Онлайн кітапты тегін оқу  Successful Recitations

автор Alfred Miles

SUCCESSFUL RECITATIONS

Edited by

ALFRED H. MILES

1901

"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines."—Hamlet. SHAKESPEARE.

London:
S. H. Bousfield & Co., Ld.,
Norfolk House, Norfolk Street W.C.
London:
Printed by H. Virtue And Company, Limited.
City Road.

PREFACE.

Many things go to the making of a successful recitation.

A clear aim and a simple style are among the first of these: the subtleties which make the charm of much of the best poetry are lost in all but the best platform work. The picturesque and the dramatic are also essential elements; pictures are the pleasures of the eyes, whether physical or mental, and incident is the very soul of interest.

The easiest, and therefore often the most successful, recitations are those which recite themselves; that is, recitations so charged with the picturesque or the dramatic elements that they command attention and excite interest in spite of poor elocution and even bad delivery. The trouble with these is that they are usually soon recognized, and once recognized are soon done to death. There are pieces, too, which, depending upon the charm of novelty, are popular or successful for a time only, but there are also others which, vitalised by more enduring qualities, are things of beauty and a "joy for ever."

But after all it is not the Editor who determines what are and what are not successful recitations. It is time, the Editor of Editors, and the public, our worthy and approved good masters. It is the public that has made the selection which makes up the bulk of this volume, though the Editor has added a large number of new and less known pieces which he confidently offers for public approval. The majority of the pieces in the following pages are successful recitations, the remainder can surely be made so.

A.H.M.

THE ROYAL RECITER.

PREFATORY.

True Patriotism is the outcome of National home-feeling and self-respect.

Home-feeling is born of the loving associations and happy memories which belong to individual and National experience; self-respect is the result of a wise and modest contemplation of personal or National virtues.

The man who does not respect himself is not likely to command the respect of others. And the Nation which takes no pride in its history is not likely to make a history of which it can be proud.

But self-respect involves self-restraint, and no man who wishes to retain his own respect and to merit the respect of others would think of advertising his own virtues or bragging of his own deeds. Nor would any Nation wishing to stand well in its own eyes and in the eyes of the world boast of its own conquests over weaker foes or shout itself hoarse in the exuberance of vainglory.

Patriotism is not to be measured by ostentation any more than truth is to be estimated by volubility.

The history of England is full of incidents in which her children may well take an honest pride, and no one need be debarred from taking a pride in them because there are other incidents which fill them with a sense of shame. As a rule it will be found that the sources of pride belong to the people themselves, and that the sources of shame belong to their rulers. It would be difficult to find words strong enough to condemn the campaign of robbery and murder conducted by the Black Prince against the peaceful inhabitants of Southern France in 1356, but it would be still more difficult to do justice to the magnificent pluck and grit which enabled 8,000 Englishmen at Poitiers to put to flight no less than 60,000 of the chosen chivalry of France. The wire-pullers of state-craft have often worked with ignoble aims, but those who suffer in the working out of political schemes often sanctify the service by their self-sacrifice. There is always Glory at the cannon's mouth.

In these days when the word Patriot is used both as a party badge and as a term of reproach, and when those who measure their patriotism by the standards of good feeling and self-respect are denied the right to the use of the term though they have an equal love for their country and take an equal pride in their country's honourable achievements, it seems necessary to define the word before one applies it to oneself or puts one's name to what may be called patriotic verse.

It is a bad day for any country when false standards of patriotism prevail, and at such times it is clearly the duty of intelligent patriotism to uphold true ones.

ALFRED H. MILES. October, 1901.

CONTENTS.

NAME. AUTHOR.

