Chapter XVII: Part II: Readings and Recitations From the Most Celebrated Authors (3)

Still the cannon’s voice in anger rolled and rattled o’er the plain,
Till they lay in swarms around it mingled heaps of Hessian slain.
“Forward! charge them with the bayonet!” ’twas the voice of Washington;
And there burst a fiery greeting from the Irishwoman’s gun.

Monckton falls; against his columns leap the troops of Wayne and Lee,
And before their reeking bayonets Clinton’s red battalions flee;
Morgan’s rifles, fiercely flashing, thin the foe’s retreating ranks,
And behind them, onward dashing, Ogden hovers on their flanks.

Fast they fly, those boasting Britons, who in all their glory came,
With their brutal Hessian hirelings to wipe out our country’s name.
Proudly floats the starry banner; Monmouth’s glorious field is won;
And, in triumph, Irish Molly stands besides her smoking gun.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

DOUGLAS TO THE POPULACE OF STIRLING.

Hear, gentle friends! ere yet, for me,
Ye break the bands of fealty.
My life, my honor, and my cause,
I tender free to Scotland’s laws.
Are these so weak as must require
The aid of your misguided ire?
Or, if I suffer causeless wrong,
Is then my selfish rage so strong,
My sense of public weal so low,
That, for mean vengeance on a foe,
Those cords of love I should unbind
Which knit my country and my kind?
Oh no! believe, in yonder tower
It will not soothe my captive hour,
To know those spears our foes should dread
For me in kindred gore are red;
To know, in fruitless brawl begun,
For me, that mother wails her son;
For me that widow’s mate expires,
For me, that orphans weep their sires,
That patriots mourn insulted laws,
And curse the Douglas for the cause.
O let your patience ward such ill,
And keep your right to love me still.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

OUR COUNTRY.

Our country!—’tis a glorious land!
With broad arms stretched from shore to shore,
The proud Pacific chafes her strand,
She hears the dark Atlantic roar;
And, nurtured on her ample breast,
How many a goodly prospect lies
In Nature’s wildest grandeur drest,
Enamelled with her loveliest dyes.

Rich prairies, decked with flowers of gold,
Like sunlit oceans roll afar;
Broad lakes her azure heavens behold,
Reflecting clear each trembling star,
And mighty rivers, mountain-born,
Go sweeping onward dark and deep,
Through forests where the bounding fawn
Beneath their sheltering branches leap.

And, cradled mid her clustering hills,
Sweet vales in dreamlike beauty hide,
Where love the air with music fills;
And calm content and peace abide;
For plenty here her fulness pours
In rich profusion o’er the land,
And sent to seize her generous stores,
There prowls no tyrant’s hireling band.

Great God! we thank thee for this home—
This bounteous birthland of the free;
Where wanderers from afar may come,
And breathe the air of liberty!—
Still may her flowers untrampled spring,
Her harvests wave, her cities rise;
And yet, till Time shall fold his wing,
Remain Earth’s loveliest paradise!

W. G. PEABODIE.

M’ILRATH OF MALATE.

Acting Sergeant J. A. McIlrath, Battery H, Third Artillery, Regulars; enlisted from New York; fifteen years’ service. The heroism of our brave Regulars in the War with Spain was the theme of universal admiration. Throw plenty of life and fire into this reading, and avoid a sing-song tone.

Yes, yes, my boy, there’s no mistake,
You put the contract through!
You lads with Shafter, I’ll allow,
Were heroes, tried and true;

But don’t forget the men who fought
About Manila Bay,
And don’t forget brave McIlrath
Who died at Malaté.

The night was black, save where the forks
Of tropic lightning ran,
When, with a long deep thunder-roar,
The typhoon storm began.

Then, suddenly above the din,
We heard the steady bay
Of volleys from the trenches where
The Pennsylvanians lay.

The Tenth, we thought, could hold their own
Against the feigned attack,
And, if the Spaniards dared advance,
Would pay them doubly back.

But soon we marked the volleys sink
Into a scattered fire—
And, now we heard the Spanish gun
Boom nigher yet and nigher!

Then, like a ghost, a courier
Seemed past our picket tossed
With wild hair streaming in his face—
“We’re lost—we’re lost—we’re lost.”

“Front, front—in God’s name—front!” he cried:
“Our ammunition’s gone!”
He turned a face of dazed dismay—
And through the night sped on!

“Men, follow me!” cried McIlrath,
Our acting Sergeant then;
And when he gave the word he knew
He gave the word to men!

Twenty there—not one man more—
But down the sunken road
We dragged the guns of Battery H,
Nor even stopped to load!

Sudden, from the darkness poured
A storm of Mauser hail—
But not a man there thought to pause,
Nor any man to quail!

Ahead, the Pennsylvanians’ guns
In scattered firing broke;
The Spanish trenches, red with flame,
In fiercer volleys spoke!

Down with a rush our twenty came—
The open field we passed—
And in among the hard-pressed Tenth
We set our feet at last!

Up, with a leap, sprang McIlrath,
Mud-spattered, worn and wet,
And, in an instant, there he stood
High on the parapet!

“Steady, boys! we’ve got ’em now—
Only a minute late!
It’s all right, lads—we’ve got ’em whipped.
Just give ’em volleys straight!”

Then, up and down the parapet
With head erect he went,
As cool as when he sat with us
Beside our evening tent!

Not one of us, close sheltered there
Down in the trench’s pen,
But felt that he would rather die
Than shame or grieve him then!

The fire, so close to being quenched
In panic and defeat,
Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped,
In one long deadly sheet!

