The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.
By Alfred H. Miles.
There’s a doughty little Island in the ocean,—
The dainty little darling of the free;
That pulses with the patriots’ emotion,
And the palpitating music of the sea:
She is first in her loyalty to duty;
She is first in the annals of the brave;
She is first in her chivalry and beauty,
And first in the succour of the slave!
Then here’s to the pride of the ocean!
Here’s to the pearl of the sea!
Here’s to the land of the heart and the hand
That fight for the right of the free!
Here’s to the spirit of duty,
Bearing her banners along—
Peacefully furled in the van of the world
Or waving and braving the wrong.
There’s an open-hearted fellow in the Island,
Who loves the little Island to the full;
Who cultivates the lowland and the highland
With a lover’s loving care—John
Bull
His look is the welcome of a neighbour;
His hand is the offer of a friend;
His word is the liberty of labour;
His blow the beginning of the end.
Then here’s to the Lord of the Island;
Highland and lowland and lea;
And here’s to the team—be it
horse, be it steam—
He drives from the sea to the sea,
Here’s to his nod for the stranger;
Here’s to his grip for a friend;
And here’s to the hand, on the sea, or the land,
Ever ready the right to defend.
There’s a troop of trusty children from the
Island
Who’ve planted Englands up and down
the sea;
Who cultivate the lowland and the highland
And fly the gallant colours of the free:
Their hearts are as loyal as their mother’s;
Their hands are as ready as their sire’s
Their bond is a union of brothers,—
Who fear not a holocaust of fires!
Then here’s to the Sons of the nation
Flying the flag of the free;
Holding the farm and the station,
Keeping the Gates of the Sea;
Handed and banded together,
In Arts, and in Arms, and in Song,
Father and son, united as one,
Bearing her Banners along,
Peacefully furled in the van of the world,
Or waving and braving the wrong!
By F. Harald Williams.
God hath gone forth in solemn might to shake
The peoples of the earth,
Through the long shadow and the fires that make
New altar and new hearth!
And with the besom of red war He sweeps
The sin and woe away,
To purge with fountains from His ancient deeps
The dust of old decay.
O not in anger but in Love He speaks
From tempest round Him drawn,
Unveiling thus the fair white mountain peaks
Which tremble into dawn.
Not otherwise would Truth be all our own
Unless by flood and flame,
When the last word of Destiny is known—
God’s fresh revealed Name.
For thence do windows burst in Heaven and light
Breaks on our darkened lands,
And sovereign Mercy may fulfil through night
The Justice it demands.
Ah, not in evil but for endless good
He bids the sluices run
And death, to mould His blessed Brotherhood
Which had not else begun.
For if the great Arch-builder comes to frame
Yet broader empires, then
He lays the stones in blood and splendid shame
With glorious lives of men.
He takes our richest and requires the whole
Nor is content with less,
He cannot rear by a divided dole
The walls of Righteousness.
And so He forms His grand foundations deep
Not on our golden toys,
But in the twilight where the mourners weep
Of broken hearts and joys.
And He will only have the best or nought,
A full and willing price,
When the tall towers eternal are upwrought
With tears and sacrifice.
Our sighs and prayers, the loveliness of loss,
The passion and the pain
And sharpest nails of every noble cross,
Were never borne in vain.
That fragrant faith the incense of His courts,
Whereon this dim world thrives
And hardly gains at length His peaceful ports,
Is wrung from bruised lives.
Lo, when grim battle rages and is shed
A dreadful crimson dew,
God is at work and of the gallant dead
He maketh man anew.
The hero courage, the endurance stout,
The self-renouncing will,
The shock of onset and the thunder shout
That triumph over ill—
All wreak His purpose though at bitter cost
And fashion forth His plan,
While not a single sob or ache is lost
Which in His Breath began.
Each act august, which bravely in despite
Of suffering dared to be,
Is one with the grand order infinite
Which sets the kingdoms free.
The pleading wound, the piteous eye that opes
Again to nought but pangs,
Are jewels and sweet pledges of those hopes
On which His empire hangs.
But if we travail in the furnace hot
And feel its blasting ire,
He learns with us the anguish of our lot
And walketh in the fire.
He wills no waste, no burden is too much
In the most bitter strife;
Beneath the direst buffet is His touch,
Who holds the pruning knife.
We are redeemed through sorrow, and the thorn
That pierces is His kiss,
As through the grave of grief we are re-born
And out of the abyss.
The blood of nations is the precious seed
Wherewith He plants our gates
And from the victory of the virile deed
Spring churches and new states.
And they that fall though but a little space
Fall only in His hand,
And with their lives they pave the fearful place
Whereon the pillars stand.
God treads no more the winepress of His wrath
As once He did alone,
He bids us share with Him the perilous path
The altar and the throne.
When from the iron clash and stormy stress
Which mark His wondrous way,
Shines forth all haloed round with holiness
The rose of perfect day.
By Eliza cook.
My heart is pledg’d in wedded faith to England’s
“Merrie Isle,”
I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral
pile;
I’m happy when my steps are free upon the sunny
glade,
I’m glad and proud amid the crowd that throng
its mart of trade;
I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her
throne,
Where every flag that comes ’ere now has lower’d
to our own.
Look round the globe and tell me can ye find more
blazon’d names,
Among its cities and its streams, than London and
the Thames?
My soul is link’d right tenderly to every shady
copse,
I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant
hops;
The citron tree or spicy grove for me would never
yield,
A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field.
Our songsters too, oh! who shall dare to breathe one
slighting word,
Their plumage dazzles not—yet say can sweeter
strains be heard?
Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow
flush,
Give me old England’s nightingale, its robin,
and its thrush.
I’d freely rove through Tempe’s vale,
or scale the giant Alp,
Where roses list the bulbul’s late, or snow-wreaths
crown the scalp;
I’d pause to hear soft Venice streams plash
back to boatman’s oar,
Or hearken to the Western flood in wild and falling
roar;
I’d tread the vast of mountain range, or spot
serene and flower’d,
I ne’er could see too many of the wonders God
has shower’d;
Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest
heaven,
Could I forget our summer sky, our Windermere
and Devon?
I’d own a brother in the good and brave of any
land,
Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my
hand;
Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world
may know,
And little reck “the place of birth,”
or colour of the brow;
Yet though I hail’d a foreign name among the
first and best,
Our own transcendent stars of fame would rise within
my breast;
I’d point to hundreds who have done the most
’ere done by man,
And cry “There’s England’s glory
scroll,” do better if you can!
GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LAND,
By William Cox Bennet.
A thousand leagues below the line, ’neath southern
stars and skies,
’Mid alien seas, a land that’s ours, our
own new England lies;
From north to south, six thousand miles heave white
with ocean foam,
Between the dear old land we’ve left and this
our new-found home;
Yet what though ocean stretch between—though
here this hour we
stand!
Our hearts, thank God! are English still; God bless
the dear old
land!
“To England!” men, a bumper brim; up,
brothers, glass in hand!
“England!” I give you “England!”
boys; “God bless the dear old land!”
O what a greatness she makes ours? her past is all
our own, And such a past as she can boast, and brothers,
she alone; Her mighty ones the night of time triumphant
shining through, Of them our sons shall proudly say,
“They were our fathers too;” For us her
living glory shines that has through ages shone; Let’s
match it with a kindred blaze, through ages to live
on; Thank God! her great free tongue is ours; up brothers,
glass in hand! Here’s “England,”
freedom’s boast and ours; “God bless the
dear old
land!”
For us, from priests and kings she won rights of such
priceless worth
As make the races from her sprung the freemen of the
earth;
Free faith, free thought, free speech, free laws,
she won through
bitter
strife,
That we might breathe unfetter’d air and live
unshackled life;
Her freedom boys, thank God! is ours, and little need
she fear,
That we’ll allow a right she won to die or wither
here;
Free-born, to her who made us free, up brothers glass
in hand!
“Hope of the free,” here’s “England!”
boys, “God bless the dear old
land!”
They say that dangers cloud her way, that despots
lour and threat;
What matters that? her mighty arm can smite and conquer
yet;
Let Europe’s tyrants all combine, she’ll
meet them with a smile;
Hers are Trafalgar’s broadsides still—the
hearts that won the Nile:
We are but young; we’re growing fast; but with
what loving pride,
In danger’s hour, to front the storm, we’ll
range us at her side;
We’ll pay the debt we owe her then; up brothers
glass in hand!
“May God confound her enemies! God bless
the dear old land!”
By Eliza cook.
The Sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of
the Isle;
The Soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains
the while;
But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers’
halls,
And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals:
We’ll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed
barley-corn,
To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine
the saffron morn;
We’ll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge
our fertile land,
The ploughshare of old England, and her sturdy peasant
band!
The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly
told,
We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving
gold:
Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there;
God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled everywhere.
The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather
dust,
But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and
rust.
Fill up! fill up! with glowing heart, and pledge our
fertile land,
The ploughshare of old England, and her sturdy peasant
band.
(Discoverer of Tasmania.)
By Frances S. Lewin.
Bold and brave, and strong and stalwart,
Captain of a ship was he,
And his heart was proudly thrilling
With the dreams of chivalry.
One fair maiden, sweet though stately,
Lingered in his every dream,
Touching all his hopes of glory
With a brighter, nobler gleam.
Daughter of a haughty father,
Daughter of an ancient race,
Yet her wilful heart surrendered,
Conquered by his handsome face;
And she spent her days in looking
Out across the southern seas,
Picturing how his bark was carried
Onward by the favouring breeze.
Little wonder that she loved him,
Abel Tasman brave and tall;
Though the wealthy planters sought her,
He was dearer than them all.
Dearer still, because her father
Said to him, with distant pride,
“Darest thou, a simple captain,
Seek my daughter for thy bride?”
But at length the gallant seaman
Won himself an honoured name;
When again he met the maiden,
At her feet he laid his fame:
Said to her, “My country sends me,
Trusted with a high command,
With the ‘Zeehan’ and the ‘Heemskirk,’
To explore the southern strand.”
“I must claim it for my country,
Plant her flag upon its shore;
But I hope to win you, darling,
When the dangerous cruise is o’er.”
And her haughty sire relenting,
Did not care to say him nay:
Flushing high with love and valour,
Sailed the gallant far away.
And the captain, Abel Tasman,
Sailing under southern skies,
Mingled with his hopes of glory,
Thoughts of one with starlight eyes.
Onward sailed he, where the crested
White waves broke around his ship,
With the lovelight in his true eyes,
And the song upon his lip.
Onward sailed he, ever onward,
Faithful as the stars above;
Many a cape and headland pointing
Tells the legend of his love:
For he linked their names together,
Speeding swiftly o’er the wave—
Tasman’s Isle and Cape Maria,
Still they bear the names he gave.
Toil and tempest soon were over,
And he turned him home again,
Seeking her who was his guiding
Star across the trackless main.
Strange it seems the eager captain
Thus should hurry from his prize,
When a thousand scenes of wonder
Stood revealed before his eyes.
But those eyes were always looking,
Out toward the Java seas,
Where the maid he loved was waiting—
Dearer prize to him than these.
But his mission was accomplished,
And a new and added gem
Sparkled with a wondrous lustre
In the Dutch king’s diadem.
Little did the gallant seaman
Think that in the days to be,
England’s hand should proudly wrest it
From his land’s supremacy.
By A. Conan Doyle.
Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it,
sir. That’s true.
The big bay ’orse in the further stall—the
one wot’s next to you.
I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve
seldom seen a wuss,
But ’e ‘olds the bloomin’ record,
an’ that’s good enough for us.
We knew as it was in ’im. ’E’s
thoroughbred, three part,
We bought ’im for to race ’im, but we
found ’e ’ad no ’eart;
For ‘e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin’
dignified,
It seemed a kind o’ liberty to drive ’im
or to ride;
For ‘e never seemed a-thinkin’ of what
’e ’ad to do.
But ’is thoughts was set on ‘igher things,
admirin’ of the view.
’E looked a puffect pictur, and a pictur ’e
would stay,
’E wouldn’t even switch ’is tail
to drive the flies away.
And yet we knew ’twas in ’im; we knew
as ’e could fly;
But what we couldn’t get at was ’ow to
make ’im try.
We’d almost turned the job up, until at last
one day,
We got the last yard out of ‘m in a most amazin’
way.
It was all along o’ master; which master ’as
the name
Of a reg’lar true blue sportsman, an’
always acts the same;
But we all ’as weaker moments, which master
’e ’ad one,
An’ ’e went and bought a motor-car when
motor-cars begun.
I seed it in the stable yard—it fairly
turned me sick—
A greasy, wheezy, engine as can neither buck nor kick.
You’ve a screw to drive it forard, and a screw
to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an’ bred
in a blacksmith’s shop.
It didn’t want no stable, it didn’t ask
no groom,
It didn’t need no nothin’ but a bit o’
standin’ room.
Just fill it up with paraffin an’ it would go
all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could ’ave
my way.
Well, master took ‘is motor-car, an’ moted
‘ere an’ there,
A frightenin’ the ‘orses an’ a poisenin’
the air.
‘E wore a bloomin’ yachtin’ cap,
but Lor!—what did ’e know,
Excep’ that if you turn a screw the thing would
stop or go?
An’ then one day it wouldn’t go.
’E screwed and screwed again
But somethin’ jammed, an’ there ’e
stuck in the mud of a country
lane.
It ’urt ’is pride most cruel, but what
was ’e to do?
So at last ’e bade me fetch a ’orse to
pull the motor through.
This was the ’orse we fetched ‘im; an’
when we reached the car,
We braced ’im tight and proper to the middle
of the bar,
And buckled up ’is traces and lashed them to
each side,
While ’e ’eld ’is ’ead so
‘aughtily, an’ looked most dignified.
Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and
vexed,
And ‘e seemed to say, “Well, bli’
me! wot will they ask me next?
I’ve put up with some liberties, but this caps
all by far,
To be assistant engine to a crocky motor car!”
Well, master, ‘e was in the car, a-fiddlin’
with the gear,
An’ the ‘orse was meditatin’, an’
I was standin’ near,
When master ’e touched somethin’—what
it was we’ll never know—
But it sort o’ spurred the boiler up and made
the engine go.
“’Old ’ard, old gal!” says
master, and “Gently then!” says I,
But an engine wont ‘eed coaxin’ an’
it ain’t no use to try;
So first ‘e pulled a lever, an’ then ’e
turned a screw,
But the thing kept crawlin’ forrard spite of
all that ’e could do.
And first it went quite slowly, and the ’orse
went also slow,
But ’e ’ad to buck up faster when the
wheels began to go;
For the car kept crowdin’ on ‘im and buttin’
’im along,
An’ in less than ’alf a minute, sir, that
‘orse was goin’ strong.
At first ‘e walked quite dignified, an’
then ’e had to trot,
And then ’e tried to canter when the pace became
too ’ot.
’E looked ’is very ’aughtiest, as
if ’e didn’t mind,
And all the time the motor-car was pushin’ ’im
be’ind.
Now, master lost ’is ’ead when ’e
found ’e couldn’t stop,
And ‘e pulled a valve or somethin’ an’
somethin’ else went pop,
An’ somethin’ else went fizzywig, an’
in a flash or less,
That blessed car was goin’ like a limited express.
Master ‘eld the steerin’ gear, an’
kept the road all right,
And away they whizzed and clattered—my
aunt! it was a sight.
’E seemed the finest draught ’orse as
ever lived by far,
For all the country Juggins thought ’twas ’im
wot pulled the car.
‘E was stretchin’ like a grey’ound,
‘e was goin’ all ’e knew,
But it bumped an’ shoved be’ind ’im,
for all that ’e could do;
It butted ’im and boosted ‘im an’
spanked ’im on a’ead,
Till ’e broke the ten-mile record, same as I
already said.
Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it,
sir. That’s true.
The only time we ever found what that ’ere ’orse
could do.
Some say it wasn’t ’ardly fair, and the
papers made a fuss,
But ’e broke the ten-mile record, and that’s
good enough for us.
You see that ’orse’s tail, sir? You
don’t! no more do we,
Which really ain’t surprisin’, for ’e
’as no tail to see;
That engine wore it off ’im before master made
it stop,
And all the road was litter’d like a bloomin’
barber’s shop.
And master? Well, it cured ’im. ’E
altered from that day,
And come back to ’is ’orses in the good
old-fashioned way.
And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way
by far,
Is to ’int as ’ow you think ’e ought
to keep a motorcar.
By re Henry.
I come of an acting family. We all took to the stage as young ducks take to the water; and though we are none of us geniuses,—yet we got on.
My three brothers are at the present time starring, either in the provinces or in America; my two elder sisters, having strutted and fretted their hour upon the stage, are married to respectable City men; I, Sybil Gascoigne, have acted almost as long as I can remember; the little ones, Kate and Dick, are still at school, but when they leave the first thing they do will be to look out for an engagement.
I do not think we were ever any of us very much in love with the profession. We took things easily. Of course there were some parts we liked better than others, but we played everything that came in our way—Comedy, Farce, Melodrama. My elder sisters quitted the stage before they had much time to distinguish themselves. They were each in turn, on their marriage, honoured with a paragraph in the principal dramatic papers, but no one said the stage had sustained an irreparable loss, or that the profession was robbed of one of its brightest ornaments.
I was following very much in my sisters’ footsteps. The critics always spoke well of me. I never got a slating in my life, but then before the criticism was in print I could almost have repeated word for word the phrases that would be used.
“Miss Gascoigne was painstaking and intelligent as usual.”
“The part was safe in the hands of that promising young actress, Sybil Gascoigne.”
With opinions such as these I was well content. My salary was regularly paid, I could always reckon on a good engagement, and even if my profession failed me there was Jack to fall back upon, and Jack was substantial enough to fall back upon with no risk of hurting oneself. He was six feet two, with broad, square shoulders, and arms—well, when Jack’s arms were round you you felt as if you did not want anything else in the world. At least, that is how I felt. Jack ought to have been in the Life Guards, and he would have been only a wealthy uncle offered to do something for him, and of course such an offer was not to be refused, and the “something” turned out to be a clerkship in the uncle’s business “with a view to a partnership” as the advertisements say. Now the business was not a pretty or a romantic one—it had something to do with leather—but it was extremely profitable, and as I looked forward to one day sharing all Jack’s worldly goods I did not grumble at the leather. Not that Jack had ever yet said a word to me which I could construe into a downright offer. He had looked, certainly, but then with eyes like his there is no knowing what they may imply. They were dark blue eyes, and his hair was bright brown, with a touch of yellow in it, and his moustache was tawny, and his skin was sunburnt to a healthy red. We had been introduced in quite the orthodox way. We had not fallen in love across the footlights. He seldom came to see me act, but sometimes he would drop in to supper, perhaps on his way from a dinner or to a dance, and if I could make him stay with us until it was too late to go to that dance, what a happy girl I used to be!
My mother, with the circumspection that belongs to mothers, told me that he was only flirting, and that I had better turn my attention to somebody else. Somebody else! As if any one were worth even looking at after Jack Curtis. I pitied every girl who was not engaged to him. How could my sisters be happy? Resigned, content, they might be; but to be married and done for, and afterwards to meet Jack—well, imagination failed me to depict the awfulness of such a calamity.
It was quite time he spoke—there can be no doubt of that; although Jack Curtis was too charming to be bound by the rules which govern ordinary mortals. Still, I could not help feeling uneasy and apprehensive. How could I tell how he carried on at those gay and festive scenes in which I was not included? A proud earl’s lovely daughter might be yearning to bestow her hand upon him. A duchess might have marked him for her own. Possibly my jealous fears exaggerated the importance of the society in which he moved, but it seemed to me that if Jack had been bidden to a friendly dinner at Buckingham Palace it was only what might be expected.
Well, there came a night when we expected Jack to supper and he appeared not. Only, in his place, a few lines to say that he was going to start at once for his holiday. A friend had just invited him to join him on his yacht. He added in a postscript: “I will write later.” He did not write. Hours, days, weeks passed, and not a word did we hear. “It is a break-off,” said my mother consolingly. “He had got tired of us all, and he thought this the easiest way of letting us know. I told you there was an understanding between him and Isabel Chisholm—any one could see that with half an eye.”
I turned away shuddering.
“Terrible gales,” said my father, rustling the newspaper comfortably in his easy chair. “Great disasters among the shipping. I shouldn’t wonder if the yacht young what’s-his-name went out in were come to grief.”
I grew pale, and thin, and dispirited. I knew the ladies of our company made nasty remarks about me. One day I overheard two of them talking.
“She never was much of an actress, and now she merely walks through her part. They never had any feeling for art, not one of those Gascoigne girls.”
No feeling for art! What a low, mean, spiteful, wicked thing to say. And the worst of it was that it was so true.
I resolved at once that I would do something desperate. The last piece brought out at our theatre had been a “frost.” It had dragged along until the advertisements were able to announce “Fifteenth Night of the Great Realistic Drama.” And various scathing paragraphs from the papers were pruned down and weeded till they seemed unstinted praise. Thus: “It was not the fault of the management that the new play was so far from being a triumphant success,” was cut down to one modest sentence, “A triumphant success.” “A few enthusiastic cheers from personal friends alone broke the ominous silence when the curtain fell,” became briefly “Enthusiastic cheers.”
But nobody was deceived. One week the public were informed that they could book their seats a month in advance; the next that the successful drama had to be withdrawn at the height of its popularity, owing to other arrangements. What the other arrangements were to be our manager was at his wit’s end to decide. There only wanted three weeks to the close of the season. Fired with a wild ambition born of suspense and disappointment, I suggested that Shakespeare should fill the breach. “Romeo and Juliet,” with me, Sybil Gascoigne, as the heroine.
“Pshaw!” said our good-humoured manager, “you do not know what you are talking about. Juliet! You have not the depth, the temperament, the experience for a Juliet. She had more knowledge of life at thirteen than most of our English maids have at thirty. To represent Juliet correctly an actress must have the face and figure of a young girl, with the heart and mind of a woman, and of a woman who has suffered.”
“And have I not suffered? Do you think because you see me tripping through some foolish, insipid role that I am capable of nothing better? Give me a chance and see what I can do.”
“Oh! bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,”
I began, and declaimed the speech with such despairing vigour that our manager was impressed.
Well, the end of it was that he yielded to my suggestion.
It seemed a prosperous time to float a new Juliet. At a neighbouring theatre a lovely foreign actress was playing the part nightly to crowded houses. We might get some of the overflow, or the public would come for the sake of comparing native with imported talent. Oh! the faces of my traducers, who had said, “Those Gascoigne girls have no feeling for art,” when it was known that they were out of the bill, and that Sybil Gascoigne was to play Shakespeare. I absolutely forgot Jack for one moment. But the next, my grief, my desolation, were present with me with more acuteness than ever. And I was glad that it was so. Such agony as I was enduring would surely make me play Juliet as it had never been played before.
At rehearsals I could see I created a sensation. I felt that I was grand in my hapless love, my desperate grief. I should make myself a name. If Jack were dead or had forsaken me, my art should be all in all.
The morning before the all important evening dawned, I had lain awake nearly an hour, as my custom was of nights how, thinking of Jack, wondering if ever woman had so much cause to grieve as I. Then I rose, practised taking the friar’s potion, and throwing myself upon the bed, until my mother came up and told me to go to sleep, or my eyes would be red and hollow in the morning. But I told my mother that hollow eyes and pale cheeks were necessary to me now—that my career depended upon the depths of my despair.
“To-morrow, mother, let no one disturb me on any account. Keep away letters, newspapers, everything. Tomorrow I am Juliet or nothing.”
My mother promised, and I got some hours of undisturbed slumber.
Rehearsal was over—the last rehearsal. I had gone through my part thinking of my woes. I had swallowed the draught as if it had indeed been a potion to put me out of all remembrance of my misery. I had snatched the dagger and stabbed myself with great satisfaction, and I felt I should at least have the comfort of confounding my enemies and triumphing over them.
I was passing Charing Cross Station, delayed by the streams of vehicles issuing forth, when in a hansom at a little distance I saw a form—a face—which made me start and tremble, and turn hot and cold, and red and white, all at the same time. It could not be Jack. It ought not, must not, should not be Jack. Had I not to act in suffering and despair to-night? Well, even if he had returned in safety from his cruise it was without a thought of me in his heart. He was engaged—married—for aught I knew. It was possible, nay, certain, that I should never see him again.
And yet I ran all the way home. And yet I told the servant breathlessly—“If any visitors call I do not wish to be disturbed.” And yet I made my mother repeat the promise she had given me the previous night. Then I flew to my den at the top of the house; bolted myself in, and set a chair against the door as if I were afraid of anyone making a forcible entry. I stuffed my fingers in my ears, and went over my part with vigour, with more noise even than was absolutely necessary. Still, how strangely I seemed to hear every sound. A hansom passing—no, a hansom drawing up at our house. I went as far from the window as possible. I wedged myself up between the sofa and the wall, and I shut my eyes firmly. Surely there were unaccustomed sounds about, talking and laughing, as if something pleasant had happened. Presently heavy footsteps came bounding up, two steps at a time. Oh! should I have the courage not to answer if it should be Jack?
But it was not. Kitty’s voice shouted—
“Sybil, Sybil, come down. Here’s——”
“Kitty, be quiet,” I called out furiously. “If you do not hold your tongue, if you do not go away from the door immediately, I’ll—I’ll shoot you.”
She went away, and I heard her telling them downstairs that she believed Sybil had gone mad.
I waited a little longer,—then I stole to the window.
Surely Juliet would not be spoiled by the sight of a visitor leaving the house. But there was no one leaving. Indeed, I saw the prospect of a fresh arrival—Isabel Chisholm was coming up the street in a brand new costume and hat to match. Her fringe was curled to perfection. A tiny veil was arranged coquettishly just above her nose. Flesh and blood could not stand this. Downstairs I darted, without even waiting for a look in the glass. Into the drawing-room I bounced, and there, in his six feet two of comely manliness, stood Jack, my Jack, more bronzed and handsome and loveable than ever. He whom I had been mourning for by turns as dead and faithless, but whom I now knew was neither; for he came towards me with both hands outstretched, and he held mine in such a loving clasp, and he looked at me with eyes which I knew were reading just such another tale as that written on his own face.
Then when the knock sounded which heralded Miss Chisholm, he said:—
“Come into another room, Sybil; I have so much to say to you.”
And in that other room he told me of his adventures and perils, and how through them all he had thought of me and wondered, if he never came back alive, whether I should be sorry, and, if he did come back, whether I would promise to be his darling little wife, very, very soon.
But all this, though far more beautiful than poet ever wrote, was not Shakespeare, and I was to act Juliet at night—Juliet the wretched, the heartbroken—while my own spirits were dancing, and my pulses bounding with joy and delight unutterable.
Well, I need hardly tell you my Juliet was not a success. I was conscious of tripping about the stage in an airy, elated way, which was allowable only during the earlier scenes; but when I should have been tragic and desperate, I was still brimming over with new found joy. All through Juliet’s grand monologue, where she swallows the poison, ran the refrain—“Jack has come home, I am going to marry Jack.” I had an awful fear once that I mixed two names a little, and called on Jackimo when I should have said Romeo, and when my speech was over and I lay motionless on the bed, I gave myself up to such delightful thoughts that Capulet or the Friar, I forget which, bending over the couch to assure himself that I was really dead, whispered—
“Keep quiet, you’re grinning.”
I was very glad when the play was over. We often read the reverse side of the picture—of how the clown cracks jokes while his heart is breaking; perhaps his only mother-in-law passing away without his arms to support her. But no one has ever written of the Juliet who goes through terror, suffering, and despair, to the tune of “Jack’s returned, I’m going to marry Jack.”
BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY.
This is the story of Mr. King,
American citizen—Phineas K.,
Whom I met in Orkhanie, far away
From freshening cocktail and genial sling.
A little man with twinkling eyes,
And a nose like a hawk’s, and lips drawn thin,
And a little imperial stuck on his chin,
And about him always a cheerful grin,
Dashed with a comic and quaint surprise.
That very night a loot of wine
Made correspondents and doctors glad,
And the little man, unask’d to dine,
Sat down and shar’d in all we had.
For none said nay, this ready hand
Reach’d after pillau, and fowl,
and drink,
And he toss’d off his liquor without
a wink,
And wielded a knife like a warrior’s brand.
With a buccaneering, swaggering look
He sang his song, and he crack’d
his jest,
And he bullied the waiter and curs’d the cook
With a charming self-approving zest.
We wanted doctors: he was a doctor;
Had we wanted a prince it had been the
same.
Admiral, general, cobbler, proctor—
A man may be anything. What’s
in a name?
The wounded were dying, the dead lay thick
In the hospital beds beside the quick.
Any man with a steady nerve
And a ready hand, who knew how to obey,
In those stern times might well deserve
His fifty piastres daily pay.
So Mr. King, as assistant surgeon,
Bandaged, and dosed, and nursed, and dressed,
And worked, as he ate and drank, with
zest,
Until he began to blossom and burgeon
To redness of features and fulness of cheek,
And his starven hands grew plump and sleek.
But for all sign of wealth he wore
He swaggered neither less nor more.
He talked the stuff he talked before,
And bragged as he had bragged of yore,
With his Yankee chaff and his Yankee slang,
And his Yankee bounce and his Yankee twang.
And, to tell the truth, we all held clear
Of the impudent little adventurer;
And any man with an eye might see
That, though he bore it merrily,
He recognised the tacit scorn
Which dwelt about him night and morn.
The Turks fought well, as most men fight
For life and faith, and hearth and home.
But, from Teliche and Etrepol, left and right,
The Muscov swirled, like the swirling
foam
On the rack of a tempest driven sea.
And foot by foot staunch Mehemit Ali
Was driven along the Lojan valley,
Till he sat his battered forces down
Just northward of the little town,
And waited on war’s destiny.
War’s destiny came, and line by line
His forces broke and fled.
And for three days in Orkhanie town
The arabas went up and down
With loads of dying and dead;
Till at last in a rush of panic fear,
The hardest bitten warriors there
Turn’d with the cowardly Bazouk
And the vile Tchircasse and forsook
The final fort, in headlong flight,
For near Kamirli’s sheltering height;
While through the darkness of the night
The cannon belched their hate
Against the flying crowd; and far
And near the soldiers of the Tsar
Pour’d onward towards the spoil of war
In haste precipitate.
And the little adventurer sat in a shed
With one woman dying, and one woman dead.
Nothing he knew of the late defeat,
Nothing of Mehemit’s enforced retreat;
For he spoke no word of the Turkish tongue,
And had seen no Englishman all day long.
So he sat there, calm, with a flask of rum,
And a cigarette ’twixt finger and thumb,
Tranquilly smoking, and watching the smoke,
And probably hatching some stupid joke,
When in at the door, without a word,
Burst a Circassian, hand on sword.
And the sword leapt out of its sheath, as a flame
Breaks from the coals when the fire is
stirred.
And Mr. King, with a “What’s your
The Tchircasse moved to the side of the bed.
A distaff was leaning against the wall,
And Mr. King, with arms at
length,
Gave it a swing, with all
his strength,
And crashed it full at the villain’s head,
And dropped him, pistols and daggers and
all.
Then sword in hand, he raged through the door,
And there were three hundred savages more,
All hungry for murder, and loot, and worse!
Mr. King bore down with an oath and a curse,
Bore down on the chief with the slain
man’s sword
He saw at a glance the state of the case;
He knew without need of a single word
That the Turk had flown and the Russ was near,
And the Tchircasse held his midday
revel;
So he laid himself out to curse and swear,
And he raged like an eloquent devil.
They listen’d, in a mute surprise,
Amaz’d that any single man should
dare
Harangue an armed crowd with such an air,
And such commanding anger in his eyes;
Till, thinking him at least an English lord,
The Tchircasse leader lower’d his sword,
Spoke a few words in his own tongue, and bow’d,
And slowly rode away with all his men.
Then Mr. King turn’d to his task again:
Sought a rough araba with bullocks twain;
Haled up the unwilling brutes with might and main,
Laid the poor wounded woman gently down,
And calmly drove her from the rescued town!
And Mr. King, when we heard the story,
Was a little abash’d by the hero’s glory;
And, “Look you here, you boys; you may laff
But I ain’t the man to start at chaff.
I know without any jaw from you,
’Twas a darned nonsensical thing to do;
But I tell you plain—and I mean it, too—
For all it was such a ridiculous thing,
I should do it again!” said Mr. King.
FROM “TOWN TOPICS.”
I ask not much! but let th’ “dank wynd”
moan,
“Shimmer th’ woold”
and “rive the wanton surge;”
I ask not much; grant but an “eery drone,”
Some “wilding frondage” and
a “bosky dirge;”
Grant me but these, and add a regal flush
Of “sundered hearts upreared upon
a byre;”
Throw in some yearnings and a “darksome hush,”
And—asking nothing more—I’ll
smite th’ lyre.
Yea, I will smite th’ falt’ring, quiv’ring
strings,
And magazines shall buy my murky stunts;
Too long I’ve held my hand to honest things,
Too long I’ve borne rejections and
affronts;
Now will I be profound and recondite,
Yea, working all th’ symbols and
th’ “props;”
Now will I write of “morn” and “yesternight;”
Now will I gush great gobs of soulful
slops.
Yea, I will smite! Grant me but “swerveless
wynd,”
And I will pipe a cadence rife with thrills;
With “nearness” and “foreverness”
I’ll bind
A “downflung sheaf” of outslants,
paeans and trills;
Pass me th’ “quenchless gleam of Titian
hair,”
And eke th’ “oozing forest’s
woozy clumps;”
Now will I go upon a metric tear
And smite th’ lyre with great resounding
thumps.
W. M. THACKERAY.
The noble King of Brentford
Was old and very
sick,
He summon’d his physicians
To wait upon him
quick:
They stepp’d into their
coaches
And brought their
best physick.
They cramm’d their gracious
master
With potion and
with pill;
They drenched him and they
bled him:
They could not
cure his ill.
“Go fetch,” says
he, “my lawyer;
I’d better
make my will.”
The monarch’s Royal
mandate
The lawyer did
obey;
The thought of six-and-eightpence
Did make his heart
full gay.
“What is’t,”
says he, “your Majesty
Would wish of
me to-day?”
“The doctors have belabour’d
me
With potion and
with pill:
My hours of life are counted,
O man of tape
and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or
two;
I want to make
my will.
“O’er all the
land of Brentford
I’m lord,
and eke of Kew:
I’ve three-per-cents
and five-per-cents;
My debts are but
a few;
And to inherit after me
I have but children
two.
“Prince Thomas is my
eldest son;
A sober prince
is he,
And from the day we breech’d
him
Till now—he’s
twenty-three—
He never caused disquiet
To his poor mamma
or me.
“At school they never
flogg’d him;
At college, though
not fast,
Yet his little-go and great-go
He creditably
pass’d,
And made his year’s
allowance
For eighteen months
to last.
“He never owed a shilling,
Went never drunk
to bed,
He has not two ideas
Within his honest
head—
In all respects he differs
From my second
son, Prince Ned.
“When Tom has half his
income
Laid by at the
year’s end,
Poor Ned has ne’er a
stiver
That rightly he
may spend,
But sponges on a tradesman,
Or borrows from
a friend.
“While Tom his legal
studies
Most soberly pursues,
Poor Ned must pass his mornings
A-dawdling with
the Muse:
While Tom frequents his banker,
Young Ned frequents
the Jews.
“Ned drives about in
buggies,
Tom sometimes
takes a ’bus;
Ah, cruel fate, why made you
My children differ
thus?
Why make of Tom a dullard,
And Ned a genius?’
“You’ll cut him
with a shilling,”
Exclaimed the
man of writs:
“I’ll leave my
wealth,” said Brentford,
“Sir Lawyer,
as befits,
And portion both their fortunes
Unto their several
wits.”
“Your Grace knows best,”
the lawyer said;
“On your
commands I wait.”
“Be silent, sir,”
says Brentford,
“A plague
upon your prate!
Come take your pen and paper,
And write as I
dictate.”
The will as Brentford spoke
it
Was writ and signed
and closed;
He bade the lawyer leave him,
And turn’d
him round and dozed;
And next week in the churchyard
The good old King
reposed.
Tom, dressed in crape and
hatband,
Of mourners was
the chief;
In bitter self-upbraidings
Poor Edward showed
his grief:
Tom hid his fat white countenance
In his pocket-handkerchief.
Ned’s eyes were full
of weeping,
He falter’d
in his walk;
Tom never shed a tear,
But onwards he
did stalk,
As pompous, black, and solemn
As any catafalque.
And when the bones of Brentford—
That gentle King
and just—
With bell and book and candle
Were duly laid
in dust,
“Now, gentlemen,”
says Thomas,
“Let business
be discussed.
“When late our sire
beloved
Was taken deadly
ill,
Sir Lawyer, you attended him
(I mean to tax
your bill);
And, as you signed and wrote
it,
I prithee read
the will”
The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment
out;
And all the Brentford family
Sat eager round
about:
Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,
But Tom had ne’er
a doubt.
“My son, as I make ready
To seek my last
long home,
Some cares I have for Neddy,
But none for thee,
my Tom:
Sobriety and order
You ne’er
departed from.
“Ned hath a brilliant
genius,
And thou a plodding
brain;
On thee I think with pleasure,
On him with doubt
and pain.”
("You see, good Ned,”
says Thomas,
“What he
thought about us twain.”)
“Though small was your
allowance,
You saved a little
store;
And those who save a little
Shall get a plenty
more.”
As the lawyer read this compliment,
Tom’s eyes
were running o’er.
“The tortoise and the
hare, Tom,
Set out at each
his pace;
The hare it was the fleeter,
The tortoise won
the race;
And since the world’s
beginning
This ever was
the case.
“Ned’s genius,
blithe and singing,
Steps gaily o’er
the ground;
As steadily you trudge it,
He clears it with
a bound;
But dulness has stout legs,
Tom,
And wind that’s
wondrous sound.
“O’er fruit and
flowers alike, Tom,
You pass with
plodding feet;
You heed not one nor t’other,
But onwards go
your beat;
While genius stops to loiter
With all that
he may meet;
“And ever as he wanders,
Will have a pretext
fine
For sleeping in the morning,
Or loitering to
dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in
the shine.
“Your little steady
eyes, Tom,
Though not so
bright as those
That restless round about
him
His flashing genius
throws,
Are excellently suited
To look before
your nose.
“Thank Heaven, then,
for the blinkers
It placed before
your eyes;
The stupidest are strongest,
The witty are
not wise;
Oh, bless your good stupidity!
It is your dearest
prize.
“And though my lands
are wide,
And plenty is
my gold,
Still better gifts from Nature,
My Thomas, do
you hold—
A brain that’s thick
and heavy,
A heart that’s
dull and cold.
“Too dull to feel depression,
Too hard to heed
distress,
Too cold to yield to passion
Or silly tenderness.
March on—your road
is open
To wealth, Tom,
and success.
“Ned sinneth in extravagance,
And you in greedy
lust.”
("I’ faith,” says
Ned, “our father
Is less polite
than just.”)
“In you, son Tom, I’ve
confidence,
But Ned I cannot
trust.
“Wherefore my lease
and copyholds,
My lands and tenements,
My parks, my farms, and orchards,
My houses and
my rents,
My Dutch stock and my Spanish
stock,
My five and three
per cents,
“I leave to you, my
Thomas”—
("What, all?”
poor Edward said,
“Well, well, I should
have spent them,
And Tom’s
a prudent head “)—
“I leave to you, my
Thomas,—
To you IN TRUST
for Ned.”
The wrath and consternation
What poet e’er
could trace
That at this fatal passage
Came o’er
Prince Tom his face;
The wonder of the company,
And honest Ned’s
amaze?
“’Tis surely some
mistake,”
Good-naturedly
cries Ned;
The lawyer answered gravely,
“’Tis
even as I said;
’Twas thus his gracious
Majesty
Ordain’d
on his death-bed.
“See, here the will
is witness’d
And here’s
his autograph.”
“In truth, our father’s
writing,”
Says Edward with
a laugh;
“But thou shalt not
be a loser, Tom;
We’ll share
it half and half.”
“Alas! my kind young
gentleman,
This sharing cannot
be;
’Tis written in the
testament
That Brentford
spoke to me,
’I do forbid Prince
Ned to give
Prince Tom a halfpenny.
“’He hath a store
of money,
But ne’er
was known to lend it;
He never helped his brother;
The poor he ne’er
befriended;
He hath no need of property
Who knows not
how to spend it.
“’Poor Edward
knows but how to spend,
And thrifty Tom
to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward
then,
And Edward be
the lord;
And as the honest labourer
Is worthy his
reward,
“’I pray Prince
Ned, my second son,
And my successor
dear,
To pay to his intendant
Five hundred pounds
a year;
And to think of his old father,
And live and make
good cheer.’”
Such was old Brentford’s honest testament.
He did devise his moneys for the best,
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful
rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;
But his good sire was wrong, it is confess’d,
To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.
He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.
Long time the famous reign of Ned endured
O’er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford,
Putney, Kew,
But of extravagance he ne’er was cured.
And when both died, as mortal men will do,
’Twas commonly reported that the steward
Was very much the richer of the two.
BY J. BRUNTON STEPHENS.
Biggs was missing: Biggs had vanished; all the
town was in a ferment;
For if ever man was looked to for an edifying
end,
With due mortuary outfit, and a popular interment,
It was Biggs, the universal guide, philosopher, and
friend.
But the man had simply vanished; speculation wove
no tissue
That would hold a drop of water; each
new theory fell flat.
It was most unsatisfactory, and hanging on the issue
Were a thousand wagers ranging from a
pony to a hat.
Not a trace could search discover in the township
or without it,
And the river had been dragged from morn
till night with no avail.
His continuity had ceased, and that was all about
it,
And there wasn’t ev’n a grease-spot
left behind to tell the tale.
That so staid a man as Biggs was should be swallowed
up in mystery
Lent an increment to wonder—he
who trod no doubtful paths,
But stood square to his surroundings, with no cloud
upon his history,
As the much-respected lessee of the Corporation
Baths.
His affairs were all in order; since the year the
alligator
With a startled river bather made attempt
to coalesce,
The resulting wave of decency had greater grown and
greater,
And the Corporation Baths had been a marvellous
success.
Nor could trouble in the household solve the riddle
of his clearance,
For his bride was now in heaven, and the
issue of the match
Was a patient drudge whose virtues were as plain as
her appearance—
Just the sort whereto no scandal could
conceivably attach.
So the Whither and the Why alike mysterious were counted;
And as Faith steps in to aid where baffled
Reason must retire,
There were those averred so good a man as Biggs might
well have
mounted
Up to glory like Elijah in a chariot of
fire!
For indeed he was a good man; when he sat beside the
portal
Of the Bath-house at his pigeon-hole,
a saint within a frame,
We used to think his face was as the face of an immortal,
As he handed us our tickets, and took
payment for the same.
And, Oh, the sweet advice with which he made of such
occasion
A duplicate detergent for our morals and
our limbs—
For he taught us that decorum was the essence of salvation,
And that cleanliness and godliness were
merely synonyms;
But that open-air ablution in the river was a treason
To the purer instincts, fit for dogs and
aborigines,
And that wrath at such misconduct was the providential
reason
For the jaws of alligators and the tails
of stingarees.
But, alas, our friend was gone, our guide, philosopher,
and tutor,
And we doubled our potations, just to
clear the inner view;
But we only saw the darklier through the bottom of
the pewter,
And the mystery seemed likewise to be
multiplied by two.
And the worst was that our failure to unriddle the
enigma
In the “rags” of rival towns
was made a byword and a scoff,
Till each soul in the community felt branded with
the stigma
Of the unexplained suspicion of poor Biggs’s
taking off.
So a dozen of us rose and swore this thing should
be no longer:
Though the means that Nature furnished
had been tried without
result,
There were forces supersensual that higher were and
stronger,
And with consentaneous clamour we pronounced
for the occult.
Then Joe Thomson slung a tenner, and Jack Robinson
a tanner,
And each according to his means respectively
disbursed;
And a letter in your humble servant’s most seductive
manner
Was despatched to Sludge the Medium, recently
of Darlinghurst.
“I am Biggs,” the spirit said (’twas
through the medium’s lips he
said
it;
But the voice that spoke, the accent,
too, were Biggs’s very own,
Be it, therefore, not set down to our unmerited discredit,
That collectively we sickened as we recognised
the tone).
“From a saurian interior, Christian friends,
I now address you”—
(And “Oh heaven!” or its correlative,
groaned shuddering we)—
“While there yet remains a scrap of my identity,
for, bless you,
This ungodly alligator’s fast assimilating
me.
“For although through nine abysmal days I’ve
fought with his
digestion,
Being hostile to his processes and loth
to pulpify,
It is rapidly becoming a most complicated question
How much of me is crocodile, how much
of him is I.
“And, Oh, my friends, ’tis sorrow’s
crown of sorrow to remember
That this sacrilegious reptile owed me
nought but gratitude,
For I bought him from a showman twenty years since
come November,
And I dropped him in the river for his
own and others’ good.
“It had grieved me that the spouses of our townsmen,
and their
daughters,
Should be shocked by river bathers and
their indecorous ways,
So I cast my bread, that is, my alligator, on the
waters,
And I found it, in a credit balance, after
many days.
“Years I waited, but at last there came the
rumour long-expected,
And the out-of-door ablutionists forsook
their wicked paths,
And the issues of my handiwork divinely were directed
In a constant flow of custom to the Corporation
Baths.
“’Twas a weakling when I bought it; ’twas
so young that you could
pet
it;
But with all its disadvantages I reckoned
it would do;
And it did: Oh, lay the moral well to heart and
don’t forget it—
Put decorum first, and all things shall
be added unto you.
“Lies! all lies! I’ve done with virtue.
Why should I be interested
In the cause of moral progress that I
served so long in vain,
When the fifteen hundred odd I’ve so judiciously
invested
Will but go to pay the debts of some young
rip who marries Jane?
“But the reptile overcomes me; my identity is
sinking;
Let me hasten to the finish; let my words
be few and fit.
I was walking by the river in the starry silence,
thinking
Of what Providence had done for me, and
I had done for it;
“I had reached the saurian’s rumoured
haunt, where oft in fatal folly
I had dropped garotted dogs to keep his
carnal craving up”
(Said Joe Thomson, in a whisper, “That explains
my Highland colley!”
Said Bob Williams, sotto voce,
“That explains my Dandy pup!").
“I had passed to moral questions, and found
comfort in the notion
That fools are none the worse for things
not being what they seem,
When, behold, a seeming log became instinct with life
and motion,
And with sudden curvature of tail upset
me in the stream.
“Then my leg, as in a vice”—but
here the revelation faltered,
And the medium rose and shook himself,
remarking with a smile
That the requisite conditions were irrevocably altered,
For the personality of Biggs was lost
in crocodile.
Now, whether Sludge’s story would succeed in
holding water
Is more, perhaps, than one has any business
to suspect;
But I know that on the strength of it I married Biggs’s
daughter,
And I found a certain portion of the narrative
correct.
BY LEOPOLD WAGNER.
If there is one thing I do dislike, it is to go into a draper’s shop. To my mind, it is not a man’s business at all; it is one essentially feminine. I have never been able to reconcile, myself to the troublesome formalities one has to go through in these marts of female finery; there seems to be no such thing as to pop inside for a trifling article, lay down your money for it, and get away again. No; the system of trade pursued at such establishments is undoubtedly to get you to sit down, with leisure to look about you, and coax you into buying things you don’t want.
Years ago, when I was living in lonely lodgings, I had occasion one Saturday night to slip into the nearest draper’s shop for some pins. “I only want a farthing’s worth of pins,” I observed, apologetically, to the bald-headed shopwalker who pounced down upon me. “Please to step this way.” To my astonishment he marched me to the extreme end of the shop, thence through an opening in the side wall, past another long double row of dames and damsels of all sorts and sizes making purchases, and finally referred me to a young lady whose special function in life seemed to consist in selling pins to adventurous young gentlemen like myself. She was an extremely good looking young lady too, and I felt considerably embarrassed at the insignificance of my purchase. “And the next thing, please?” she asked, during the wrapping-up process. I informed her, as politely as I could, that I did not require anything more.
“Gloves, handkerchiefs, collars, shirts, neckties—?”
“No thank you,” I returned, “I only came in for the pins.” But I was not to be let off so easily.
Utterly ignoring the humble penny that I had laid down on the counter, she showed me samples of almost everything in the shop suitable for male wear. Blushing to the roots of my hair, I implored her to spare herself further trouble, as my wardrobe was already extensive. Then she showed me a sample silk umbrella. I was unwilling to rush away abruptly from the presence of such a charming young lady, but she provoked me to it; indeed, I was only prevented from carrying out my design by my failure to discern the hole in the wall through which I had been inveigled into that department. “If you would be so good as to give me my change,” I stammered out, feeling heartily ashamed at the thought of wanting the change at all. “Certainly sir.” Then she proceeded to make out the bill. “Oh, never mind about the bill,” I said, “I’m rather in a hurry.” Of this appeal she took no notice. “Sign, please,” she said to the young lady at her elbow. “Pins, one farthing,” she added to my utter confusion. The second young lady made a wild flourish over the bill with her pencil and turned away. My fair tormentor slowly wrapped my penny in the bill, screwed up the whole inside a large wooden ball, jerked a dangling cord at her elbow, then stood looking me straight in the face as the ball went rolling along a set of
I entered that shop full of hope and promise; I left it a melancholy man.
Though not quite so exciting as the foregoing, there is an intimate connection between that incident and the one I shall now dwell upon. Let me tell the tale as I told it to my wife. The other day I brought home a neat little Japanese basket—a mere knick-knack, costing only twopence. “Oh, how pretty!” exclaimed my wife. “Wherever did you get this?” “I bought it at a large shop in Regent Street,” I answered, “but it cost me a great deal of trouble to get it.” Pressed for particulars, I continued:
“I was amusing myself by looking at the shops, when I saw a lot of these little Japanese baskets in the corner of a large window, plainly marked twopence each. So I stepped inside to buy one. The door was promptly opened for me by a black boy, resplendent in gold-faced livery. He made me a profound salaam, as a gentleman of aristocratic bearing came forward to meet me. ’And what may I have the pleasure of showing you?’ he inquired. ‘Oh!’ I returned, not without some misgivings, ’I only want one of those little Japanese baskets which you have in one corner of the window, marked, I believe, twopence each.’ ’Certainly, sir. Will you be so kind as to step into this department?’ he said.
“Meekly I followed him through long avenues of silks, damasks, brocades, and other costly examples of Oriental luxury in all the tints of the rainbow. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable at the thought of causing him so much trouble, when he paused at the entrance to another department, and called out, ’Japanese baskets, please.’ Then turning to me, he said, ’If you will be good enough to step forward, they will be most happy to serve you.’ I did so, and found myself on the threshold of an Eastern bazaar. Another nobleman now took me in hand. ‘And what may I have the pleasure——’ he began, making a courteous bow. ’I only want one of those little Japanese baskets which you have in a corner of your window, marked, I believe, twopence each—or, possibly, they may be two shillings?’ I said in a shaky voice.
“Whether, by the rules of the establishment, it was necessary for her to obtain a written permission from each of those three noblemen to pass over their territory and invade the shop window, or whether she lost herself in the numerous windings and turnings through which I had been conducted in perfect safety, I cannot say; I only know that she was gone a very long time. But when at last she made her reappearance with one of those little Japanese baskets in her hand, and beaming with smiles, I felt I owed her an everlasting debt of gratitude. She did not ask me if there was any other article she could have the pleasure of showing me; she had asked me that before and she remembered that I was proof against her persuasiveness! The fair creature simply made a movement towards the spiral staircase, as I thought, to fetch down a witness to the important transaction, until my eyes rested on some tissue paper. ’Pray don’t stay to wrap it up,’ I exclaimed, ‘my pockets are ample,’ and my thanks were profuse.
She promised to prize it all the more on that account. And now, when I look at that little Japanese basket, my mind wanders back to the farthing’s worth of pins I purchased in my old bachelor days.
BY J. SHERIDAN LE FANU.
Jist afther the war, in the year
’98,
As soon as the boys wor all scattered
and bate,
’Twas the custom, whenever
a pisant was got,
To hang him by thrial—barrin’
sich as was shot.—
There was trial by jury goin’
on in the light,
And martial-law hangin’ the
lavins by night
It’s them was hard times for
an honest gossoon:
If he got past the judges—he’d
meet a dragoon;
An’ whether the sodgers or
judges gev sintance,
The divil an hour they gev for repintance.
An’ it’s many’s
the boy that was then on his keepin’,
Wid small share iv restin’,
or atin’, or sleepin’;
An’ because they loved Erin,
an’ scorned for to sell it,
A prey for the bloodhound, a mark
for the bullet—
Unsheltered by night, and unrested
by day,
With the heath for their
barrack, revenge for their pay.
The bravest an’ hardiest boy
iv them all,
Was Shamus O’Brien, o’
the town iv Glingall.
His limbs were well-set, an’
his body was light,
An’ the keen-fanged hound
had not teeth half so white.
But his face was as pale as the
face of the dead,
And his cheeks never warmed with
the blush of the red;
But for all that he wasn’t
an ugly young bye,
For the divil himself couldn’t
blaze with his eye,
So droll an’ so wicked, so
dark and so bright,
Like a fire-flash crossing the depth
of the night;
He was the best mower that ever
was seen,
The handsomest hurler that ever
has been.
An’ his dancin’ was
sich that the men used to stare,
An’ the women turn crazy,
he done it so quare;
Be gorra, the whole world gev in
to him there.
An’ it’s he was the
boy that was hard to be caught,
An’ it’s often he run,
an’ it’s often he fought,
An’ it’s many the one
can remember right well
The quare things he done: an’
it’s often heerd tell
How he lathered the yeomen, himself
agin’ four,
An’ stretched the two strongest
on old Galtimore.—
But the fox must sleep sometimes,
the wild deer must rest,
An’ treachery play on the
blood iv the best.—
Afther many brave actions of power
and pride,
An’ many a hard night on the
bleak mountain’s side,
An’ a thousand great dangers
and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was
taken at last.
Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful
moon,
For the door of the prison must
close on you soon,
An’ take your last look on
her dim lovely light,
That falls on the mountain and valley
this night;—
One look at the village, one look
at the flood,
An’ one at the sheltering,
far-distant wood.
Farewell to the forest, farewell
to the hill,
An’ farewell to the friends
that will think of you still;
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin’
an’ wake,
And farewell to the girl that would
die for your sake.—
An’ twelve sodgers brought
him to Maryborough jail,
An’ the turnkey resaved him,
refusin’ all bail;
The fleet limbs wor chained, an’
the sthrong hands wor bound,
An’ he laid down his length
on the cowld prison ground.
An’ the dreams of his childhood
kem over him there,
As gentle an’ soft as the
sweet summer air;
An’ happy rememberances crowding
on ever,
As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift
down on the river,
Bringing fresh to his heart merry
days long gone by,
Till the tears gathered heavy and
thick in his eye.
But the tears didn’t fall,
for the pride of his heart
Would not suffer one drop
down his pale cheek to start;
Then he sprang to his feet in the
dark prison cave,
An’ he swore with the fierceness
that misery gave,
By the hopes of the good, an’
the cause of the brave,
That when he was mouldering low
in the grave
His enemies never should have it
to boast
His scorn of their vengeance one
moment was lost;
His bosom might bleed, but his cheek
should be dhry,
For, undaunted he lived,
and undaunted he’d die.
Well, as soon as a few weeks was
over and gone,
The terrible day iv the thrial kem
on;
There was sich a crowd there
was scarce room to stand,
The sodgers on guard, the dhragoons
sword-in-hand.
An’ the court-house so full
that the people were bothered.
Attorneys an’ criers were
just upon smothered;
An’ counsellers almost gev
over for dead.
The jury sat up in their box overhead;
An’ the judge on the bench
so detarmined an’ big,
With his gown on his back, and an
For a minute he turned his eye round
on the throng,
An’ he looked at the irons,
so firm and so strong,
An’ he saw that he had not
a hope nor a friend,
A chance of escape, nor a word to
defend;
Then he folded his arms as he stood
there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue
of stone;
And they read a big writin’,
a yard long at laste,
An’ Jim didn’t hear
it, nor mind it a taste,
An’ the judge took a big pinch
iv snuff, and he says,
“Are you guilty or not, Jim
O’Brien, av you plase?”
An’ all held their breath
in the silence of dhread
As Shamus O’Brien made answer
and said:
“My lord, if you ask me, if
ever a time
I have thought any treason, or done
any crime
That should call to my cheek, as
I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame, or the coldness
of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive
my death-blow,
Before God and the world I would
answer you, No!’
But—if you would ask
me, as I think it like,
If in the rebellion I carried a
pike,
An’ fought for me counthry
from op’ning to close,
An’ shed the heart’s
blood of her bitterest foes,
I answer you, Yes; and I
tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, I
glory that then
In her cause I was willing my veins
should run dhry,
An’ that now for her
sake I am ready to die.”
Then the silence was great, and
the jury smiled bright,
An’ the judge wasn’t
sorry the job was made light;
By my sowl, it’s himself was
a crabbed ould chap!
In a twinklin’ he pulled on
his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus’ mother in the
crowd standin’ by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful
cry:
“O, judge! darlin’,
don’t, O, O, don’t say the word!
The crathur is young, O, have mercy,
my lord;
He was foolish, he didn’t
know what he was doin’;—
You don’t know him, my lord—don’t
give him to ruin!—
He’s the kindliest crathur,
the tendherest-hearted;—
Don’t part us for ever, that’s
been so long parted.
Judge, mavourneen, forgive him,
forgive him, my lord,
An’ God will forgive you—O,
don’t say the word!”
That was the first minute O’Brien
was shaken,
When he saw he was not quite forgot
or forsaken;
An’ down his pale cheeks,
at the word of his mother,
The big tears kem runnin’
one afther th’ other;
An’ two or three times he
endeavoured to spake,
But the sthrong manly voice seem’d
to falther and break;
But at last, by the strength of
his high-mounting pride,
He conquered and masthered his griefs
swelling tide,
The mornin’ was bright, an’
the mists rose on high,
An’ the lark whistled merrily
in the clear sky;—
But why are the men standin’
idle so late?
An’ why do the crowds gather
fast in the street?
What come they to talk of? what
come they to see?
An’ why does the long rope
hang from the cross-tree?—
O, Shamus O’Brien! pray fervent
and fast,
May the saints take your soul, for
this day is your last;
Pray fast, an’ pray sthrong,
for the moment is nigh,
When, sthrong, proud, an’
great as you are, you must die.—
An’ fasther an’ fasther,
the crowd gathered there,
Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just
like a fair;
An’ whisky was sellin’,
an’ cussamuck too,
An’ the men and the women
enjoying the view.
An’ ould Tim Mulvany, he med
the remark,
There was no sich a sight since
the time of Noah’s ark;
An’ be gorra, ’twas
thrue too, for never sich scruge,
Sich divarshin and crowds, was known
since the deluge.
For thousands were gathered there,
if there was one,
All waitin’ such time as the
hangin’ kem on.
At last they threw open the big
prison-gate,
An’ out came the sheriffs
an’ sodgers in state,
An’ a cart in the middle,
an’ Shamus was in it,
Not paler, but prouder
than ever, that minute,
An’ as soon as the people
saw Shamus O’Brien,
Wid prayin’ an’ blessin’,
and all the girls cryin’,
The wild wailin’ sound it
kem on by degrees,
Like the sound of the lonesome wind
blowin’ through trees.
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs
are gone,
An’ the cart an’ the
sodgers go steadily on;
At every side swellin’ around
of the cart,
A sorrowful sound, that id open
your heart.
Now under the gallows the cart takes
its stand,
An’ the hangman gets up with
the rope in his hand;
An’ the priest, havin’
blest him, goes down on the ground,
An’ Shamus O’Brien throws
one look around.
Then the hangman dhrew near, an’
the people grew still,
Young faces turned sickly, and warm
hearts turn chill,
An’ the rope bein’ ready,
his neck was made bare,
For the gripe iv the life-strangling
cord to prepare;
An’ the good priest has left
him, havin’ said his last prayer.
But the priest has done more, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground; Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash goes the sabres; He’s not down! he’s alive still! now stand to him, neighbours. Through the smoke and the horses he’s into the crowd,— By heaven he’s free!—than thunder more loud, By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken— One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin’, it’s yourself you must hang; To-night he’ll be sleeping in Atherloe Glin, An’ the divil’s in the dice if you catch him ag’in.— The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An’ Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; An’ the sheriffs were both of them punished severely, An’ fined like the divil for bein’ done fairly.
BY WILLIAM THOMSON.
Sawtan i’ the law court
Wis once, sae I’ve heard tell—
“Oh! but hame is hamely!”
Quo’ Sawtan to himsel.’
BY W.M. THACKERAY.
In tattered old slippers
that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket
perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world
and its toils and its cares,
I’ve a snug little
kingdom up four pairs of stairs.
To mount to this realm
is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is
bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold
on a sunshiny day
Is grand through the
chimney-pots over the way.
This snug little chamber
is cramm’d in all nooks
With worthless old knicknacks
and silly old books,
And foolish old odds
and foolish old ends,
Crack’d bargains
from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.
