Chapter IV: Preface (4)

"I did not come here like a tame, crawling mouse; I stand like a man, in my enemy's house. In the field, on the road, Phadrig never knew fear Of his foemen, and God knows he now scorns it here. I ask but your leave, for three minutes or four, To speak to the girl whom I ne'er may see more." Then he turned to Kathleen, and his voice changed its tone, For he thought of the days when he called her his own; And said he, "Kathleen, bawn, is it true what I hear-- Is this match your free choice, without threat'ning or fear? If so, say the word, and I'll turn and depart-- Cheated once, but once only, by woman's false heart." Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl quite dumb; She tried hard to speak, but the words wouldn't come, For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her, Struck cold on her heart, like the night-wind in winter, And the tears in her blue eyes were trembling to flow, And her cheeks were as pale as the moonbeams on snow. Then the heart of bold Phadrig swelled high in its place, For he knew by one look in that beautiful face, That though strangers and foemen their pledged hands might sever, Her heart was still his, and his only, for ever.

Then he lifted his voice, like an eagle's hoarse call, And cried out--"She is mine yet, in spite of ye all." But up jumped O'Hanlon, and a tall chap was he, And he gazed on bold Phadrig as fierce as could be; And says he--"By my fathers, before you go out, Bold Phadrig Crohoore, you must stand for a bout." Then Phadrig made answer--"I'll do my endeavour;" And with one blow he stretched out O'Hanlon for ever!

Then he caught up his Kathleen, and rushed to the door, He leaped on his horse, and he swung her before; And they all were so bothered that not a man stirred Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard. Then up they all started, like bees in a swarm, And they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm; And they ran, and they jumped, and they shouted galore; But Phadrig or Kathleen they never saw more.

But those days are gone by, and his, too, are o'er, And the grass it grows over the grave of Crohoore, For he wouldn't be aisy or quiet at all; As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall, So he took a good pike--for Phadrig was great-- And he died for old Ireland in the year ninety-eight.

CUPID'S ARROWS.

BY ELIZA COOK.

Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,
And besought him to look at his arrow;
"'Tis useless," he cried, "you must mend it, I say,
'Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow.
There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart,
For it flutters quite false to my aim;
'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart,
And the world really jests at my name.

"I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare,
I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs;
'Tis feather'd with ringlets my mother might wear,
And the barb gleams with light from young eyes;
But it falls without touching--I'll break it, I vow,
For there's Hymen beginning to pout;
He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low,
That Zephyr might puff it right out."

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale,
Till Vulcan the weapon restored;
"There, take it, young sir; try it now--if it fail,
I will ask neither fee nor reward."
The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made,
The wounded and dead were untold;
But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade,
For the arrow was laden with _gold_.

THE CROCODILE'S DINNER PARTY.

BY E. VINTON BLAKE.

_FROM "GOOD CHEER_."

A wily crocodile
Who dwelt upon the Nile,
Bethought himself one day to give a dinner.
"Economy," said he,
"Is chief of all with me,
And shall considered be--as I'm a sinner!"

With paper, pen and ink,
He sat him down to think;
And first of all, Sir Lion he invited;
The northern wolf who dwells
In rocky Arctic dells;
The Leopard and the Lynx, by blood united.

Then Mr. Fox the shrewd--
No lover he of good--
And Madam Duck with sober step and stately;
And Mr. Frog serene
In garb of bottle green,
Who warbled bass, and bore himself sedately.

Sir Crocodile, content,
The invitations sent.
The day was come--his guests were all assembled;
They fancied that some guile
Lurked in his ample smile;
Each on the other looked, and somewhat trembled.

A lengthy time they wait
Their hunger waxes great;
And still the host in conversation dallies.
At last the table's laid,
With covered dishes spread,
And out in haste the hungry party sallies.

But when--the covers raised--
On empty plates they gazed,
Each on the other looked with dire intention;
Ma'am Duck sat last of all,
And Mr. Frog was small;--
She softly swallowed him, and made no mention!

This Mr. Fox perceives,
And saying, "By your leaves,
Some punishment is due for this transgression."
He gobbled her in haste,
Then much to his distaste,
By Mr. Lynx was taken in possession!

The Wolf without a pause,
In spite of teeth and claws,
Left nothing of the Lynx to tell the story;
The Leopard all irate
At his relation's fate,
Made mince meat of that wolfish monster hoary.

The Lion raised his head;
"Since I am king," he said,
"It ill befits the king to lack his dinner!"
Then on the Leopard sprang,
With might of claw and fang,
And made a meal upon that spotted sinner!--

Then saw in sudden fear
Sir Crocodile draw near,
And heard him speak, with feelings of distraction;
"Since all of you have dined
Well suited to your mind,
You surely cannot grudge _me_ satisfaction!"

And sooth, a deal of guile
Lurked in his ample smile,
As down his throat the roaring lion hasted;
"Economy with me,
Is chief of all," said he,
"And I am truly glad to see there's nothing wasted."