A cheer went up along the line
As breaks the thunder-call—
But, as it rose, great God! we saw
Our gallant Sergeant fall!

He sank into our outstretched arms
Dead—but immortal grown;
And Glory brightened where he fell,
And valor claimed her own!

JOHN JEROME ROONEY.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

If you should read or recite this tragic selection in a dull monotone, as most persons read poetry, the effect would be ludicrous. The brave captain is dying. With gasping utterance, signs of weakness and appealing looks, his words should be delivered. Some of the sentences should be whispered. Do not attempt to recite this piece until you have mastered it and can render it with telling effect. It demands the trained powers of a competent elocutionist.

“Brave captain! canst thou speak?
What is it thou dost see?
A wondrous glory lingers on thy face,
The night is past; I’ve watched the night with thee.
Knowest thou the place?”

“_The place?_ ’Tis San Juan, comrade.
Is the battle over?
The victory—the victory—is it won?
My wound is mortal; I know I cannot recover—
The battle for me is done!

“I never thought it would come to this!
Does it rain?
The musketry! Give me a drink; ah, that is glorious!
Now if it were not for this pain—this pain—
Didst thou say victorious?

“It would not be strange, would it, if I do wander?
A man can’t remember with a bullet in his brain.
I wish when at home I had been a little fonder—
Shall I ever be well again?

“It can make no difference whether I go from here or there.
Thou’lt write to father and tell him when I am dead?—
The eye that sees the sparrow fall numbers every hair
Even of this poor head.

“Tarry awhile, comrade, the battle can wait for thee;
I will try to keep thee but a few brief moments longer;
Thou’lt say good-bye to the friends at home for me?—
If only I were a little stronger!

“I must not think of it. Thou art sorry for me?
The glory—is it the glory?—makes me blind;
Strange, for the light, comrade, the light I cannot see—
Thou hast been very kind!

“I do not think I have done so very much evil—
I did not mean it. ‘I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul’—just a little rude and uncivil—
Comrade, why dost thou weep?

“Oh! if human pity is so gentle and tender—
Good-night, good friends! ‘I lay me down to sleep!’—
Who from a Heavenly Father’s love needs a defender?
‘My soul to keep!’

“‘If I should die before I wake’—comrade, tell mother,
Remember—‘I pray the Lord my soul to take!’
My musket thou’lt carry back to my little brother
For my dear sake!

“Attention, company! Reverse arms! Very well, men; my thanks.
Where am I? Do I wander, comrade,—wander again?—
Parade is over. Company E, break ranks! break ranks!
I know it is the pain.

“Give me thy strong hand; fain would I cling, comrade to thee;
I feel a chill air blown from a far-off shore;
My sight revives; Death stands and looks at me.
What waits he for?

“Keep back my ebbing pulse till I be bolder grown;
I would know something of the Silent Land;
It’s hard to struggle to the front alone—
Comrade, thy hand.

“The _reveille_ calls! be strong, my soul, and peaceful;
The Eternal City bursts upon my sight!
The ringing air with ravishing melody is full—
I’ve won the fight!

“Nay, comrade, let me go; hold not my hand so steadfast;
I am commissioned—under marching orders—
I know the Future—let the Past be past—
_I cross the borders_.”

THE GREAT NAVAL BATTLE OF MANILA.

With the United States Flag Flying at all their mastheads, our
ships moved to the attack in line ahead, with a speed of eight
knots, first passing in front of Manila, where the action was
begun by three batteries mounting guns powerful enough to send
a shell over us at a distance of five miles. The Concord’s guns
boomed out a reply to these batteries with two shots. No more
were fired, because Admiral Dewey could not engage with these
batteries without sending death and destruction into the crowded
city.

As we neared Cavite two very powerful submarine mines were
exploded ahead of the flagship. The Spaniards had misjudged our
position. Immense volumes of water were thrown high in air by
these destroyers, but no harm was done to our ships.

Admiral Dewey had fought with Farragut at New Orleans and Mobile
Bay, where he had his first experience with torpedoes. Not
knowing how many more mines there might be ahead, he still kept
on without faltering. No other mines exploded, however, and it is
believed that the Spaniards had only these two in place.

Only a few minutes later the shore battery at Cavite Point sent
over the flagship a shot that nearly hit the battery in Manila,
but soon the guns got a better range, and the shells began to
strike near us, or burst close aboard from both the batteries and
the Spanish vessels. The heat was intense. Men stripped off all
clothing except their trousers.

As the Admiral’s flagship, the Olympia, drew nearer all was as
silent on board as if the ship had been empty, except for the
whirr of blowers and the throb of the engines. Suddenly a shell
burst directly over us. From the boatswain’s mate at the after
5-inch gun came a hoarse cry. “Remember the Maine!” arose from
the throats of five hundred men at the guns. This watchword was
caught up in turrets and fire-rooms, wherever seaman or fireman
stood at his post.

“Remember the Maine!” had rung out for defiance and revenge. Its
utterance seemed unpremeditated, but was evidently in every man’s
mind, and, now that the moment had come to make adequate reply to
the murder of the Maine’s crew, every man shouted what was in his
heart.

The Olympia was now ready to begin the fight. “You may fire
when ready, Captain Gridley,” said the Admiral, and at nineteen
minutes of six o’clock, at a distance of 5,500 yards, the
starboard 8-inch gun in the forward turret roared forth a
compliment to the Spanish forts. Presently similar guns from the
Baltimore and the Boston sent 250-pound shells hurtling toward
the Spanish ships Castilla and the Reina Christina for accuracy.
The Spaniards seemed encouraged to fire faster, knowing exactly
our distance, while we had to guess theirs. Their ship and shore
guns were making things hot for us.