Old armour, prints,
pictures, pipes, china (all crack’d),
Old rickety tables,
and chairs broken-backed;
A twopenny treasury,
wondrous to see;
What matter? ’tis
pleasant to you, friend, and me.
No better divan need
the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old
sofa, that basks by the fire;
And ’tis wonderful,
surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle,
wheezy spinet.
That praying-rug came
from a Turcoman’s camp;
By Tiber once twinkled
that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder
dagger has drawn:
’Tis a murderous
knife to toast muffins upon.
Long, long through the
hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old
books, and old friends, and old times;
As we sit in a fog made
of rich Latakie
This chamber is pleasant
to you, friend, and me.
But of all the cheap
treasures that garnish my nest,
There’s one that
I love and I cherish the best:
For the finest of couches
that’s padded with hair
I never would change
thee, my cane-bottom’d chair.
Tis a bandy-legg’d,
high-shoulder’d, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old
back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning
when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love
thee, old cane-bottom’d chair.
If chairs have but feeling,
in holding such charms,
A thrill must have pass’d
through your wither’d old arms!
I look’d and I
long’d, and I wish’d in despair;
I wish’d myself
turn’d to a cane-bottom’d chair.
It was but a moment
she sat in this place,
She’d a scarf
on her neck, and a smile on her face!
A smile on her face,
and a rose in her hair,
And she sat there, and
bloom’d in my cane-bottom’d chair.
And so I have valued
my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a
saint, or the throne of a prince;
Saint Fanny, my patroness
sweet I declare,
The queen of my heart
and my cane-bottom’d chair.
When the candles burn
low, and the company’s gone,
In the silence of night
as I sit here alone—
I sit here, alone, but
we yet are a pair—
My Fanny I see in my
cane-bottom’d chair.
She comes from the past
and revisits my room;
She looks as she then
did, all beauty and bloom
So smiling and tender,
so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits
in my cane-bottom’d chair.
September 20th,
1854. BY WILLIAM C. BENNET.
Yes—clash,
ye pealing steeples!
Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar!
Tell what each heart is feeling,
From shore to throbbing shore!
What every shouting city,
What every home would say,
The triumph and the rapture
That swell our hearts to-day.
And did they say, O
England,
That now thy blood was cold,
That from thee had departed
The might thou hadst of old!
Tell them no deed more stirring
Than this thy sons have done,
Than this, no nobler triumph,
Their conquering arms have won.
The mighty fleet bore
seaward;
We hushed our hearts in fear,
In awe of what each moment
Might utter to our ear;
For the air grew thick with murmurs
That stilled the hearer’s
breath,
With sounds that told of battle,
Of victory and of death.
We knew they could
but conquer;
O fearless hearts, we knew
The name and fame of England
Could but be safe with you.
We knew no ranks more dauntless
The rush of bayonets bore,
Through all Spain’s fields of
carnage,
Or thine, Ferozepore.
O red day of the Alma!
O when thy tale was heard,
How was the heart of England
With pride and gladness stirred!
How did our peopled cities
All else forget, to tell
Ye living, how ye conquered,
And how, O dead, ye fell.
Glory to those who
led you!
Glory to those they led!
Fame to the dauntless living!
Fame to the peaceful dead!
Honour, for ever, honour
To those whose bloody swords
Struck back the baffled despot,
And smote to flight his hordes!
On, with your fierce
burst onward!
On, sweep the foe before,
Till the great sea-hold’s volleys
Roll through the ghastly roar!
Till your resistless onset
The mighty fortress know,
And storm-won fort and rampart
Your conquering standards show.
Yes—clash,
ye bells, in triumph!
Yes—roar, ye cannon,
roar!
Not for the living only,
But for those who come no more.
For the brave hearts coldly lying
In their far-off gory graves,
By the Alma’s reddened waters,
And the Euxine’s dashing waves.
For thee, thou weeping
mother,
We grieve; our pity hears
Thy wail, O wife; the fallen,
For them we have no tears;
No—but with pride we name
them,
For grief their memory wrongs;
Our proudest thoughts shall claim
them,
And our exalting songs.
Heights of the rocky
Alma,
The flags that scaled you bore
“Plassey,” “Quebec,”
and “Blenheim,”
And many a triumph more;
And they shall show your glory
Till men shall silent be,
Of Waterloo and Maida
Moultan and Meanee.
I look; another glory
Methinks they give to fame;
By Badajoz and Bhurtpoor
Streams out another name;
From captured fleet and city,
And fort, the thick clouds roll,
And on the flags above them
Is writ “Sebastopol.”
BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.
Let the Arab courser go
Headlong on the silent foe;
Their plumes may shine like mountain snow,
Like fire their iron tubes may glow,
Their cannon death on death may throw,
Their pomp, their pride, their strength, we know,
But—let the Arab courser go.
The
Arab horse is free and bold,
His
blood is noble from of old,
Through
dams, and sires, many a one,
Up
to the steed of Solomon.
He
needs no spur to rouse his ire,
His
limbs of beauty never tire,
Then,
give the Arab horse the rein,
And
their dark squares will close in vain.
Though
loud the death-shot peal, and louder,
He
will only neigh the prouder;
Though
nigh the death-flash glare, and nigher,
He
will face the storm of fire;
He
will leap the mound of slain,
Only
let him have the rein.
The Arab horse will not shrink back, Though death confront him in his track, The Arab horse will not shrink back, And shall his rider’s arm be slack? No!—By the God who gave us life, Our souls are ready for the strife. We need no serried lines, to show A gallant bearing to the foe. We need no trumpet to awake The thirst, which blood alone can slake. What is it that can stop our course, Free riders of the Arab horse?
Go—brave
the desert wind of fire;
Go—beard
the lightning’s look of ire;
Drive
back the ravening flames, which leap
In
thunder from the mountain steep;
But
dream not, men of fifes and drums,
To
stop the Arab when he comes:
Not
tides of fire, not walls of rock,
Could
shield you from that earthquake shock.
Come,
brethren, come, too long we stay,
The
shades of night have rolled away,
Too
fast the golden moments fleet,
Charge,
ere another pulse has beat;
Charge—like
the tiger on the fawn—
Before
another breath is drawn.
BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.
My lady’s leap!
that’s it, sir,—
That’s what we call it ’ere;—
It’s a nasty jump for a man,
sir,
Let alone for a woman to clear.
D’ye see the fencing around
it?
And the cross as folk can tell,
That this is the very spot, sir,
Where her sweet young ladyship
fell?
I’ve lived in
his lordship’s family
For goin’ on forty year.
And the tears will come a wellin’
Whenever I think of her;
For my mem’ry takes me backwards
To the days when by my side
She would sit in her tiny saddle
As I taught her the way to ride.
But she didn’t
want much teachin’;—
Lor’ bless ye, afore she
was eight
There wasn’t a fence in the
county
Nor ever a five-barred gate
But what she’d leap, aye, and
laugh at.
I think now I hear the ring
Of her voice, shouting, “Now
then, lassie!”
As over a ditch she’d spring.
How proud I was of
my mistress,
When round the country-side
I’d hear folks talking of her,
sir,
And how she used to ride!
Every one knew my young mistress,
“My lady of Hislop Chase;”
And, what’s more, every one
loved her,
And her sunny, angel face.
Lord Hislop lost his
wife, sir,
When Lady Vi’ was born.
And never man aged so quickly:
He grew haggard and white and worn
In less than a week. Then after,
At times, he’d grow queer
and wild;
And only one thing saved him—
His love for his only child.
He worshipped her like an idol;
He loved her, folks said too well;
And God sent the end as a judgment,—
But how that may be who can tell?
I don’t know
how it all happened—
I heard the story you see,
In bits and scraps,—just
here and there;
But, sir, ’atween you and
me,
In putting them all together,
I think I’ve a good idea
As how the Master got swindled,
And things at the “Chase”
went queer.
He’d a notion to leave Miss
Vi’let
Rich, I fancy, you know;
For now and ag’in I noticed
He’d take in his head to
go
And then the worst
came to the worst, sir.
“The old Chase must go from
us, Vi’!”
Her father told her one morning,
“My child! oh, my child!
I would die
Ten thousand deaths rather than tell
you
What price our freedom would cost.”
And then, in a voice hoarse and broken,
He told her how all had been lost.
They say, sir, the girl answered
proudly,
“I know, father, what you
would say:
The man who has swindled you, duped
you,
Will return you your own if you
pay
His price—my hand.
Don’t speak, father!
You know what I’m saying
is true;
And, father, I know Paul Delaunay,
Yes, better, far better, than you.
Go, tell him I’ll wed him to-morrow,
On this one condition—list
here,—
That he beats me across the country
From Hislop to Motecombe Mere.
But say that should I chance to beat
him
He must give back everything—all
Of what he has robbed you, father:
That’s the message I send
Sir Paul.”
Two men watched that
ride across country
At the break of an autumn day:
Young Hilton, the son of the Squire,
And I, sir. They started away
And came through the first field
together,
Then leaped the first fence neck
and neck;
On, on again, riding like mad, sir,
Jumping all without hinder or check.
In this, the last field ’fore
the finish,
You could save half a minute or
more
By leaping the stone wall and brooklet;
But never, sir, never before,
Had anyone ever attempted
That leap; it was madness, but,
sir,
My young mistress knew that Delaunay
Was too great a coward and cur
To follow; and, what’s more,
she knew, sir,
That she must be first in
the race—
For the sake of the Hislop honour,
To win back the dear old Chase.
I looked at young
Hilton beside me—
A finer lad never walked:
I don’t think he thought as
I knew, sir,
Their secret, for I’d never
talked;
But I’d known for a long time,
you see, sir,
As he and my lady Vi’
Had loved and would love for ever.
At last from his lips came a cry,
“Good God! she never will clear
it!”
Then he turned his face to the
ground;
While I—I looked on in
terror,
Watched her, sir, taking that bound.
With a cold sweat bathing my forehead,
I saw her sweep onward, and gasped—
“For Heaven’s sake, stop,
Lady Vi’let!”
A laugh was her answer. She
passed
On, on, like a shimmer of lightning,
And then came her last great leap—
The next, sir, I saw of my lady
Was a crushed and mangled heap.
Delaunay? No, he didn’t
follow,
Nor even drew rein when she fell;
But rode on, the longest way round,
sir.
When he came back to claim her—well,
She was dead in the arms of her lover—
Claspt tight in his mad embrace;—
With her life-blood staining her
tresses,
And a sad, sweet smile on her face.
I heard the last words
that she uttered—
“My love! tell my father
I tried
To do what was best for his honour;
For you and for him I have died.”
BY J.R. PLANCHE.
(FROM THE “DRAMATIC COLLEGE ANNUAL.")
Sir John has this
moment gone by
In the brougham that was to be
mine,
But, my dear, I’m not going
to cry,
Though I know where he’s
going to dine.
I shall meet him at Lady Gay’s
ball
With that girl to his arm clinging
fast,
But it won’t, love, disturb
me at all,
I’ve recovered my spirits
at last!
I was horribly low
for a week,
For I could not go out anywhere
Without hearing, “You know
they don’t speak;”
Or, “I’m told it’s
all broken off there.”
But the Earl whispered something
last night,
I sha’n’t say exactly
what past,
But of this, dear, be satisfied
quite,
I’ve recovered my spirits
at last!
BY MARK TWAIN.
On the Erie Canal,
it was,
All on a summer’s day,
I sailed forth with my parents
Far away to Albany.
From out the
clouds at noon that day
There came a dreadful storm,
That piled the billows high
about,
And filled us with alarm.
A man came rushing
from a house,
“Tie up your boat I
pray!
Tie up your boat, tie up, alas!
Tie up while yet you may.”
Our captain cast
one glance astern,
Then forward glanced he,
And said, “My wife and
little ones
I never more shall see.”
Said Dollinger
the pilot man,
In noble words, but few—
“Fear not, but lean on
Dollinger,
And he will fetch you through.”
The boat drove
on, the frightened mules
Tore through the rain and
wind,
And bravely still in danger’s
post,
The whip-boy strode behind.
“Come ’board,
come ’board,” the captain cried,
“Nor tempt so wild a
storm;”
But still the raging mules advanced,
And still the boy strode on.
Then said the
captain to us all,
“Alas, ’tis plain
to me,
The greater danger is not there,
But here upon the sea.
So let us strive,
while life remains,
To save all souls on board,
And then if die at last we must,
I ... cannot speak
the word!”
Said Dollinger
the pilot man,
Tow’ring above the crew,
“Fear not, but trust in
Dollinger,
And he will fetch you through.”
“Low bridge!
low bridge!” all heads went down,
The labouring bark sped on;
A mill we passed, we passed
a church,
Hamlets, and fields of corn;
And all the world
came out to see,
And chased along the shore,
Crying, “Alas, the sheeted
rain,
The wind, the tempest’s
roar!
Alas, the gallant ship and crew,
Can nothing help them
more?”
And from our
deck sad eyes looked out
Across the stormy scene:
The tossing wake of billows
aft,
The bending forests green,
The chickens
sheltered under carts,
In lee of barn the cows,
The skurrying swine with straw
in mouth,
The wild spray from our bows!
“She
balances?
She wavers!
Now let her go about!
If she misses stays and broaches
to
We’re all”—[then
with a shout,]
“Huray! huray!
Avast! belay!
Take in more sail!
Lor! what a gale!
Ho, boy, haul taut on the hind
mule’s tail!”
“Ho! lighten
ship! ho! man the pump!
Ho, hostler, heave the lead!”
“A quarter-three!—’tis
shoaling fast!
Three feet large!—three-e
feet!—
’Tis three feet scant!”
I cried in fright,
“Oh, is there no
retreat?”
Said Dollinger
the pilot man,
As on the vessel flew,
“Fear not, but trust in
Dollinger,
And he will fetch you through.”
A panic struck
the bravest hearts,
The boldest cheek turned pale;
For plain to all, this shoaling
said
A leak had burst the ditch’s
bed!
And, straight as bolt from crossbow
sped,
Our ship swept on, with shoaling
lead,
Before the fearful gale!
“Sever
the tow-line! Stop the mules!”
Too late! .... There
comes a shock!
* * * * *
Another length,
and the fated craft
Would have swum in the saving
lock!
Then gathered
together the shipwrecked crew
And took one last embrace,
While sorrowful tears from despairing
eyes
Ran down each hopeless face;
And some did think of their
little ones
Whom they never more might
see,
And others of waiting wives
at home,
And mothers that grieved would
be.
But of all the
children of misery there
On that poor sinking frame,
But one spake words of hope
and faith,
And I worshipped as they came:
Said Dollinger the pilot man—
(O brave heart strong and
true!)—
“Fear not, but trust in
Dollinger,
For he will fetch you through.”
Lo! scarce the
words have passed his lips
The dauntless prophet say’th,
When every soul about him seeth
A wonder crown his faith!
And count ye
all, both great and small,
As numbered with the dead!
For mariner for forty year,
On Erie, boy and man,
I never yet saw such a storm,
Or one ’t with it began!
So overboard
a keg of nails
And anvils three we threw,
Likewise four bales of gunny-sacks,
Two hundred pounds of glue,
Two sacks of corn, four ditto
wheat,
A box of books, a cow,
A violin, Lord Byron’s
works,
A rip-saw and a sow.
A curve! a curve;
the dangers grow!
“Labbord!—stabbord!—s-t-e-a-d-y!—so!—
Hard-a.-port, Dol!—hellum-a-lee!
Haw the head mule!—the
aft one gee!
Luff!—bring her to
the wind!”
For straight
a farmer brought a plank,—
(Mysteriously inspired)—
And laying it unto the ship,
In silent awe retired.
Then every sufferer stood amazed
That pilot man before;
A moment stood. Then wondering
turned,
And speechless walked ashore.
BY MAX ADELER.
Tim Keyser lived at
Wilmington,
He had a monstrous nose,
Which was a great deal redder
Than the very reddest rose,
And was completely capable
Of most terrific blows.
He wandered down one
Christmas-day
To skate upon the creek,
And there upon the smoothest ice
He slid along so slick,
The people were amazed to see
Him cut it up so quick;
The exercise excited
thirst,
And so, to get a drink,
He cut an opening in the ice,
And lay down on the brink.
Says he, “I’ll dip my nose
right in,
And sip it up, I think.”
But while his nose was
thus immersed
Six inches in the stream,
A very hungry pickerel
Was attracted by the gleam,
And darting up, it gave a snap,
And Keyser gave a scream.
Tim Keyser then was
well assured
He had a famous bite;
To pull that pickerel up he tried,
And tugged with all his might;
But the disgusting pickerel had
The better of the fight.
And just as Mr. Keyser
thought
His nose would split in two,
The pickerel gave his tail a twist,
And pulled Tim Keyser through,
And he was scudding through the waves
The first thing that he knew.
Then onward swam the
savage fish
With swiftness towards its nest,
Still chewing Mr. Keyser’s nose,
While Mr. Keyser guessed
What kind of policy would suit
His circumstances best.
Just then his nose was
tickled
With a spear of grass close by;
Tim Keyser gave a sneeze which burst
The pickerel into “pi,”
And blew its bones, the ice, and waves
A thousand feet on high.
Tim Keyser swam up to
the top,
A breath of air to take,
And finding broken ice, he hooked
His nose upon a cake,
And gloried in a nose that could
Such a concussion make.
His Christmas dinner
on that day
He tackled with a vim;
And thanked his stars, as shuddering
He thought upon his swim,
That that wild pickerel had not
Spent Christmas eating him.
BY MARSHALL STEELE.
Oh! I fell in love with Dora, and my heart was
all a-glow,
For I never met before a girl who took my fancy so;
She had eyes—no! cheeks a-blushing with
the peach’s ripening flush,
Was ecstatically gushing—and I like a girl
to gush.
She’d the loveliest of faces, and the goldenest
of hair,
And all customary graces lovers fancy in the fair.
Now, she doated on romances, she was yearnful and
refined,
She had sentimental fancies of a most aesthetic kind,
She was sensitive, fantastic, tender, too, as she
was fair,
But alas! she was not plastic, as I owned in my despair.
And, for all she was so gentle, yet she gave me this
rebuff—
Though I might be sentimental, I’d not sentiment
enough.
Then I did grow sentimental, for that seemed
to be my part,
And I talked in transcendental fashion that might
move her heart,
Sighed to live in fairy grottoes with my Dora all
alone,
And I studied cracker mottoes, which I quoted as my
own.
Thus I strove to be romantic, but I failed upon the
whole,
And she nearly drove me frantic when she said I had
not “soul.”
So, despair tinged all my passion, sorrow mingled
with my love,
Though I wooed her in a fashion which the stones of
Rome might move,
Though I wrote her fervid sonnets with the fervour
underlined,
Though I bought her gloves and bonnets of the most
artistic kind,
Yet for me life held no pleasure, and my sorrow grew
acute
That she smiled upon my presents, but she frowned
upon my suit.
All in vain seemed love and longing till upon one
fateful day
Hopes anew came on me thronging, as I heard my Dora
say—
“Richard mine, I saw you sobbing o’er
my photograph last night,
With a look that set me throbbing with unspeakable
delight.
Wide your eyelids you were oping and your look was
far from hence
With a passionate wild hoping that was soulful and
intense.
“I have seen that look on Irving and sometimes
on Beerbohm Tree,
And it seems to be observing joy and rapture yet to
be.
In the nostril elevated and the lip that lightly curled
Was a cold scorn indicated of this vulgar nether world.
I could marry that expression. Show it once again
then, do!
And I meekly make profession—I—I—I
will marry you!”
Joy was then my heart’s possession, joy and
rapturous content,
For I’d practised that expression, and I knew
just what she meant:
So my eyebrows up I lifted and I stared with all my
might
And my right-hand nostril shifted somewhat further
to the right,
But I quite forgot—sad error was this dire
mnemonic slip!—
I forgot in doubt and terror how to move my lower
lip!
With one eyebrow elevated down I dropped my dexter
lid,
Never mortal dislocated all his features as I did,
For I moved them in my folly right and left and up
and down,
Till she asked if I was qualifying for the part of
clown.
And I left in deep depression when she showed me to
the door,
Saying, “Bring back that expression, sir, or
never see me more!”
Then before my looking-glass I sought, and sought
for months in vain,
That expression which, alas! I had forgotten,
to my pain,
And I said then, feeling poorly, “I’ll
go seek the haunts of men,
I could reproduce it surely, if I met with it again:
For, whose-ever—peer’s or peasant’s—face
that heavenly look might
wear,
He should never leave my presence till I copied it,
I swear.”
Could I meet a schoolboy, madly pleased the day that
school begins,
Or a father smiling gladly, when the nurse says “Sir,
it’s twins!”
Or a well-placed politician who no better place desires,
But achieves his one ambition on the day that he retires,
That expression—’tis my sure hope—on
their faces I should get,
So I searched for them through Europe, but I haven’t
found them yet.
Then I lunched one day with Irving, once I dined with
Mr. Tree,
Who in intervals of serving made such faces up at
me.
But they failed me, though the former once a look
upon me hurled,
Which expressed how the barn-stormer shows disdain
of all the world,
And his look of rapture when I rose to go was quite
immense,
Though not either now or then I thought it soulful
or intense.
But at last, some long months later—’twas
a dinner I was at
In the City—“Bring me, waiter,”
someone said, “some more green fat.”
’Twas my vis-a-vis was speaking, and
an Alderman was he;
On his radiant face, and reeking, was the hope of
joy to be.
He had all that lost expression, every detail showing
plain,
Soulfulness, hope of possession, joy, intensity, disdain.
Then I sought to make him merry, and I plied him with
old port,
Claret, burgundy, Bass, sherry, and a little something
short;
And this guzzler, by me aided, kept on soaking all
the while,
Till that lost expression faded to an idiotic smile,
And his speech grew thick and thicker, and his mind
began to roam,
Till he finished off his liquor and I drove him to
my home.
There with coils of rope I strapped him to my sofa,
firm and fast,
Douched him, doused him, bled and tapped him, till
I sobered him at
last,
To that lost expression led him—that was
all that I was at—
As for days and weeks I fed him on suggestions of
green fat.
Thus I caught that lost expression, and I cried, “Thrice
happy day!
Once again ’tis my possession.” Then
I turned and fled away.
Without swerving or digression to my Dora straight
I sped,
And she gazed at that expression, then she clapped
her hands and
said—
“You have found it—who’d have
thought it?—you have brought it me
again!”
“Yes!” I cried, “and as I’ve
brought it, make me happiest of men.”
But—oh! who could tell her sorrow, as she
cried in wistful tones?—
“Dick, I’d marry you to-morrow, but I’m
Mrs. Bowler Jones!”
BY ROBERT B. BROUGH.
Out of the grog-shop, I’ve stepp’d
in the street.
Road, what’s the matter? you’re
loose on your feet;
Staggering, swaggering, reeling about,
Road, you’re in liquor, past question
or doubt.
Gas-lamps, be quiet—stand up,
if you please.
What the deuce ails you? you’re
weak in the knees:
Some on your heads—in the gutter
some sunk—
Gas-lamps, I see it, you’re all
of you drunk.
Angels and ministers! look at the moon—
Shining up there like a paper balloon,
Winking like mad at me: Moon, I’m
afraid—
Now I’m convinced—Oh!
you tipsy old jade.
Here’s a phenomenon: Look at
the stars—
Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars,
Dancing quadrilles; caper’d, shuffl’d
and hopp’d.
Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp’d.
Down come the houses! each drunk as a
king—
Can’t say I fancy much this sort
of thing;
Inside the bar it was safe and all right,
I shall go back there, and stop for the
night.
BY FRANCES WHITESIDE.
It was the closing of a summer’s
day,
And trellised branches from
encircling trees
Threw silver shadows o’er
the golden space.
Where groups of merry-hearted
sons of toil
Were met to celebrate a village
feast;
Casting away, in frolic sport,
the cares
That ever press and crowd
and leave their mark
Upon the brows of all whose
bread is earned
By daily labour. ’Twas
perchance the feast
Of fav’rite saint, or
anniversary
Of one of bounteous nature’s
season gifts
To grateful husbandry—no
matter what
The cause of their uniting.
Joy beamed forth
On ev’ry face, and the
sweet echoes rang
With sounds of honest mirth
too rarely heard
In the vast workshop man has
made his world,
Where months of toil must
pay one day of song.
Somewhat apart
from the assembled throng
There sat a swarthy giant,
with a face
So nobly grand that though
(unlike the rest)
He wore no festal garb nor
laughing mien,
Yet was he study for the painter’s
art:
He joined not in their sports,
but rather seemed
To please his eye with sight
of others’ joy.
There was a cast of sorrow
on his brow,
As though it had been early
there.
He sat In listless attitude,
yet not devoid
Of gentlest grace, as down
his stalwart form
He bent, to catch the playful
whisperings,
And note the movements of
a bright-hair’d child
Who danced before him in the
evening sun,
Holding a tiny brother by
the hand.
He was the village
smith (the rolled-up sleeves
And the well-charred leathern
apron show’d his craft);
Karl was his name—a
man beloved by all.
He was not of the district.
He had come
Amongst them ere his forehead
bore one trace
Of age or suffering.
A wife and child
He had brought with him; but
the wife was dead.
Not so the child—who
danced before him now
And held a tiny brother by
the hand—
Their mother’s last
and priceless legacy!
So Karl was happy still that
those two lived,
And laughed and danced before
him in the sun.
Yet sadly so.
The children both were fair,
Ruddy, and active, though
of fragile form;
But to that father’s
ever watchful eye,
Who had so loved their mother,
it was plain
That each inherited the wasting
doom
Which cost that mother’s
life. ’Twas reason more
To work and toil for them
by night and day!
Early and late his anvil’s
ringing sound
The frolics pause:
now Casper’s laughing head
Rests wearily against his
father’s knee
In trusting lovingness; while
Trudchen runs
To snatch a hasty kiss (the
little man,
It may be, wonders if the
tiny hand
With which he strives to reach
his father’s neck
Will ever grow as big and
brown as that
He sees imbedded in his sister’s
curls).
When quick as lightning’s
flash up starts the smith,
Huddles the frightened children
in his arms,
Thrusts them far back—extends
his giant frame
And covers them as with Goliath’s
shield!
Now hark! a rushing,
yelping, panting sound,
So terrible that all stood
chilled with fear;
And in the midst of that late
joyous throng
Leapt an infuriate hound,
with flaming eyes,
Half-open mouth, and fiercely
bristling hair,
Proving that madness tore
the brute to death.
One spring from Karl, and
the wild thing was seized,
Fast prison’d in the
stalwart Vulcan’s gripe.
A sharp, shrill
cry of agony from Karl
Was mingled with the hound’s
low fever’d growl.
And all with horror saw the
creature’s teeth
Fixed in the blacksmith’s
shoulder. None had power
To rescue him; for scarcely
could you count
A moment’s space ere
both had disappeared—
The man and dog. The
smith had leapt a fence
And gained the forest with
a frantic rush,
Bearing the hideous mischief
in his arms.
A long receding
cry came on the ear,
Showing how swift their flight;
and fainter grew
The sound: ere well a
man had time to think
What might be done for help,
the sound was hushed,
Lost in the very distance.
Women crouched
And huddled up their children
in their arms;
Men flew to seek their weapons.
’Twas a change
So swift and fearful, none
could realise
Its actual horrors—for
a time. But now,
The panic past, to rescue
and pursuit!
Crash! through
the brake into the forest track;
But pitchy darkness, caused
by closing night
And foliage dense, impedes
the avengers’ way;
When lo! they trip o’er
something in their path!
It was the bleeding
body of the hound,
Warm, but quite dead.
No other trace of Karl
Was near at hand; they called
his name; in vain
They sought him in the forest
all night through;
Living or dead, he was not
to be found.
At break of day they left
the fruitless search.
Next morning,
as an anxious village group
Stood meditating plans what
best to do,
Came little Trudchen, who,
in simple tones,
Said, “Father’s
at the forge—I heard him there
Working long hours ago; but
he is angry.
I raised the latch: he
bade me to be gone.
What have I done to make him
chide me so?”
And then her bright blue eyes
ran o’er with tears.
“The child’s been
dreaming through this troubled night,”
Said a kind dame, and drew
the child towards her.
But the sad answers of the
girl were such
As led them all to seek her
father’s forge
(It lay beyond the village
some short span).
They forced the door, and
there beheld the smith.
His sinewy frame
was drawn to its full height;
And round his loins a double
chain of iron,
Wrought with true workman
skill, was riveted
Fast to an anvil of enormous
weight.
He stood as pale and statue-like
as death.
Now let his own
words close the hapless tale:
“I killed the hound,
you know; but not until
His maddening venom through
my veins had passed.
I knew full well the death
in store for me,
And would not answer when
you called my name;
But crouched among the brushwood,
while I thought
Over some plan. I know
my giant strength,
And dare not trust it after
reason’s loss.
Why! I might turn and
rend whom most I love.
I’ve made all fast now.
’Tis a hideous death.
I thought to plunge me in
the deep, still pool
That skirts the forest—to
avoid it; but
I thought that for the suicide’s
poor shift
I would not throw away my
chance of heaven,
And meeting one who made earth
heaven to me.
So I came home and forged
these chains about me:
Full well I know no human
hand can rend them,
And now am safe from harming
those I love.
Keep off, good friends!
Should God prolong my life,
Throw me such food as nature
may require.
Look to my babes. This
you are bound to do;
For by my deadly grasp on
that poor hound,
How many of you have I saved
from death
Such as I now await?
But hence away!
The poison works! these chains
must try their strength.
My brain’s on fire!
with me ’twill soon be night.”
Too true his words!
the brave, great-hearted Karl,
A raving maniac, battled with
his chains
For three fierce days.
The fourth saw him free;
For Death’s strong hand
had loosed the martyr’s bonds;
Where his freed spirit soars,
who dares to doubt?
BY HERCULES ELLIS.
On panting steeds they
hurry on,
Kildare, and Darcy’s lovely
daughter—
On panting steeds they hurry on;
To cross the Barrow’s water;
Within her father’s dungeon
chained,
Kildare her gentle heart had gained;
Now love and she have broke his chain,
And he is free! is free again.
His cloak, by forest
boughs is rent,
The long night’s toilsome
journey showing;
His helm’s white plume is wet,
and bent,
And backwards o’er his shoulders
flowing;
Pale is the lovely lady’s cheek,
Her eyes grow dim, her hand is weak;
And, feebly, tries she to sustain,
Her falling horse, with silken rein.
“Now, clasp thy
fair arms round my neck,”
Kildare cried to the lovely lady;
“Thy weight black Memnon will
not check,
Nor stay his gallop, swift and steady;”
The blush, one moment, dyed her cheek;
The next, her arms are round his neck;
And placed before him on his horse,
They haste, together, on their course.
“Oh! Gerald,”
cried the lady fair,
Now backward o’er his shoulder
gazing,
“I see Red Raymond, in our rear,
And Owen, Darcy’s banner raising—
Mother of Mercy! now I see
My father, in their company;
Oh! Gerald, leave me here, and
fly,
Enough! enough! for one to die!”
“My own dear
love; my own dear love!”
Kildare cried to the lovely lady,
“Fear not, black Memnon yet
shall prove,
Than all their steeds, more swift
and steady:
But to guide well my gallant horse,
Tasks eye, and hand, and utmost force;
Then look for me, my love, and tell,
What see’st thou now at Tenachelle?”
“I see, I see,”
the lady cried,
“Now bursting o’er its
green banks narrow,
And through the valley spreading wide,
In one vast flood, the Barrow!
The bridge of Tenachelle now seems,
A dark stripe o’er the rushing
streams;
For nought above the flood is shown,
Except its parapet alone.”
“But can’st
thou see,” Earl Gerald said,
“My faithful Gallowglasses
standing?
Waves the green plume on Milo’s
head,
For me, at Tenachelle commanding?”
“No men are there,” the
lady said,
“No living thing, no human aid;
The trees appear, like isles of green,
Nought else, through all the vale
is seen.”
Deep agony through
Gerald passed;
Oh! must she fall, the noble-hearted;
And must this morning prove their
last,
By kinsmen and by friends deserted?
Sure treason must have made its way,
Within the courts of Castle Ley;
And kept away the mail-clad ranks
He ordered to the Barrow’s banks.
“The chase comes
fast,” the lady cries;
“Both whip and spur I see
them plying;
Sir Robert Verdon foremost hies,
Through Regan’s forest flying;
Each moment on our course they gain,
Alas! why did I break thy chain,
And urge thee, from thy prison, here,
To make the mossy turf thy bier?”
“Cheer up! cheer
up! my own dear maid,”
Kildare cried to the weeping lady;
“Soon, soon, shall come the
promised aid,
With shield and lance for battle
ready;
Look out, while swift we ride, and
tell
What see’st thou now at Tenachelle.
Does aught on Clemgaum’s Hill
now move?
Cheer up, and look, my own dear love!”
“Still higher
swells the rushing tide,”
The lady said, “along the
river;
The bridge wall’s rent, with
breaches wide,
Beneath its force the arches quiver.
But on Clemgaum I see no plumes;
From Offaly no succour comes;
No banner floats, no trumpet’s
blown—
Alas! alas! we are alone.
“And now, O God!
I see behind,
My father to Red Raymond lending,
His war-horse, fleeter than the wind,
And on our chase, the traitor sending:
He holds the lighted aquebus,
Bearing death to both of us;
Speed, my gallant Memnon, speed,
Nor let us ’neath the ruffian
bleed.”
“Thy love saved
me at risk of life,”
Kildare cried, “when the axe
was wielding;
And now I joy, my own dear wife,
To think my breast thy life
is shielding;
Thank Heaven no bolt can now reach
thee,
That shall not first have passed through
me;
For death were mercy to the thought,
That thou, for me, to death were brought.”
And now they reach
the trembling bridge,
Through flooded bottoms swiftly
rushing;
Along it heaves a foaming ridge,
Through its rent walls the torrent’s
gushing.
Across the bridge their way they make,
’Neath Memnon’s hoofs
the arches shake;
While fierce as hate, and fleet as
wind,
Red Raymond follows fast behind.
They’ve gained,
they’ve gained the farther side!
Through clouds of foam, stout Memnon
dashes;
And, as they swiftly onward ride,
Beneath his feet the vext flood
splashes.
But as they reach the floodless ground,
The valley rings with a sharp sound;
The aquebus has hurled its rain,
And by it gallant Memnon’s slain.
And now behind loud
rose the cry—
“The bridge! beware! the bridge
is breaking!”
Backwards the scared pursuers fly,
While, like a tyrant, his wrath
wreaking,
Rushed the flood, the strong bridge
rending,
And its fragments downwards sending;
In its throat Red Raymond swallowed,
While above him the flood bellowed.
Hissing, roaring, in
its course,
The shattered bridge before it spurning,
The flood burst down, with giant force,
The oaks of centuries upturning.
The awed pursuers stood aghast;
All hope to reach Kildare’s
now past
Blest be the Barrow, which thus rose,
To save true lovers from their foes!
And now o’er
Clemgaum’s Hill appear,
Their white plumes on the breezes
dancing,
A gallant troop, with shield and spear,
From Offaley with aid advancing.
Quick to Kildare his soldiers ride,
And raise him up from Memnon’s
side;
Unhurt he stands, and to his breast,
The Lady Anna Darcy’s pressed.
“Kinsmen and
friends,” exclaimed Kildare,
“Behold my bride, the fair
and fearless,
Who broke my chain, and brought me
here,
In truth, in love, and beauty, peerless.
Here, at the bridge of Tenachelle,
Amid the friends I love so well,
I swear that until life depart,
She’ll rule my home, my soul,
my heart!”
BY WILLIAM THOMSON.
Said Michael Flynn,
the lab’ring man,
“Yis, sorr, although oi’m
poor,
Sooner than live on charity
I’d beg from door to door.”
BY WILLIAM G. WILCOX.
Four individuals—namely, my wife, my infant son, my maid-of-all-work, and myself, occupy one of a row of very small houses in the suburbs of London. I am a thoroughly domesticated man, and notwithstanding that my occupation necessitates absence from my dwelling between the hours of 9 A.M. and 5 P.M., my heart is usually at home with my diminutive household. My wife and I love regularity and quiet above all things; and although, since the arrival of my son and heir, we have not enjoyed that perfect peace which was ours during the first years of our married life, yet his powerful little lungs, I am bound to say, have failed to make ours a noisy house.
Up to the time when the incident occurred which I am going to tell you about our regularity had remained undisturbed, and we got up, went to bed, dined, breakfasted, and took tea at the same time, day after day. Well, as I say, we had been going on in this clockwork fashion for a considerable time, when the other morning the postman brought a letter to our door, and on looking at the direction, I found that it came from an old, rich, and very eccentric uncle of mine, with whom—hem! for certain reasons, we wished to remain on the best of terms.
“What can Uncle Martin have to write about?” was our simultaneous exclamation. “The present for baby at last, I do believe, James,” added my wife; “a cheque, perhaps, or——” I opened the letter and read:—
“MARTIN
HOUSE, HERTS.,
“October
17th.
“DEAR NEPHEW,—You may perhaps have heard that I am forming an aviary here. A friend in Rotterdam has written to me to say that he has sent by the boat, which will arrive in London to-morrow afternoon, a very intelligent parrot and a fine stork. As the vessel arrives too late for them to be sent on the same night, I shall be obliged by your taking the birds home, and forwarding them to me the next morning. With my respects to your good lady,
“I remain,
“Your affectionate Uncle,
“RALPH MARTIN.”
We looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then my wife said, “James, what is a stork?”
“A stork, my dear, is a—a—sort of ostrich, I think.”
“An ostrich! why that’s an enormous——”
“Yes, my dear, the creature that puts its head in the sand, and kicks when it’s pursued, you know.”
“James, the horrid thing shall not come here! If it should kick baby we should never forgive ourselves.”
“No, no, my dear, I don’t think the stork is at all ferocious. No, it can’t be. Stork! stork! I always associate storks with chimneys. Yes, abroad, I think in Holland, or Germany, or somewhere, the stork sweeps the chimneys with its long legs from the top. But let’s see what the Natural History says, my dear. That will tell us all about it. Stork—um—um—’hind toe short, middle toe long, and joined to the outer one by a large membrane, and by a smaller one to the inner toe.’ Well, that won’t matter much for one night, will it, dear? ‘His height often exceeds four feet.’”
“Four feet!!!” interrupted my wife. “James, how high are you?”
“Well, my dear, really, comparisons are exceedingly disagreeable—um—um—’appetite extremely voracious,’ and his food—hulloa! ‘frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels!’”
“Frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels,” repeated my wife. “James, do you expect me to provide supper and breakfast of this description for the horrid thing?”
“Well, my dear, we must do our best for baby’s sake, you know, for baby’s sake,” and, getting my hat, I left as usual for the office. I passed anything but a pleasant day there, my thoughts constantly reverting to our expected visitors. At four o’clock I took a cab to the docks, and on arriving there inquired for the ship, which was pointed out to me as “the one with the crowd on the quay.” On driving up I discovered why there was a crowd, and the discovery did not bring comfort with it. On the deck, on one leg, stood the stork. Whether it was the sea voyage, or the leaving his home, or, that being a stork of high moral principle, he was grieving at the persistent swearing of the parrot, I do not know, but I never saw a more melancholy looking object in my life.
I went down on the deck, and did not like the expression of relief that came over the captain’s face when he found what I had come for. The transmission of the parrot from the ship to the cab was an easy matter, as he was in a cage; but the stork was merely tethered by one leg; and although he did his best, when brought to the foot of the ladder, in trying to get up, he failed utterly, and had to be half shoved, half hauled all the way. Even then he persisted in getting outside of every bar—like this. After a great deal of trouble we got him to the top. I hurried him into the cab, and telling the man to drive as quickly as possible, got in with my guests. At first I had to keep dodging my head about to keep my face away from his bill, as he turned round; but all of a sudden he broke the little window at the back of the cab, thrust his head through, and would keep it there, notwithstanding that I kept pulling him back. Consequently when we drove up to my house there was a mob of about a thousand strong around us. I got him in as well as I could, and shut the door.
How can I describe the spending of that evening? How can I get sufficient power out of the English language to let you know what a nuisance that bird was to us? How can I tell you of the cool manner in which he inspected our domestic arrangements, walking slowly from room to room, and standing on one leg till his curiosity was satisfied, or how describe the expression of wretchedness that he threw over his entire person when he was tethered to the banisters, and found out that, owing to our limited accommodation he was to remain in the hall all night, or picture the way in which he ate the snails specially provided for him, verifying to the letter the naturalist’s description of his appetite. How can you who have not had a stork staying with you have any idea of the change that came over his temper after his supper, how he pecked at everybody who came near him; how he stood sentinel at the foot of the stairs; how my wife and I made fruitless attempts to get past, followed by ignominious retreats; how at last we outmanoeuvred him by throwing a tablecloth over his head, and then rushing by him, gained the top of the stairs before he could disentangle himself.
Added to all this we had to endure language from that parrot which was really shocking: indeed, so scurrilous did he become that we had at last to take him and lock him up in the coal-hole, where, owing to the darkness of his bedroom, or from fatigue, he presently swore himself to sleep.
Well, by this time, we were quite ready for rest, and the forgetfulness which, we hoped, sleep would bring with it; but our peace was not to last long. About 2 A.M. my wife clutched my hair and woke me up. “James, James, listen!” I listened. I heard a sort of scrambling noise outside the door. “The water running into the cistern, my dear,” I said sleepily.
“James, don’t be absurd; that horrid thing has broken its string, and is coming upstairs.”
I listened again. It really sounded like it.
“James, if you don’t go at once, I must. You know the nursery door is always left open, and if that horrid thing should get in to baby——”
“But, my dear,” said I, “what am I to do in my present defenceless state of clothing, if he should take to pecking?”
My wife’s expression of contempt at the idea of considering myself before the baby determined me at once, come what might, to go and do him battle. Out I went, and there, sure enough, he was on the landing resting himself after his unusual exertion by tucking up one leg. He looked so subdued that I was about to take him by the string and lead him downstairs, when he drew back his head, and in less time than it takes to relate, I was back in my room, bleeding from a severe wound in the leg. I shouted out to the nurse to shut the door, and determined to let the infamous bird go where he liked. I bound up my leg and went to bed again; but the thought that there was a stork wandering about the house prevented me from getting any more sleep. From certain sounds that we heard, we had little doubt that he was spending some of his time in the cupboard where we kept our surplus crockery, and an inspection the next day confirmed this.
In the morning I ventured cautiously out, and finding he was in our spare bedroom, I shut the door upon him. I then sent for a large sack, and with the help of the tablecloth, and the boy who cleans our boots, we got him into it without any further personal damage. I took him off in this way to the station, and confided him and the parrot to the guard of the early train. As the train moved off, I heard a yell and a very improper expression from the guard. I have reason to believe that the stork had freed himself from the wrapper, and had begun pecking again.
We have determined that, taking our chance about a place in my uncle’s will, we will never again have anything to do with any foreign birds, however much he may ask and desire it.
BY WILLIAM THOMSON.
I once knew
a man who was musical mad—
A hundred
years old was the fiddle he had;
I never
complained, but whenever he played
I wished
I had lived when that fiddle was made.
BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY.
Swift, storm-scud, raced the
morning sky,
As light along the road I fared;
Stern was the way, yet glad was I,
Though feet and breast and brow were bared;
For fancy, like a happy child,
Ran on before and turned and smiled.
The track grew fair with turf
and tree,
The air was blithe with bird and flower.
Boon nature’s gentlest wizardry
Was potent with the bounteous hour:
A raptured languor o’er me crept;
I laid me down at noon and slept.
I woke, and there, as in a dream,
Which holds some boding fear of wrong,
By fog-bound fen and sluggard stream
I dragged my leaden steps along.
My blood ran ice; I turned and spied
A shrouded figure at my side.
“And who art thou that
pacest here?”
He answered like a hollow wind,
Not heard by any outer ear,
But in dim chambers of the mind.
“I walk,” he said, “in ways
of shame,
The comrade of thy wasted fame.”
A passion clamoured in my breast,
For mirthless laughter, and I laughed;
In mine the phantom’s cold hand pressed
A cup, and in self’s spite I quaffed.
It clung like slime; ’twas black like
ink:
Death is less bitter than that drink.
“This chalice scarce can
fail,” said he,
“Till thou and I shall fail from earth;’
And we will walk in company,
And waste the night with shameful mirth.
I pledge thy fate; now pledge thou mine.”
I pledged him in the bitter wine.
“Had’st thou not
slept at noon,” he said,
“Thou should’st have walked in
praise and fame.
Now loathest thou thine heart and head,
And both thine eyes are blind with shame.”
His voice was like a hollow wind
In dim death-chambers in the mind.
He turned; he bared a demon
face;
He filled the night with ribald song;
For many a league, in evil case,
We danced our leaden feet along.
And every rood, in that foul wine,
I pledged his fate: he drank to mine.
“What comfort has thou?”
suddenly
To me my phantom comrade saith.
“I know,” said I, “where’er
I lie,
The end of each man’s road is death.
I pray that I may find it soon;
I weary of night’s changeless moon.”
Then, in such lays of hideous
mirth
As never tainted human breath,
He cursed all things of human worth—
Made mock of life and scorn of death.
“Art weary?” quoth he; and said
I:
“Fain here to lay me down and die.”
“Then join,” he
saith, “my roundelay;
Curse God and die, and make an end.
Fled is thine hope, and done thy day;
The fleshworm is thine only friend.
Thy mouth is fouled, and he, I ween,
Alone can scour thy palate clean.”
I said: “I justify
the rod;
I claim its heaviest stripe mine own.
Did justice cease to dwell with God,
Then God were toppled from His throne!
Fill up thy chalice to the brink—
Thy bitterest, and I will drink.”
With looks like any devil’s
grim,
He poured the brewage till it ran
With fetid horror at the brim.
“Now, drink,” he gibed, “and
play the man!”
He stretched the chalice forth. It stank
That my soul failed me, and I drank.
With loathing soul and quivering
flesh
I drank, and lo! the draught I took
Was limpid-clear, and sweet and fresh
As ever came from summer brook
Or fountain, where the trees have made
Long from the sun a pleasant shade.
He hurled the chalice to the
sky;
A bright hand caught it; and was gone.
He blessed me with a sovereign eye,
And like a god’s his visage shone,
And there he took me by the hand,
And led me towards another land.
Buried in Westminster Abbey, April, 1874.
BY HENRY LLOYD.
With solemn march and slow
a soldier comes,
In conquest fallen; home we
bring him dead;
Stand silent by, beat low
the muffled drums,
Uncover ye, and bow the reverent
head.
Where ghostly echoes dwell
and grey light falls,
Where Kings and Heroes rest
in honoured sleep;
Their names steel bitten on
the sacred walls,
Inter his dust, while England
bends to weep.
Stir not ye Kings and Heroes
in your rest,
Lest these poor bones dishonour
such as you;
This man was both, though
nodding plume or crest
Ne’er waved above his
eye so bright and true.
By no sad orphan is his name
abhorred,
A hero, yet no battered shield
he brings.
Nor on his bier a blood encrusted
sword;
Nor as his trophies Kings,
nor crowns of Kings.
War hath its heroes, Peace
hath hers as well,
Armed by Heaven’s King
from Heaven’s armoury;
And this dead man was one,
who fought and fell,
Life less his choice, than
death and victory.
To do his work with purpose
iron strong,
To loose the captive, set
the prisoner free;
To heal the hideous sore of
deadly wrong
Kept festering by greed and
cruelty;
Love on his banner, Pity in
his heart;
His lofty soul moved on with
single aim;
’Mid deadly perils bore
a noble part,
And, dying, left a pure, unsullied
name.
Thro’ dreary miles of
foul eternal swamp,
And over lonely leagues of
burning sand,
He wrought his purpose; Faith
his quenchless lamp,
And Truth his sword held as
in giant’s hand.
His lot was as his sorrowing
Master’s lot,
Nowhere to lay his weary honoured
head;
“My limbs they fail
me, and my brow is hot;
Build me a hut—wherein—to
die,” he said.
“Ah, England, I shall
see thee nevermore.
Farewell, my loved ones, far
o’er ocean’s foam;
Ye watch in vain on that dear
mother shore,”
He looked to Heaven and cried,
“I’m going home.”
Home, sweetest word that ever
man has made,
Home, after weariness and
toil and pain;
Home to his Father’s
house all unafraid,
Home to his rest, no more
to weep again.
How found they him, this hero
of all time?
Dead on his knees, as if at
last he said:
“Into thy hands, O God!”
with faith sublime;
And death looked on, scarce
knowing he was dead.
O British land, that breedeth
sturdy men,
Be proud to hold our hero’s
honoured bones;
Land that he wrought for with
his life and pen,
Write, write his glory in
enduring stones.
Tell how he lived and died,
how fought and fell,
So in the world’s glad
future, looming dim;
The children of the lands
he loved so well,
Shall learn his name and love
to honour him.
BY MRS. CRAIK.
“’Twas
five-and-forty year ago,
Just
such another morn,
The
fishermen were on the beach,
The
reapers in the corn;
My
tale is true, young gentlemen,
As
sure as you were born.
“My
tale’s all true, young gentlemen,”
The
fond old boatman cried
Unto
the sullen, angry lads,
Who
vain obedience tried:
“Mind
what your father says to you,
And
don’t go out this tide.
“Just
such a shiny sea as this,
Smooth
as a pond, you’d say,
And
white gulls flying, and the crafts
Down
Channel making way;
And
the Isle of Wight, all glittering bright,
Seen
clear from Swanage Bay.
“The
Battery Point, the Race beyond,
Just
as to-day you see;
This
was, I think, the very stone
Where
sat Dick, Dolly, and me;
She
was our little sister, sirs,
A
small child, just turned three.
“And
Dick was mighty fond of her:
Though
a big lad and bold,
He’d
carry her like any nurse,
Almost
from birth, I’m told;
For
mother sickened soon, and died
When
Doll was eight months old.
“We
sat and watched a little boat,
Her
name the ‘Tricksy Jane,’
A
queer old tub laid up ashore,
But
we could see her plain.
To
see her and not haul her up
Cost
us a deal of pain.
“Said
Dick to me, ’Let’s have a pull;
Father
will never know:
He’s
busy in his wheat up there,
And
cannot see us go;
These
landsmen are such cowards if
A
puff of wind does blow.
“’I’ve
been to France and back three times—
Who
knows best, dad or me,
Whether
a ship’s seaworthy or not?
Dolly,
wilt go to sea?’
And
Dolly laughed and hugged him tight,
As
pleased as she could be.
“I
don’t mean, sirs, to blame poor Dick:
What
he did, sure I’d do;
And
many a sail in ‘Tricksy Jane’
We’d
had when she was new.
Father
was always sharp; and what
He
said, he meant it too.
“But
now the sky had not a cloud,
The
bay looked smooth as glass;
Our
Dick could manage any boat,
As
neat as ever was.
And
Dolly crowed, ‘Me go to sea!’
The
jolly little lass!
“Well,
sirs, we went: a pair of oars;
My
jacket for a sail:
Just
round ’Old Harry and his Wife’—
Those
rocks there, within hail;
And
we came back.——D’ye want to
hear
The
end o’ the old man’s tale?
“Ay,
ay, we came back past that point,
But
then a. breeze up-sprung;
Dick
shouted, ‘Hoy! down sail!’ and pulled
With
all his might among
The
white sea-horses that upreared
So
terrible and strong.
“I
pulled too: I was blind with fear;
But
I could hear Dick’s breath
Coming
and going, as he told
Dolly
to creep beneath
His
jacket, and not hold him so:
We
rowed for life or death.
“We
almost reached the sheltered bay,
We
could see father stand
Upon
the little jetty here,
His
sickle in his hand;
The
houses white, the yellow fields,
The
safe and pleasant land.
“And
Dick, though pale as any ghost,
Had
only said to me,
‘We’re
all right now, old lad!’ when up
A
wave rolled—drenched us three—
One
lurch, and then I felt the chill
And
roar of blinding sea.
“I
don’t remember much but that:
You
see I’m safe and sound;
I
have been wrecked four times since then—
Seen
queer sights, I’ll be bound.
I
think folks sleep beneath the deep
As
calm as underground.”
“But
Dick and Dolly?” “Well, Poor Dick!
I
saw him rise and cling
Unto
the gunwale of the boat—
Floating
keel up—and sing
Out
loud, ’Where’s Doll?’—I
hear him yet
As
clear as anything.
“‘Where’s
Dolly?’ I no answer made;
For
she dropped like a stone
Down
through the deep sea; and it closed:
The
little thing was gone!
‘Where’s
Doll?’ three times; then Dick loosed hold,
And
left me there alone.
* * * * *
“It’s
five-and-forty year since then,”
Muttered
the boatman grey,
And
drew his rough hand o’er his eyes,
And
stared across the bay;
“Just
five-and-forty year,” and not
Another
word did say.
“But
Dolly?” ask the children all,
As
they about him stand.
“Poor
Doll! she floated back next tide
With
sea-weed in her hand.
She’s
buried o’er that hill you see,
In
a churchyard on land.
“But
where Dick lies, God knows! He’ll find
Our
Dick at Judgment-day.”
The
boatman fell to mending nets,
The
boys ran off to play;
And
the sun shone and the waves danced
In
quiet Swanage Bay.
BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
“O,
whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?”
Cried
a whaler in Baffin’s Bay.
“To
know if between the land and the pole
I
may find a broad sea-way.”
“I
charge you back, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN,
As
you would live and thrive;
For
between the land and the frozen pole
No
man may sail alive.”
But
lightly laughed the stout Sir John,
And
spoke unto his men:
“Half
England is wrong, if he is right;
Bear
off to westward then.”
“O,
whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?”
Cried
the little Esquimaux.
“Between
your land and the polar star
My
goodly vessels go.”
“Come
down, if you would journey there,”
The
little Indian said;
“And
change your cloth for fur clothing,
Your
vessel for a sled.”
But
lightly laughed the stout Sir John,
And
the crew laughed with him, too:—
“A
sailor to change from ship to sled,
I
ween were something new!”
All
through the long, long polar day,
The
vessels westward sped;
And
wherever the sails of Sir John were blown,
The
ice gave way and fled:
Gave
way with many a hollow groan,
And
with many a surly roar;
But
it murmured and threatened on every side,
And
closed where he sailed before.
“Ho!
see ye not, my merry men,
The
broad and open sea?
Bethink
ye what the whaler said,
Think
of the little Indian’s sled!”
The
crew laughed out in glee.
“Sir
John, Sir John, ’tis bitter cold,
The
scud drives on the breeze,
The
ice comes looming from the north,
The
very sunbeams freeze.”
“Bright
summer goes, dark winter comes—
We
cannot rule the year;
But
long ere summer’s sun goes down,
On
yonder sea we’ll steer.”
The
dripping icebergs dipped and rose,
And
floundered down the gale;
The
ships were stayed, the yards were manned,
And
furled the useless sail
“The
summer’s gone, the winter’s come,
We
sail not yonder sea:
Why
sail we not, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?”
A
silent man was he.
“The
summer goes, the winter comes—
We
cannot rule the year.”
“I
ween we cannot rule the ways,
Sir
John, wherein we’d steer!”
The
cruel ice came floating on,
And
closed beneath the lee,
Till
the thickening waters dashed no more;
’Twas
ice around, behind, before—
Oh
God! there is no sea!
What
think you of the whaler now?
What
of the Esquimaux?
A
sled were better than a ship,
To
cruise through ice and snow.
Down
sank the baleful crimson sun,
The
northern light came out,
And
glared upon the ice-bound ships,
And
shook its spears about.
The
snow came down, storm breeding storm,
And
on the decks were laid:
Till
the weary sailor, sick at heart,
Sank
down beside his spade.
“Sir
John, the night is black and long,
The
hissing wind is bleak,
The
hard green ice is strong as death—
I
prithee, Captain, speak!”
“The
night is neither bright nor short,
The
singing breeze is cold;
The
ice is not so strong as hope—
The
heart of man is bold!”
“What
hope can scale this icy wall,
High
o’er the main flag-staff?
Above
the ridges the wolf and bear
Look
down with a patient settled stare,
Look
down on us and laugh.”
“The
summer, went, the winter came—
We
could not rule the year;
But
summer will melt the ice again,
And
open a path to the sunny main,
Whereon
our ships shall steer.”
The
winter went, the summer went,
The
winter came around:
But
the hard green ice was strong as death,
And
the voice of hope sank to a breath,
Yet
caught at every sound.
“Hark!
heard ye not the noise of guns?
And
there, and there again?”
“’Tis
some uneasy iceberg’s roar,
As
he turns in the frozen main.”
“Hurrah!
hurrah! the Esquimaux
Across
the ice-fields steal:
God
give them grace for their charity!”
“Ye
pray for the silly seal.”
“Sir
John, where are the English fields,
And
where are the English trees,
And
where are the little English flowers
That
open in the breeze?”
“Be
still, be still, my brave sailors!
You
shall see the fields again,
And
smell the scent of the opening flowers,
The
grass, and the waving grain.”
“Oh!
when shall I see my orphan child?
My
Mary waits for me.”
“Oh!
when shall I see my old mother,
And
pray at her trembling knee?”
“Be
still, be still, my brave sailors!
Think
not such thoughts again.”
But
a tear froze slowly on his cheek;
He
thought of Lady Jane.
Ah!
bitter, bitter grows the cold,
The
ice grows more and more;
More
settled stare the wolf and bear,
More
patient than before.
“Oh!
think you, good Sir John Franklin,
We’ll
ever see the land?
’Twas
cruel to send us here to starve,
Without
a helping hand.
“’Twas
cruel, Sir John, to send us here,
So
far from help and home,
To
starve and freeze on this lonely sea:
I
ween, the Lord of the Admiralty
Would
rather send than come.”
“Oh!
whether we starve to death alone,
Or
sail to our own country,
We
have done what man has never done—
The
truth is found, the secret won—
We
passed the Northern Sea!”
BY JAMES SHERIDAN LE FANU.
Oh, Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy,
And
he stood six feet eight;
And his arm was as round as another man’s thigh,—
’Tis
Phadrig was great.
His hair was as black as the shadows of night,
And it hung over scars got in many a fight.
And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong,
and loud,
And his eye flashed like lightning from under a cloud,—
And there wasn’t a girl from thirty-five under,
Sorra matter how cross, but he could come round her;
But of all whom he smiled on so sweetly, but one
Was the girl of his heart, and he loved her alone.
As warm as the sun, as the rock firm and sure,
Was the love of the heart of young Phadrig Crohoore.
He would die for a smile from his Kathleen O’Brien,
For his love, like his hatred, was strong as a lion.
But one Michael O’Hanlon loved Kathleen as well
As he hated Crohoore—and that same I can
tell.
And O’Brien liked him, for they were all the
same parties—
The O’Hanlons, O’Briens, O’Ryans,
M’Carthies;
And they all went together in hating Crohoore,
For many’s the bating he gave them before.
So O’Hanlon makes up to O’Brien, and says
he:
“I’ll marry your daughter if you’ll
give her to me.”
So the match was made up, and when Shrovetide came
on
The company assembled—three hundred if
one!
The O’Hanlon’s, of course, turned out
strong on that day,
And the pipers and fiddlers were tearing away;
There was laughing, and roaring, and jigging, and
flinging,
And joking and blessing, and kissing and singing,
And they were all merry; why not, to be sure,
That O’Hanlon got inside of Phadrig Crohoore;
And they all talked and laughed, the length of the
table,
Aiting and drinking while they were able—
With the piping and fiddling, and roaring like thunder,
Och! you’d think your head fairly was splitting
asunder;
And the priest shouted, “Silence, ye blabblers,
agin,”
And he took up his prayer-book and was going to begin,
And they all held their funning, and jigging, and
bawling,
So silent, you’d notice the smallest pin falling;
And the priest was beginning to read, when the door
Was flung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore.
Oh! Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy,
And
he stood six feet eight;
His arm was as big as another man’s thigh,—
’Tis
Phadrig was great.
As he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye,
As a dark cloud moves on through the stars in the
sky—
None dared to oppose him, for Phadrig was great,
Till he stood, all alone, just in front of the seat
Where O’Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride,
Were seated together, the two side by side.
He looked on Kathleen till her poor heart near broke,
Then he turned to her father, O’Brien, and spoke,
And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong,
and loud,
And his eyes flashed like lightning from under a cloud:
“I did not come here like a tame, crawling mouse;
I stand like a man, in my enemy’s house.
In the field, on the road, Phadrig never knew fear
Of his foemen, and God knows he now scorns it here.
I ask but your leave, for three minutes or four,
To speak to the girl whom I ne’er may see more.”
Then he turned to Kathleen, and his voice changed
its tone,
For he thought of the days when he called her his
own;
And said he, “Kathleen, bawn, is it true what
I hear—
Is this match your free choice, without threat’ning
or fear?
If so, say the word, and I’ll turn and depart—
Cheated once, but once only, by woman’s false
heart.”
Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl quite dumb;
She tried hard to speak, but the words wouldn’t
come,
For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint
her,
Struck cold on her heart, like the night-wind in winter,
And the tears in her blue eyes were trembling to flow,
And her cheeks were as pale as the moonbeams on snow.