"TWO SOULS WITH BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT."

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

"My soul is at the gate!"
The sighing lover said.
He wound his arms around her form
And kissed her golden head.

"My _sole_ is at the gate!"
The maiden's father said.
The lover rubbed the smitten part,
And from the garden fled.

A RISKY RIDE.

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

"A risky ride," they called it.
Lor bless ye, there wasn't no risk:
I knew if I gave 'er 'er head, sir,
That "Painted Lady" would whisk
Like a rocket through all the horses,
And win in a fine old style,
With "the field" all a-tailin' behind 'er
In a kind of a' Indian file.

* * * * *

You didn't know old Josh Grinley--
"Old Josh o' the Whitelands Farm,"
As his father had tilled afore 'im,
And his afore 'im.--No harm
Ever touched one of the Grinleys
When the 'Ollingtons owned the lands;
But they ruined themselves through racing,
And it passed into other hands.
Ain't ye heard how Lord 'Ollington died, sir,
On that day when "Midlothian Maid"
Broke down when just winning the "Stewards'"?
Every farthing he'd left was laid
On the old mare's chance; and vict'ry
Seemed fairly within his grasp
When she stumbled--went clean to pieces.
With a cry of despair--a gasp--
Lord 'Ollington staggered backwards;
A red stream flowed from his mouth,
And he died--with the shouts ringing round him:
"Beaten by Queen o' the South!"
But I'm going on anyhow,--ain't I?
I began about my ride;
And I'm talking now like a novel
Of how Lord 'Ollington died.

Don't ask me to tell how I'm bred, sir;
Put my "pedigree" down as "unknown,"
But a good 'un to go when he's "wanted,"
From whatever dam he was thrown.
Old Joshua--he's been my mother
And father all rolled into one;--
It was 'im as bred and trained me;
Got me "ready" and "fit" to run.
It's been whispered he saved my life, sir--
Picked me up one winter's night,
Wrapped up in a shawl or summat,--
The tale's like enough to be right.
It's just what he would do,--bless 'im!
Yes, I owed every atom to him:
So you'll guess how I felt that mornin',
When, with eyes all wet and dim,
He told me the new folk would give 'im
But two weeks to pay his arrears;
Then he cried like a little child, sir.
When I saw the old fellow's tears,
My young blood boiled madly within me;
I knew how he'd struggled and fought
'Gainst years of bad seasons and harvests;
How nobly but vainly he'd sought
To make both ends meet at the "Whitelands."
"They never will do it!" I cry.
"You've lived all your life at the 'Farm,' Josh,
And you'll still live on there till you die!
'Tain't for me to tell stable secrets,
But I know--well, just what I know:
Go! say that in less than a month, Josh,
You'll pay every penny you owe."

* * * * *

"A couple o' hundred" was wanted
To pull good old Joshua right;
I was only a lad; but I'd "fifty"--
My money went that night,
Every penny on "Painted Lady"
For the "Stakes" in the coming week.
I should 'ave backed her afore, sir;
But waited for master to speak
As to what he intended a-doing,
I thought 'twas a "plant"--d'ye see?
With a bit o' "rope" in the question,
So I'd let "Painted Lady" be.
I knew she _could_ win in a canter,
As long as there wasn't no "fake."
And now--well, I meant that she _should_ win,
For poor old Josh Grinley's sake.

* * * * *

The three-year old "Painted Lady"
Had never been beat in her life;
And I'd always 'ad the mount, sir;
But rumours now 'gan to get rife
That something was wrong with the "filly".
The "bookies" thought everything "square"--
For them--so they "laid quite freely"
Good odds 'gainst the master's mare!
When he'd gone abroad in the summer
He had given us orders to train
"The Lady" for this 'ere race, sir;
We'd never heard from him again.
And, seeing the "bookies" a-layin',
I thought they knew more than I:
But _now_ I thought with a chuckle,
Let each look out for his eye.
The morning before the race, sir,
The owner turned up. With a smile
I showed 'im the mare--"There she is, sir,
Goin' jist in 'er same old style.
We'll win in a common canter,
'Painted Lady' and I, Sir Hugh,
As we've always done afore, sir;
As we always mean to do."

He looked at me just for a moment,
A shade of care seemed to pass
All over his handsome features.
Then he kicked at a tuft o' grass,
In a sort of a pet, then stammered,
As he lifted his eyes from his shoes,
"I'm sorry, my lad--very sorry,
But to-morrow the mare must _lose_."
He turned on his heel. I stood stroking
My "Lady's" soft shining skin,
Then I muttered, "I'm sorry, sir, very,
But to-morrow the mare must _win_."

* * * * *

I was 'tween two stools, as they say, sir--
If I disobeyed orders, Sir Hugh
Would "sack" me as safe as a trivet,
So I thought what I'd better do.
I wasn't so long, for I shouted,
"I've hit it! I'll _win_ this 'ere race,
And I'll lay fifty pounds to a sov'reign
As I don't get the 'kick' from my place."

