Chapter VII: Part II: The Reading-Club (1)

THE DRUMMER’S BETROTHED.

“Douce est la morte qui vient en bien aimant.”

Our liege lord, the Duc de Bretagne,
To deadly battle for the king
Summons sent from Nantes to Mortagne,
In the plain and on the mountain,
To warriors of his following.

Barons they are, whose gleaming arms
Adorn the moated castle’s crest,
Proud knights, grown old midst war’s alarms
Esquires, and footmen with their arms;
And my betrothed went with the rest.

He went to Aquitaine, and, though
Among the drummers he’s enrolled,
He seemed a captain, marching slow,
With haughty head, and eyes aglow,
And doublet glittering with gold.

Since then nor peace nor rest I know.
Joining his lot with mine, I’ve cried
To my St. Brigitte, bending low,
Watch well his guardian angel, so
That he shall never leave his side!

I said to our abbé one night,
Pray for our soldiers, messire, pray!
And since he loves to see their light,
I left three candles burning bright
Before St. Gildas’ shrine next day.

And to Our Lady of Lorette
I promised in my cruel fright
To wear—and see, I wear it yet—
A ruff with pilgrim’s cockles set,
Close hid from curious sight.

No loving letters has he penned
While far away where battles rage:
Though life and love be near their end.
The vassal has no squire to send,
The vassal’s sweetheart has no page.

To-day the duke returns in state,
With him my love, a soldier tried,
No longer lowly in estate.
I lift my head, bowed down of late,
And my bliss blossoms into pride.

The duke brings home triumphantly,
Worn and soiled, the flag that’s floated
O’er his camp. Come all with me
To the old gate, the troops to see,
And the prince and my betrothèd.

To see the horse, with trappings gay
Caparisoned, his lord to bear,
Advance, retreat, with conscious neigh,
Tossing his head till its array
Of plumes like flaming torches flare.

To see—O sisters, why so slow?—
The drums that lead my hero on,
The drums that in the sunlight glow,
That throb beneath his tireless blow
Till the heart throbs in unison.

And, best of all, to see his face!
I worked his cloak with broidery fair:
He’ll look like one of princely race,
And with a more than princely grace
His plumèd helm he’ll wear.

The impious Egyptian bent
Close above me last night, hissing,
(God help us!) “You are confident!
Drums will sound till the air is rent,
But one drummer will be missing.”

But I hope still, so much I’ve prayed!
Though, with her hand outstretched to where
Among the tombs her home she made,
Her snake’s eyes gleaming through the shade,
She said: “We’ll meet to-morrow there.”

No more dark fancies! Hear how loud
The drums beat! Sisters, let us go.
See how the ladies fair and proud
The purple-hung pavilions crowd,
Where banners float and flowers glow.

The escort comes, by pikemen led,
Then, not to-day in armor tried,
In gleaming silken robes instead,
And velvet-capped each haughty head,
The barons, under flags flung wide.

And robèd priests pass, chanting low,
And heralds, riding milk-white steeds,
Escutcheons on their corslets show
Their masters’ rank, won long ago
By some ancestor’s mighty deeds.

In Persian mail magnificent,
Feared of all hell, the Templars ride;
Then, all in buff, with bows unbent,
The long array of archers, sent
From far Lausanne, march side by side.

The duke is near; his banners fling
Their folds o’er squire and cavalier;
The captured ensigns seem to cling
About their standards, sorrowing.
Look, the drummers are almost here!

* * * * *

Silent, smiling, she turned her head,
Scanned the close ranks with eager eye.
The crowd pressed close; no word she said,
But fell among them cold and dead—
The drummers had passed by.
_By M. Cecile Brown, from the French of Victor Hugo._

JOHN LELAND’S EXAMINATION.

Up on the heights in the Old Dominion, where the houses are few, and many of the mountaineers know little of the settlements below, a man of God lived who took to preaching the gospel in his own rude way. He was a man of strong character and clear common sense. He could just read the Bible—that was all; but he got at the heart of things as his ministry showed, and drew near to the heart of his Master. He was a very plain preacher, a most careless and unguarded man. He told the people the truth without any apologies, with all kindness and tenderness of heart. Many were turned from sin unto righteousness; and the presbytery, in whose bounds his work was, determined to ordain him, simply on the ground of his efficiency and clear call to the ministry, though he had no education. He objected. They persisted. Finally the day was appointed, and a large company from the mountains and the valleys below gathered to witness the examination for licensing and ordination of this strange character. All knew that there would be something entertaining in his answers. The presbytery assembled, the congregation looking on. John Leland took his place in front, dropping his head into his hands. The moderator simply stated the object of the meeting, addressing Mr. Leland. The latter looked up and said,—

“Mr. Moderator, I’ll tell you all I know. It won’t take long,” and down his head went into his hands again. A smile went around the assembly.

_Moderator._ Mr. Leland, do you believe that God had a people, chosen and elect before the foundations of the world?

_Leland._ I don’t know what God was doin’ before he made the world. Don’t know any thin’ about it. I a’n’t a educated man.

_Moderator._ Yes, but you must understand me. You certainly believe that God had a people chosen and elect from all eternity?

_Leland._ No. I don’t believe that. They couldn’t a’ been our kind o’ folks, anyway; because ours are made out of the dust of the earth, you know.

_Moderator._ Mr. Leland, we have heard of your Christian life, of your efficiency and your success, and we are met to ordain you to the ministry of the gospel. This is a solemn occasion, and you must not make light of the questions. Now, I want to know if you believe in the total depravity of mankind?