Then the heart of bold Phadrig swelled high in its
place,
For he knew by one look in that beautiful face,
That though strangers and foemen their pledged hands
might sever,
Her heart was still his, and his only, for ever.
Then he lifted his voice, like an eagle’s hoarse
call,
And cried out—“She is mine yet, in
spite of ye all.”
But up jumped O’Hanlon, and a tall chap was
he,
And he gazed on bold Phadrig as fierce as could be;
And says he—“By my fathers, before
you go out,
Bold Phadrig Crohoore, you must stand for a bout.”
Then Phadrig made answer—“I’ll
do my endeavour;”
And with one blow he stretched out O’Hanlon
for ever!
Then he caught up his Kathleen, and rushed to the
door,
He leaped on his horse, and he swung her before;
And they all were so bothered that not a man stirred
Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard.
Then up they all started, like bees in a swarm,
And they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm;
And they ran, and they jumped, and they shouted galore;
But Phadrig or Kathleen they never saw more.
But those days are gone by, and his, too, are o’er,
And the grass it grows over the grave of Crohoore,
For he wouldn’t be aisy or quiet at all;
As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall,
So he took a good pike—for Phadrig was
great—
And he died for old Ireland in the year ninety-eight.
BY ELIZA COOK.
Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,
And besought him to look at his arrow;
“’Tis useless,” he cried, “you
must mend it, I say,
’Tisn’t fit to let fly at
a sparrow.
There’s something that’s wrong in the
shaft or the dart,
For it flutters quite false to my aim;
’Tis an age since it fairly went home to the
heart,
And the world really jests at my name.
“I have straighten’d, I’ve bent,
I’ve tried all, I declare,
I’ve perfumed it with sweetest of
sighs;
’Tis feather’d with ringlets my mother
might wear,
And the barb gleams with light from young
eyes;
But it falls without touching—I’ll
break it, I vow,
For there’s Hymen beginning to pout;
He’s complaining his torch burns so dull and
so low,
That Zephyr might puff it right out.”
Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale,
Till Vulcan the weapon restored;
“There, take it, young sir; try it now—if
it fail,
I will ask neither fee nor reward.”
The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made,
The wounded and dead were untold;
But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade,
For the arrow was laden with gold.
BY E. VINTON BLAKE.
FROM “GOOD CHEER.”
A wily crocodile
Who dwelt upon the Nile,
Bethought himself one day to give a
dinner.
“Economy,” said he,
“Is chief of all with me,
And shall considered be—as
I’m a sinner!”
With paper, pen
and ink,
He sat him down to think;
And first of all, Sir Lion he invited;
The northern wolf who dwells
In rocky Arctic dells;
The Leopard and the Lynx, by blood
united.
Then Mr. Fox the
shrewd—
No lover he of good—
And Madam Duck with sober step and
stately;
And Mr. Frog serene
In garb of bottle green,
Who warbled bass, and bore himself
sedately.
Sir Crocodile,
content,
The invitations sent.
The day was come—his guests
were all assembled;
They fancied that some guile
Lurked in his ample smile;
Each on the other looked, and somewhat
trembled.
A lengthy time
they wait
Their hunger waxes great;
And still the host in conversation
dallies.
At last the table’s laid,
With covered dishes spread,
And out in haste the hungry party sallies.
But when—the
covers raised—
On empty plates they gazed,
Each on the other looked with dire
intention;
Ma’am Duck sat last of
all,
And Mr. Frog was small;—
She softly swallowed him, and made
no mention!
This Mr. Fox perceives,
And saying, “By your leaves,
Some punishment is due for this transgression.”
He gobbled her in haste,
Then much to his distaste,
By Mr. Lynx was taken in possession!
The Wolf without
a pause,
In spite of teeth and claws,
Left nothing of the Lynx to tell the
story;
The Leopard all irate
At his relation’s fate,
Made mince meat of that wolfish monster
hoary.
The Lion raised
his head;
“Since I am king,”
he said,
“It ill befits the king to lack
his dinner!”
Then on the Leopard sprang,
With might of claw and fang,
And made a meal upon that spotted sinner!—
Then saw in sudden
fear
Sir Crocodile draw near,
And heard him speak, with feelings
of distraction;
“Since all of you have
dined
Well suited to your mind,
You surely cannot grudge me
satisfaction!”
And sooth, a deal
of guile
Lurked in his ample smile,
As down his throat the roaring lion
hasted;
“Economy with me,
Is chief of all,” said
he,
“And I am truly glad to see there’s
nothing wasted.”
“TWO SOULS WITH BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT.”
BY WILLIAM THOMSON.
“My soul is at the
gate!”
The sighing lover said.
He wound his arms around her form
And kissed her golden head.
“My sole
is at the gate!”
The maiden’s father said.
The lover rubbed the smitten part,
And from the garden fled.
BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.
“A risky ride,”
they called it.
Lor bless
ye, there wasn’t no risk:
I knew if I gave ’er
’er head, sir,
That “Painted
Lady” would whisk
Like a rocket through
all the horses,
And win
in a fine old style,
With “the field”
all a-tailin’ behind ’er
In a kind
of a’ Indian file.
* * * * *
You didn’t know
old Josh Grinley—
“Old
Josh o’ the Whitelands Farm,”
As his father had tilled
afore ’im,
And his
afore ’im.—No harm
Ever touched one of
the Grinleys
When the
’Ollingtons owned the lands;
But they ruined themselves
through racing,
And it passed
into other hands.
Ain’t ye heard
how Lord ’Ollington died, sir,
On that
day when “Midlothian Maid”
Broke down when just
winning the “Stewards’”?
Every farthing
he’d left was laid
On the old mare’s
chance; and vict’ry
Seemed fairly
within his grasp
When she stumbled—went
clean to pieces.
With a cry
of despair—a gasp—
Lord ’Ollington
staggered backwards;
A red stream
flowed from his mouth,
And he died—with
the shouts ringing round him:
“Beaten
by Queen o’ the South!”
But I’m going
on anyhow,—ain’t I?
I began
about my ride;
And I’m talking
now like a novel
Of how Lord
’Ollington died.
Don’t ask me to
tell how I’m bred, sir;
Put my “pedigree”
down as “unknown,”
But a good ’un
to go when he’s “wanted,”
From whatever
dam he was thrown.
Old Joshua—he’s
been my mother
And father
all rolled into one;—
It was ’im as
bred and trained me;
Got me “ready”
and “fit” to run.
It’s been whispered
he saved my life, sir—
Picked me
up one winter’s night,
Wrapped up in a shawl
or summat,—
The tale’s
like enough to be right.
* * * * *
“A couple o’
hundred” was wanted
To pull
good old Joshua right;
I was only a lad; but
I’d “fifty”—
My money
went that night,
Every penny on “Painted
Lady”
For the
“Stakes” in the coming week.
I should ’ave
backed her afore, sir;
But waited
for master to speak
As to what he intended
a-doing,
I thought
’twas a “plant”—d’ye
see?
With a bit o’
“rope” in the question,
So I’d
let “Painted Lady” be.
I knew she could
win in a canter,
As long
as there wasn’t no “fake.”
And now—well,
I meant that she should win,
For poor
old Josh Grinley’s sake.
* * * * *
The three-year old “Painted
Lady”
Had never been
beat in her life;
And I’d always ’ad
the mount, sir;
But rumours now
’gan to get rife
That something was wrong with
the “filly”.
The “bookies”
thought everything “square”—
For them—so they
“laid quite freely”
Good odds ’gainst
the master’s mare!
When he’d gone abroad
in the summer
He had given us
orders to train
“The Lady” for
this ’ere race, sir;
We’d never
heard from him again.
And, seeing the “bookies”
a-layin’,
I thought they
knew more than I:
But now I thought with
a chuckle,
Let each look
out for his eye.
The morning before the race,
sir,
The owner turned
up. With a smile
I showed ’im the mare—“There
she is, sir,
Goin’ jist
in ’er same old style.
We’ll win in a common
canter,
‘Painted
Lady’ and I, Sir Hugh,
As we’ve always done
afore, sir;
As we always mean
to do.”
He looked at me just for a
moment,
A shade of care
seemed to pass
All over his handsome features.
Then he kicked
at a tuft o’ grass,
In a sort of a pet, then stammered,
As he lifted his
eyes from his shoes,
“I’m sorry, my
lad—very sorry,
But to-morrow
the mare must lose.”
He turned on his heel.
I stood stroking
My “Lady’s”
soft shining skin,
Then I muttered, “I’m
sorry, sir, very,
But to-morrow
the mare must win.”
* * * * *
I was ’tween two stools,
as they say, sir—
If I disobeyed
orders, Sir Hugh
Would “sack” me
as safe as a trivet,
So I thought what
I’d better do.
I wasn’t so long, for
I shouted,
“I’ve
hit it! I’ll win this ’ere
race,
And I’ll lay fifty pounds
to a sov’reign
As I don’t
get the ‘kick’ from my place.”
* * * * *
The day of the race: bell’s
a-ringin’
To clear the course
for the start.
I gets to an out-o’-way corner;
Then, quickly as lightning,
I dart
My hand ’neath my silken jacket,
Pops a tiny phial to
my lips,
Then off to mount “Painted
Lady”—
Sharp into the saddle
I slips.
In a minute or two we were streaming
Down the course at a
nailing pace;
But I lets the mare take it easy,
For I feels as I’ve
got the race
Well in hand. “No, nothing
can touch ye:
You’ll win!”
I cries—“Now then, my dear!”
All at once I feels fairly silly;
Then I comes over right
down queer.
I dig my knees into her girths,
sir;
I let the reins go—then
I fall
Back faint, and dizzy, and drowsy—
“Painted Lady”
sweeps on past them all.
She can’t make out what’s
a happenin’,
Flies on—maddened,
scared with fright—
And wins—by how far?
well, don’t know, sir,
But the rest hadn’t
come in sight.
I was took from the saddle, lifeless;
I’ve heard as
they thought me dead;
And after I rallied—“’Twas
funny!
’Twas curious—very!”
they said.
* * * * *
The matter was all hushed up, sir;
Sir Hugh dussn’t
show ’is hands.
I’m head “boss”
now in the stables.
Josh stayed—and
died—down at the ’Lands.
BY JOSH BILLINGS.
Marriage iz a fair transaction on the face ov it.
But thare iz quite too often put up jobs in it.
It iz an old institushun, older than the pyramids, and az phull ov hyrogliphicks that noboddy kan parse.
History holds its tounge who the pair waz who fust put on the silken harness, and promised tew work kind in it, thru thick and thin, up hill and down, and on the level, rain or shine, survive or perish, sink or swim, drown or flote.
But whoever they waz they must hav made a good thing out ov it, or so menny ov their posterity would not hav harnessed up since and drov out.
Thare iz a grate moral grip in marriage; it iz the mortar that holds the soshull bricks together.
But there ain’t but darn few pholks who put their money in matrimony who could set down and giv a good written opinyun whi on arth they cum to did it.
This iz a grate proof that it iz one ov them natral kind ov acksidents that must happen, jist az birds fly out ov the nest, when they hav feathers enuff, without being able tew tell why.
Sum marry for buty, and never diskover their mistake; this iz lucky.
Sum marry for money, and—don’t see it.
Sum marry for pedigree, and feel big for six months, and then very sensibly cum tew the conclusion that pedigree ain’t no better than skimmilk.
Sum marry ter pleze their relashons, and are surprised tew learn that their relashuns don’t care a cuss for them afterwards.
Sum marry bekause they hav bin highsted sum where else; this iz a cross match, a bay and a sorrel; pride may make it endurable.
Sum marry for love without a cent in the pocket, nor a friend in the world, nor a drop ov pedigree. This looks desperate, but it iz the strength ov the game.
If marrying for love ain’t a suckcess, then matrimony iz a ded beet.
Sum marry bekauze they think wimmin will be skarse next year, and liv tew wonder how the crop holds out.
Sum marry tew get rid of themselfs, and diskover that the game waz one that two could play at, and neither win.
Sum marry the seckond time to git even, and find it a gambling game, the more they put down, the less they take up.
Sum marry tew be happy, and not finding it, wonder whare all the happiness on earth goes to when it dies.
Sum marry, they kan’t tell whi, and liv, they kan’t tell how.
Almoste every boddy gits married, and it iz a good joke.
Sum marry in haste, and then set down and think it careful over.
Sum think it over careful fust, and then set down and marry.
Both ways are right, if they hit the mark.
Sum marry rakes tew convert them. This iz a little risky, and takes a smart missionary to do it.
Sum marry coquetts. This iz like buying a poor farm, heavily mortgaged, and working the ballance ov yure days tew clear oph the mortgages.
BY HERCULES ELLIS.
“Oh!
wizard, to thine aid I fly,
With
weary feet, and bosom aching;
And
if thou spurn my prayer, I die;
For
oh! my heart! my heart! is breaking:
Oh!
tell me where my Gerald’s gone—
My
loved, my beautiful, my own;
And,
though in farthest lands he be;
To
my true lover’s side I’ll flee.”
“Daughter,”
the aged wizard said,
“For
what cause hath thy Gerald parted?
I
cannot lend my mystic aid,
Except
to lovers, faithful hearted;
My
magic wand would lose its might—
I
could not read my spells aright—
All
skill would from my soul depart,
If
I should aid the false in heart.”
“Oh!
father, my fond heart was true,”
Cried
Ellen, “to my Gerald ever;
No
change its stream of love e’er knew,
Save
that it deepened like yon river:
True,
as the rose to summer sun,
That
droops, when its loved lord is gone,
And
sheds its bloom, from day to day,
And
fades, and pines, and dies away.
“Betrothed, with my dear
sire’s consent,
Each morn beheld my Gerald coming;
Each day, in converse sweet, was spent;
And, ere he went, dark eve was glooming:
But one day, as he crossed the plain,
I saw a cloud descend, like rain,
And bear him, in its skirts, away—
Oh! hour of grief, oh! woeful day!
“They sought my Gerald
many a day,
’Mid winter’s snow, and summer’s
blossom;
At length, his memory passed away,
From all, except his Ellen’s bosom.
But there his love still glows and grows,
Unchanged by time, unchecked by woes;
And, led by it, I’ve made my way,
To seek thy aid, in dark Iveagh.”
He
traced a circle with his wand,
Around
the spot, where they were standing;
He
held a volume in his hand,
All
writ, with spells of power commanding:
He
read a spell—then looked—in vain,
Southward,
across the lake of Lene;
Then
to the east, and western side;
But,
when he northward looked, he cried—
“I
see! I see your Gerald now!
In
Carrigcleena’s fairy dwelling;
Deep
sorrow sits upon his brow,
Though
Cleena tales of love is telling—
Cleena,
most gentle, and most fair,
Of
all the daughters of the air;
The
fairy queen, whose smiles of light,
Preserves
from sorrow and from blight.
“Her
love has borne him from thy arms,
And
keeps him in those fairy regions,
Where
Cleena blooms in matchless charms,
Attended
by her fairy legions.
Yet
kind and merciful’s the queen;
And
if thy woe by her were seen,
And
all thy constancy were known,
Brave
Gerald yet might be thine own.”
“Oh!
father,” the pale maiden cried,
“Hath
he forgotten quite his Ellen?
Thinks
he no more of Shannon’s side,
Where
love so long had made his dwelling?”
“Alas!
fair maid, I cannot tell
The
thoughts that in the bosom dwell;
For
ah! all vain is magic art,
To
read the secrets of the heart.”
To
Carrigcleena Ellen wends,
With
aching breast, and footsteps weary;
Low
on her knees the maiden bends,
Before
that rocky hill of fairy;
Pale
as the moonbeam is her cheek;
With
trembling fear she scarce can speak;
In
agony her hands she clasps;
And
thus her love-taught prayer she gasps.
“Oh!
Cleena, queen of fairy charms,
Have
mercy on my love-lorn maiden;
Restore
my Gerald to my arms—
Behold!
behold! how sorrow laden
And
faint, and way-worn, here I kneel;
And,
with clasped hands, to thee appeal:
Give
to my heart, oh! Cleena give,
The
being in whose love I live!
“Break
not my heart, whose truth you see,
Oh!
break it not by now refusing;
For
Gerald’s all the world to me,
Whilst
thou hast all the world for choosing:
Oh!
Cleena, fairest of the fair,
Grant
now a love-lorn maiden’s prayer;
Or,
if to yield him you deny,
Let
me behold him once, and die.”
Her
prayer of love thus Ellen poured,
With
streaming eyes and bosom heaving;
And,
at each faint heart-wringing word,
Her
soul seemed its fair prison leaving:
The
linnet, on the hawthorn tree,
Stood
hushed by her deep misery;
And
the soft summer evening gale
Seemed
echoing the maiden’s wail.
And
now the solid rocks divide,
A
glorious fairy hall disclosing;
There
Cleena stands, and by her side,
In
slumber, Gerald seems reposing:
She
wakes him from his fairy trance;
And,
hand in hand, they both advance;
And,
now, the queen of fairy charms
Gives
Gerald to his Ellen’s arms.
“Be
happy,” lovely Cleena cried,
“Oh!
lovers true, and fair, and peerless;
All
vain is magic, to divide
Such
hearts, so constant, and so fearless.
Be
happy, as you have been true,
For
Cleena’s blessing rests on you;
And
joy, and wealth, and power, shall give,
As
long as upon earth you live.”
BY WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE.
Alas, that knight of noble birth
Should ever fall from fitting worth!
Alas, that guilty treachery
Should stain the blood of Fontanlee!
The king hath lent a listening ear,
And blacker grew his face to hear:
“By Cross,” he cried, “if thou speak right,
The Fontanlee is a traitor knight!”
Outstepped Sir Robert of Fontanlee,
A young knight and a fair to see;
Outstepped Sir Stephen of Fontanlee.
Sir Robert’s second brother was he;
Outstepped Sir John of Fontanlee,
He was the youngest of the three.
There are three gloves on the oaken boards,
And three white hands on their hilted swords:
“On horse or foot, by day or night,
We stand to do our father right.”
The Baron Tranmere hath bent his knee,
And gathered him up the gages three:
“Ye are young knights, and loyal, I wis,
And ye know not how false your father is.
“Put on, put on your armour bright;
And God in heaven help the right!”
“God help the right!” the sons replied;
And straightway on their armour did.
The Baron Tranmere hath mounted his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
The young Sir Robert lifted his eyes,
Looked fairly up in the open skies:
“If my father was true in deed and in word,
Fight, O God, with my righteous sword;
If my father was false in deed or in word,
Let me lie at length on the battle-sward!”
The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
Sir Robert’s visor is crushed and marred,
And he lies his length on the battle-sward.
Sir Stephen’s was an angry blade—
I scarce may speak the words he said:
“Though Heaven itself were false,” cried he,
“True is my father of Fontanlee!
“And, brother, as Heaven goes with the wrong,
If this lying baron should lay me along,
Strike another blow for our good renown.”
“Doubt me not,” said the young knight John.
The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
In bold Sir Stephen’s best life-blood
His spear’s point is wet to the wood.
The young knight John hath bent his knee,
And speaks his soul right solemnly:
“Whatever seemeth good to Thee,
The same, O Lord, attend on me.
“What though my brothers lie along,
My father’s faith is firm and strong:
Perchance thy deeply-hid intent
Doth need some nobler instrument.
“Let faithless hearts give heed to fear,
I will not falter in my prayer:
If ever guilty treachery
Did stain the blood of Fontanlee,—
“As such an ‘if’ doth stain my lips,
Though truth lie hidden in eclipse,—
Let yonder lance-head pierce my breast,
And my soul seek its endless rest.”
Never a whit did young John yield
When the lance ran through his painted shield;
Never a whit debased his crest,
When the lance ran into his tender breast.
“What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John,
That runs so fast from thine armour down?”
“Oh, this is my heart’s blood, I feel,
And it wets me through from the waist to the heel.”
Sights of sadness many a one
A man may meet beneath the sun;
But a sadder sight did never man see
Than lies in the Hall of Fontanlee.
There are three corses manly and fair,
Each in its armour, and each on its bier;
There are three squires weeping and wan,
Every one with his head on his hand,
Every one with his hand on his knee,
At the foot of his master silently
Sitting, and weeping bitterly
For the broken honour of Fontanlee.
Who is this at their sides that stands?
“Lift, O squires, your heads from your hands;
Tell me who these dead men be
That lie in the Hall of the Fontanlee.”
“This is Sir Robert of Fontanlee,
A young knight and a fair to see;
This is Sir Stephen of Fontanlee,
Sir Robert’s second brother was he;
This is Sir John of Fontanlee,
He was the youngest of the three.
“For their father’s truth did they
Freely give their lives away,
And till he doth home return,
Sadly here we sit and mourn.”
These sad words they having said,
Every one down sank his head;
Till in accents strangely spoken,
At their sides was silence broken.
“I do bring you news from far,
False was the Fontanlee in war!
—Unbend your bright swords from my breast,
I that do speak do know it best.”
Wide he flung his mantle free;
Lo, it was the Fontanlee!
Then the squires like stricken men
Sank into their seats again,
And their cheeks in wet tears steeping
Fresh and faster fell a weeping.
He with footsteps soft and slow
Round to his sons’ heads did go;
Sadly he looked on every one,
And stooped and kissed the youngest, John.
Then his weary head down bending,
“Heart,” said he, “too much offending,
Break, and let me only be
Blotted out of memory.”
Thrice with crimson cheek he stood,
And thrice he swallowed the salt blood;
Then outpoured the torrent red;
And the false Fontanlee lay dead.
BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.
Saint Laura, in her sleep
of death,
Preserves beneath the tomb
—’Tis willed where what
is willed must be—
In incorruptibility,
Her beauty and her bloom.
So pure her maiden life had
been,
So free from earthly stain,
’Twas fixed in fate by Heaven’s
own Queen
That till the earth’s last closing
scene
She should unchanged remain.
Within a deep sarcophagus
Of alabaster sheen,
With sculptured lid of roses white,
She slumbered in unbroken night,
By mortal eyes unseen.
Above her marble couch was
reared
A monumental shrine,
Where cloistered sisters gathering round,
Made night and morn the aisle resound
With choristry divine.
The abbess died; and in her
pride
Her parting mandate said
They should her final rest provide,
The alabaster couch beside,
Where slept the sainted dead.
The abbess came of princely
race;
The nuns might not gainsay;
And sadly passed the timid band,
To execute the high command
They dared not disobey.
The monument was opened then;
It gave to general sight
The alabaster couch alone;
But all its lucid substance shone
With preternatural light.
They laid the corpse within
the shrine;
They closed its doors again;
But nameless terror seemed to fall,
Throughout the livelong night, on all
Who formed the funeral train.
Lo! on the morrow morn, still
closed
The monument was found;
But in its robes funereal drest,
The corse they had consigned to rest
Lay on the stony ground.
Fear and amazement seized
on all;
They called on Mary’s aid;
And in the tomb, unclosed again,
With choral hymn and funeral train,
The corse again was laid.
But with the incorruptible
Corruption might not rest;
The lonely chapel’s stone-paved floor
Received the ejected corse once more,
In robes funereal drest.
So was it found when morning
beamed;
In solemn suppliant strain
The nuns implored all saints in heaven,
That rest might to the corse be given,
Which they entombed again.
On the third night a watch
was kept
By many a friar and nun;
Trembling, all knelt in fervent prayer,
Till on the dreary midnight air
Rolled the deep bell-toll “One!”
The saint within the opening
tomb
Like marble statue stood;
All fell to earth in deep dismay;
And through their ranks she passed away,
In calm unchanging mood.
No answering sound her footsteps
raised
Along the stony floor;
Silent as death, severe as fate,
She glided through the chapel gate,
And none beheld her more.
The alabaster couch was gone;
The tomb was void and bare;
For the last time, with hasty rite,
Even ’mid the terror of the night,
They laid the abbess there.
’Tis said the abbess
rests not well
In that sepulchral pile;
But yearly, when the night comes round
As dies of “one” the bell’s
deep sound
She flits along the aisle.
But whither passed the virgin
saint?
To slumber far away,
Destined by Mary to endure,
Unaltered in her semblance pure,
Until the judgment day!
BY JAMES BUCKHAM.
The saviour, and not the slayer, he is the braver
man.
So far my text—but the story? Thus,
then, it runs; from Spokane
Rolled out the overland mail train, late by an hour.
In the cab
David Shaw, at your service, dressed in his blouse
of drab.
Grimed by the smoke and the cinders. “Feed
her well, Jim,” he said;
(Jim was his fireman.) “Make up time!”
On and on they sped;
Dust from the wheels up-flying; smoke rolling out
behind;
The long train thundering, swaying; the roar of the
cloven wind;
Shaw, with his hand on the lever, looking out straight
ahead.
How she did rock, old Six-forty! How like a storm
they sped.
Leavenworth—thirty minutes gained in the
thrilling race.
Now for the hills—keener look-out, or a
letting down of the pace.
Hardly a pound of the steam less! David Shaw
straightened back,
Hand like steel on the lever, face like flint to the
track.
God!—look there! Down the mountain,
right ahead of the train,
Acres of sand and forest sliding down to the plain!
What to do? Why, jump, Dave! Take the chance,
while you can.
The train is doomed—save your own life!
Think of the children, man!
Well, what did he, this hero, face to face with grim
death?
Grasped the throttle—reversed it—shrieked
“Down brakes!” in a
breath.
Stood to his post, without flinching, clear-headed,
open-eyed,
Till the train stood still with a shudder, and he—went
down with the
slide!
Saved?—yes, saved! Ninety people snatched
from an awful grave.
One life under the sand, there. All that he had,
he gave,
Man to the last inch! Hero?—noblest
of heroes, yea;
Worthy the shaft and the tablet, worthy the song and
the bay!
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
I am my brother’s
keeper,
And I the duty own;
For no man liveth to himself
Or to himself alone;
And we must bear together
A common weal and woe,
In all we are, in all we have,
In all we feel and know.
I am my brother’s
keeper,
In all that I can be,
Of high and pure example,
Of true integrity;
A guide to go before him,
In darkness and in light;
A very cloud of snow by day,
A cloud of fire by night.
I am my brother’s
keeper,
In all that I can say,
To help him on his journey
To cheer him by the way;
To succour him in weakness,
To solace him in woe;
To strengthen him in conflict,
And fit him for the foe.
I am my brother’s
keeper,
In all that I can do
To save him from temptation,
To help him to be true;
To stay him if he stumble,
To lift him if he fall;
To stand beside him though his sin
Has severed him from all.
I am my brother’s
keeper,
In sickness and in health;
In triumph and in failure,
In poverty and wealth;
His champion in danger,
His advocate in blame,
The herald of his honour,
The hider of his shame.
And though he prove
unworthy,
He is my brother still,
And I must render right for wrong
And give him good for ill;
My standard must not alter
For folly, fault, or whim,
And to be true unto myself
I must be true to him.
And all men are my
brothers
Wherever they may be,
And he is most my proper care
Who most has need of me;
Who most may need my counsel,
My influence, my pelf,
And most of all who needs my
strength
To save him from myself.
For all I have of power
Beyond what he can wield,
Is not a weapon of offence
But a protecting shield,
Which I must hold before him
To save him from his foe,
E’en though I be the
enemy
That longs to strike the blow.
I am my brother’s
keeper,
And must be to the end—
A neighbour to the neighbourless,
And to the friendless, friend;
His weakness lays it on me,
My strength involves it too,
And common love for common life
Will bear the burden through.
(FROM “BLACK AND WHITE?” BY PERMISSION.)
“My dear Mabel, how pale you look! It is this hot room. I am sure Lord Saint Sinnes will not mind taking you for a little turn in the garden—between the dances.”
My Lord Saint Sinnes—or Billy Sinnes as he is usually called by his friends—shuffled in his high collar. It is a remarkable collar, nearly related to a cuff, and it keeps Lord Saint Innes in remembrance of his chin. If it were not that this plain young nobleman were essentially a gentleman, one might easily mistake him for a groom. Moreover, like other persons of equine tastes, he has the pleasant fancy of affecting a tight and horsey “cut” in clothes never intended for the saddle.
The girl, addressed by her somewhat overpowering mother as Mabel, takes the proffered arm with a murmured acquiescence and a quivering lip. She is paler than before.
Over his stiff collar Lord Saint Sinnes looks down at her—with something of the deep intuition which makes him the finest steeplechaser in England. Perhaps he notes the quiver of the lip, the sinews drawn tense about her throat. Such silent signals of distress are his business. Certainly he notes the little shiver of abject fear which passes through the girl’s slight form as they pass out of the room together. Their departure is noted by several persons—mostly chaperons.
“He must do it to-night,” murmurs the girl’s mother with a complacent smile on her worldly, cruel face, “and then Mabel will soon see that—the other—was all a mistake.”
Some mothers believe such worn-out theories as this—and others—are merely heartless.
Lord Saint Sinnes leads the way deliberately to the most secluded part of the garden. There are two chairs at the end of a narrow pathway. Mabel sits down hopelessly. She is a quiet-eyed little girl, with brown hair and gentle ways. Just—in a word—the sort of girl who usually engages the affections of blushing, open-air, horsey men. She has no spirit, and those who know her mother are not surprised. She is going to say yes, because she dare not say no. At least two lives are going to be wrecked at the end of the narrow path.
Lord Saint Sinnes sits down at her side and contemplates his pointed toes. Then he looks at her—his clean-shaven face very grave—with the eye of the steeplechase rider.
“Miss Maddison”—jerk of the chin and pull at collar—“you’re in a ghastly fright.”
Miss Maddison draws in a sudden breath, like a sob, and looks at her lacework handkerchief.
“You think I’m going to ask you to marry me?”
Still no answer. The stiff collar gleams in the light of a Chinese lantern. Lord Saint Sinnes’s linen is a matter of proverb.
“But I’m not. I’m not such a cad as that.”
The girl raises her head, as if she hears a far-off sound.
“I know that old worn——. I daresay I would give great satisfaction to some people if I did! But ... I can’t help that.”
Mabel is bending forward, hiding her face. A tear falls on her silk dress with a little dull flop. Young Saint Sinnes looks at her—almost as if he were going to take her in his arms. Then he shuts his upper teeth over his lower lip, hard—just as he does when riding at the water jump.
“A fellow mayn’t be much to look at,” he says, gruffly, “but he can ride straight, for all that.”
Mabel half turns her head, and he has the satisfaction of concluding that she has no fault to find with his riding.
“Of course,” he says, abruptly, “there is s’m’ other fellow?”
After a pause, Miss Maddison nods.
“Miss Maddison,” says Lord Saint Sinnes, rising and jerking his knees back after the manner of horsey persons, “you can go back into that room and take your Bible oath that I never asked you to marry me.”
Mabel rises also. She wants to say something, but there is a lump in her throat.
“Some people,” he goes on, “will say that you bungled it, others that I behaved abominably, but—but we know better, eh?”
He offers his arm, and they walk toward the house.
Suddenly he stops, and fidgets in his collar.
“Don’t trouble about me,” he says, simply. “I shan’t marry anyone else—I couldn’t do that—but—but I didn’t suspect until to-night, y’know, that there was another man, and a chap must ride straight, you know.”
H. S. M.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
“Always a hindrance, are we? You didn’t
think that of old;
With never a han’ to help a man, and only a
tongue to scold?
Timid as hares in danger—weak as a lamb
in strife,
With never a heart to bear a part in the rattle and
battle of life!
Just fit to see to the children and manage the home
affairs,
With only a head for butter and bread, a soul for
tables and chairs?
Where would you be to-morrow if half of the lie were
true?
It’s well some women are weak at heart, if only
for saving you.
“We haven’t much time to be merry who
marry a struggling man,
Making and mending and saving and spending, and doing
the best we
can.
Skimming and scamming and plotting and planning, and
making the done
for
do,
Grinding the mill with the old grist still and turning
the old into
new;
Picking and paring and shaving and sharing, and when
not enough for
us
all,
Giving up tea that whatever may be the ’bacca
sha’n’t go to the wall;
With never a rest from the riot and zest, the hustle
and bustle and
noise
Of the boys who all try to be men like you, and the
girls who all try
to
be boys.
“You know the tale of the eagle that carried
the child away To its eyrie high in the mountain sky,
grim and rugged and gray; Of the sailor who climbed
to save it, who, ere he had half-way sped Up the mountain
wild, met mother and child returning as from
the
dead
There’s many a bearded giant had never have
grown a span, If in peril’s power in childhood’s
hour he’d had to wait for a man. And who
is the one among you but is living and hale to-day,
Because he was tied to a woman’s side in the
old home far away?
“You have heard the tale of the lifeboat, and
the women of Mumbles
Head,
Who, when the men stood shivering by, or out from
the danger fled,
Tore their shawls into striplets and knotted them
end to end,
And then went down to the gates of death for father
and brother and
friend.
Deeper and deeper into the sea, ready of heart and
head,
Hauling them home through the blinding foam, and raising
them from
the
dead.
There’s many of you to-morrow who, but for a
woman’s hand,
Would be drifting about with the shore lights out
and never a chance
to
land.
“You’ve read of the noble woman in the
midst of a Border fray
Who held her own in a castle lone, for her lord who
was far away.
For the children who gather’d round her and
the home that she loved
so
well,
And the deathless fame of a woman’s name whom
nothing but love could
quell.
Who, when the men would have yielded, with her own
sweet lily hand,
Led them straight from the postern gate, and drove
the foe from the
land.
There’s many a little homestead that is cosy
and sung to-day,
Because of a woman who stood in the door and kept
the wolves at bay.
“Only a hindrance are we? then we’ll be
a hindrance still.
We hinder the devil and all his works, and I reckon
he takes it ill.
We do the work that is nearest, and that is the surest
plan,
But if ever you want a hero, and you cannot wait for
a man,
You need not tell us the chances, you’ve only
the need to show,
And there’s many a woman in all the world who
(Founded on an old Legend.)
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
At the little town of Norton, in a famous western
shire,
There dwelt a sightless maiden with her venerated
sire.
To him she was the legacy her mother had bequeathed;
To her he was the very sun that warmed the air she
breathed.
Old Alec was a carter, and he moved from town to town,
Taking parcels from the “The Wheatsheaf”
to “The Mitre” or “The
Crown;”
And on festival occasions would the sightless maiden
ride
To the old cathedral city by the honest carter’s
side.
Ere he tended to his duty at the market or the fair
He would seek the lofty Gothic pile, and leave the
maiden there,
That the choir’s joyous singing and the organ’s
solemn strain
Might beguile her simple fancy till he journeyed home
again.
On the fair autumnal evening of a bright September
day
She had heard the choir singing, she had heard the
canons pray;
And the good old dean was preaching with simple words
and wise
Of Him who gave the maiden life and touched the poor
man’s eyes.
And her tears fell fast and thickly as the good old
preacher said
That even now He cures the blind and raises up the
dead;
And he aptly went on speaking of the blinding death
of sin,
And urged them to be seeking for life and light within.
’Mid the mighty organ’s pealing in the
voluntary rare,
Through the fine oak-panelled ceiling went the maiden’s
broken
prayer
That she might but for a moment be allowed to have
her sight,
To see old Alec’s honest face that tranquil
autumn night.
That He of old who sweetly upon Bartimeus smiled
Would gaze in like compassion on an English peasant
child:
That He who once in pity stood beside the maiden’s
bed,
Would take her hand within His own and raise her from
the dead.
The maiden’s small petition, and the choir’s
grander praise,
Reached the shining gates of heaven, ’mid the
sun’s declining rays,
And the King who heard the praises, turned to listen
to the prayer,
With a smile that shone more brightly than the richest
jewel there.
And before the organ ended, ay, before the prayer
was done,
An angel guard came flying through “the kingdom
of the sun,”
From the land of lofty praises to which God’s
elect aspire
To the old cathedral city of that famous western shire.
And the maiden’s prayer was answered; she gazed
with eager sight
At the tesselated pavement, at the window’s
painted light;
And her heart beat fast and wildly as she realized
the scene,
With the choir’s slow procession, and the old
white-headed dean.
Till she saw old Alec waiting, and arose for his embrace,
While a radiant light was stealing o’er her
pallid upturned face,
But her spirit soaring higher flew beyond the realms
of night,
For God Himself had turned for her all darkness into
light.
BY LORD TENNYSON.
Her arms across her breast
she laid;
She was more fair than words can say:
Bare-footed came the beggar maid
Before the king Cophetua.
In robe and crown the king stept down,
To meet and greet her on her way;
“It is no wonder,” said the lords,
“She is more beautiful than day.”
As shines the moon in clouded
skies,
She in her poor attire was seen:
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been:
Cophetua sware a royal oath:
“This beggar maid shall be my queen!”
BY CLINTON SCOLLARD.
From fair Damascus, as the day grew late,
Passed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas’ gate
Betwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heard
Vie with the lute the twilight-wakened bird.
But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yet
The lovely lines of gold and violet,
A guerdon left by the departing sun
To grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon.
Upon his soul a crushing burden weighed,
And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shade
Seemed but the presage of his doom to be,—
Death, and the triumph of his enemy.
“One slain by slander” cried he, with a laugh, “Thus should the poets frame my epitaph, Above whose mouldering dust it will be said, ‘Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead!’” Out rang a rhythmic revel as he spake From joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake, Hailing the night’s first blossom in the sky. And now, with failing foot, he drew anigh The orchard-garden where his home was hid Pomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid.
Despair mocked
at him from the latticed gate
Where Love and
Happiness had lain in wait
With tender greetings,
and the lights within
Gleamed on the
grave of Bliss that once had been.
Fair Hope who
daily poured into his ear
Her rainbow promises
gave way to Fear
Who smote him
blindly, leaving him to moan
With bitter tears
before the gateway prone.
Soft seemed the
wind in sympathy to grieve,
When lo! a sudden
hand touched Kafur’s sleeve,
And then a voice
cried, echoing his name,
“Behold
the proofs to put thy foe to shame!’”
Up sprang the
prostrate man, and while he stood
Gripping the proffered
scrip in marvelhood,
He who had brought
deliverance slipped from sight;
Thus Joy made
instant day of Kafur’s night.
“Allah is
just,” he said.... Then burning ire
With vengeance
visions filled his brain like fire;
And to his bosom,
anguish-torn but late,
Delirious with
delight he hugged his hate.
“Revenge!”
cried he; “why wait until the morn?
This night mine
enemy shall know my scorn.”
The stars looked
down in wo’nder overhead
As backward Kafur
toward Damascus sped.
The wind, that
erst had joined him in his grief,
Now whispered
strangely to the walnut leaf;
Into the bird’s
song pleading notes had crept,
The happy fountains
in the gardens wept,
And e’en
the river, with its restless roll,
Seemed calling
“pity” unto Kafur’s soul.
“Allah”
he cried, “O chasten thou my heart;
Move me to mercy,
and a nobler part!”
Slow strode he
on, the while a new-born grace
Softened the rigid
outlines of his face,
Nor paused he
till he struck, as ne’er before,
A ringing summons
on his foeman’s door.
His mantle half
across his features thrown,
He won the spacious
inner court unknown,
Where, on a deep
divan, lay stretched his foe,
Sipping his sherbet
cool with Hermon snow;
Who, when he looked
on Kafur, hurled his hate
Upon him, wrathful
and infuriate,
Bidding him swift
begone, and think to feel
A judge’s
sentence and a jailer’s steel.
“Hark ye!”
cried Kafur, at this burst of rage
Holding aloft
a rolled parchment page;
“Prayers
and not threats were more to thy behoof;
Thine is the danger,
see! I hold the proof.
Should I seek
out the Caliph in his bower
To-morrow when
the mid-muezzin hour
Has passed, and
lay before his eyes this scrip,
Silence would
seal forevermore thy lip.
“Ay! quail
and cringe and crook the supple knee,
And beg thy life
of me, thine enemy,
Whom thou, a moment
since, didst doom to death.
I will not breathe
suspicion’s lightest breath
Against thy vaunted
fame: and even though
Before all men
thou’st sworn thyself my foe,
And pledged thyself
wrongly to wreak on me
Thy utmost power
of mortal injury,
In spite of this,
should I be first to die
And win the bowers
of the blest on high,
Beside the golden
gate of Paradise
Thee will I wait
with ever-watchful eyes,
Ready to plead
forgiveness for thy sin,
If thou shouldst
come, and shouldst not enter in.
“Should
Allah hear my plea, how sweet! how sweet!
For then would
Kafur’s vengeance be complete.”
BY VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD.
Around its shining edge three
sat them down,
Beyond the desert, ‘neath
the palms’ green ring.
“I wish,” spake
one, “the gems of Izza’s crown,
For then would I be Izza and
a King!”
Another, “I the royal
robe he wears,
To hear men say, ‘Behold,
a King walks here!’”
And cried the third, “Now
by his long gray hairs
I’d have his throne!
Then should men cringe and fear!”
They quaffed the blessed draught
and went their way
To where the city’s
gilded turrets shone;
Then from the shadowed palms,
where rested they,
Stepped one, with bowed gray
head, and passed alone.
His arms upon his breast,
his eyes down bent,
Against the fading light a
shadow straight;
Across the yellow sand, musing,
he went
Where in the sunset gleamed
the city’s gate.
Lo, the next morrow a command
did bring
To three who tarried in that
city’s wall,
Which bade them hasten straightway
to the King,
Izza, the Great, and straightway
went they all,
With questioning and wonder
in each mind.
Majestic on his gleaming throne
was he,
Izza the Just, the kingliest
of his kind!
His eagle gaze upon the strangers
three
Bent, to the first he spake,
“Something doth tell
Me that to-day my jewelled
crown should lie
Upon thy brow, that it be
proven well
How any man may be a king
thereby.”
And to the second, “Still
the same hath told
That thou shalt don this robe
of royalty,
And”—to the
third—“that thou this sceptre hold
To show a king to such a man
as I!”
And straightway it was done.
Then Izza spake
Unto the guards and said,
“Go! Bring thee now
From out the city wall a child
to make
Its first obeisance to the
King. Speed thou!”
In Izza’s name, Izza,
the great and good,
Went this strange word ’mid
stir and trumpet’s ring,
And straightway came along
and wondering stood
A child within the presence
of the King.
The King? Her dark eyes,
flashing, fearless gazed
To where ’mid pomp and
splendor three there sate.
One, ’neath a glittering
crown, shrunk sore amazed;
One cringed upon the carven
throne of state,
The third, wrapped with a
royal robe, hung low
His head in awkward shame,
and could not see
Beyond the blazoned hem, that
was to show
How any man thus garbed a
king might be!
Wondering, paused the child,
then turned to where
One stood apart, his arms
across his breast;
No crown upon the silver of
his hair,
Black-gowned and still, of
stately mien possessed;
No ’broidered robe nor
gemmed device to tell
Whose was that brow, majestic
with its mind;
But lo, one look, and straight
she prostrate fell
Before great Izza, kingliest
of his kind!
* * * * *
Around the shining Well, at
close of day,
Beyond the desert, ‘neath
the palms’ green ring,
Three stopped to quaff a draught
and paused to say
“Life to great Izza!
Long may he be King!”
BY JOHN G. SAXE.
A famous king would build a
church,
A temple vast and grand;
And that the praise might be his own,
He gave a strict command
That none should add the smallest gift
To aid the work he planned.
And when the mighty dome was
done,
Within the noble frame,
Upon a tablet broad and fair,
In letters all aflame
With burnished gold, the people read
The royal builder’s name.
Now when the king, elate with
pride,
That night had sought his bed,
He dreamed he saw an angel come
(A halo round his head),
Erase the royal name and write
Another in its stead.
What could it be? Three
times that night
That wondrous vision came;
Three times he saw that angel hand
Erase the royal name,
And write a woman’s in its stead
In letters all aflame.
Whose could it be? He gave
command
To all about his throne
To seek the owner of the name
That on the tablet shone;
And so it was, the courtiers found
A widow poor and lone.
The king, enraged at what he
heard,
Cried, “Bring the culprit here!”
And to the woman trembling sore,
He said, “’Tis very clear
That thou hast broken my command:
Now let the truth appear!”
“Your majesty,”
the widow said,
“I can’t deny the truth;
I love the Lord—my Lord and yours—
And so in simple sooth,
I broke your Majesty’s command
(I crave your royal ruth).
“And since I had no money,
Sire,
Why, I could only pray
That God would bless your Majesty;’
And when along the way
The horses drew the stones, I gave
To one a wisp of hay!”
“Ah! now I see,”
the king exclaimed,
“Self-glory was my aim:
The woman gave for love of God,
And not for worldly fame—
’Tis my command the tablet bear
The pious widow’s name!”
BY GERALD MASSEY.
So often is the proud deed done
By men like this at Duty’s call;
So many are the honours won
For us, we cannot wear them all!
They make the
heroic common-place,
And
dying thus the natural way;
And yet, our world-wide
English race
Feels
nobler, for that death, To-day!
It stirs us with
a sense of wings
That
strive to lift the earthiest soul;
It brings the
thoughts that fathom things
To
anchor fast where billows roll.
Love was so new,
and life so sweet,
But
at the call he left the wine,
And sprang full-statured
to his feet,
Responsive
to the touch divine.
“_ Nay,
dear, I cannot see you die.
For
me, I have my work to do
Up here.
Down to the boat. Good-bye,
God
bless you. I shall see it through_.”
We read, until
the vision dims
And
drowns; but, ere the pang be past,
A tide of triumph
overbrims
And
breaks with light from heaven at last.
Through all the
blackness of that night
A
glory streams from out the gloom;
His steadfast
spirit lifts the light
That
shines till Night is overcome.
The sea will do
its worst, and life
Be
sobbed out in a bubbling breath;
But firmly in
the coward strife
There
stands a man who has conquered Death!
A soul that masters
wind and wave,
And
towers above a sinking deck;
A bridge across
the gaping grave;
A
rainbow rising o’er the wreck.
Others he saved;
he saved the name
Unsullied
that he gave his wife:
And dying with
so pure an aim,
He
had no need to save his life!
Lord! how they
shame the life we live,
These
sailors of our sea-girt isle,
Who cheerily take
what Thou mayst give,
And
go down with a heavenward smile!
The men who sow
their lives to yield
A
glorious crop in lives to be:
Who turn to England’s
harvest-field
The
unfruitful furrows of the sea.
With such a breed
of men so brave,
The
Old Land has not had her day;
But long her strength,
with crested wave,
Shall
ride the Seas, the proud old way.
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
There
sat one day in quiet,
By
an alehouse on the Rhine,
Four
hale and hearty fellows,
And
drank the precious wine.
The
landlord’s daughter filled their cups
Around
the rustic board;
Then
sat they all so calm and still,
And
spake not one rude word.
But
when the maid departed,
A
Swabian raised his hand,
And
cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
“Long
live the Swabian land!
“The
greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot
with that compare;
With
all the stout and hardy men
And
the nut-brown maidens there.”
“Ha!”
cried a Saxon, laughing,—
And
dashed his beard with wine;
“I
had rather live in Lapland,
Than
that Swabian land of thine!
“The
goodliest land on all this earth
It
is the Saxon land!
There
have I as many maidens
As
fingers on this hand!”
“Hold
your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!”
A
bold Bohemian cries;
“If
there’s a heaven upon this earth,
In
Bohemia it lies:
“There
the tailor blows the flute,
And
the cobbler blows the horn,
And
the miner blows the bugle,
Over
mountain gorge and bourn!”
* * * * *
And
then the landlord’s daughter
Up
to heaven raised her hand,
And
said, “Ye may no more contend—
There
lies the happiest land.”
September 24th, 1857.
BY J. G. WHITTIER.
Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!
Not the braes of broom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower
Have heard your sweetest strain!
Dear to the lowland reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,—
To the cottage and the castle
The Scottish pipes are dear;—
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O’er mountain, loch, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played.
Day by day the Indian tiger
Louder yelled and nearer crept;
Round and round the jungle serpent
Near and nearer circles swept.
“Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—
Pray to-day!” the soldier said;
“To-morrow, death’s between us
And the wrong and shame we dread.”
Oh! they listened, looked,
and waited,
Till their hope became despair;
And the sobs of low bewailing
Filled the pauses of their prayer.
Then up spake a Scottish maiden,
With her ear unto the ground:
“Dinna ye hear it?—dinna
ye hear it?
The pipes o’ Havelock sound!”
Hushed the wounded man his
groaning;
Hushed the wife her little ones;
Alone they heard the drum-roll
And the roar of Sepoy guns.
But to sounds of home and childhood
The Highland ear was true;
As her mother’s cradle crooning
The mountain pipes she knew.
Like the march of soundless
music
Through the vision of the seer,—
More of feeling than of hearing,
Of the heart than of the ear,—
She knew the droning pibroch
She knew the Campbell’s call:
“Hark! hear ye no’ MacGregor’s,—
The grandest o’ them all.”
Oh! they listened, dumb and
breathless,
And they caught the sound at last;
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee
Rose and fell the piper’s blast!
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving
Mingled woman’s voice and man’s;
“God be praised!—the march
of Havelock!
The piping of the clans!”
Louder, nearer, fierce as
vengeance,
Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,
Came the wild MacGregor’s clan-call,
Stinging all the air to life.
But when the far-off dust cloud
To plaided legions grew,
Full tenderly and blithsomely
The pipes of rescue blew!
Round the silver domes of
Lucknow,
Moslem mosque and pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,
The air of Auld Lang Syne;
O’er the cruel roll of war-drums
Rose that sweet and homelike strain;
And the tartan clove the turban,
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.
Dear to the corn-land reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,—
To the cottage and the castle
The piper’s song is dear;
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O’er mountain, glen, and glade,
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played!
BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.
Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.—
Like
leviathans afloat,
Lay
their bulwarks on the brine;
While
the sign of battle flew
On
the lofty British line:
It
was ten of April morn by the chime:
As
they drifted on their path,
There
was silence deep as death;
And
the boldest held his breath
For
a time.—
But
the might of England flush’d
To
anticipate the scene;
And
her van the fleeter rush’d
O’er
the deadly space between.
“Hearts
of Oak!” our captains cried; when each gun
From
its adamantine lips
Spread
a death-shade round the ships,
Like
the hurricane eclipse
Of
the sun.
Again!
again! again!
And
the havoc did not slack,
Till
a feeble cheer the Dane
To
our cheering sent us back;—
Their
shots along the deep slowly boom:—
Then
ceased—and all is wail,
As
they strike the shatter’d sail;
Or,
in conflagration pale,
Light
the gloom.—
Out
spoke the victor then,
As
he hail’d them o’er the wave;
“Ye
are brothers! ye are men!
And
we conquer but to save:—
So
peace instead of death let us bring:
But
yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With
the crews, at England’s feet,
And
make submission meet
To
our king.”—
Then
Denmark bless’d our chief,
That
he gave her wounds repose;
And
the sounds of joy and grief
From
her people wildly rose,
As
Death withdrew his shades from the day.
While
the sun look’d smiling bright
O’er
a wild and woeful sight,
Where
the fires of funeral light
Died
away.
Now
joy, old England, raise!
For
the tidings of thy might,
By
the festal cities’ blaze,
While
the wine-cup shines in light;
And
yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let
us think of them that sleep,
Full
many a fathom deep,
By
thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!
Brave
hearts! to Britain’s pride
Once
so faithful and so true,
On
the deck of fame that died,—
With
the gallant good Riou,
Soft
sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave!
While
the hollow mournful rolls,
And
the mermaid’s song condoles,
Singing
glory to the souls
Of
the brave!
BY HERCULES ELLIS.
They dragged our
heroes from the graves,
In
which their honoured dust was lying;
They dragged them
forth—base, coward slaves
And
hung their bones on gibbets flying.
Ireton, our dauntless
Ironside,
And
Bradshaw, faithful judge, and fearless,
And Cromwell,
Britain’s chosen guide,
In
fight in faith, and council, peerless.
The bravest of
our glorious brave!
The
tyrant’s terror in his grave.
In felon chains,
they hung the dead—
The
noble dead, in glory lying:
Before whose living
face they fled,
Like
chaff before the tempest flying.
They fled before
them, foot and horse,
In
craven flight their safety seeking;
And now they gloat
around each corse,
In
coward scoff their hatred wreaking.
Oh! God,
that men could own, as kings,
Such
paltry, dastard, soulless things.
Their dust is
scattered o’er the land
They
loved, and freed, and crowned with glory;
Their great names
bear the felon’s brand;
’Mongst
murderers is placed their story.
But idly their
grave-spoilers thought,
Disgrace,
which fled in life before them,
By craven judges
could be brought,
To
spread in death, its shadow o’er them.
For chain, nor
judge, nor dastard king,
Can
make disgrace around them cling.
Their dry bones
rattle in the wind,
That
sweeps the land they died in freeing;
But the brave
heroes rest enshrined,
In
cenotaphs of God’s decreeing:
Embalmed in every
noble breast,
Inscribed
on each brave heart their story,
All honoured shall
the heroes rest,
Their
country’s boast—their race’s
glory.
On every tongue
shall be their name;
In
every land shall live their fame.
But fouler than
the noisome dust,
That
reeks your rotting bones encasing,
Shall be your
fame, ye sons of lust,
And
sloth, and every vice debasing!
Insulters of the
glorious dead,
While
honour in our land is dwelling,
Above your tombs
shall Britons tread,
And
cry, while scorn each breast is swelling—
“HERE LIE
THE DASTARD, CAITIFF SLAVES,
WHO
DRAGGED OUR HEROES FROM THEIR GRAVES.”
BY REGINALD HEBER.
Ye spirits of our fathers,
The hardy, bold, and free,
Who chased o’er Cressy’s
gory field
A fourfold enemy!
From us who love your sylvan game,
To you the song shall flow,
To the fame of your name
Who so bravely bent the bow.
’Twas merry then
in England
(Our ancient records tell),
With Robin Hood and Little John
Who dwelt by down and dell;
And yet we love the bold outlaw
Who braved a tyrant foe,
Whose cheer was the deer,
And his only friend the bow.
’Twas merry then
in England
In autumn’s dewy morn,
When echo started from her hill
To hear the bugle-horn.
And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth
In garb of green did go
The shade to invade
With the arrow and the bow.
Ye spirits of our fathers!
Extend to us your care,
Among your children yet are found
The valiant and the fair,
’Tis merry yet in Old England,
Full well her archers know,
And shame on their name
Who despise the British bow!
BY LORD LYTTON.
From Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, rolled on the
Norman flood,
And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering
tide of blood;
There was not left in all the land a castle wall to
fire,
And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned
a sire.
To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailed
barons flew,
While, shaking earth, behind them strode, the thunder
march of Rou.
“O king,” then cried those barons bold,
“in vain are mace and mail,
We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the
flail.”
“And vainly,” cry the pious monks, “by
Mary’s shrine we kneel,
For prayers, like arrows glance aside, against the
Norman steel.”
The barons groaned, the shavelings wept, while near
and nearer drew,
As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven
flags of Rou.
Then said King Charles, “Where thousands fail,
what king can stand
alone?
The strength of kings is in the men that gather round
the throne.
When war dismays my barons bold, ’tis time for
war to cease;
When Heaven forsakes my pious monks the will of Heaven
is peace.
Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood the Norman
camp unto,
And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this
grisly Rou.
“I’ll give him all the ocean coast, from
Michael Mount to Eure,
And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him
fast and sure;
Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe
the heathen sword,
And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles
his lord.”
Forth went the pastors of the Church, the Shepherd’s
work to do,
And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins
of Rou.
Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp
of dread;
Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by a
head.
Out spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout
and sage,
“When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need
of war and rage?
Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch
of blue,
Which might be thine to sow and reap?—Thus
saith the king to Rou:
“’I’ll give thee all the ocean coast,
from Michael Mount to Eure,
And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee
fast and sure;
If thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy
paynim sword,
And hold thy land, the Church’s son, a fief
from Charles thy lord.’”
The Norman on his warriors looked—to counsel
they withdrew;
The Saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the
soul of Rou.
So back he strode, and thus he spoke, to that archbishop
meek,
“I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure
to Michael-peak,
I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the
coast,
And for thy creed,—a sea-king’s gods
are those that give the most.
So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer
true,
And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint in
Rou.”
So o’er the border stream of Epte came Rou the
Norman, where,
Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green
St. Clair;
He placed his hand in Charles’s hand,—loud
shouted all the throng,
But tears were in King Charles’s eyes—the
grip of Rou was strong.
“Now kiss the foot,” the bishop said,
“that homage still is due;”
Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim
convert Rou.
He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips
to bring;
The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne and backward
falls the king.
Loud laugh the joyous Norman men.—pale
stare the Franks aghast;
And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs
up the mast:
“I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal
too;
The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!”
said Rou.
BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers—
There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was
dearth of woman’s tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood
ebbed away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might
say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s
hand,
And he said: “I never more shall see my
own, my native land;
Take a message and a token to some distant friends
of mine,
For I was born at Bingen—at Bingen on the
Rhine!
“Tell my Brothers and Companions, when they
meet and crowd around
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard
ground.
That we fought the battle bravely—and,
when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting
sun.
And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old
in wars,—
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last
of many scars!
But some were young,—and suddenly beheld
life’s morn decline,—
And one there came from Bingen—fair Bingen
on the Rhine!
“Tell my Mother that her other sons shall comfort
her old age,
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home
a cage:
For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles
fierce and wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty
hoard,
I let them take whate’er they would—but
kept my father’s sword;
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light
used to shine,
On the cottage-wall at Bingen,—calm Bingen
on the Rhine!
“Tell my Sister not to weep for me, and sob
with drooping head,
When the troops are marching home again, with glad
and gallant tread;
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast
eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too,—and
not afraid to die.
And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my
name,
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s
sword and mine),
For the honour of old Bingen,—dear Bingen
on the Rhine!
“There’s another—not a Sister,—in
the happy days gone by, You’d have known her
by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too
innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;—
Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes
heaviest
mourning!
Tell her, the last night of my life—(for,
ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain—my
soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her,
and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad
hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along—I
heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet
and clear!
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm
and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with
friendly talk,
Down many a path belov’d of yore, and well-remembered
walk;
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine...
But we’ll meet no more at Bingen,—loved
Bingen on the Rhine!”
His voice grew faint and hoarser,—his grasp
was childish weak,—
His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed
and ceased to speak:
His comrade bent to lift him, ... but the spark of
life had fled!
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked
down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses
strown;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light
seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bingen
on the Rhine!
BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT.
The Captain stood on the carronade—first
lieutenant, says he,
Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list
to me;
I haven’t the gift of the gab, my sons—because
I’m bred to the sea;
That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight
with we.
Odds blood, hammer and
tongs, long as I’ve been to sea,
I’ve fought ’gainst
every odds—but I’ve gained the victory.
That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don’t
take she,
’Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will
capture we;
I haven’t the gift of the gab, my boys; so each
man to his gun,
If she’s not mine in half an hour, I’ll
flog each mother’s son.
Odds bobs, hammer and
tongs, long as I’ve been to sea,
I’ve fought ’gainst
every odds—and I’ve gained the victory.
We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had
enough
I little thought, he said, that your men were of such
stuff;
The Captain took the Frenchman’s sword, a low
bow made to he;
I haven’t the gift of the gab, monsieur, but
polite I wish to be.
Odds bobs, hammer and
tongs, long as I’ve been to sea,
I’ve fought ’gainst
every odds—and I’ve gained the victory.
Our Captain sent for all of us; my merry men said
he,
I haven’t the gift of the gab, my lads, but
yet I thankful be:
You’ve done your duty handsomely, each man stood
to his gun;
If you hadn’t, you villains, as sure as day,
I’d have flogged each
mother’s son.
Odds bobs, hammer and
tongs, as long as I’m at sea,
I’ll fight ’gainst
every odds—and I’ll gain the victory.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Old King Cole was a merry old
soul,
A merry old soul was he!
He would call for his pipe, he would call for
his glass,
He would call for his fiddlers three;
With loving care and reason rare,
He ruled his subjects true—
Who used to sing, “Long live the King!”
And He—“the people too!”
Old King Cole was a musical
soul,
A musical soul was he!
He used to boast what pleased him most
Was nothing but fiddle-de-dee!
But his pipe and his glass he loved—alas!
As much as his fiddlers three,
And by time he was done with the other and
the one,
He was pretty well done, was he!
Old King Cole was a kingly soul,
A kingly soul was he!
He governed well, the records tell,
The brave, the fair, the free;
He used to say, by night and day,
“I rule by right divine!
My subjects free belong to me,
And all that’s theirs is mine!”
Old King Cole was a worthy soul,
A worthy soul was he!
From motives pure he tried to cure
All greed and vanity;
So if he found—the country round
A slave to gold inclined,
He would take it away, and bid him pray
For a more contented mind.
Old King Cole was a good old
soul,
A good old soul was he!
And social life from civil strife
He guarded royally,
For when he caught the knaves who fought
O’er houses, land, or store,
He would take it himself, whether kind or pelf,
That they shouldn’t fall out any more.
Old King Cole was a thoughtful
soul,
A thoughtful soul was he!
And he said it may be, if they all agree,
They may all disagree with me.
I must organise routs and tournament bouts,
And open a Senate, said he;
Play the outs on the ins and the ins on the
outs,
And the party that wins wins me.
So Old King Cole, constitutional
soul,
(Constitutional soul was he)!
With royal nous, a parliament house
He built for his people free.