* * * * *

The day of the race: bell's a-ringin'
To clear the course for the start.
I gets to an out-o'-way corner;
Then, quickly as lightning, I dart
My hand 'neath my silken jacket,
Pops a tiny phial to my lips,
Then off to mount "Painted Lady"--
Sharp into the saddle I slips.
In a minute or two we were streaming
Down the course at a nailing pace;
But I lets the mare take it easy,
For I feels as I've got the race
Well in hand. "No, nothing can touch ye:
You'll win!" I cries--"Now then, my dear!"
All at once I feels fairly silly;
Then I comes over right down queer.
I dig my knees into her girths, sir;
I let the reins go--then I fall
Back faint, and dizzy, and drowsy--
"Painted Lady" sweeps on past them all.
She can't make out what's a happenin',
Flies on--maddened, scared with fright--
And wins--by how far? well, don't know, sir,
But the rest hadn't come in sight.
I was took from the saddle, lifeless;
I've heard as they thought me dead;
And after I rallied--"'Twas funny!
'Twas curious--very!" they said.

* * * * *

The matter was all hushed up, sir;
Sir Hugh dussn't show 'is hands.
I'm head "boss" now in the stables.
Josh stayed--and died--down at the 'Lands.

ON MARRIAGE.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

Marriage iz a fair transaction on the face ov it.

But thare iz quite too often put up jobs in it.

It iz an old institushun, older than the pyramids, and az phull ov hyrogliphicks that noboddy kan parse.

History holds its tounge who the pair waz who fust put on the silken harness, and promised tew work kind in it, thru thick and thin, up hill and down, and on the level, rain or shine, survive or perish, sink or swim, drown or flote.

But whoever they waz they must hav made a good thing out ov it, or so menny ov their posterity would not hav harnessed up since and drov out.

Thare iz a grate moral grip in marriage; it iz the mortar that holds the soshull bricks together.

But there ain't but darn few pholks who put their money in matrimony who could set down and giv a good written opinyun whi on arth they cum to did it.

This iz a grate proof that it iz one ov them natral kind ov acksidents that must happen, jist az birds fly out ov the nest, when they hav feathers enuff, without being able tew tell why.

Sum marry for buty, and never diskover their mistake; this iz lucky.

Sum marry for money, and--don't see it.

Sum marry for pedigree, and feel big for six months, and then very sensibly cum tew the conclusion that pedigree ain't no better than skimmilk.

Sum marry ter pleze their relashons, and are surprised tew learn that their relashuns don't care a cuss for them afterwards.

Sum marry bekause they hav bin highsted sum where else; this iz a cross match, a bay and a sorrel; pride may make it endurable.

Sum marry for love without a cent in the pocket, nor a friend in the world, nor a drop ov pedigree. This looks desperate, _but it iz the strength ov the game_.

If marrying for love ain't a suckcess, then matrimony iz a ded beet.

Sum marry bekauze they think wimmin will be skarse next year, and liv tew wonder how the crop holds out.

Sum marry tew get rid of themselfs, and diskover that the game waz one that two could play at, and neither win.

Sum marry the seckond time to git even, and find it a gambling game, the more they put down, the less they take up.

Sum marry tew be happy, and not finding it, wonder whare all the happiness on earth goes to when it dies.

Sum marry, they kan't tell whi, and liv, they kan't tell how.

Almoste every boddy gits married, and it iz a good joke.

Sum marry in haste, and then set down and think it careful over.

Sum think it over careful fust, and then set down and marry.

Both ways are right, if they hit the mark.

Sum marry rakes tew convert them. This iz a little risky, and takes a smart missionary to do it.

Sum marry coquetts. This iz like buying a poor farm, heavily mortgaged, and working the ballance ov yure days tew clear oph the mortgages.

THE ROMANCE OF CARRIGCLEENA.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

"Oh! wizard, to thine aid I fly,
With weary feet, and bosom aching;
And if thou spurn my prayer, I die;
For oh! my heart! my heart! is breaking:
Oh! tell me where my Gerald's gone--
My loved, my beautiful, my own;
And, though in farthest lands he be;
To my true lover's side I'll flee."

"Daughter," the aged wizard said,
"For what cause hath thy Gerald parted?
I cannot lend my mystic aid,
Except to lovers, faithful hearted;
My magic wand would lose its might--
I could not read my spells aright--
All skill would from my soul depart,
If I should aid the false in heart."

"Oh! father, my fond heart was true,"
Cried Ellen, "to my Gerald ever;
No change its stream of love e'er knew,
Save that it deepened like yon river:
True, as the rose to summer sun,
That droops, when its loved lord is gone,
And sheds its bloom, from day to day,
And fades, and pines, and dies away.

"Betrothed, with my dear sire's consent,
Each morn beheld my Gerald coming;
Each day, in converse sweet, was spent;
And, ere he went, dark eve was glooming:
But one day, as he crossed the plain,
I saw a cloud descend, like rain,
And bear him, in its skirts, away--
Oh! hour of grief, oh! woeful day!