_Leland._ No, I don’t, if you mean by that that men are as bad as they can be; for the Devil a’n’t any worse’n that, you know.

_Moderator._ Do you believe in imputed righteousness, and that it is sufficient to save all who have faith?

_Leland._ I don’t know any righteousness that will save a man who won’t do right himself.

_Moderator._ Do you believe in the final perseverance of the saints?

_Leland._ I don’t know what that means.

_Moderator._ Well, you believe that all who are converted will be kept, and not fall away?

_Leland._ Oh, I don’t know how it is down in the settlements, among the educated; but I tell you up where we live, we have the awfulest cases of backsliding.

_Moderator._ But, Mr. Leland, you certainly believe that when a man is converted he will be kept in some way, and finally saved?

_Leland._ I cannot tell much about that, till I am saved myself. Don’t know any thing about it now.

_Moderator._ You feel that you are called to preach the gospel?

_Leland._ No, I never heard any one call me.

_Moderator._ We do not mean that you heard a voice—any thing said—but that you are called.

_Leland._ Well, Mr. Moderator, if there wasn’t any voice, or any thing said, don’t know how there could be any call. Never heard any.

_Moderator._ You believe it is your duty to preach the gospel to all creatures?

_Leland._ No. I don’t believe it my duty to preach to the Dutch, for instance. I can’t talk Dutch. If the Lord wanted me to preach to them, in some way I could talk Dutch; but I can’t, I never tried.

_Moderator._ Mr. Leland, you certainly desire to see all men come to repentance, and turn to righteousness. Your acts show that. We have heard of your self-sacrificing spirit, your love for mankind, and all your good works to win sinners to the gospel and repentance.

_Leland._ Mr. Moderator, I’ll tell you the honest truth. I am a little ashamed of it; but it is God’s truth just as I tell you. Some days I do feel that way; and then again, some of them act so bad, I don’t care if the Devil gets half of them.

After the presbytery had retired to take counsel over the matter, they returned and announced that while his answers had not been entirely satisfactory in every respect, nevertheless, in view of his efficiency in preaching, they had voted to ordain him, which they proceeded to do in the usual manner. After it was over, Mr. Leland lifted his head out of his hands, straightened himself up, and stood his full height. Looking first at the moderator, and then all round him, he said,—

“Brethren, I’ve put you to a heap o’ trouble. I don’t know any thin’ about your doctrines, ’n’ I told you I didn’t. I’ve been doin’ the best I could, preachin’ the gospel as I found it in the Bible. Now, you see, I don’t know any thing else. Another thing: when the apostles put their hands on a man’s head, I read that the man had some power, or some sense, or some knowledge, that he hadn’t afore. But now, brethren, honest and true, right out, you’ve all had your hands on me, and I am just as big a fool as ever I was. But I thank you, nevertheless: I’m very much obleeged to you.”

And so they let him go.

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.

I’m not a chicken: I have seen
Full many a chill September;
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember.
The day before my kite-string snapped,
And, I my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;
For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing:
There was a heavy sigh or two
Before the fire was flashing;
A little stir among the clouds
Before they rent asunder;
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled!
They seemed like bursting craters!
And oaks lay scattered on the ground
As if they were p’taters;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,—
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying:
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And sent them all a-flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,—
I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I saw them chase the clouds as if
The Devil had been in them.
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood’s only riches,—
“Farewell, farewell,” I faintly cried,
“My breeches! Oh my breeches!”

That night I saw them in my dreams;
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The wind had whistled through them;
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever;
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever, and forever!
And not till time has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches.
_O. W. Holmes_

AT THE RISING OF THE MOON.

“Oh, then! tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall,
Tell me why you hurry so?”
“Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen;”
And his cheeks were all aglow.
“I bear ordhers from the captain:
Get you ready, quick and soon;
For the pikes must be together
At the risin’ of the moon.”

“Oh, then! tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall,
Where the gatherin’ is to be?”
“In the ould spot by the river,
Right well known to you and me.
One word more—for signal token,
Whistle up the marchin’ tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder
By the risin’ of the moon.”

Out from many a mud-wall cabin,
Eyes were watching through that night:
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the valley,
Like the banshee’s lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing,
At the risin’ of the moon.

There beside the singing river
That dark mass of men was seen,
Far above the shining weapons
Hung their own beloved green.
“Death to every foe and traitor!
Forward, strike the marchin’ tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom!
’Tis the risin’ of the moon.”

Well, they fought for poor old Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate.
(Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of Ninety-eight!)
Yet, thank God, e’en still are beating
Hearts in manhood’s burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps
At the risin’ of the moon!
_Leo Casey._

THE SADDEST SIGHT.

When a woman her home would decorate,
She stops not at obstacles small or great;
But the funniest sight her trials afford
Is when madam essays to saw a board.

With her knee on a plank, and the plank on a chair,
She poises her saw with a knowing air,
Makes several wild rasps at the pencilled line,
And is off with a whizz the reverse of fine.

With lips compressed she gets down to work,
And crosses the timber jerkity-jerk;
She can’t keep to the line, her knee slips askew;
But she keeps to the work till the board splits in two.

She has damaged the chair, she has ruined the saw,
Her back is aching, her hands are raw,
And she finds, when she tries to fit her prize,
It’s an inch too short of the requisite size.

NEBULOUS PHILOSOPHY.

She came from Concord’s classic shades, on Reason’s throne she sat,
And wove intricate arguments to prove, in language pat,
The Whichness of the Wherefore, and the Thusness of the That.