John Bull and His Island Alfred H. Miles
The Red Rose of War F. Harald Williams
England Eliza Cook
A Song for Australia W. C. Bennet
The Ploughshare of Old England Eliza Cook
The Story of Abel Tasman Frances S. Lewin
The Groom's Story A. Conan Doyle
The Hardest Part I ever Played Re Henry
The Story of Mr. King David Christie Murray
The Art of Poetry From "Town Topics"
The King of Brentford's Testament W. M. Thackeray.
"Universally Respected" J. Brunton Stephens
The Amenities of Shopping Leopold Wagner
Shamus O'Brien J. S. Le Fanu
Home, Sweet Home William Thomson
The Cane Bottom'd Chair W. M. Thackeray
The Alma W. C. Bennet
The Mameluke Charge Sir F. H. Doyle
My Lady's Leap Campbell Rae-Brown
A Song for the end of the Season J. R. Planche
The Aged Pilot-man Mark Twain
Tim Keyser's Nose Max Adeler
The Lost Expression Marshall Steele
A Night Scene Robert B. Brough
Karl the Martyr Frances Whiteside
The Romance of Tenachelle Hercules Ellis
Michael Flynn William Thomson
A Night with a Stork William G. Wilcox
An Unmusical Neighbour William Thomson
The Chalice David Christie Murray
Livingstone Henry Lloyd
In Swanage Bay Mrs. Craik
Ballad of Sir John Franklin G. H. Boker
Phadrig Crohoore J. S. Le Fanu
Cupid's Arrows Eliza Cook
The Crocodile's Dinner Party E. Vinton Blake
"Two Souls with but a Single Thought" William Thomson
A Risky Ride Campbell Rae-Brown
On Marriage Josh Billings
The Romance of Carrigcleena Hercules Ellis
The False Fontanlee W. C. Roscoe
The Legend of St. Laura Thomas Love Peacock
David Shaw, Hero J. Buckham
Brotherhood Alfred H. Miles
The Straight Rider H. S. M.
Women and Work Alfred H. Miles
A Country Story Alfred H. Miles
The Beggar Maid Lord Tennyson
The Vengeance of Kafur Clinton Scollard
The Wishing Well V. W. Cloud
The Two Church Builders John G. Saxe
The Captain of the Northfleet Gerald Massey
The Happiest Land H. W. Longfellow
The Pipes of Lucknow J. G. Whittier
The Battle of the Baltic Thomas Campbell
The Grave Spoilers Hercules Ellis
Bow-Meeting Song Reginald Heber
The Ballad of Rou Lord Lytton
Bingen on the Rhine Hon. Mrs. Norton
Deeds, not Words Captain Marryat
Old King Cole Alfred H. Miles
The Green Domino Anonymous
The Legend Beautiful H. W. Longfellow
The Bell of Atri H. W. Longfellow
The Storm Adelaide A. Proctor
The Three Rulers Adelaide A. Proctor
The Horn of Egremont Castle William Wordsworth
The Miracle of the Roses Robert Southey
The Bridal of Malahide Gerald Griffin
The Daughter of Meath T. Haynes Bayley
Glenara Thomas Campbell
A Fable for Musicians Clara D. Bates
Onward. A Tale of the S.E.R. Anonymous
The Declaration N. P. Willis
Love and Age Thomas Love Peacock
Half an Hour before Supper Bret Harte
He Worried About It S. W. Foss
Astronomy made Easy Anonymous
Brother Watkins John B. Gough
Logic Anonymous
The Pride of Battery B F. H. Gassaway
The Dandy Fifth F. H. Gassaway
Bay Billy F. H. Gassaway
The Old Veteran Bayard Taylor
Santa Claus Alfred H. Miles

THE ROYAL RECITER

EDITED BY ALFRED H. MILES.

JOHN BULL AND HIS ISLAND.

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!

THE RED ROSE OF WAR.

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.

ENGLAND.

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!

A SONG FOR AUSTRALIA

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!"

THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.

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.

THE STORY OF ABEL TASMAN.

(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.

THE GROOM'S STORY.

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.

THE HARDEST PART I EVER PLAYED.

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 rôle 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."

THE STORY OF MR. KING.

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY.

This is the story of Mr. King,
  American citizen—Phineas K.,
  Whom I met in Orkhanié, 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 Orkhanié 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 game?"
  Faced the Tchircasse with the wild-beast eyes.
"Naow, what do you want?" said Mr. King.
  Quoth the savage, in English, "The woman dies!"
"Waat," said the impostor, "you'll take your fling,
At least in the first case, along of a son
Of Columbia, daughter of Albion."

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.

THE ART OF "POETRY."

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, pæans 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.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.

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.

UNIVERSALLY RESPECTED.

BY J. BRUNTON STEPHENS.

I.

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.

II.

"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.

THE AMENITIES OF SHOPPING.

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 tramway lines over our heads to the other end of the shop. That was the most melancholy game at skittles I ever took part in. It seemed an age before the ball came back to us, whereupon the young lady took out the bill and my change—a halfpenny. "We haven't a farthing in the place," she said innocently, "What else will you take for it?" "Oh, it doesn't matter at all," I returned, anxious only to rush away from the spot—which I did. It was a good quarter-of-an-hour before I gained the street. During that interval, I strayed into the carpet department, upset an old lady, fell sprawling over a chair, rushed into the arms of the shopwalker, knocked down a huge stack of flannels, trod on some unfortunate young fellow's corn, making him howl with pain, and last, not least, ran foul of a perambulator laden with a baby and the usual Saturday night's marketing in the doorway.