The piercing scream of shot was varied often by the bursting of
time fuse shells, fragments of which would lash the water like
shrapnel or cut our hull and rigging. One large shell that was
coming straight at the Olympia’s forward bridge fortunately fell
within less than one hundred feet away. One fragment cut the
rigging exactly over the heads of some of the officers. Another
struck the bridge gratings in line with it. A third passed just
under Dewey and gouged a hole in the deck. Incidents like these
were plentiful.

“Capture and destroy Spanish squadron,” were Dewey’s orders.
Never were instructions more effectually carried out. Within
seven hours after arriving on the scene of action nothing
remained to be done. The Admiral closed the day by anchoring
off the city of Manila and sending word to the Governor General
that if a shot was fired from the city at the fleet he would lay
Manila in ashes.

What was Dewey’s achievement? He steamed into Manila Bay at the
dead hour of the night, through the narrower of the two channels,
and as soon as there was daylight enough to grope his way about
he put his ships in line of battle and brought on an engagement,
the greatest in many respects in ancient or modern warfare. The
results are known the world over—every ship in the Spanish fleet
destroyed, the harbor Dewey’s own, his own ships safe from the
shore batteries, owing to the strategic position he occupied, and
Manila his whenever he cared to take it.

Henceforth, so long as ships sail and flags wave, high on the
scroll that bears the names of the world’s greatest naval heroes
will be written that of George Dewey.

THE SINKING OF THE SHIPS.

This is an excellent selection for any one who can put dramatic force into its recital. Picture to your imagination the “Sinking of the Ships,” and then describe it to your hearers as though the actual scene were before you. You have command in these words, “Now, sailors, stand by,” etc.; rapid utterance in these words, “And the Oregon flew,” etc.; subdued tenderness in the words, “Giving mercy to all,” etc. In short, the whole piece affords an excellent opportunity for intense dramatic description.

Dark, dark is the night; not a star in the sky,
And the Maine rides serenely; what danger is nigh?
Our nation’s at peace with the Kingdom of Spain,
So calmly they rest in the battleship Maine.
But, hark to that roar! See, the water is red!
And the sailor sleeps now with the slime for his bed.
Havana then shook, like the leaves of the trees,
When the tornado rides on the breast of the breeze;
Then people sprang up from their beds in the gloom,
As they’ll spring from their graves at the thunder of doom;
And they rushed through the streets, in their terror and fear,
Crying out as they ran, “Have the rebels come here?”

“Oh, see how the flame lights the shores of the bay,
Like the red rising sun at the coming of day;
’Tis a ship in a blaze! ’Tis the battleship Maine!
What means this to us and the Kingdom of Spain?
The eagle will come at that loud sounding roar,
And our flag will fly free over Cuba no more.”

Dark, dark is the night on the face of the deep,
In the forts all is still; are the soldiers asleep?
Oh, see how that ship glides along through the night;
’Tis the ghost of the Maine—she has come to the fight;
A flash, and a roar, and a cry of despair;
The eagle has come, for brave Dewey is there.

Oh, Spaniards, come out, for the daylight has fled,
And look on those ships—look with terror and dread;
The eagle has come, and he swoops to his prey;
Oh, fly, Spaniards, fly, to that creek in the bay!
The eagle has come—“Remember the Maine!”
And the water is red with the blood of the slain.

They rest for a time—now they sail in again!
Oh, woe, doom and woe, to the kingdom of Spain.
Their ships are ablaze, they are battered and rent,
By the death-dealing shells which our sailors have sent.
Not a man have we lost; yet the battle is o’er,
And their ships ride the bay of Manila no more.

Dark, silent and dark, on the face of the deep,
A ship glides in there; are the Spaniards asleep?
The channel is mined! Oh, rash sailors beware!
Or that death dealing fiend will spring up from his lair;
He will tear you, and rend you, with wild fiendish roar,
And cast you afar on the bay and the shore!

They laugh at the danger; what care they for death?
’Tis only a shock and the ceasing of breath;
Their souls to their Maker, their forms to the wave,
What nation has sons like the home of the brave?
That ship they would steer to the pit of despair,
If duty cried “Onward!” and glory were there.

The shore is ablaze, but the channel they gain;
A word of command, and the rattle of chain;
A flash—and the Merrimac’s sunk in the bay,
And the Spaniard must leave in the light of the day.
Santiago and Hobson remembered shall be,
While waves the proud flag of the brave and the free.

The Spaniards sail out—what a glorious sight!
Now, sailors, stand by and prepare for the fight;
O, Glo’ster, in there, pelt the Dons as they fly,
Make us glorious news for the Fourth of July!
And Wainwright remembered the Maine with a roar,
And that shell-battered hulk is a terror no more.

Then Schley and the Brooklyn were right in the way,
But Sampson had gone to see Shafter, they say;
And the Oregon flew like a fury from hell,
Spreading wreckage and death with the might of her shell;
Then Evans stood out, like a chivalrous knight,
Giving mercy to all at the end of the fight.

The Colon still flies, but a shell cleaves the air,
Its number is fatal—a cry of despair—
She turns to the shore, she bursts into flame,
And down comes the flag of the kingdom of Spain;
Men float all around, the battle is done,
And their ships are all sunk for the sinking of one.
Not ours is the hand that would strike in the night,
With the fiendish intention to mangle and slay;
We strike at obstruction to freedom and right,
And strike when we strike in the light of the day.