She scorned ignoble subjects, each grovelling household care,
But tuned her lofty soul to prove the Airness of the Air,
And twisted skeins of logic round the Whatness of the Where.

To lower natures leaving the dollars, and the sense,
She soared above the level of commonplace pretence,
And moulded treatises which prove the Thatness of the Thence.

Her glorious purpose to reveal the Thinkfulness of the Thought,
To trace each line by Somewhat on the Somehow’s surface wrought,
To picture forms of Whynot’s from the Whatnot’s meaning caught;

To cultivate our spirits with the Whyfore’s classic flow,
To benefit the Thereness with the Highness of the How,
To flood the dark with radiance from the Thisness of the Now.

“What good has she accomplished?” Oh, never doubt her thus!
It must be useful to reveal the Plusness of the Plus,
To illustrate with corkscrew words the Whichness of the Us.

Mock not, poor common mortal, when thoughts like these appear,
Illumining our labor with the Howness of the Here,
And blazing like a comet through the Nowness of the Near.

Some day in Realms Eternal such grand mist-haunted souls,
Inscribe their words of Whichness on Whereforeantic scrolls,
In that great world of Muchness which through the Maybe rolls.

Then shall we each acknowledge the Whyness of the Whence;
Each understand completely with Sensefulness of Sense,
The Thusness of the Therefore, the Thatness of the Thence.
_J. Edgar Jones._

AT ARLINGTON.

The broken column, reared in air,
To him who made our country great,
Can almost cast its shadow where
The victims of a grand despair
In long, long ranks of death await
The last loud trump, the judgment sun,
Which comes for all, and soon or late
Will come for those at Arlington.

In that vast sepulchre repose
The thousands reaped from every fray;
The men in blue who once uprose
In battle front to smite their foes—
The Spartan bands who wore the gray.
The combat o’er, the death-hug done,
In summer blaze or winter’s snows,
They keep the truce at Arlington.

And, almost lost in myriad graves
Of those who gained the unequal fight,
Are mounds that hide Confederate braves,
Who reck not how the north wind raves,
In dazzling day or dimmest night.
O’er those who lost and those who won
Death holds no parley which was right—
Jehovah judges Arlington.

The dead had rest; the dove of peace,
Brooded o’er both with equal wings;
To both had come that great surcease,
The last omnipotent release
From all the world’s delirious stings,
To bugle deaf and signal gun
They slept, like heroes of old Greece,
Beneath the glebe at Arlington.

And in the Spring’s benignant reign,
The sweet May woke her harp of pines,
Teaching her choir a thrilling strain
Of jubilee to land and main.
She danced in emerald down the lines,
Denying largess bright to none.
She saw no difference in the signs
That told who slept at Arlington.

She gave her grasses and her showers
To all alike who dreamed in dust;
Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers
Amid the jasmine buds and flowers,
And piped with an impartial trust.
Waifs of the air and liberal sun!
Their guileless glees were kind and just
To friend and foe at Arlington.

And ’mid the generous spring there came
Some women of the land who strove
To make this funeral field of fame
Glad as the May God’s altar flame
With rosy wreaths of mutual love.
Unmindful who had lost or won,
They scorned the jargon of a name—
No North, no South, at Arlington.
_James R. Randall._

A LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.

Admiring my flowers, sir? P’raps you’d step inside the gate, and walk round my little place? It ain’t big, but there’s plenty of variety,—violets and cabbages, roses and artichokes. Any one that didn’t care for flowers ’ud be sure to find beauty in them young spring onions. People’s ideas differ very much, there ain’t a doubt of it. One man’s very happy over a glass of whiskey and water, and another thinks every thing ’ud go straight in this ’ere world if we all drank tea and lemonade. And it’s right enough: it keeps things even. We should have the world a very one-sided affair if everybody pulled the same way. Philosopher, am I? Well, I dunno. I’ve got a theory to be sure—every one has nowadays; and mine is, that there is a joke to be found in every mortal thing if only we look in the right place for it. But some people don’t know how to look for it. Why, sir, if you’ll believe it, I was talking to a man yesterday that couldn’t see any thing to laugh at in the naval demonstration.

Am I independent? Well, I makes money by my fruit and vegetables, if that’s what you mean. But there’s so many ways of being independent. One man marries a woman with £20,000 a year, and calls that independence. Another votes on the strongest side, and calls that being independent. One takes up every new-fangled idea that comes out, and says he’s independent. Some calls impudence independence. There’s not a name as fits so many different articles. No! I’ve never bin married. Somehow, I don’t think married men see the fun in every thing same as single ones. I don’t mean to be disrespectful to the ladies, but I do think they enjoy a good cry more than a good laugh. Was I ever in love? and did I laugh then? Why, yes, never laughed heartier in my life. It’s a good many years ago now. I was living in lodgings down Clerkenwell way, and the landlady’s daughter was as pretty a creature as ever you see, bright and cheery, like a robin, when first I knew her. But, by and by, she grew pale and peaky,—used to go about the house without singing, and had such big, sad-looking eyes. Her home wasn’t a particularly happy one, for her mother was a nagger. Perhaps you’ve never come across a woman of that pertikler character. Well, then, you should say double the prayers of ordinary people; for you’ve much to be thankful for. I never looked at her without feeling that her husband must have been very happy indeed when he got to heaven. I sometimes think, sir, that women of this sort might be made use of, and prisons, and all other kind of punishment, done away with: perhaps, though, the lunatic asylums ’ud get too full.