"They sought my Gerald many a day,
'Mid winter's snow, and summer's blossom;
At length, his memory passed away,
From all, except his Ellen's bosom.
But there his love still glows and grows,
Unchanged by time, unchecked by woes;
And, led by it, I've made my way,
To seek thy aid, in dark Iveagh."

He traced a circle with his wand,
Around the spot, where they were standing;
He held a volume in his hand,
All writ, with spells of power commanding:
He read a spell--then looked--in vain,
Southward, across the lake of Lene;
Then to the east, and western side;
But, when he northward looked, he cried--

"I see! I see your Gerald now!
In Carrigcleena's fairy dwelling;
Deep sorrow sits upon his brow,
Though Cleena tales of love is telling--
Cleena, most gentle, and most fair,
Of all the daughters of the air;
The fairy queen, whose smiles of light,
Preserves from sorrow and from blight.

"Her love has borne him from thy arms,
And keeps him in those fairy regions,
Where Cleena blooms in matchless charms,
Attended by her fairy legions.
Yet kind and merciful's the queen;
And if thy woe by her were seen,
And all thy constancy were known,
Brave Gerald yet might be thine own."

"Oh! father," the pale maiden cried,
"Hath he forgotten quite his Ellen?
Thinks he no more of Shannon's side,
Where love so long had made his dwelling?"
"Alas! fair maid, I cannot tell
The thoughts that in the bosom dwell;
For ah! all vain is magic art,
To read the secrets of the heart."

To Carrigcleena Ellen wends,
With aching breast, and footsteps weary;
Low on her knees the maiden bends,
Before that rocky hill of fairy;
Pale as the moonbeam is her cheek;
With trembling fear she scarce can speak;
In agony her hands she clasps;
And thus her love-taught prayer she gasps.

"Oh! Cleena, queen of fairy charms,
Have mercy on my love-lorn maiden;
Restore my Gerald to my arms--
Behold! behold! how sorrow laden
And faint, and way-worn, here I kneel;
And, with clasped hands, to thee appeal:
Give to my heart, oh! Cleena give,
The being in whose love I live!

"Break not my heart, whose truth you see,
Oh! break it not by now refusing;
For Gerald's all the world to me,
Whilst thou hast all the world for choosing:
Oh! Cleena, fairest of the fair,
Grant now a love-lorn maiden's prayer;
Or, if to yield him you deny,
Let me behold him once, and die."

Her prayer of love thus Ellen poured,
With streaming eyes and bosom heaving;
And, at each faint heart-wringing word,
Her soul seemed its fair prison leaving:
The linnet, on the hawthorn tree,
Stood hushed by her deep misery;
And the soft summer evening gale
Seemed echoing the maiden's wail.

And now the solid rocks divide,
A glorious fairy hall disclosing;
There Cleena stands, and by her side,
In slumber, Gerald seems reposing:
She wakes him from his fairy trance;
And, hand in hand, they both advance;
And, now, the queen of fairy charms
Gives Gerald to his Ellen's arms.

"Be happy," lovely Cleena cried,
"Oh! lovers true, and fair, and peerless;
All vain is magic, to divide
Such hearts, so constant, and so fearless.
Be happy, as you have been true,
For Cleena's blessing rests on you;
And joy, and wealth, and power, shall give,
As long as upon earth you live."

THE FALSE FONTANLEE.

BY WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE.

Alas, that knight of noble birth
Should ever fall from fitting worth!
Alas, that guilty treachery
Should stain the blood of Fontanlee!

The king hath lent a listening ear,
And blacker grew his face to hear:
"By Cross," he cried, "if thou speak right,
The Fontanlee is a traitor knight!"

Outstepped Sir Robert of Fontanlee,
A young knight and a fair to see;
Outstepped Sir Stephen of Fontanlee.
Sir Robert's second brother was he;
Outstepped Sir John of Fontanlee,
He was the youngest of the three.

There are three gloves on the oaken boards,
And three white hands on their hilted swords:
"On horse or foot, by day or night,
We stand to do our father right."

The Baron Tranmere hath bent his knee,
And gathered him up the gages three:
"Ye are young knights, and loyal, I wis,
And ye know not how false your father is.

"Put on, put on your armour bright;
And God in heaven help the right!"
"God help the right!" the sons replied;
And straightway on their armour did.

The Baron Tranmere hath mounted his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
The young Sir Robert lifted his eyes,
Looked fairly up in the open skies:

"If my father was true in deed and in word,
Fight, O God, with my righteous sword;
If my father was false in deed or in word,
Let me lie at length on the battle-sward!"

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
Sir Robert's visor is crushed and marred,
And he lies his length on the battle-sward.

Sir Stephen's was an angry blade--
I scarce may speak the words he said:
"Though Heaven itself were false," cried he,
"True is my father of Fontanlee!

"And, brother, as Heaven goes with the wrong,
If this lying baron should lay me along,
Strike another blow for our good renown."
"Doubt me not," said the young knight John.