W. B. COLLISON.

PERRY’S CELEBRATED VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE.

Perry’s famous battle on Lake Erie raised the spirits of the
Americans. The British had six ships, with sixty-three guns. The
Americans had nine ships, with fifty-four guns, and the American
ships were much smaller than the English. At this time Perry, the
American commander, was but twenty-six years of age. His flagship
was the Lawrence. The ship’s watchword was the last charge of the
Chesapeake’s dying Commander—“Don’t give up the ship.” The battle
was witnessed by thousands of people on shore.

At first the advantage seemed to be with the English. Perry’s
flagship was riddled by English shots, her guns were dismounted
and the battle seemed lost. At the supreme crisis Perry embarked
in a small boat with some of his officers, and under the fire of
many cannon passed to the Niagara, another ship of the fleet, of
which he took command.

After he had left the Lawrence she hauled down her flag and
surrendered, but the other American ships carried on the battle
with such fierce impetuosity that the English battle-ship in
turn surrendered, the Lawrence was retaken and all the English
ships yielded with the exception of one, which took flight. The
Americans pursued her, took her and came back with the entire
British squadron. In the Capitol at Washington is a historical
picture showing this famous victory.

In Perry’s great battle on Lake Erie was shown the true stuff
of which American sailors are made. Perry was young, bold and
dashing, but withal, he had the coolness and intrepidity of the
veteran. History records few braver acts than his passage in an
open boat from one ship to another under the galling fire of the
enemy.

The grand achievements of the American navy are brilliant
chapters in our country’s history. When the time comes for daring
deeds, our gallant tars are equal to the occasion. Coolness
in battle, splendid discipline, perfect marksmanship and a
patriotism that glories in the victory of the Stars and Stripes,
combine to place the officers and men of our navy in the front
rank of the world’s greatest heroes.

THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC.

General Wolfe, the English commander, saw that he must take
Quebec by his own efforts or not at all. He attempted several
diversions above the city in the hope of drawing Montcalm, the
French commander, from his intrenchments into the open field,
but Montcalm merely sent De Bougainville with fifteen hundred
men to watch the shore above Quebec and prevent a landing. Wolfe
fell into a fever, caused by his anxiety, and his despatches to
his government created the gravest uneasiness in England for the
success of his enterprise.

Though ill, Wolfe examined the river with eagle eyes to detect
some place at which a landing could be attempted. His energy was
rewarded by his discovery of the cove which now bears his name.
From the shore at the head of this cove a steep and difficult
pathway, along which two men could scarcely march abreast, wound
up to the summit of the heights and was guarded by a small force
of Canadians.

Wolfe at once resolved to effect a landing here and ascend the
heights by this path. The greatest secrecy was necessary to the
success of the undertaking, and in order to deceive the French as
to his real design, Captain Cook, afterwards famous as a great
navigator, was sent to take soundings and place buoys opposite
Montcalm’s camp, as if that were to be the real point of attack.
The morning of the thirteenth of September was chosen for the
movement, and the day and night of the twelfth were spent in
preparations for it.

At one o’clock on the morning of the thirteenth a force of about
five thousand men under Wolfe, with Monckton and Murray, set off
in boats from the fleet, which had ascended the river several
days before, and dropped down to the point designated for the
landing. Each officer was thoroughly informed of the duties
required of him, and each shared the resolution of the gallant
young commander, to conquer or to die. As the boats floated
down the stream, in the clear, cool starlight, Wolfe spoke to
his officers of the poet Gray, and of his “Elegy in a Country
Churchyard.” “I would prefer,” said he, “being the author of that
poem to the glory of beating the French to-morrow.” Then in a
musing voice he repeated the lines:

“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike the inexorable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”

In a short while the landing-place was reached, and the fleet,
following silently, took position to cover the landing if
necessary. Wolfe and his immediate command leaped ashore and
secured the pathway. The light infantry, who were carried by the
tide a little below the path, climbed up the side of the heights,
sustaining themselves by clinging to the roots and shrubs which
lined the precipitous face of the hill. They reached the summit
and drove off the picket-guard after a light skirmish. The rest
of the troops ascended in safety by the pathway. Having gained
the heights, Wolfe moved forward rapidly to clear the forest, and
by daybreak his army was drawn up on the Heights of Abraham, in
the rear of the city.

Montcalm was speedily informed of the presence of the English.
“It can be but a small party come to burn a few houses and
retire,” he answered incredulously. A brief examination satisfied
him of his danger, and he exclaimed in amazement: “Then they have
at last got to the weak side of this miserable garrison. We must
give battle and crush them before mid-day.”

He at once despatched a messenger for De Bougainville, who was
fifteen miles up the river, and marched from his camp opposite
the city to the Heights of Abraham to drive the English from
them. The opposing forces were about equal in numbers, though the
English troops were superior to their adversaries in discipline,
steadiness and determination.

The battle began about ten o’clock and was stubbornly contested.
It was at length decided in favor of the English. Wolfe though
wounded several times, continued to direct his army until, as he
was leading them to a final charge, he received a musket ball
in the breast. He tottered and called to an officer near him:
“Support me; let not my brave fellows see me drop.” He was borne
tenderly to the rear, and water was brought him to quench his
thirst.