And they talked all day and they talked all
night,
And they’d die, but they wouldn’t
agree
Until black was white, and wrong was right,
And he said, “It works to a T.”
Old King Cole was a gay old
soul,
A gay old soul was he!
If he chanced to meet a maiden sweet,
He’d be sure to say “kitchi kitchi
kee;”
And then if her papa, her auntie or mamma,
Should suddenly appear upon the scene,
He would put the matter straight with an office
in the state
If they’d promise not to go and tell
the queen.
Old Queen Cole was a dear old
soul,
A dear old soul was she!
Her hair was as red as a rose—’tis
said—
Her eyes were as green as a pea;
At beck and call for rout and ball,
She won the world’s huzzahs.
At fetes and plays and matinees
Receptions and bazaars.
When Old King Cole, with his
pipe and bowl,
At a smoking concert presided,
His queen would be at a five-o’clock
tea,
At the palace where she resided;
And so they governed, ruled, and reigned,
O’er subjects great and small,
And never was heard a seditious word
In castle, cot, or hall.
In the latter part of the reign of Louis XV. of France the masquerade was an entertainment in high estimation, and was often given, at an immense cost, on court days, and such occasions of rejoicing. As persons of all ranks might gain admission to these spectacles, provided they could afford the purchase of the ticket, very strange rencontres frequently took place at them, and exhibitions almost as curious, in the way of disguise or assumption of character. But perhaps the most whimsical among the genuine surprises recorded at any of these spectacles was that which occurred in Paris on the 15th of October, on the day when the Dauphin (son of Louis XV.) attained the age of one-and-twenty.
At this fete, which was of a peculiarly glittering character—so much so, that the details of it are given at great length by the historians of the day—the strange demeanour of a man in a green domino, early in the evening, excited attention. This mask, who showed nothing remarkable as to figure—though tall, rather, and of robust proportion—seemed to be gifted with an appetite, not merely past human conception, but passing the fancies of even romance.
The dragon of old, who churches ate
(He used to come on a Sunday),
Whole congregations were to him
But a dish of Salmagundi,—
he was but a nibbler—a mere fool—to this stranger of the green domino. He passed from chamber to chamber—from table to table of refreshments—not tasting, but devouring—devastating—all before him. At one board he despatched a fowl, two-thirds of a ham, and half-a-dozen bottles of champagne; and, the very next moment, he was found seated in another apartment performing the same feat, with a stomach better than at first. This strange course went on until the company (who at first had been amused by it) became alarmed and tumultuous.
“Is it the same mask—or are there several dressed alike?” demanded an officer of guards as the green domino rose from a seat opposite to him and quitted the apartment.
“I have seen but one—and, by Heaven, here he is again,” exclaimed the party to whom the query was addressed.
The green domino spoke not a word, but proceeded straight to the vacant seat which he had just left, and again commenced supping, as though he had fasted for the half of a campaign.
At length the confusion which this proceeding created became universal; and the cause reached the ear of the Dauphin.
“He is the very devil, your highness!” exclaimed an old nobleman—“saving your Highness’s presence—or wants but a tail to be so!”
“Say, rather he should be some famished poet, by his appetite,” replied the Prince, laughing. “But there must be some juggling; he spills all his wine, and hides the provisions under his robe.”
Even while they were speaking, the green domino entered the room in which they were talking, and, as usual, proceeded to the table of refreshments.
“See here, my lord!” cried one—“I have seen him do this thrice!”
“I, twice!”—“I, five times!”—“and I, fifteen.”
This was too much. The master of the ceremonies was questioned. He knew nothing—and the green domino was interrupted as he was carrying a bumper of claret to his lips.
“The Prince’s desire is, that Monsieur who wears the green domino should unmask.” The stranger hesitated.
“The command with which his Highness honours Monsieur is perfectly absolute.”
Against that which is absolute there is no contending. The green man threw off his mask and domino; and proved to be a private trooper of the Irish dragoons!
“And in the name of gluttony, my good friend (not to ask how you gained admission), how have you contrived,” said the Prince, “to sup to-night so many times?”
“Sire, I was but beginning to sup, with reverence be it said, when your royal message interrupted me.”
“Beginning!” exclaimed the Dauphin in amazement; “then what is it I have heard and seen? Where are the herds of oxen that have disappeared, and the hampers of Burgundy? I insist upon knowing how this is!”
“It is Sire,” returned the soldier, “may it please your Grace, that the troop to which I belong is to-day on guard. We have purchased one ticket among us, and provided this green domino, which fits us all. By which means the whole of the front rank, being myself the last man, have supped, if the truth must be told, at discretion; and the leader of the rear rank, saving your Highness’s commands, is now waiting outside the door to take his turn.”
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
“Hadst
thou stayed, I must have fled!”
That
is what the vision said.
In
his chamber all alone,
Kneeling
on the floor of stone,
Prayed
the Monk in deep contrition
For
his sins of indecision,
Prayed
for greater self-denial
In
temptation and in trial;
It
was noonday by the dial,
And
the Monk was all alone.
Suddenly,
as if it lightened,
An
unwonted splendour brightened
All
within him and without him
In
that narrow cell of stone;
And
he saw the Blessed Vision
Of
our Lord, with light Elysian
Like
a vesture wrapped about Him,
Like
a garment round Him thrown.
Not
as crucified and slain,
Not
in agonies of pain,
Not
with bleeding hands and feet,
Did
the Monk his Master see;
But
as in the village street,
In
the house or harvest-field,
Halt
and lame and blind He healed,
When
He walked in Galilee.
In
an attitude imploring,
Hands
upon his bosom crossed,
Wondering,
worshipping, adoring,
Knelt
the Monk in rapture lost.
“Lord,”
he thought, “in Heaven that reignest,
Who
am I that thus Thou deignest
To
reveal Thyself to me?
Who
am I, that from the centre
Of
Thy glory Thou shouldst enter
This
poor cell my guest to be?”
Then
amid his exaltation,
Loud
the convent-bell appalling,
From
its belfry calling, calling,
Rang
through court and corridor,
With
persistent iteration
He
had never heard before.
It
was now the appointed hour
When
alike, in shine or shower,
Winter’s
cold or summer’s heat,
To
the convent portals came
All
the blind and halt and lame,
All
the beggars of the street,
For
their daily dole of food
Dealt
them by the brotherhood;
And
their almoner was he
Who
upon his bended knee,
Wrapt
in silent ecstasy
Of
divinest self-surrender,
Saw
the Vision and the splendour.
Deep
distress and hesitation
Mingled
with his adoration;
Should
he go or should he stay?
Should
he leave the poor to wait
Hungry
at the convent gate
Till
the Vision passed away?
Should
he slight his heavenly guest,
Slight
this visitant celestial,
For
a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars
at the convent gate?
Would
the Vision there remain?
Would
the Vision come again?
Then
a voice within his breast
Whispered,
audible and clear,
As
if to the outward ear:
“Do
thy duty; that is best;
Leave
unto thy Lord the rest!”
Straightway
to his feet he started,
And,
with longing look intent
On
the Blessed Vision bent,
Slowly
from his cell departed,
Slowly
on his errand went.
At
the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking
through the iron grating,
With
that terror in the eye
That
is only seen in those
Who
amid their wants and woes
Hear
the sound of doors that close
And
of feet that pass them by;
Grown
familiar with disfavour,
Grown
familiar with the savour
Of
the bread by which men die!
But
to-day, they know not why,
Like
the gate of Paradise
Seemed
the convent gate to rise,
Like
a sacrament divine
Seemed
to them the bread and wine.
In
his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking
of the homeless poor,
What
they suffer and endure;
What
we see not, what we see;
And
the inward voice was saying:
“Whatsoever
thing thou doest
To
the least of Mine and lowest
That
thou doest unto Me.”
Unto
Me! But had the Vision
Come
to him in beggar’s clothing,
Come
a mendicant imploring,
Would
he then have knelt adoring,
Or
have listened with derision
And
have turned away with loathing?
Thus
his conscience put the question,
Full
of troublesome suggestion,
As
at length, with hurried pace,
Toward
his cell he turned his face,
And
beheld the convent bright
With
a supernatural light,
Like
a luminous cloud expanding
Over
floor and wall and ceiling.
But
he paused with awe-struck feeling
At
the threshold of his door;
For
the Vision still was standing
As
he left it there before,
When
the convent bell appalling,
From
its belfry calling, calling,
Summoned
him to feed the poor.
Through
the long hour intervening
It
had waited his return,
And
he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending
all the meaning,
When
the Blessed Vision said:
“Hadst
thou stayed I must have fled!”
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
At Atri in Abruzzo, a small
town
Of ancient Roman date, but
scant renown,
One of those little places
that have run
Half up the hill, beneath
a blazing sun,
And then sat down to rest,
as if to say,
How swift the happy days in
Atri sped,
What wrongs were righted,
need not here be said.
Suffice it that, as all things
must decay,
The hempen rope at length
was worn away,
Unravelled at the end, and,
strand by strand,
Loosened and wasted in the
ringer’s hand,
Till one, who noted this in
passing by,
Mended the rope with braids
of briony,
So that the leaves and tendrils
of the vine
Hung like a votive garland
at a shrine.
By chance it happened that
in Atri dwelt
A knight, with spur on heel
and sword in belt,
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar
in the woods,
Who loved his falcons with
their crimson hoods,
Who loved his hounds and horses,
and all sports
And prodigalities of camps
and courts;—
Loved, or had loved them;
for at last, grown old,
His only passion was the love
of gold.
He sold his horses, sold his
hawks and hounds,
Rented his vineyards and his
garden-grounds,
Kept but one steed, his favourite
steed of all,
To starve and shiver in a
naked stall,
And day by day sat brooding
in his chair,
Devising plans how best to
hoard and spare.
At length he said: “What
is the use or need
To keep at my own cost this
lazy steed,
Eating his head off in my
stables here,
When rents are low and provender
is dear?
Let him go feed upon the public
ways:
I want him only for the holidays.”
So the old steed was turned
into the heat
Of the long, lonely, silent,
shadeless street;
And wandered in suburban lanes
forlorn,
Barked at by dogs, and torn
by briar and thorn.
One afternoon, as in that
sultry clime
It is the custom in the summer
time,
With bolted doors and window-shutters
closed,
The inhabitants of Atri slept
or dozed;
When suddenly upon their senses
fell
The loud alarum of the accusing
bell!
The Syndic started from his
deep repose,
Turned on his coach, and listened,
and then rose
And donned his robes, and
with reluctant pace
Went panting forth into the
market-place,
Where the great bell upon
its cross-beam swung,
Reiterating with persistent
Meanwhile from street and
lane a noisy crowd
Had rolled together like a
summer cloud,
And told the story of the
wretched beast
In five-and-twenty different
ways at least,
With much gesticulation and
appeal
To heathen gods, in their
excessive zeal.
The Knight was called and
questioned; in reply
Did not confess the fact,
did not deny;
Treated the matter as a pleasant
jest,
And set at nought the Syndic
and the rest,
Maintaining, in an angry undertone,
That he should do what pleased
him with his own.
And thereupon the Syndic gravely
read
The proclamation of the King;
then said:
“Pride goeth forth on
horseback grand and gay,
But cometh back on foot, and
begs its way;
Fame is the fragrance of heroic
deeds
Of flowers of chivalry, and
not of weeds!
These are familiar proverbs;
but I fear
They never yet have reached
your knightly ear.
What fair renown, what honour,
what repute
Can come to you from starving
this poor brute?
He who serves well and speaks
not, merits more
Than they who clamour loudest
at the door.
Therefore the law decrees
that as this steed
Served you in youth, henceforth
you shall take heed
To comfort his old age, and
to provide
Shelter in stall, and food
and field beside.”
The Knight withdrew abashed;
the people all
Led home the steed in triumph
to his stall.
The King heard and approved,
and laughed in glee,
And cried aloud: “Right
well it pleaseth me!
Church-bells at best but ring
us to the door;
But go not into mass; my bell
doth more:
It cometh into court and pleads
the cause
Of creatures dumb and unknown
to the laws;
And this shall make, in every
Christian clime,
The Bell of Atri famous for
all time.”
BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
The tempest rages wild and high,
The waves lift up their voice and cry
Fierce answers to the angry sky,—
Miserere Domine.
Through the black night and driving rain,
A ship is struggling, all in vain
To live upon the stormy main;—
Miserere Domine.
The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,
Vain is it now to strive or dare;
A cry goes up of great despair,—
Miserere Domine.
The stormy voices of the main,
The moaning wind, the pelting rain
Beat on the nursery window pane:—
Miserere Domine.
Warm curtained was the little bed,
Soft pillowed was the little head;
“The storm will wake the child,” they said:
Miserere Domine.
Cowering among his pillows white
He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright,
“Father save those at sea to-night!”
Miserere Domine.
The morning shone all clear and gay,
On a ship at anchor in the bay,
And on a little child at play,—
Gloria tibi Domine!
BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
I saw a Ruler take his
stand
And trample on a mighty
land;
The People crouched
before his beck,
His iron heel was on
their neck,
His name shone bright
through blood and pain,
His sword flashed back
their praise again.
I saw another Ruler
rise—
His words were noble,
good and wise;
With the calm sceptre
of his pen
He ruled the minds,
and thoughts of men;
Some scoffed, some praised,
while many heard,
Only a few obeyed his
word.
Another Ruler then I
saw—
Love and sweet Pity
were his law:
The greatest and the
least had part
(Yet most the unhappy)
in his heart—
The People in a mighty
band,
Rose up and drove him
from the land!
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Ere
the brothers though the gateway
Issued
forth with old and young,
To
the Horn Sir Eustace pointed,
Which
for ages there had hung.
Horn
it was which none could sound,
No
one upon living ground,
Save
He who came as rightful Heir
To
Egremont’s Domains and Castle fair.
Heirs
from times of earliest record
Had
the House of Lucie borne,
Who
of right had held the lordship
Claimed
by proof upon the horn:
Each
at the appointed hour
Tried
the horn—it owned his power;
He
was acknowledged; and the blast
Which
good Sir Eustace sounded was the last.
With
his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
And
to Hubert thus said he:
“What
I speak this horn shall witness
For
thy better memory.
Hear,
then, and neglect me not!
At
this time, and on this spot,
The
words are uttered from my heart,
As
my last earnest prayer ere we depart.
“On
good service we are going,
Life
to risk by sea and land,
In
which course if Christ our Saviour
Do
my sinful soul demand,
Hither
come thou back straightway,
Hubert,
if alive that day;
Return,
and sound the horn, that we
May
have a living house still left in thee!”
“Fear
not,” quickly answered Hubert:
“As
I am thy father’s son,
What
thou askest, noble brother,
With
God’s favour, shall be done.”
So
were both right well content:
Forth
they from the castle went,
And
at the head of their array
To
Palestine the brothers took their way.
Side
by side they fought (the Lucies
Were
a line for valour famed),
And
where’er their strokes alighted,
There
the Saracens were tamed.
Whence,
then, could it come—the thought—
By
what evil spirit brought?
Oh!
can a brave man wish to take
His
brother’s life, for lands’ and castle’s
sake?
“Sir!”
the ruffians said to Hubert,
“Deep
he lies in Jordan’s flood.”
Stricken
by this ill assurance,
Pale
and trembling Hubert stood.
“Take
your earnings.—Oh! that I
Could
have seen my brother die!”
It
was a pang that vexed him then,
And
oft returned, again, and yet again.
Months
passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor
of him were tidings heard;
Wherefore,
bold as day, the murderer
Back
again to England steered.
To
his castle Hubert sped;
Nothing
has he now to dread.
But
silent and by stealth he came,
And
at an hour which nobody could name.
None
could tell if it were night-time,
Night
or day, at even or morn;
No
one’s eye had seen him enter,
No
one’s ear had heard the horn.
But
bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months
and years went smilingly;
With
plenty was his table spread,
And
bright the lady is who shares his bed.
Likewise
he had sons and daughters;
And,
as good men do, he sate
At
his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing
in fair estate.
And
while thus in open day
Once
he sate, as old books say,
A
blast was uttered from the horn,
Where
by the castle-gate it hung forlorn,
’Tis
the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He
has come to claim his right:
Ancient
castle, woods, and mountains
Hear
the challenge with delight.
Hubert!
though the blast be blown,
He
is helpless and alone:
Thou
hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And
there he may be lodged, and thou be lord!
Speak!—astounded
Hubert cannot;
And,
if power to speak he had,
All
are daunted, all the household
Smitten
to the heart and sad.
’Tis
Sir Eustace; if it be
Living
man it must be he!
Thus
Hubert thought in his dismay,
And
by a postern-gate he slunk away.
Long
and long was he unheard of:
To
his brother then he came,
Made
confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked
it by a brother’s name,
And
by all the saints in heaven;
And
of Eustace was forgiven:
Then
in a convent went to hide
His
melancholy head, and there he died.
But
Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had
preserved from murderers’ hands,
And
from pagan chains had rescued,
Lived
with honour on his lands.
Sons
he had, saw sons of theirs:
And
through ages, heirs of heirs,
A
long posterity renowned
Sounded
the horn which they alone could sound.
BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.
There dwelt in Bethlehem
a Jewish maid,
And Zillah was her name,
so passing fair
That all Judea spake
the virgin’s praise.
He who had seen her
eyes’ dark radiance,
How it revealed her
soul, and what a soul
Beamed in the mild effulgence,
woe to him!
For not in solitude,
for not in crowds,
Might he escape remembrance,
nor avoid
Her imaged form, which
followed everywhere,
And filled the heart,
and fixed the absent eye.
Alas for him! her bosom
owned no love
Save the strong ardour
of religious zeal;
For Zillah upon heaven
had centred all
Her spirit’s deep
affections. So for her
Her tribe’s men
sighed in vain, yet reverenced
The obdurate virtue
that destroy’d their hopes.
One man there was, a
vain and wretched man,
Who saw, desired, despaired,
and hated her:
His sensual eye had
gloated on her cheek
E’en till the
flush of angry modesty
Gave it new charms,
and made him gloat the more.
She loathed the man,
for Hamuel’s eye was bold,
And the strong workings
of brute selfishness
Had moulded his broad
features; and she feared
The bitterness of wounded
vanity
That with a fiendish
hue would overcast
His faint and lying
smile. Nor vain her fear,
For Hamuel vowed revenge,
and laid a plot
Against her virgin fame.
He spread abroad
Whispers that travel
fast, and ill reports
That soon obtain belief;
how Zillah’s eye,
When in the temple heavenward
it was raised,
Did swim with rapturous
zeal, but there were those
Who had beheld the enthusiast’s
Shame—shame to man,
That he should trust so easily the tongue
Which stabs another’s fame! The ill report
Was heard, repeated, and believed,—and soon,
For Hamuel by his well-schemed villainy
Produced such semblances of guilt,—the maid
Was to the fire condemned!
Without the walls
There was a barren field; a place abhorred,
For it was there where wretched criminals
Received their death! and there they fixed the stake,
And piled the fuel round, which should consume
The injured maid, abandoned, as it seemed,
By God and man.
The assembled Bethlehemites
Beheld the scene, and when they saw the maid
Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness
She lifted up her patient looks to heaven,
They doubted of her guilt.—
With
other thoughts
Stood Hamuel near the
pile; him savage joy
Led thitherward, but
now within his heart
Unwonted feelings stirred,
and the first pangs
Of wakening guilt, anticipant
of hell!
The eye of Zillah as it glanced around
Fell on the slanderer once, and rested there
A moment; like a dagger did it pierce,
And struck into his soul a cureless wound.
Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour
Of triumph dost thou spare the guilty wretch,
Not in the hour of infamy and death
Forsake the virtuous!—
They
draw near the stake—
They bring the torch!—hold,
hold your erring hands!
Yet quench the rising
flames!—O God, protect,
They reach the suffering
maid!—O God, protect
The innocent one!
They rose, they spread, they raged;—
The breath of God went
forth; the ascending fire
Beneath its influence
bent, and all its flames,
In one long lightning-flash
concentrating,
Darted and blasted Hamuel—him
alone!
Hark what a fearful scream the multitude
Pour forth!—and yet more miracles! the stake
Branches and buds, and spreading its green leaves,
Embowers and canopies the innocent maid
Who there stands glorified; and roses, then
First seen on earth since Paradise was lost,
Profusely blossom round her, white and red,
In all their rich variety of hues;
And fragrance such as our first parents breathed
In Eden, she inhales, vouchsafed to her
A presage sure of Paradise regained.
BY GERALD GRIFFIN.
The joy-bells
are ringing in gay Malahide,
The fresh wind
is singing along the seaside;
The maids are
assembling with garlands of flowers,
And the harp-strings
are trembling in all the glad bowers
Swell, swell the
gay measure! roll trumpet and drum!
’Mid greetings
of pleasure in splendour they come!
The chancel is
ready, the portal stands wide,
For the lord and
the lady, the bridegroom and bride.
What years, ere
the latter, of earthly delight,
The future shall
scatter o’er them in its flight!
What blissful
caresses shall fortune bestow,
Ere those dark-flowing
tresses fall white as the snow!
Before the high
altar young Maud stands arrayed:
With accents that
falter her promise is made—
From father and
mother for ever to part,
For him and no
other to treasure her heart.
The words are
repeated, the bridal is done,
The rite is completed—the
two, they are one;
The vow, it is
spoken all pure from the heart,
That must not
be broken till life shall depart.
Hark! ’Mid
the gay clangour that compassed their car,
Loud accents in
anger come mingling afar!
The foe’s
on the border! his weapons resound
Where the lines
in disorder unguarded are found!
As wakes the good
shepherd, the watchful and bold,
When the ounce
or the leopard is seen in the fold,
So rises already
the chief in his mail,
While the new-married
lady looks fainting and pale.
“Son, husband,
and brother, arise to the strife,
For sister and
mother, for children and wife!
O’er hill
and o’er hollow, o’er mountain and plain,
Up, true men,
and follow! let dastards remain!”
Farrah! to the
battle!—They form into line—
The shields, how
they rattle! the spears, how they shine!
Soon, soon shall
the foeman his treachery rue—
On, burgher and
yeoman! to die or to do!
The eve is declining
in lone Malahide;
The maidens are
twining gay wreaths for the bride;
She marks them
unheeding—her heart is afar,
Where the clansmen
are bleeding for her in the war.
Hark!—loud
from the mountain—’tis victory’s
cry!
O’er woodland
and fountain it rings to the sky!
The foe has retreated!
he flees to the shore;
The spoiler’s
defeated—the combat is o’er!
With foreheads
unruffled the conquerors come—
But why have they
muffled the lance and the drum?
What form do they
carry aloft on his shield?
And where does
he tarry, the lord of the field?
Ye saw him at
morning, how gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning,
the star of the day;
Now, weep for
the lover—his triumph is sped,
His hope it is
over! the chieftain is dead!
But, O! for the
maiden who mourns for that chief,
With heart overladen
and rending with grief!
She sinks on the
meadow—in one morning-tide,
A wife and a widow,
a maid and a bride!
Ye maidens attending,
forbear to condole!
Your comfort is
rending the depths of her soul:
True—true,
’twas a story for ages of pride;
He died in his
glory—but, oh, he has died!
The war-cloak
she raises all mournfully now,
And steadfastly
gazes upon the cold brow;
That glance may
for ever unaltered remain,
But the bridegroom
will never return it again.
The dead-bells
are tolling in sad Malahide,
The death-wail
is rolling along the seaside;
The crowds, heavy-hearted,
withdraw from the green,
For the sun has
departed that brightened the scene!
How scant was
the warning, how briefly revealed,
Before on that
morning, death’s chalice was filled!
Thus passes each
pleasure that earth can supply—
Thus joy has its
measure—we live but to die!
BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.
Turgesius, the chief
of a turbulent band,
Came over from Norway
and conquer’d the land:
Rebellion had smooth’d
the invader’s career,
The natives shrank from
him, in hate, or in fear;
While Erin’s proud
spirit seem’d slumb’ring in peace,
In secret it panted
for death—or release.
The tumult of battle
was hush’d for awhile,—
Turgesius was monarch
of Erin’s fair isle,
The sword of the conqueror
slept in its sheath,
His triumphs were honour’d
with trophy and wreath;
The princes of Erin
despair’d of relief,
And knelt to the lawless
Norwegian chief.
His heart knew the charm
of a woman’s sweet smile;
But ne’er, till
he came to this beautiful isle,
Did he know with what
mild, yet resistless control,
That sweet smile can
conquer a conqueror’s soul:
And oh! ’mid the
sweet smiles most sure to enthral,
He soon met with one—he
thought sweetest of all.
The brave Prince of
Meath had a daughter as fair
As the pearls of Loch
Neagh which encircled her hair;
The tyrant beheld her,
and cried, “She shall come
To reign as the queen
of my gay mountain home;
Ere sunset to-morrow
hath crimson’d the sea,
Melachlin, send forth
thy young daughter to me!”
Awhile paused the Prince—too
indignant to speak,
There burn’d a
reply in his glance—on his cheek:
But quickly that hurried
expression was gone,
And calm was his manner,
and mild was his tone.
He answered—“Ere
sunset hath crimson’d the sea,
To-morrow—I’ll
send my young daughter to thee.
“At sunset to-morrow
your palace forsake,
With twenty young chiefs
seek the isle on yon lake;
And there, in its coolest
and pleasantest shades,
My child shall await
you with twenty fair maids:
Yes—bright
as my armour the damsels shall be
I send with my daughter,
Turgesius, to thee.”
Turgesius return’d
to his palace; to him
The sports of that evening
seem’d languid and dim;
And tediously long was
the darkness of night,
And slowly the morning
unfolded its light;
The sun seem’d
to linger—as if it would be
An age ere his setting
would crimson the sea.
At length came the moment—the
King and his band
With rapture push’d
out their light boat from the land;
And bright shone the
gems on the armour, and bright
Flash’d their
fast-moving oars in the setting sun’s light;
And long ere they landed,
they saw though the trees
The maiden’s white
garments that waved in the breeze.
More strong in the lake
was the dash of each oar,
More swift the gay vessel
flew on to the shore;
Its keel touch’d
the pebbles—but over the surf
The youths in a moment
had leap’d to the turf,
And rushed to a shady
retreat in the wood,
Where many veiled forms
mute and motionless stood.
“Say, which is
Melachlin’s fair daughter? away
With these veils,”
cried Turgesius, “no longer delay;
Resistance is vain,
we will quickly behold
Which robe hides the
loveliest face in its fold;
These clouds shall no
longer o’ershadow our bliss,
Let each seize a veil—and
my trophy be this!”
He seized a white veil,
and before him appear’d
No fearful, weak girl—but
a foe to be fear’d!
A youth—who
sprang forth from his female disguise,
Like lightning that
flashes from calm summer skies:
His hand grasp’d
a weapon, and wild was the joy
That shone in the glance
of the warrior boy.
And under each white
robe a youth was conceal’d,
Who met his opponent
with sword and with shield.
Turgesius was slain—and
the maidens were blest,
Melachlin’s fair
daughter more blithe than the rest;
And ere the last sunbeam
had crimson’d the sea,
They hailed the boy-victors—and
Erin was free!
BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.
O,
heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale,
Where
a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
’Tis
the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear,
And
her sire and her people are called to the bier.
Glenara
came first with the mourners and shroud:
Her
kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:
Their
plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They
marched all in silence—they looked to the
ground.
In
silence they reached over mountains and moor,
To
a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:
“Now
here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:
Why
speak ye no word?” said Glenara the stern.
“And
tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,
Why
fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?”
So
spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made,
But
each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed!
“I
dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud,”
Cried
a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud;
“And
empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:
Glenara!
Glenara! now read me my dream!”
Oh,
pale grew the cheek of the chieftain, I ween,
When
the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen!
Then
a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn—
’Twas
the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:
“I
dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief,
I
dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On
a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:—
Glenara!
Glenara! now read me MY dream!”
In
dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And
the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From
a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne;
Now
joy to the house of the fair Ellen of Lorn!
BY CLARA DOTY BATES.
He grew as a red-headed
thistle
Might grow, a mere vagabond weed—
Little Frieder—as gay with
his whistle
As water-wagtail on a reed—
Blithe that was indeed!
He had a little old fiddle,
A shabby and wonderful thing,
Patched at end, patched and glued in the
middle
Oft lacking a key or a string,
But, oh, it could sing!
Barber’s ’prentice
was Frieder, but having
No sense of the true barber’s
art,
He cut every face in the shaving,
Pulled hair, and left gashes and smart,
Getting blows for his part.
Blows he liked not, and
so off he started
One morning, his fortune to seek,
Comb and fiddle his all, yet light-hearted
As long as his fiddle could squeak,
Be it ever so weak.
Ran away! Highway
rutted or dusty
Seemed velvety grass to his feet;
Sang the birds; his own stout legs were
trusty;
To his hunger a black crust was sweet,
And life seemed complete.
Towards twilight he came
to a meadow
Where a lovely green water, outlaid
Like a looking-glass, held in clear shadow
Low iris-grown shores—every
blade
Its double had made.
Neck, the Nixie, lived
under this water,
In a palace of glass, far below
Where fishes might swim, or the otter
Could dive, or a sunbeam could go,
Or a lily root grow.
And, lo, Frieder spied
him that minute
In a little red coat, sitting there
By the pond, with his feet hanging in
it,
And clawing his knotted green hair
In a comic despair.
Green hair, full of duck
weed, and tangled
With snail shells, and moss and eel-grass
It was, and it straggled and dangled
Over forehead and shoulders—alas,
A wild hopeless mass.
“Good evening,”
hailed Frieder, “I know you,
Sir Neck, the Pond Nixie! I pray
You will come to the shore, and I’ll
show you
How hair should be combed, if I may,
The real barber’s way.”
Neck swam like a frog to
him, grinning,
And Frieder attacked the green mane
That had neither end nor beginning!
Neck bore like a hero the strain
Of the pulling and pain.
Till at length, without
whimper or whining
The task of the combing was done,
And each lock was as smooth and as shining
As long iris leaves in the sun—
Soft as silk that is spun.
Then Neck thrust his hand
in the rushes
And pulled out his own violin,
And played—why, it seemed as
if thrushes
Had song-perches under his chin,
So sweet was the din.
The barber boy’s
heart fell to throbbing;
“Herr Neck”—this
was all he could say,
Between fits of laughing and sobbing—
“Herr Neck, oh, pray teach me
to play
In that wonderful way!”
Neck glanced at the comb.
“Will you give it
For this little fiddle?” he cried.
“My comb—why, of course
you can have it,
And jacket and supper beside!”
Eager Frieder replied.
Neck flung down his fiddle,
and catching
The comb at arm’s length, dived
below.
And Frieder, the instrument snatching
Across the weird strings drew the bow,
To and fro—to and fro!
Till out of the forest
came springing
Roebuck and rabbit and deer;
Till the nightingale stopped in its singing
And the black flitter-mice crowded near,
The sweet music to hear.
* * * * *
Forth from that moment
went Frieder
Far countries and kingdoms to roam,
Of all earth’s musicians the leader,
King’s castles and courts for
a home,
But, alas, for his comb!
Gold he had, but a comb
again, never!
And his hair in a wild disarray
Henceforth grew at random.—And
ever
Musicians to this very day
Wear theirs the same way!
“ONWARD.” A TALE OF THE S. E. RAILWAY.
ANONYMOUS.
No doubt you’ve ‘eard the tale, sir.
Thanks,—’arf o’ stout and mild.
Of the man who did his dooty, though it might have
killed his child.
He was only a railway porter, yet he earned undy’n’
fame.
Well!—Mine’s a similar story, though
the end ain’t quite the same.
I were pointsman on the South Eastern, with an only
child—a girl
As got switched to a houtside porter, though fit to
’ave married a
pearl.
With a back as straight as a tunnel, and lovely carrotty
’air,
She used to bring me my dinner, sir, and couldn’t
she take her
share!—
One day she strayed on the metals, and fell asleep
on the track;
I didn’t ‘appen to miss her, sir, or I
should ha’ called her back.
She’d gone quite out of earshot, and I daresen’t
leave my post,
For the lightnin’ express was comin’,
but four hours late at the
most!
‘Ave you ever seen the “lightnin’”
thunder through New Cross?
Fourteen miles an hour, sir, with stoppages, of course.
And just in the track of the monster was where my
darling slept.
I could hear the rattle already, as nearer the monster
crept!
I might turn the train on the sidin’, but I
glanced at the loop line
and saw
That right on the outer metals was lyin’ a bundle
of straw;
And right in the track of the “lightnin’”
was where my darlin’ laid,
But the loop line ’ud smash up the engine,
and there’d be no
dividend paid
I thought of the awful disaster, of the blood and
the coroner’s
’quest;
Of the verdict, “No blame to the pointsman,
he did it all for the
best!”
And I thought of the compensation the Co. would ’ave
to pay
If I turned the train on the sidin’ where the
’eap of stubble lay.
So I switched her off on the main, sir, and she thundered
by like a
snail,
And I didn’t recover my senses till I’d
drunk ‘arf a gallon o’ ale.
For though only a common pointsman, I’ve a father’s
feelings, too,
So I sank down in a faint, sir, as my Polly was ’id
from view.
And now comes the strangest part, sir, my Polly was
roused by the
sound.
You think she escaped the engine by lyin’ flat
on the ground?
No! always a good ’un to run, sir, by jove she
must ’ave flown,
For she raced the “lightnin’ express,”
sir, till the engine was
puffed and blown!!!
When next you see the boss, sir, tell him o’
what I did,
How I nobly done my dooty, though it might a killed
my kid;
And you may, if you like, spare a trifle for the agony
I endured,
When I thought that my Polly was killed, sir, and
I ’adn’t got her
insured!
BY NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
’Twas late, and
the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on
the deserted room
From alabaster vases,
and a scent
Of orange leaves, and
sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter’d
window on the air.
And the rich pictures
with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight
landscape, and all things
Seem’d hush’d
into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed spiritual
Isabel
Was leaning on her harp,
and I had stay’d
To whisper what I could
not when the crowd
Hung on her look like
worshippers. I knelt,
And with the fervour
of a lip unused
To the cool breath of
reason, told my love.
There was no answer,
and I took the hand
BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.
I played with you ’mid
cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you
were four;
When garlands weaving,
flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon
to please no more.
Through groves and meads,
o’er grass and heather,
With little playmates,
to and fro,
We wandered hand in
hand together;
But that was sixty years
ago.
You grew a lovely roseate
maiden.
And still our early
love was strong;
Still with no care our
days were laden,
They glided joyously
along:
And I did love you very
dearly,
How dearly words want
power to show;
I thought your heart
was touched as nearly;
But that was fifty years
ago.
Then other lovers came
around you,
Your beauty grew from
year to year,
And many a splendid
circle found you
The centre of its glittering
sphere.
I saw you then, first
vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your
hand bestow;’
Oh, then I thought my
heart was breaking,—
But that was forty years
ago.
And I lived on, to wed
another:
No cause she gave me
to repine;
And when I heard you
were a mother,
I did not wish the children
mine.
My own young flock,
in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas
row:
My joy in them was past
expression,—
But that was thirty
years ago.
You grew a matron plump
and comely,
You dwelt in fashion’s
brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far
more homely;
But I too had my festal
days.
No merrier eyes have
ever glistened
Around the hearth-stone’s
wintry glow,
Than when my youngest
child was christened,—
But that was twenty
years ago.
Time passed. My
eldest girl was married,
And I am now a grandsire
gray!
One pet of four years
old I’ve carried
Among the wild-flowered
meads to play.
In our old fields of
childish pleasure,
Where now, as then,
the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket’s
ample measure,—
And that is not ten
years ago.
But though first love’s
impassioned blindness
Has passed away in colder
light,
I still have thought
of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our
last good-night
The ever-rolling silent
hours
Will bring a time we
shall not know,
When our young days
of gathering flowers
Will be a hundred years
ago.
BY BRET HARTE.
“So she’s here, your unknown Dulcinea—the
lady you met on the train,
And you really believe she would know you if you were
to meet her
again?”
“Of course,” he replied, “she would
know me; there was never
womankind yet
Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses,
but does not forget.”
“Then you told her your love?” asked the
elder; while the younger
looked up with a smile:
“I sat by her side half an hour—what
else was I doing the while?
“What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as
the sun in the sky,
And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back
from your own to
her eye?
“No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be
as frank and as bold as
the look,
And I held up myself to herself—that was
more than she got from her
book.”
“Young blood!” laughed the elder; “no
doubt you are voicing the mode
of to-day:
But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some
chance for delay.
“There’s my wife—(you must
know)—we first met on the journey from
Florence to Rome;
It took me three weeks to discover who was she, and
where was her
home;
“Three more to be duly presented; three more
ere I saw her again;
And a year ere my romance began where yours
ended that day on the
train.”
“Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach;
we travel to-day by
express;
Forty miles to the hour,” he answered, “won’t
admit of a passion
that’s less.”
“But what if you make a mistake?” quoth
the elder. The younger half
sighed.
“What happens when signals are wrong or switches
misplaced?” he
replied.
“Very well, I must bow to your wisdom,”
the elder returned, “but
submit
Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has
bettered no
whit.
“Why, you do not at best know her name.
And what if I try your ideal
With something, if not quite so fair, at least more
en regle and
real?
“Let me find you a partner. Nay, come,
I insist—you shall
follow—this
way.
My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr.
Rapid to stay?
“My wife, Mr. Rapid—Eh, what?
Why, he’s gone—yet he said he would
come.
How rude! I don’t wonder, my dear, you
are properly crimson and
dumb?”
BY S. W. FOSS.
“The Sun will give out in
ten million years more;
It will sure give out then, if it
doesn’t before.”
And
he worried about it;
It would surely give out, so the
scientists said
And they proved it in many a book
he had read,
And the whole mighty universe then
would be dead.
And
he worried about it.
“Or some day the earth will
fall into the sun,
Just as sure and as straight, as
if shot from a gun.”
And
he worried about it.
“For when gravitation unbuckles
her straps,
Just picture,” he said, “what
a fearful collapse!
It will come in a few million ages,
perhaps.”
And
he worried about it.
“The earth will become far
too small for the race,
And we’ll pay at a fabulous
rate for our space.”
And
he worried about it.
“The earth will be crowded
so much without doubt,
There will hardly be room for one’s
tongue to stick out,
Nor room for one’s thoughts
when they’d wander about.”
And
he worried about it.
“And in ten thousand years,
there’s no manner of doubt,
Our lumber supply and our coal will
give out.”
And
he worried about it:
“And then the Ice Age will
return cold and raw,
Frozen men will stand stiff with
arms stretched out in awe,
As if vainly beseeching a general
thaw.”
And
he worried about it.
His wife took in washing (two shillings
a day).
He
didn’t worry about it.
His daughter sewed shirts, the rude
grocer to pay.
He
didn’t worry about it.
While his wife beat her tireless
rub-a-dub-dub
On the washboard drum in her old
wooden tub,
He sat by the fire and he just let
her rub.
He
didn’t worry about it,
I saw and heard him as I was going home the other evening. A big telescope was pointed heavenward from the public square, and he stood beside it and thoughtfully inquired,—
“Is it possible, gentlemen, that you do not care to view the beautiful works of nature above the earth? Can it be true that men of your intellectual appearance will sordidly cling to ten cents, rather than take a look through this telescope and bring the beauties of heaven within one and a half miles of your eyes?”
The appeal was too much for one young man to resist. He was a tall young man, with a long face, high cheek bones, and an anxious look. He looked at the ten cents and then at the telescope, hesitated for a single moment, and then took his seat on the stool.
“Here is a young man who prefers to feast his soul with scientific knowledge rather than become a sordid, grasping, avaricious capitalist,” remarked the astronomer, as he arranged the instrument. “Fall back, you people who prefer the paltry sum of ten cents to a view of the starry heavens, and give this noble young man plenty of room!”
The noble young man removed his hat, placed his eye to the instrument, a cloth was thrown over his head, and the astronomer continued:—
“Behold the bright star of Venus! A sight of this star is worth a thousand dollars to any man who prefers education to money.” There was an instant of deep silence, and then the young man exclaimed:—
“I say!”
I stood behind him, and knew that the telescope pointed at the fifth storey of a building across the square, where a dance was in progress.
“All people indulge in exclamations of admiration as they view the beauties and mysteries of nature,” remarked the astronomer. “Young man, tell the crowd what you see.”
“I see a feller hugging a girl!” was the prompt reply. “And if there isn’t a dozen of them!”
“And yet,” continued the astronomer, “there are sordid wretches in this crowd who hang to ten cents in preference to observing such sights as these in ethereal space. Venus is millions of miles away, and yet by means of this telescope and by paying ten cents this intellectual young man is enabled to observe the inhabitants of that far-off world hugging each other just as natural as they do in this!”
The instrument was wheeled around to bear on the tower of the engine-house some distance away, and the astronomer, continued:—
“Behold the beauties and the wonders of Saturn! This star, to the naked eye, appears no larger than a pin’s point, and yet for the paltry sum of ten cents this noble young man is placed within one mile of it!”
“Well, this beats all!” murmured the young man, as he slapped his leg.
“Tell me what you see, my friend.”
“I see two fellows in a small room, smoking cigars and playing chess!” was the prompt reply.
“Saturn is 86,000,000 of miles from this town,” continued the astronomer, “and yet the insignificant sum of ten cents has enabled this progressive young man to learn for himself that the celestial beings enjoy themselves pretty much as we do in this world. I venture to say that there is not a man in this crowd who ever knew before that the inhabitants of Saturn knew anything about chess or cigars.”
Once more he wheeled the instrument round. This time it got the range of the upper storey of a tenement-house on the hill The young man had scarcely taken a glance through the tube, when he yelled out:—
“Great guns! But what planet is this?”
“You are now looking at Uranus,” replied the professor. “Uranus is 97,502,304 miles distant from the earth, and yet I warrant that it doesn’t appear over eighty rods away to you. Will you be kind enough, my friend, to tell this crowd what you see?”
“Give it to him! That’s it! Go it old woman!” shouted the young man, slapping one leg and then the other.
“Speak up, my friend. What do you see?”
“By jove! she’s got him by the hair now! Why, she’ll beat him hollow!”
“Will you be kind enough, my friend, to allay the curiosity of your friends?”
“Whoop! that’s it; now she’s got him. Toughest fight I ever saw!” cried the young man as he moved back and slapped his thigh.
The professor covered up the instrument slowly and carefully, picked up and unlocked a satchel which had been lying near his feet, and then softly said:—
“Gentlemen, we will pause here for a moment. When a man tells you after this that the planet of Saturn is not inhabited, tell him that you know better, that it is not only inhabited, but that the married couples up there have family fights the same as on this mundane sphere. In about ten minutes I will be ready again to explain the wonders and beauties of the sparkling heavens to such of you as prefer a million dollars’ worth of scientific knowledge to ten cents in vile dross. Meanwhile permit me to call your attention to my celebrated toothache drops, the only perfect remedy yet invented for aching teeth.”
BY JOHN B. GOUGH.
An old southern preacher, who had a great habit of talking through his nose, left one congregation and came to another. The first Sunday he addressed his new congregation he went on about as follows:—
My beloved brederin, before I take my text, I must tell you of parting with my old congregation-ah, on the morning of last Sabbath-ah I entered into my church to preach my farewell discourse-ah. Before me sat the old fadders and mothers of Israel-ah. The tears course down their furrowed cheeks, their tottering forms and quivering lips breathed out a sad fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
Behind them sat middle-aged men and matrons, youth and vigour bloomed from every countenance, and as they looked up, I thought I could see in their dreamy eyes fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
Behind them sat the little boys and girls I had baptised and gathered into the Sabbath school. Ofttimes had they been rude and boisterous; but now their merry laugh was hushed and in the silence I could hear fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
Away in the back seats and along the aisles stood and sat the coloured bretherin with their black faces and honest hearts, and as they looked up I thought I could see in their eyes fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
When I had finished my discourse, and shaken hands with the bretherin-ah, I went out to take a last look at the church-ah, and the broken steps-ah, the flopping blinds-ah, and the moss-covered roof-ah, suggested fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
I mounted my old grey mare with all my earthly possessions in my saddle-bags, and as I passed down the street the servant girls stood in the doors-ah and waved their brooms with a fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
As I passed out of the village, I thought I could hear the wind-ah moaning through the waving branches of the trees, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
I came on to the creek, and as the old mare stopped to drink I thought I could hear the water rippling over the pebbles, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. Even the little fishes-ah, as their bright fins glistened in the sunlight-ah, gathered round to say as best they could, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
I was slowly passing up the hill meditating-ah on the sad vicissitudes of life-ah, when out bounded a big hog from the fence corner-ah with an a-boo a-boo and I came to the ground-ah, with my saddle bags-ah by my side-ah, and as the old mare ran up the hill-ah, she waved her tail back at me-ah seemingly to say-ah, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
ANONYMOUS.
I. HER RESPECTABLE PAPA’S.
“My dear,
be sensible! Upon my word,
This—for
a woman even—is absurd.
His income’s
not a hundred pounds, I know.
He’s not
worth loving.”—“But I love him
so.”
II. HER MOTHER’S.
“You silly
child, he is well made and tall;
But looks are
far from being all in all.
His social standing’s
low, his family’s low.
He’s not
worth loving.”—“And I love him
so.”
III. HER ETERNAL FRIEND’S.
“Is that
he picking up the fallen fan?
My dear! he’s
such an awkward, ugly man!
You must be certain,
pet, to answer ‘No.’
He’s not
worth loving.”—” And I love
him so.”
IV. HER BROTHER’S.
“By jove!
were I a girl—through horrid hap—
I wouldn’t
have a milk-and-water chap.
The man has not
a single spark of ‘go.’
He’s not
worth loving.”—” Yet I love
him so.”
V. HER OWN.
“And were
he everything to which I’ve listened,
Though he were
ugly, awkward (and he isn’t),
Poor, lowly-born,
and destitute of ‘go,’
He is worth
loving, for I love him so.”
BY F.H. GASSAWAY.
South Mountain towered on our
right
Far off the river lay;
And over on the wooded height
We kept their lines at bay.
At last the muttering guns
were stilled,
The day died slow and wan;
At last the gunners’ pipes were filled,
The sergeant’s yarns began.
When, as the wind a moment
blew
Aside the fragrant flood,
Our brushwood razed, before our view
A little maiden stood.
A tiny tot of six or seven,
From fireside fresh she seemed;
Of such a little one in heaven
I know one soldier dreamed.
And as she stood, her little
hand
Went to her curly head;
In grave salute, “And who are you?”
At length the sergeant said.
“Where is your home?”
he growled again.
She lisped out, “Who is me?
Why, don’t you know I’m little
Jane,
The pride of Battery B?
“My home? Why, that
was burnt away,
And Pa and Ma is dead;
But now I ride the guns all day,
Along with Sergeant Ned.
“And I’ve a drum
that’s not a toy,
And a cap with feathers too;
And I march beside the drummer-boy
On Sundays at review.
“But now our baccy’s
all give out
The men can’t have their smoke,
And so they’re cross; why even Ned
Won’t play with me, and joke!
“And the big colonel
said to-day—
I hate to hear him swear—
’I’d give a leg for a good smoke
Like the Yanks have over there.’
“And so I thought when
beat the drum,
And the big guns were still,
I’d creep beneath the tent, and come
Out here across the hill.
“And beg, good Mr. Yankee-men,
You’d give me some Long Jack;
Please do, when we get some again,
I’ll surely bring it back.
“And so I came; for Ned,
says he,
’If you do what you say,
You’ll be a general yet, maybe,
And ride a prancing bay.’”
We brimmed her tiny apron o’er,—
You should have heard her laugh,
As each man from his scanty store
Shook out a generous half.
To kiss the little mouth stooped
down
A score of grimy men,
Until the sergeant’s husky voice
Said “’Tention, squad?”
and then,
We gave her escort till good-night
The little waif we bid,
Then watched her toddle out of sight,
Or else ’twas tears that hid.
Her baby form nor turned about,
A man nor spoke a word,
Until at length a far faint shout
Upon the wind we heard,
We sent it back, and cast sad
eyes
Upon the scene around,
That baby’s hand had touched the ties
That brother’s once had bound.
That’s all, save when
the dawn awoke:
Again the work of hell,
And through the sullen clouds of smoke
The screaming missiles fell.
Our colonel often rubbed his
glass,
And marvelled much to see,
Not a single shell that whole day fell
In the camp of Battery B.
BY F.H. GASSAWAY.
’Twas the time of the working
men’s great strike,
When all the land stood still
At the sudden roar from the hungry mouths
That labour could not fill;
When the thunder of the railroad ceased,
And startled towns could spy
A hundred blazing factories
Painting each midnight sky.
Through Philadelphia’s surging streets
Marched the brown ranks of
toil,
The grimy legions of the shops,
The tillers of the soil;
White-faced militia-men looked on,
And women shrank with dread;
’Twas muscle against money then—
’Twas riches against
bread.
Once, as the mighty mob tramped on,
A carriage stopped the way,
Upon the silken seat of which
A young patrician lay.
And as, with haughty glance, he swept
Along the jeering crowd,
A white-haired blacksmith in the ranks
Took off his cap and bowed.
That night the Labour League was met,
And soon the chairman said:
“There hides a Judas in our midst;
One man who bows his head,
Who bends the coward’s servile knee
When capital rolls by.”
“Down with him! Kill the traitor
cur!”
Rang out the savage cry.
Up rose the blacksmith, then, and held
Erect his head of grey—
“I am no traitor, though I bowed
To a rich man’s son
to-day;
And though you kill me as I stand—
As like you mean to do—
I want to tell you a story short,
And I ask you’ll hear
me through.
“I was one of those who enlisted
first,
The old flag to defend,
With Pope and Hallick, with ‘Mac’
and Grant,
I followed to the end;
And ’twas somewhere down on the
Rapidan,
When the Union cause looked
drear,
That a regiment of rich young bloods
Came down to us from here.
“Their uniforms were by tailors
cut,
They brought hampers of good
wine;
And every squad had a nigger, too,
To keep their boots in shine;
They’d nought to say to us dusty
‘vets,’
And through the whole brigade,
We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth
When we passed them on parade.
“Well, they were sent to hold a
fort
The Rebs tried hard to take,
’Twas the key of all our line which
naught
While it held out could break,
But a fearful fight we lost just then,
The reserve came up too late;
And on that fort, and the Dandy Fifth,
Hung the whole division’s
fate.
“Three times we tried to take them
aid,
And each time back we fell,
Though once we could hear the fort’s
far guns
Boom like a funeral knell;
Till at length Joe Hooker’s corps
came up,
An’ then straight through
we broke;
How we cheered as we saw those dandy coats
Still back of the drifting
smoke.
“With the bands at play and the
colours spread
We swarmed up the parapet,
But the sight that silenced our welcome
shout
I shall never in life forget.
Four days before had their water gone—
They bad dreaded that the
most—
The next their last scant rations went,
And each man looked a ghost,
“As he stood, gaunt-eyed, behind
his gun,
Like a crippled stag at bay,
And watched starvation—but
not defeat—
Draw nearer every day.
Of all the Fifth, not four-score men
Could in their places stand,
And their white lips told a fearful tale,
As we grasped each bloodless
hand.
“The rest in the stupor of famine
lay,
Save here and there a few
In death sat rigid against the guns,
Grim sentinels in blue;
And their Col’nel, he could
not speak nor stir,
But we saw his proud eye thrill
As he simply glanced at the shot-scarred
staff
Where the old flag floated
still!
“Now, I hate the tyrants who grind
us down,
While the wolf snarls at our
door,
And the men who’ve risen from us—to
laugh
At the misery of the poor;
But I tell you, mates, while this weak
old hand
I have left the strength to
lift,
It will touch my cap to the proudest swell
Who fought in the Dandy Fifth!”
“BAY BILLY.”
BY F.H. GASSAWAY.
’Twas the last fight
at Fredericksburg—
Perhaps the day
you reck—
Our boys, the Twenty-second
Maine,
Kept Early’s
men in check.
Just where Wade Hampton boomed
away
The fight went
neck and neck.
All day we held the weaker
wing,
And held it with
a will;
Five several stubborn times
we charged
The battery on
the hill,
And five times beaten back,
re-formed,
And kept our columns
still.
At last from out the centre
fight
Spurred up a general’s
aid.
“That battery must
silenced be!”
He cried, as past
he sped.
Our colonel simply touched
his cap,
And then, with
measured tread,
To lead the crouching line
once more
The grand old
fellow came.
No wounded man but raised
his head
And strove to
gasp his name,
And those who could not speak
nor stir
“God blessed
him” just the same.
For he was all the world to
us,
That hero grey
and grim;
Right well he knew that fearful
slope
We’d climb
with none but him,
Though while his white head
led the way
We’d charge
hell’s portals in.
This time we were not half-way
up,
When, ’midst
the storm of shell,
Our leader, with his sword
upraised,
Beneath our bay’nets
fell;
And, as we bore him back,
the foe
Set up a joyous
yell.
Our hearts went with him.
Back we swept,
And when the bugle
said,
“Up, charge, again!”
no man was there
But hung his dogged
head.
“We’ve no one
left to lead us now,”
The sullen soldiers
said.
Just then, before the laggard
line,
The colonel’s
horse we spied—
Bay Billy, with his trappings
on,
His nostrils swelling
wide,
As though still on his gallant
back
His master sat
astride.
Right royally he took the
place
That was his old
of wont,
And with a neigh, that seemed
to say,
Above the battle’s
brunt,
“How can the Twenty-second
charge
If I am not in
front?”
Like statues we stood rooted
there,
And gazed a little
space;
Above that floating mane we
missed
The dear familiar
face;
But we saw Bay Billy’s
eye of fire,
And it gave us
hearts of grace.
No bugle-call could rouse
us all
As that brave
sight had done;
Down all the battered line
we felt
A lightning impulse
run;
Up, up the hill we followed
Bill,
And captured every
gun!
And when upon the conquered
height
Died out the battle’s
hum;
Vainly ’mid living and
the dead
We sought our
leader dumb;
It seemed as if a spectre
steed
To win that day
had come.
At last the morning broke.
The lark
Sang in the merry
skies,
As if to e’en the sleepers
there
It said awake,
arise!—
Though naught but that last
trump of all
Could ope their
heavy eyes.
And then once more, with banners
gay,
Stretched out
the long brigade;
Trimly upon the furrowed field
The troops stood
on parade,
And bravely ’mid the
ranks we closed
The gaps the fight
had made.
Not half the Twenty-second’s
men
Were in their
place that morn,
And Corp’ral Dick, who
yester-morn
Stood six brave
fellows on,
Now touched my elbow in the
ranks,
For all between
were gone.
Ah! who forgets that dreary
hour
When, as with
misty eyes,
To call the old familiar roll
The solemn sergeant
tries—
One feels that thumping of
the heart
As no prompt voice
replies.
And as in falt’ring
tone and slow
The last few names
were said,
Across the field some missing
horse
Toiled up with
weary tread.
It caught the sergeant’s
eye, and quick
Bay Billy’s
name was read.
Yes! there the old bay hero
stood,
All safe from
battle’s harms,
And ere an order could be
heard,
Or the bugle’s
quick alarms,
Down all the front, from end
to end,
The troops presented
arms!
Not all the shoulder-straps
on earth
Could still our
mighty cheer.
And ever from that famous
day,
When rang the
roll-call clear,
Bay Billy’s name was
read, and then
The whole line
answered “Here!”
BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
An old and crippled veteran to the War
Department came,
He sought the Chief who led him on many
a field of fame—
The Chief who shouted “Forward!”
where’er his banner rose,
And bore its stars in triumph behind the
flying foes.
“Have you forgotten, General,”
the battered soldier cried,
“The days of eighteen hundred twelve,
when I was at your side?
Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought
at Lundy’s Lane?
’Tis true I’m old and pensioned,
but I want to fight again.”
“Have I forgotten?” said the
Chief: “my brave old soldier, no!
And here’s the hand I gave you then,
and let it tell you so;
But you have done your share, my friend;
you’re crippled, old, and
gray,
And we have need of younger arms and fresher
blood to-day.”
“But, General,” cried the
veteran, a flush upon his brow,
“The very men who fought with us,
they say, are traitors now;
They’ve torn the flag of Lundy’s
Lane, our old red, white and blue,
And while a drop of blood is left, I’ll
show that drop is true.”
“I’m not so weak but I can
strike, and I’ve a good old gun,
To get the range of traitors’ hearts,
and prick them one by one.
Your Minie rifles and such arms, it ain’t
worth while to try;
I couldn’t get the hang o’
them, but I’ll keep my powder dry”
“God bless you, comrade!”
said the Chief,—“God bless your loyal
heart!
But younger men are in the field, and
claim to have a part;
They’ll plant our sacred banner
firm, in each rebellious town,
And woe, henceforth, to any hand that
dares to pull it down!”
“But, General!”—still
persisting, the weeping veteran cried,
“I’m young enough to follow,
so long as you’re my guide;
And some you know, must bite the dust,
and that, at least can I;
So give the young ones place to fight,
but me a place to die!”
“If they should fire on Pickens,
let the colonel in command
Put me upon the ramparts with the flag-staff
in my hand:
No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how
the shell may fly,
I’ll hold the Stars and Stripes
aloft, and hold them till I die!”
“I’m ready, General; so you
let a post to me be given,
Where Washington can look at me, as he
looks down from Heaven,
And say to Putnam at his side, or, may
be, General Wayne,—
‘There stands old Billy Johnson,
who fought at Lundy’s Lane!’”
“And when the fight is raging hot,
before the traitors fly,
When shell and ball are screeching, and
bursting in the sky,
If any shot should pierce through me,
and lay me on my face,
My soul would go to Washington’s,
and not to Arnold’s place!”
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
The bells were
ringing their cheerful chimes
In
the old grey belfry tow’r,
The choir were
singing their carols betimes
In
the wintry midnight hour,
The waits were
playing with eerie drawl
“The mistletoe
hung in the castle hall,”
And the old policeman
was stomping his feet
As he quiver’d
and shiver’d along on his beat;
The snow was falling
as fast as it could
O’er city
and hamlet, forest and wood,
And Jack Frost,
busy with might and main,
Was sketching
away at each window-pane;
Father Christinas
was travelling fast,
Mid the fall of
the snow and the howl of the blast,
With millions
of turkeys for millions to taste,
And millions of
puddings all tied to his waist,
And millions of
mince-pies that scented the air,
To cover the country
with Christmas fare,—
When over the
hills, from far away,
Came Santa Claus
with the dawn of day;
He rode on a cycle,
as seasons do,
With Christmas
behind him a-tandem too;
His pockets were
bigger than sacks from the mill—
The Soho Bazaar
would not one of them fill,
And the Lowther
Arcade and the good things that stock it
Would travel with
ease in his tiniest pocket.
And these were
all full of delights and surprises
For gifts and
rewards and for presents and prizes.
Little knick-knackeries,
beautiful toys
For mas and papas
and for girls and for boys
There were dolls
of all sorts, there were dolls of all sizes,
In comical costumes
and funny disguises,—
Dolls of all countries
and dolls of all climes,
Dolls of all ages
and dolls of all times;
Soldier dolls,
sailor dolls, red, white and blue;
Khaki dolls, darkie
dolls, trusty and true;
Curio Chinese
and quaint little Japs,
Nid-nodding at
nothing, the queer little chaps;
Bigger dolls,
nigger dolls woolly and black,
With never a coat
or a shirt to their back.
Dolls made of
china and dolls made of wood,
Dutch dolls and
such dolls, and all of them good;
Dolls of fat features,
and dolls with more pointed ones,
Dolls that were
rigid and dolls that were jointed ones,
Dolls made of
sawdust and dolls made of wax,
Dolls that go
“bye-bye” when laid on their backs,
Dolls that are
silent when nobody teases them,
Dolls that will
cry when one pinches or squeezes them;
Dolls with fair
faces and eyes bright of hue,
The black and
the brunette, the blond and the blue;
Bride dolls and
bridegrooms, the meekest of spouses;
And hundreds and
thousands of pretty dolls’ houses.
And as for the
furniture—think for a day
He brought all
you’ll think of and all I could say!
And then there
were playthings and puzzles and games.
With all kinds
of objects and all sorts of names,—
Musical instruments,
boxes and glasses,
And fiddles and
faddles of various classes;
Mandolins ready
for fingers and thumbs,
And banjos and
tambourines, trumpets and drums.
Noah’s arks,
animals, reptiles and mammals,
Mammoths and crocodiles,
cobras and camels;
Lions and tigers
as tame as a cat,
Eagles and vultures
as blind as a bat;
Bears upon bear-poles
and monkeys on sticks,
Foxes in farmyards
at mischievous tricks;
Monkeys on dogs
too, and dogs too on bicycles,
Clumsy old elephants
triking on tricycles;
Horses on rockers
and horses on wheels,
But never a one
that could show you his heels.
There were tops for the whip,
there were tops for the string,
There were tops that would hum, there were tops
that would
sing;
There were hoops made of iron and hoops made
of wood,
And hoop-sticks to match them, as strong and
as good;
There were books full of pictures and books
full of rhymes,
There were songs for the seasons and tales for
the times;
Pen-knives and pen-wipers, pencils and slates,
Wheelers and rockers and rollers and skates;
Bags full of marbles and boxes of bricks,
And bundles and bundles of canes and of sticks.