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. 'No, sir, quite right—they are twopence each,' he replied, to my great relief; for I had begun to suspect they might be two guineas. 'Will you do me the favour to step this way?' While following at his side, I asked myself whether, at the end of my travels, I should ever be able to find my way back again; so bewildering were the ramifications through which we passed. Presently he handed me over to another nobleman, who, having learned my pleasure (which by this time had developed rather painful tendencies), graciously escorted me to the further end of a long counter, and begged me to take a chair. A stylishly-dressed young lady sailed towards us behind the counter. 'I shall feel extremely obliged,' said the nobleman to her, 'If you will be so good as to request Miss Doubleyou to step down, and serve this gentleman. 'Yes, sir,' answered the young lady, as she vanished somewhere behind me; for my eyes were now following the retreating figure of the nobleman. After a little while I heard a pattering of feet, and, looking round, beheld some tokens of a young lady descending a spiral staircase. She was behind the counter the next moment and then I made a discovery. It was the same young lady who had served me with the farthing's worth of pins years before! I recognised her at once, and I suspect the recognition was mutual. But, of course, she never betrayed the least emotion.'And what article may I have the pleasure to serve you with?' she asked, m the still small voice of a duchess. There was a gulping sensation in my throat as I answered, 'You have, I believe, in one corner of one of your windows a number of little Japanese baskets, marked, if my eyes did not deceive me, twopence each. (The graceful nod of her head was reassuring.) I should be very glad to become the possessor of one of those articles.' 'Certainly, sir, I'll bring it to you,' she answered. 'Oh, thank you!' I returned, delighted at the prospect; and so she departed on her errand of mercy.

"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. Seizing the coveted treasure, I laid my twopence down on the counter and walked straight forward in a contrary direction to that by which I had entered, gladdened by the prospect that I was making direct for the street. If anyone had arrested my progress for the sake of further formalities, I should unquestionably have knocked them down. But everyone must have seen the glare of defiant desperation flashing from my restless eyes and no one dared to bar my egress. As I emerged from that shop into Regent Street, I felt as exhausted as if I had just bought a grand piano or a suite of furniture. 'Really,' I said to my wife in conclusion, 'if I could have foreseen all the trouble in store for me over buying this little Japanese basket, price twopence, it would have been still reposing with its companions in the corner of that magnificent shop window in Regent Street.'"

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.

SHAMUS O'BRIEN: A TALE OF '98.

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 illigent wig;
   Then silence was called, and the minute 'twas said
   The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
   An' they heard but the turn of a key in a lock,—
   An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.—

   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,
   "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart
   For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;
   And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear
   On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
   To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast
   From labour, and sorrow, for ever shall rest.
   Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
   Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour;
   For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,
   No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"
   Then facin' the judge Shamus bent down his head,
   An' that minute the solemn death-sintance was said.

   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.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

           Sawtan i' the law court
           Wis once, sae I've heard tell—
           "Oh! but hame is hamely!"
           Quo' Sawtan to himsel.'

THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.

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.

THE ALMA.

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."

THE MAMELUKE CHARGE.

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.

MY LADY'S LEAP.

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
                 Away for a time—to London,—
                   And I, who knew him so well,
                 Could see as he came home worried.
                   Aye, sir! I could read—could tell
                 As things had gone wrong with Master.
                   I was right: 'twas that tale so old!
                 He'd lost in that great big gamble,
                   In that cursed greed for gold.

                 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."

A SONG FOR THE END OF THE SEASON.

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!

THE AGED PILOT MAN.

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.

TIM KEYSER'S NOSE.

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.

THE LOST EXPRESSION.

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 æsthetic 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-à-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!"

A NIGHT SCENE.

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.

KARL, THE MARTYR.

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
    Was heard amidst all seasons. Oftentimes
    The neighbours asked him why he worked so hard
    With only two to care for? He would smile,
    Wipe his hot brow, and say, "'Twas done in love
    For sake of those in mercy left him still—
    And hers: he might not stay. He could not live
    To lose them all." The tenderest of plants
    Required the careful'st gardening, and so
    He worked on valiantly; and if he marked
    An extra gleam of health in Trudchen's cheeks,
    A growing strength in little Casper's laugh,
    He bowed his head, and felt his work was paid.
    Even as now, while sitting 'neath the tree,
    He watched the bright-hair'd image of his wife,
    Who danced before him in the evening sun,
    Holding her tiny brother by the hand.

