary. But I must dissent from one

remark of our consul, to the effect that I saved the country during

the recent war. If our country could be saved or ruined by the efforts

of any one man, we should not have a country, and we should not now

be celebrating our Fourth of July. There are many men who would have

done far better than I did, under the circumstances in which I found

myself during the war. If I had never held command, if I had fallen,

if all our generals had fallen, there were ten thousand behind us who

would have done our work just as well, who would have followed the

contest to the end, and never surrendered the Union. Therefore, it is

a mistake and a reflection upon the people to attribute to me, or to

any number of us who hold high commands, the salvation of the Union.

We did our work as well as we could, so did hundreds of thousands of

others. We demand no credit for it, for we should have been unworthy

of our country and of the American name if we had not made every

sacrifice to save the Union. What saved the Union was the coming

forward of the young men of the nation. They came from their homes and

fields, as they did in the time of the Revolution, giving everything

to the country. To their devotion we owe the salvation of the Union.

The humblest soldier who carried a musket is entitled to as much

credit for the results of the war as those who were in command. So

long as our young men are animated by this spirit there will be no

fear for the Union.

* * * * *

THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON.

BY RUFUS CHOATE.

Born 1799; died 1858.

THE birthday of the “Father of his Country!” May it ever be freshly

remembered by American hearts! May it ever reawaken in them filial

veneration for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard

to the country he loved so well; to which he gave his youthful vigor

and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early

Indian warfare; to which he devoted his life, in the maturity of his

powers, in the field; to which again he offered the counsels of his

wisdom and his experience, as President of the Convention that framed

our Constitution; which he guided and directed while in the Chair

of State, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication

was offered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so

grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in

which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love; and

ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last

American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and might.

Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no

man can share with him. It was the daily beauty and towering and

matchless glory of his life, which enabled him to create his country,

and, at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the

whole American people. “The first in the hearts of his countrymen!”

Yes, first! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there

were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But

the American nation, as a nation, I do not reckon to have begun before

1774. And the first love of that young America was Washington. The

first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It

still is her proud ejaculation; and it will be the last gasp of her

expiring life!

Yes, others of our great men have been appreciated,――many admired by

all. But him we love. Him we all love. About and around him we call up

no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements,――no sectional

prejudice nor bias,――no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None

of these shall assail him. Yes, when the storm of battle blows darkest

and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American

arm and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that promethean

fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that devoted love of country,

which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated.

Well did Lord Byron write:

“Where may the wearied eye repose,

When gazing on the great,

Where neither guilty glory glows,

Nor despicable state?――

Yes――one――the first, the last, the best,

The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate,

Bequeathed the name of Washington,

To make man blush, there was but one.”

* * * * *

OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

BY WILLIAM KNOX.

A favorite poem with Abraham Lincoln, who often repeated it to

his friends.

OH! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant’s affection who proved;

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,――

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure,――her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;

The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,

And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;

To the life we are clinging they also would cling;

But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,――

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

* * * * *

COLUMBUS IN CHAINS.

BY MISS JEWSBURY.

AND this, O Spain! is thy return

For the new world I gave!

Chains!――this the recompense I earn!

The fetters of the slave!

Yon sun that sinketh ’neath the sea,

Rises on realms I found for thee.

I served thee as a son would serve;

I loved thee with a father’s love;

It ruled my thought, and strung my nerve,

To raise thee other lands above,

That thou, with all thy wealth, might be

The single empress of the sea.

For thee my form is bowed and worn

With midnight watches on the main;

For thee my soul hath calmly borne

Ills worse than sorrow, more than pain;

Through life, what’er my lot might be,

I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee.

My guerdon!――’Tis a furrowed brow,

Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears,

And blighted hope, and broken vow,

And poverty for coming years,

And hate, with malice in her train:――

What other guerdon?――View my chain!

Yet say not that I weep for gold!

No, let it be the robber’s spoil.――

Nor yet, that hate and malice bold

Decry my triumph and my toil.――

I weep but for Spain’s lasting shame;

I weep but for her blackened fame.

No more.――The sunlight leaves the sea;

Farewell, thou never-dying king!

Earth’s clouds and changes change not thee,

And thou――and thou,――grim, giant thing,

Cause of my glory and my pain,――

Farewell, unfathomable main!

* * * * *

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

BY THEODORE O’HARA.

Born in Danville, Kentucky, 1820; died in Alabama, 1867. This

famous poem was written in honor of a comrade of the author, a

Kentucky soldier, who fell mortally wounded in the battle of

Buena Vista.

THE muffled drum’s sad roll has beat

The soldier’s last tattoo;

No more on life’s parade shall meet

The brave and fallen few.

On fame’s eternal camping-ground

Their silent tents are spread,

And glory guards with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe’s advance

Now swells upon the wind,

No troubled thought at midnight haunts

Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow’s strife

The warrior’s dream alarms,

No braying horn or screaming fife

At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,

Their plumed heads are bowed,

Their haughty banner trailed in dust

Is now their martial shroud――

And plenteous funeral tears have washed

The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms by battle gashed

Are free from anguish now.

The neighboring troop, the flashing blade,

The bugle’s stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,

The din and shout are passed――

Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal,

Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that never more may feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain

Came down the serried foe――

Who heard the thunder of the fray

Break o’er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day

Was victory or death.

Full many a mother’s breath hath swept

O’er Angostura’s plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept

Above its moldered slain.

The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight,

Or shepherd’s pensive lay,

Alone now wake each solemn height

That frowned o’er that dread fray.