At this moment the officer upon whom he was leaning cried out:
“They run! they run!” “Who run?” asked the dying hero, eagerly.
“The French,” said the officer, “give way everywhere.” “What,”
said Wolfe, summoning up his remaining strength, “do they run
already? Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton; bid him march
Webb’s regiment with all speed to Charles River to cut off the
fugitives.” Then a smile of contentment overspreading his pale
features, he murmured: “Now, God be praised, I die happy,” and
expired. He had done his whole duty, and with his life had
purchased an empire for his country.

JAMES D. MCCABE.

LITTLE JEAN.

_At the battle of the Pyramids, July 21st, A.D. 1798._

Burning sands, and isles of palm, and the Mamelukes’ fierce array,
Under the solemn Pyramids, Napoleon saw that day;
“Comrades,” he cried, “from those old heights, Fame watches the deeds
you do,
The eyes of forty centuries are fixed this day on you!”

They answered him with ringing shouts, they were eager for the fray,
Napoleon held their central square, in front was bold Desaix;
They gave one glance to the Pyramids, one glance to the rich Cairo,
And then they poured a rain of fire upon their charging foe.

Only a little drummer boy, from the column of Dufarge,
Tottered to where the “Forty-third” stood waiting for their “charge,”
Bleeding—but beating still his call—he said, with tear-dimmed eye:
“I’m but a baby, Forty-third, so teach me how to die!”

Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard, and Joubert turned away,
The lad had been the pet of all, they knew not what to say;
“I will not shame you, ‘Forty-third,’ though I am but a child!”
Then Regnier stooped and kissed his face, and shouted loud and wild:

“Forward! Why are we waiting here? Shall Mamelukes stop our way?
Come, little Jean, and beat the ‘charge,’ and ours shall be the day;
And we will show thee how to die, good boy! good boy! Be brave!
It is not every ‘nine years’ old’ can fill a soldier’s grave!”

It was as though a spirit spoke, the men to battle flew;
Yet each in passing, cried aloud: “My little Jean, Adieu!”
“Adieu, brave Forty-third, Adieu!” Then proudly beat his drum—
“You’ve showed me how a soldier dies—and little Jean will come!”

They found him ’mid the slain next day, amid the brave who fell,
Said Regnier, proudly, “My brave Jean, thou learned thy lesson well!”
They hung the medal round his neck, and crossed his childish hands,
And dug for him a little grave in Egypt’s lonely sands.
But, still, the corps his memory keep, and name with flashing eye,
The hero whom the “Forty-third,” in Egypt, taught to die.

LILLIE E. BARR.

THE DEFEAT OF GENERAL BRADDOCK.

Washington, who, at this time, was a subordinate officer, was
well convinced that the French and Indians were informed of the
movements of the army and would seek to interfere with it before
its arrival at Fort Duquesne, which was only ten miles distant,
and urged Braddock to throw in advance the Virginia Rangers,
three hundred strong, as they were experienced Indian fighters.

Braddock angrily rebuked his aide, and as if to make the rebuke
more pointed, ordered the Virginia troops and other provincials
to take position in the rear of the regulars.

In the meantime the French at Fort Duquesne had been informed
by their scouts of Braddock’s movements, and had resolved to
ambuscade him on his march. Early on the morning of the ninth
a force of about two hundred and thirty French and Canadians
and six hundred and thirty-seven Indians, under De Beaujeu,
the commandant at Fort Duquesne, was despatched with orders
to occupy a designated spot and attack the enemy upon their
approach. Before reaching it, about two o’clock in the afternoon,
they encountered the advanced force of the English army, under
Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Gage, and at once attacked them with
spirit.

The English army at this moment was moving along a narrow road,
about twelve feet in width, with scarcely a scout thrown out in
advance or upon the flanks. The engineer who was locating the
road was the first to discover the enemy, and called out: “French
and Indians!” Instantly a heavy fire was opened upon Gage’s
force, and his indecision allowed the French and Indians to seize
a commanding ridge, from which they maintained their attack with
spirit.

The regulars were quickly thrown into confusion by the heavy
fire and the fierce yells of the Indians, who could nowhere be
seen, and their losses were so severe and sudden that they became
panic-stricken.

The only semblance of resistance maintained by the English was
by the Virginia Rangers, whom Braddock had insulted at the
beginning of the day’s march. Immediately upon the commencement
of the battle, they had adopted the tactics of the Indians, and
had thrown themselves behind trees, from which shelter they were
rapidly picking off the Indians. Washington entreated Braddock
to follow the example of the Virginians, but he refused, and
stubbornly endeavored to form them in platoons under the fatal
fire that was being poured upon them by their hidden assailants.
Thus through his obstinacy many useful lives were lost.

The officers did not share the panic of the men, but behaved
with the greatest gallantry. They were the especial marks of the
Indian sharpshooters, and many of them were killed or wounded.
Two of Braddock’s aides were seriously wounded, and their duties
devolved upon Washington in addition to his own. He passed
repeatedly over the field, carrying the orders of the commander
and encouraging the men. When sent to bring up the artillery, he
found it surrounded by Indians, its commander, Sir Peter Halket,
killed, and the men standing helpless from fear.

Springing from his horse, he appealed to the men to save the
guns, pointed a field-piece and discharged it at the savages and
entreated the gunners to rally. He could accomplish nothing by
either his words or example. The men deserted the guns and fled.
In a letter to his brother, Washington wrote: “I had four bullets
through my coat, two horses shot under me, yet escaped unhurt,
though death was levelling my companions on every side around me.”

JAMES D. MCCABE.

DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS

QUICK! MAN THE LIFE-BOAT!