      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?

THE ROMANCE OF TENACHELLE.

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!"

MICHAEL FLYNN.

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."

A NIGHT WITH A STORK.

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.

AN UNMUSICAL NEIGHBOUR.

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.

THE CHALICE.

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.

LIVINGSTONE.

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.

IN SWANAGE BAY.

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.

BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

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!"

PHADRIG CROHOORE.

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.

CUPID'S ARROWS.

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.

THE CROCODILE'S DINNER PARTY.

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.

A RISKY RIDE.

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.
     It's just what he would do,—bless 'im!
       Yes, I owed every atom to him:
     So you'll guess how I felt that mornin',
       When, with eyes all wet and dim,
     He told me the new folk would give 'im
       But two weeks to pay his arrears;
     Then he cried like a little child, sir.
       When I saw the old fellow's tears,
     My young blood boiled madly within me;
       I knew how he'd struggled and fought
     'Gainst years of bad seasons and harvests;
       How nobly but vainly he'd sought
     To make both ends meet at the "Whitelands."
       "They never will do it!" I cry.
     "You've lived all your life at the 'Farm,' Josh,
       And you'll still live on there till you die!
     'Tain't for me to tell stable secrets,
       But I know—well, just what I know:
     Go! say that in less than a month, Josh,
       You'll pay every penny you owe."

* * * * *

     "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.

ON MARRIAGE.

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.

THE ROMANCE OF CARRIGCLEENA.

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."

THE FALSE FONTANLEE.

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.

THE LEGEND OF SAINT LAURA.

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!

DAVID SHAW, HERO.

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!

BROTHERHOOD.

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.

THE STRAIGHT RIDER.

(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.

WOMEN AND WORK.

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 is willing and ready
                to go,
For trust in trial, for work in woe, for comfort and care in sorrow,
The wives of the world are its strength to-day, the daughters it's
                hope to-morrow."

A COUNTRY STORY.

(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.

THE BEGGAR MAID.

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!"

THE VENGEANCE OF KAFUR.

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."

THE WISHING WELL.

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!"

THE TWO CHURCH-BUILDERS.

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!"

THE CAPTAIN OF THE NORTHFLEET,

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.

THE HAPPIEST LAND.

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."

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

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!

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

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!

THE GRAVE SPOILERS.

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."

BOW-MEETING SONG.

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!

THE BALLAD OF ROU.

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 mailèd 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.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

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!

DEEDS NOT WORDS.

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.

OLD KING COLE.

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 fêtes 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.

THE GREEN DOMINO.

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 fête, 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."

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.

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!"

THE BELL OF ATRI.

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,
    "I climb no further upward, come what may,"—
    The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,
    So many monarchs since have borne the name,
    Had a great bell hung in the market-place
    Beneath a roof, projecting some small space,
    By way of shelter from the sun and rain.
    Then rode he through the streets with all his train,
    And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long;
    Made proclamation, that whenever wrong
    Was done to any man, he should but ring
    The great bell in the square, and he, the King,
    Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.
    Such was the proclamation of King John.

    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 tongue,
    In half-articulate jargon, the old song:
    "Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!"
    But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade,
    He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade,
    No shape of human form of woman born,
    But a poor steed dejected and forlorn,
    Who with uplifted head and eager eye
    Was tugging at the vines of briony.
    "Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight,
    "This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state!
    He calls for justice, being sore distressed,
    And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."

    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."

THE STORM.

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!

THE THREE RULERS.

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!

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.

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.

THE MIRACLE OF THE ROSES.

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 melting glance
     With other feelings filled:—that 'twas a task
     Of easy sort to play the saint by day
     Before the public eye, but that all eyes
     Were closed at night;—that Zillah's life was foul,
     Yea, forfeit to the law.

                       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.

THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.

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!

THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH.

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!

GLENARA.

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!

A FABLE FOR MUSICIANS.

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!

THE DECLARATION.

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
     That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
     Upon it unforbidden—and again
     Besought her, that this silent evidence
     That I was not indifferent to her heart,
     Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
     I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke.
     And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
     Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd
     Earnestly on me—She had been asleep!

LOVE AND AGE.

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.

HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER.

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 règle 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?"

HE WORRIED ABOUT IT.

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,

ASTRONOMY MADE EASY.

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."

BROTHER WATKINS.