Sons of the dark and bloody ground,

Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound

Along the heedless air!

Your own proud land’s heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war its richest spoil――

The ashes of her brave.

Thus ’neath their parent turf they rest,

Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast

On many a bloody shield.

The sunshine of their native sky

Shines sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by

The heroes’ sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood ye gave;

No impious footstep here shall tread

The herbage of your grave!

Nor shall your glory be forgot

While fame her record keeps,

Or honor points the hallowed spot

Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone

In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished year hath flown,

The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,

Nor time’s remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb.

* * * * *

ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY.

BY ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Born 1809; died 1865. Mr. Lincoln always spoke briefly and

to the point. The following short oration, delivered at the

dedication of the Gettysburg Cemetery, is universally regarded

as one of the greatest masterpieces, of brief and simple

eloquence, in the realm of oratory.

FOURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this

continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the

proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in

a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so

conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great

battlefield of that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as

the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that

nation might live.

It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in

a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot

hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here,

have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world

will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never

forget what they did here.

It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the

unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather

for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us,

that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause

for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here

highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, and that

the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the

government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not

perish from the earth.

* * * * *

MEMORY.

BY JAMES A. GARFIELD.

Born 1831; died 1881. The following poem was ♦written by the

late President Garfield during his senior year in Williams

College, Massachusetts, and was published in the Williams

“Quarterly” for March, 1856.

♦ “writen” replaced with “written”

TIS beauteous night; the stars look brightly down

Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow.

No lights gleam at the windows, save my own,

Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.

And now with noiseless step, sweet memory comes

And leads me gently through her twilight realms.

What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung,

Or delicatest pencil e’er portrayed

The enchanted, shadowy land where memory dwells;

It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,

Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree;

And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed

In heaven’s own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,

Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,

Are clustered joys serene of other days.

Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend

The weeping willows o’er the sacred dust

Of dear departed ones; yet in that land,

Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore,

They that were sleeping rise from out the dust

Of death’s long, silent years, and round us stand

As erst they did before the prison tomb

Received their clay within its voiceless halls.

The heavens that bend above that land are hung

With clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill,

Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shade

Upon the sunny, joyous land below.

Others are floating through the dreamy air,

White as the falling snow, their margins tinged

With gold and crimson hues; their shadows fall

Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,

Soft as the shadow of an angel’s wing.

When the rough battle of the day is done,

And evening’s peace falls gently on the heart,

I bound away, across the noisy years,

Unto the utmost verge of memory’s land,

Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet,

And memory dim with dark oblivion joins;

Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell

Upon the ear in childhood’s early morn;

And, wandering thence along the rolling years,

I see the shadow of my former self

Gliding from childhood up to man’s estate;

The path of youth winds down through many a vale.

And on the brink of many a dread abyss,

From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,

Save that a phantom dances o’er the gulf

And beckons toward the verge. Again the path

Leads o’er the summit where the sunbeams fall;

And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,

Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along.

* * * * *

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.

BY ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS.

Born in New York, 1827; died in New Jersey, 1879. The following

poem first appeared in “Harper’s Weekly” in 1861, and being

published anonymously its authorship was, says Mr. Stedman,

“falsely claimed by several persons.”

ALL quiet along the Potomac, they say,

“Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,

By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

’Tis nothing; a private or two, now and then,

Will not count in the news of the battle;

Not an officer lost――only one of the men,

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.”

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;

Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,

Or the light of the watchfires, are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;

While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,

Keep guard――for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain.

And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,

Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,

Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,

For their mother――may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,

That night when the love yet unspoken

Leaped up to his lips――when low, murmured vows

Were pledged to be ever unbroken;

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,

He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,

As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree――

The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

It looked like a rifle: “Ha! Mary, good-by!”

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night――

No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead――

The picket’s off duty forever.

* * * * *

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.

BY EPES SARGENT.

Born 1813; died 1880. The following beautiful and popular song,

sung all over the world, like “Home, Sweet Home,” is by an

American author. It is one of those bits of lyric verse which

will perpetuate the name of its writer longer, perhaps, then

any of the many books which he gave to the world.

A LIFE on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep;

Where the scattered waters rave,

And the winds their revels keep!

Like an angel caged I pine,

On this dull, unchanging shore:

O, give me the flashing brine,

The spray and the tempest’s roar!

Once more on the deck I stand,

Of my own swift-gliding craft:

Set sail! farewell to the land;

The gale follows fair abaft.

We shoot through the sparkling foam,

Like an ocean-bird set free,――

Like the ocean-bird, our home

We’ll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view,

The clouds have begun to frown;

But with a stout vessel and crew,

We’ll say, “Let the storm come down!”

And the song of our hearts shall be,

While the winds and the waters rave,

A home on the rolling sea!

A life on the ocean wave!

* * * * *

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

BY F. M. FINCH.

Born in Ithaca, N. Y., 1827. Many of the women of the South,

animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial

in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They have

strewn flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of

the National soldiers.

BY the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,

Asleep on the ranks of the dead:

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the one, the Blue,

Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat,

All with the battle-blood gory,

In the dusk of eternity meet:――

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the laurel, the Blue,

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,

The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers,

Alike for the friend and the foe:――

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the roses, the Blue,

Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,

The morning sun-rays fall,

With a touch impartially tender,

On the blossoms blooming for all:――

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Broidered with gold, the Blue,

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,

On forest and field of grain

With an equal murmur falleth

The cooling drip of the rain:――

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Wet with the rain, the Blue,

Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading,

No braver battle was won:――

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,

Or the winding rivers be red;

They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.