This selection demands great vivacity and intense dramatic expression. Each reference to the life-boat requires rapid utterance, elevated pitch and strong tones of command. Point to the life-boat; you are to see it, and make your audience see it. They will see it in imagination if you do; that is, if you speak and act as if you stood on the shore and actually saw the life-boat hurrying to the rescue.

Quick! man the life-boat! See yon bark
That drives before the blast?
There’s a rock ahead, the fog is dark,
And the storm comes thick and fast.
Can human power, in such an hour,
Avert the doom that’s o’er her?
Her mainmast’s gone, but she still drives on
To the fatal reef before.
The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! hark! the gun
Booms through the vapory air;
And see! the signal flags are on,
And speak the ship’s despair.
That forked flash, that pealing crash,
Seemed from the wave to sweep her:
She’s on the rock, with a terrible shock—
And the wail comes louder and deeper,
The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! See—the crew
Gaze on their watery grave:
Already, some, a gallant few,
Are battling with the wave;
And one there stands, and wrings his hand
As thoughts of home come o’er him;
For his wife and child, through the tempest wild,
He sees on the heights before him.
The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Speed, speed the life-boat! Off she goes!
And, as they pulled the oar,
From shore and ship a cheer arose,
That startled ship and shore.
Life-saving ark! yon fated bark
Has human lives within her;
And dearer than gold is the wealth untold,
Thou’lt save if thou canst win her.
On, life-boat! Speed thee, life-boat!

Hurrah! the life-boat dashes on,
Though darkly the reef may frown;
The rock is there—the ship is gone
Full twenty fathoms down.
But cheered by hope, the seamen cope
With the billows single-handed;
They are all in the boat!—hurrah! they’re afloat;
And now they are safely landed
By the life-boat! Cheer the life-boat!

BEAUTIFUL HANDS.

As I remember the first fair touch
Of those beautiful hands that I love so much,
I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled
Kissing the glove that I found unfilled—
When I met your gaze and the queenly bow
As you said to me laughingly, “Keep it now!”
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand
Kissing the ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved in the long ago,
And held your hand as I told you so—
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss,
And said, “I could die for a hand like this!”
Little I dreamed love’s fullness yet
Had I to ripen when eyes were wet,
And prayers were vain in their wild demands
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful hands! O, beautiful hands!
Could you reach out of the alien lands
Where you are lingering, and give me to-night
Only a touch—were it ever so light—
My heart were soothed, and my weary brain
Would lull itself into rest again;
For there is no solace the world commands
Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

THE BURNING SHIP.

The general character of this selection is intensely dramatic. It is a most excellent piece for any one who has the ability and training to do it full justice. The emotions of agony, horror and exultation are here, and should be made prominent. Let the cry of “Fire!” ring out in startling tones, and let your whole manner correspond with the danger and the excitement of the scene. The rate throughout should be rapid.

The figures in the text refer you to the corresponding numbers of Typical Gestures, at the beginning of Part II of this volume. Insert other gestures of your own.

The storm o’er the ocean flew furious and fast,
And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast,
And heavily[2] labored the gale-beaten ship,
Like a stout-hearted swimmer, the spray at his lip;
And dark[21] was the sky o’er the mariner’s path,
Save when the wild lightning illumined in wrath,
A young mother knelt in the cabin below,
And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow,
She prayed to her God,[20] ’mid the hurricane wild,
“O Father, have mercy, look down on my child!”

It passed—the fierce whirlwind careered on its way,
And the ship like an arrow[25] divided the spray;
Her sails glimmered white in the beams of the moon,
And the wind up aloft seemed to whistle a tune—to whistle a tune.

There was joy[16] in the ship as she furrowed the foam,
For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home.
The young mother pressed her fond babe to her breast,
And the husband sat cheerily down by her side,
And looked with delight on the face of his bride.

“Oh,[16] happy,” said he, “when our roaming is o’er,
We’ll dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore.
Already in fancy its roof I descry,
And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky;
Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall;
The kind friends[9] awaiting to welcome us all,
And the children that sport by the old oaken tree.”

Ah gently the ship glided over the sea!
Hark![13] what was that? Hark! Hark to the shout!
“Fire!”[10] Then a tramp and a rout, and a tumult of voices
uprose on the air;—
And the mother knelt[8] down, and the half-spoken prayer,
That she offered to God in her agony wild,
Was, “Father, have mercy, look down on my child!”
She flew to her husband,[1] she clung to his side,
Oh there was her refuge whate’er might betide.

“Fire!”[10] “Fire!” It was raging above and below—
And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the sight,
And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light,
’Twas vain o’er the ravage the waters to drip;
The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship,

And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher.
“O God,[20] it is fearful to perish by fire.”
Alone with destruction, alone on the sea,
“Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee.”

Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave,
They lowered the boat,[2] a mere speck on the wave.
First entered the mother, enfolding her child:
It knew she caressed it, looked[16] upward and smiled.

Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away,
And mistily dawned o’er the pathway the day—
And they prayed for the light, and at noontide about,
The sun[16] o’er the waters shone joyously out.

“Ho! a sail![7] Ho! a sail!” cried the man at the lee,
“Ho! a sail!”[7] and they turned their glad eyes o’er the sea.
“They see us, they see us,[21] the signal is waved!
They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us: Huzza! we are saved.”

THE UNKNOWN SPEAKER.

It is the Fourth day of July, 1776.