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
In bold Sir Stephen's best life-blood
His spear's point is wet to the wood.

The young knight John hath bent his knee,
And speaks his soul right solemnly:
"Whatever seemeth good to Thee,
The same, O Lord, attend on me.

"What though my brothers lie along,
My father's faith is firm and strong:
Perchance thy deeply-hid intent
Doth need some nobler instrument.

"Let faithless hearts give heed to fear,
I will not falter in my prayer:
If ever guilty treachery
Did stain the blood of Fontanlee,--

"As such an 'if' doth stain my lips,
Though truth lie hidden in eclipse,--
Let yonder lance-head pierce my breast,
And my soul seek its endless rest."

Never a whit did young John yield
When the lance ran through his painted shield;
Never a whit debased his crest,
When the lance ran into his tender breast.

"What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John,
That runs so fast from thine armour down?"
"Oh, this is my heart's blood, I feel,
And it wets me through from the waist to the heel."

Sights of sadness many a one
A man may meet beneath the sun;
But a sadder sight did never man see
Than lies in the Hall of Fontanlee.

There are three corses manly and fair,
Each in its armour, and each on its bier;
There are three squires weeping and wan,
Every one with his head on his hand,

Every one with his hand on his knee,
At the foot of his master silently
Sitting, and weeping bitterly
For the broken honour of Fontanlee.

Who is this at their sides that stands?
"Lift, O squires, your heads from your hands;
Tell me who these dead men be
That lie in the Hall of the Fontanlee."

"This is Sir Robert of Fontanlee,
A young knight and a fair to see;
This is Sir Stephen of Fontanlee,
Sir Robert's second brother was he;
This is Sir John of Fontanlee,
He was the youngest of the three.

"For their father's truth did they
Freely give their lives away,
And till he doth home return,
Sadly here we sit and mourn."

These sad words they having said,
Every one down sank his head;
Till in accents strangely spoken,
At their sides was silence broken.

"I do bring you news from far,
False was the Fontanlee in war!
--Unbend your bright swords from my breast,
I that do speak do know it best."
Wide he flung his mantle free;
Lo, it was the Fontanlee!

Then the squires like stricken men
Sank into their seats again,
And their cheeks in wet tears steeping
Fresh and faster fell a weeping.

He with footsteps soft and slow
Round to his sons' heads did go;
Sadly he looked on every one,
And stooped and kissed the youngest, John.

Then his weary head down bending,
"Heart," said he, "too much offending,
Break, and let me only be
Blotted out of memory."

Thrice with crimson cheek he stood,
And thrice he swallowed the salt blood;
Then outpoured the torrent red;
And the false Fontanlee lay dead.

THE LEGEND OF SAINT LAURA.

BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

Saint Laura, in her sleep of death,
Preserves beneath the tomb
--'Tis willed where what is willed must be--
In incorruptibility,
Her beauty and her bloom.

So pure her maiden life had been,
So free from earthly stain,
'Twas fixed in fate by Heaven's own Queen
That till the earth's last closing scene
She should unchanged remain.

Within a deep sarcophagus
Of alabaster sheen,
With sculptured lid of roses white,
She slumbered in unbroken night,
By mortal eyes unseen.

Above her marble couch was reared
A monumental shrine,
Where cloistered sisters gathering round,
Made night and morn the aisle resound
With choristry divine.

The abbess died; and in her pride
Her parting mandate said
They should her final rest provide,
The alabaster couch beside,
Where slept the sainted dead.

The abbess came of princely race;
The nuns might not gainsay;
And sadly passed the timid band,
To execute the high command
They dared not disobey.

The monument was opened then;
It gave to general sight
The alabaster couch alone;
But all its lucid substance shone
With preternatural light.

They laid the corpse within the shrine;
They closed its doors again;
But nameless terror seemed to fall,
Throughout the livelong night, on all
Who formed the funeral train.

Lo! on the morrow morn, still closed
The monument was found;
But in its robes funereal drest,
The corse they had consigned to rest
Lay on the stony ground.

Fear and amazement seized on all;
They called on Mary's aid;
And in the tomb, unclosed again,
With choral hymn and funeral train,
The corse again was laid.

But with the incorruptible
Corruption might not rest;
The lonely chapel's stone-paved floor
Received the ejected corse once more,
In robes funereal drest.

So was it found when morning beamed;
In solemn suppliant strain
The nuns implored all saints in heaven,
That rest might to the corse be given,
Which they entombed again.

On the third night a watch was kept
By many a friar and nun;
Trembling, all knelt in fervent prayer,
Till on the dreary midnight air
Rolled the deep bell-toll "One!"

The saint within the opening tomb
Like marble statue stood;
All fell to earth in deep dismay;
And through their ranks she passed away,
In calm unchanging mood.

No answering sound her footsteps raised
Along the stony floor;
Silent as death, severe as fate,
She glided through the chapel gate,
And none beheld her more.