There were “prams”
for the girls, there were “trams” for the
boys,
And thousands of clever mechanical toys,—
Engines and carriages running on rails,
Steamers and sailers that carry the mails;
Flags of all nations, and ships for all seas—
The Red Sea, the Black Sea, or what sea you
please—
That tick it by clockwork or puff it by steam,
Or outsail the weather or go with the stream;
Carriages drawn by a couple of bays,
’Buses and hansoms, and waggons and drays,
Coaches and curricles, rallis and gigs—
All sorts of wheelers, with all sorts of rigs.
Cricket and croquet,
and bat, trap, and ball,
And tennis—but
really the list would appal.
There were balls
for the mouth, there were balls for the feet,
There were balls
you could play with and balls you could eat,
There were balls
made of leather and balls made of candy,
Balls of all sizes,
from footballs to brandy.
And then came
the boxes of curious games,
With all sorts
of objects and all sorts of names,—
Lotto and Ludo,
the Fox and the Geese,
Halma and Solitaire—all
of a piece;
Go-bang and Ringolette,
Hook-it and Quoits,
For junior endeavours
and senior exploits;
And Skittles and
Spellicans, Tiddle-de-winks—
But one mustn’t
mention the half that one thinks;
Chessmen and draughtsmen,
and hoards upon hoards
Of chess and backgammon
and bagatelle boards;
And boxes of dominoes,
boxes of dice,
And boxes of tricks
you can try in a trice.
And Santa Claus
went with his wonderful load
Through street
after street, and through road after road,
And crept through
the keyholes—or some other way;
He got down the
chimneys—so some people say:
But, one way or
other, he managed to creep
Where all the
good children were lying asleep;
And when he got
there, all the stockings in rows
That were ready
hung up he cramm’d full to the toes
With the many
good things he had brought with the day
From over the
hills and far away.
And Santa Claus
smiled as he look’d on the faces
Of all the good
children asleep in their places,
And laugh’d
out so loud as to almost awaken
One sharp little
fellow who great pains had taken;
His socks were
too small—for he’d hopes of great
riches—
So, tying the
legs, he had hung up his breeches!
And surely the
tears almost came in his eyes
As he open’d
a letter with joy and surprise
That he took from
a stocking hung up to a bed,
And surely they
fell as the letter he read;
’Twas a
little girl’s hand, and said, “Dear Santer
Claws,
Don’t fordit
baby’s sox—they’s hung up to
the drors.”
But wasn’t there laughter
and shouting and noise
From the boys and the girls, and the girls and
the boys,
When they counted the good things the good Saint
had brought
them,
And laid them all out on their pillows to sort
them.
Such wonderful voices, such wonderful lungs,
It was just like another confusion of tongues,
A Babel of chatter from master and miss—
And I don’t think they’ve left off
from that day to this.
Ah! good little people, if thus you shall find
Rich treasures provided, be grateful and mind,
In the midst of your pleasures, a moment to pause,
And think about Christmas and good Santa Claus!
Remember, in weary
and desolate places,
With tears in
their eyes and with grime on the faces,
The children of
poverty, sorrow and weep,
With little to
cheer them awake or asleep;
And remember that
you who have much and to spare,
Can brighten their
eyes and can lighten their cares,
If you take the
example and work to the cause
Of your own benefactor,
the good Santa Claus.
You need not climb
chimneys in tempest and storm,
Nor creep into
keyholes in fairy-like form;
You’ve a
magical key for the dreariest place
In the light of
your eyes and the smile of your face.
And remember the
joy that you give to another
Will gladden your
own heart as well as the other;
For troubles are
halved when together we bear them,
And pleasures
are doubled whenever we share them.
“And we are peacemen, also; crying for
Peace, peace at any price—though it be
war!
We must live free, at peace, or each man dies
With death-clutch fast for ever on the prize.”
—GERALD
MASSEY.
The Editor’s thanks are due to the Rev. A. Frewen Aylward for the use of the poem “Adsum,” and to Messrs. Harmsworth Bros, for permission to include Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s phenomenal success, “The Absent-Minded Beggar,” in this collection; also to Messrs. Harper and Brothers, of New York, for special permission to copy from “Harper’s Magazine” the poem “Sheltered,” by Sarah Orme Jewett; to Messrs. Chatto and Windus for permission to use “Mrs. B.’s Alarms,” from “Humorous Stories,” by the late James Payn; to Miss Palgrave and to Messrs. Macmillan and Co., for the use of “England Once More,” by the late F. T. Palgrave; to Mr. Clement Scott for permission to include “Sound the Assembly” and “The Midnight Charge”; to Mr. F. Harald Williams and Mr. Gerald Massey for generous and unrestricted use of their respective war poems, and to numerous other authors and publishers for the use of copyright pieces.
There is a true and a false Imperialism. There is the Imperialism of the vulgar braggart, who thinks that one Englishman can fight ten men of any other nationality under the sun; and there is the Imperialism of the man of thought, who believes in the destiny of the English race, who does not shrink from the responsibilities of power from “craven fear of being great,” and who holds that an Englishman ought to be ready to face twenty men if need be, of any nationality, including his own, rather than surrender a trust or sacrifice a principle. The first would base empire on vanity and brute force, inspired by the vulgar reflection—
“We’ve got the men, we’ve got the ships, we’ve got the money too.”
The second does not seek empire, but will not shrink from the responsibilities of its growth, and in all matters of international dispute believes with Solomon, that “He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding,” and in all matters of international relationship that “Righteousness exalteth a nation.”
The rapid and solid growth of the British Empire has been due largely to two characteristics of its rule—the integrity of its justice and the soundness of its finance. Native races everywhere appeal with confidence to the justice of our courts, and find in the integrity of our fiscal system relief from the oppressive taxation of barbarous governments.
These blessings we owe, and with them the strength of our empire, not to the force of our arms in the field, but to the subordination of the military to the civil spirit, both in peace and war.
Other nations fail in their attempts at colonisation because they proceed on military lines. With them it is the soldier first and the civilian where he can. England succeeds because she proceeds on industrial lines. With her it is the plough where it may be and the sword where it must.
The military spirit never yet built up an enduring empire, and the danger of military success is that it is apt to confuse means and ends in the public mind, and to encourage the subordination of the civil to the military spirit in national institutions. Such a result could only be disastrous to the British Empire, and so, while rejoicing in the success of the British arms, it behoves us to oppose with all our strength the growth of the military spirit.
The seventh decade of the nineteenth century saw the realisation of one of the greatest facts of our time, the federation of the German states in one great military empire. The tenth decade has realised a greater fact, the federation of the British colonies in a great social and commercial empire. The German Empire must fall to pieces if it continues to subordinate the civil to the military Spirit in its national policy. The British Empire can never perish while it is true to the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man.
Signs of the growth of a military spirit are to be seen in the advocacy of some form of conscription or compulsory service for home defence; and this, too, at a time when the ends of the earth have been sending us volunteers in abundance to espouse a foreign quarrel.
Such advocates neither understand the national history nor the English character. Were England in any real danger there would be no need for forced service, and service forced without need would breed revolution. The nation that cannot depend upon its volunteers for its home defence is not worth defending.
ALFRED
H. MILES.
October 1, 1900.
NAME. AUTHOR.
The Englishman Eliza Cook
England goes to Battle Gerald Massey
England Once More F. T. Palgrave
God Defend the Right F. Harold Williams
The Volunteer Alfred H. Miles
Down in Australia Gerald Massey
Australia Speaks Gerald Massey
An Imperial Reply Gerald Massey
The Boys’ Return Gerald
Massey
“Sound the Assembly!”
Clement Scott
The Absent-Minded Beggar Rudyard Kipling
For the Empire F. Harald Williams
Wanted—a Cromwell F.
Harald Williams
England’s Ironsides F. Harald
Williams
The Three Cherry-Stones Anonymous
The Midshipman’s Funeral Darley
Dale
Ladysmith F. Harald Williams
The Six-inch Gun “The Bombshell”
St. Patrick’s Day F. Harald
Williams
The Hero of Omdurman F. Harald Williams
Boot and Saddle F. Harald Williams
The Midnight Charge Clement Scott
Mafeking—“Adsum!”
A. Frewen Aylward
The Fight at Rorke’s Drift Emily
Pfeiffer
Relieved! (At Mafeking) “Daily
Express”
How Sam Hodge Won the V.C. Jeffrey
Prowse
The Relief of Lucknow R.T.S.
Lowell
A Ballad of War M.B. Smedley
The Alma R.C. Trench
THE
IMPERIAL RECITER.
EDITED BY ALFRED H. MILES.
BY ELIZA COOK.
There’s a land that
bears a well-known name,
Though it is but
a little spot;
I say ’tis the first
on the scroll of fame,
And who shall
aver it is not?
Of the deathless ones who
shine and live
In arms, in arts,
or song,
The brightest the whole wide
world can give
To that little
land belong.
’Tis the star of the
Earth—deny it who can—
The Island-home of the Englishman.
There’s a flag that
waves o’er every sea,
No matter when
or where;
And to treat that flag as
aught but the free
Is more than the
strongest dare.
For the lion spirits that
tread the deck
Have carried the
palm of the brave;
And that flag may sink with
a shot-torn wreck,
But never float
o’er a slave;
Its honour is stainless—deny
it who can—
And this is the flag of the
Englishman.
There’s a heart that
beats with burning glow,
The wrong’d
and the weak to defend;
And strikes as soon for a
trampled foe
As it does for
a soul-bound friend.
It nurtures a deep and honest
love,
The passions of
faith and pride,
And yearns with the fondness
of a dove,
To the light of
its own fireside,
’Tis a rich rough gem—deny
it who can—
And this is the heart of an
Englishman.
The Briton may traverse the
pole or the zone
And boldly claim
his right,
For he calls such a vast domain
his own
That the sun never
sets on his might.
Let the haughty stranger seek
to know
The place of his
home and birth;
And a flush will pour from
cheek to brow
While he tells
of his native earth;
For a glorious charter—deny
it who can—
Is breathed in the words,
“I’m an Englishman.”
BY GERALD MASSEY.
Now, glory to our England,
She arises, calm and grand,
The ancient spirit in her eyes,—
The good sword in her hand!
Our royal right on battle-ground
Was aye to bear the brunt:
Ho! brave heart, with one passionate bound,
Take the old place in front!
Now glory to our England,
As she rises, calm and grand,
The ancient spirit in her eyes,—
The good sword in her hand!
Who would not fight for England?
Who would not fling a life
I’ the ring, to meet a Tyrant’s
gage,
And glory in the strife?
Her stem is thorny, but doth burst
A glorious Rose a-top!
And shall our proud Rose wither? First
We’ll drain life’s dearest drop!
Who would not fight for England?
Who would not fling a life
I’ the ring, to meet a tyrant’s
gage,
And glory in the strife?
To battle goes our England,
As gallant and as gay
As lover to the altar, on
A merry marriage-day.
A weary night she stood to watch
The clouds of dawn up-rolled;
And her young heroes strain to match
The valour of the old.
To battle goes our England,
As gallant and as gay
As lover to the altar, on
A merry marriage-day.
Now, fair befall our England,
On her proud and perilous road:
And woe and wail to those who make
Her footprints wet with blood.
Up with our red-cross banner—roll
A thunder-peal of drums!
Fight on there, every valiant soul
Have courage! England comes!
Now, fair befall our England,
On her proud and perilous road:
And woe and wail to those who make
Her footprints wet with blood!
Now, victory to our England!
And where’er she lifts her hand
In freedom’s fight, to rescue Right,
God bless the dear old land!
And when the Storm hath passed away,
In glory and in calm,
May she sit down i’ the green o’
the day,
And sing her peaceful psalm!
Now victory to our England!
And where’er she lifts her hand
In freedom’s fight, to rescue Right,
God bless the dear old land!
BY FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE.
Old if this England be
The Ship at heart is sound,
And the fairest she and gallantest
That ever sail’d earth round!
And children’s children in the years
Far off will live to see
Her silver wings fly round the world,
Free heralds of the free!
While now on Him who long has bless’d
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!
They are firm and fine, the masts;
And the keel is straight and true;
Her ancient cross of glory
Rides burning through the blue:—
And that red sign o’er all the seas
The nations fear and know,
And the strong and stubborn hero-souls
That underneath it go:—
While now on Him who long has bless’d
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!
Prophets of dread and shame,
There is no place for you,
Weak-kneed and craven-breasted,
Among this English crew!
Bluff hearts that cannot learn to yield,
But as the waves run high,
And they can almost touch the night,
Behind it see the sky.
While now on Him who long has bless’d
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!
As Past in Present hid,
As old transfused to new,
Through change she lives unchanging,
To self and glory true;
From Alfred’s and from Edward’s day
Who still has kept the seas,
To him who on his death-morn spoke
Her watchword on the breeze!
While now on Him who long has bless’d
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!
What blasts from East and North
What storms that swept the land
Have borne her from her bearings
Since Caesar seized the strand!
Yet that strong loyal heart through all
Has steer’d her sage and free,
—Hope’s armour’d Ark in
glooming years,
And whole world’s sanctuary!
While now on Him who long has bless’d
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!
Old keel, old heart of oak,
Though round thee roar and chafe
All storms of life, thy helmsman
Shall make the haven safe!
Then with Honour at the head, and Faith,
And Peace along the wake,
Law blazon’d fair on Freedom’s flag,
Thy stately voyage take:—
While now on Him who long has bless’d
To bless Thee as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
Where
Roman eagle never flew
The
flag of England flies,
The
herald of great empires new
Beneath
yet larger skies;
Upon
a hundred lands and seas,
And
over ransomed slaves
Who
poured to her no idle pleas,
The
pledge of Freedom waves;
Whatever
man may well have done
We
have with dauntless might,
And
England holds what England won,
And
God defends the right.
Where
hardly climb the mountain goats,
On
stormy cape and crag,
The
refuge of the wanderer floats—
Our
hospitable flag;
While
alien banners only mock
With
glory’s fleeting wraith,
When
wrongs cry out for brave redress,
Our
justice does not lag,
And
in the name of righteousness
Moves
on our stainless flag;
The
helpless see it proudly shine
And
hail the sheltering robe,
That
heralds on the thin red line
That
girdles round the globe;
A
pioneer of truth as none
Before
it scatters light,
And
England holds what England won,
And
God defends the right.
Beneath
the shadow of its peace
Though
riddled to a rag,
The
down-trod nations gain release,
And
rally round the flag;
We
fight the battles of the Lord,
And
never may we yield
A
foot we measure with the sword—
On
the red harvest-field;
And
we will not retreat, while one
Stout
heart remains to fight;
Let
England hold what England won,
And
God defend the right.
THE VOLUNTEER.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Conscription? Never!
The word belongs
To the Foes of Freedom, the
Friends of wrongs,
And unto them
alone.
The first and worst of the
Tyrant’s terms,
Barbed to spike at the writhing
worms
That crawl about
his throne.
Only the mob at a despot’s
heels
Would juggle a man at Fortune’s
wheels,
Or conjure one with the die
that reels
From the lip of
the dice-cup thrown!
The soldier forced to the
field of fight,
With never a reck of the wrong
or right,
Wherever a flag
may wave—
By the toss of a coin, or
a number thrown—
Fights with a will that is
not his own,
A victim and a
slave!
Right is Might in ever a fight,
And Truth is Bravery,
And the Right and True are
the Ready too,
When the bolt is hurl’d
in the peaceful blue
By the hand of
Knavery.
And the Land that fears for
its Volunteers
Is a Land of Slavery.
Compulsion? Never!
The word is dead
In a land of Freedom born
and bred,
Of old in the
years of yore,
Where all by the laws of Freedom
wrought
May do as they will, who will
as they ought,
And none desire
for more.
Who brooks no spur has need
of none,
(Who needs a spur is a traitor
son,)
And all are ready and all
are one
When Freedom calls
to the fore!
The soldier forced to the
field of war
By the iron hand of a tyrant
law,
Wherever a flag
may wave,
And the press’d—at
best but a coward’s ’hest—
Fight with the bitter, sullen
zest,
And the ardour
of a slave!
A hireling? Never!
The bought and sold
Are ever the prey of the traitor’s
gold,
Wherever the fight
may be.
Or ever a man will sell his
sword,
The highest bidder may buy
the gaud
With a coward’s
niggard fee.
Who buys and sells to the
market goes,
And sells his friends as he
sells his foes,
So he gain in the main by
his country’s woes,—
But the gain is
not to the free;—
For the soldier bought with
a price has nought
But his fee to ’fend
when the fight is fought,
Wherever the flag
may wave.
And he who fights for the
loot or pay,
Fights for himself, or ever
he may—
A huckster and
a slave!
Or ever a Free land needs
a son
To follow the flag with pike
or gun
Upon the field
of war,
There’s never a need
to seek for one
In the dice’s throw,
or the number’s run,
Or the iron grip
of the law;—
All are ready, where all are
free,
With never a spur and never
a fee,
To fight and ’fend the
liberty
That Freemen hold
in awe.
The Volunteer is a son sincere,
And ready, or ever the cause
appear,
Whole-hearted,
free as brave,—
Ready at call to sally forth
From east and west, and south
and north,
Wherever the flag
may wave,—
With never a selfish thought
to mar
The sacrifice of the holy
war,
And never a self
to save.
And the flag shall float in
the blue on high
Till the last of the Volunteers
shall die,
And Hell shall tear it out
of the sky—
From Freedom’s
trampled grave!
Right is Might in ever a fight,
And Truth is Bravery,
And the Right and True are
the Ready too,
When the bolt is hurl’d
in the peaceful blue
By the hand of
Knavery.
And the Land that fears for
its Volunteers
Is a Land of Slavery.
BY GERALD MASSEY.
Quaff a cup and send a cheer
up for the Old Land!
We
have heard the Reapers shout,
For
the Harvest going out,
With the smoke of battle closing
round the bold Land;
And
our message shall be hurled
Ringing
right across the world,
There are true hearts beating
for you in the Gold Land.
We are with you in your battles,
brave and bold Land!
For
the old ancestral tree
Striketh
root beneath the sea,
And it beareth fruit of Freedom
in the Gold Land!
We
shall come, too, if you call,
We
shall fight on if you fall;
Shakespere’s land shall
never be a bought and sold land....
O, a terror to the Tyrant
is that bold Land!
He
remembers how she stood,
With
her raiment roll’d in blood,
When the tide of battle burst
upon the Old Land;
And
he looks with darkened face,
For
he knows the hero race
Strike the Harp of Freedom—draw
her sword with bold hand....
When the smoke of Battle rises
from the Old Land
You
shall see the Tyrant down!
You
shall see her lifted crown
Wears another peerless jewel
won with bold hand;
She
shall thresh her foes like corn,
They
shall eat the bread of scorn;
We will sing her song of triumph
in the Gold Land.
Quaff a cup and send a cheer
up for the Old Land!
We
have heard the Reapers shout
For
the Harvest going out,
Seen the smoke of battle closing
round the bold Land;
And
our answer shall be hurled
Ringing
right across the world,—
All true hearts are beating
for you in the Gold Land.
BY GERALD MASSEY.
What is the News
to-day, Boys?
Have
they fired the Signal gun?
We answer but
one way, Boys;
We are ready for
the fray, Boys,
All
ready and all one!
They shall not
say we boasted
Of
deeds that would be done;
Or sat at home
and toasted:
We are marshall’d,
drilled, and posted,
All
ready and all one!
We are not as
driven cattle
That
would the conflict shun.
They have to test
our mettle
As Volunteers
of Battle,
All
ready and all one!
The life-streams
of the Mother
Through
all her youngsters run,
And brother stands
by brother,
To die with one
another,
All
ready and all one!
BY GERALD MASSEY.
’Tis glorious, when
the thing to do
Is at the supreme
instant done!
We count your first fore-running
few
A thousand men
for every one!
For this true stroke of statesmanship—
The best Australian
poem yet—
Old England gives your hand
the grip,
And binds you
with a coronet,
In which the gold o’
the Wattle glows
With Shamrock, Thistle, and
the Rose.
They talked of England growing
old,
They said she
spoke with feeble voice;
But hear the virile answer
rolled
Across the world!
Behold her Boys
Come back to her full-statured
Men,
To make four-square
her fighting ranks.
She feels her youth renewed
again,
With heart too
full for aught but “Thanks!”
And now the gold o’
the Wattle glows
With Shamrock, Thistle, and
the Rose.
“My Boys have come of
age to-day,”
The proud old
mother smiling said.
“They write a brand-new
page to-day,
By far-off futures
to be read!”
Throughout all lands of British
blood,
This stroke hath
kindled such a glow;
The Federal links of Brotherhood
Are clasped and
welded at a blow.
And aye the gold o’
the Wattle glows
With Shamrock, Thistle, and
the Rose.
BY GERALD MASSEY.
Wives, mothers,
sweethearts sent
Their
dearest; waved their own defenders forth;
And, fit companions
for the bravest, went
The
Boys, to test their manhood, prove their worth.
As Sons of those
who braved
All
dangers; to Earth’s ends our Flag unfurled,
The old pioneers
of Ocean, who have paved
Our
pathway with their bones around the world!
To-day the City
waits,
Proudly
a-throb with life about to be:
She welcomes her
young warriors in her gates
Of
glory, opened to them by the Sea.
Let no cur bark,
or spurt
Defilement,
trying to tarnish this fair fame;
No Alien drag
our Banner through the dirt
Because
it blazons England’s noble name.
Upon the lips
of Praise
They
lay their own hands, saying, "We have not won
Great battles
for you, nor Immortal bays,
But
what your boys were given to do is done!"
When Clouds were
closing round
The
Island-home, our Pole-star of the North,
Australia fired
her Beacons—rose up crowned
With
a new dawn upon the ancient earth.
For us they filled
a cup
More
rare than any we can brim to them!
The patriot-passion
did so lift men up,
They
looked as if each wore a diadem!
Best honours we
shall give,
If
to that loftier outlook still we climb;
And in our unborn
children there shall live
The
larger spirit of this great quickening time.
To-day is the
Women’s day!
With
them there’s no more need o’ the proud
disguise
They wore when
their young heroes sailed away;
Soft
smiles the dewy fire in loving eyes!
And, when to the
full breast,
O
mothers! your re-given ones you take,
And in your long
embraces they are blest,
Give
them one hug at heart for England’s sake.
The Mother of
us all!
Dear
to us, near to us, though so far apart;
For whose defence
we are sworn to stand or fall
In
the same battle as Brothers one at heart.
All one to bear
the brunt,
All
one we move together in the march,
Shoulder to shoulder;
to the Foe all front,
The
wide world round; all heaven one Triumph Arch.
One in the war
of Mind
For
clearing earth of all dark Jungle-Powers;
One for the Federation
of mankind,
Who
will speak one language, and that language ours.
“SOUND THE ASSEMBLY!”
BY CLEMENT SCOTT.
(From Punch’s Souvenir. May 3rd, 1900.)
Sound the Assembly! Blow,
Buglemen, blow!
For England has
need of her bravest to-day.
Sound! and the World Universal
will know
We shall fight
to a finish, in front or at bay.
Sound the Assembly! They’ll
hear it, and spring
To the saddle,
and gallop wherever they’re led.
Sound! Every city and
village will ring
With the shout
“To the front!” It shall never be said—
That an Englishman’s
heart ever failed in its glow
For Queen, or for country,
when threatened by foe,
For Liberty, stabbed by oppression
and woe,
So, Sound the Assembly!
Blow! Buglemen, blow!
Sound
the Assembly!
Sound the Assembly! You’ll
see, as of yore,
The Service united
in heart and in head,
When blue-jackets leap from
their ships to the shore
To bring up the
guns for their comrades in red!
Sound the Assembly! Our
Naval Brigade
Will prove they
are sailors and soldiers as well;
They will pull, they will
haul, they will march, they will wade,
And dash into
furnaces hotter than hell!
A long pull, a strong pull,
a cheery “Yo! ho!”
Do you see that big mountain?
’Tis Jack who will know
To be first at the top, when,
by gad! he will crow!
So, Sound the Assembly!
Blow, Buglemen, blow!
Sound
the Assembly!
Sound the Assembly! Brave
Union Jack!
You have floated
triumphant on sea and on shore;
Old England and Scotland are
still back to back,
And Ireland, God
bless her! is with us once more.
Sound the Assembly! Come!
Forward! Quick march!
What! Feather-bed
soldiers? Bah! give them the lie.
Divested by war of Society
starch
They will shout
“’Tis a glorious death to die!”—
What land in the world could
produce such a show
Of heroes, who face both siroccos
and snow,
Rush madly to danger, and
never lie low?
So, Sound the Assembly!
Blow, Buglemen, blow!
Sound
the Assembly!
Sound the Assembly! Form,
citizens, form!
From smoke of
the city, from country so green,
A horse of irregulars sweeps
like a storm
To defend with
their lives their dear country and Queen!
Sound the Assembly! Come!
Volunteers, come!
Leave oldsters
at grinding and tilling the sod!
Bold Yoemen, enrolled for
defence of their home,
Enlist with a
cheer for the Empire, thank God!—
To the front! to the front!
with their faces aglow,
They will march, the dear
lads, with a pulse and a go;
Wave flags o’er the
Workman, the Johnnie, the Beau,
So, Sound the Assembly!
Blow, Buglemen, blow!
Sound
the Assembly!
BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
When you’ve shouted “Rule Britannia”—when
you’ve sung “God Save the
Queen”—
When you’ve finished killing Kruger
with your mouth—
Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourine
For a gentleman in kharki ordered South?
He’s an absent-minded beggar and his weaknesses
are great—
But we and Paul must take him as we find
him—
He is out on active service, wiping something off
a slate—
And he’s left a lot o’ little
things behind him!
Duke’s son—cook’s son—son
of a hundred kings—
(Fifty thousand horse and foot going to
Table Bay!)
Each of ’em doing his country’s work (and
who’s to look after their
things?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
and pay—pay—pay!
There are girls he married secret, asking no permission
to,
For he knew he wouldn’t get it if
he did.
There is gas and coals and vittles, and the house-rent
falling due,
And it’s more than rather likely
there’s a kid.
There are girls he walked with casual, they’ll
be sorry now he’s
gone,
For an absent-minded beggar they will
find him;
But it ain’t the time for sermons with the winter
coming on—
We must help the girl that Tommy’s
left behind him!
Cook’s son—Duke’s son—son
of a belted Earl—
Son of a Lambeth publican—it’s
all the same to-day!
Each of ’em doing his country’s work (and
who’s to look after the
girl?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
and pay! pay! pay!
There are families by thousands, far too proud to
beg or speak—
And they’ll put their sticks and
bedding up the spout,
And they’ll live on half o’ nothing paid
’em punctual once a week,
’Cause the man that earned the wage
is ordered out.
He’s an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his
country call,
And his reg’ment didn’t need
to send to find him:
He chucked his job and joined it—so the
job before us all
Is to help the home that Tommy’s
left behind him!
Duke’s job—cook’s job—gardener,
baronet, groom—
Mews or palace or paper-shop—there’s
someone gone away!
Each of ’em doing his country’s work (and
who’s to look after the
room?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
and pay! pay! pay!
Let us manage so as later we can look him in the face,
And tell him—what he’d
very much prefer—
That, while he saved the Empire his employer saved
his place,
And his mates (that’s you and me)
looked out for her.
He’s an absent-minded beggar, and he may forget
it all,
But we do not want his kiddies to remind
him,
That we sent ’em to the workhouse while their
daddy hammered Paul,
So we’ll help the home our Tommy’s
left behind him!
Cook’s home—Duke’s home—home
of a millionaire.
(Fifty’thousand horse and foot going
to Table Bay!)
Each of ’em doing his country’s work (and
what have you got to
spare?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
and pay! pay! pay!
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
It
is no more place and party,
It
is no more begging votes;
But
the roaring of steam-packets,
And
a rushing of bluejackets
And
a rally of redcoats;
For
the Empire’s will is hearty,
Thundered
by united throats.
We
are sick of talk and treason,
There
is duty to be done;
By
the veteran in danger,
And
the lad who is a stranger
Unto
strife and shrinks from none;
In
the power of right and reason,
Now
all classes are but one.
We
have suffered and have yielded,
Till
we felt the burning shame;
And
long outrage and endurance
Are
our glory of assurance
To
begin the bloody game;
By
our honour are we shielded,
In
the might of England’s name.
It
is no more fume of faction,
It
is no more weary calls;
We
are strong in faith and steady,
With
the sword of Justice ready
And
our iron men and walls;
Since
the hour has struck for action,
And
red retribution falls.
We
have wrongs, which for redressing
Cry
aloud to God at last;
It
is woe to him who trifles
When
we speak across our rifles
At
the great and final cast;
And
we seek no other blessing
Than
the blotting out the past.
We
will brook no new denial,
We
will have no second tale;
And
we seek no sordid laurels,
But
here fight the ages’ quarrels
And
for freedom’s broadening pale—
Lo,
an Empire on its trial,
Hangs
within the awful scale.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
O for an hour
of Cromwell’s might
Who
raised an Empire out of dust,
And lifted it
to noontide light
By
simple and heroic trust;
Whose word was
like a swordsman’s thrust,
And
clove its way through crowned night.
We want old England’s
iron stock,
Hewn
of the same eternal rock.
Where is the man
of equal part,
To
rule by right divine of power;
With statesman’s
head and soldier’s heart,
And
all the ages’ dreadful dower
Brought to a bright
and perfect flower—
From
whom a nobler course may start?
We hear but faction’s
fume and cry,
With
England in her agony.
Where is the master
mind that reads
The
far-off issues of the day,
And with a willing
nation pleads
That
loves to own a master sway?
Where are the
landmarks on the way,
Set
up alone by him who leads?
We vainly ask
a common creed
To
make us one in England’s need.
Is there no man
with broader reach
To
fill a thorny throne of care,
And bravely act
and bravely teach
Because
in all he has a share?
No helper who
will do and dare,
And
stand a bulwark in the breach?
Have we no lord
of England’s fate,
Though
coming from a cottage gate?
O surely somewhere
is the hand
To
grasp and guide this reeling realm,
While in the hour-glass
sinks the sand
And
faints the pilot at the helm;
If billows break
to overwhelm,
Yet
he will conquer and command.
England is waiting
to be led,
If
through the dying and the dead.
We do not seek
the party fame
That
trafficks in a people’s fall,
But one to shield
our burning shame
And
answer just his country’s call;
To weld us in
a solid wall,
And
kindle with a common flame.
Ah, when she finds
the fitting man,
England
will do what England can.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
They are not gone, the old
Cromwellian breed,
As witness conquered
tides,
And many a pasture sown with
crimson seed—
Our English Ironsides;
And out on kopjes, where the
bullets rain,
They serve their Captain,
slaying or are slain.
The same grand spirit in the
same grim stress
Arms them with
stubborn mail;
They see the light of duty’s
loveliness
And over death
prevail.
They never count the price
or weigh the odds,
The work is theirs, the victory
is God’s.
They are not fled, the old
Cromwellian stock,
Where stern the
horseman rides,
Or stands the outpost like
a lonely rock—
Our English Ironsides.
Through drift and donga, up
the fire-girt crag
They bear the honour of the
ancient flag.
What if they starve, or on
red pillows lie
Beneath a burning
sun?
It is enough to live their
day, or die
Ere it has even
begun;
They only ask what duty’s
voice would crave,
And march right on to glory
or the grave.
ANONYMOUS.
Many years ago, three young gentlemen were lingering over their fruit and wine at a tavern, when a man of middle age entered the room, seated himself at a small unoccupied table, and calling the waiter, ordered a simple meal. His appearance was not such as to arrest attention. His hair was thin and grey; the expression of his countenance was sedate, with a slight touch, perhaps, of melancholy; and he wore a grey surtout with a standing collar, which manifestly had seen service, if the wearer had not.
The stranger continued his meal in silence, without lifting his eyes from the table, until a cherry-stone, sportively snapped from the thumb and finger of one of the gentlemen, struck him upon his right ear. His eye was instantly upon the aggressor, and his ready intelligence gathered from the ill-suppressed merriment of the party that this petty impertinence was intentional.
The stranger stooped, and picked up the cherry-stone, and a scarcely perceptible smile passed over his features as he carefully wrapped it in a piece of paper, and placed it in his pocket. This singular procedure upset the gravity of the young gentlemen entirely, and a burst of laughter proceeded from the group.
Unmoved by this rudeness, the stranger continued his frugal repast until another cherry-stone, from the same hand, struck him upon the right elbow. This also, to the infinite amusement of the party, he picked from the floor, and carefully deposited with the first.
Amidst shouts of laughter, a third cherry-stone was soon after discharged, and struck the stranger upon the left breast. This also he very deliberately deposited with the other two.
As he rose, and was engaged in paying for his repast, the gaiety of these sporting gentlemen became slightly subdued. Having discharged his reckoning, he walked to the table at which the young men were sitting, and with that air of dignified calmness which is a thousand times more terrible than wrath, drew a card from his pocket, and presented it with perfect civility to the offender, who could do no other than offer his in return. While the stranger unclosed his surtout, to take the card from his pocket, he displayed the undress coat of a military man. The card disclosed his rank, and a brief inquiry at the bar was sufficient for the rest. He was a captain whom ill-health and long service had entitled to half-pay. In earlier life he had been engaged in several affairs of honour, and, in the dialect of the fancy, was a dead shot.
The next morning a note arrived at the aggressor’s residence, containing a challenge, in form, and one of the cherry-stones. The truth then flashed before the challenged party—it was the challenger’s intention to make three bites at this cherry—three separate affairs out of this unwarrantable frolic! The challenge was accepted, and the challenged party, in deference to the challenger’s reputed skill with the pistol, had half decided upon the small sword; but his friends, who were on the alert, soon discovered that the captain, who had risen by his merit, had, in the earlier days of his necessity, gained his bread as an accomplished instructor in the use of that weapon.
They met, and fired alternately, by lot—the young man had selected this mode, thinking he might win the first fire—he did—fired, and missed his opponent. The captain levelled his pistol and fired—the ball passed through the flap of the right ear; and, as the wounded man involuntarily put his hand to the place, he remembered that it was the right ear of his antagonist that the first cherry-stone had struck. Here ended the first lesson. A month passed. His friends cherished the hope that he would hear nothing more from the captain, when another note—a challenge, of course—and another cherry-stone arrived, with an apology, on the score of ill-health, for delay.
Again they met—fired simultaneously, and the captain, who was unhurt, shattered the right elbow of his antagonist—the very point upon which he had been struck with the second cherry-stone; and here ended the second lesson. There was something awfully impressive in the modus operandi and exquisite skill of his antagonist. The third cherry-stone was still in his possession, and the aggressor had not forgotten that it had struck the unoffending gentleman upon the left breast. A month passed—another—and another, of terrible suspense; but nothing was heard from the captain.
At length, the gentleman who had been his second in the former duels once more presented himself, and tendered another note, which, as the recipient perceived on taking it, contained the last of the cherry-stones. The note was superscribed in the captain’s well-known hand, but it was the writing evidently of one who wrote feebly. There was an unusual solemnity also in the manner of him who delivered it. The seal was broken, and there was the cherry-stone in a blank envelope.
“And what, sir, am I to understand by this?” inquired the aggressor.
“You will understand, sir, that my friend forgives you—he is dead.”
BY BARLEY DALE.
“Years ago, when I was quite a young man, I was appointed chaplain to H.M.S. Octopus, then on guard at Gibraltar. We had a very nice time of it, for ‘Gib.’ is a very gay place, and that winter there was plenty of fun somewhere nearly every night, and we were asked to most of the festivities. Now, on board the Octopus was a young midshipman, whom I will call Munro. He was a handsome young fellow, but rather delicate, and he had been sent to Gibraltar for the sake of the climate, in hopes that the sea-air and warm winter might set him up. He was the life of the ship, and wherever he went he was popular; and it is possible he might have outgrown his weakness, for I don’t think there was any organic disease at this time, but he got a low fever, and died in a week. This low fever was very prevalent, and at the same time that poor young Munro died, an admiral, one of the leading members of society at ‘Gib.,’ died of the same disease. As it was considered infectious, the two bodies were placed in their coffins and carried to the mortuary till the funeral. Oddly enough, both funerals were fixed for the same day; Munro’s in the morning, and the admiral’s in the afternoon. The admiral’s was to be a very grand affair, all the troops in the garrison were to follow, as well as the naval officers and sailors on board the guardships; the ceremony was to be performed by the bishop, assisted by some other clergy while as for poor Munro, I was to bury him at ten o’clock in the morning, six men were told off to carry the coffin, and it was left to those who liked to act as mourners.
“Well, the day of the funerals arrived, all the ships were decked with flags half-mast high in honour of the admiral, minute-guns were fired in honour of the admiral, church bells tolled in honour of the admiral, while as for poor Munro (one or two of us excepted), no one thought of him. Ten o’clock came, and I with the doctor and ore of Munro’s comrades, another middy, and the six sailors, who, by the way, had all volunteered their services, set out for the mortuary; I had a fancy to follow the poor fellow as far as I could, so I waited while the jack tars went inside and fetched out the coffin covered with the union-jack, and Munro’s hat and sword on the top, and then the little procession took its way across the neutral ground to the English cemetery. I followed the coffin, and the other two brought up the rear. The sentries did not salute us as we passed them. At last we reached the cemetery gates. Here I was obliged to relegate my post of chief mourner to the doctor, while I went into the chapel, put on my surplice, and went to the door to meet the body. I then proceeded to bury the poor boy, and when the union-jack was taken off and the coffin lowered into the grave, I leant over to take one last look; the doctor did the same, and as our eyes met the same emotion caused us both to blow our noses violently, and it was in a voice of suppressed emotion that I concluded the service.
“I was so disgusted with the way in which the poor boy had been slighted that I had not intended going to the admiral’s funeral; but after burying Munro I felt more charitably disposed, so I got into my uniform and duly attended the admiral’s obsequies.
“It was a very grand affair indeed; the streets were thronged with spectators, every window was filled with eager faces as the enormous procession passed by. There were five regiments stationed in Gibraltar at the time, and two men-of-war besides the Octopus lying in the harbour; detachments from every regiment were sent, three military bands followed, a battery of artillery, the marines and all the jack tars in the place, the governor and his staff were there, and every officer, who was not on the sick list, quartered in Gibraltar, was present. A firing party was told off to fire over the grave when all was over, and this brilliant procession was met at the cemetery-gates by the bishop, attended by several clergymen and a surpliced choir. I forgot to say that a string of carriages followed the troops, and the entire procession could not have been much less than a mile long.
“As we crossed the neutral ground this time, the sentry, with arms reversed, saluted us; and the strains of Beethoven’s ’Funeral March of a Hero,’ must have been heard all over Gibraltar as the three bands—one in front, one in the rear, and one in the centre—all pealed it forth.
“Of course, not one-third of the funeral cortege could get near the grave; but I managed to get pretty close. The service proceeded, and at length the coffin was uncovered to be lowered into the grave; it was smothered with flowers, but the wreaths were all carefully removed, and the admiral’s cocked-hat and sword, and then the union-jack was off, and the bishop, the governor, and all the officers near the grave pressed forward to look at the coffin.
“They looked once, they started; they looked again, they frowned; they rubbed their eyes; they looked again, then they whispered; they sniffed, they snorted, they grumbled; they gave hurried orders to the sextons, who shovelled some earth on to the coffin, and the bishop hurriedly finished the service.
“What do you think they saw when they looked into the grave?
“Why, poor Munro’s coffin! I buried the admiral myself in the morning, by mistake. The doctor and I found it out at the grave, but we kept our own counsel.”—Young England.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
Flushed
with fight and red with glory,
Conquerors
if backward flung,
Fresh
from triumphs grim and gory,
Toward
the goal the Army swung;
Splendid,
but with recent laurels
Dimmed
by shadow of defeat,
Thirsting
yet for nobler quarrels—
Never
dreaming of retreat.
Day
by day they grimly struggled,
Early
on and on till late;
Night
by night with doom they juggled,
Dodging
Death and fighting Fate.
Not
a murmur once was spoken,
Stern
endurance still unspent,
As
with spirit all unbroken
On
the bitter march they went.
Still
with weary steps that stumbled
Forward
moved that constant tread,
Sleepless,
silent, and unhumbled,
On
and on the army sped,
Noble
sons of noble mothers,
Proud
of home and kin and kith,
Brothers
to the aid of brothers,
On
and on to Ladysmith.
There,
through smoke of onset rifted,
Soldiers
who disdained to yield
Had
for weal or woe uplifted
England’s
own broad battle-shield.
Right
across the path of pillage
Was
that iron rampart thrust,
While
beneath it town and village
Safely
hid in settled trust.
Frail
and open seemed that shelter
And
unguarded to the foes,
Helpless,
as the fiery welter
Rocked
it in volcanic throes;
But
there was defence to bind it
With
the force of Destiny,
And
an Empire stood behind it
Armed
in awful majesty.
And
no fortress ever moulded
Girt
securer chosen space,
Than
those unseen walls which folded
In
their fear that lonely place.
On
its Outposts far the scourges
Fell
with wrath and crimson rain,
But
the fierce assaulting surges
Beat
and beat in thunder vain.
II.—LADYSMITH BESIEGED.
There
they kept the old flag flying
Day
by day and prayed relief,
Weary,
wounded, doomed, and dying—
Gallant
men and noble chief
By
the leaden tempest stricken,
Grandly
stood or grandly fell—
Peril
had but power to quicken
Faith
that owned such holy spell.
Not
alone the foe without them
Menaced
them with fire and shot,
Sickness
creeping round about them,
Fever,
dysentery, and rot,
Struck
the rider and the stallion,
Making
merry as at feast
On
the pick of each battalion—
Ruthless,
smiting man and beast.
None
were spared and nothing holy,
For
the fever claimed the best,
Now
the high and now the lowly,
Now
the baby at the breast,
All
obeyed its mandate, drooping
In
the fulness of their power,
Old
and young before it stooping,
Bud
and blossom, fruit and flower.
Hunger
blanched their dauntless faces,
Furrowed
with the lines of lack,
But
with stern and stubborn paces
Still
they drove the spoiler back.
Round
them drew the iron tether
Tighter,
but they kept their troth,
All
for England’s sake together—
Soldier
and civilian both.
Death
and ruin knock and enter,
Hearts
may break and homesteads burn,
Yet
from that lone faithful centre
Flashed
red vengeance in return;
Guardian
guns thence hurled defiance
From
the brave who lightly took
All
their blows in brave reliance,
Which
no tempest ever shook.
Hand
to hand they strove and wrestled
Stoutly
for that pearl of pride,
Where
mid flame and woe it nestled
Down
with danger at its side.
Yet
like boys released from class time,
Though
the blast destroying blew,
There
they played and found a pastime
While
the Flag unconquered flew.
III.—LADYSMITH RELIEVED.
Then,
when all seemed lost but glory
With
the lustre which it gave,
And
Relief an idle story
Murmured
by a sealed grave;
While
with pallid lips they reckoned
Darkly
the enduring days
Famished,
lo! Deliverance beckoned
Surely
after long delays.
Wave
on wave of martial beauty,
Dashed
upon those deadly rocks
At
the simple call of duty,
And
were broken by the shocks.
Yet
that chivalry of splendour,
Though
baptized in blood and fire,
Had
no thought of mean surrender
Never
breathed the word retire.
Still
they weighed the dreadful chances,
Still
they gathered up their strength,
By
invincible advances
Steeled
to win the prize at length.
Fate-like
their resolve to sever
Those
gaunt bonds of grim despair,
And
within the breach for ever
England’s
honour to repair.
Came
relief at last, endeavour,
Stern,
magnificent, and true,
Hoping
on and fighting ever,
Forced
its gory passage through.
All
the rage of pent-up forces,
All
the passion seeking vent
Out
of vast and solemn sources,
Here
renewed their sacrament;
In
the rapture of a greeting
For
which thousands fought and bled,
With
the saved and saviours meeting
Over
our Imperial dead.
Witnesses
unseen but tested
Lived
again as grander men,
And
their awful shadow rested
With
a benediction then;
One
who with his wondrous talent
Conquered
more than even the sword,
And
among the gay and gallant
By
his pen was crowned lord.
There
they lie in silence lowly
Which
no battle now can wake,
And
the ground is ever holy
For
our English heroes’ sake.
(From the Christmas number of the Bombshell, published in Ladysmith during the siege.)
There
is a famous hill looks down,
Five
miles away, on Ladysmith town,
With
a long flat ridge that meets the sky
Almost
a thousand feet on high.
And
on the ridge there is mounted one
Long-range,
terrible six-inch gun.
And
down in the street a bugle is blown,
When
the cloud of smoke on the sky is thrown,
For
it’s sixty seconds before the roar
Reverberates
o’er, and a second more
Till
the shell comes down with a whiz and stun
From
that long-range, terrible six-inch gun.
And
men and women walk up and down
The
long, hot streets of Ladysmith town,
And
the housewives walk in the usual round,
And
the children play till the warning sound—
Then
into their holes they scurry and run
From
the whistling shell of the six-inch gun.
For
the shells they weigh a hundred pound,
Bursting
wherever they strike the ground,
While
the strong concussion shakes the air
And
shatters the window-panes everywhere.
And
we may laugh, but there’s little of fun
In
the bursting shell from a six-inch gun.
Oh!
’twas whistle and jest with the carbineers gay
As
they cleaned their steeds at break of day,
But
like a thunderclap there fell
In
the midst of the horses and men a shell,
And
the sight we saw was a fearful one
After
that shell from the six-inch gun.
Though
the foe may beset us on every side,
We’ll
furnish some cheer in this Christmastide;
We
will laugh and be gay, but a tear will be shed
And
a thought be given to the gallant dead,
Cut
off in the midst of their life and fun
By
the long-range, terrible six-inch gun.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
Here’s to the Isle
of the Shamrock,
Here’s a good English hurrah,
Luck to the Kelt upon kopje or veldt,
Erin Mavourneen gobragh.
The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,
One where the bayonets bristle,
One when there’s duty to seek.
Each has a need of each other,
Linked on the shore and the wave,
All for the sake of one Mother—
Honour the Brave.
Here’s to the boys
of the Shamrock,
Here’s to the gallant and gay,
Bearing the flag upon donga or crag,
Blithely as children at play.
The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,
One though the bullets may whistle,
One in a red grave’s repose.
Each has a need of his fellows,
Sharing the glory or grave,
Each the same destiny mellows—
Honour the Brave.
Here’s to the girls
of the shamrock,
Here’s to the glamour and grace,
Laughing on all, in hovel and hall,
Ever from Erin’s young face!
The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,
One in the face of a missile,
One when the batteries speak.
Each of himself is delighted
To succour the serf or the slave,
And who can deny them united?—
Honour the Brave.
Here’s to the wit
of the Shamrock,
Here’s to the favoured and free,
Giving us store of that magical lore
Learnt but at Nature’s own knee!
The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,
One when fame writes her epistle,
One where dread dangers enclose.
Each for the others asks only,
Ever to succour and save,
Each without all must be lonely—
Honour the Brave.
Here’s to the day
of the Shamrock,
Here’s to the emblem of youth;
Wear it we will on our bosoms and still
Deeper in heart and in truth!
The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,
One where grim batteries bristle,
One when there’s pleasure to seek.
Each on each other relying,
Trusts, nor for better would rave,
Each for all, living and dying—
Honour the Brave.
Here’s to the reign
of the shamrock,
Here’s to the welfare of all,
Bearing its light through the feast and
the fight,
Ever at liberty’s call.
The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,
One where the death-arrows whistle,
One where hilarity flows.
Each from the bog or the heather
Gives all a brother may crave,
Ploughland and city together—
Honour the Brave.
MAJOR-GENERAL H.A. MACDONALD, C.B., D.S.O. [Told in the Ranks.]
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
There were lots of lies and tattle
In dispatches and on wire,
But ’twas Mac who saved the battle
When the word came to retire.
“I’ll no do it”—he cried, ready
For what peril lay in store,
With his ranks like steel and steady—
“And I’ll see them hanged before!
O, we maun jist fight!” And bolder
Slewed his front the Dervish way,
Smart with shoulder knit to shoulder,
White and black that bloody day.
Then a hell of fire, and sputtered
Iron blast and leaden hail,
While the Maxims stormed and stuttered
And our rifles did not fail.
For the destiny of nations
With an agony intense,
And our Empire’s own foundations
Hung a minute in suspense.
But old Mac was cool as ever,
And his words like leaping flame
Flashed in confident endeavour
To avert that evil shame.
Swung his lines on hinges, rolling
Right and left like very doom,
Till our fate nigh past controlling
Brake in glory out of gloom.
While upon those awful stages
Throbbed a world’s great piston beat,
And the moments seemed as ages
Rung from death and red defeat.
Ah, we lived, indeed, and no man
Recked of wound or any ill,
As we grimly faced the foeman—
If we died, to conquer still.
And it felt as though the burden
Of all England gave us might,
Laid on each, who asked no guerdon
But against those odds to fight.
Let the lucky get high stations
And the honour which he won,
Mac desires no decorations
But the gallant service done.
For the rankers bear the losses
And the brunt of every toil,
While they earn for others “crosses”
And the splendour and the spoil.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
A TRUE INCIDENT IN THE MATABELE CAMPAIGN (1893).
Mashangombi’s
was the rat-hole,
Which
we had to draw ere day,
Heedless
whether this or that hole—
If
we only found a way;
Up
among the iron furrows
Of
the rocks, where hid in burrows
Safe
the rats in shelter lay.
No
misgiving, not a fear—
Nor
was I the last astraddle
Nor
the hindmost in the rear
When
the bugle sounded clear—
“Boot
and saddle!”
Right away went men and horses,
Both as eager for the fun;
Through the drifts and dried-up courses,
Where like mad the waters run
After storms or through the winters,
Mashing all they meet to splinters—
Ready, hand and sword and gun.
Every eye was keen to mark,
And the tongue alone seemed idle
Every ear alert to hark
As we scanned each crevice dark—
Bit and bridle!
Here and there the startled chirrup
Of strange creatures, as we go,
Standing sometimes in the stirrup,
Just to get a bigger show;
Till we gain our point, the entry—
There the pass, no sign of sentry,
Not a sound above, below!
Clear the coast, the savage gave
Never hint to south or norward;
Was he napping in his cave,
With that quiet like the grave?—
Steady, forward!
Further in; the rats were sleeping; We would grimly smoke them out, With a dose of lead for keeping And a fence of flame about; They might wake perhaps from shelter, At our bullets’ ghastly pelter, To the brief and bloody rout!— But, next moment, we were wrapt Down to saddle girth and leather In the fire of foes unmapt; We were turned, and fairly trapt—
“Keep together!”
On they poured in thousands, hurling
Steel that stabbed and belching ball
From a host of rifles, curling
Serpent-wise around us all.
Front and flank and rear, they tumbled
Nearer, darker, as we fumbled—
Till we heard the Captain’s call,
“Each man for himself, and back!”
So we rushed those rocky mazes,
With that torrent grim and black
Dealing ruin in our track—
Death and blazes!
Ah, that bullet! How it shattered
Vein and tissue to the bone;
Dropt me faint and blood-bespattered,
Helpless on a bed of stone!
While the mare which oft had eaten
From my hand, caressed, unbeaten,
Left her master doomed, alone.
Limply then I lay in dread,
Racked with torture, sick and under—
Hearing, as through vapours red
And with reeling heart and head,
Hoofs of thunder!
Was I dreaming? By the boulder
Where I huddled as I fell,
Stood the steed beside my shoulder
Faithful, fain to serve me well.
Whinnying softly, then, to screen me
From the foe, she knelt between me
And that circling human hell.
Tenderly she touched my face
With the nose that knew my petting,
Ripe for the last glorious race
And her comrade’s own embrace—
Unforgetting!
O her haunches heaved and quivered
With the passion freely brought
For the life to be delivered,
Though she first with demons fought;
While her large eyes gleamed and glistened
And her ears down-pointing listened,
Waiting for the answer sought.
Till a sudden wave of might
Set me once again astraddle
On the seat of saving flight,
Plucked from very jaws of night—
Boot and saddle!
BY CLEMENT SCOTT.
Pass the word to the boys to-night!—lying
about midst dying and
dead!—
Whisper it low; make ready to fight! stand like men
at your horses’
head!
Look to your stirrups and swords, my lads, and into
your saddles
your pistols thrust;
Then setting your teeth as your fathers did, you’ll
make the enemy
bite the dust!
What did they call us, boys, at home?—“Feather-bed
soldiers!”—
faith, it’s true!
“Kept to be seen in her Majesty’s parks,
and mightily smart at a
grand review!”
Feather-bed soldiers? Hang their chaff!
Where in the world, I should
like to know,
When a war broke out and the country called, was an
English soldier
sorry to go?
Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! cavalry! infantry!
there and
then;
No matter what careless lives they lived, they were
ready to die like
Englishmen!
So
pass the word! in the sultry night,
Stand
to your saddles! make ready to fight!
We are sick to death of the scorching sun, and the
desert stretching
for miles away;
We are all of us longing to get at the foe, and sweep
the sand with
our swords to-day!
Our horses look with piteous eyes—they
have little to eat, and
nothing to do;
And the land around is horribly white, and the sky
above is terribly
blue.
But it’s over now, so the Colonel says:
he is ready to start, we are
ready to go:
Out we went in the dead of the night! away to the
desert, across the
sand—
Guided alone by the stars of Heaven! a speechless
host! a ghostly
band!
No cheery voice the silence broke; forbidden to speak,
we could hear
no sound
But the whispered words, “Be firm, my boys!”
and the horses’ hoofs on
the sandy ground.
“What were we thinking of then?” Look
here! if this is the last true
word I speak,
I felt a lump in my throat—just here—and
a tear came trickling down
my cheek.
If a man dares say that I funked, he lies! But
a man is a man though
he gives his life
For his country’s, cause, as a soldier should—he
has still got a
heart for his child and wife!
But I still rode on in a kind of dream; I was thinking
of home and
the boys—and then
The silence broke! and, a bugle blew! then a voice
rang cheerily,
“Charge, my men!”
So
pass the word in the thick of the fight,
For
England’s honour and England’s right!
What is it like, a cavalry charge in the dead of night?
I can
scarcely tell,
For when it is over it’s like a dream, and when
you are in it a kind
of hell!
I should like you to see the officers lead—forgetting
their swagger
and Bond Street air—
Like brothers and men at the head of the troop, while
bugles echo and
troopers dare!
With a rush we are in it, and hard at work—there’s
scarcely a minute
to think or pause—
For right and left we are fighting hard for the regiment’s
honour and
country’s cause!
Feather-bed warriors! On my life, be they Life
Guards red or Horse
Guards blue,
They haven’t lost much of the pluck, my boys,
that their fathers
showed us at Waterloo!
It isn’t for us, who are soldiers bred, to chatter
of wars, be they
wrong or right;
We’ve to keep the oath that we gave our QUEEN!
and when we are in
it—we’ve got to fight!
So
pass the word, without any noise,
Bravo,
Cavalry! Well done, boys!
Pass the word to the boys to-night, now that the battle
is fairly
won.
A message has come from the EMPRESS-QUEEN—just
what we wanted—
a brief “Well done!”
The sword and stirrup are sorely stained, and the
pistol barrels are
empty quite,
And the poor old charger’s piteous eyes bear
evidence clear of the
“ADSUM!”
BY REV. A. FREWEN AYLWARD.
At the evening roll call at the “Charterhouse” School, where Baden-Powell was educated, it is customary for the boys to respond to the call of their names by saying “Adsum—I’m here!”
Oft as the shades of evening
fell,
In the school-boy days of old,—
The form work done, or the game played well,—
Clanging aloft the old school bell
Uttered its summons bold;
And a bright lad answered the roll call clear,
“Adsum,—I’m here!”
A foe-girt town and a captain
true
Out on the Afric plain;—
High overhead his Queen’s flag flew,
But foes were many and friends but few;
Who shall guard that flag from stain?
And calm ’mid confusion a voice rang
clear,
“Adsum,—I’m here!”
The slow weeks passed, and no
succour came,
Famine and death were rife;
Yet still that banner of deathless fame,
Floated, unsullied by fear or shame,
Over the scene of strife;
And the voice,—though weaker—was
full of cheer,
“Adsum,—I’m here!”
Heaven send, that when many a
heart’s dismayed,
In dark days yet in store,—
Should foemen gather; or, faith betrayed,
The country call for a strong man’s
aid
As she never called before,—
A voice like his may make answer clear,
Banishing panic, and calming fear,
“Adsum,—I’m here!”
(January 23, 1879.)
BY EMILY PFEIFFER.
It was over at Isandula, the bloody work was done,
And the yet unburied dead looked up unblinking at
the sun;
Eight hundred men of Britain’s best had signed
with blood the story
Which England leaves to time, and lay there scanted
e’en of glory.
Stewart Smith lay smiling by the gun he spiked before
he died;
But gallant Gardner lived to write a warning and to
ride
A race for England’s honour and to cross the
Buffalo,
To bid them at Rorke’s Drift expect the coming
of the foe.
That band of lusty British lads camped in the hostile
land
Rose up upon the word with Chard and Bromhead to command;
An hour upon the foe that hardy race had barely won,
But in it all that men could do those British lads
had done.
And when the Zulus on the hill appeared, a dusky host,
They found our gallant English boys’ ‘pale
faces’ at their post;
But paler faces were behind, within the barricade—
The faces of the sick who rose to give their watchers
aid.
Five men to one the first dark wave of battle brought,
it bore
Down swiftly, while our youngsters waited steadfast
as the shore;
Behind the slender barricade, half-hidden, on their
knees,
They marked the stealthy current glide beneath the
orchard trees.
Then forth the volley blazed, then rose the deadly
reek of war;
The dusky ranks were thinned; the chieftain slain
by young Dunbar,
Rolled headlong and their phalanx broke, but formed
as soon as broke,
And with a yell the furies that avenge man’s
blood awoke.
The swarthy wave sped on and on, pressed forward by
the tide,
Which rose above the bleak hill-top, and swept the
bleak hill-side;
It rose upon the hill, and, surging out about its
base,
Closed house and barricade within its murderous embrace.
With savage faces girt, the lads’ frail fortress
seemed to be
An island all abloom within a black and howling sea;
And only that the savages shot wide, and held the
noise
As deadly as the bullets, they had overwhelmed the
boys.
Then in the dusk of day the dusky Kaffirs crept about
The bushes and the prairie-grass, to rise up with
a shout,
To step as in a war-dance, all together, and to fling
Their weight against the sick-house till they made
its timbers spring.
When beaten back, they struck their shields, and thought
to strike
with fear
Those British hearts,—their answer came,
a ringing British cheer!
And the volley we sent after showed the Kaffirs to
their cost
The coolness of our temper,—scarce an ounce
of shot was lost.
And the sick men from their vantage at the windows
singled out
From among the valiant savages the bravest of the
rout;
A pile of fourteen warriors lay dead upon the ground
By the hand of Joseph Williams, and there led up to
the mound
A path of Zulu bodies on the Welshman’s line
of fire
Ere he perished, dragged out, assegaied, and trampled
in their ire;
But the body takes its honour or dishonour from the
soul,
And his name is writ in fire upon our nation’s
long bead-roll.
Yet, let no name of any man be set above the rest,
Where all were braver than the brave, each better
than the best,
Where the sick rose up as heroes, and the sound had
hearts for those
Who, in madness of their fever, were contending as
with foes.
For the hospital was blazing, roof and wall, and in
its light
The Kaffirs showed like devils, till so deadly grew
the fight
That they cowered into cover, and one moment all was
still,
When a Kaffir chieftain bellowed forth new orders
from the hill.
Then the Zulu warriors rallied, formed again, and
hand to hand
We fought above the barricade; determined was the
stand;
Our fellows backed each other up,—no wavering
and no haste,
But loading in the Kaffirs’ teeth, and not a
shot to waste.
We had held on through the dusk, and we had held on
in the light
Of the burning house; and later, in the dimness of
the night,
They could see our fairer faces; we could find them
by their cries,
By the flash of savage weapons and the glare of savage
eyes.
With the midnight came a change—that angry
sea at length was cowed,
Its waves still broke upon us, but fell fainter and
less loud;
When the ‘pale face’ of the dawn rose
glimmering from his bed
The last black sullen wave swept off and bore away
the dead.
That island all abloom with English youth, and fortified
With English valour, stood above the wild, retreating
tide;
Those lads contemned Canute, and shamed the lesson
that he read,—
For them the hungry waves withdrew, the howling ocean
fled.
Britannia, rule, Britannia! while thy sons resemble
thee,
And are islanders, true islanders, wherever they may
be;
Island fortified like this, manned with islanders
like these,
Will keep thee Lady of thy Land, and Sovereign of
all Seas!
(AT MAFEKING.)
Said
he of the relieving force,
As
through the town he sped,
“Art
thou in Baden-Powell’s Horse?”
The
trooper shook his head,
Then
drew his hand his mouth across,
Like
one who’s lately fed.
“Alas!
for Baden-Powell’s horse—
It’s
now in me,” he said.—Daily Express.
BY WILLIAM JEFFREY PROWSE.