Well, I grew to be quite intimate with Bessie; and one evening, I don’t know how it was, she told me all her troubles. She was engaged to a young man; and her mother wouldn’t consent to them marrying, and was always worrying her to break it off. I asked her if there were any thing against him. Nothing, except that her mother had taken a dislike to him: he wasn’t very strong, but he was the best, cleverest, dearest fellow that ever lived. All the time she was talking I felt a gnawing sort of pain somewhere in my inside. First, I thought I must be hungry; but, when I came to eat, all my food seemed to get in my throat, and stick there. This won’t do, old fellow, thinks I: there must be a joke to be got out of it somewhere. So I set to consider; and there, clear enough, it was. Why, the joke ’ud be to let Bessie marry her young man, and see the pretty cheeks grow round and pink again. But how to do it, there was the rub. I began to cultivate the old lady’s society with a view to finding out her weak point: for, being a woman, of course she had a weak point; and, being a very ugly woman, what do you think it was? Why, vanity, to be sure. I soon noticed a change in her. She took her hair out of paper every day, instead of only on Sundays, as she had been used to do; and she put on a clean cap sometimes, and smirked whenever I passed her. Why, here’s a bigger joke than I bargained for, thinks I! While I’ve been studying the woman to find out her weak point, she thinks I’ve been admiring her. But I soon saw what use I could make of this. I went down into the kitchen when she wasn’t busy,—I knew it would be rather too hot other times,—and I got talking about Bessie. “It’s strange,” I says, “that a fine-looking girl like that shouldn’t have a sweetheart. Things was different when you was younger, I’ll be bound.”

“As for that,” says she, “Bessie has a sweetheart; but I don’t approve of him. He’s not exactly the sort of man I expected for her.”

“But, lor’,” I says, “you wouldn’t go and keep that girl single! Think what harm you may do yourself. You can’t be so cruel as to give up all idea of marrying agin! Why, you don’t look forty.” That wasn’t an untruth, for she looked fifty. She tossed her head, and told me to go along. I didn’t go along. I says, “There’s no doubt lots of young fellows ’ud be glad enough of a good-looking wife like you, but mightn’t care for a daughter as old as Miss Bessie.” This seemed to strike her very much. I followed it up, got talking to her day after day, and always led the conversation to the same point. At last one day when I came home from work, she says, “It’s all settled. Bessie’s going to be married, and her Tom’s coming here this evening.” Then I went up to my own room, and laughed till I cried. Presently I heard the little girl run up-stairs as she hadn’t run for many a long day, and I knew she’d gone to put on a smart ribbon for Tom’s sake. She tapped at my door as she passed. Would I come down? somebody was there, and wanted to know me. I called out that I was busy, and couldn’t come; and she went away. But after about an hour she came again. I was sitting in the dark, thinking of a good many things; and before I had time to speak she was down on her knees beside me, and hiding her face.

“You told me you were busy,” she said; “and here you are all in the dark and cold, and I can’t bear any one to be dull or lonely to-night, because I’m so very, very happy. And I know it’s all through you. Mother would never have given in of her own accord. You’ve always been my friend when I wanted one very badly; and now you must be angry with me, or you wouldn’t stay away to-night. And you won’t even speak to me. Oh, whatever I’ve done to vex you, don’t think of it any more!”

She nestled up to me so close that her hair touched my coat-sleeve, and her pretty eyes looked up all swimming with tears. I ground my teeth, and clinched my hands, or—or I don’t know what I mightn’t ha’ done. You see the joke of this, sir, don’t you? Here was the girl crying, and asking me to forgive her, and like her a little; and there was I—not disliking her a bit all the time. Ha, ha, ha! I had a hearty laugh at her, and hurried with her down-stairs, and was introduced to Tom, and I talked to the old lady, and drank the young people’s health, and was as happy as possible. And on the wedding-day I gave her away as if I had been her father; and I sang a song and danced: and, when the time came for Bessie to go away with her husband, I dried her eyes; for at the last moment the tender-hearted little thing broke down, and cried, and kissed us all, and asked her mother not to feel angry with her for leaving her all alone; and then the mother cried, and what with having so many eyes to wipe, I found myself wiping my own just as if it all weren’t a tremendous joke.

How have they got on since? ’Bout as well as most people, I suppose; she loves him, and takes care of him. And the mother’s softened down a bit since she’s bin a grandmother. And as to my godson, there never was such a boy. I have him with me as much as possible, and he’s beginning to see the joke of every thing almost as much as I do myself. And when I die, all this little place’ll belong to him, and he’ll be a rich man: so my death’ll be the biggest joke of all, you see, sir.

THE SONG OF THE DRUM.

Dr-r-rum! Dr-r-rum!
Dr-r-rum! Drum! Drum!
With a rap, and a tap, and a rolling beat,
And a sound on the ground of the tramp of feet,
Keeping step they come,
With the sound of the drum,
With the rolling and the beating of the drum.

And away fly the people as if driven for their lives!
Scudding out as if possessed from their daily human hives,
With a flurry,
And a scurry,
In a most outrageous hurry,
Out of counting house and office,
Out of store and room and shop,
Don’t ask them any questions,
For they haven’t time to stop,
Till they meet in the street,
Touching shoulders, crushing feet,
Millionnaire and humble tradesman, and the man who toils for
bread,
And up in one direction turned is every eager head.

Hear the crowd
Cry aloud!
What a mixed and motley set!
And anon
Running on
While the drum is distant yet,
Making every one forget
Any business on which the mind is set.

Oh, the drum is full of life!
And its stirring sound is rife
With an inspiration wonderful to break the listless mood
Of the indolent, and all,
When its martial echoes fall,
Like the touch of sudden fire to excite the sluggish blood.
And this is the song,
As the soldiers march along,
Head erect—keeping time
To the rolling and the rhyme
Of the quick reiteration of the drummers hollow chime.