In the old State House in the city of Philadelphia are gathered
half a hundred men to strike from their limbs the shackles of
British despotism. There is silence in the hall—every face is
turned toward the door where the committee of three, who have
been out all night penning a parchment, are soon to enter. The
door opens, the committee appears. The tall man with the sharp
features, the bold brow, and the sand-hued hair, holding the
parchment in his hand, is a Virginia farmer, Thomas Jefferson.
That stout-built man with stern look and flashing eye, is
a Boston man, one John Adams. And that calm-faced man with
hair drooping in thick curls to his shoulders, that is the
Philadelphia printer, Benjamin Franklin.

The three advance to the table.

The parchment is laid there.

Shall it be signed or not? A fierce debate ensues, Jefferson
speaks a few bold words. Adams pours out his whole soul. The
deep-toned voice of Lee is heard, swelling in syllables of
thunder like music. But still there is doubt, and one pale-faced
man whispers something about axes, scaffolds and a gibbet.

“Gibbet?” echoed a fierce, bold voice through the hall. “Gibbet?
They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land; they
may turn every rock into a scaffold; every tree into a gallows;
every home into a grave, and yet the words of that parchment
there can never die! They may pour our blood on a thousand
scaffolds, and yet from every drop that dyes the axe a new
champion of freedom will spring into birth. The British King may
blot out the stars of God from the sky, but he cannot blot out
His words written on that parchment there. The works of God may
perish. His words never!

“The words of this declaration will live in the world long
after our bones are dust. To the mechanic in his workshop they
will speak hope; to the slave in the mines, freedom; but to the
coward-kings, these words will speak in tones of warning they
cannot choose but hear.

“They will be terrible as the flaming syllables on Belshazzar’s
wall! They will speak in language startling as the trump of the
Archangel, saying: ‘You have trampled on mankind long enough!
At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God, and
called His judgment down! You have waded to thrones through
rivers of blood; you have trampled on the necks of millions of
fellow-beings. Now kings, now purple hangmen, for _you_ come the
days of axes and gibbets and scaffolds.’

“Such is the message of that declaration to mankind, to the
kings of earth. And shall we falter now? And shall we start back
appalled when our feet touch the very threshold of Freedom?

“Sign that parchment! Sign, if the next moment the gibbet’s rope
is about your neck! Sign, if the next minute this hall rings with
the clash of the falling axes! Sign by all your hopes in life or
death as men, as husbands, as fathers, brothers, sign your names
to the parchment, or be accursed forever!

“Sign, and not only for yourselves, but for all ages, for that
parchment will be the textbook of freedom—the Bible of the rights
of men forever. Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise! It
is truth, your own hearts witness it; God proclaims it. Look at
this strange history of a band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly
transformed into a people—a handful of men weak in arms—but
mighty in God-like faith; nay, look at your recent achievements,
your Bunker Hill, your Lexington, and then tell me, if you can,
that God has not given America to be free!

“It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb to the
skies, and to pierce the councils of the Almighty One. But
methinks I stand among the awful clouds which veil the brightness
of Jehovah’s throne.

“Methinks I see the recording angel come trembling up to that
throne to speak his dread message. ‘Father, the old world is
baptized in blood. Father, look with one glance of thine eternal
eye, and behold evermore that terrible sight, man trodden
beneath the oppressor’s feet, nations lost in blood, murder
and superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their
victims, and not a single voice to whisper hope to man!’

“He stands there, the angel, trembling with the record of human
guilt. But hark! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the awful
cloud: ‘Let there be light again! Tell my people, the poor and
oppressed, to go out from the old world, from oppression and
blood, and build my altar in the new!’

“As I live, my friends, I believe that to be His voice! Yes,
were my soul trembling on the verge of eternity, were this hand
freezing in death, were this voice choking in the last struggle,
I would still with the last impulse of that soul, with the last
wave of that hand, with the last gasp of that voice, implore you
to remember this truth—God has given America to be free! Yes,
as I sank into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with my last
faint whisper I would beg you to sign that parchment for the
sake of the millions whose very breath is now hushed in intense
expectation as they look up to you for the awful words, ‘You are
free!’”

The unknown speaker fell exhausted in his seat; but the work was
done.

A wild murmur runs through the hall. “Sign!” There is no doubt
now. Look how they rush forward! Stout-hearted John Hancock has
scarcely time to sign his bold name before the pen is grasped
by another—another and another. Look how the names blaze on the
parchment! Adams and Lee, Jefferson and Carroll, Franklin and
Sherman.

And now the parchment is signed.

Now, old man in the steeple, now bare your arm and let the bell
speak! Hark to the music of that bell! Is there not a poetry
in that sound, a poetry more sublime than that of Shakespeare
and Milton? Is there not a music in that sound that reminds you
of those sublime tones which broke from angel lips when the
news of the child Jesus burst on the hill-tops of Bethlehem?
For the tones of that bell now come pealing, pealing, pealing,
“Independence now and Independence forever.”

CHILD LOST.

It used to be a custom to have a man go through the town ringing a bell and “crying” any thing was lost. You should imitate the crier, at the same time swinging your hand as if ringing a bell. This selection requires a great variety in the manner, pitch of the voice and gestures of the reader.

“Nine,” by the Cathedral clock!
Chill the air with rising damps;
Drearily from block to block
In the gloom the bellman tramps—
“Child lost! Child lost!
Blue eyes, curly hair,
Pink dress—child lost!”

Something in the doleful strain
Makes the dullest listener start;
And a sympathetic pain
Shoot to every feeling heart.
Anxious fathers homeward haste,
Musing with paternal pride
Of their daughters, happy-faced,
Silken-haired and sparkling-eyed.
Many a tender mother sees
Younglings playing round her chair,
Thinking, “If ’twere one of these,
How could I the anguish bear?”