* * * * *

ROLL-CALL.

BY NATHANIEL P. SHEPHERD.

Born in New York, 1835; died 1869.

CORPORAL GREEN!” the orderly cried;

“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of the soldier who stood near――

And “here!” was the word the next replied.

“Cyrus Drew!”――then a silence fell――

This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear-man had seen him fall,

Killed or wounded, he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn where the poppies grew

Were redder stains than the poppies knew;

And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side

That day, in the face of a murderous fire

That swept them down in its terrible ire;

And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“Herbert Kline!” At the call there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

“Ezra Kerr!” and a voice answered, “here!”

“Hiram Kerr!”――but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

“Ephraim Deane!”――then a soldier spoke:

“Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said;

“Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead,

Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

“Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him drink;

He murmured his mother’s name, I think,

And death came with it and closed his eyes.”

’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear――

For that company’s roll, when called at night,

Of a hundred men who went into the fight,

Numbered but twenty that answered, “Here!”

* * * * *

THEOLOGY IN THE QUARTERS.

BY J. A. MACON.

Born in Alabama, 1851.

_Author of “Uncle Gab Tucker.”_

The following dialect verses are a faithful reproduction,

not only of the negro dialect of the cotton sections of the

South; but the genius of Mr. Macon has subtly embodied in this

and other of his writings a shadowy but true picture of the

peculiar and original philosophy and humor of the poor but

happy black people of the section with which he is so familiar.

NOW, I’s got a notion in my head dat when you come to die,

An’ stan’ de ’zamination in de Cote-house in de sky,

You’ll be ’stonished at de questions dat de angel’s gwine to

When he gits you on de witness-stan’ an’ pin you to de fac’s;

’Cause he’ll ax you mighty closely ’bout your doin’s in de

night,

An’ de water-milion question’s gwine to bodder you a sight!

Den your eyes’ll open wider dan dey ebber done befo’

When he chats you ’bout a chicken-scrape dat happened long

ago!

De angels on the picket-line erlong de Milky Way

Keep a-watchin’ what you’re dribin’ at, an’ hearin’ what you

say;

No matter what you want to do, no matter whar you’s gwine,

Dey’s mighty ap’ to find it out an’ pass it ’long de line;

An’ of’en at de meetin’, when you make a fuss an’ laugh,

Why, dey send de news a-kitin’ by de golden telegraph;

Den, de angel in de orfis, what’s a settin’ by de gate,

Jes’ reads de message wid a look an’ claps it on de slate!

Den you better do your juty well an’ keep your conscience

clear,

An’ keep a-lookin’ straight ahead an’ watchin’ whar you steer;

’Cause arter while de time’ll come to journey fum de lan’,

An’ dey’ll take you way up in de a’r an’ put you on de stan’;

Den you’ll hab to listen to de clerk an’ answer mighty

straight,

Ef you ebber’ spec’ to trabble froo de alaplaster gate!

* * * * *

RUIN WROUGHT BY RUM.

(TEMPERANCE SELECTION.)

GO, feel what I have felt,

Go, bear what I have borne;

Sink ’neath a blow a father dealt,

And the cold, proud world’s scorn.

Thus struggle on from year to year,

Thy sole relief the scalding tear.

Go, weep as I have wept

O’er a loved father’s fall;

See every cherished promise swept,

Youth’s sweetness turned to gall;

Hope’s faded flowers strewed all the way

That led me up to woman’s day.

Go, kneel as I have knelt;

Implore, beseech and pray.

Strive the besotted heart to melt,

The downward course to stay;

Be cast with bitter curse aside,――

Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.

Go, stand where I have stood,

And see the strong man bow;

With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood,

And cold and livid brow;

Go, catch his wandering glance, and see

There mirrored his soul’s misery.

Go, hear what I have heard,――

The sobs of sad despair,

As memory’s feeling fount hath stirred,

And its revealings there

Have told him what he might have been,

Had he the drunkard’s fate foreseen.

Go to my mother’s side,

And her crushed spirit cheer;

Thine own deep anguish hide,

Wipe from her cheek the tear;

Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow,

The gray that streaks her dark hair now,

The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,

And trace the ruin back to him

Whose plighted faith in early youth,

Promised eternal love and truth,

But who, forsworn, hath yielded up

This promise to the deadly cup,

And led her down from love and light,

From all that made her pathway bright,

And chained her there ’mid want and strife,

That lowly thing,――a drunkard’s wife!

And stamped on childhood’s brow, so mild,

That withering blight,――a drunkard’s child!

Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know

All that my soul hath felt and known,

Then look within the wine-cup’s glow;

See if its brightness can atone;

Think of its flavor would you try,

If all proclaimed,――_’Tis drink and die_.

Tell me I hate the bowl,――

_Hate_ is a feeble word;

I loathe, abhor, my very soul

By strong disgust is stirred

Whene’er I see, or hear, or tell

Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL!

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

TO A SKELETON.

The MS. of this poem was found in the Museum of the Royal

College of Surgeons, in London, near a perfect human skeleton,

and sent by the curator to the “Morning Chronicle” for

publication. It excited so much attention that every effort

was made to discover the author, and a responsible party went

so far as to offer fifty guineas for information that would

discover its origin. The author preserved his incognito, and,

we believe, has never been discovered.

BEHOLD this ruin! ’Twas a skull,

Once of ethereal spirit full.

This narrow cell was life’s retreat,

This space was thought’s mysterious seat.

What beauteous visions filled this spot,

What dreams of pleasure long forgot?

Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,

Have left one trace of record here.