“Fame is eternal—glories supernal,
Heroes the wreaths shall share,
Victors the crowns shall wear.
March on!
Brave and true,
Steady, on!
Dare and do;
On to the contest whose struggle elates you!
On for the conflict where duty awaits you!
There is the foe—advance and attack!
Drive every enemy—back—back—BACK!
Who cares for pain or for danger or woe?
Here are our colors—and there is the foe!”

And so begins the fight,
(God knows how it may end!)
But we strive for the right,
(May God the right defend!)
For country and for home,
For freedom and for truth,
And freely to that cause we give the sturdy strength of youth,
And freely in that cause we shed the blood that makes it strong,
While we march to death and glory to the drum’s inspiring song.

* * * * *

Again, all is still.
On the side of the hill
Lies silent the camp in the shadow of night,
The soldiers are sleeping;
The sentinel walks in the moon’s silver light,
His silent watch keeping.
Hark! What is that? ’tis a step. “Who goes there?”
No answer—black forms swiftly darken the air!
The enemy comes! awake! AWAKE!
How terrible are the alarms that break
On the ear of the sleeper, and call him for war!

Hear the roll—hear the call—hear the hurried command,
Not a breath—still as death—the regiments stand.
Forward! Advance and attack! Where? There!
See the dark forms through the dew-laden air!
Cannons roar—bullets pour—squadrons march,
Battalions—companies—regiments, charge!
And all the red front of the terrible fight
Glows like the conflict of demons at night.

Still, hearts are but human,
Man, born of woman,
Seeing his brother fall, all his flesh creeps,
Seeing unheeded fresh wounds all bleeding,
Sick of the sight of war, shudders and weeps.

And the soldier sheds tears
On the face of his foe.
And the drummer is dumb
In the sight of that woe.

Now when the hero lies silent in death,
The end having come,
Shorn of its echoing glory, what saith
The dull muffled drum?

“Soldier sleep—
Drum—drum!
Soldier, rest—
Drum—drum!
In the breast of the earth whence we come,
We come!
All your toil
Is done,
And the fight
Is won.
Soldier, sleep—Soldier, rest!” says the drum,
“Drum—drum!”

And this is the song, as we march along,
That the hollow drum sings to the gathering throng;
With the rap, and the tap, and the rolling beat,
With the sound on the ground of the tramp of feet,
Keeping step they come,
With the sounding drum,
With the rolling and the beating of the drum.
_I. E. Diekenga_

THE BRAVEST BOY IN TOWN.

He lived in the Cumberland Valley,
And his name was Jamie Brown;
But it changed one day, so the neighbors say,
To the “Bravest Boy in Town.”

’Twas the time when the Southern soldiers,
Under Early’s mad command,
O’er the border made their dashing raid
From the north of Maryland;

And Chambersburg, unransomed,
In smouldering ruins slept;
While up the vale, like a fiery gale,
The rebel raiders swept.

And a squad of gray-clad horsemen
Came thundering o’er the bridge,
Where peaceful cows in the meadows browse
At the foot of the great Blue Ridge;

And on till they reached the village
That fair in the valley lay,
Defenceless then—for its loyal men
At the front were far away.

“Pillage and spoil and plunder!”
This was the fearful word
That the Widow Brown, in gazing down
From her latticed window, heard.

’Neath the boughs of the sheltering oak-tree
The leader bared his head,
As left and right, until out of sight,
His dusty gray-coats sped.

Then he called “Halloo, within there!”
A gentle, fair-haired dame
Across the floor to the open door
In gracious answer came.

“Here, stable my horse, you woman!”
The soldier’s tones were rude;
“Then bestir yourself, and from yonder shelf
Set out your store of food!”

For her guest she spread the table;
She motioned him to his place
With a gesture proud; then the widow bowed,
And gently asked a grace.

“‘If thine enemy hunger, feed him!’
I obey, dear Christ,” she said.
A creeping blush, with its scarlet flush,
O’er the face of the soldier spread.

He rose. “You have said it, madame!
Standing within your doors
Is the rebel foe; but as forth they go
They shall trouble not you nor yours!”

Alas for the word of the leader!
Alas for the soldier’s vow!
When the captain’s men rode down the glen,
They drove the widow’s cow.

It was then the fearless Jamie
Sprang up with flashing eyes,
And in spite of tears and his mother’s fears,
On the gray mare off he flies.

Like a wild young Tam O’Shanter
He plunged with piercing whoop,
O’er field and brook, till he overtook
The straggling rebel troop,—

Laden with spoil and plunder,
And laughing and shouting still.
As with cattle and sheep they lazily creep
Through the dust o’er the winding hill.

“Oh the coward crowd!” cried Jamie.
“There’s Brindle! I’ll teach them now!”
And with headlong stride, at the captain’s side,
He called for his mother’s cow.

“Who are _you_, and who is your mother?
I promised she should not miss?
Well! upon my word, have I never heard
Of assurance like to this!”

“Is your word the word of a soldier?”
And the young lad faced his foes,
As a jeering laugh, in anger half
And half in sport, arose.

But the captain drew his sabre,
And spoke with lowering brow,—
“Fall back into line! The joke is mine!
Surrender the widow’s cow!”

And a capital joke they thought it,
That a barefoot lad of ten
Should demand his due—and get it too—
In the face of forty men.

And the rollicking rebel raiders
Forgot themselves somehow,
And three cheers gave for the hero brave,
And three for the brindle cow.