The alabaster couch was gone;
The tomb was void and bare;
For the last time, with hasty rite,
Even 'mid the terror of the night,
They laid the abbess there.

'Tis said the abbess rests not well
In that sepulchral pile;
But yearly, when the night comes round
As dies of "one" the bell's deep sound
She flits along the aisle.

But whither passed the virgin saint?
To slumber far away,
Destined by Mary to endure,
Unaltered in her semblance pure,
Until the judgment day!

DAVID SHAW, HERO.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.

The saviour, and not the slayer, he is the braver man. So far my text--but the story? Thus, then, it runs; from Spokane Rolled out the overland mail train, late by an hour. In the cab David Shaw, at your service, dressed in his blouse of drab. Grimed by the smoke and the cinders. "Feed her well, Jim," he said; (Jim was his fireman.) "_Make up time!_" On and on they sped;

Dust from the wheels up-flying; smoke rolling out behind; The long train thundering, swaying; the roar of the cloven wind; Shaw, with his hand on the lever, looking out straight ahead. How she did rock, old Six-forty! How like a storm they sped.

Leavenworth--thirty minutes gained in the thrilling race. Now for the hills--keener look-out, or a letting down of the pace. Hardly a pound of the steam less! David Shaw straightened back, Hand like steel on the lever, face like flint to the track.

God!--look there! Down the mountain, right ahead of the train, Acres of sand and forest sliding down to the plain! What to do? Why, jump, Dave! Take the chance, while you can. The train is doomed--save your own life! Think of the children, man!

Well, what did he, this hero, face to face with grim death? Grasped the throttle--reversed it--shrieked "_Down brakes!_" in a breath. Stood to his post, without flinching, clear-headed, open-eyed, Till the train stood still with a shudder, and he--went down with the slide!

Saved?--yes, saved! Ninety people snatched from an awful grave. One life under the sand, there. All that he had, he gave, Man to the last inch! Hero?--noblest of heroes, yea; Worthy the shaft and the tablet, worthy the song and the bay!

BROTHERHOOD.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

I am my brother's keeper,
And I the duty own;
For no man liveth to himself
Or to himself alone;
And we must bear together
A common weal and woe,
In all we are, in all we have,
In all we feel and know.

I am my brother's keeper,
In all that I can be,
Of high and pure example,
Of true integrity;
A guide to go before him,
In darkness and in light;
A very cloud of snow by day,
A cloud of fire by night.

I am my brother's keeper,
In all that I can say,
To help him on his journey
To cheer him by the way;
To succour him in weakness,
To solace him in woe;
To strengthen him in conflict,
And fit him for the foe.

I am my brother's keeper,
In all that I can do
To save him from temptation,
To help him to be true;
To stay him if he stumble,
To lift him if he fall;
To stand beside him though his sin
Has severed him from all.

I am my brother's keeper,
In sickness and in health;
In triumph and in failure,
In poverty and wealth;
His champion in danger,
His advocate in blame,
The herald of his honour,
The hider of his shame.

And though he prove unworthy,
He is my brother still,
And I must render right for wrong
And give him good for ill;
My standard must not alter
For folly, fault, or whim,
And to be true unto myself
I must be true to him.

And all men are my brothers
Wherever they may be,
And he is most my proper care
Who most has need of me;
Who most may need my counsel,
My influence, my pelf,
And most of all who needs _my_ strength
To save him from _myself_.

For all I have of power
Beyond what he can wield,
Is not a weapon of offence
But a protecting shield,
Which _I_ must hold before him
To save him from his foe,
E'en though _I_ be the enemy
That longs to strike the blow.

I am my brother's keeper,
And must be to the end--
A neighbour to the neighbourless,
And to the friendless, friend;
His weakness lays it on me,
My strength involves it too,
And common love for common life
Will bear the burden through.

THE STRAIGHT RIDER.

_(FROM "BLACK AND WHITE?" BY PERMISSION.)_

"My _dear_ Mabel, how pale you look! It is this hot room. I am sure Lord Saint Sinnes will not mind taking you for a little turn in the garden--between the dances."

My Lord Saint Sinnes--or Billy Sinnes as he is usually called by his friends--shuffled in his high collar. It is a remarkable collar, nearly related to a cuff, and it keeps Lord Saint Innes in remembrance of his chin. If it were not that this plain young nobleman were essentially a gentleman, one might easily mistake him for a groom. Moreover, like other persons of equine tastes, he has the pleasant fancy of affecting a tight and horsey "cut" in clothes never intended for the saddle.

The girl, addressed by her somewhat overpowering mother as Mabel, takes the proffered arm with a murmured acquiescence and a quivering lip. She is paler than before.

Over his stiff collar Lord Saint Sinnes looks down at her--with something of the deep intuition which makes him the finest steeplechaser in England. Perhaps he notes the quiver of the lip, the sinews drawn tense about her throat. Such silent signals of distress are his business. Certainly he notes the little shiver of abject fear which passes through the girl's slight form as they pass out of the room together. Their departure is noted by several persons--mostly _chaperons_.