Beneath this moldering canopy

Once shone the bright and busy eye;

But start not at the dismal void;

If social love that eye employed,

If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dews of kindness beamed,――

That eye shall be forever bright

When stars and sun are sunk in night.

Within this hollow cavern hung

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;

If falsehood’s honey it disdained,

And when it could not praise was chained;

If bold in virtue’s cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke,――

This silent tongue shall plead for thee

When time unveils eternity!

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,

Or with the envied rubies shine?

To hew the rock or wear a gem

Can little now avail to them.

But if the page of truth they sought,

Or comfort to the mourner brought,

These hands a richer meed shall claim

Than all that wait on wealth and fame.

Avails it whether bare or shod

These feet the paths of duty trod?

If from the bowers of ease they fled,

To seek affliction’s humble shed;

If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurned,

And home to virtue’s cot returned,――

These feet with angel wings shall vie,

And tread the palace of the sky!

* * * * *

PLEDGE WITH WINE.

(A TEMPERANCE SELECTION.)

PLEDGE with wine――pledge with wine!” cried the young and thoughtless

Harry Wood. “Pledge with wine,” ran through the brilliant crowd.

The beautiful bride grew pale――the decisive hour had come,――she

pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bridal wreath

trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her heart beat

wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly opposed to the

use of all wines and liquors.

“Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once,” said the judge

in a low tone, going towards his daughter, “the company expect it; do

not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette;――in your own

house act as you please; but in mine, for this once please me.”

Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion’s principles were

well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends

noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits――and

to-night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was

tied down to a woman’s opinion so soon.

Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward

Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook

not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and

raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand

was arrested by her piercing exclamation of “Oh, how terrible!” “What

is it?” cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly

carried the glass at arm’s length, and was fixedly regarding it as

though it were some hideous object.

“Wait,” she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark

eyes, “wait and I will tell you. I see,” she added, slowly pointing

one jeweled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, “a sight that beggars

all description; and yet listen; I will paint it for you if I can: It

is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful

sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the

water’s edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly

to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the

birds; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with

something like sorrow upon their dark brows; and in their midst lies a

manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful

fire of fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say kneels,

for he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast.

“Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy-looking brow! Why should death

mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws the damp curls! see him

clasp his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for life! mark how he

clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh!

hear him call piteously his father’s name; see him twine his fingers

together as he shrieks for his sister――his only sister――the twin of

his soul――weeping for him in his distant native land.

“See!” she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the

untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the judge fell,

overpowered, upon his seat; “see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he

prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fever rushes through his veins. The

friend beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently,

and leave the living and dying together.”

There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed

a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright,

with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her

lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with

its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her

vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint,

yet awfully distinct: she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the

wine-cup.

“It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams

lie gently on his forehead. He moves not; his eyes are set in their

sockets; dim are their piercing glances; in vain his friend whispers

the name of father and sister――death is there. Death! and no soft

hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back!

one convulsive shudder! he is dead!”

A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so

unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described

seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also,

that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping.

“Dead!” she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and

her voice more and more broken: “and there they scoop him a grave; and

there, without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp, reeking earth.

The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond

sister. And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with no stone to

mark the spot. There he lies――my father’s son――my own twin brother! a

victim to this deadly poison. Father,” she exclaimed, turning suddenly,

while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, “father, shall I

drink it now?”

The form of the old judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head,

but in a smothered voice he faltered――“No, no, my child; in God’s name,

no.”

She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the

floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched

her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred

to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked

at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying: “Let

no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for

wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping

me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I

have given my hand; who watched over my brother’s dying form in that

last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in

that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you

not, my husband?”

His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer.

The judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with

a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal

guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash

the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms.

Those who were present at that wedding can never forget the impression

so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass.

* * * * *

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA.

BY ELIJAH KELLOG.

Born in Portland, Maine, 1813. Spartacus was a Thracian soldier,

who was taken prisoner by the Romans, made a slave, and trained

as a gladiator. He escaped with a number of fellow-gladiators,

an incident to which this speech is supposed to refer to. He

was killed in battle 71 B. C., while leading the Servile War

against Rome.

IT had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with

victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the

amphitheatre to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city.

The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased;

the last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the lights in

the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the

tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dewdrops on the corslet of the

Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of the Vulturnus with a

wavy, tremulous light. No sound was heard, save the last sob of some

retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach;

and then all was as still as the breast when the spirit has departed.

In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were

assembled; their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict,

the foam upon their lips, the scowl of battle yet lingering on their

brows; when Spartacus, arising in the midst of that grim assembly,

thus addressed them:

“Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call _him_ chief who, for twelve

long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the

broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm.

If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or

private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth

and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on

the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus,――a

hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men! My ancestors

came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron

groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which

I sported; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade,

and played upon the shepherd’s flute, there was a friend, the son of

a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same

pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. One evening, after the

sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which

shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon

and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans,

in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not

then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I

clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the

hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me

go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That

very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had

nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body

of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling!

“To-day I killed a man in the arena; and, when I broke his

helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly,

gasped, and died;――the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had

marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to

pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph.

I told the prætor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and

brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a

funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the

dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the

assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals,

and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth,

to see Rome’s fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of

that piece of bleeding clay! And the prætor drew back as if I were

pollution, and sternly said: ‘Let the carrion rot; there are no noble

men but Romans!’ And so, fellow-_gladiators_, must you, and so must I,

die like dogs. O, Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay,

thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never

knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of

flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links

of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe;――to gaze into

the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon

a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber

is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies

curdled!

“Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is

in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing

sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat

your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye

yon lion roaring in his den? ’Tis three days since he tasted flesh;

but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours――and a dainty meal

for him ye will be! If ye are _beasts_, then stand here like fat

oxen, waiting for the butcher’s knife! If ye are _men_,――follow me!

Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain-passes, and there do bloody

work, as did your sires at Old Thermopylæ! Is Sparta dead? Is the old

Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like

a belabored hound beneath his master’s lash? O comrades! warriors!

Thracians!――if we must fight, let us fight for _ourselves_! If we must

slaughter, let us slaughter our _oppressors_! If we must die, let it

be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable

battle!”

* * * * *

THE CRABBED MAN.

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.

(_Extract from a Lecture._)

Born 1832. One of the most eminent orators of the American

pulpit.

OF all the ills that flesh is heir to, a cross, crabbed, ill-contented

man is the most unendurable, because the most inexcusable. No occasion,

no matter how trifling, is permitted to pass without eliciting his

dissent, his sneer, or his growl. His good and patient wife never yet

prepared a dinner that he liked. One day she prepares a dish that she

thinks will particularly please him. He comes in the front door, and

says: “Whew! whew! what have you got in the house? Now, my dear, you

know that I never did like codfish.” Some evening, resolving to be

especially gracious, he starts with his family to a place of amusement.

He scolds the most of the way. He cannot afford the time or the money,

and he does not believe the entertainment will be much, after all. The

music begins. The audience are thrilled. The orchestra, with polished

instruments, warble and weep, and thunder and pray――all the sweet

sounds of the world flowering upon the strings of the bass viol, and

wreathing the flageolets, and breathing from the lips of the cornet,

and shaking their flower-bells upon the tinkling tambourine.

He sits motionless and disgusted. He goes home saying: “Did you see

that fat musician that got so red blowing that French horn? He looked

like a stuffed toad. Did you ever hear such a voice as that lady

has? Why, it was a perfect squawk! The evening was wasted.” And his

companion says: “Why, my dear!” “There, you needn’t tell me――you are

pleased with everything. But never ask me to go again!” He goes to

church. Perhaps the sermon is didactic and argumentative. He yawns.

He gapes. He twists himself in his pew, and pretends he is asleep,

and says: “I could not keep awake. Did you ever hear anything so dead?

Can these dry bones live?” Next Sabbath he enters a church where the

minister is much given to illustration. He is still more displeased.

He says: “How dare that man bring such every-day things into his

pulpit? He ought to have brought his illustrations from the cedar of

Lebanon and the fir-tree, instead of the hickory and sassafrass. He

ought to have spoken of the Euphrates and the Jordan, and not of the

Kennebec and Schuylkill. He ought to have mentioned Mount Gerizim

instead of the Catskills. Why, he ought to be disciplined. Why, it is

ridiculous.” Perhaps afterward he joins the church. Then the church

will have its hands full. He growls and groans and whines all the

way up toward the gate of heaven. He wishes that the choir would sing

differently, that the minister would preach differently, that the

elders would pray differently. In the morning, he said, “The church

was as cold as Greenland;” in the evening, “It was hot as blazes.”

They painted the church; he didn’t like the color. They carpeted

the aisles; he didn’t like the figure. They put in a new furnace; he

didn’t like the patent. He wriggles and squirms, and frets and stews,

and worries himself. He is like a horse, that, prancing and uneasy

to the bit, worries himself into a lather of foam, while the horse

hitched beside him just pulls straight ahead, makes no fuss, and

comes to his oats in peace. Like a hedge-hog, he is all quills. Like a

crab that, you know, always goes the other way, and moves backward in

order to go forward, and turns in four directions all at once, and the

first you know of his whereabouts you have missed him, and when he is

completely lost he has gone by the heel――so that the first thing you

know you don’t know anything――and while you expected to catch the crab,

the crab catches you.

So some men are crabbed――all hard-shell and obstinacy and opposition.

I do not see how he is to get into heaven, unless he goes in backward,

and then there will be danger that at the gate he will try to pick a

quarrel with St. Peter. Once in, I fear he will not like the music,

and the services will be too long, and that he will spend the first

two or three years in trying to find out whether the wall of heaven is

exactly plumb. Let us stand off from such tendencies. Listen for sweet

notes rather than discords, picking up marigolds and harebells in

preference to thistles and coloquintida, culturing thyme and anemones

rather than night-shade. And in a world where God has put exquisite

tinge upon the shell washed in the surf, and planted a paradise of

bloom in a child’s cheek, and adorned the pillars of the rock by

hanging tapestry of morning mist, the lark saying, “I will sing

soprano,” and the cascade replying, “I will carry the bass,” let us

leave it to the owl to hoot, and the frog to croak, and the bear to

growl, and the grumbler to find fault.

* * * * *

PUTTING UP O’ THE STOVE; OR,

THE RIME OF THE ECONOMICAL HOUSEHOLDER.

THE melancholy days have come that no householder loves,

Days of taking down of blinds and putting up of stoves;

The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in the shadow of the shed,

Dinged out of symmetry they be and all with rust are red;

The husband gropes amid the mass that he placed there anon,

And swears to find an elbow-joint and eke a leg are gone.

So fared it with good Mister Brown, when his spouse remarked:

“Behold!

Unless you wish us all to go and catch our deaths of cold,

Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their storing place

conveyed,

And to black-lead and set them up, lo! I will lend my aid.”

This, Mr. Brown, he trembling heard, I trow his heart was sore,

For he was married many years, and had been there before,

And timidly he said, “My love, perchance, the better plan

’Twere to hie to the tinsmith’s shop and bid him send a man?”