He lived in the Cumberland Valley,
And his name _was_ Jamie Brown;
But it changed that day, so the neighbors say,
To the “Bravest Boy in Town.”
_Emma Huntington Nason, in “Wide Awake.”_

BRER RABBIT AND THE BUTTER.

“De anemules an’ de beastesses,” said Uncle Remus, shaking his coffee around in the bottom of his tin cup, in order to gather up all the sugar, “dey kep’ on gettin’ mo’ and mo’ familious wid wunner nudder, twel bimeby, ’twant long ’fo’ Brer Rabbit, en Brer Fox, en Brer Possum got ter sorter bunchin’ der perwishions tergedder in de same house. Arter while de roof sorter ’gun ter leak, en one day Brer Rabbit, en Brer Fox, en Brer Possum ’semble fer ter see ef dey couldn’t kinder patch her up. Dey had a big day’s wuk in front un um, en den dey fotch der dinner wid um. Dey lumped de vittles up in one pile, en de butter w’at Brer Fox brung dey goes en puts in de spring-house fer ter keep cool, en den dey wen’ ter wuk, en ’twan’t long ’fo’ Brer Rabbit’s stummuck ’gun ter sorter growl en pester ’im. Dat butter of Brer Fox’s sot heavy on his mine, en his mouf water eve’y time he ’member ’bout it. Presen’ly he say ter hisself dat he bleedzd ter have a nip at dat butter, en den he lay his plans, he did. Fus news you know, w’ile dey was all wukkin’ ’long, Brer Rabbit raise his head quick en fling his years forred en holler out,—

“‘Here I is. W’at you want wid me?’ en off he went like sump’n wuz arter ’im.

“He sailed ’roun’, old Brer Rabbit did, en arter he make sho dat nobody ain’t foller’n ’im, inter de spring-’ouse he bounces, en dar he stays twel he git a bait er butter. Den he santer on back en go to wuk.

“‘Whar you bin?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

“‘I hear my chilluns callin’ me,’ says Brer Rabbit, sezee, ’en I hatter go see w’at dey want. My ole ’oman done gone en tuck mighty sick,’ sezee.

“Dey wuk on twel bimeby de butter tas’e so good dat ole Brer Rabbit want some mo’. Den he raise up his head, he did, en holler out,—

“‘Heyo! Wait! I’m a comin’!’ en off he put.

“Dis time he stay right smart while, en w’en he git back Brer Fox ax him whar he bin.

“‘I bin ter see my ole ’oman, en she’s a sinkin’,’ sezee.

“Dreckly Brer Rabbit hear um callin’ ’im ag’in, en off he goes, en dis time, bless yo’ soul, he gets de butter out so clear dat he kin see hisse’f in de bottom er de bucket. He scrape it clean en lick it dry, en den he go back ter wuk lookin’ mo’ samer den a nigger w’at de patter-rollers bin had holt up.

“‘How’s yo’ ole ’oman dis time?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

“‘I’m oblije ter you, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but I’m fear’d she’s done gone by, now,’ en dat sorter make Brer Fox en Brer Possum feel in moanin’ wid Brer Rabbit.

“Bimeby, w’en dinner-time come, dey all got out der vittles, but Brer Rabbit keep on lookin’ lonesome, en Brer Fox and Brer Possum, dey sorter rustle ’roun’ for ter see ef dey can’t make Brer Rabbit feel sorter splimmy.”

“What is that, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.

“Sorter splannny, honey—sorter like he’s in a crowd—sorter like his ole ’oman ain’t dead ez she mout be. You know how fokes duz w’en dey gits whar people’s a moanin’.”

The little boy didn’t know, fortunately for him, and Uncle Remus went on,—

“Brer Fox and Brer Possum rustle roun’, dey did, gittin’ out de vittles, en bimeby Brer Fox say, sezee,—

“‘Brer Possum, you run down to de spring en fetch de butter, en I’ll sail ’roun’ yer en set de table,’ sezee.

“Brer Possum he lope off arter de butter, en dreckly here he comes lopin’ back, wid his years a trimblin’, en his tongue a hangin’ out. Brer Fox, he holler out,—

“‘W’at de matter now, Brer Possum?’ sezee.

“‘You all better run yer, fokes,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee. ‘De las’ drap er dat butter done gone.’

“‘Whar she gone?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

“‘Look like she dried up,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee.

“Den Brer Rabbit he look sorter wise, he did, en he up’n say, sezee,—

“‘I speck dat butter melt in somebody’s mouf,’ sezee.

“Den dey went down ter de spring wid Brer Possum, en sho ’nuff de butter wuz gone. W’ile dey was sputin’ over der wunderment, Brer Rabbit say he see tracks all ’roun’ dar, en he p’int out dat ef dey’ll all go ter sleep, he kin ketch de chap w’at stole de butter. Den dey all lie down, en Brer Fox en Brer Possum dey soon drapt off ter sleep; but Brer Rabbit he stay ’wake, en w’en de time come, he raise up easy en smear Brer Possum’s mouf wid de butter on his paws, en den he run off en nibble up de bes’ er de dinner w’at dey lef’ layin’ out, en den he come back en wake up Brer Fox, en show ’im de butter on Brer Possum’s mouf. Den dey wake Brer Possum up, en tell ’im about it; but c’ose Brer Possum ’ny it to de las’. Brer Fox, dough, he’s a kinder lawyer, en he argafy dis way,—dat Brer Possum wuz de fus one at de butter, en de fus one fer ter miss it, en, mo’n dat, dar hung de signs on his mouf. Brer Possum see dat dey got ’im jammed up in a cornder, en den he up en say dat de way fer ter ketch de man w’at stole de butter is ter bil’ a big bresh-heap en set her afier, en all hands try ter jump over, en de one w’at fall in, den he de chap w’at stole de butter. Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox dey bofe ’gree, dey did; en dey whirl in en b’il’ de bresh-heap, en dey b’il’ her high, en dey b’il’ her wide, en den dey totch her off. W’en she got ter blazin’ up good, Brer Rabbit he tuck de fus turn. He sorter step back, look ’roun’ en giggle, en over he went mo’ samer den a bird fly in’. Den come Brer Fox. He got back little fudder, en spit on his han’s, en den lit out en made de jump, en he come so nigh gettin’ in dat de een’ er his tail kotch afier. Ain’t you never see no fox, honey?” inquired Uncle Remus in a tone that implied both conciliation and information.