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.

LOGIC.

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."

THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B.

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.

THE DANDY FIFTH.

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!"

THE OLD VETERAN.

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!"

SANTA CLAUS.

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.

THE IMPERIAL RECITER

"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.

PREFATORY.

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.

CONTENTS.

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
After Alma Gerald Massey
Balaclava—The Charge of the Light Lord Tennyson
Brigade
After Balaclava James Williams
Inkerman Gerald Massey
Killed in Action F. Harald Williams
At the Breach Sarah Williams
Santa Filomena H.W. Longfellow
The Little Hatchet Story Burdette
The Loss of the Birkenhead Sir F.H. Doyle
Elihu Alice Carey
The Last of the Eurydice Sir Noel Paton
The Warden of the Cinque Ports H.W. Longfellow
England's Dead Felicia Hemans
Mehrab Khan Sir F.H. Doyle
The Red Thread of Honour Sir F.H. Doyle
The Private of the Buffs Sir F.H. Doyle
A Fisherman's Song Alfred H. Miles
The Field of Waterloo Lord Byron
The Lay of the Brave Cameron J. S. Blackie
A Song for Stout Workers J. S. Blackie
At the Burial of a Veteran Alfred H. Miles
Napoleon and the British Sailor Thomas Campbell
The Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe
At Trafalgar Gerald Massey
Camperdown Alfred H. Miles
The Armada Lord Macaulay
Mr. Barker's Picture Max Adeler
The Wooden Leg Max Adeler
The Enchanted Shirt Colonel John Hay
Jim Bludso Colonel John Hay
Freedom J.R. Lowell
The Coortin' J.R. Lowell
The Heritage J.R. Lowell
Lady Clare Lord Tennyson
Break, Break, Break Lord Tennyson
The Lord of Burleigh Lord Tennyson
Dora Lord Tennyson
Mrs. B.'s Alarms James Payn
Sheltered Sarah Orme Jewett
Guild's Signal Bret Harte
Bill Mason's Bride Bret Harte
The Clown's Baby "St. Nicholas"
Aunt Tabitha O. Wendell Holmes
Little Orphant Annie J. Whitcomb Riley
The Limitations of Youth Eugene Field
Rubinstein's Playing Anonymous
Obituary William Thomson
The Editor's Story Alfred H. Miles
Nat Ricket Alfred H. Miles
'Spatially Jim "Harper's Magazine"
'Arry's Ancient Mariner Campbell Rae-Brown
The Amateur Orlando George T. Lanigan
A Ballad of a Bazaar Campbell Rae-Brown
A Parental Ode Thomas Hood
'Twas ever Thus Henry S. Leigh
Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question Mary Mapes Dodge
The Heathen Chinee Bret Harte
Ho-ho of the Golden Belt John G. Saxe
The Hired Squirrel Laura Sanford
Ballad of the Trailing Skirt New York "Life"
To the Girl in Khaki "Modern Society"
The Tender Heart Helen G. Cone
A Song of Saratoga John G. Saxe
The Sea Eva L. Ogden
A Tale of a Nose Charles F. Adams
Leedle Yawcob Strauss Charles F. Adams
Dot Baby of Mine Charles F. Adams
A Dutchman's Mistake Charles F. Adams
The Owl Critic James T. Fields
The True Story of King Marshmallow Anonymous
The Jackdaw of Rheims R.H. Barham
Tubal Cain Charles Mackay
The Three Preachers Charles Mackay
Say not the Struggle A.H. Clough
Patriotism Lord Tennyson
To-day and To-morrow Gerald Massey
Ring Out, Wild Bells Lord Tennyson
"Rule, Britannia!" James Thomson

THE IMPERIAL RECITER. EDITED BY ALFRED H. MILES.

THE ENGLISHMAN.

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."

ENGLAND GOES TO BATTLE.

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!

ENGLAND ONCE MORE.

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 Cæsar 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!

GOD DEFEND THE RIGHT.

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,
        It stands on the eternal rock
          Of our eternal faith;
        And handed on from sire and son,
          It furls not day nor night;
        So England holds what England won,
          And God defends the right.

        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.

DOWN IN AUSTRALIA.

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.

AUSTRALIA SPEAKS.

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!

AN IMPERIAL REPLY.

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.

THE BOYS' RETURN.

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!

THE ABSENT-MINDED BEGGAR.

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!

FOR THE EMPIRE.

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.

WANTED—A CROMWELL.

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.

ENGLAND'S IRONSIDES.

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.