His spouse replied indignantly: “So you would have me then

To waste our substance upon riotous tinsmith’s journeymen?

‘A penny saved is twopence earned,’ rash prodigal of pelf,

Go! false one, go! and I will black and set it up myself.”

When thus she spoke the husband knew that she had sealed his

doom;

“Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and gimme down that

broom,”

He cried; then to the outhouse marched. Apart the doors he hove

And closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, the stove.

ROUND 1.

They faced each other; Brown, to get an opening sparred

Adroitly. His antagonist was cautious――on its guard.

Brown led off with his left to where a length of stovepipe

stood,

And nearly cut his fingers off. (_The stove allowed first

blood._)

ROUND 2.

Brown came up swearing, in Græco-Roman style,

Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove at it a weary

while;

At last the leg he held gave way; flat on his back fell Brown,

And the stove fell on top of him and claimed the _First

Knock-down_.

* * * The fight is done and Brown has won; his hands are

rasped and sore,

And perspiration and black-lead stream from his every pore;

Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove,

He cries, “Where, my good angel, shall I _put_ this blessed

stove?”

And calmly Mrs. Brown to him she indicates the spot,

And bids him keep his temper, and remarks that he looks hot,

And now comes in the sweat o’ the day; the Brown holds in his

gripe

And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five-inch pipe;

He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while his wife

scornfully

Tells him how _she_ would manage if only she were he.

At last the joints are joined, they rear a pyramid in air,

A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a chair,

And on chair and supporters are the stovepipe and the Brown,

Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for the crown;

While Mistress Brown, she cheerily says to him, “I expec’

’Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall and break your

neck.”

Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was aware

Of what might be called “a miscellaneous music in the air.”

And in wild crash and confusion upon the floor rained down

Chairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathemas, and――Brown.

There was a moment’s silence――Brown had fallen on the cat;

She was too thick for a book-mark, but too thin for a mat;

And he was all wounds and bruises, from his head to his foot,

And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the soot.

“O wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a thing thou art!”

Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw him falling,

start,

And shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did her inmost

heartstrings gripe,

“Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and smashed that

pipe?”

Then fiercely starts that Mr. Brown, as one that had been

wode,

And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and red his visage

glowed;

Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice was sharp

and shrill),

“I have not, madam, but, by――by――by the nine gods, I will!”

He swung the pipe above his head; he dashed it on the floor,

And that stovepipe, as a stovepipe, it did exist no more;

Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face was

stern and wan,

And in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed:

“_Send for that tinsmith’s man!_”

* * * * *

THE POOR INDIAN!

I KNOW him by his falcon eye,

His raven tress and mien of pride;

Those dingy draperies, as they fly,

Tell that a great soul throbs inside!

No eagle-feathered crown he wears,

Capping in pride his kingly brow;

But his crownless hat in grief declares,

“I am an unthroned monarch now!”

“O noble son of a royal line!”

I exclaim, as I gaze into his face,

“How shall I knit my soul to thine?

How right the wrongs of thine injured race?

“What shall I do for thee, glorious one?

To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires.

Speak! and say how the Saxon’s son

May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires!”

He speaks, he speaks!――that noble chief!

From his marble lips deep accents come;

And I catch the sound of his mighty grief,――

“_Ple’ gi’ me tree cent for git some rum?_”

* * * * *

JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC.

MARIA ANN recently determined to go to a picnic.

Maria Ann is my wife――unfortunately she had planned it to go alone,

so far as I am concerned, on that picnic excursion; but when I heard

about it, I determined to assist.

She _pretended_ she was very glad; I don’t believe she was.

“It will do you good to get away from your work a day, poor fellow,”

she said; “and we shall so much enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars,

and a dinner in the woods.”

On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at five o’clock. About

three minutes later she disturbed my slumbers, and told me to come

to breakfast. I told her I wasn’t hungry, but it didn’t make a bit of

difference, I had to get up. The sun was up; I had no idea that the

sun began his business so early in the morning, but there he was.

“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must fly around, for the cars start at

half-past six. Eat all the breakfast you can, for you won’t get

anything more before noon.”

I could not eat anything so early in the morning. There was ice to be

pounded to go around the pail of ice cream, and the sandwiches to be

cut, and I thought I would never get the legs of the chicken fixed so

I could get the cover on the big basket. Maria Ann flew around and

piled up groceries for me to pack, giving directions to the girl about

taking care of the house, and putting on her dress all at once. There

is a deal of energy in that woman, perhaps a trifle too much.

At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front steps, with a basket

on one arm and Maria Ann’s waterproof on the other, and a pail in each

hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a

camp-chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where.

“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must run or we shall not catch the train.”

“Maria Ann,” said I, “that is a reasonable idea. How do you suppose I

can run with all this freight?”

“You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don’t want a

scene on the street, you will start, too.”

So I ran.

I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her parasol.

She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all the

way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars; but neither

of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set

the things down, so I stood there and held them.

“Maria,” I said, “how is this for a cool morning ride?”

Said she, “You are a brute, Jenkins.”

Said I, “You have made _that_ observation before, my love.”

I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath when

we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in

my coat-pocket broke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of

vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran off with

a big whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet,

and tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of

picnic-goers.

I thought it would never come dinner-time, and Maria Ann called me a

pig because I wanted to open our basket before the rest of the baskets

were opened.