"He must do it to-night," murmurs the girl's mother with a complacent smile on her worldly, cruel face, "and then Mabel will soon see that--the other--was all a mistake."

Some mothers believe such worn-out theories as this--and others--are merely heartless.

Lord Saint Sinnes leads the way deliberately to the most secluded part of the garden. There are two chairs at the end of a narrow pathway. Mabel sits down hopelessly. She is a quiet-eyed little girl, with brown hair and gentle ways. Just--in a word--the sort of girl who usually engages the affections of blushing, open-air, horsey men. She has no spirit, and those who know her mother are not surprised. She is going to say yes, because she dare not say no. At least two lives are going to be wrecked at the end of the narrow path.

Lord Saint Sinnes sits down at her side and contemplates his pointed toes. Then he looks at her--his clean-shaven face very grave--with the eye of the steeplechase rider.

"Miss Maddison"--jerk of the chin and pull at collar--"you're in a ghastly fright."

Miss Maddison draws in a sudden breath, like a sob, and looks at her lacework handkerchief.

"You think I'm going to ask you to marry me?"

Still no answer. The stiff collar gleams in the light of a Chinese lantern. Lord Saint Sinnes's linen is a matter of proverb.

"But I'm not. I'm not such a cad as that."

The girl raises her head, as if she hears a far-off sound.

"I know that old worn----. I daresay I would give great satisfaction to some people if I did! But ... I can't help that."

Mabel is bending forward, hiding her face. A tear falls on her silk dress with a little dull flop. Young Saint Sinnes looks at her--almost as if he were going to take her in his arms. Then he shuts his upper teeth over his lower lip, hard--just as he does when riding at the water jump.

"A fellow mayn't be much to look at," he says, gruffly, "but he can ride straight, for all that."

Mabel half turns her head, and he has the satisfaction of concluding that she has no fault to find with his riding.

"Of course," he says, abruptly, "there is s'm' other fellow?"

After a pause, Miss Maddison nods.

"Miss Maddison," says Lord Saint Sinnes, rising and jerking his knees back after the manner of horsey persons, "you can go back into that room and take your Bible oath that I never asked you to marry me."

Mabel rises also. She wants to say something, but there is a lump in her throat.

"Some people," he goes on, "will say that you bungled it, others that I behaved abominably, but--but we know better, eh?"

He offers his arm, and they walk toward the house.

Suddenly he stops, and fidgets in his collar.

"Don't trouble about me," he says, simply. "I shan't marry anyone else--I couldn't do that--but--but I didn't suspect until to-night, y'know, that there was another man, and a chap must ride straight, you know."

H. S. M.

WOMEN AND WORK.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

"Always a hindrance, are we? You didn't think that of old; With never a han' to help a man, and only a tongue to scold? Timid as hares in danger--weak as a lamb in strife, With never a heart to bear a part in the rattle and battle of life! Just fit to see to the children and manage the home affairs, With only a head for butter and bread, a soul for tables and chairs? Where would you be to-morrow if half of the lie were true? It's well some women are weak at heart, if only for saving you.

"We haven't much time to be merry who marry a struggling man, Making and mending and saving and spending, and doing the best we can. Skimming and scamming and plotting and planning, and making the done for do, Grinding the mill with the old grist still and turning the old into new; Picking and paring and shaving and sharing, and when not enough for us all, Giving up tea that whatever may be the 'bacca sha'n't go to the wall; With never a rest from the riot and zest, the hustle and bustle and noise Of the boys who all try to be men like you, and the girls who all try to be boys.

"You know the tale of the eagle that carried the child away To its eyrie high in the mountain sky, grim and rugged and gray; Of the sailor who climbed to save it, who, ere he had half-way sped Up the mountain wild, _met_ mother and child returning as from the dead There's many a bearded giant had never have grown a span, If in peril's power in childhood's hour he'd had to wait for a man. And who is the one among you but is living and hale to-day, Because he was tied to a woman's side in the old home far away?

"You have heard the tale of the lifeboat, and the women of Mumbles Head, Who, when the men stood shivering by, or out from the danger fled, Tore their shawls into striplets and knotted them end to end, And then went down to the gates of death for father and brother and friend. Deeper and deeper into the sea, ready of heart and head, Hauling them home through the blinding foam, and raising them from the dead. There's many of you to-morrow who, but for a woman's hand, Would be drifting about with the shore lights out and never a chance to land.

"You've read of the noble woman in the midst of a Border fray Who held her own in a castle lone, for her lord who was far away. For the children who gather'd round her and the home that she loved so well, And the deathless fame of a woman's name whom nothing but love could quell. Who, when the men would have yielded, with her own sweet lily hand, Led them straight from the postern gate, and drove the foe from the land. There's many a little homestead that is cosy and sung to-day, Because of a woman who stood in the door and kept the wolves at bay.