Just a simple little story I’ve a fancy for
inditing;
It shows the funny quarters in which chivalry
may lodge,
A story about Africa, and Englishmen, and fighting,
And an unromantic hero by the name of
Samuel Hodge.
“Samuel Hodge!” The words in question
never previously filled a
Conspicuous place in fiction or the Chronicles
of Fame;
And the Blood and Culture critics, or the Rosa and
Matilda
School of Novelists would shudder at the
mention of the name.
It was up the Gambia River—and of that
unpleasant station
It is chiefly in connection with the fever
that we hear!—
That my hero with the vulgar and prosaic appellation
Was a private—mind, a private!—and
a sturdy pioneer.
It’s a dreary kind of region, where the river
mists arising
Roll slowly out to seaward, dropping poison
in their track.
And accordingly few gentlemen will find the fact surprising
That a rather small proportion of our
garrison comes back!
It is filthy, it is foetid, it is sordid, it is squalid;
If you tried it for a season, you would
very soon repent;
But the British trader likes it, and he finds a reason
solid
For the liking, in his profit at the rate
of cent, per cent.
And to guard the British traders, gallant men and
merry younkers,
In their coats of blue and scarlet, still
are stationed at the
post,
Whilst the migratory natives, who are known as “Tillie-bunkas,”
Grub up and down for ground-nuts and chaffer
on the coast.
Furthermore, to help the trader in his laudable vocation,
We have heaps of little treaties with
a host of little kings,
And, at times, the coloured caitiffs in their wild
inebriation,
Gather round us, little hornets, with
uncomfortable stings.
To my tale:—The King of Barra had been
getting rather “sarsy,”
In fact, for such an insect, he was coming
it too strong,
So we sent a small detachment—it was led
by Colonel D’Arcy—
To drive him from his capital of Tubabecolong!
Now on due investigation, when his land they had invaded,
They learnt from information which was
brought them by the guides
That the worthy King of Barra had completely barracaded
The spacious mud-construction where his
majesty resides.
“At it, boys!” said Colonel D’Arcy,
and himself was first to enter,
And his fellows tried to follow with the
customary cheers;
Through the town he dashed impatient, but had scarcely
reached the
centre
Ere he found the task before him was a
task for pioneers.
For so strongly and so stoutly all the gates were
palisaded,
The supports could never enter if he did
not clear a way:—
But Sammy Hodge, perceiving how the foe might be “persuaded,”
Had certain special talents which he hastened
to display.
Whilst the bullets, then, were flying, and the bayonets
were glancing
Whilst the whole affair in fury rather
heightened than relaxed,
With axe in hand, and silently, our pioneer advancing
SMOTE THE GATE; AND BADE IT OPEN; AND IT DID—AS
IT WAS AXED!
L’ENVOI.
Just a word of explanation, it may save us from a
quarrel,
I have really no intention—’twould
be shameful if I had,
Of preaching you a blatant, democratic kind of moral;
For the “swell, you know,”
the D’Arcy, fought as bravely as the
“cad!”
Yet I own that sometimes thinking how a courteous
decoration
May be won by shabby service or disreputable
dodge,
I regard with more than pleasure—with a
sense of consolation—
The Victoria Cross “For Valour”
on the breast of Sammy Hodge!
(October 25, 1857.)
BY R.T.S. LOWELL.
Oh! that last day in Lucknow
fort!
We knew that it
was the last:
That the enemy’s mines
had crept surely in,
And the end was
coming fast.
To yield to that foe meant
worse than death;
And the men and
we all work’d on:
It was one day more, of smoke
and roar,
And then it would
all be done.
There was one of us, a corporal’s
wife,
A fair young gentle
thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,
And her mind was
wandering.
She lay on the ground in her
Scottish plaid,
And I took her
head on my knee:
“When my father comes
hame frae the pleugh,” she said,
“Oh! please
then waken me.”
She slept like a child on
her father’s floor
In the flecking
of wood-bine shade,
When the house-dog sprawls
by the open door,
And the mother’s
wheel is stay’d.
It was smoke and roar, and
powder-stench,
And hopeless waiting
for death:
But the soldier’s wife,
like a full-tired child,
Seem’d scarce
to draw her breath.
I sank to sleep, and I had
my dream,
Of an English
village-lane,
And wall and garden;—a
sudden scream
Brought me back
to the roar again.
Then Jessie Brown stood listening,
And then a broad
gladness broke
All over her face, and she
took my hand
And drew me near
and spoke:
“The Highlanders!
Oh! dinna ye hear
The slogan far
awa—
The McGregor’s?
Ah! I ken it weel;
It’s the
grandest o’ them a’.
“God bless thae bonny
Highlanders!
We’re saved!
we’re saved!” she cried:
And fell on her knees, and
thanks to God
Pour’d forth,
like a full flood-tide.
Along the battery-line her
cry
Had fallen among
the men:
And they started, for they
were there to die:
Was life so near
them then?
They listen’d, for life:
and the rattling fire
Far off, and the
far-off roar
Were all:—and the
colonel shook his head,
And they turn’d
to their guns once more.
Then Jessie said—“That
slogan’s dune;
But can ye no
hear them, noo,—
The Campbells are comin’?
It’s no a dream;
Our succours hae
broken through!”
We heard the roar and the
rattle afar
But the pipes
we could not hear;
So the men plied their work
of hopeless war,
And knew that
the end was near.
It was not long ere it must
be heard,—
A shrilling, ceaseless
sound:
It was no noise of the strife
afar,
Or the sappers
underground.
It was the pipes of
the Highlanders,
And now they play’d
“Auld Lang Syne:”
It came to our men like the
voice of God,
And they shouted
along the line.
And they wept and shook one
another’s hands,
And the women
sobb’d in a crowd:
And every one knelt down where
we stood,
And we all thank’d
God aloud.
That happy day when we welcomed
them,
Our men put Jessie
first;
And the General took her hand,
and cheers
From the men,
like a volley, burst.
And the pipers’ ribbons
and tartan stream’d
Marching round
and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were
broken with tears,
For the pipes
play’d “Auld Lang Syne.”
BY MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY.
(By permission of Messrs. Isbister & Co.)
“Oh! were you at war
in the red Eastern land?
What did you hear,
and what did you see?
Saw you my son, with his sword
in his hand?
Sent he, by you,
any dear word to me?”
“I come from red war,
in that dire Eastern land;
Three deeds saw
I done one might well die to see;
But I know not your son with
his sword in his hand;
If you would hear
of him, paint him to me.”
“Oh, he is as gentle
as south winds in May!”
“’Tis
not a gentle place where I have been.”
“Oh, he has a smile
like the outbreak of day!”
“Where men
are dying fast, smiles are not seen.”
“Tell me the mightiest
deeds that were done.
Deeds of chief
honour, you said you saw three:
You said you saw three—I
am sure he did one.
My heart shall
discern him, and cry, ‘This is he!’”
“I saw a man scaling
a tower of despair,
And he went up
alone, and the hosts shouted loud.”
“That was my son!
Had he streams of fair hair?”
“Nay; it
was black as the blackest night-cloud.”
“Did he live?”
“No; he died: but the fortress was won,
And they said
it was grand for a man to die so.”
“Alas for his mother!
He was not my son.
Was there no fair-hair’d
soldier who humbled the foe?”
“I saw a man charging
in front of his rank,
Thirty yards on,
in a hurry to die:
Straight as an arrow hurled
into the flank
Of a huge desert-beast,
ere the hunter draws nigh.”
“Did he live?”
“No; he died: but the battle was won,
And the conquest-cry
carried his name through the air.
Be comforted, mother; he was
not thy son;
Worn was his forehead,
and gray was his hair.”
“Oh! the brow of my
son is as smooth as a rose;
I kissed it last
night in my dream. I have heard
Two legends of fame from the
land of our foes;
But you said there
were three; you must tell me the third.”
“I saw a man flash from
the trenches and fly
In a battery’s
face; but it was not to slay:
A poor little drummer had
dropp’d down to die,
With his ankle
shot through, in the place where he lay.
“He carried the boy
like a babe through the rain,
The death-pouring
torrent of grape-shot and shell;
And he walked at a foot’s
pace because of the pain,
Laid his burden
down gently, smiled once, and then fell.”
“Did he live?”
“No; he died: but he rescued the boy.
Such a death is
more noble than life (so they said).
He had streams of fair hair,
and a face full of joy,
And his name”—“Speak
it not! ’Tis my son! He is dead!
“Oh, dig him a grave
by the red rowan tree,
Where the spring
moss grows softer than fringes of foam!
And lay his bed smoothly,
and leave room for me,
For I shall be
ready before he comes home.
“And carve on his tombstone
a name and a wreath,
And a tale to
touch hearts through the slow-spreading years—
How he died his noble and
beautiful death,
And his mother
who longed for him, died of her tears.
“But what is this face
shining in at the door,
With its old smile
of peace, and its flow of fair hair?
Are you come, blessed ghost,
from the far heavenly shore?
Do not go back
alone—let me follow you there!”
“Oh! clasp me, dear
mother. I come to remain;
I come to your
heart, and God answers your prayer.
Your son is alive from the
hosts of the slain,
And the Cross
of our Queen on his breast glitters fair!”
(September 20, 1854.)
BY RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.
Though till now ungraced in story, scant although
thy waters be,
Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them
to the sea:
Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar
known—
Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world’s
four corners blown.
In two nations’ annals graven, thou art now
a deathless name,
And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame.
Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city,
tower and shrine,
Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency
like thine,
Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a
living head,
Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories
of the dead.
Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly
mourning, say—
When the first strong burst of anguish shall have
wept itself away—
“He has pass’d from, us, the loved one;
but he sleeps with them that
died
By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side.”
Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold
as those
Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds
repose,
Thou on England’s banners blazon’d with
the famous fields of old,
Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above
the brave and bold;
And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great
deed to be done,
By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma’s
heights were won.
Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the
free—
Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to
the sea.
(September 20, 1854.)
BY GERALD MASSEY.
Our old War-banners on the
wind
Were waving merrily
o’er them;
The hope of half the world
behind—
The sullen Foe
before them!
They trod their march of battle,
With towering heart and lightsome
feet
They went to their
high places;
The fiery valour at white
heat
Was kindled in
their faces!
Magnificent in battle-robe,
And radiant, as
from star-lands,
That spirit shone which girds
our globe
With glory, as
with garlands!
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou
bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with
thee,
Who would not
die to-morrow?
They saw the Angel Iris o’er
Their deluge of
grim fire;
And with their life’s
last tide they bore
The Ark of Freedom
higher!
And grander ‘tis i’
the dash of death
To ride on battle’s
billows,
When Victory’s kisses
take the breath,
Than sink on balmiest
pillows.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou
bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with
thee,
Who would not
die to-morrow?
Brave hearts, with noble feelings
flushed;
In valour’s
ruddy riot
But yesterday! how are ye
hushed
Beneath the smile
of quiet!
For us they poured their blood
like wine,
From life’s
ripe-gathered clusters;
And far through History’s
night shall shine
Their deeds with
starriest lustres.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou
bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with
thee,
Who would not
die to-morrow?
We laid them not in churchyard
home,
Beneath our darling
daisies:
Where to their grave-mounds
Love might come,
And sit and sing
their praises.
But soothly sweet shall be
their rest
Where Victory’s
hands have crowned them
To Earth our Mother’s
bosom pressed,
And Heaven’s
arms around them.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou
bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with
thee,
Who would not
die to-morrow?
Yes, there they lie ’neath
Alma’s sod,
On pillows dark
and gory—
As brave a host as ever trod
Old England’s
path to glory.
With head to home and face
to sky,
And feet the tyrant
spurning,
So grand they look, so proud
they lie,
We weep for glorious
yearning.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou
bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with
thee,
Who would not
die to-morrow?
They in life’s outer
circle sleep,
As each in death
stood sentry!
And like our England’s
dead still keep
Their watch for
kin and country.
Up Alma, in their red footfalls,
Comes Freedom’s
dawn victorious,
Such graves are courts to
festal halls!
They banquet with
the Glorious.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou
bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with
thee,
Who would not
die to-morrow?
Our Chiefs who matched the
men of yore,
And bore our shield’s
great burden,
The nameless Heroes of the
Poor,
They all shall
have their guerdon.
In silent eloquence, each
life
The Earth holds
up to heaven,
And Britain gives for child
and wife
As those brave
hearts have given.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou
bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with
thee,
Who would not
die to-morrow?
The Spirits of our Fathers
still
Stand up in battle
by us,
And, in our need, on Alma
hill,
The Lord of Hosts
was nigh us.
Let Joy or Sorrow brim our
cup,
’Tis an
exultant story,
How England’s Chosen
Ones went up
Red Alma’s
hill to glory.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou
bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with
thee,
Who would not
die to-morrow?
(October 25, 1854.)
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
BY LORD TENNYSON.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade,
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light
Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Someone had blunder’d.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their
sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d;
Plunged in the battery smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke,
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not—
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O, the wild charge they made.
All the world wonder’d.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
BY JAMES WILLIAMS.
The fierce wild charge was over;
back to old England’s shore
Were borne her gallant troopers,
who ne’er would battle more;
In hospital at Chatham, by Medway’s
banks they lay,
Dragoon, hussar, and lancer, survivors
of the fray.
One day there came a message—’twas
like a golden ray—
“Victoria, Britain’s
noble Queen, will visit you to-day;”
It lighted up each visage, it acted
like a spell,
On Britain’s wounded heroes,
who’d fought for her so well.
One soldier lay among them, fast
fading was his life,
A lancer from the border, from the
good old county Fife;
Already was death’s icy grasp
upon his honest brow,
When through the ward was passed
the word, “The Queen is coming
now!”
The dying Scottish laddie, with
hand raised to his head,
Saluted Britain’s Sovereign,
and with an effort said—
“And may it please your Majesty,
I’m noo aboot to dee,
I’d like to rest wi’
mither, beneath the auld raugh tree.
“But weel I ken, your Majesty,
it canna, mauna be,
Yet, God be thanked, I might hae
slept wi’ ithers o’er the sea,
’Neath Balaclava’s crimsoned
sward, where many a comrade fell,
But now I’ll rest on Medway’s
bank, in sound of Christian bell.”
She held a bouquet in her hand,
and from it then she chose
For the dying soldier laddie a lovely
snow-white rose;
And when the lad they buried, clasped
in his hand was seen
The simple little snowy flower,
the gift of Britain’s Queen.
(November 5, 1854.)
BY GERALD MASSEY.
‘Twas midnight ere our guns’ loud laugh
at their wild work did cease, And by the smouldering
fires of war we lit the pipe of peace. At four
a burst of bells went up through Night’s cathedral
dark, It seemed so like our Sabbath chimes, we could
but wake, and hark! So like the bells that call
to prayer in the dear land far away; Their music floated
on the air, and kissed us—to betray.
Our camp lay on the rainy hill, all silent as a cloud,
Its very heart of life stood still i’ the mist
that brought its
shroud;
For Death was walking in the dark, and smiled his
smile to see How all was ranged and ready for a sumptuous
jubilee.
O wily are the Russians, and they came up through
the mirk— Their feet all shod for silence
in the best blood of the Turk! While in its banks
our fiery tide of War serenely slept, Their subtle
serpentry unrolled, and up the hill-side crept.
In the Ruins of the Valley do the birds of carnage
stir? A creaking in the gloom like wheels! feet
trample—bullets whir— By God!
the Foe is on us! Now the bugles with a start
Thrill—like the cry of a wronged queen—to
the red roots of the
heart;
And long and loud the wild war-drums with throbbing
triumph roll— A sound to set the blood
on fire, and warm the shivering soul.
The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh,
and true! No weak blood curdled white i’
the face, no valour turned to
dew.
Majestic as a God defied, arose our little host—
All for the peak of peril pushed—each for
the fieriest post! Thorough mist, and thorough
mire, and o’er the hill brow scowling
grim,
As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful
dream. No sun! but none is needed,—men
can feel their way to fight, The lust of battle in
their face—eyes filled with fiery light;
And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark
earth lay The prophesying morning-red of a great and
glorious day.
As bridegroom leaves his wedded bride in gentle slumbers
sealed,
Our England slumbered in the West, when her warriors
went afield.
We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal
blows,
As all along our leagured line the roar of battle
rose.
Her banners waved like blessing hands, and we felt
it was the hour
For a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat
of Russian power,
And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried
to kill,
The lion of Old England leapt in lightnings from the
hill.
And there he stood superb, through all that Sabbath
of the Sword,
And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters,
horde on
horde.
All Hell seemed bursting on us, as the yelling legions
came— The cannon’s tongues of quick
red fire licked all the hills aflame! Mad whistling
shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish glee went
past,
Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the
battle-blast; And through the air, and round the hills,
there ran a wrack sublime As though Eternity were
crashing on the shores of Time. On bayonets and
swords the smile of conscious victory shone, As
down to death we dashed the Rebels plucking at our
Throne. On, on they came with face of flame,
and storm of shot and shell— Up! up! like
heaven-sealers, and we hurled them back to Hell.
Like the old sea, white-lipped with rage, they dash
and foam despair
On ranks of rock, ah! what a prize for the wrecker
death was there!
But as ’twere River Pleasaunce, did our fellows
take that flood,
A royal throbbing in the pulse that beat voluptuous
blood:
The Guards went down to the fight in gray that’s
Now, God for Merrie England cry! Hurrah for France
the Grand!
We charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand
to hand!
He caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma’s
fray
Of the Destroying Angel that shall blast his strength
to-day.
We shout and charge together, and again, again, again
Our plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with
the slain.
Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent
heat;
Against our side its breaking heart doth faint and
fainter beat.
And O, but ’tis a gallant show, and a merry
march, as thus
We sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious!
From morn till night we fought our fight, and at the
set of sun
Stood conquerors on Inkerman—our Soldiers’
Battle won.
That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp
of golden grain!
That night the ruddy sheaves were reaped upon the
misty plain!
We cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the
shocks of slain:
The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reeled Death’s
harvest-wain.
We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that
night,
And robes of Immortality our ragged braves bedight!
They fell in boyhood’s comely bloom, and bravery’s
lusty pride;
But they made their bed o’ the foemen dead,
ere they lay down and
died.
We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold
and gray,
And thought of those who ranked with us in battle’s
rough array,
Our comrades of the morn who came no more from that
fell fray!
The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells
far away—
The eyes of lurking Death that in Life’s crimson
bubbles play—
The stern white faces of the dead that on the dark
ground lay
Like statues of old heroes, cut in precious human
clay—
Some with a smile as life had stopped to music proudly
gay—
The household gods of many a heart all dark and dumb
to-day!
And hard hot eyes grew ripe for tears, and hearts
sank down to pray.
From alien lands, and dungeon-grates, how eyes will
strain to mark
This waving Sword of Freedom burn and beckon through
the dark!
The martyrs stir in their red graves, the rusted armour
rings
Adown the long aisles of the dead, where lie the warrior
kings.
To the proud Mother England came the radiant victory
With laurels red, and a bitter cup like some last
agony.
She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her
laurelled brow:
Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she looked so noble
now.
The dim divine of distance died—the purpled
past grew wan,
As came that crowning glory o’er the heights
of Inkerman.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
For
him no words, the best were only weak
And
could not say what love desires to speak;
For
him no praise, no prizes did he ask,
To
serve his Queen was a sufficient task;
For
him no show, no idle tears be shed,
No
fading laurels on that lowly head.
He
fought for England, and for her he fell
And
did his duty then—and it is well.
He
deemed it but a little act, to give
His
life and all, if Freedom thus might live;
And
though he found the shock of battle rough,
He
might not flinch—the glory was enough.
What
if he broke, who would not tamely bend?
He
strove for us, and craved no other end.
Nor
should we ring too long his dying knell,
He
has a soldier’s crown—and it is well.
For
him the tomb that is a nation’s heart,
And
doth endure when crumbling stones depart;
To
him the honour, like the brave to stand,
With
those who were in danger our right hand;
For
him no empty epitaph of dust,
But
that he kept for England safe her trust.
He
is not dead; but, over war’s loud swell,
Heard
he his Captain’s call—and it is well.
BY SARAH WILLIAMS.
All
over for me
The
struggle and possible glory!
All
swept past,
In
the rush of my own brigade.
Will
charges instead,
And
fills up my place in the story;
Well,—’tis
well,
By
the merry old games we played.
There’s a fellow asleep, the lout! in the shade
of the hillock
yonder;
What a dog it must be to drowse in the midst of a
time like this!
Why, the horses might neigh contempt at him; what
is he like, I
wonder?
If the smoke would but clear away, I have strength
in me yet to hiss.
Will,
comrade and friend,
We
parted in hurry of battle;
All
I heard
Was
your sonorous, “Up, my men!”
Soon
conquering paeans
Shall
cover the cannonade’s rattle;
Then,
home bells,
Will
you think of me sometimes, then?
How that rascal enjoys his snooze! Would he wake
to the touch of
powder?
A reveille of broken bones, or a prick of a sword
might do.
“Hai, man! the general wants you;” if
I could but for once call
louder:
There is something infectious here, for my eyelids
are dropping too.
Will,
can you recall
The
time we were lost on the Bright Down?
Coming
home late in the day,
As
Susie was kneeling to pray,
Little
blue eyes and white night-gown,
Saying,
“Our Father, who art,—
Art
what?” so she stayed with a start.
“In
Heaven,” your mother said softly.
And
Susie sighed, “So far away!”—
’Tis
nearer, Will, now, to us all.
It is strange how that fellow sleeps! stranger still
that his sleep
should haunt me;
If I could but command his face, to make sure of the
lesser ill:
I will crawl to his side and see, for what should
there be to daunt
me?
What there! what there! Holy Father in Heaven,
not Will!
Will,
dead Will!
Lying
here, I could not feel you!
Will,
brave Will!
Oh,
alas, for the noble end!
Will,
dear Will!
Since
no love nor remorse could heal you,
Will,
good Will!
Let
me die on your breast, old friend!
(FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.)
BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.
[It was the practice of Florence Nightingale to pay a last visit to the wards of the military hospital in the Crimea after the doctors and the other nurses had retired for the night. Bearing a light in her hand she passed from bed to bed and from ward to ward, until she became known as “the Lady with the Lamp.”]
Whene’er a noble deed
is wrought,
Whene’er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares,
Out of all meaner cares.
Honour to those whose words
or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow,
Raise us from what is low!
Thus thought I, as by night
I read
Of the great army of the dead,
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp,—
The wounded from the battle-plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,
The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom
And flit from room to room.
And slow as in a dream of bliss
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should
be
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,
The light shone and was spent.
On England’s annals, through
the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.
A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.
Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear,
The symbols that of yore
St. Filomena bore.
WITH OCCASIONAL QUESTIONS BY A FIVE-YEAR-OLD HEARER.
BY BURDETTE.
Mrs. Caruthers had left her infant prodigy, Clarence, in our care for a little while that she might not be distracted by his innocent prattle while selecting the material for a new gown.
He was a bright, intelligent boy, of five summers, with a commendable thirst for knowledge, and a praiseworthy desire to understand what was said to him.
We had described many deep and mysterious things to him, and to escape the possibility of still more puzzling questions, offered to tell him a story—the story—the story of George Washington and his little hatchet. After a few necessary preliminaries we proceeded.
“Well, one day, George’s father—”
“George who?” asked Clarence.
“George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father—”
“Whose father?” demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest.
“George Washington’s; this great man we are telling you of. One day George Washington’s father gave him a little hatchet for a—”
“Gave who a little hatchet?” the dear child interrupted with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn’t. We know how to talk to children. So we went on.
“George Washington.”
“Who gave him the little hatchet?”
“His father. And his father—”
“Whose father?”
“George Washington’s.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, George Washington’s. And his father told him—”
“Told who?”
“Told George.”
“Oh, yes, George.”
And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said:
“And he was told—”
“George told him?” queried Clarence.
“No, his father told George—”
“Oh!”
“Yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet—”
“Who must be careful?”
“George must.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, must be careful with his hatchet—”
“What hatchet?”
“Why, George’s.”
“Oh!”
“Careful with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out of doors all night. So George went around cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. At last he came to a splendid apple tree, his father’s favourite apple tree, and cut it down—”
“Who cut it down?”
“George did.”
“Oh!”
“But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and—”
“Saw the hatchet?”
“No, saw the apple tree. And he said, ’Who has cut down my favourite apple tree?’”
“What apple tree?”
“George’s father’s. And everybody said they didn’t know anything about it, and—”
“Anything about what?”
“The apple tree.”
“Oh!”
“And George came up and heard them talking about it—”
“Heard who talking about it?”
“Heard his father and the men.”
“What were they talking about?”
“About the apple tree.”
“What apple tree?”
“The favourite tree that George had cut down.”
“George who?”
“George Washington.”
“Oh!”
“So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he—”
“What did he cut it down for?”
“Just to try his little hatchet.”
“Whose little hatchet?”
“Why, his own, the one his father gave him—”
“Gave who?”
“Why, George Washington.”
“Oh!”
“So George came up, and he said, ’Father, I cannot tell a lie, I—”
“Who couldn’t tell a lie?”
“George couldn’t.”
“Oh, George; oh, yes.”
“It was I who cut down your apple tree; I did—”
“His father did?”
“No, no; it was George said this.”
“Said he cut his father?”
“No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree.”
“George’s apple tree?”
“No, no; his father’s.”
“Oh!”
“He said—”
“His father said?”
“No, no, no; George said, ’Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.’ And his father said, ’Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand apple trees than have you tell a lie.’”
“George did?”
“No, his father said that.”
“Said he’d rather have a thousand apple trees?”
“No, no, no; said he’d rather lose a thousand apple trees than—”
“Said he’d rather George would?”
“No, said he’d rather he would than have him lie.”
“Oh, George would rather have his father lie?”
We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn’t come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don’t believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl.
And as Clarence Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said he’d rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree.
(February 25, 1852.)
SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.
[The Birkenhead was lost off the coast of Africa by striking on a hidden rock, when the soldiers on board sacrificed themselves, in order that the boats might be left free for the women and children.]
Right on our flank the sun
was dropping down;
The deep sea heaved
around in bright repose;
When, like the wild shriek
from some captured town,
A
cry of women rose.
The stout ship Birkenhead
lay hard and fast,
Caught without
hope upon a hidden rock;
Her timbers thrilled as nerves,
when thro’ them passed
The
spirit of that shock.
And ever like base cowards,
who leave their ranks
In danger’s
hour, before the rush of steel,
Drifted away, disorderly,
the planks
From
underneath her keel.
So calm the air—so
calm and still the flood,
That low down
in its blue translucent glass
We saw the great fierce fish,
that thirst for blood,
Pass
slowly, then repass.
They tarried, the waves tarried,
for their prey!
The sea turned
one clear smile! Like things asleep
Those dark shapes in the azure
silence lay,
As
quiet as the deep.
Then amidst oath, and prayer,
and rush, and wreck,
Faint screams,
faint questions waiting no reply,
Our Colonel gave the word,
and on the deck
Form’d
us in line to die.
To die!—’twas
hard, while the sleek ocean glow’d
Beneath a sky
as fair as summer flowers:
“All to the Boats!”
cried one—he was, thank God,
No
officer of ours.
Our English hearts beat true—we
would not stir:
That base appeal
we heard, but heeded not:
On land, on sea, we had our
Colours, sir,
To
keep without a spot.
They shall not say in England,
that we fought
With shameful
strength, unhonour’d life to seek;
Into mean safety, mean deserters,
brought
By
trampling down the weak.
So we made the women with
their children go,
The oars ply back
again, and yet again;
Whilst, inch by inch, the
drowning ship sank low,
Still,
under steadfast men.
——What follows,
why recall?—The brave who died,
Died without flinching
in the bloody surf,
They sleep as well beneath
that purple tide
As
others under turf.
They sleep as well! and, roused
from their wild grave,
Wearing their
wounds like stars, shall rise again,
Joint heirs with Christ, because
they bled to save
His
weak ones, not in vain.
If that day’s work no
clasp or medal mark,
If each proud
heart no cross of bronze may press,
Nor cannon thunder loud from
Tower or Park,
This
feel we none the less:
That those whom God’s
high grace there saved from ill,
Those also left
His martyrs in the bay,
Though not by siege, though
not in battle, still
Full
well had earned their pay.
BY ALICE CAREY.
“O sailor, tell me,
tell me true,
Is my little lad—my Elihu—
A-sailing in your ship?”
The sailor’s eyes were dimmed with
dew.
“Your little lad? Your Elihu?”
He said with trembling lip;
“What little lad—what
ship?”
What little lad?—as
if there could be
Another such a one as he!
“What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee.
It was just the other day
The Grey Swan sailed away.”
The other day? The sailor’s
eyes
Stood wide open with surprise.
“The other day?—the Swan?”
His heart began in his throat to rise.
“Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard
lies
The jacket he had on.”
“And so your lad is gone!”
“Gone with the Swan.”
“And did she stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand
For a month, and never stir?”
“Why, to be sure! I’ve
seen from the land,
Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand,
The wild sea kissing her—
A sight to remember, sir.”
“But, my good mother,
do you know,
All this was twenty years ago?
I stood on the Grey Swan’s
deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw—
Taking it off, as it might be so—
The kerchief from your neck;”
“Ay, and he’ll bring it back.”
“And did the little
lawless lad,
That has made you sick and made you sad,
Sail with the Grey Swan’s
crew?”
“Lawless! the man is going mad;
The best boy ever mother had;
Be sure, he sailed with the crew—
What would you have him do?”
“And he has never written
line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,
To say he was alive?”
“Hold—if ’twas wrong,
the wrong is mine;
Besides, he may be in the brine;
And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man! what would you have?”
“Gone twenty years!
a long, long cruise;
’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;
But if the lad still live,
And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him?” “Miserable man!
You’re mad as the sea; you rave—
What have I to forgive?”
The sailor twitched his shirt
so blue,
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild:
“My God!—my Father!—is
it true?
My little lad—my Elihu?
And is it?—is it?—is
it you?
My blessed boy—my child—
My dead—my living child!”
BY SIR NOEL PATON.
(Sunday, March 24, 1878.)
The training ship Eurydice—
As tight a craft, I ween,
As ever bore brave men who loved
Their country and their queen—
Built when a ship, sir, was a ship,
And not a steam-machine.
Six months or more she had
been out,
Cruising the Indian Sea;
And now, with all her canvas bent—
A fresh breeze blowing free—
Up Channel in her pride she came,
The brave Eurydice.
On Saturday it was we saw
The English cliffs appear,
And fore and aft from man and boy
Uprang one mighty cheer;
While many a rough-and-ready hand
Dashed off the gathering tear.
We saw the heads of Dorset
rise
Fair in the Sabbath sun.
We marked each hamlet gleaming white,
The church spires one by one.
We thought we heard the church bells ring
To hail our voyage done!
“Only an hour from Spithead,
lads:
Only an hour from home!”
So sang the captain’s cheery voice
As we spurned the ebbing foam;
And each young sea-dog’s heart sang
back,
“Only an hour from home!”
No warning ripple crisped
the wave,
To tell of danger nigh;
Nor looming rack, nor driving scud;
From out a smiling sky,
With sound as of the tramp of doom,
The squall broke suddenly,
A hurricane of wind and snow
From off the Shanklin shore.
It caught us in its blinding whirl
One instant, and no more;—
For ere we dreamt of trouble near,
All earthly hope was o’er.
No time to shorten sail—no
time
To change the vessel’s course;
The storm had caught her crowded masts
With swift, resistless force.
Only one shrill, despairing cry
Rose o’er the tumult hoarse,
And broadside the great ship
went down
Amid the swirling foam;
And with her nigh four hundred men
Went down in sight of home
(Fletcher and I alone were saved)
Only an hour from home!
BY H.W. LONGFELLOW.
(September 13, 1852.)
A mist was driving down
the British Channel,
The
day was just begun,
And through the window-panes,
on floor and panel,
Streamed
the red autumn sun.
It glanced on flowing
flag and rippling pennon,
And
the white sails of ships;
And, from the frowning
rampart, the black cannon
Hailed
it with feverish lips.
Sandwich and Romney,
Hastings, Hythe, and Dover,
Were
all alert that day,
To see the French war-steamers
speeding over,
When
the fog cleared away.
Sullen and silent, and
like couchant lions,
Their
cannon through the night,
Holding their breath,
had watched, in grim defiance,
The
sea-coast opposite.
And now they roared
at drum-beat from their stations
On
every citadel;
Each answering each,
with morning salutations,
That
all was well.
And down the coast,
all taking up the burden,
Replied
the distant forts,
As if to summon from
his sleep the Warden
And
Lord of the Cinque Ports.
Him shall no sunshine
from the fields of azure,
No
drum-beat from the wall,
No morning gun from
the black fort’s embrasure
Awaken
with its call!
No more, surveying with
an eye impartial
The
long line of the coast,
Shall the gaunt figure
of the old Field-Marshal
Be
seen upon his post!
For in the night, unseen,
a single warrior,
In
sombre harness mailed,
Dreaded of man, and
surnamed the Destroyer,
The
rampart wall has scaled.
He passed into the chamber
of the sleeper,
The
dark and silent room,
And as he entered, darker
grew and deeper
The
silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to
parley or dissemble,
But
smote the Warden hoar;
Ah! what a blow! that
made all England tremble,
And
groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without,
the surly cannon waited,
The
sun rose bright o’erhead:
Nothing in Nature’s
aspect intimated
That
a great man was dead.
BY FELICIA HEMANS.
Son
of the ocean isle!
Where
sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and
stately pile
Is
reared o’er Glory’s bed.
Go,
stranger! track the deep,
Free,
free, the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor
wild wind sweep,
Where
rest not England’s dead.
On
Egypt’s burning plains,
By
the pyramid o’erswayed,
With fearful power the
noon-day reigns,
And
the palm-trees yield no shade.
But
let the angry sun
From
Heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose
task is done!
There
slumber England’s dead.
The
hurricane hath might
Along
the Indian shore,
And far, by Ganges’
banks at night,
Is
heard the tiger’s roar.
But
let the sound roll on!
It
hath no tone of dread
For those that from
their toils are gone;—
There
slumber England’s dead.
Loud
rush the torrent-floods
The
western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia’s
woods,
The
hunter’s bow is strung.
But
let the floods rush on!
Let
the arrow’s flight be sped!
Why should they
reck whose task is done?
There
slumber England’s dead.
The
mountain-storms rise high
In
the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs
through the sky,
Like
rose-leaves on the breeze.
But
let the storms rage on!
Let
the forest-wreaths be shed:
For the Roncesvalles’
field is won,—
There
slumber England’s dead.
On
the frozen deep’s repose
’Tis
a dark and dreadful hour
When round the ship
the ice-fields close,
And
the northern-night-clouds lour;
But
let the ice drift on!
Let
the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course
with mast and flag is done,
Even
there sleep England’s dead.
The
warlike of the isles,
The
men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their
funeral piles?
The
seas and shores their grave?
Go,
stranger! track the deep,
Free,
free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor
wild wind sweep,
Where
rest not England’s dead.
BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.
["Mehrab Khan died, as he said he would, sword in hand, at the door of his own Zenana.”—Capture of Kelat.]
(1839.)
With all his fearless
chiefs around
The
Moslem leader stood forlorn,
And heard at intervals
the sound
Of
drums athwart the desert borne.
To him a sign
of fate, they told
That
Britain in her wrath was nigh,
And his great
heart its powers unrolled
In
steadiness of will to die.
“Ye come,
in your mechanic force,
A
soulless mass of strength and skill—
Ye come, resistless
in your course,
What
matters it?—’Tis but to kill.
A serpent in the
bath, a gust
Of
venomed breezes through the door,
Have power to
give us back to dust—
Has
all your grasping empire more?
“Your thousand
ships upon the sea,
Your
guns and bristling squares by land,
Are means of death—and
so may be
A
dagger in a damsel’s hand.
Put forth the
might you boast, and try
If
it can shake my seated will;
By knowing when
and how to die,
I
can escape, and scorn you still.
“The noble
heart, as from a tower,
Looks
down on life that wears a stain;
He lives too long
who lives an hour
Beneath
the clanking of a chain.
I breathe my spirit
on my sword,
I
leave a name to honour known,
And perish, to
the last the lord
Of
all that man can call his own.”
Such was the mountain
leader’s speech;
Say
ye, who tell the bloody tale,
When havoc smote
the howling breach,
Then
did the noble savage quail?
No—when
through dust, and steel, and flame,
Hot
streams of blood, and smothering smoke,
True as an arrow
to its aim,
The
meteor-flag of England broke;
And volley after
volley threw
A
storm of ruin, crushing all,
Still cheering
on a faithful few,
He
would not yield his father’s hall.
At his yet unpolluted
door
He
stood, a lion-hearted man,
And died, A FREEMAN
STILL, before
The
merchant thieves of Frangistan.
BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.
[Told to the author by the late Sir Charles James Napier.]
Eleven men of England
A breast-work charged in vain;
Eleven men of England
Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain.
Slain; but of foes that guarded
Their rock-built fortress well,
Some twenty had been mastered,
When the last soldier fell.
Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous
way
Across the sand-waves of the desert sea,
Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay,
Lord of their wild Truckee.
These missed the glen to which
their steps were bent,
Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard,
And, in that glorious error, calmly went
To death without a word.
The robber chief mused deeply,
Above those daring dead,
“Bring here,” at length he shouted,
“Bring quick, the battle thread.
Let Eblis blast for ever
Their souls, if Allah will:
But we must keep unbroken
The old rules of the Hill.
“Before the Ghiznee
tiger
Leapt forth to burn and slay;
Before the holy Prophet
Taught our grim tribes to pray;
Before Secunder’s lances
Pierced through each Indian glen;
The mountain laws of honour
Were framed for fearless men.
“Still when a chief
dies bravely,
We bind with green one wrist—
Green for the brave, for heroes
One crimson thread we twist.
Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen,
For these, whose life has fled,
Which is the fitting colour,
The green one, or the red?”
“Our brethren, laid in honoured
graves, may wear
Their green reward,” each noble savage
said;
“To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves
shall tear,
Who dares deny the red?”
Thus conquering hate, and steadfast
to the right,
Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came;
Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height
Rolled back its loud acclaim.
Once more the chief gazed
keenly
Down on those daring dead;
From his good sword their heart’s
blood
Crept to that crimson thread.
Once more he cried, “The judgment,
Good friends, is wise and true,
But though the red be given,
Have we not more to do?
“These were not stirred
by anger,
Nor yet by lust made bold;
Renown they thought above them,
Nor did they look for gold.
To them their leader’s signal
Was as the voice of God:
Unmoved, and uncomplaining,
The path it showed they trod.
“As, without sound
or struggle,
The stars unhurrying march,
Where Allah’s finger guides them,
Through yonder purple arch.
These Franks, sublimely silent,
Without a quickened breath,
Went, in the strength of duty,
Straight to their goal of death.
“If I were now to ask
you
To name our bravest man,
Ye all at once would answer,
They called him Mehrab Khan.
He sleeps among his fathers,
Dear to our native land,
With the bright mark he bled for
Firm round his faithful hand.
“The songs they sing
of Roostrum
Fill all the past with light;
If truth be in their music,
He was a noble knight.
But were those heroes living,
And strong for battle still,
Would Mehrab Khan or Roostrum
Have climbed, like these, the Hill?”
And they replied, “Though
Mehrab Khan was brave
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run;
Prince Roostrum lied, his forfeit life to save,
Which these had never done.”
“Enough!” he
shouted fiercely;
“Doomed though they be to hell,
Bind fast the crimson trophy
Round both wrists—bind
it well.
Who knows but that great Allah
May grudge such matchless men,
With none so decked in heaven,
To the fiends’ flaming den?”
Then all those gallant robbers
Shouted a stern “Amen!”.
They raised the slaughtered sergeant,
They raised his mangled ten.
And when we found their bodies
Left bleaching in the wind,
Around both wrists in glory
That crimson thread was twined.
Then Napier’s knightly heart,
touched to the core,
Rung like an echo to that knightly deed;
He bade its memory live for evermore,
That those who run may read.
BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.
["Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the Kotow. The Sikhs obeyed, but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill.”—Times.]
Last
night among his fellow roughs,
He
jested, quaffed, and swore;
A
drunken private of the Buffs
Who
never looked before.
To-day
beneath the foeman’s frown
He
stands in Elgin’s place
Ambassador
from Britain’s crown,
And
type of all her race.
Poor,
reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered,
and alone,
A
heart with English instinct fraught,
He
yet can call his own.
Ay,
tear his body limb from limb,
Bring
cord or axe or flame;
He
only knows that not through him
Shall
England come to shame.
For
Kentish hop-fields round him seem’d
Like
dreams, to come and go;
Bright
leagues of cherry blossom gleam’d
One
sheet of living snow;
The
smoke above his father’s door,
In
grey, soft eddyings hung:
Must
he then watch it rise no more
Doom’d
by himself, so young?
Yes,
honour calls!—with strength like steel
He
put the vision by.
Let
dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An
English lad must die.
And
thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With
knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering
on its dreadful brink,
To
his red grave he went.
Vain,
mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain,
those all-shattering guns;
Unless
proud England keep, untamed,
The
strong heart of her sons.
So,
let his name through Europe ring—
A
man of mean estate,
Who
died, as firm as Sparta’s king,
Because
his soul was great.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Hurrah! the craft is dashing
Athwart the briny sea;
Hurrah! the wind is lashing
The white sails merrily;
The sun is shining overhead,
The rough sea heaves below;
We sail with every canvas spread,
Yo ho! my lads, yo ho!
Simple is our vocation,
We seek no hostile strife;
But ’mid the storm’s vexation
We succour human life;
O, simple are our pleasures,
We crave no miser’s hoard,
But haul the great sea’s treasures
To spread a frugal board.
But if at usurpation
We needs must strike a blow,
Our hardy avocation
Shall fit us for the foe;
Then let the despot’s strength compete
Upon the open sea,
And on the proudest of his fleet
Our flag shall flutter free.
BY LORD BYRON.
Stop!—for thy tread
is on an Empire’s dust!
An Earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None: but the moral’s truth tells
simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be;
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?...
There was a sound
of revelry by night,
And Belgium’s
capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and
her Chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone
o’er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts
beat happily; and when
Music arose, with
its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked
love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry
as a marriage bell;—
But hush! hark! a deep sound
strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear
it? No; ’twas but the wind
Or the car rattling
o’er the stony street:
On with the dance!
let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till
morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing
Hours with flying feet—
But hark! that
heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds
its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer,
deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is! it is!—the
cannon’s opening roar!
Within a window’d
niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick’s
fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the
first amidst the festival,
And caught its
tone with Death’s prophetic ear;
And when they
smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more
truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch’d
his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the
vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rush’d into the field,
and, foremost fighting, fell!
Ah! then and there
was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering
tears and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all
pale, which but an hour ago
Blush’d
at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were
sudden partings; such as press
The life from
out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne’er
might be repeated! Who would guess
If ever more should
meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet
such awful morn could rise?
And there was
mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering
squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward
with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming
in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder,
peal on peal, afar;
And near, the
beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the
soldier, ere the morning star:
While thronged
the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips—“The
foe! they come, they come!”
And wild and high
the “Cameron’s gathering” rose—
The war note of
Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills
Have heard—and
heard too have her Saxon foes—
How in the noon
of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill!
But with the breath which fills
Their mountain
pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce
native daring, which instils
The stirring memory
of a thousand years;
And Evan’s, Donald’s
fame rings in each clansman’s ears!
And Ardennes waves
above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature’s
tear-drops, as they pass
Grieving—if
aught inanimate e’er grieves—
Over the unreturning
brave—alas!
Ere evening to
be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath
them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure;
when this fiery mass
Of living valour,
rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope,
shall moulder cold and low!
Last noon beheld
them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty’s
circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought
the signal sound of strife;
The morn the marshalling
of arms; the day
Battle’s
magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds
close o’er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered
thick with other clay,
Which her own
clay shall cover, heap’d and pent,
Rider and horse—friend,
foe—in one red burial blent!
JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
At Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high,
Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye,
Eager to leap as a mettlesome hound,
Into the fray with a plunge and a bound,
But Wellington, lord of the cool command,
Held the reins with a steady hand,
Saying, “Cameron, wait, you’ll soon have enough.
Give the Frenchmen a taste of your stuff,
When the Cameron men are wanted.”
Now hotter and hotter the battle grew,
With tramp and rattle, and wild halloo,
And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery flood,
Right on the ditch where Cameron stood.
Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stance
On his captain brave a lightning glance,
Saying, “Cameron, now have at them, boy,
Take care of the road to Charleroi,
Where the Cameron men are wanted.”
Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bow
Into the midst of the plunging foe,
And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent,
Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current;
And he fell the first in the fervid fray,
Where a deathful shot had shove its way,
But his men pushed on where the work was rough,
Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their stuff,
Where the Cameron men were wanted.
’Brave Cameron, then, front the battle’s roar
His foster-brother stoutly bore,
His foster-brother with service true,
Back to the village of Waterloo.
And they laid him on the soft green sod,
And he breathed his spirit there to God,
But not till he heard the loud hurrah
Of victory billowed from Quatre Bras,
Where the Cameron men were wanted.
By the road to Ghent they buried him then,
This noble chief of the Cameron men,
And not an eye was tearless seen
That day beside the alley, green:
Wellington wept—the iron man!
And from every eye in the Cameron clan
The big round drop in bitterness fell,
As with the pipes he loved so well
His funeral wail they chanted.
And now he sleeps (for they bore him home,
When the war was done across the foam),
Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben,
With his sires, the pride of the Cameron men.
Three thousand Highlandmen stood round,
As they laid him to rest in his native ground;
The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed,
Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never failed,
Where a Cameron man was wanted.
BY JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
Onward, brave men, onward go,
Place is none for rest below;
He who laggeth faints and fails.
He who presses on prevails!
Monks
may nurse their mouldy moods
Caged
in musty solitudes;
Men
beneath the breezy sky
March
to conquer or to die!
Work
and live—this only charm
Warms
the blood and nerves the arm,
As
the stout pine stronger grows
By
each gusty blast that blows.
On
high throne or lonely sod,
Fellow-workers
we with God;
Then
most like to Him when we
March
through toil to victory.
If
there be who sob and sigh.
Let
them sleep or let them die;
While
we live we strain and strive,
Working
most when most alive!
Where
the fairest blossom grew,
There
the spade had most to do;
Hearts
that bravely serve the Lord,
Like
St. Paul, must wear the sword!
Onward,
brothers, onward go!
Face
to face to find the foe!
Words
are weak, and wishing fails,
But
the well-aimed blow prevails!
“Hodie tibi, cras mihii.”
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Yours
to-day and ours to-morrow,
Hither,
comrade, hence to go;
Yours
the joy and ours the sorrow,
Yours
the weal and ours the woe.
What
the profit of the stronger?
Life
is loss and death is gain;
Though
we live a little longer,
Longer
life is longer pain.
Which
the better for the weary—
Longer
travel? Longer rest?
Death
is peace, and life is dreary:
He
must die who would be blest.
You
have passed across the borders,
Death
has led you safely home;
We
are standing, waiting orders,
Ready
for the word to come.
Empty-handed,
empty-hearted,
All
we love have gone before,
And
since they have all departed,
We
are loveless evermore.
Yours
to-day and ours to-morrow,
Hither,
comrade, hence to go;
Yours
the joy and ours the sorrow,
Yours
the weal and ours the woe.
BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.
I love contemplating—apart
From all his homicidal glory—
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon’s story.
’Twas when his banners at Boulogne,
Armed in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.
They suffered him,—I know not how,
Unprisoned on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow
On England’s home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain, half-way over,
With envy—they could reach the white
Dear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought
To England nearer.
At last, when care had banished sleep,
He saw one morning, dreaming, doating,
An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating.
He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The livelong day, laborious, lurking,
Until he launched a tiny boat,
By mighty working.
Heaven help us! ’twas a thing beyond
Description wretched: such a wherry,
Perhaps, ne’er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt-sea field,
It would have made the boldest shudder;
Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,—
No sail—no rudder.
From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipped he would have passed
The foaming billows.
But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering.
Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon’s hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger,
And, in his wonted attitude,
Addressed the stranger.
“Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned,
Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassioned.”
“I have no sweetheart,” said the lad;
“But,—absent years from one another,—
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother.”
“And so thou shalt,” Napoleon said,
“You’ve both my favour fairly won,
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son.”
He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And, with a flag of truce, commanded
He should be shipped to England old,
And safely landed.
Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty,
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Buonaparte.
(January 16, 1809.)
BY REV. CHARLES WOLFE.
Not a drum was
heard, not a funeral note,
As
his corse to the rampant we hurried;
Not a soldier
discharged his farewell shot
O’er
the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him
darkly at dead of night,
The
sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling
moonbeam’s misty light,
And
the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin
enclosed his breast,
Not
in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like
a warrior taking his rest,
With
his martial cloak around him.
Few and short
were the prayers we said,
And
we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly
gazed on the face that was dead,
And
we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as
we hollow’d his narrow bed,
And
smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and
the stranger would tread o’er his head
And
we far away on the billow!
Lightly they’ll
talk of the spirit that’s gone,
And
o’er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he’ll
reck if they let him sleep on,
In
the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our
weary task was done,
When
the clock struck the hour for retiring,
And we heard the
distant and random gun
That
the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly
we laid him down,
From
the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We Carved not
a line and we raised not a stone.
But
left him alone in his glory.
(October 21, 1805.)
AN OLD MAN-O’-WARSMAN’S YARN.
BY GERALD MASSEY.
Ay, ay, good neighbours, I have
seen
Him! sure as God’s my life;
One of his chosen crew I’ve been,
Haven’t I, old good wife?
God bless your dear eyes! didn’t you
vow
To marry me any weather,
If I came back with limbs enow
To keep my soul together?
Brave as a lion was our Nel
And gentle as a lamb:
It warms my blood once more to tell
The tale—gray as I am—
It makes the old life in me climb,
It sets my soul aswim;
I live twice over every time
That I can talk of him.
You should have seen him as
he trod
The deck, our joy, and pride;
You should have seen him, like a god
Of storm, his war-horse ride!
You should have seen him as he stood
Fighting for our good land,
With all the iron of soul and blood
Turned to a sword in hand.
Our best beloved of all the
brave
That ever for freedom fought;
And all his wonders of the wave
For Fatherland were wrought!
He was the manner of man to show
How victories may be won;
So swift you scarcely saw the blow;
You looked—the deed was done.
He sailed his ships for work;
he bore
His sword for battle-wear;
His creed was “Best man to the fore”;
And he was always there.
Up any peak of peril where
There was but room for one;
The only thing he did not dare
Was any death to shun.
The Nelson touch his men he
taught,
And his great stride to keep;
His faithful fellows round him fought
Ten thousand heroes deep.
With a red pride of life, and hot
For him, their blood ran free;
They “minded not the showers of shot
No more than peas,” said he.
Napoleon saw our Sea-king thwart
His landing on our Isle;
He gnashed his teeth, he gnawed his heart
At Nelson of the Nile,
Who set his fleet in flames, to light
The Lion to his prey,
And lead Destruction through the night
Upon his dreadful way.
Around the world he drove his
game,
And ran his glorious race;
Nor rested till he hunted them
From off the ocean’s face;
Like that old wardog who, till death,
Clung to the vessel’s side
Till hands were lopped, then with his teeth
He held on till he died.
Ay, he could do the deeds that
set
Old fighters’ hearts afire;
The edge of every spirit whet,
And every arm inspire.
Yet I have seen upon his face
The tears that, as they roll,
Show what a light of saintly grace
May clothe a sailor’s soul.
And when our darling went to
meet
Trafalgar’s judgment day,
The people knelt down in the street
To bless him on his way.
He felt the country of his love
Watching him from afar;
It saw him through the battle move;
His heaven was in that star.
Magnificently glorious sight
It was in that great dawn!
Like one vast sapphire flashing light,
The sea, just breathing shone.
Their ships, fresh-painted, stood up tall
And stately; ours were grim
And weatherworn, but one and all
In rare good fighting trim.
Our spirits were all flying
light,
And into battle sped,
Straining for it on wings of might,
With feet of springy tread;
The light of battle on each face,
Its lust in every eye;
Our sailor blood at swiftest pace
To catch the victory nigh.
His proudly wasted face, wave
worn,
Was loftily serene;
I saw the brave bright spirit burn
There, all too plainly seen;
As though the sword this time was drawn
Forever from the sheath;
And when its work to-day was done,
All would be dark in death.
His eye shone like a lamp of
night
Set in the porch of power;
The deed unborn was burning bright
Within him at that hour!
His purpose, welded to white heat,
Cried like some visible fate,
“To-day we must not merely beat,
We must annihilate.”
He smiled to see the Frenchman
show
His reckoning for retreat,
With Cadiz port on his lee bow,
And held him then half beat.
They flew no colours till we drew
Them out to strike with there!
Old Victory for a prize or two
Had flags enough to spare.
Mast-high the famous signal
ran;
Breathless we caught each word:
“England expects that every man
Will do his duty.” Lord,
You should have seen our faces! heard
Us cheering, row on row;
Like men before some furnace stirred
To a fiery fearful glow!
’Twas Collingwood our
lee line led,
And cut their centre through.
“See how he goes in!” Nelson
said,
As his first broadside flew,
And near four hundred foemen fall.
Up went another cheer.
“Ah! what would Nelson give,” said
Coll,
“But to be with us here!”
We grimly kept our vanward path;
Over us hummed their shot;
But, silently, we reined our wrath,
Held on and answered not,
Till we could grip them face to face,
And pound them for our own,
Or hug them in a war-embrace,
Till we or both went down.
How calm he was! when first
he felt
The sharp edge of that fight.
Cabined with God alone he knelt;
The prayer still lay in light
Upon his face, that used to shine
In battle—flash with life,
As though the glorious blood ran wine,
Dancing with that wild strife.
“Fight for us, Thou Almighty
one!
Give victory once again!
And if I fall, Thy will be done.
Amen, Amen, Amen!”
With such a voice he bade good-bye;
The mournfullest old smile wore:
“Farewell! God bless you, Blackwood,
I
Shall never see you more.”
And four hours after, he had
done
With winds and troubled foam:
The Reaper was borne dead upon
Our load of Harvest home—
Not till he knew the Old Flag flew
Alone on all the deep;
Then said he, “Hardy, is that you?
Kiss me.” And fell asleep.
Well, ’twas his chosen
death below
The deck in triumph trod;
’Tis well. A sailor’s soul
should go
From his good ship to God.
He would have chosen death aboard,
From all the crowns of rest;
And burial with the Patriot sword
Upon the Victor’s breast.
“Not a great sinner.”
No, dear heart,
God grant in our death pain,
We may have played as well our part,
And feel as free from stain.
We see the spots on such a star,
Because it burned so bright;
But on the other side they are
All lost in greater light.
And so he went upon his way,
A higher deck to walk,
Or sit in some eternal day
And of the old time talk
With sailors old, who, on that coast,
Welcome the homeward bound,
Where many a gallant soul we’ve lost
And Franklin will be found.
Where amidst London’s
roar and moil
That cross of peace upstands,
Like Martyr with his heavenward smile,
And flame-lit, lifted hands,
There lies the dark and moulder’d dust;
But that magnanimous
And manly Seaman’s soul, I trust,
Lives on in some of us.
(October 11, 1797.)
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
We were lying calm and peaceful as an infant lies
asleep,
Rocked in the mighty cradle of the ever-restless deep,
Or like a lion resting ere he rises to the fray,
With eyes half closed in slumber and half open for
the prey.
We had waited long, and restless was the spirit of
the fleet,
For the long-expected conquest and the long-delayed
defeat,
When, uprose the mists of morning, as a curtain rolls
away,
For the high heroic action of some old chivalric play.
And athwart the sea to starboard waved the colours
high and free
Of the famous fighting squadron that usurped the loyal
sea.
Quick the signal came for action, quick replied we
with a cheer, For the friends at home behind us, and
the foes before so near; Three times three the cheering
sounded, and ’mid deafening hurrahs We sprang
into position—five hundred lusty tars.
And the cannons joined our shouting with a burly, booming
cheer That aroused the hero’s action, and awoke
the coward’s fear; And the lightning and the
thunder gleamed and pealed athwart the
scene,
Till the noontide mist was greater than the morning
mist had been, And the foeman and the stranger and
the brother and the friend Were mingled in one seething
mass the battle’s end to end.
With broken spars and splintered bulks the decks were
strewn anon,
While the rigging, torn and tangled, hung the shattered
yards upon;
Like a cataract of fire outpoured the steady cannonade,
Till the strongest almost wavered and the bravest
were dismayed.
Like an endless swarm of locusts sprang they up our
vessel’s side,
And scaled her burning bulwarks or fell backward in
the tide,
’Twas a fearful day of carnage, such as none
had known before,
In the fiercest naval battles of those gallant days
of yore.
We had battled all the morning, ’mid the never-ceasing
hail
Of grape and spark and splinter, of cable shred, and
sail;
We had thrice received their onslaught, which we thrice
had driven
back,
And were waiting, calm and ready, for the last forlorn
attack;
When a shout of exultation from out their ranks arose,
A frenzied shout of triumph o’er their yet unconquered
foes;
For the stainless flag of England, that has braved
a thousand years,
Had been shot clean from the masthead; and they gave
three hearty
cheers,
“A prize! a prize!” they shouted, from
end to end the host,
Till a broadside gave them answer, and for ever stilled
their boast.
Then a fearful struggle followed, as, to desperation
spurred,
They sought in deed the triumph so falsely claimed
in word.
’Twas the purpose of a moment, and the bravest
of our tars
Plunged headlong in the boiling surf, amid the broken
spars;
He snatched the shot-torn colours, and wound them
round his arm,
Then climbed upon the deck again, and there stood
safe and calm;
He paused but for a moment—it was no time
to stay—
Then he leaped into the rigging that had yet survived
the fray;
Higher yet he climbed and higher, till he gained a
dizzy height,
Then turned and paused a moment to look down upon
the fight.
Whistled wild the shots around him, as a curling,
smoky wreath
Formed a cloudy shroud to hide him from the enemy
beneath.
Beat his heart with proud elation as he firmly fixed
his stand,
And again the colours floated as he held them in his
hand.
Then a pistol deftly wielded, ’mid the battle’s
ceaseless blast,
Fastened there the colours firmly, as he nailed them
to that mast;
Then as if to yield him glory—the smoke-clouds
cleared away—
And we sent him up the loudest cheer that reach’d
his ear that day,
With new-born zeal and courage, dashing fiercely to
the fight,
To crown the day of battle with the triumph of the
night.
’Tis a story oft repeated, ’tis a triumph
often won,
How a thousand hearts are strengthened by the bravery
of one
There was never dauntless courage of the loyal and
the true
That did not inspirit others unto deeds of daring
too;
There was never bright example, be the struggle what
it might,
That did not inflame the ardour of the others in the
fight.
Up, then, ye who would be heroes, and, before the
strife is past,
For the sake of those about you, “nail the
colours to the mast!”
For the flag is ever flying, and it floats above the
free, On island and on continent, and up and down
the sea; And the conflict ever rages—there
are many foes to fight— There are many
ills to conquer, there are many wrongs to right, For
the glory of the moment, for the triumph by-and-bye;
For the love of truth and duty, up and dare, and do
or die, And though fire and shot and whirlwind join
to tear the standard
down,
Up and nail it to the masthead, as we did at Camperdown.
BY LORD MACAULAY.
Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England’s
praise,
I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient
days,
When that great Fleet Invincible against her bore,
in vain,
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts
in Spain.
It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day,
There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth
Bay;
The crew had seen Castile’s black fleet, beyond
Aurigny’s isle,
At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many
a mile.
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God’s especial
grace;
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held
her close in chase.
Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along
the wall;
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe’s
lofty hall;
Many a light fishing-bark put out, to pry along the
coast;
And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland
many a post.
With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff
comes,
Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound
the drums:
The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and
ample space,
For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her
Grace:
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the
bells,
As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells.
Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient
crown,
And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies
down!
So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed
Picard field,
Bohemia’s plume, and Genoa’s bow, and
Caesar’s eagle shield:
So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned
to bay,
And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely
hunters lay.
Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight! ho! scatter
flowers, fair
maids!
Ho! gunners! fire a loud salute! ho! gallants! draw
your blades!
Thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft
her wide!
Our glorious semper eadem! the banner of our
pride!
The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner’s
massy fold—
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty
scroll of gold:
Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple
sea;
Such night in England ne’er had been, nor e’er
again shall be.
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford
Bay,
That time of slumber was as bright, and busy as the
day;
For swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly
war-flame spread—
High on St. Michael’s Mount it shone—it
shone on Beachy Head:
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern
shire,
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling
points of fire.
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar’s
glittering waves,
The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip’s
sunless caves;
O’er Longleat’s towers, or Cranbourne’s
oaks, the fiery herald flew,
And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge—the
rangers of Beaulieu.
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out
from Bristol town;
And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton
Down.