At last dinner came――the “nice dinner in the woods,” you know. Over

three thousand little red ants had got into our dinner, and they were

worse to pick out than fish-bones. The ice-cream had melted, and there

was no vinegar for the cold meat, except what was in my boot, and,

of course, that was of no immediate use. The music-teacher spilled a

cup of hot coffee on Maria Ann’s head, and pulled all the frizzles out

trying to wipe off the coffee with his handkerchief. Then I sat on a

piece of raspberry-pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I

didn’t want anything more. I had to stand up against a tree the rest

of the afternoon. The day offered considerable variety, compared to

everyday life, but there were so many drawbacks that I did not enjoy

it so much as I might have done.

* * * * *

SEWING ON A BUTTON.

BY J. M. BAILEY.

IT is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is

the embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has

compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has

always depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately,

for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the

needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand or

runs a sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it

is then the man clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting

to tie a knot in the thread commences to put on the button. It is

always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes after he is

expected to be down street. He lays the button exactly on the site of

its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully

draws the thread after, leaving about three inches of it sticking

up for a leeway. He says to himself,――“Well, if women don’t have the

easiest time I ever see.” Then he comes back the other way, and gets

the needle through the cloth well enough, and lays himself out to find

the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle

point persists in bucking against the solid parts of that button, and,

finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread, and

that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through the eye

in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He

picks it up without a single remark, out of respect to his children,

and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back

with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by

covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of

him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious

manner; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes

more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and

savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and

comes up through the button and part way through his thumb with a

celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down

the things, with a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured

hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and

finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he prances about the

floor, and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there has never

been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, and

whistles, and moans, and sobs. After awhile, he calms down, and puts

on his pants, and fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his

business a changed man.

* * * * *

CASEY AT THE BAT.

(Often recited by DeWolf Hopper, the comic opera singer,

between the acts.)

THERE was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,

There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s

face;

And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with

dirt,

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his

shirt;

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came whirling thro’ the

air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.

“That ain’t my style,” said Casey, “Strike one,” the umpire

said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled

roar,

Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore;

“Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand.

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised

his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone,

He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on;

He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered,

“Fraud!”

But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles

strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in

hate,

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville――mighty Casey has struck out.

* * * * *

THE MAGICAL ISLE.

THERE’S a magical isle in the River of Time,

Where softest of echoes are straying;

And the air is as soft as a musical chime,

Or the exquisite breath of a tropical clime

When June with its roses is swaying.

’Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hue

And music forever is flowing:

While the low-murmured tones that come trembling through

Sadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten it too,

As the south wind o’er water when blowing.

There are shadowy halls in that fairy-like isle,

Where pictures of beauty are gleaming;

Yet the light of their eyes, and their sweet, sunny smile,

Only flash round the heart with a wildering wile,

And leave us to know ’tis but dreaming.

And the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past,

And we bury our treasures all there:

There are beings of beauty too lovely to last;

There are blossoms of snow, with the dust o’er them cast;

There are tresses and ringlets of hair.

There are fragments of song only memory sings,

And the words of a dear mother’s prayer;

There’s a harp long unsought, and a lute without strings――

Hallowed tokens that love used to wear.

E’en the dead――the bright, beautiful dead――there arise,

With their soft, flowing ringlets of gold:

Though their voices are hushed, and o’er their sweet eyes,

The unbroken signet of silence now lies,

They are with us again, as of old.

In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning there,

And, with joy that is almost a pain,

We delight to turn back, and in wandering there,

Through the shadowy halls of the island so fair,

We behold our lost treasures again.

Oh! this beautiful isle, with its phantom-like show,

Is a vista exceedingly bright:

And the River of Time, in its turbulent flow,

Is oft soothed by the voices we heard long ago,

When the years were a dream of delight.

* * * * *

STRAY BITS OF CHARACTER.

BY WILL CARLETON.

_With original illustrations by Victor Perard._

Illustration: THE TOURIST.

IN art, as well as literature, there should be a vast variety of

methods, for a good many kinds of people wait to be instructed and

pleased. Besides, there is frequently a great diversity of moods in

the same person――all of which must be ministered to, at one time and

another.

Illustration: AT THE LUNCH STAND.

Some people, and perhaps all, when in certain states of mind, are

fond of pictures brought out with photographic accuracy; every detail

attended to; everything provided for; every incident faithfully

related. Others prefer only the salient points――a mere suggestion of

items is sufficient. They have no time for anything more――they want

the spirit, the soul, of the scene and situation.

Victor Perard’s work upon these pages will minister most to the latter

class of people and moods. As one orator can give in ten words the

story that another one has struggled with much voice and many gestures

for an hour to make plain, so this silent story-teller dashes his

pencil across the paper a few times, and behold! you see just what you

already may have noticed again and again, but never before recognized

in all its possibilities. You now have before you for a steady gaze,

that of which you have had only a glimpse, a sketch that supplies the

place of memory, shakes hands with imagination, and enables you to

enjoy the scene at leisure.

Illustration: THE STREET TO THE SEA.

Illustration: IN WAIT.

These are pictures that explain themselves, or at least permit

the gazer to furnish his own explanation――and that is the most

complimentary of all imaginative work, and produces a species of

gratitude in the minds of the audience.

Illustration: THE OILER.

Victor Perard is one of the younger artists of our country. His name

would indicate him to be of French descent; but he is, I believe,

a native of the Greater America, which has thus far shown such a

cheerful willingness to assimilate the best brain of the world. He has,

however, lived in Paris, and contributed to some of the leading French

illustrated journals. He is now living a quiet domestic life in our

American metropolis, and has done much good work for its periodicals.