The little boy thought probably he had, but he wouldn’t commit himself.

“Well, den,” continued the old man, “nex’ time you see one un um, you look right close en see ef de een’ er his tail ain’t white. Hit’s des like I tell you. Dey b’ars de skyar er dat bresh-heap down ter dis day. Dey er marked—dat’s w’at dey is—dey er marked.”

“And what about Brother Possum?” asked the boy.

“Old Brer Possum, he tuck a runnin’ start, he did, en he come lumberin’ ’long, en he hit—ker blam!—right in de middle er de fier, en dat waz de las’ er old Brer Possum.”

“But, Uncle Remus, Brother Possum didn’t steal the butter after all,” said the little boy, who was not at all satisfied with such summary injustice.

“Dat w’at make I say w’at I duz, honey. In dis worrul, lots er folks is gotter souffer fer udder folkes’ sins. Look like hit’s mighty on wrong; but hit’s des dat a way. Tribbalashun seem like she’s a waitin’ roun’ de cornder fer ter ketch one en all un us, honey.”

_Harris._

THE LOVES OF A LIFE.

Love! Love is the flight of the soul towards God, towards the great, the sublime, and the beautiful, which are the shadow of God upon earth. Love your family, the partner of your life, those around you ready to share your joys and sorrows, the dead who were dear to you, and to whom you were dear. But let your love be the love taught you by Dante and by us,—the love of souls that aspire together, and do not grovel on the earth in search of a felicity which is not the destiny of the creature here to reach; do not yield to a delusion which inevitably would degrade you into egotism. To love, is to promise, and to receive a promise for the future. God has given us love, that the weary soul may give and receive support upon the way of life. It is a flower which springs up on the path of duty, but which cannot change its course. Purify, strengthen, and improve yourselves by loving. Ever act—even at the price of increasing her earthly trials—so that the sister soul united to your own may never need, here or elsewhere, to blush through you or for you. The time will come when from the height of a new life, embracing the whole past and comprehending its secret, you will smile together at the sorrows you have endured, the trials you have overcome.

Love your country. Your country is the land where your parents sleep, where is spoken that language in which the chosen of your heart, blushing, whispered the first word of love; it is the house that God has given you, that, by striving to perfect yourselves therein, you may prepare to ascend to him. It is your name, your glory, your sign among the peoples. Give to it your thought, your counsel, your blood. Raise it up, great and beautiful, as foretold by our great men. And see that you leave it uncontaminated by any trace of falsehood, or of servitude, unprofaned by dismemberment. Let it be one, as the thought of God. You are twenty-four millions of men, endowed with active, splendid faculties, with a tradition of glory the envy of the nations of Europe; an immense future is before you, your eyes are raised to the loveliest heaven, and around you smiles the loveliest land in Europe; you are encircled by the Alps and the sea, boundaries marked out by the finger of God for a people of giants. And you must be such, or nothing. Let not a man of that twenty-four millions remain excluded from the fraternal bond which shall join you together; let not a look be raised to that heaven, which is not that of a free man. Let Rome be the ark of your redemption, the temple of your nation. Has she not twice been the temple of the destinies of Europe? In Rome two extinct worlds, the Pagan and the Papal, meet each other like the double jewels of a diadem; and you must draw from thence a third world, greater than the other two. From Rome, the Holy City, the City of Love (_Amor_), the purest and wisest among you, elected by the vote, and strengthened by the inspiration, of a whole people, shall give forth the pact that shall unite us in one, and represent us in the future alliance of the peoples. Until then you have no country, or you have it contaminated.

Love humanity. You can only ascertain your own mission from the aim placed by God before humanity at large. God has given you your country as cradle, humanity as mother, and you can only love your brethren of the cradle in loving your common mother. Beyond the Alps, beyond the sea, are other peoples, now fighting, or preparing to fight, the holy fight of independence, of nationality, of liberty: other peoples striving by different routes to reach the same goal,—improvement, association, and the foundation of an authority which shall put an end to moral anarchy, and link again earth to heaven, and which mankind may love and obey without remorse or shame. Unite with them, they will unite with you. Do not invoke their aid where your single arm can suffice to conquer; but say to them, that the hour will shortly sound for a terrible struggle between right and blind force, and that in that hour you will ever be found with those who have raised the same banner as yourselves.