The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked
forth into the night,
And saw, o’erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak
of blood-red light: The bugle’s note, and
cannon’s roar, the death-like silence broke,
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city
woke; At once, on all her stately gates, arose the
answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from
all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of
the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the
thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer:
And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying
feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed
down each roaring
street:
And broader still became the blaze, and
louder still the din,
As fast from every village round the horse came spurring
in; And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath,
the warlike errand
went;
And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires
of Kent: Southward, from Surrey’s pleasant
hills, flew those bright couriers
forth;
High on bleak Hampstead’s swarthy moor, they
started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause,
untired they bounded still; All night from tower to
tower they sprang, they sprang from hill to
hill;
Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o’er Darwin’s
rocky dales; Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven
the stormy hills of Wales; Till, twelve fair counties
saw the blaze on Malvern’s lonely height; Till
streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin’s
crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came
forth, on Ely’s stately fane, And tower and
hamlet rose in arms, o’er all the boundless plain;
Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln
sent, And Lincoln sped the message on, o’er
the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire
that burned on Gaunt’s embattled pile, And the
red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.
BY MAX ADELER.
“Your charge against Mr. Barker, the artist here,” said the magistrate, “is assault and battery, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your name is——”
“Potts! I am art critic of the Weekly Spy.”
“State your case.”
“I called at Mr. Barker’s studio upon his invitation to see his great picture, just finished, of ’George Washington cutting down the cherry-tree with his hatchet.’ Mr. Barker was expecting to sell it to Congress for fifty thousand dollars. He asked me what I thought of it, and after I had pointed out his mistake in making the handle of the hatchet twice as thick as the tree, and in turning the head of the hatchet around, so that George was cutting the tree down with the hammer end, I asked him why he foreshortened George’s leg so as to make it look as if his left foot was upon the mountain on the other side of the river.”
“Did Mr. Barker take it kindly?” asked the justice.
“Well, he looked a little glum—that’s all. And then when I asked him why he put a guinea-pig up in the tree, and why he painted the guinea-pig with horns, he said it was not a guinea-pig but a cow; and that it was not in the tree, but in the background. Then I said that, if I had been painting George Washington, I should not have given him the complexion of a salmon-brick, I should not have given him two thumbs on each hand, and I should have tried not to slue his right eye around so that he could see around the back of his head to his left ear. And Barker said, ‘Oh, wouldn’t you?’ Sarcastic, your honour. And I said, ‘No, I wouldn’t’; and I wouldn’t have painted oak-leaves on a cherry-tree; and I wouldn’t have left the spectator in doubt as to whether the figure off by the woods was a factory chimney, or a steamboat, or George Washington’s father taking a smoke.”
“Which was it?” asked the magistrate.
“I don’t know. Nobody will ever know. So Barker asked me what I’d advise him to do. And I told him I thought his best chance was to abandon the Washington idea, and to fix the thing up somehow to represent ‘The Boy who stood on the Burning Deck.’ I told him he might paint the grass red to represent the flames, and daub over the tree so’s it would look like the mast, and pull George’s foot to this side of the river so’s it would rest somewhere on the burning deck, and maybe he might reconstruct the factory chimney, or whatever it was, and make it the captain, while he could arrange the guinea-pig to do for the captain’s dog.”
“Did he agree?”
“He said the idea didn’t strike him. So then I suggested that he might turn it into Columbus discovering America. Let George stand for Columbus, and the tree be turned into a native, and the hatchet made to answer for a flag, while the mountain in the background would answer for the rolling billows of the ocean. He said he’d be hanged if it should. So I mentioned that it might perhaps pass for the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. Put George in black for the headsman, bend over the tree and put a frock on it for Mary, let the hatchet stand, and work in the guinea-pig and the factory chimney as mourners. Just as I had got the words out of my mouth, Barker knocked me clean through the picture. My head tore out Washington’s near leg, and my right foot carried away about four miles of the river. We had it over and over on the floor for a while, and finally Barker whipped. I am going to take the law of him in the interests of justice and high art.”
So Barker was bound over, and Mr. Potts went down to the office of the Spy to write up his criticism.
BY MAX ADELER.
“Mr. Brown, you don’t want to buy a first-rate wooden leg, do you? I’ve got one that I’ve been wearing for two or three years, and I want to sell it. I’m hard up for money; and although I’m attached to that leg, I’m willing to part with it, so’s I kin get the necessaries of life. Legs are all well enough; they are handy to have around the house, and all that; but a man must attend to his stomach, if he has to walk about on the small of his back. Now, I’m going to make you an offer. That leg is Fairchild’s patent; steel-springs, india-rubber joints, elastic toes and everything, and it’s in better order now than it was when I bought it. It’d be a comfort to any man. It’s the most luxurious leg I ever came across. If bliss ever kin be reached by a man this side of the tomb, it belongs to the person that gets that leg on and feels the consciousness creeping over his soul that it is his. Consequently, I say that when I offer it to you I’m doing a personal favour; and I think I see you jump at the chance, and want to clinch the bargain before I mention—you’ll hardly believe it, I know—that I’ll actually knock that leg down to you at four hundred dollars. Four hundred, did I say? I meant six hundred; but let it stand. I never back out when I make an offer; but it’s just throwing that leg away—it is, indeed.”
“But I don’t want an artificial leg,” said Brown.
“The beautiful thing about the limb,” said the stranger, pulling up his trousers and displaying the article, “is that it is reliable. You kin depend on it. It’s always there. Some legs that I have seen were treacherous—most always some of the springs bursting out, or the joints working backwards, or the toes turning down and ketching in things. Regular frauds. But it’s almost pathetic the way this leg goes on year in and
“Really, I have no use for such a thing,” said Mr. Brown.
“You can’t think,” urged the stranger, “what a benediction a leg like this is in a family. When you don’t want to walk with it, it comes into play for the children to ride horsey on; or you kin take it off and stir the fire with it in a way that would depress the spirits of a man with a real leg. It makes the most efficient potato-masher ever you saw. Work it from the second joint, and let the knee swing loose; you kin tack carpets perfectly splendid with the heel; and when a cat sees it coming at him from the winder, he just adjourns, sine die, and goes down off the fence screaming. Now, you’re probably afeared of dogs. When you see one approaching, you always change your base. I don’t blame you; I used to be that way before I lost my home-made leg. But you fix yourself with this artificial extremity, and then what do you care for dogs? If a million of ’em come at you, what’s the odds? You merely stand still and smile, and throw out your spare leg, and let ’em chaw, let ’em fool with that as much as they’ve a mind to, and howl and carry on, for you don’t care. An’ that’s the reason why I say that when I reflect on how imposing you’d be as the owner of such a leg, I feel like saying, that if you insist on offering only a dollar and a half for it, why, take it; it’s yours. I’m not the kinder man to stand on trifles. I’ll take it off and wrap it up in paper for you; shall I?”
“I’m sorry,” said Brown, “but the fact is, I have no use for it. I’ve got two good legs already. If I ever lose one, why, maybe, then I’ll——”
“I don’t think you exactly catch my idea on the subject,” said the stranger. “Now, any man kin have a meat-and-muscle leg; they’re as common as dirt. It’s disgusting how monotonous people are about such things. But I take you for a man who wants to be original. You have style about you. You go it alone, as it were. Now, if I had your peculiarities, do you know what I’d do? I’d get a leg
Then Brown weighed out the crackers, gave him a drink of rum, and told him if he would take them as a present and quit he would confer a favour. And he did. After emptying the crackers in his pockets, and smacking his lips over the rum, he went to the door, and as he opened it said,—
“Good-bye. But if you ever really do want a leg, Old Reliable is ready for you; it’s yours. I consider that you’ve got a mortgage on it, and you kin foreclose at any time. I dedicate this leg to you. My will shall mention it; and if you don’t need it when I die, I’m going to have it put in the savings bank to draw interest until you check it out.”
BY COLONEL JOHN HAY.
The
King was sick. His cheek was red,
And
his eye was clear and bright;
He
ate and drank with a kingly zest,
And
peacefully snored at night.
But
he said he was sick, and a king should know,
And
doctors came by the score,
They
did not cure him. He cut off their heads,
And
sent to the schools for more.
At
last two famous doctors came,
And
one was as poor as a rat,—
He
had passed his life in studious toil,
And
never found time to grow fat.
The
other had never looked in a book;
His
patients gave him no trouble:
If
they recovered they paid him well;
If
they died their heirs paid double.
Together
they looked at the royal tongue,
As
the King on his couch reclined;
In
succession they thumped his august chest,
But
no trace of disease could find.
The
old sage said, “You’re as sound as a nut.”
“Hang
him up,” roared the King in a gale—
In
a ten-knot gale of royal rage;
The
other leech grew a shade pale;
But
he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
And
thus his prescription ran—
The
King will be well if he sleeps one night
In
the Shirt of a Happy Man.
* * * * *
Wide
o’er the realm the couriers rode,
And
fast their horses ran,
And
many they saw, and to many they spoke,
But
they found no Happy Man....
They
saw two men by the roadside sit,
And
both bemoaned their lot;
For
one had buried his wife, he said,
And
the other one had not.
At
last they came to a village gate,
A
beggar lay whistling there!
He
whistled and sang, and laughed and rolled
On
the grass in the soft June air.
The
weary courtiers paused and looked
At
the scamp so blithe and gay;
And
one of them said, “Heaven save you, friend!
You
seem to be happy to-day.”
“O
yes, fair sirs,” the rascal laughed,
And
his voice rang free and glad;
“An
idle man has so much to do
That
he never has time to be sad.”
“This
is our man,” the courier said;
“Our
luck has led us aright.
I
will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
For
the loan of your shirt to-night.”
The
merry blackguard lay back on the grass,
And
laughed till his face was black;
“I
would do it,” said he, and he roared with the
fun,
“But
I haven’t a shirt to my back.”
* * * * *
Each
day to the King the reports came in
Of
his unsuccessful spies,
And
the sad panorama of human woes
Passed
daily under his eyes.
And
he grew ashamed of his useless life,
And
his maladies hatched in gloom;
He
opened his windows and let the air
Of
the free heaven into his room.
And
out he went in the world, and toiled
In
his own appointed way;
And
the people blessed him, the land was glad,
And
the King was well and gay.
BY COLONEL JOHN HAY.
Wall, no!
I can’t tell whar he lives,
Because
he don’t live, you see:
Leastways, he’s
got out of the habit
Of
livin’ like you and me.
Whar have you
been for the last three years
That
you haven’t heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso
passed in his checks,
The
night of the Prairie Bell?
He weren’t
no saint—them engineers
Is
all pretty much alike—
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill
And
another one here, in Pike.
A keerless man
in his talk was Jim,
And
an awkward man in a row—
But he never funked,
and he never lied,
I
reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all
the religion he had—
To
treat his engine well;
Never be passed
on the river;
To
mind the Pilot’s bell;
And if the Prairie
Bell took fire—
A
thousand times he swore,
He’d hold
her nozzle agin the bank
Till
the last soul got ashore.
All boats has
their day on the Mississip,
And
her day come at last—
The Movastar
was a better boat,
But
the Belle she wouldn’t be passed.
And so come tearin’
along that night—
The
oldest craft on the line,
With a nigger
squat on her safety valve,
And
her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire burst
out as she clared the bar,
And
burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a
flash she turned, and made
For
the wilier-bank on the right.
There was runnin’
and cursin’, but Jim yelled out
Over
all the infernal, roar,
“I’ll
hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till
the last galoot’s ashore.”
Through the hot,
black breath of the burnin’ boat
Jim
Bludso’s voice was heard,
And they all had
trust in his cussedness,
And
knowed he would keep his word.
And sure’s
you’re born, they all got off
Afore
the smokestacks fell,—
And Bludso’s
ghost went up alone
In
the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren’t
no saint—but at jedgment
I’d
run my chance with Jim,
’Longside
of some pious gentlemen
That
wouldn’t shook hands with him.
He’d seen
his duty, a dead-sure thing—
And
went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain’t
a going to fee too hard
On
a man that died for men.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Men!
whose boast it is that ye
Come
of fathers brave and free,
If
there breathe on earth a slave,
Are
ye truly free and brave?
If
ye do not feel the chain,
When
it works a brother’s pain,
Are
ye not base slaves indeed,—
Slaves
unworthy to be freed?
Women!
who shall one day bear
Sons
to breathe New England air,
If
ye hear, without a blush,
Deeds
to make the roused blood rush
Like
red lava through your veins,
For
your sisters now in chains,—
Answer!
are ye fit to be
Mothers
of the brave and free?
Is
true Freedom but to break
Fetters
for our own dear sake,
And,
with leathern hearts forget
That
we owe mankind a debt?
No!
true freedom is to share
All
the chains our brothers wear,
And,
with heart and hand, to be
Earnest
to make others free!
They
are slaves who fear to speak
For
the fallen and the weak;
They
are slaves who will not choose
Hatred,
scoffing, and abuse,
Rather
than in silence shrink
From
the truth they needs must think;
They
are slaves who dare not be
In
the right with two or three.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
God
makes sech nights, all white an’ still
Fur’z
you can look or listen,
Moonshine
an’ snow on field an’ hill,
All
silence an’ all glisten.
Zekle
crep’ up quite unbeknown,
An’
peeked in thru’ the winder;
An’
there sot Huldy all alone,
’Ith
no one nigh to hender.
A
fireplace filled the room’s one side,
With
half a cord o’ wood in;
There
warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)
To
bake ye to a puddin’.
The
wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards
the pootiest, bless her!
An’
leetle flames danced all about
The
chiny on the dresser.
Agin
the chimbley crook-necks hung,
Ah’
in amongst em rusted
The
ole queen’s-arm that gran’ther Young
Fetched
back from Concord busted.
The
very room, coz she was in,
Seemed
warm from floor to ceilin’,
An’
she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez
the apples she was peelin’.
‘Twas
kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look
On
sech a blessed cretur;
A
dogrose blushin’ to a brook
Ain’t
modester nor sweeter.
He
was six foot o’ man, A1,
Clean
grit an’ human natur’;
None
couldn’t quicker pitch a ton,
Nor
dror a furrer straighter.
He’d sparked it with
full twenty gals,
He’d squired ’em, danced ’em,
druv ’em,
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—
All is, he wouldn’t love ’em.
But ‘long o’ her
his veins ’ould run
All crinkly like curled maple;
The side she breshed felt full o’ sun
Ez a south slope in Ap’il.
She thought no v’ice hed
sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir:
My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,
She knowed the Lord was nigher.
An’ she’d blush
scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin’-bunnet
Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair
O’ blue eyes sot upon it.
That night, I tell ye, she looked
some!
She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heerd a foot, an’
knowed it tu,
A-rasping on the scraper;
All ways at once her feelin’s flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin’ o’ loitered
on the mat,
Some doubtfle o’ the sekle;
His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,
But her’n went pity Zekle.
An yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
Parin’ away like murder.
“You want to see my Pa,
I s’pose?”
“Wal—no—I come
dasignin’—”
“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’
clo’es
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin.”
To say why gals act so or so,
Or don’t, ‘ould be presumin’;
Mebbe to mean yes an’ say no
Comes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot
fust,
Then stood a spell on t’other,
An’ on which one he felt the wust
He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.
Says he, “I’d better
call agin;”
Says she, “Think likely, Mister;”
Thet last word prick’d him like a pin,
An’—wal, he up an’
kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon ’em
slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the
lips,
An’ teary roun’ the lashes.
For she was jes’ the quiet
kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snow-hid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun’
her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin’,
Tell mother see how metters stood,
An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.
Then her red come back like
the tide
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy;
An’ all I know is they was cried
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
The Rich Man’s Son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold;
And he inherits soft white hands
And tender flesh that fears the cold—
Nor dares to wear a garment old:
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce could wish to hold in fee.
The Rich Man’s Son inherits cares:
The bank may break—the factory burn;
A breath may burst his bubble shares;
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn.
The Rich Man’s Son inherits wants:
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds, with brown arms bare—
And wearies in his easy-chair.
What
doth the Poor Man’s Son inherit?
Stout
muscles, and a sinewy heart,
A
hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King
of two hands, he does his part
In
every useful toil and art:
A
heritage, it seems to me,
A
king might wish to hold in fee.
What
doth the Poor Man’s Son inherit?
Oh!
Rich Man’s Son, there is a toil
That
with all others level stands;
Large
charity doth never soil,
But
only whiten soft white hands—
This
is the best crop from thy lands.
A
heritage, it seems to me,
Worth
being rich to hold in fee.
* * * * *
Oh!
Poor Man’s Son, scorn not thy state;
There
is worse weariness than thine,
In
merely being rich and great;
Toil
only gives the soul to shine,
And-makes
rest fragrant and benign!
Both,
heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are
equal in the earth at last;
Both
children of the same great God!
Prove
title to your heirship vast
By
record of a well-spent past.
A
heritage, it seems to me,
Well
worth a life to hold in fee.
BY LORD TENNYSON.
It was the time when lilies
blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.
I trow they did not part
in scorn;
Lovers long betroth’d were they
They two will wed the morrow morn;
God’s blessing on the day!
“He does not love me
for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well,” said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice the
nurse,
Said, “Who was this that went from
thee?”
“It was my cousin,” said Lady
Clare;
“To-morrow he weds with me.”
“O God be thank’d!”
said Alice the nurse,
“That all comes round so just and
fair:
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare.”
“Are ye out of your
mind, my nurse, my nurse,”
Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak
so wild?”
“As God’s above,” said
Alice the nurse,
“I speak the truth: you are
my child.
“The old Earl’s
daughter died at my breast;
I speak the truth as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead.”
“Falsely, falsely have
ye done,
O mother,” she said, “if this
be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due.”
“Nay now, my child,”
said Alice the nurse,
“But keep the secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s,
When you are man and wife.”
“If I’m a beggar
born,” she said,
“I will speak out, for I dare not
lie.
Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,
And fling the diamond necklace by.”
“Nay now, my child,”
said Alice the nurse,
“But keep the secret all ye can.”
She said “Not so: but I will
know
If there be any faith in man.”
“Nay now, what faith?”
said Alice the nurse,
“The man will cleave unto his right.”
“And he shall have it,” the
lady replied,
“Tho’ I should die to-night.”
“Yet give one kiss
to your mother dear!
Alas! my child, I sinn’d for thee.”
“O mother, mother, mother,”
she said,
“So strange it seems to me.
“Yet here’s a
kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go.”
She clad herself in a russet
gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare:
She went by dale, and she went by down,
With a single rose in her hair.
The lily-white doe Lord Ronald
had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand,
And follow’d her all the way.
Down stept Lord Ronald from
his tower.
“O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
Why come you drest like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth?”
“If I come drest like
a village maid,
I am but as my fortunes are:
I am a beggar born,” she said,
“And not the Lady Clare.”
“Play me no tricks,”
said Lord Ronald,
“For I am yours in word and in deed.
Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,
“Your riddle is hard to read.”
O and proudly stood she up!
Her heart within her did not fail:
She look’d into Lord Ronald’s
eyes,
And told him all her nurse’s tale.
He laugh’d a laugh
of merry scorn:
He turn’d and kiss’d her where
she stood.
“If you are not the heiress born,
And I,” said he, “the next
in blood—
“If you are not the
heiress born,
And I,” said he, “the lawful
heir,
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare.”
BY LORD TENNYSON.
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman’s
boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go
on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish’d
hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is
dead
Will never come back to me.
BY LORD TENNYSON.
In her ear he whispers gaily,
“If my heart by signs can tell,
Maiden, I have watch’d thee daily,
And I think thou lov’st me well.”
She replies, in accents fainter,
“There is none I love like thee.”
He is but a landscape-painter,
And a village maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter,
Presses his without reproof;
Leads her to the village altar,
And they leave her father’s root.
“I can make no marriage
present;
Little can I give my wife.
Love will make our cottage pleasant,
And I love thee more than life.”
They by parks and lodges
going
See the lordly castles stand;
Summer woods about them blowing
Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself
he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well,
“Let us see these handsome houses
Where the wealthy nobles dwell.”
So she goes by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his home and hers.
Parks with oak and chestnut shady,
Parks and order’d gardens great,
Ancient homes of lord and lady,
Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him
dearer;
Evermore she seems to gaze
On that cottage growing nearer,
Where they twain will spend their days.
O but she will love him truly!
He shall have a cheerful home
She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic
Than all those she saw before;
Many a gallant gay domestic
Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle
murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footstep firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And while now she wanders
blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
“All of this is mine and thine.”
Here he lives in state and
bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
Not a lord in all the county
Is so great a lord as he.
All at once the colour flushes
Her sweet face from brow to chin;
As it were with shame she blushes,
And her Spirit changed within.
Then her countenance all
over
Pale again as death did prove;
But he clasp’d her like a lover,
And he cheer’d her soul with love.
So she strove against her
weakness,
Tho’ at times her spirits sank;
Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness
To all duties of her rank;
And a gentle consort made he,
And her gentle mind was such
That she grew a noble lady,
And the people loved her much.
But a trouble weigh’d
upon her,
And perplex’d her, night and morn,
With the burden of an honour
Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever
fainter,
As she murmur’d “Oh, that
he
Were once more that landscape-painter
Which did win my heart from me!”
So she droop’d and droop’d before
him,
Fading slowly from his side;
Three fair children first she bore him,
Then before her time she died.
Weeping, weeping late and
early,
Walking up and pacing down,
Deeply mourn’d the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.
And he came to look upon her,
And he look’d at her and said,
“Bring the dress and put it on her,
That she wore when she was wed.”
Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth her body, drest
In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest.
BY LORD TENNYSON.
With farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look’d at them,
And often thought “I’ll make them man and wife.”
Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all,
And yearn’d towards William; but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.
Then
there came a day
When Allan call’d
his son, and said, “My son:
I married late, but
I would wish to see
My grandchild on my
knees before I die:
And I have set my heart
upon a match.
Now therefore look to
Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty
too beyond her age.
She is my brother’s
daughter: he and I
Had once hard words,
and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but
for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora:
take her for your wife;
For I have wished this
marriage, night and day,
For many years.”
But William answered short:
“I cannot marry
Dora; by my life,
I will not marry Dora.”
Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled
up his hands, and said:
“You will not,
boy! you dare to answer thus!
But in my time a father’s
word was law,
And so it shall be now
for me. Look to it;
Consider, William:
take a month to think,
And let me have an answer
to my wish;
Or, by the Lord that
made me, you shall pack
And never more darken
my doors again.”
But William answer’d
madly; bit his lips,
And broke away.
The more he looked at her
The less he liked her;
and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly.
Then before
The month was out he
left his father’s house,
And hired himself to
work within the fields;
And half in love, half
spite, he woo’d and wed
A labourer’s daughter,
Mary Morrison.
Then,
when the bells were ringing, Allan call’d
His niece and said:
“My girl, I love you well;
But if you speak with
him that was my son,
Or change a word with
her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours.
My will is law,”
And Dora promised, being
meek. She thought,
“It cannot be:
my uncle’s mind will change!”
And days went on, and
there was born a boy
To William; then distresses
came on him;
And day by day he passed
his father’s gate,
Heart-broken, and his
father helped him not.
But Dora stored what
little she could save,
And sent it them by
stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it; till at
last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest
time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary.
Mary sat
And look’d with tears upon her boy, and
thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
“I have obey’d my uncle until now,
And I have sinn’d, for it was all thro’ me
This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that’s gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you:
You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest: let me take the boy,
And I will set him in my uncle’s eye
Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,
And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone.”
And Dora took the child, and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
Far off the farmer came into the field
And spied her not; for none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart fail’d her; and the reapers reap’d,
And the sun fell, and the land was dark.
But when the morrow came she rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat
To make him pleasing in her uncle’s eye.
Then when the farmer pass’d into the field
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said: “Where were you yesterday?
Whose child is that? What are you doing here?”
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,
And answer’d softly, “This is William’s child!”
“And did I not,” said Allan, “did I not
Forbid you, Dora?” Dora said again:
“Do with me as you will, but take the child
And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone!”
And Allan said, “I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more.”
So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora’s feet. She bow’d upon her hands,
And the boy’s cry came to her from the field
More and more distant. She bow’d down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She bow’d down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap’d,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary’s house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that help’d her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, “My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more.”
Then answer’d Mary, “This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home,
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William’s child, until he grows
Of age to help us.”
So
the women kiss’d
Each other, and set
out, and reach’d the farm.
The door was off the
latch: they peep’d and saw
The boy set up betwixt
his grandsire’s knees,
Who thrust him in the
hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the
hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved
him; and the lad stretched out
And babbled for the
golden seal that hung
From Allan’s watch,
and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in; but
when the boy beheld
His mother he cried
out to come to her:
And Allan set him down,
and Mary said:—
“O
Father!—if you let me call you so—
I never came a-begging
for myself,
Or William, or this
child; but now I come
For Dora: take
her back; she loves you well.
O Sir, when William
died, he died at peace
With all men; for I
ask’d him, and he said,
He could not ever rue
his marrying me—
I had been a patient
wife; but, Sir, he said
That he was wrong to
cross his father thus:
‘God bless him!’
he said, ’and may he never know
The troubles I have
gone thro’!’ Then he turn’d
His face and pass’d—unhappy
that I am!
But now, Sir, let me
have my boy, for you
Will make him hard,
and he will learn to slight
His father’s memory;
and take Dora back,
And let all this be
as it was before.”
So Mary said, and Dora hid
her face
By Mary. There was silence in the room;
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—
“I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill’d my son.
I have kill’d him—but I loved him—my dear son.
May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.
Kiss me, my children.”
Then they clung about
The old man’s neck, and kiss’d him many times,
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundredfold;
And for three hours he sobb’d o’er William’s child,
Thinking of William.
So those four abode
Within one house together; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
BY JAMES PAYN.
Mrs. B. is my wife; and her alarms are those produced by a delusion under which she labours that there are assassins, gnomes, vampires, or what not, in our house at night, and that it is my bounden duty to leave my bed at any hour or temperature, and to do battle with the same, in very inadequate apparel. The circumstances which attend Mrs. B.’s alarms are generally of the following kind. I am awakened by the mention of my baptismal name in that peculiar species of whisper which has something uncanny in its very nature, besides the dismal associations which belong to it, from the fact of its being used only in melodramas and sick-rooms.
“Henry, Henry, Henry!”
How many times she had repeated this I know not; the sound falls on my ear like the lapping of a hundred waves, or as the “Robin Crusoe, Robin Crusoe,” of the parrot smote upon the ear of the terrified islander of Defoe; but at last I wake, to view, by the dim firelight, this vision: Mrs. B. is sitting up beside me, in a listening attitude of the very intensest kind; her nightcap (one with cherry-coloured ribbons, such as it can be no harm to speak about) is tucked back behind either ear; her hair—in paper—is rolled out of the way upon each side like a banner furled; her eyes are rather wide open, and her mouth very much so; her fingers would be held up to command attention, but that she is supporting herself in a somewhat absurd manner upon her hands.
“Henry, did you hear that?”
“What, my love?”
“That noise. There it is again; there—there.”
The disturbance referred to is that caused by a mouse nibbling at the wainscot; and I venture to say so much in a tone of the deepest conviction.
“No, no, Henry; it’s not the least like that: it’s a file working at the bars of the pantry-window. I will stake my existence, Henry, that it is a file.”
Whenever my wife makes use of this particular form of words I know that opposition is useless. I rise, therefore, and put on my slippers and dressing-gown. Mrs. B. refuses to let me have the candle, because she will die of terror if she is left alone without a light. She puts the poker into my hand, and with a gentle violence is about to expel me from the chamber, when a sudden thought strikes her.
“Stop a bit, Henry,” she exclaims, “until I have looked into the cupboards and places;” which she proceeds to do most minutely, investigating even the short drawers of a foot and a half square. I am at length dismissed upon my perilous errand, and Mrs. B. locks and double-locks the door behind me with a celerity that almost catches my retreating garment. My expedition therefore combines all the dangers of a sally, with the additional disadvantage of having my retreat into my own fortress cut off. Thus cumbrously but ineffectually caparisoned, I peramulate the lower stories of the house in darkness, in search of the disturber of Mrs. B.’s repose, which, I am well convinced, is behind the wainscot of her own apartment, and nowhere else. The pantry, I need not say, is as silent as the grave, and about as cold. The great clock in the kitchen looks spectral enough by the light of the expiring embers, but there is nothing there with life except black-beetles, which crawl in countless numbers over my naked ankles. There is a noise in the cellar such as Mrs. B. would at once identify with the suppressed converse of anticipated burglars, but which I recognise in a moment as the dripping of the small-beer cask, whose tap is troubled with a nervous disorganisation of that kind. The dining-room is chill and cheerless; a ghostly armchair is doing the grim honours of the table to three other vacant seats, and dispensing hospitality in the shape of a mouldy orange and some biscuits, which I remember to have left in some disgust, about——Hark! the clicking of a revolver? No! the warning of the great clock—one, two, three.... What a frightful noise it makes in the startled ear of night! Twelve o’clock. I left this dining-room, then, but three hours and a-half ago; it certainly does not look like the same room now. The drawing-room is also far from wearing its usual snug and comfortable appearance. Could we possibly have all been sitting in the relative positions to one another which these chairs assume? Or since we were there, has some spiritual company, with no eye for order left among them, taken advantage of the remains of our fire to hold a reunion? They are here even at this moment perhaps, and their gentlemen have not yet come up from the dining-room. I shudder from head to foot, partly at the bare idea of such a thing, partly from the naked fact of my exceedingly unclothed condition. They do say that in the very passage which I have now to cross in order to get to Mrs. B. again, my great-grandfather “walks”; in compensation, I suppose, for having been prevented by gout from taking that species of exercise while he was alive. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, I think, as I approach this spot; but I do not say so, for I am well-nigh speechless with the cold: yes, the cold. It is only my teeth that chatter. What a scream that was! There it comes again, and there is no doubt this time as to who is the owner of that terrified voice. Mrs. B.’s alarms have evidently taken some other direction. “Henry, Henry!” she cries, in tones of a very tolerable pitch. A lady being in the case, I fly upon the wings of domestic love along the precincts sacred to the perambulations of my great-grandfather. I arrive at my wife’s chamber; the screams continue, but the door is locked.
“Open, open!” shout I. “What on earth is the matter?”
There is silence; then a man’s voice—that is to say, my wife’s voice in imitation of a man’s—replies in tones of indignant ferocity, to convey the idea of a life-preserver being under the pillow of the speaker, and ready to his hand: “Who are you—what do you want?”
“You very silly woman,” I answered; not from unpoliteness, but because I find that that sort of language recovers and assures her of my identity better than any other—“why, it’s I.”
The door is then opened about six or seven inches, and I am admitted with all the precaution which attends the entrance of an ally into a besieged garrison.
Mrs. B., now leaning upon my shoulder, dissolves into copious tears, and points to the door communicating with my attiring-chamber.
“There’s sur—sur—somebody been snoring in your dressing-room,” she sobs, “all the time you were away.”
This statement is a little too much for my sense of humour, and although sympathising very tenderly with poor Mrs. B., I cannot help bursting into a little roar of laughter. Laughter and fear are deadly enemies, and I can see at once that Mrs. B. is all the better for this explosion.
“Consider, my love,” I reason, “consider the extreme improbability of a burglar or other nefarious person making such a use of the few precious hours of darkness as to go to sleep in them! Why, too, should he take a bedstead without a mattress, which I believe is the case in this particular supposition of yours, when there were feather-beds unoccupied in other apartments? Moreover, would not this be a still greater height of recklessness in such an individual, should he have a habit of snor——”
A slight noise in the dressing-room, occasioned by the Venetian blind tapping against the window, here causes Mrs. B. to bury her head with extreme swiftness, ostrichlike, beneath the pillow, so that the peroration of my argument is lost upon her. I enter the suspected chamber—this time with a lighted candle—and find my trousers, with the boots in them, hanging over the bedside something after the manner of a drunken marauder, but nothing more. Neither is there anybody reposing under the shadow of my boot-tree upon the floor. All is peace there, and at sixes and sevens as I left it upon retiring—as I had hoped—to rest.
Once more I stretch my chilled and tired limbs upon the couch; sweet sleep once more begins to woo my eyelids, when “Henry, Henry!” again dissolves the dim and half-formed dream.
“Are you certain, Henry, that you looked in the shower-bath? I am almost sure that I heard somebody pulling the string.”
No grounds, indeed, are too insufficient, no supposition too incompatible with reason, for Mrs. B. to build her alarms upon. Sometimes, although we lodge upon the second story, she imagines that the window is being attempted; sometimes, although the register may be down, she is confident that the chimney is being used as the means of ingress.
Once, when we happened to be in London—where she feels, however, a good deal safer than in the country—we had a real alarm, and Mrs. B., since I was suffering from a quinsy, contracted mainly by my being sent about the house o’ nights in the usual scanty drapery, had to be sworn in as her own special constable.
“Henry, Henry!” she whispered upon this occasion, “there’s a dreadful cat in the room.”
“Pooh, pooh!” I gasped; “it’s only in the street; I’ve heard the wretches. Perhaps they are on the tiles.”
“No, Henry. There, I don’t want you to talk, since it makes you cough; only listen to me. What am I to do, Henry? I’ll stake my existence that there’s a—— Ugh, what’s that?”
And, indeed, some heavy body did there and then jump upon our bed, and off again at my wife’s interjection, with extreme agility. I thought Mrs. B. would have had a fit, but she didn’t. She told me, dear soul, upon no account to venture into the cold with my bad throat. She would turn out the beast herself, single-handed. We arranged that she was to take hold of my fingers, and retain them, until she reached the fireplace, where she would find a shovel or other offensive weapon fit for the occasion. During the progress of this expedition, however, so terrible a caterwauling broke forth, as it seemed, from the immediate neighbourhood of the fender, that my disconcerted helpmate made a most precipitate retreat. She managed after this mishap to procure a light, and by a circuitous route, constructed of tables and chairs, to avoid stepping upon the floor, Mrs. B. obtained the desired weapon. It was then much better than a play to behold that heroic woman defying grimalkin from her eminence, and to listen to the changeful dialogue which ensued between herself and that far from dumb, though inarticulately speaking animal.
“Puss, puss, pussy—poor pussy.”
“Miau, miau, miau,” was the linked shrillness, long drawn out, of the feline reply.
“Poor old puss, then, was it ill? Puss, puss. Henry, the horrid beast is going to fly at me! Whist, whist, cat.”
“Ps-s-s-s. ps-s-s-s, miau; ps-s-s-s-s-s-s-s,” replied the other, in a voice like fat in the fire.
“My dear love,” cried I, almost suffocated with a combination of laughter and quinsy; “you have never opened the door; where is the poor thing to run to?”
Mrs. B. had all this time been exciting the bewildered animal to frenzy by her conversation and shovel, without giving it the opportunity to escape, which, as soon as offered, it took advantage of with an expression of savage impatience partaking very closely indeed of the character of an oath.
This is, however, the sole instance of Mrs. B.’s having ever taken it in hand to subdue her own alarms. It is I who, ever since her marriage, have done the duty, and more than the duty, of an efficient house-dog, which before that epoch, I understand, was wont to be discharged by one of her younger sisters. Not seldom, in these involuntary rounds of mine, I have become myself the cause of alarm or inconvenience to others. Our little foot-page, with a courage beyond his years, and a spirit worthy of a better cause, very nearly transfixed me with the kitchen spit as I was trying, upon one occasion, the door of his own pantry. Upon another nocturnal expedition, I ran against a human body in the dark—that turned out to be my brother-in-law’s, who was also in search of robbers—with a shock to both our nervous systems such as they have not yet recovered from. It fell to my lot, upon a third, to discover one of the rural police up in our attics, where, in spite of the increased powers lately granted to the county constabulary, I could scarcely think he was entitled to be. I once presented myself, an uninvited guest, at a select morning entertainment—it was at 1.30 A.M.—given by our hired London cook to nearly a dozen of her male and female friends. No wonder that Mrs. B. had “staked her existence” that night that she had heard the area gate “go.” When I consider the extremely free and unconstrained manner in which I was received, poker and all, by that assembly, my only surprise is that they did not signify their arrivals by double knocks at the front door.
On one memorable night, and on one only, have I found it necessary to use that formidable weapon which habit has rendered as familiar to my hand as its flower to that of the Queen of Clubs.
The grey of morning had just begun to steal into our bedchamber, when Mrs. B. ejaculated with unusual vigour, “Henry, Henry, they’re in the front drawing-room; and they’ve just knocked down the parrot screen.”
“My love,” I was about to observe, “your imaginative powers have now arrived at the pitch of clairvoyance,” when a noise from the room beneath us, as if all the fireirons had gone off together with a bang, compelled me to acknowledge, to myself at least, that there was something in Mrs. B.’s alarms at last. I trod downstairs as noiselessly as I could, and in almost utter darkness. The drawing-room door was ajar, and through the crevice I could distinguish, despite the gloom, as many as three muffled figures. They were all of them in black clothing, and each wore over his face a mask of crape, fitting quite closely to his features. I had never been confronted by anything so dreadful before. Mrs. B. had cried “Wolf!” so often that I had almost ceased to believe in wolves of this description at all. Unused to personal combat, and embarrassed by the novel circumstance under which I found myself, I was standing undecided on the landing, when I caught that well-known whisper
Was Mrs. B. out of her mind with terror that at such an hour as that she should indulge in a paroxysm of mirth?
“Good heavens!” I cried, “be calm, my love; there are burglars in the house at last.”
“My dear Henry,” she answered, laughing so that the tears quite stood in her eyes, “I am very sorry; I tried to call you back. But when I sent you downstairs, I quite forgot that this was the morning upon which I had ordered the sweeps!”
One of those gentlemen was at that moment lying underneath with his skull fractured, and it cost me fifteen pounds to get it mended, besides the expense of a new drawing-room carpet.
—From “Humorous
Stories” by James Payn. By permission of
Messrs. Chatto & Windus.
BY SARAH ORME JEWETT.
It was a cloudy, dismal day, and I was
all alone,
For early in the morning John Earl and
Nathan Stone
Came riding up the lane to say—I
saw they both looked pale—
That Anderson the murderer had broken
out of jail.
They only stopped a minute, to tell my
man that he
Must go to the four corners, where all
the folks would be;
They were going to hunt the country, for
he only had been gone
An hour or so when they missed him, that
morning just at dawn.
John never finished his breakfast; he saddled the old white mare.
She seemed to know there was trouble, and galloped as free and fair
And even a gait as she ever struck when she was a five-year-old:
The knowingest beast we ever had, and worth her weight in gold.
He turned in the saddle and called
to me—I watched him from
the door—
“I shan’t be home to dinner,”
says he, “but I’ll be back by four.
I’d fasten the doors if I was you, and keep
at home to-day;”
And a little chill came over me as I watched him
ride away.
I went in and washed the dishes—I was sort of scary too.
We had ’ranged to go away that day. I hadn’t much to do,
Though I always had some sewing work, and I got it and sat down;
But the old clock tick-tacked loud at me, and I put away the gown.
I thought the story over: how Anderson had been
A clever, steady fellow, so far’s they knew, till then.
Some said his wife had tried him, but he got to drinking hard,
Till last he struck her with an axe and killed her in the yard.
The only thing I heard he said was, he
was most to blame;
But he fought the men that took him like
a tiger. ’Twas a shame
He’d got away; he ought to swing:
a man that killed his wife
And broke her skull in with an axe—he
ought to lose his life!
Our house stood in a lonesome place, the
woods were all around,
But I could see for quite a ways across
the open ground;
I couldn’t help, for the life o’
me, a-looking now and then
All along the edge o’ the growth,
and listening for the men.
I thought they would find Anderson:
he couldn’t run till night,
For the farms were near together, and
there must be a sight
Of men out hunting for him; but when the
clock struck three,
A neighbour’s boy came up with word
that John had sent to me.
He would be home by five o’clock.
They’d scour the woods till dark;
Some of the men would be off all night,
but he and Andrew Clark
Would keep watch round his house and ours—I
should not stay alone.
Poor John, he did the best he could, but
what if he had known!
The boy could hardly stop to tell that
the se-lec’men had said
They would pay fifty dollars for the man
alive or dead,
And I felt another shiver go over me for
fear
That John might get that money, though
we were pinched that year.
I felt a little easier then, and went
to work again:
The sky was getting cloudier, ’twas
coming on to rain.
Before I knew, the clock struck six, and
John had not come back;
The rain began to spatter down, and all
the sky was black.
I thought and thought, what shall I do
if I’m alone all night?
I wa’n’t so brave as I am
now. I lit another light,
And I stirred round and got supper, but
I ate it all alone.
The wind was blowing more and more—I
hate to hear it moan.
I was cutting rags to braid a rug—I sat there by the fire;
I wished I’d kep’ the dog at home; the gale was rising higher;
O own I had hard thoughts o’ John; I said he had no right
To leave his wife in that lonesome place alone that dreadful night.
And then I thought of the murderer,
afraid of God and man;
I seemed to follow him all the time, whether he
hid or ran;
I saw him crawl on his hands and knees through the
icy mud in the
rain,
And I wondered if he didn’t wish he was back
in his home again.
I fell asleep for an hour or two, and then I woke with a start;
A feeling come across me that took and stopped my heart;
I was ’fraid to look behind me; then I felt my heart begin;
And I saw right at the window-pane two eyes a-looking in.
I couldn’t look away from them—the face was white as clay.
Those eyes, they make me shudder when I think of them to-day.
I knew right off ’twas Anderson. I couldn’t move nor speak;
I thought I’d slip down on the floor, I felt so light and weak.
“O Lord,” I thought, “what shall I do?” Some words begun to come,
Like some one whispered to me: I set there, still and dumb:
“I was a stranger—took me in—in prison—visited me;”
And I says, “O Lord, I couldn’t; it’s a murderer, you see!”
And those eyes they watched me all
the time, in dreadful still
despair—
Most like the room looked warm and safe; he watched
me setting
there;
And what ’twas made me do it, I don’t
know to this day,
But I opened the door and let him in—a
murderer at bay.
He laid him right down on the floor,
close up beside the fire.
I never saw such a wretched sight: he was covered
thick with mire;
His clothes were torn to his very skin, and his
hands were bleeding
fast.
I gave him something to tie ’em up, and all
my fears were past.
I filled the fire place up with wood to get the creature warm,
And I fetched him a bowl o’ milk to drink—I couldn’t do him harm;
And pretty soon he says, real low, “Do you know who I be?”
And I says, “You lay there by the fire; I know you won’t hurt me.”
I had been fierce as any one before I saw him there,
But I pitied him—a ruined man whose life had started fair.
I somehow or ’nother never felt that I was doing wrong,
And I watched him laying there asleep almost the whole night long.
I thought once that I heard the men, and
I was half afraid
That they might come and find him there;
and so I went and staid
Close to the window, watching, and listening
for a cry;
And he slept there like a little child—forgot
his misery.
I almost hoped John wouldn’t come
till he could get away;
And I went to the door and harked awhile,
and saw the dawn of day.
’Twas bad for him to have slept
so long, but I couldn’t make him go
From the City of Refuge he had found;
and he was glad, I know.
It was years and years ago, but still
I never can forget
How grey it looked that morning; the air
was cold and wet;
Only the wind would howl sometimes, or
else the trees would creak—
All night I’d ’a given anything
to hear somebody speak.
He heard me shut the door again, and started up so wild
And haggard that I ’most broke down. I wasn’t reconciled
To have the poor thing run all day, chased like a wolf or bear;
But I knew he’d brought it on himself; his punishment was fair.
I gave him something more to eat;
he couldn’t touch it then,
“God pity you, poor soul!” says I. May
I not see again
A face like his, as he stood in the door and looked
which way
to go!
I watched him making towards the swamps, dead-lame
and moving slow.
He had hardly spoken a word to me,
but as he went away
He thanked me, and gave me such a look! ’twill
last to my dying
day.
“May God have mercy on me, as you have had!”
says he,
And I choked, and couldn’t say a word, and
he limped away from me.
John came home bright and early. He’d fell and hurt his head,
And he stopped up to his father’s; but he’d sent word, he said,
And told the boy to fetch me there—my cousin, Johnny Black—
But he went off with some other folks, who thought they’d found the
track.
Oh yes, they did catch Anderson, early that afternoon
And carried him back to jail again, and tried and hung him soon.
Justice is justice! but I say, although they served him right,
I’m glad I harboured the murderer that stormy April night.
Some said I might have locked him up, and got the town reward;
But I couldn’t have done it if I’d starved, and I do hope the Lord
Forgave it, if it was a sin; but I could never see
’Twas wrong to shelter a hunted man, trusting his life to me.
From
“Harper’s Magazine.” By special
permission
of Harper & Brothers.
BY BRET HARTE.
[William Guild was engineer of the train which plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his home, to whistle an “All’s well” to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.]
Two low whistles, quaint
and clear,
That was the signal the engineer—
That was the signal that Guild, ’tis
said—
Gave to his wife at Providence,
As through the sleeping town, and thence,
Out in the night,
On to the light,
Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!
As a husband’s greeting,
scant, no doubt,
Yet to the woman looking out,
Watching and waiting, no serenade,
Love song, or midnight roundelay
Said what that whistle seemed to say:
“To my trust true,
So love to you!
Working or wailing, good night!” it
said.
Brisk young bagmen, tourists
fine,
Old commuters along the line,
Brakemen and porters glanced ahead,
Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense,
Pierced through the shadows of Providence:
“Nothing amiss—
Nothing!—it is
Only Guild calling his wife,” they
said.
Summer and winter the old
refrain
Rang o’er the billows of ripening
grain,
Pierced through the budding boughs o’erhead:
Flew down the track when the red leaves
burned
Like living coals from the engine spurned;
Sang as it flew:
“To our trust true,
First of all, duty. Good night!”
it said.
And then one night it was
heard no more
From Stonington over Rhode Island shore,
And the folk in Providence smiled and
said,
As they turned in their beds, “The
engineer
Has once forgotten his midnight cheer.”
One only knew,
To his trust true,
Guild lay under his engine dead.
BY BRET HARTE.
Half an hour till train time,
sir,
An’ a fearful dark time, too;
Take a look at the switch lights, Tom,
Fetch in a stick when you’re through.
On time? Well, yes, I guess so—
Left the last station all right;
She’ll come round the curve a-flyin’;
Bill Mason comes up to-night.
You know Bill? No?
He’s engineer,
Been on the road all his life—
I’ll never forget the mornin’
He married his chuck of a wife.
’Twas the summer the mill hands struck,
Just off work, every one;
They kicked up a row in the village
And killed old Donevan’s son.
Bill hadn’t been married
mor’n an hour,
Up comes a message from Kress,
Orderin’ Bill to go up there
And bring down the night express.
He left his gal in a hurry,
And went up on Number One,
Thinking of nothing but Mary,
And the train he had to run.
And Mary sat down by the
window
To wait for the night express;
And, sir, if she hadn’t ’a done
so,
She’d been a widow, I guess.
For it must ’a been
nigh midnight
When the mill hands left the Ridge;
They came down—the drunken devils,
Tore up a rail from the bridge,
But Mary heard ’em a-workin’
And guessed there was something wrong—
And in less than fifteen minutes,
Bill’s train it would be along!
She couldn’t come here
to tell us,
A mile—it wouldn’t ’a
done;
So she jest grabbed up a lantern,
And made for the bridge alone.
Then down came the night express, sir,
And Bill was makin’ her climb!
But Mary held the lantern,
A-swingin’ it all the time.
Well, by Jove! Bill
saw the signal,
And he stopped the night express,
And he found his Mary cryin’
On the track in her weddin’ dress;
Cryin’ an’ laughin’ for
joy, sir,
An’ holdin’ on to the light—
Hello! here’s the train—good-bye,
sir,
Bill Mason’s on time to-night.
FROM “ST. NICHOLAS.”
It was out on the Western frontier,
The miners, rugged and brown,
Were gathered around the posters—
The circus had come to town!
The great tent shone in the darkness,
Like a wonderful palace of light,
And rough men crowded the entrance;
Shows didn’t come every night.
Not
a woman’s face among them,
Many
a face that was bad,
And
some that were very vacant,
And
some that were very sad.
And
behind a canvas curtain,
In
a corner of the place,
The
clown with chalk and vermilion
Was
making up his face.
A
weary-looking woman,
With
a smile that still was sweet,
Sewed,
on a little garment,
With
a cradle at her feet.
Pantaloon
stood ready and waiting,
It
was time for the going on;
But
the clown in vain searched wildly—
The
“property baby” was gone.
He
murmured, impatiently hunting,
“It’s
strange that I cannot find;
There!
I’ve looked in every corner;
It
must have been left behind!”
The
miners were stamping and shouting,
They
were not patient men;
The
clown bent over the cradle—
“I
must take you, little Ben.”
The
mother started and shivered,
But
trouble and want were near;
She
lifted her baby gently;
“You’ll
be very careful, dear?”
“Careful?
You foolish darling”—
How
tenderly it was said!
What
a smile shone thro’ the chalk and paint—
“I
love each hair of his head!”
The
noise rose into an uproar,
Misrule
for a time was king;
The
clown with a foolish chuckle,
Bolted
into the ring.
But
as, with a squeak and flourish,
The
fiddles closed their tune,
“You
hold him as if he was made of glass!”
Said
the clown to the pantaloon.
The
jovial fellow nodded;
“I’ve
a couple myself,” he said,
“I
know how to handle ’em, bless you;
Old
fellow, go ahead!”
The
fun grew fast and furious,
And
not one of all the crowd
Had
guessed that the baby was alive,
When
he suddenly laughed aloud.
Oh,
that baby laugh! it was echoed
From
the benches with a ring,
And
the roughest customer there sprang up
With
“Boys, it’s the real thing!”
The
ring was jammed in a minute,
Not
a man that did not strive
For
“a shot at holding the baby”—
The
baby that was “alive!”
He
was thronged by kneeling suitors
In
the midst of the dusty ring,
And
he held his court right royally,
The
fair little baby king;
Till
one of the shouting courtiers,
A
man with a bold, hard face,
The
talk for miles of the country
And
the terror of the place,
Raised
the little king to his shoulder,
And
chuckled, “Look at that!”
As
the chubby fingers clutched his hair,
Then,
“Boys, hand round the hat!”
There
never was such a hatful
Of
silver, and gold, and notes;
People
are not always penniless
Because
they won’t wear coats!
And
then “Three cheers for the baby!”
I
tell you those cheers were meant,
And
the way in which they were given
Was
enough to raise the tent.
And
then there was sudden silence,
And
a gruff old miner said,
“Come,
boys, enough of this rumpus;
It’s
time it was put to bed.”
So, looking a little sheepish,
But with faces strangely bright,
The audience, somewhat lingering,
Flocked out into the night.
And the bold-faced leader chuckled,
“He wasn’t a bit afraid!
He’s as game as he is good-looking;
Boys, that was a show that paid!”
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Whatever I do and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn’t the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago),
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.
Dear aunt!
If I only would take her advice—
But I like my
own way, and I find it so nice!
And besides, I
forget half the things I am told,
But they all will
come back to me—when I am old.
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; She would never endure an impertinent stare, It is horrid, she says, and I mustn’t sit there.
A walk in the
moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it isn’t
quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad’s
arm,—just for safety, you know,—
But Aunt Tabitha
tells me, they didn’t do so.
How wicked we
are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm’s
length those detestable men;
What an era of
virtue she lived in!—but stay—
Were the men all
such rogues in Aunt Tabitha’s day?
If the men were
so wicked—I’ll ask my papa
How he dared to
propose to my darling mamma?
Was he like the
rest of them? Goodness! who knows?
And what shall
I say if a wretch should propose?
I am thinking
if aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder
Aunt Tabitha’s aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt—it
scares me—how shockingly sad
That we girls
of to-day are so frightfully bad!
A martyr will
save us, and nothing else can;
Let me
perish to rescue some wretched young man
Though when to
the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha’ll
tell me she never did so!
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to
stay
An’ wash the cups and saucers up, and brush
the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’
dust the hearth an’ sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread’
an’ earn her board-an’-keep;
An’ all us other children, when the supper things
is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest
fun
A-list’nin’ to the witch tales ’at
Annie tells about,
An’ the gobble-uns ’at gits you—Ef
you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
Onc’t they was a little boy wouldn’t say
his prayers,
An’ when he went to bed at night, away upstairs,
His Mammy heered him holler, an’ his daddy heered
him bawl,
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down,
he wasn’t there at all!
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’
cubby-hole, an’ press,
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’
ever’wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’
roundabout,
An’ the gobble-uns’ll git you—Ef
you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh
an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all
her blood an’ kin;
An’ onc’t, when they was “company,”
an’ ole folks was there,
She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em,
an’ said she didn’t care!
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’
turn’t to run an’ hide,
They was two great big black things a-standin’
by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’
’fore she knowed what
she’s
about!
An’ the gobble-uns’ll git you—Ef
you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ Little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze
is blue,
An’ the lamp wick sputters, an’ the wind
goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the
moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched
away,—
You better mind yer parents, an’ yer teachers
fond an’ dear,
An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’
dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones
’at clusters all about,
Er the gobble-uns’ll get you—Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
BY EUGENE FIELD.
I’d like to be a cowboy an’
ride a fiery hoss
Way out into the big and boundless West;
I’d kill the bears an’ catamounts
an’ wolves I come across,
An’ I’d pluck the bal’head
eagle from his nest!
With my pistols at my side
I would roam the prarers wide,
An’ to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam
would I ride—
If I darst; but I darsen’t!
I’d like to go to Afriky
an’ hunt the lions there,
An’ the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw!
I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial
lair,
An’ beard the cannybull that eats folks
raw!
I’d chase the pizen snakes
And the ’pottimus that makes
His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes—
If I darst; but I darsen’t!
I would I were a pirut to sail
the ocean blue,
With a big black flag a-flyin’ overhead;
I would scour the billowy main with my gallant
pirut crew,
An’ dye the sea a gouty, gory red!
With my cutlass in my hand
On the quarterdeck I’d stand
And to deeds of heroism I’d incite my pirut
band—
If I darst; but I darsen’t!
And, if I darst, I’d lick
my pa for the times that he’s
licked me!
I’d lick my brother an’ my teacher,
too.
I’d lick the fellers that call round on
sister after tea,
An’ I’d keep on lickin’ folks
till I got through!
You bet! I’d run away
From my lessons to my play,
An’ I’d shoo the hens, an’ teaze
the cat, an’ kiss the girls
all day—
If I darst; but I darsen’t!
ANONYMOUS.
“Jud, they say you have heard Rubinstein play
when you were in New
York?”
“I did, in the cool.”
“Well, tell us all about it.”
“What! me? I might’s well tell you about the creation of the world.”
“Come, now; no mock modesty. Go ahead.”
“Well, sir, he had the biggest, catty-cornerdest pianner you ever laid your eyes on; somethin’ like a distracted billiard table on three legs. The lid was heisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn’t, he’d a-tore the intire sides clean out, and scattered them to the four winds of heaven.”
“Played well, did he?”
“You bet he did; but don’t interrupt me. When he first sat down he ’peared to keer mighty little ‘bout playin’, and wish’t he hadn’t come. He tweedle-eedled a little on the trible, and twoodle-oodled some on the bass—just foolin’ and boxin’ the thing’s jaws for bein’ in his way. And I says to the man settin’ next to me, s’ I, ’What sort of fool-playin’ is that?’ And he says, ‘Hush!’ But presently his hands began chasin’ one ’nother up and down the keys, like a parcel of rats scamperin’ through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar-squirrel turning the wheel of a candy-cage.
“‘Now,’ I says to my neighbour, ‘he’s a showin’ off. He thinks he’s a-doin’ of it, but he ain’t got no ide, no plan of nothin’. If he’d play a tune of some kind or other I’d——’
“But my neighbour says ‘Hush,’ very impatient.
“I was just about to git up and go home, bein’ tired of that foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking away off in the woods, and callin’ sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up, and I see that Rubin was beginnin’ to take some interest in his business, and I set down agin. It was the peep of the day. The light came faint from the east, the breeze blowed gentle and fresh, some birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun singin’ together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was the broad day: the sun fairly blazed, the birds sang like they’d split their throats; all the leaves were movin’ and flashin’ diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there was a good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin’.
“And I says to my neighbour, ‘That’s music, that is.’
“But he glared at me like he’d cut my throat.
“Presently the wind turned; it began to thicken up and a kind of thick grey mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain began to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground, some flashed up like long pearl earrings, and the rest rolled away like rubies. It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams running between golden gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see music, especially when the bushes on the bank moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn’t shine nor the birds sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold.
“The most curious thing was the little white angel boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook, and led it on and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was—I never was, certain. I could see the boy just the same as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards, over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top trees splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lift-up windows, and men that loved ’em, but never got a-nigh ’em, and played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could a-cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don’t know who, better than the men with guitars did.
“Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could a-got up and there and then preached a better sermon than any I ever listened to. There wasn’t a thing in the world left to live for—not a single thing; and yet I didn’t want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn’t understand it. I hung my head and pulled out my han’kerchief, and blowed my nose well to keep from cryin’. My eyes is weak anyway; I didn’t want anybody to be a-gazin’ at me a-snivilin’, and it’s nobody business what I do with my nose. It’s mine. But several glared at me as mad as mad. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He rip’d and he rar’d, he tip’d and he tar’d, and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. ’Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head ready to look at any man in the face, and not afear’d of nothin’. It was a circus, and a brass band, and a big ball, all going on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of bricks; he gave ‘em no rest, day nor night; he set every livin’ joint in me a-goin’, and not bein’ able to stand it no longer, I jumpt, sprang on to my seat, and jest hollered—
“‘Go it, my Rube!’
“Every man, woman, and child in the house riz on me, and shouted, ‘Put him out! Put him out!’
“’Put your great-grandmother’s grizzly gray greenish cat into the middle of next month,’ I says, ’Tech me if you dare! I paid my money, and you jest come a-nigh me!’
“With that several policemen ran up, and I had to simmer down. But I would a fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Rube out or die.
“He had changed his tune again. He hopt-light ladies, and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-bord. He played soft, and low, and solemn. I heard the church bells over the hills. The candles in heaven were lit one by one; I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world’s end to the world’s end; and the angels went to prayers.... Then the music changed to water, full of feeling that couldn’t be thought, and began to drop—drip, drop, drip, drop—clear and sweet, like tears of joy fallin’ into a lake of glory. It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetn’d with white sugar, mixed with powdered silver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you, the audience cheered. Rubin, he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, ’Much obleeged, but I’d rather you wouldn’t interrupt me.’
“He stopped a minute or two to fetch breath. Then he got mad. He runs his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeve, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her cheeks till she fairly yelled. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, and then he wouldn’t let her go. He ran a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the bass, till he got clean into the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, thro’ the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got away out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn’t hear nothin’ but the shadders of ’em. And then he wouldn’t let the old pianner go. He for’ard two’d, he cross’t over first gentleman, he cross’t over first lady, he balanced two pards, he chassede right and left, back to your places, he all hands’d aroun’, ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, doubled, twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty-’leven thousand double bow knots.
“By jinks! It was a mixtery.
And then he wouldn’t let the old pianner go.
He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing,
he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his reserves.
He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company,
by regiments, by brigades. He opened his cannon,
siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders
yonder, big guns, little guns, middle-size guns, round
shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortars,
mines and magazines, every livin’ battery and
bomb a-goin’ at the same time. The house
trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor
come up, the ceilin’ come down, the sky split,
the ground rock’t—heaven and earth,
creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninpences, glory,
tenpenny nails, my Mary Ann, Hallelujah, Sampson in
a sim-mon tree, Jerusalem, Tump Thompson in a tumbler
cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddl
e-raddle-addle-addle-addle-riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle-p-r-r-r-r-lang!
per lang! per lang! p-r-r-r-r-r lang! Bang!
“With that bang he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on that pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quavers, and I know’d no mo’.”
BY WILLIAM THOMSON.
“Down the line I’ll
go,” he said,
“To reach the railway station.”
Friends will please accept of this
The only intimation.
(A YANKEE EDITOR IN ENGLAND.)
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
The Editor dipp’d his pen
in the ink;
He smole a smile and he wunk a wink;
He chuckled a chuck and he thunk a think.
’Twas a time of
dearth
Of news, and the earth
Was rolling and bowling along on its axis
With never a murmur concerning the taxes
And never a ruse, or of rumour a particle
Needing a special or claiming an article;
In fact ’twas a terrible time for the papers,
And puzzled the brains of the paragraph shapers,
Till the whole world seem’d nothing but
gases and vapours.
And the Editor wrote:
But I’m not going to quote,
Far be it from me to set rumours afloat.
Suffice it to say,
The paper next day
Contain’d such a slasher
For Captain McClasher,
The whole town declared it a regular smasher;
And what made it worse he inserted a rubber,
For the world-renowned millionaire, Alderman Grubber.
Now the Captain, you know, was the son of a gun,
He had fought many duels and never lost one;
He’d met single handed a hundred wild niggers,
All flashing their sabres and pulling their triggers,
And made them all run whether mogul or fellah:
With the flash of his eye and the bash of his ’brella
He tore up rebellion’s wild weeds by the root; and he
Did more than Havelock to put down the mutiny.