“Ten,” the old Cathedral sounds;
Dark and gloomy are the streets;
Still the bellman goes his rounds,
Still his doleful cry repeats—
“Oh, yes! oh, yes!
Child lost! Blue eyes,
Curly hair, pink dress—
Child lost! Child lost!”

“Can’t my little one be found?
Are there any tidings, friend?”
Cries the mother, “Is she drowned?
Is she stolen? God forfend!
Search the commons, search the parks,
Search the doorway and the halls,
Search the alleys, foul and dark,
Search the empty market stalls.
Here is gold and silver—see!
Take it all and welcome, man;
Only bring my child to me,
Let me have my child again.”

Hark! the old Cathedral bell
Peals “eleven,” and it sounds
To the mother like a knell;
Still the bellman goes his rounds.
“Child lost! Child lost!
Blue eyes, curly hair,
Pink dress—child lost!”

Half aroused from dreams of peace,
Many hear the lonesome call,
Then into their beds of ease
Into deeper slumber fall;
But the anxious mother cries,
“Oh, my darling’s curly hair!
Oh, her sweetly-smiling eyes!
Have you sought her everywhere?
Long and agonizing dread
Chills my heart and drives me wild—
What if Minnie should be dead?
God, in mercy, find my child!”

“Twelve” by the Cathedral clock;
Dimly shine the midnight lamps;
Drearily from block to block,
In the rain the bellman tramps.
“Child lost! Child lost!
Blue eyes, curly hair,
Pink dress—child lost!”

THE CAPTAIN AND THE FIREMAN.

Spin us a yarn of the sea, old man,
About some captain bold,
Who steered his ship and made her slip
When the sea and the thunder rolled;
Some tale that will stir the blood, you know,
Like the pirate tales of old.

“It was the old ‘tramp’ Malabar,
With coal for Singapore;
‘The captain stood upon the bridge’
And loud the wind did roar,
And far upon the starboard bow
We saw the stormy shore.

“The night came down as black as pitch;
More loud the wind did blow;
The waves made wreck around the deck
And washed us to and fro;
But half the crew, though wild it blew,
Were sleeping down below.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’
And I was at the wheel;
The waves were piling all around,
Which made the old ‘tank’ reel,
When—smash! there came an awful crash
That shook the ribs of steel.

“‘We’ve struck a wreck!’ ‘Stand by the pumps!’
Her plates were gaping wide;
And out her blood streamed in the flood,
The wreck had bruised her side;
Her coal poured out—her inky blood—
And stained the foaming tide.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’
The firemen down below;
He saw and knew what he could do,
While they but heard the blow.
The bravest man is he that stands
Against an unseen foe.

“‘All hands on deck!’ was now the cry,
‘For we are sinking fast;
Our boats were stove by that last wave—
This night will be our last;
There’s not a plank on board the tank,
She’s steel, from keel to mast.’

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge;’
All hands were now on deck;
The waves went down, the sun came up,
We saw the drifting wreck,
And there, upon the starboard bow,
The land—a distant speck.

“‘Who’ll go below and fire her up?”
The captain loud did roar.
‘We’re dumping coal with every roll,
But, see! the storm is o’er;
And I will stand upon the bridge,
And guide her to the shore.’

“‘I’ll go for one,’ said old ‘Tramp Jim,’
‘And shovel in the coal.
I’ll go,’ said Jim, all black and grim,
‘Though death be down that hole;
I’ve heard a man who dies for men
Is sure to save his soul.

“‘So turn the steam into that mill,
And let it spin around,
And I will feed the old thing coal
Till you be hard aground;
I’ll go alone, there’s none to moan,
If old ‘Tramp Jim’ be drowned!’

“He went below and fired her up,
The steam began to roar;
‘The captain stood upon the bridge’
And steered her for the shore;
The ship was sinking by the bow,
Her race was nearly o’er.

“The water rose around poor Jim,
Down in the fire-room there.
‘I’ll shovel in the coal,’ he gasped,
‘’Till the water wets me hair—
The Lord must take me as I am,
I have no time for prayer.’

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge.’
(Oh, hang that phrase, I say!
‘The firemen bravely stood below,’
Suits more this time of day,)
Old Jim kept shovelling in the coal,
Though it was time to pray.

“And every soul was saved, my lads,
Why do I speak it low?
The Lord took Jim, all black and grim,
And made him white as snow.
Some say, ‘the captain on the bridge,’
But I say, ‘Jim below!’”

W. B. COLLISON.

THE FACE ON THE FLOOR.

This is one of many recitations in this volume that have proved their popularity by actual test. “The Face on the Floor,” when well recited, holds the hearers spell-bound.

’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there
That well nigh filled Joe’s barroom on the corner of the square,
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door;
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

“Where did it come from?” some one said;
“The wind has blown it in.”
“What does it want?” another cried, “Some whiskey, beer or gin?”
“Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work,
I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s as filthy as a Turk.”

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace,
In fact, he smiled as if he thought he’d struck the proper place;
“Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd;
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

“Give me a drink! That’s what I want, I’m out of funds, you know,
When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow;
What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

“There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God bless you, one and all,
Next time I pass this good saloon I’ll make another call;
Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past,
My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast.

“Say, give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—
I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too;
That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think,
But I was, some four or five years back, say, give us another drink.

“Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame—
Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;
Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whiskey, too,
Well, boys, here’s luck, and landlord, my best regards to you.

“You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you how
I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now;
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,
And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

“I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood.
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good;
I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise;
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.