And love, young men, love and reverence above every thing the ideal. The ideal is the word of God, superior to every country, superior to humanity; it is the country of the spirit, the city of the soul, in which all are brethren who believe in the inviolability of thought, and in the dignity of our immortal soul; and the baptism of this fraternity is martyrdom. From that high sphere spring the _principles_ which alone can redeem the peoples. Arise for them! and not from impatience of suffering, or dread of evil. Anger, pride, ambition, and the desire of material prosperity are arms common to the peoples and their oppressors; and, even should you conquer with them to-day, you will fall again to-morrow: but principles belong to the peoples alone, and their oppressors can find no arms to oppose them. Adore enthusiasm. Worship the dreams of the virgin soul, and the visions of early youth, for they are the perfume of paradise, which the soul preserves in issuing from the hands of its Creator. Respect above all things your conscience; have upon your lips the truth that God has placed in your hearts, and, while working together in harmony in all that tends to the emancipation of our soil, even with those who differ from you, yet ever bear erect your own banner, and boldly promulgate your faith.

_Mazzini_

THE PRISONER.

Closed in by four gray walls,
Grim, and grimy, and hard!
One only break in the slimy dark,
A window, iron-barred!

Quivering on tiptoe there,
I spy at the world without,
And wearily scan that blue sea-bay,
Where the white sails glide about.
I gaze, till my hot eyes ache
With the changeful, flashing light:
That billowy blue, so _terribly_ blue;
That white, so _intensely_ white!
And I step from my trembling hold
Down on the loathsome floor;
Then bruised, half-blinded, and sick,
I climb, and gaze once more.

Out of this fearful dun-light,—
Darkness “made visible,”—
I gaze on the summer sunlight
Which never visits my cell,—
Out on yon summer-glory
Flooding the golden sand;
And I sigh for the distant freedom:
I weep for my far-off land!

So I cling to the bars, and wonder
If my lot will ever be
To float in that skifflet yonder,
Home o’er that tempting sea.

Oh! I loathe the foreign banner,
With its fluttering, flaunting brag;
And my soul is sad and weary,
Heart-sick for the dear old flag!
Oh! could I loose from her moorings,
Could I reach yon tiny boat,
With what glad, wild heart-boundings.
Away, away I’d float!

But the sunbeams lie still and burning,
On ocean and on land,
While scarce by one breezy flutter
Is my burning forehead fanned.

’Tis maddening!—this awful still,
Round me in my hollow stone!
Though yonder the glad notes thrill,
I hear not, I hear not one!
But out of my terrible silence,
I can _see_ these voices yonder,
While over my tugging heart-strings
Creep echoes, dearer, fonder.

I ache for liberty,
Over the far blue sea,
O’er the blue sea so wide!
And I hear the angels singing,
“Keeping time,
In silver rhyme”
With that boat so slowly swinging,
On the restless, heaving tide.
Ripple, dipple,
Plashing, dashing,
The wavelets sleepily lap the shore;
Lazily, hazily;
Drearily, wearily,
I cling here, listening o’er and o’er—

To the sobbing oozing gurgle
Slushing underneath the keel,
And the restless, dipping murmur
Which I cannot know by the outward ear,
The tide is too far for me to hear,
But deep in my soul I _feel_.

And I see yon boat so slowly swinging:
I hear the far-off home-bells ringing,
Ringing through my heart!
Sweet bells of home, I _must_ be free:
Yon skiff shall bear me o’er the sea,
If but these stanchions part!

Then will I dare the tempest’s wrath,
While seeking out the homeward path,
For liberty’s dear sake;
And my frail bark shall boldly drift,
Where mightier ships have passed, and left
Lines of snow-foam in their wake.

Ha! the iron bars are loosening!
So! gently on the floor!
I am mad for yon shifting sea,
Frantic I’ll spring to liberty!
Now! there goes one bar more!

Another! And now I’m free! I’m free!
Wide is my path to liberty;
For a sailor’s foot and hand
Make light of castle-wall,
In its rugged fall
To the golden strand.

Down! down! down!
Beneath the castle’s frown!
Surely, I fell!
For blood is flowing, and wounds are wide:
I know it, I know it, ’tis life’s full tide,
In crimson swell!
The boat is empty, I lie on the sand,
Far from those bells of my own dear land!
I am dying, alone, but free!
Out in God’s glorious sun and light,
Loyal in heart, and true in hand,
To the royal flag of my native land!
Dying, BUT FREE,
By the solemn sea!
Mother, good-night!

THE OLD CANTEEN.

Send it up to the garret? Well, no, what’s the harm,
If it hangs like a horseshoe to serve as a charm?
Had its day? to be sure. Matches ill with things here!
Shall I sack the old friend just because it is queer?
Thing of beauty ’tis not; but a joy none the less,
As my hot lips remember its old-time caress,
And I think on the solace once gurgling between
My lips from that old battered tin canteen.

It has hung by my side in the long, weary tramp;
Been my friend in the bivouac, barracks, and camp,
In the triumph, the capture, advance, and retreat,
More than light to my path, more than guide to my feet.
Sweeter nectar ne’er flowed, howe’er sparkling and cold,
From out chalice of silver or goblet of gold,
For a king or emperor, princess or queen,
Than to me, from the mouth of that old canteen.

It has cheered the desponding on many a night,
Till their laughing eyes gleamed in the camp’s fire-light;
Whether guns stood at silence, or boomed at short range,
It was always on duty, though ’twould not be strange
If in somnolent periods, just after “taps,”
Some colonel or captain disturbed at his naps
May have felt a suspicion—that spirits unseen
Had somehow bedeviled that old canteen.

But I think on the time when in lulls of the strife
It has called the far look in dim eyes back to life,
Helped to stanch the quick blood beginning to pour,
Softened broad, gaping wounds that were stiffened and sore,
Moistened thin, livid lips, so despairing of breath,
They could only speak thanks in the quiver of death.
If an angel of mercy ever hovered between
This world and the next, ’twas that old canteen.