And then to be told by “a
thief of an Editor”
He’d been far too long
his proud country’s creditor
For pensions unwork’d
for and honours unwon,
And that rather than fight
he would more likely run;
To be told, who had acted
so gallant a part,
He’d more pluck in his
heels than he had in his heart!
Why zounds! man—the
words used they mostly make Dutch of—
(As warm as the chutney he’d
eaten so much of)
And he gave the poor table
a terrible blow,
As he said with an aspirate,
“Hi——ll let ’em know.”
And Alderman Grubber was no
less determined,
Though his gown was all silk
and its edge was all ermined,
After thirty years’
service to one corporation
To be libelled at last with
the foul allegation,
He’d been “nicely
paid for his work for the nation;
That Town Hall and Workhouse,
Exchange and Infirmary,
Were all built on ground that
by twistings and turnery,
Had been bought through the
nose at a fabulous rate
From the patriot lord of the
Grubber estate!”
Why, turtle and turbot, hock,
champagne and sherry,
’Twould rile the Archbishop
of Canterbury!
The Editor sat in his high-backed
chair;
He listen’d a hark,
and he looked a stare,
A sort of a mixture of humour
and scare,
As he heard a footfall on
the foot of the stair:
In a moment he buried his
head in some “copy,”
As in walked the Captain as
red as a poppy.
“This the Editor’s
room, sir?” the thunderer shouted,
In the tone which so often
a phalanx had routed;
While he nervously twiddled
the “gamp” in his hand,
Which so often had scatter’d
a mutinous band.
Now the Editor’s views
were as broad as the ocean
(His heart represented its
wildest commotion),
In a moment he took in the
whole situation
(And double distilled it in
heart palpitation):
Then quickly arose with a
dignified air,
And the wave of a hand and
a nod at a chair;
Saying: “Yes, sir;
it is, sir: be seated a minute,
The Editor’s in,
and I’ll soon send him in it.”
Then as quick as a flash of
his own ready wit,
He opened the door and got
outside of it.
He skipp’d with a
bound o’er
The stairs to the ground floor,
And turning his feet bore
Straight on for the street door;
When—what could astound more—’
The spot he was bound for
Was guarded in force by that great butter tubber,
The patriot millionaire, Alderman Grubber:
A smart riding-whip impatiently cracking,
The food for his vengeance the only thing lacking.
“Is the Editor in?” said the voice
that had thrilled,
A thousand times over the big Town Hall filled!
While the crack of the whip and the stamp of the
feet,
Made the Editor wish himself safe in the street.
But an Editor’s ever a man of resource,
He is never tied down to one definite course:
He shrank not a shrink nor waver’d a wave,
He blank not a blink nor quaver’d a quave;
But, pointing upstairs as he turn’d to the door,
Said “Editor’s room number two second floor.”
Like a lion let loose on his
innocent prey,
Strode the Alderman upstairs
that sorrowful day:
Like a tiger impatiently waiting
his foe,
The captain was pacing the
room to and fro
When the Alderman enter’d—but
here draw a veil,
There is much to be sad for
and much to bewail.
Whoever began it, or ended
the fray,
All they found in the room
when they swept it next day,
Was a large pile of fragments
beyond all identity
(Monument sad to the conflict’s
intensity).
And the analyst said whom
the coroner quested,
The whole of the heap he had
carefully tested,
And all he could find in his
search analytic
(But tables and chairs and
such things parenthetic),
He wore as he turned, white,
black, blue, green, and purple,
Was one stone of chutney and
two stone of turtle.
And the Editor throve, as
all editors should
Who devote all their thought
to the popular good:
For the paper containing this
little affair,
Ran to many editions and sold
everywhere.
And the moral is plain, tho’
you do your own writing,
There are better plans than
to do your own fighting!
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Nat Ricket at
cricket was ever a don
As if you will
listen I’ll tell you anon;
His feet were
so nimble, his legs were so long,
His hands were
so quick and his arms were so strong,
That no matter
where, at long-leg or square,
At mid-on, at
mid-off, and almost mid-air,
At point, slip,
or long-stop, wherever it came,
At long-on or
long-off, ’twas always the same—
If Nat was the
scout, back came whizzing the ball,
And the verdict,
in answer to Nat’s lusty call,
Was always “Run
out,” or else “No run” at all:
At bowling, or
scouting, or keeping the wicket,
You’d not
meet in an outing another Nat Ricket.
Nat Ricket for
cricket was always inclined,
Even babyhood
showed the strong bent of his mind:
At TWO he could
get in the way of the ball;
At FOUR he could
catch, though his hands were so small;
At SIX he could
bat; and before he was SEVEN
He wanted to be
in the county eleven.
But that was the
time, for this chief of his joys,
When the Muddleby
challenged the Blunderby boys:
They came in a
waggon that Farmer Sheaf lent them,
With Dick Rick
the carter, in whose charge he sent them.
And as they came
over the Muddleby hill,
The cheer that
resounded I think I hear still;
And of all the
gay caps that flew into the air,
The top cap of
all told Nat Ricket was there.
They
tossed up, and, winning
The
choice of the inning,
The Blunderby
boys took the batting in hand,
And
went to the wicket,
While
nimble Nat Ricket
Put his men
in the field for a resolute stand;
And as each sturdy
scout took his usual spot,
Our Nat roamed
about and looked after the lot;
And as they stood
there, when the umpire called “Play,”
’Twas a
sight to remember for many a day,
Nat started the
bowling (and take my word, misters,
There’s
no bowling like it for underhand twisters);
And what with
the pace and the screw and the aim,
It was pretty
hard work, was that Blunderby game;
With Nat in the
field to look after the ball,
’Twas a
terrible struggle to get runs at all;
Though they hit
out their hardest a regular stunner,
’Twas rare
that it reckoned for more than a oner;
’Twas seldom
indeed that they troubled the scorer
To put down a
twoer, a threer, or fourer;
And as for a lost
ball, a fiver, or sixer,
The Blunderby
boys were not up to the trick, sir;
Still they struggled
full well, and at sixty the score
The last wicket
fell, and the innings was o’er.
But
then came the cheering,—
Nat
Ricket appearing,
A smile on his
face and a bat in his hand,
As
he walked to the wicket,—
From
hillside to thicket,
They couldn’t
cheer more for a lord of the land.
And when he began,
’twas a picture to see
How the first
ball went flying right over a tree,
How the second
went whizzing close up to the sky,
And the third
ball went bang in the poor umpire’s eye;
How he made poor
point dance on his nimble young pins,
As a ball flew
askance and came full on his shins;
How he kept the
two scorers both working like niggers
At putting down
runs and at adding up figures;
How he kept all
the field in profuse perspiration
With rushing and
racing and wild agitation,—
Why, Diana and
Nimrod, or both rolled together,
Never hunted the
stag as they hunted the leather.
It was something
like cricket, there’s no doubt of that,
When nimble Nat
Ricket had hold of the bat.
You may go to
the Oval, the Palace, or Lord’s,
See the cricketing
feats which each county affords,
But you’ll
see nothing there which, for vigour and life,
Will one moment
compare with the passionate strife
With which Muddleby
youngsters and Blunderby boys
Contend for the
palm in this chief of their joys.
I need hardly
say, at the end of the day,
The Muddleby boys
had the best of the play,—
Tho’ the
bright-coloured caps of the Blunderby chaps
Were as heartily
waved as the others, perhaps;
And as they drove
off down the Blunderby lane,
The cheering resounded
again and again.
And Nat and his
party, they, too, went away;
And I haven’t
seen either for many a day.
Still,
don’t be surprised
If
you see advertised,
The
name of Nat Ricket
Connected
with cricket,
In some mighty
score or some wonderful catch,
In some North
and South contest or good county match.
And if ever, when
passing by cricketing places,
You see people
talking and pulling long faces,
’Cause some
country bumpkin has beaten the Graces,
Just step to the
gate and politely enquire,
And see if they
don’t say, “N. Ricket, Esq.”;
Or buy a “cor’ect
card t’ the fall o’ th’ last wicket,”
And see if it
doesn’t say “Mr. N. Ricket.”
For wherever you
go, and whatever you see,
In the north or
the south of this land of the free,
You never will
find—and that all must agree—
Such a rickety,
crickety fellow as he.
’SPAeCIALLY JIM.
FROM “HARPER’S MAGAZINE.”
I wus mighty good-lookin’
when I wus young—
Peert an’ black-eyed an’ slim,
With fellers a-courtin’ me Sunday nights,
’Spaecially Jim.
The likeliest one of ’em
all wus he,
Chipper an’ han’som an’
trim;
But I toss’d up my head, an’ made
fun o’ the crowd,
’Spaecially Jim.
I said I hadn’t no ‘pinion
o’ men,
And I wouldn’t take stock in him!
But they kep’ up a-comin’ in spite
o’ my talk,
’Spaecially Jim.
I got so tired o’
havin’ ’em roun’
(’Spaecially Jim!),
I made up my mind I’d settle down
An’ take up with him;
So we was married one Sunday
in church,
’Twas crowded full to the brim,
’Twas the only way to get rid of ’em
all,
’Spaecially Jim.
’ARRY’S ANCIENT MARINER.
(TOLD ON MARGATE JETTY.)
BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.
He was an ainshunt mariner
Wot sailed the oshun blue;
His craft it was the Crazy Jane
Wot was made of wood and glue.
It sailed ’atween
Westminister
And the Gulf of Timbucktoo;
Its bulkhead was a putty one;
Its cargo—no one knew.
I’ve heerd as how
when a storm came on
It ’ud turn clean upside down,
But I never could make out as why
Its skipper didn’t drown.
He was the most unwashedest
Old salt I ever knowed:
And all the things as he speaked about
Was nearly always “blowed.”
One day he told me a straw’nry
tale,
But I don’t think it were lies,
Bekos he swore as it was true—
Tho’ a big ’un as to size.
He sez as how in the Biskey
Bay
They was sailin’ along one night,
When a summat rose from the bilin’
waves
As give him a norful fright.
He wouldn’t exzagerate,
he sed—
No, he wouldn’t, not if he died;
But the head of that monster was most as
big
As a bloomin’ mountain-side.
Its eyes was ten times bigger
’an the moon;
Its ears was as long as a street;
And each of its eyelids—without
tellin’ lies—
Would have kivered an or’nary sheet.
“And now,” said
he, “may I never speak agin
If I’m a-tellin’ yer wrong,
But the length o’ that sarpint from
head to tail
Warn’t a ninch under ten
mile long,
“To the end of its
tail there hung a great wale,
And a-ridin’ on its back was sharks;
On the top of its head about two hundred
seals
Was a-havin’ no end of larks.
“Now, as to beleevin’
of what I sez next
Yer can do as yer likes,” sez he;
“But this ’ere sarpint, or
whatever he was,
He ups and he speaks to me.
“Sez the sarpint,
sez he, in a voice like a clap
Of thunder, or a cannon’s roar:
’Now say good-bye to the air and
the sky
For you’ll never see land no more.’
“I shivered like a
sail wot’s struck by a gale
And I downs on my bended knees;
And the tears rolls over my face like a
sea,
And I shrieks like a gull in a breeze.
“Sez I, ’I’m
an ainshunt old skipper, that’s all,
And I ain’t never done nuffin wrong.’
He sez, ’You old lubber, just stow
that blubber,
I’m a-going fer to haul yer along.’
“Then he puts out
a fin like a big barndoor—
Now this ’ere is real straight
truth—
It sounds like a fable, but he tuk my bloomin’
cable,
And he tied it to his left front tooth!
“In another second
more, at the bottom of the sea
The Crazy Jane was aground; Sez
I,
’You oughter be ashamed of yerself,
It’s a one-der as I wasn’t
drowned.’
“Then he calls on
a porkeypine a-standin’ quite near,
Sez he, ‘Look arter this barge,’
‘A-begging your pardon that’s
a wessel’ I sez:
Sez he: ‘Werry fine and large!’
“With one of hiz eye-lashes,
thick as a rope,
He ties me on to his knoze,
Then down in a cave right under the sea
Like a flash of light we goes.
“He tuk me up to his
wife, who was
A murmyaid with three tails;
She was havin’ of her dinner, and
perlitely she sez,
‘Will you have some o’ these
‘ere snails?’
“So I sits me down
by her buteful side—
She’d a face like a sunset sky;
Her hair was a sort of a scarlety red,
And her knoze was strait as a die.
“I hadn’t sot
a minit wen sez she to me,
’Sammy, don’t yer know me
agane?
Why, I’m the wife arter wot yer call’d
yer ship;
Sure enuf, it was Craizy Jane—
“The wife as had bother’d
me all my life,
Until she got drown’d one day,
When a-bathin’ out o’ one of
them there masheens
In this wery same Margit Bay.
“The Sarpint was a-havin’
of his dinner, and so
She perposed as how we should fly—
But, sez I to meself, ’What, take
you back?
Not if I knose it,’ sez I.
“‘But how about
them there tails?’ I sez—
‘On shore them will niver
doo;’
She sez, ’Yer silly, why, karn’t
yer see,
They’re only fixed on wi’
a screw?’
“So I tells her as
how I’ll go fetch the old ship
Wile she’s a-unscreuing of her
tails;
But when I gets back to the Crazy Jane
I finds there a couple of wales.
“I jist had time to
see the biggest of the two
A-swallerin’ of the ship right
whole,
And in one more momint he swallered me
too,
As true as I’m a livin’ sole.
“But when he got to
the surfis of the sea,
A summat disagreed with that wale,
And he up with me and the Crazy Jane
and all—
And this ’ere’s the end of
my tail.”
* * * * *
Then this old ainshunt mariner,
he sez unto me—
And ‘onesty was shinin’ in
hiz eyes—
“It’s jist the sort o’
story wot no one won’t beleeve—
But it’s true, little nipper, if
I dies,”
BY GEORGE T. LANIGAN.
It was an Amateur Dram.
Ass.,
(Kind hearer, although your
Knowledge of French is not first-class,
Don’t call that Amature.)
It was an Amateur Dram. Ass.,
The which did warfare wage
On the dramatic works of this
And every other age.
It
had a walking gentleman,
A
leading juvenile,
First
lady in book-muslin dressed.
With
a galvanic smile;
Thereto
a singing chambermaid,
Benignant
heavy pa,
And
oh, heavier still was the heavier vill-
Ain,
with his fierce “Ha! Ha!”
There
wasn’t an author from Shakespeare down—
Or
up—to Boucicault,
These
amateurs weren’t competent
To
collar and assault.
And
when the winter time came round—
“Season”
’s a stagier phrase—
The
Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one
Of
the Bard of Avon’s plays.
’Twas
As You Like It that they chose;
For
the leading lady’s heart
Was
set on playing Rosalind
Or
some other page’s part,
And
the President of the Am. Dram. Ass.,
A
stalwart dry-goods clerk,
Was
cast for Oriando, in which role
He
felt he’d make his mark.
“I
mind me,” said the President,
(All
thoughtful was his face,)
“When
Oriando was taken by Thingummy
That
Charles was played by Mace.
Charles
hath not many lines to speak,
Nay,
not a single length—
If
find we can a Mussulman
(That
is, a man of strength),
And
bring him on the stage as Charles—
But,
alas, it can’t be did—”
“It
can,” replied the Treasurer;
“Let’s
get the Hunky Kid.”
This
Hunky Kid of whom he spoke
Belonged
to the P.R.;
He
always had his hair cut short,
And
always had catarrh;
His
voice was gruff, his language rough,
His
forehead villainous low,
And
’neath his broken nose a vast
Expanse
of jaw did show.
He
was forty-eight about the chest,
And
his fore-arm at the mid-
Dle
measured twenty-one and a-half—
Such
was the Hunky Kid!
The
Am. Dram. Ass. they have engaged
This
pet of the P.R.;
As
Charles the Wrestler he’s to be
A
bright particular star.
And
when they put the programme out,
Announce
him thus they did:
Oriando...Mr.
ROMEO JONES;
Charles...Mr.
HUNKY KID.
The
night has come; the house is packed,
From
pit to gallery,
As
those who through the curtain peep
Quake
inwardly to see.
A
squeak’s heard in the orchestra,
As
the leader draws across
Th’
intestines of the agile cat
The
tail of the noble hoss.
All
is at sea behind the scenes,
Why
do they fear and funk?
Alas,
alas, the Hunky Kid
Is
lamentably drunk!
He’s
in that most unlovely stage
Of
half intoxication
When
men resent the hint they’re tight
As
a personal imputation!
“Ring
up! Ring up!” Orlando cried,
“Or
we must cut the scene;
For
Charles the Wrestler is imbued
With
poisonous benzine;
And
every moment gets more drunk
Than
he before has been.”
The
wrestling scene has come and Charles
Is
much disguised in drink;
The
stage to him’s an inclined plane,
The
footlights make him blink.
Still
strives he to act well his part
Where
all the honour lies,
Though
Shakespeare would not in his lines—
His
language recognise.
Instead
of “Come, where is this young——?”
This
man of bone and brawn,
He
squares himself and bellows: “Time!
Fetch
your Orlandos on!”
“Now,
Hercules be thy speed, young man,”
Fair
Rosalind said she,
As
the two wrestlers in the ring
Grapple
right furiously;
But
Charles the Wrestler had no sense
Of
dramatic propriety.
He
seized on Mr. Romeo Jones,
In
Graeco-Roman style:
He
got what they call a grape-vine lock
On
that leading juvenile;
He
flung him into the orchestra,
And
the man with the ophicleide,
On
whom he fell, he just said—well,
No
matter what—and died!
When
once the tiger has tasted blood
And
found that it is sweet,
He
has a habit of killing more
Than
he can possibly eat.
And
thus it was with the Hunky Kid;
In
his homicidal blindness,
He
lifted his hand against Rosalind
Not
in the way of kindness;
He
chased poor Celia off at L.,
At
R.U.E. Le Beau,
And
he put such a head upon Duke Fred,
In
fifteen seconds or so,
That
never one of the courtly train
Might
his haughty master know.
* * * * *
And that’s precisely
what came to pass,
Because the luckless carles
Belonging to the Am. Dram. Ass.
Cast the Hunky Kid for Charles!
—New York World.
BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.
First Day.
He
was young, and she—enchanting!
She
had eyes of tender grey,
Fringed
with long and lovely lashes,
As
he passed they seemed to say,
With
a look that was quite killing,
“Won’t
you buy a pretty flower?
Come,
invest—well, just a shilling,
For
the fairest in my bower!”
Though
that bower was full of blossoms,
Yet
the fairest of them all
Was
the pretty grey-eyed maiden
Standing
’mong them, slim and tall,
With
her dainty arms uplifted
O’er
her figure as she stood
Just
inside the trellised doorway
Fashioned
out of rustic wood;
And
she pouted as he passed her,
And
that pout did so beguile,
That
he thought it more bewitching
Than
another’s sweetest smile.
Fair
as tiny dew-dipped rosebuds
Were
the little rounded lips;
And
the youth ransacked his pockets
In
a rhapsody of grips.
Then
he went and told her plainly
That
he’d not a farthing left,
But
would gladly pledge his “Albert”;
So
with fingers quick and deft,
She
unloosed his golden watch-chain—
Coiled
it round her own white arm,
Said
she’d keep it till the morrow
As
a souvenir—a charm.
Second Day.
Full
of hope, and faith, and fondness,
He
went forth at early morn,
And
paced up and down the entrance,
Like
a man that was forlorn.
Thus
for hour on hour he waited,
Till
they opened the bazaar;
Then
she came with kindly greeting;
“Ah,
well, so then, there you are!
Come,
now, go in for a raffle—
Buy
a ticket—half-a-crown.”
Ah,
those eyes! who could refuse them?—
And
he put the money down.
Then,
enthralled, he stood and watched her—
Sought
each movement of that face,
With
its wealth of witching beauty,
And
its glory and its grace.
When
the raffling was over,
Thus
she spake in tones of pain:
“You
are really most unlucky—
My—my
husband’s won your chain!”
BY THOMAS HOOD.
Thou
happy, happy elf!
(But stop—first
let me kiss away that tear)
Thou
tiny image of myself?
(My love, he’s
poking peas into his ear)
Thou
merry laughing sprite!
With
spirits feather-light,
Untouched by sorrow
and unsoiled by sin—
(Good heavens!
the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou
tricksy Puck!
With antic toys
so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing
bird that wings the air—
(The door! the
door! he’ll tumble down the stair!)
Thou
darling of thy sire!
(Why Jane, he’ll
set his pinafore on fire)
Thou
imp of mirth and joy,
In Love’s
dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy
parents—(drat the boy!
There
goes my ink!)
Thou
cherub!—but of earth,
Fit playfellow
for Fays by moonlight pale,
In
harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will
bite him if he pulls its tail)
Thou
human honey-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom
in the world that blows,
Singing
in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny—
(Another tumble!—that’s
his precious nose!)
Thy
father’s pride and hope
(He’ll break
the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart
newly stamped from Nature’s mint
(Where did
he learn that squint?)
Thou
young domestic dove!
(He’ll have
that jug off with another shove!)
Dear
nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are
those torn clothes his best?)
Little
epitome of man!
(He’ll climb
upon the table, that’s his plan!)
Touched with the
beauteous trials of dawning life—
(He’s
got a knife!)
Thou
enviable being!
No storms, no
clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play
on, play on,
My
elfin John!
Toss the light
ball—bestride the stick,
(I knew so many
cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant
as the thistledown,
Prompting the
face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With
many a lamb-like frisk—
(He’s got
the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou
pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother,
child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing
music like the South,
(He really brings
my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn,
and brilliant as its star,
(I wish that window
had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk,
yet gentle as the dove—
(I’ll
tell you what, my love,
I cannot write,
unless he’s sent above.)
’TWAS EVER THUS.
BY HENRY S. LEIGH.
I
never rear’d a young gazelle
(Because,
you see, I never tried);
But,
had it known and loved me well,
No
doubt the creature would have died.
My
rich and aged uncle JOHN
Has
known me long and loves me well,
But
still persists in living on—
I
would he were a young gazelle!
I
never loved a tree or flower;
But,
if I had, I beg to say,
The
blight, the wind, the sun, or shower,
Would
soon have wither’d it away.
I’ve
dearly loved my uncle JOHN
From
childhood to the present hour,
And
yet he will go living on—
I
would he were a tree or flower!
BY MARY MAPES DODGE.
Ovh! don’t be talkin’. Is it howld on, ye say? An’ didn’t I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin’ that thin ye could clutch me wid yer two hands. To think o’ me toilin’ like a nager for the six year I’ve been in Ameriky—bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry!—to be bate by the likes o’ them! (faix, and I’ll sit down when I’m ready, so I will, Ann Ryan; and ye’d better be listenin’ than drawin’ yer remarks). An’ is it meself, with five good characters from respectable places, woud be herdin’ wid the haythens? The saints forgive me, but I’d be buried alive sooner ‘n put up wid it a day longer. Sure, an’ I was the granehorn not to be lavin’ at once-t when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter-man which was brought out from Californy. “He’ll be here the night,” says she. “And, Kitty, it’s meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he’s a furriner,” says she, a kind o’ lookin’ off. “Sure, an’ it’s little I’ll hinder nor interfare wid him, nor any other, mum,” says I, a kind o’ stiff; for I minded me how them French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn’t company for no gurril brought up dacent and honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin’ till the missus walked into me kitchen, smilin’, and says, kind o’ schared, “Here’s Fing Wing, Kitty; an’ ye’ll have too much sinse to mind his bein’ a little strange.” Wid that she shoots the doore; and I, misthrustin’ if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and—Howly fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rayle haythen Chineser, a-grinnin’ like he’d just come off a tay-box. If ye’ll belave me, the crayther was that yeller it ’ud sicken ye to see him; and sorra stick was on him but a black night-gown over his trowsers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a black tail a-hangin’ down from it behind, wid his two feet stook into the haythenestest shoes yer ever set eyes on. Och! but I was upstairs afore ye could turn about, a-givin’ the missus warnin’, an’ only stopt wid her by her raisin’ me wages two dollars, an’ playdin’ wid me how it was a Christian’s duty to bear wid haythens, and taich ’em all in our power—the saints save us! Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn’t be tellin’. Not a blissid thing cud I do, but he’d be lookin’ on wid his eyes cocked up’ard like two poomp-handles;
Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an’ would I be sittin’ wid a haythen, an’ he a-atin’ wid drumsticks?—yes, an’ atin’ dogs an’ cats unknownst to me, I warrant ye, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die. An’ didn’t the crayture proffer to help me a week ago come Toosday, an’ me foldin’ down me clane clothes for the ironin’, an’ fill his haythen mouth wid water, an’ afore I could hinder, squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin’ he’d been doin’ till ye’d be dishtracted. It’s yerself knows the tinder feet that’s on me since ever I been in this counthry. Well, owin’ to that, I fell into a way o’ slippin’ me shoes off when I’d be sittin’ down to pale the praties, or the likes o’ that; an’ do ye mind, that haythen would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him to parin’ apples or tomaterses.
Did I lave for that? Faix, an’ I didn’t.
Didn’t he get me into trouble wid my missus,
the haythen! Ye’re aware yerself how the
boondles comin’ in from the grocery often contains
more’n’ll go into anything dacently.
So, for that matter, I’d now and then take out
a sup o’ sugar, or flour, or tay, an’
wrap it in paper, and put it in me bit of a box tucked
under the ironin’-blanket, the how it cuddent
be bodderin’ any one. Well, what shud it
be, but this blessed Sathurday morn, the missus was
a-spakin’ pleasant an’ respec’ful
wid me in me kitchen, when the grocer boy comes in,
and stands fornenst her wid his boondles; and she
motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call
him by that name or any other but just haythen)—she
motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles,
an’ emty out the sugar and what not where they
belongs. If ye’ll belave me, Ann Ryan,
what did that blatherin’ Chineser do but take
out a sup of sugar, an’ a han’ful o’
tay, an’ a bit o’ chaze, right afore the
missus, wrap, ‘em into bits o’ paper,
an’ I spacheless wid shurprise, an’ he
the next minute up wid the ironin’-blanket,
an’ pullin’ out me box wid a show o’
bein sly to put them in. Och! the Lord forgive
me, but I clutched it, an’ missus sayin’
“O Kitty!” in a way that ’ud cruddle
yer blood. “He’s a haythen nager,”
says I. “I’ve found yer out,”
says she, “I’ll arrist him,” says
I. “It’s yerself ought to be arristid,”
says she. “Yer won’t,” says
I, “I will,” says she. And so it went,
till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no
lady, an’ I give her warnin’ an’
left that instant, an’ she a-pointin’ to
the doore.
—Theophilus
and Others.
BY BRET HARTE.
PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES (TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870).
Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.
Ah Sin was his name!
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same,
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.
It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise,
Which we had a small
game,
And Ah Sin took a hand;
It was Euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With the smile that was childlike and
bland.
Yet the cards they were
stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye’s sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.
But the hands that were
played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made
Were quite frightful to see,—
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.
Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, “Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour,”—
And he went for that heathen Chinee.
In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand;
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been
hiding,
In the game “he did not understand.”
In his sleeves, which
were long,
He had twenty-four packs,—
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were
taper,
What is frequent in tapers,—that’s
wax.
Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I am free to maintain.
ONE OF THE “NINE STORIES OF CHINA." BY JOHN G. SAXE.
A
beautiful maiden was little Min-Ne,
Eldest
daughter of wise Wang-Ke;
Her
skin had the colour of saffron-tea,
And
her nose was flat as flat could be;
And
never was seen such beautiful eyes.
Two
almond-kernels in shape and size,
Set
in a couple of slanting gashes,
And
not in the least disfigured by lashes;
And
then such feet!
You’d
scarcely meet
In
the longest walk through the grandest street
(And
you might go seeking
From
Nanking to Peking)
A
pair was remarkably small and neat.
Two
little stumps,
Mere
pedal lumps,
That
toddle along with the funniest thumps
In
China, you know, are reckon’d trumps.
It
seems a trifle, to make such a boast of it;
But
how they will dress it:
And
bandage and press it,
By
making the least, to make the most of it!
As
you may suppose,
She
had plenty of beaux
Bowing
around her beautiful toes,
Praising
her feet, and eyes, and nose
In
rapturous verse and elegant prose!
She
had lots of lovers, old and young:
There
was lofty Long, and babbling Lung,
Opulent
Tin, and eloquent Tung,
Musical
Sing, and, the rest among,
Great
Hang-Yu and Yu-be-Hung.
But
though they smiled, and smirk’d, and bow’d,
None
could please her of all the crowd;
Lung
and Tung she thought too loud;
Opulent
Tin was much too proud;
Lofty
Long was quite too tall;
Musical
Sing sung very small;
And,
most remarkable freak of all,
Of
great Hang-Yu the lady made game,
And
Yu-be-Hung she mocked the sama,
By
echoing back his ugly name!
But
the hardest heart is doom’d to melt;
Love
is a passion that will be felt;
And
just when scandal was making free
To
hint “What a pretty old maid she’d be,”—
Little
Min-Ne,
Who
but she?
Married
Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt!
A
man, I must own, of bad reputation,
And
low in purse, though high in station,—
A
sort of Imperial poor relation,
Who
rank’d as the Emperor’s second cousin
Multiplied
by a hundred dozen;
And,
to mark the love the Emperor felt,
Had
a pension clear
Of
three pounds a year,
And
the honour of wearing a Golden Belt!
And
gallant Ho-Ho
Could
really show
A
handsome face, as faces go
In
this Flowery Land, where, you must know,
The
finest flowers of beauty grow.
He’d
the very widest kind of jaws,
And
his nails were like an eagle’s claws,
And—though
it may seem a wondrous tale—
(Truth
is mighty and will prevail!)
He’d
a queue as long as the deepest cause
Under
the Emperor’s chancery laws!
Yet how he managed to win Min-Ne The men declared they couldn’t see; But all the ladies, over their tea, In this one point were known to agree: Four gifts were sent to aid his plea: A smoking-pipe with a golden clog, A box of tea and a poodle dog, And a painted heart that was all aflame, And bore, in blood, the lover’s name, Ah! how could presentsPage 216
pretty as these A delicate lady fail to please? She smoked the pipe with the golden clog, And drank the tea, and ate the dog, And kept the heart,—and that’s the way The match was made, the gossips say.
I
can’t describe the wedding-day,
Which
fell in the lovely month of May;
Nor
stop to tell of the Honey-moon,
And
how it vanish’d all too soon;
Alas!
that I the truth must speak,
And
say that in the fourteenth week,
Soon
as the wedding guests were gone,
And
their wedding suits began to doff,
Min-Ne
was weeping and “taking-on,”
For
he had been trying to “take her off.”
Six
wives before he had sent to heaven,
And
being partial to number “seven,”
He
wish’d to add his latest pet,
Just,
perhaps, to make up the set!
Mayhap
the rascal found a cause
Of
discontent in a certain clause
In
the Emperor’s very liberal laws,
Which
gives, when a Golden Belt is wed,
Six
hundred pounds to furnish the bed;
And
if in turn he marry a score,
With
every wife six hundred more.
First,
he tried to murder Min-Ne
With
a special cup of poison’d tea,
But
the lady smelling a mortal foe,
Cried,
“Ho-Ho!
I’m
very fond of mild Souchong,
But
you, my love, you make it too strong.”
At
last Ho-Ho, the treacherous man,
Contrived
the most infernal plan
Invented
since the world began;
He
went and got him a savage dog,
Who’d
eat a woman as soon as a frog;
Kept
him a day without any prog,
Then
shut him up in an iron bin,
Slipp’d
the bolt and locked him in;
Then
giving the key
To
poor Min-Ne,
Said,
“Love, there’s something you mustn’t
see
In
the chest beneath the orange-tree.”
* * * * *
Poor
mangled Min-Ne! with her latest breath
She
told her father the cause of her death;
And
so it reach’d the Emperor’s ear,
And
his highness said, “It is very clear
Ho-Ho
has committed a murder here!”
And
he doom’d Ho-Ho to end his life
By
the terrible dog that kill’d his wife;
But
in mercy (let his praise be sung!)
His
thirteen brothers were merely hung,
And
his slaves bamboo’d in the mildest way,
For
a calendar month, three times a day.
And
that’s the way that Justice dealt
With
wicked Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt!
A RUSSIAN FABLE.
BY LAURA SANFORD.
A lion to the Squirrel
said:
“Work faithfully for me,
And when your task is done, my friend,
Rewarded you shall be
With a barrel-full of finest nuts,
Fresh from my own nut-tree.”
“My Lion King,” the Squirrel said,
“To this I do agree.”
The Squirrel toiled both
day and night,
Quite faithful to his hire;
So hungry and so faint sometimes
He thought he should expire.
But still he kept his courage up,
And tugged with might and main,
“How nice the nuts will taste,”
he thought,
“When I my barrel gain.”
At last, when he was nearly
dead,
And thin and old and grey,
Quoth th’ Lion: “There’s
no more hard work
You’re fit to do. I’ll
pay.”
A barrel-full of nuts he gave—
Ripe, rich, and big; but oh!
The Squirrel’s tears ran down his cheeks.
He’d lost his teeth, you know!
NEW YORK “LIFE.”
I
met a girl the other day,
A
girl with golden tresses,
Who
wore the most bewitching air,
And
daintiest of dresses.
I
gazed at her with kindling eye
And
admiration utter—
Until
I saw her silken skirt
Was
trailing in the gutter!
“What
senseless style is this?” I thought;
“What
new sartorial passion?
And
who on earth stands sponsor for
The
idiotic fashion?”
I’ve
asked a dozen maids or more,
A
tailor and his cutter,
But
no one knows why skirts are made
To
drag along the gutter.
Alas
for woman, fashion’s slave;
She
does not seem to mind it.
Her
silk or satin sweeps the street
And
leaves no filth behind it.
For
all the dirt the breezes blow
And
all the germs that flutter
May
find a refuge in the gowns
That
swish along the gutter.
What
lovely woman wills to do
She
does without a reason.
To
interfere is waste of time,
To
criticise is treason.
Man’s
only province is to work
To
earn his bread and butter—
And
buy her all the skirts she wants
To
trail along the gutter.
“MODERN SOCIETY.”
I put the question shyly,
Lest you inform me dryly
That women’s ways are far beyond
my ken;
But was not khaki chosen
For coats and breeks and hosen
To render men invisible to men?
Why, then, dear maid,
do you
Forsake your gayest hue
And dress in viewless khaki spick and span?
You charming little miss,
It never can be this:
To render you invisible to man!
Not that at all?
What then?
You do not fear the men:
Perchance you only wish to hide your heart,
And so, you fickle flirt,
You don a khaki skirt
To foil the deadly aim of Cupid’s
dart.
BY HELEN GRAY CONE.
She gazed upon the burnished
brace
Of partridges he showed with pride;
Angelic grief was in her face;
“How could you do it, dear?”
she sighed,
“The poor, pathetic, moveless wings!
The songs all hushed—oh, cruel
shame!”
Said he, “The partridge never sings.”
Said she, “The sin is quite the same.
“You
men are savage through and through.
A
boy is always bringing in
Some
string of bird’s eggs, white or blue,
Or
butterfly upon a pin.
The
angle-worm in anguish dies,
Impaled,
the pretty trout to tease——”
“My
own, I fish for trout with flies——”
“Don’t
wander from the question, please!”
She
quoted Burns’s “Wounded Hare,”
And
certain burning lines of Blake’s,
And
Ruskin on the fowls of air,
And
Coleridge on the water-snakes.
At
Emerson’s “Forbearance” he
Began
to feel his will benumbed;
At
Browning’s “Donald” utterly
His
soul surrendered and succumbed.
“Oh,
gentlest of all gentle girls,”
He
thought, “beneath the blessed sun!”
He
saw her lashes hung with pearls,
And
swore to give away his gun.
She
smiled to find her point was gained,
And
went, with happy parting words
(He
subsequently ascertained),
To
trim her hat with humming-birds.
BY JOHN G. SAXE.
“Pray
what do they do at the Springs?”
The
question is easy to ask:
But
to answer it fully, my dear,
Were
rather a serious task.
And
yet, in a bantering way,
As
the magpie or mocking-bird sings,
I’ll
venture a bit of a song,
To
tell what they do at the Springs.
Imprimis,
my darling, they drink
The
waters so sparkling and clear;
Though
the flavour is none of the best,
And
the odour exceedingly queer;
But
the fluid is mingled, you know,
With
wholesome medicinal things;
So
they drink, and they drink, and they drink—
And
that’s what they do at the Springs!
Then with appetites keen as
a knife,
They hasten to breakfast, or dine;
The latter precisely at three,
The former from seven till nine.
Ye gods! what a rustle and rush,
When the eloquent dinner-bell rings!
Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat—
And that’s what they do at the Springs!
Now they stroll in the beautiful
walks,
Or loll in the shade of the trees;
Where many a whisper is heard
That never is heard by the breeze;
And hands are commingled with hands,
Regardless of conjugal rings:
And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt—
And that’s what they do at the Springs!
The
drawing-rooms now are ablaze,
And
music is shrieking away;
Terpsichore
governs the hour,
And
fashion was never so gay!
An
arm round a tapering waist—
How
closely and fondly it clings!
So
they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz—
And
that’s what they do at the Springs!
In
short—as it goes in the world—
They
eat, and they drink, and they sleep;
They
talk, and they walk, and they woo;
They
sigh, and they laugh, and they weep;
They
read, and they ride, and they dance
(With
other remarkable things):
They
pray, and they play, and they PAY—
And
that’s what they do at the Springs!
BY EVA L. OGDEN.
She
was rich and of high degree;
A
poor and unknown artist he.
“Paint
me,” she said, “a view of the sea.”
So
he painted the sea as it looked the day
That
Aphrodite arose from its spray;
And
it broke, as she gazed in its face the while
Into
its countless-dimpled smile.
“What
a pokey stupid picture,” said she;
“I
don’t believe he can paint the sea!”
Then
he painted a raging, tossing sea,
Storming,
with fierce and sudden shock,
Wild
cries, and writhing tongues of foam,
A
towering, mighty fastness-rock.
In
its sides above those leaping crests,
The
thronging sea-birds built their nests.
“What
a disagreeable daub!” said she;
“Why
it isn’t anything like the sea!”
Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand,
With a big hotel on either hand,
And a handsome pavilion for the band,—
Not a sign of the water to be seen
Except one faint little streak of green.
“What a perfectly exquisite picture,” said she;
“It’s the very image of the sea.”
—Century Magazine.
BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.
’Twas a hard case, that which happened in Lynn.
Haven’t heard of it, eh? Well, then, to begin,
There’s a Jew down there whom they call “Old Mose,”
Who travels about, and buys old clothes.
Now Mose—which
the same is short for Moses—
Had one of the biggest kind
of noses:
It had a sort of an instep
in it,
And he fed it with snuff about
once a minute.
One day he got in a bit of
a row
With a German chap who had
kissed his frau,
And, trying to punch him a
la Mace,
Had his nose cut off close
up to his face.
He picked it up from off the
ground,
And quickly back in its place
’twas bound,
Keeping the bandage upon his
face
Until it had fairly healed
in place.
Alas for Mose! ’Twas
a sad mistake
Which he in his haste that
day did make;
For, to add still more to
his bitter cup,
He found he had placed it
wrong side up.
“There’s no great
loss without some gain;”
And Moses says, in a jocular
vein,
He arranged it so for taking
snuff,
As he never before could get
enough.
One thing, by the way, he
forgets to add,
Which makes the arrangement
rather bad:
Although he can take his snuff
with ease,
He has to stand on his head
to sneeze!
BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.
I haf von funny leedle poy
Vot gomes schust to my knee—
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings
In all barts off der house.
But vot off dot? He vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He get der measels und der
mumbs,
Und eferyding dot’s oudt;
He sbills mine glass of lager-bier,
Foots schnuff indo mine kraut;
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese—
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I’d dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He dakes der milk-ban for
a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo
To make der schticks to beat it mit—
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup such a touse!
But nefer mind, der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He asks me questions sooch
as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene’er der glim I douse?
How gan I all dese dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss.
I somedimes dink I schall
go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest
Und beaceful dimes enshoy,
But ven he vas ashleep in ped,
So quiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, “Dake anydings,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.”
BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.
Mine cracious! Mine cracious! shust look here
und see
A Deutscher so habby as habby can pe.
Der beoples all dink dat no prains I haf got,
Vas grazy mit trinking, or someding like dot;
Id vasn’t pecause I trinks lager und vine,
Id vas all on aggount of dot baby off mine.
Dot schmall leedle vellow I dells you vas qveer;
Not mooch pigger round as a goot glass off beer,
Mit a bare-footed hed, and nose but a schpeck,
A mout dot goes most to der pack of his neck,
And his leedle pink toes mid der rest all combine
To gife sooch a charm to dot baby off mine.
I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys,
Und beats leedle Yawcob for making a noise;
He shust has pegun to shbeak goot English, too,
Says “Mamma,” und “Bapa,”
und somedimes “ah-goo!”
You don’t find a baby den dimes oudt off nine
Dot vas qvite so schmart as dot baby off mine.
He grawls der vloor over, und drows dings aboudt,
Und puts efryding he can find in his mout;
He durables der shtairs down, und falls vrom his chair,
Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible schare.
Mine hair stands like shquills on a mat borcupine
Ven I dinks of dose pranks of dot baby off mine.
Der vas someding, you pet, I don’t likes pooty
veil;
To hear in der nighdt dimes dot young Deutscher yell,
Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo’es,
Vhile der chills down der sphine off mine pack quickly
goes.
Dose leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn’t so fine
Dot I cuts oop at nighdt mit dot baby off mine.
Veil, dese leedle schafers vos goin’ to pe men,
Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den;
Dey vill vear a vhite shirt-vront inshted of a bib,
Und voudn’t got tucked oop at nighdt in deir
crib.
Veil! veil! ven I’m feeple und in life’s
decline,
May mine oldt age pe cheered by dot baby off mine.
BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.
I geeps me von leedle schtore town Proadway, und does a pooty goot peeznis, but I don’t got mooch gapital to work mit, so I finds it hard vork to get me all der gredits vot I vould like.
Last veek I hear about some goots dot a barty vas going to sell pooty sheap, und so I writes dot man if he vould gief me der refusal of dose goots for a gouple of days. He gafe me der refusal—dot is, he sait I gouldn’t haf dem—but he sait he vould gall on me und see mine schtore, und den if mine schtanding in peesnis vas goot, berhaps ve might do somedings togedder.
Veil, I vas behind mine gounter yesterday, ven a shentle-man gomes in and dakes me py der hant and says, “Mr. Schmidt, I pelieve.” I says, “Yaw,” und den I tinks to mine-self, dis vas der man vot has doze goots to sell, und I must dry to make some goot imbressions mit him, so ve gould do some peesnis.
“Dis vas goot schtore,” he says, looking roundt, “bud you don’t got a pooty big shtock already.” I vas avraid to let him know dot I only hat ’bout a tousand tollars vort of goots in der blace, so I says, “You ton’t tink I hat more as dree tousand tollars in dis leedle schtore, vould you?” He says, “You ton’t tole me! Vos dot bossible!” I says, “Yaw.”
I meant dot id vas bossible, dough id vasn’t so, vor I vas like ’Shorge Vashingtons ven he cut town der “olt elm” on Poston Gommons mit his leedle hadchet, and gouldn’t dell some lies aboud id.
“Veil,” says der shentleman, “I dinks you ought to know petter as anypody else vot you haf got in der schtore.” Und den he takes a pig book vrom unter his arm and say, “Veil, I poots you town vor dree tousand tollars.”
I ask him vot he means py “Poots me town,” und den he says he vas von off der tax-men, or assessors off broperty, und he tank me so kintly as nefer vas, pecause he say I vas sooch an honest Deutscher, und tidn’t dry und sheat der gofermants.
I dells you vot it vos, I tidn’t veel any more petter as a hundert ber cent, ven dot man valks oudt of mine schtore, und der nexd dime I makes free mit strangers I vinds first deir peesnis oudt.
JAMES T. FIELDS, IN “HARPER’S MAGAZINE.”
“Who stuffed that white owl?”
No one spoke in the shop!
The barber was busy, and he couldn’t
stop!
The customers, waiting their turns,
were all reading
The Daily, the Herald,
the Post, little heeding
The young man who blurted out such
a blunt question;
Not one raised a head or even made
a suggestion;
And the
barber kept on shaving.
“Don’t you see, Mister
Brown,”
Cried the youth with a frown,
“How wrong the whole thing
is,
How preposterous each wing is,
How flattened the head is, how jammed
down the neck is—
In short, the whole owl, what an
ignorant wreck ’tis!
I make no apology, I’ve learned
owl-eology.
I’ve passed days and nights
in a hundred collections,
And cannot be blinded to any deflections
Arising from unskilful fingers that
fail
To stuff a bird right, from his
beak to his tail.
Mister Brown! Mister Brown!
Do take that bird down,
Or you’ll soon be the laughing-stock
all over town!”
And the
barber kept on shaving.
“I’ve studied
owls,
And other night fowls,
And I tell you
What I know to be true;
An owl cannot roost
With his limbs so unloosed.
No owl in this world
Ever had his claws curled,
Ever had his legs slanted,
Ever had his bill canted,
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude.
He can’t do it, because
’Tis against all bird laws,
Anatomy teaches,
Ornithology preaches,
An owl has a toe
That can’t turn out
so!
I’ve made the white owl my
study for years,
And to see such a job almost moves
me to tears!
Mister Brown, I’m amazed
You should be so gone crazed
As to put up a bird
In that posture absurd!
To look at that owl really
brings on a dizziness;
The man who stuffed him don’t
half know his business!”
And the
barber kept on shaving.
“Examine those eyes,
I’m filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass;
So unnatural they seem
They’d, make Audubon scream,
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.
Do take that bird down:
Have him stuffed again, Brown!”
And the
barber kept on shaving.
“With some sawdust and bark
I could stuff in the dark
An owl better than that.
I could make an old hat
Look more like an owl
Than that horrid fowl,
Stuck up there so stiff like a side
of coarse leather,
In fact, about him there’s
not one natural feather.”
Just then, with a wink and a sly
normal lurch,
The owl, very gravely, got down
from his perch,
Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding
critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with
a glance analytic.
And then fairly hooted, as if he
should say:
“Your learning’s at
fault this time, anyway;
Don’t waste it again on a
live bird, I pray.
I’m an owl; you’re another,
Sir Critic, good day!”
And the
barber kept on shaving.
O a jolly old fellow was King
Marshmallow
As ever wore a crown!
At every draught of wine he quaffed,
And at every joke of his jester he laughed,
Laughed till the tears ran down—
O, he laughed Ha! Ha! and he laughed Ho!
Ho!
And every time that he laughed, do you know,
The Lords in waiting they did just so.
But Queen Bonniberry was not
quite so merry;
She sat and sighed all the while,
And she turned very red and shook her head
At everything Jingle the jester said,
And never vouchsafed a smile.
O, she sighed Ah me! and she sighed Heigh-oh!
And every time that she sighed, do you know,
The Ladies in waiting they did just so.
Then the jester spoke just by
way of a joke,
(O he was a funny man!)
And he said May it please your majesties,
I wish to complain of those impudent fleas
That bite me whenever they can!
Then the king he laughed Ha! Ha!
Ho! Ho!
And the queen she sighed Ah me!—Heigh-oh!
While the Lords and the Ladies they did just
so.
As for that, my man, the king
began,
The fleas bite whoever they like,
But the very first flea you chance to see,
Wherever he may happen to be,
You have my permission to strike!
And the king he roared, Ha! Ha! Ho!
Ho!
While the queen she sighed Ah me!—Heigh-oh!
And the Lords and the Ladies they did just
so.
Just then Jingle sighted a flea
that had lighted
Right on—well, where do you
suppose?
On Marshmallow’s own royal face, and
the clown
In bringing his hand with a swift motion down
Nearly ruined the poor monarch’s
nose.
And the king he shrieked Ah! Ah!
Oh! Oh!
And the queen burst out laughing Ha! Ha!
Ho! Ho!
While the Lords and the Ladies stood stupidly
by
And didn’t know whether to laugh or to
cry.
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.
BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY (REV. R.H. BARHAM).
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s
chair!
Bishop and abbot and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,—
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween, was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out through the motley
rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cakes, and dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp’d upon all!
With saucy air, he perch’d on the chair
Where in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal’s great red
hat;
And he peer’d in the face of his Lordship’s
Grace
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
“We two are the greatest folks here
to-day!”
The feast was over, the board
was clear’d,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear’d,
And six little singing-boys,—dear
little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due, two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss’d and fill’d with water, as
pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water and eau de Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more a napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal’s Hat mark’d in “permanent
ink.”
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress’d all in
white;
From his finger he draws his costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight by the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody’s dreaming of any such
thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
* * * * *
There’s a cry and a
shout, and no end of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they’re about
But the monks have their pockets all turn’d
inside out;
The friars are kneeling, and hunting, and
feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the
ceiling.
The Cardinal drew off each plum-colour’d
shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the
heels;
They turn up the dishes,—they turn
up the plates,—
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
—They turn up the rugs, they examine
the mugs:—
But, no!—no such thing;—They
can’t find THE RING!
And the Abbot declared that, “when nobody
twigg’d it,
Some rascal or other had popp’d in, and
prigg’d it!”
The Cardinal rose with a dignified
look,
He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in
bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of
his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of evil, and wake in a fright;
The day was gone, the night
came on,
The Monks and the Friars they search’d
till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw, on crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw;
No longer gay, as on yesterday;
His feathers all seem’d to be turn’d
the wrong way;—
His pinions droop’d—he could
hardly stand—
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim, so wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, “THAT’S
HIM!—
That’s the scamp that has done this scandalous
thing!
That’s the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal’s
Ring!”
The poor little Jackdaw, when
the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn’d his bald head, as much as to
say,
“Pray be so good as to walk this way!”
Slower and slower, he limp’d on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
When the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal call’d
for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
—When those words were heard,
that poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, ’twas really
absurd.
He grew sleek, and fat; in addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more Even than before;
But no longer it wagg’d with an impudent
air,
No longer he perch’d on the Cardinal’s
chair.
He hopp’d now about With a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem’d telling the Confessor’s
beads.
If any one lied,—or if any one swore,—
Or slumber’d in prayer-time and happened
to snore,
That good Jackdaw would give a great “Caw,”
As much as to say, “Don’t do so any
more!”
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they “never had known such a pious
Jackdaw!”
He long lived the pride of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint his merits
to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint!
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It’s the custom, at Rome, new names to
bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of. Jim
Crow!
BY CHARLES MACKAY.
Old
Tubal Cain was a man of might
In
the days when earth was young;
By
the fierce red light of his furnace bright
The
strokes of his hammer rung;
And
he lifted high his brawny hand
On
the iron glowing clear,
Till
the sparks rush’d out in scarlet showers,
As
he fashion’d the sword and spear.
And
he sang—“Hurra for my handiwork!
Hurra
for the Spear and Sword!
Hurra
for the hand that shall wield them well,
For
he shall be King and Lord!”
To
Tubal Cain came many a one,
As
he wrought by his roaring fire,
And
each one pray’d for a strong steel blade
As
the crown of his desire;
And
he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till
they shouted loud for glee,
And
gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And
spoils of the forest free,
And
they sang—“Hurra for Tubal Cain,
Who
hath given us strength anew!
Hurra
for the smith, hurra for the fire,
And
hurra for the metal true!”
But
a sudden change came o’er his heart
Ere
the setting of the sun,
And
Tubal Cain was fill’d with pain
For
the evil he had done;
He
saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made
war upon their kind,
That
the land was red with the blood they shed
In
their lust for carnage, blind.
And
he said—“Alas! that ever I made,
Or
that skill of mine should plan,
The
spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is
to slay their fellow-man!”
And
for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat
brooding o’er his woe;
And
his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And
his furnace smoulder’d low.
But
he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And
a bright courageous eye,
And
bared his strong right arm for work,
While
the quick flames mounted high.
And
he sang—“Hurra for my handiwork!”
And
the red sparks lit the air;
“Not
alone for the blade was the bright steel made;”
And
he fashion’d the First Plough-share!
And
men, taught wisdom from the Past,
In
friendship join’d their hands,
Hung
the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And
plough’d the willing lands;
And
sang—“Hurra for Tubal Cain!
Our
staunch good friend is he;
And
for the ploughshare and the plough
To
him our praise shall be.
But
while Oppression lifts its head,
Or
a tyrant would be lord,
Though
we may thank him for the Plough,
We’ll
not forget the Sword!”
BY CHARLES MACKAY.
There are three preachers,
ever preaching,
Fill’d with eloquence and power:—
One is old, with locks of white,
Skinny as an anchorite;
And he preaches every hour
With a shrill fanatic voice,
And a bigot’s fiery scorn:—
“Backward! ye presumptuous nations;
Man to misery is born!
Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer—
Born to labour and to pray;
Backward!’ ye presumptuous nations—
Back!—be humble and obey!”
The second is a milder preacher;
Soft he talks as if he sung;
Sleek and slothful is his look,
And his words, as from a book,
Issue glibly from his tongue.
With an air of self-content,
High he lifts his fair white hands:
“Stand ye still! ye restless nations;
And be happy, all ye lands!
Fate is law, and law is perfect;
If ye meddle, ye will mar;
Change is rash, and ever was so:
We are happy as we are.”
Mightier is the younger preacher,
Genius flashes from his eyes:
And the crowds who hear his voice
Give him, while their souls rejoice,
Throbbing bosoms for replies.
Awed they listen, yet elated,
While his stirring accents fall:—
“Forward! ye deluded nations,
Progress is the rule of all:
Man was made for healthful effort;
Tyranny has crush’d him long;
He shall march from good to better,
And do battle with the wrong.
“Standing still is
childish folly,
Going backward is a crime:
None should patiently endure
Any ill that he can cure;
Onward! keep the march of Time,
Onward! while a wrong remains
To be conquer’d by the right;
While Oppression lifts a finger
To affront us by his might;
While an error clouds the reason
Of the universal heart,
Or a slave awaits his freedom
Action is the wise man’s part.
“Lo! the world is rich
in blessings:
Earth and Ocean, flame and wind,
Have unnumber’d secrets still,
To be ransack’d when you will,
For the service of mankind;
Science is a child as yet,
And her power and scope shall grow,
And her triumphs in the future
Shall diminish toil and woe;
Shall extend the bounds of pleasure
With an ever-widening ken,
And of woods and wildernesses
Make the homes of happy men.
“Onward!—there
are ills to conquer,
Daily wickedness is wrought,
Tyranny is swoln with Pride,
Bigotry is deified,
Error intertwined with Thought,
Vice and Misery ramp and crawl;—
Root them out, their day has pass’d;
Goodness is alone immortal;
Evil was not made to last:
Onward! and all earth shall aid us
Ere our peaceful flag be furl’d.”—
And the preaching of this preacher
Stirs the pulses of the world.
BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
Say not the struggle nought
availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If
hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It
may be in yon smoke concealed,
Your
comrades chase e’en now the fliers,
And,
but for you, possess the field.
For
while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem
here no painful inch to gain,
Far
back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes
silent, flooding in, the main.
And
not by eastern windows only,
When
daylight comes, comes in the light,
In
front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But
westward, look, the land is bright.
BY LORD TENNYSON.
Love
thou thy land, with love far-brought
From
out the storied Past, and used
Within
the Present, but transfused
Thro’
future time by power of thought.
True
love turned round on fixed poles,
Love
that endures not sordid ends,
For
English natures, freemen, friends,
Thy
brothers, and immortal souls.
But
pamper not a hasty time,
Nor
feed with crude imaginings
The
herd, wild hearts, and feeble wings,
That
every sophister can lime.
Deliver
not the tasks of might
To
weakness, neither hide the ray
From
those, not blind, who wait for day,
Tho’
sitting girt with doubtful light.
Make
knowledge circle with the winds;
But
let her herald, Reverence, fly
Before
her to whatever sky
Bear
seed of men and growth of minds.
Watch
what main currents draw the years:
Cut
Prejudice against the grain:
But
gentle words are always gain:
Regard
the weakness of thy peers:
Nor
toil for title, place, or touch
Of
pension, neither count on praise:
It
grows to guerdon after-days:
Nor
deal in watch-words overmuch:
Not
clinging to some ancient saw;
Not
master’d by some modern term;
Not
swift nor slow to change, but firm;
And
in its season bring the law;
That
from Discussion’s lip may fall
With
Life, that, working strongly, binds—
Set
in all lights by many minds,
To
close the interests of all.
For
Nature also, cold and warm,
And
moist and dry, devising long,
Thro’
many agents making strong,
Matures
the individual form.
Meet
is it changes should control
Our
being, lest we rust in ease.
We
all are changed by still degrees,
All
but the basis of the soul.
So
let the change which comes be free
To
ingroove itself with that, which flies,
And
work, a joint of state, that plies
Its
office, moved with sympathy.
A
saying, hard to shape in act;
For
all the past of Time reveals
A
bridal dawn of thunder-peals,
Wherever
Thought hath wedded Fact.
Ev’n
now we hear with inward strife
A
motion toiling in the gloom—
The
Spirit of the years to come
Yearning
to mix himself with Life.
A
slow-develop’d strength awaits
Completion
in a painful school;
Phantoms
of other forms of rule,
New
Majesties of mighty States—
The
warders of the growing hour,
But
vague in vapour, hard to mark;
And
round them sea and air are dark
With
great contrivances of Power.
Of
many changes, aptly join’d,
Is
bodied forth the second whole.
Regard
gradation, lest the soul
Of
Discord race the rising wind;
A
wind to puff your idol-fires,
And
heap their ashes on the head;
To
shame the boast so often made,
That
we are wiser than our sires.
O
yet, if Nature’s evil star
Drive
men in manhood, as in youth,
To
follow flying steps of Truth
Across
the brazen bridge of war—
If
New and Old, disastrous feud,
Must
ever shock, like armed foes,
And
this be true, till time shall close,
That
Principles are rain’d in blood;
Not
yet the wise of heart would cease
To
hold his hope thro’ shame and guilt,
But
with his hand against the hilt
Would
pace the troubled land, like Peace;
Not
less, tho’ dogs of Faction bay,
Would
serve his kind in deed and word,
Certain,
if knowledge bring the sword,
That
knowledge takes the sword away—
Would
love the gleams of good that broke
From
either side, nor veil his eyes:
And
if some dreadful need should rise
Would
strike, and firmly, and one stroke:
To-morrow
yet would reap to-day,
As
we bear blossom of the dead;
Earn
well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw
Haste, half sister to Delay.
BY GERALD MASSEY.
High hopes that
burn’d like stars sublime,
Go
down i’ the heaven of freedom;
And true hearts
perish in the time
We
bitterliest need ’em!
But never sit
we down and say
There’s
nothing left but sorrow;
We walk the wilderness
to-day—
The
promised land to-morrow!
Our birds of song
are silent now,
Few
are the flowers blooming,
Yet life is in
the frozen bough,
And
freedom’s spring is coming;
And freedom’s
tide creeps up alway,
Though
we may strand in sorrow;
And our good bark,
aground to-day,
Shall
float again to-morrow.
’Tis weary
watching wave by wave,
And
yet the Tide heaves onward;
We climb, like
Corals, grave by grave,
That
pave a pathway sunward;
We are driven
back, for our next fray
A
newer strength to borrow,
And where the
Vanguard camps to-day
The
Rear shall rest to-morrow!
Through all the
long, dark night of years
The
people’s cry ascendeth,
And earth is wet
with blood and tears:
But
our meek sufferance endeth!
The few shall
not for ever sway—
The
many moil in sorrow;
The powers of
hell are strong to-day,
The
Christ shall rise to-morrow!
Though hearts
brood o’er the past, our eyes
With
smiling futures glisten!
For lo! our day
bursts up the skies
Lean
out your souls and listen!
The world is rolling
freedom’s way,
And
ripening with her sorrow;
Take heart! who
bear the Cross to-day,
Shall
wear the Crown to-morrow!
O youth! flame-earnest,
still aspire
With
energies immortal!
To many a heaven
of desire
Our
yearning opes a portal;
And though age
wearies by the way,
And
hearts break in the furrow—
Youth sows the
golden grain to-day—
The
harvest comes to-morrow!
Build up heroic
lives, and all
Be
like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to flash
out at God’s call—
O
chivalry of labour!
Triumph and toil
are twins; though they
Be
singly born in sorrow,
And ’tis
the martyrdom to-day
Brings
victory to-morrow!
BY LORD TENNYSON.
Ring out wild bells to the’
wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in
the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps
the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care,
the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place
and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul
disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and
free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
BY JAMES THOMSON.
When Britain first, at Heaven’s
command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang this strain:
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.”
The nations not so blest
as thee,
Must in their turns to tyrants fall
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.”
Still more majestic shalt
thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.”
Thee haughty tyrants ne’er
shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy gen’rous flame
To work their woe and thy
renown.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.”
To thee belongs the rural
reign,
Thy cities shall with commerce shine,
All thine shall be the subject main,
And ev’ry shore it circles, thine.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.”
The Muses, still with freedom
found,
Shall to thy happy coasts repair;
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown’d,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.”
Printed by H. Virtue and Company, Limited, City Road, London.