In “The Tourist,” one notices with every line of the solemn-looking

individual an intense desire to get over the ground promptly and see

everything possible on the way. There is something in the painful

though unstudied diligence with which he keeps his carpet bag close to

his person, that may enable a lively imagination to peep through its

sides and detect notes for a forthcoming book.

Illustration: EXPECTING A CALLER.

Illustration: A VETERAN OF THE RANKS.

Illustration: A WIDE-REACHING AFFAIR.

“At the Lunch Stand” is Whittier’s “Barefoot Boy,” transferred to the

city. His lips are not “redder still, kissed by strawberries on the

hill;” nor may he be coated with “outward sunshine,” or full of “inner

joy.” The luxurious bowl of milk and bread which our Quaker poet

describes, is not his, even with the wooden dish and pewter spoon;

but he seems happy for the moment with the cup of more or less hot

coffee which he imbibes. His jaunty, independent attitude shows that

he is bound to get all the good of his powerful and perhaps palatable

beverage; that he earned it, and is entitled to it.

“The Street to the Sea” is in fact a picture of the sea, although the

same is hardly in sight. Everything shows that we are approaching the

great Country of the Waters. The villas in view; the wheel-harrowed

road, admirably foreshortened; the deep shadows upon each side of the

way; human figures looming faintly in the distance; everything, in

fact, is somehow telling us a tale of the ocean, and we do not need

our too sparse glimpse of the “solemn main” to tell what majestic

voice will soon bring us to a halt; we almost smell the salt air.

Illustration: “WHO’S THAT COMING?”

Illustration: LEISURE.

The lazy fisherman who has hung out his latch-string and is

waiting for a dinner to call upon him, is Perard with a godsend of

material――of the kind he likes. There could scarcely be found a better

wedding of shiftlessness and ingenuity. The primitive character of the

man’s garments is apparently not due to the climate alone; he takes

no thought of the morrow, and not much of the current day, so far as

its temporal affairs are concerned. But the crude marks of mechanical

ability are all over and around him; one suspender is induced, by its

oblique trend, to do service for two; an elaborate coil of line gives

opportunity of play for the largest of fin-bearers; the stick in the

sand guarantees that his expected caller shall not go away without

experiencing the fisherman’s peculiar hospitality; and there is

considerable chance that if a “bite” occurs, the line will waken him,

as it gradually warms the interstice between his toes.

Illustration: McCLELLAN SADDLE.

Illustration: SHOOTING THE STEAM ARROW.

“A Veteran of the Ranks” might almost be Kipling’s Mulvaney himself.

The fatigue-cap, which in its jaunty pose seems to have vegetated and

grown there; the drooping mustache; the capacious pipe; are all what

might have been characteristics of that renowned Hibernian warrior

of India. The picture finally centres, however, in the eyes; which

contain a world, or at least two hemispheres, of shrewdness, of

that sort which only gets about so far in life, but is terribly

correct within its own scope. They also possess a certain humanity

and generosity, which would be likely to act as winsome daughters of

his regiment of martial qualities, even upon the battle-field.

Illustration: “GRACIOUS GOODNESS!”

“Miniature Men and Women” include a number of the most interesting

of the genus Baby. As everyone knows, there are babies and babies,

except to the parents of one. The infant is the true teacher and

object-lesson combined; it shows us the grace, although not always

the mercy and peace, of unconscious action. It has not been away

from Heaven long enough to learn the deceit of this crooked world,

is unaware that there is anything in life to conceal, and acts

accordingly, until taught better, or, perhaps, worse. These babies,

or this baby (for the same infant has so many different ways of acting

and appearing, that these may all be pictures of the same) can be

said to exhibit grace in every attitude and every position, from

the symmetrical fragment of humanity on the mother’s arm, to the tot

just contemplating a walking-lesson. All of them have a dignified

simplicity.

Illustration: ON WINGS OF HOOFS.

“Bon Voyage” shows the different attitudes which men will take while

intently gazing at the same object. It does not necessarily follow

that the “she” referred to is a lady; it may be and probably is, a

ship, upon which all of our captured gazers have friends. Each one

takes his own peculiar posture of observation; and their characters

can be read from them.

Illustration: MINIATURE MEN AND WOMEN.

“Waiting for Orders” is a faithful and almost pathetic presentation

of that patient, long-suffering, but unreliable beast, whose lack of

pride and hope have passed into a proverb. One is curious, seeing him

standing there, how life can ever manage to wheedle him into the idea

that it is worth living; but the same curiosity arises in regard to

some men. We often find that these have stowed away upon their persons

certain grains of comfort, concerning which we at first failed to take

note. Our utterly opaque friend here has pleasanter experiences in the

world than that of acting as a locomotive to a cart. The dashes of the

breeze, the transports of the sun-bath, the pull at the water-bucket,

the nourishment in the manger, all yield him tribute in a certain

amount of pleasure; he has no responsibility upon his mind, excepting

that he is to pull when told to; and although occasionally suffering

maltreatment from the superior race in which he recognizes many of his

own characteristics, there is no knowing how soon he may revenge it

all, in the twinkling of a pair of heels.

Illustration: BON VOYAGE!

Illustration: WAITING ORDERS.

Mr. Perard discovers himself in these sketches to be a facile

technician, a shrewd and sympathetic observer, and several different

kinds of a man――all good kinds. Observe one thing about him: he is

healthy and sound all through. His work is calm, firm, and kind. There

is heart in it. There is quite as warm a corner in that heart for the

ragamuffin as there is for the howling swell.

Library of the best American literature Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers · 第 16 / 16 章

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY, the author of the following patriotic