"Only a hindrance are we? then we'll be a hindrance still. We hinder the devil and all his works, and I reckon he takes it ill. We do the work that is nearest, and that is the surest plan, But if ever you want a hero, and you cannot wait for a man, You need not tell us the chances, you've only the need to show, And there's many a woman in all the world who is willing and ready to go, For trust in trial, for work in woe, for comfort and care in sorrow, The wives of the world are its strength to-day, the daughters it's hope to-morrow."

A COUNTRY STORY.

(Founded on an old Legend.)

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

At the little town of Norton, in a famous western shire, There dwelt a sightless maiden with her venerated sire. To him she was the legacy her mother had bequeathed; To her he was the very sun that warmed the air she breathed.

Old Alec was a carter, and he moved from town to town, Taking parcels from the "The Wheatsheaf" to "The Mitre" or "The Crown;" And on festival occasions would the sightless maiden ride To the old cathedral city by the honest carter's side.

Ere he tended to his duty at the market or the fair He would seek the lofty Gothic pile, and leave the maiden there, That the choir's joyous singing and the organ's solemn strain Might beguile her simple fancy till he journeyed home again.

On the fair autumnal evening of a bright September day She had heard the choir singing, she had heard the canons pray; And the good old dean was preaching with simple words and wise Of Him who gave the maiden life and touched the poor man's eyes.

And her tears fell fast and thickly as the good old preacher said That even now He cures the blind and raises up the dead; And he aptly went on speaking of the blinding death of sin, And urged them to be seeking for life and light within.

'Mid the mighty organ's pealing in the voluntary rare, Through the fine oak-panelled ceiling went the maiden's broken prayer That she might but for a moment be allowed to have her sight, To see old Alec's honest face that tranquil autumn night.

That He of old who sweetly upon Bartimeus smiled Would gaze in like compassion on an English peasant child: That He who once in pity stood beside the maiden's bed, Would take her hand within His own and raise her from the dead.

The maiden's small petition, and the choir's grander praise, Reached the shining gates of heaven, 'mid the sun's declining rays, And the King who heard the praises, turned to listen to the prayer, With a smile that shone more brightly than the richest jewel there.

And before the organ ended, ay, before the prayer was done, An angel guard came flying through "the kingdom of the sun," From the land of lofty praises to which God's elect aspire To the old cathedral city of that famous western shire.

And the maiden's prayer was answered; she gazed with eager sight At the tesselated pavement, at the window's painted light; And her heart beat fast and wildly as she realized the scene, With the choir's slow procession, and the old white-headed dean.

Till she saw old Alec waiting, and arose for his embrace, While a radiant light was stealing o'er her pallid upturned face, But her spirit soaring higher flew beyond the realms of night, For God Himself had turned for her all darkness into light.

THE BEGGAR MAID.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Her arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say:
Bare-footed came the beggar maid
Before the king Cophetua.
In robe and crown the king stept down,
To meet and greet her on her way;
"It is no wonder," said the lords,
"She is more beautiful than day."

As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen:
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been:
Cophetua sware a royal oath:
"This beggar maid shall be my queen!"

THE VENGEANCE OF KAFUR.

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD.

From fair Damascus, as the day grew late,
Passed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas' gate
Betwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heard
Vie with the lute the twilight-wakened bird.
But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yet
The lovely lines of gold and violet,
A guerdon left by the departing sun
To grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon.
Upon his soul a crushing burden weighed,
And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shade
Seemed but the presage of his doom to be,--
Death, and the triumph of his enemy.

"_One slain by slander_" cried he, with a laugh,
"Thus should the poets frame my epitaph,
Above whose mouldering dust it will be said,
'Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead!'"
Out rang a rhythmic revel as he spake
From joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake,
Hailing the night's first blossom in the sky.
And now, with failing foot, he drew anigh
The orchard-garden where his home was hid
Pomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid.

Despair mocked at him from the latticed gate
Where Love and Happiness had lain in wait
With tender greetings, and the lights within
Gleamed on the grave of Bliss that once had been.
Fair Hope who daily poured into his ear
Her rainbow promises gave way to Fear
Who smote him blindly, leaving him to moan
With bitter tears before the gateway prone.

Soft seemed the wind in sympathy to grieve,
When lo! a sudden hand touched Kafur's sleeve,
And then a voice cried, echoing his name,
"Behold the proofs to put thy foe to shame!'"
Up sprang the prostrate man, and while he stood
Gripping the proffered scrip in marvelhood,
He who had brought deliverance slipped from sight;
Thus Joy made instant day of Kafur's night.

"Allah is just," he said.... Then burning ire
With vengeance visions filled his brain like fire;
And to his bosom, anguish-torn but late,
Delirious with delight he hugged his hate.
"Revenge!" cried he; "why wait until the morn?
This night mine enemy shall know my scorn."
The stars looked down in wo'nder overhead
As backward Kafur toward Damascus sped.

The wind, that erst had joined him in his grief,
Now whispered strangely to the walnut leaf;
Into the bird's song pleading notes had crept,
The happy fountains in the gardens wept,
And e'en the river, with its restless roll,
Seemed calling "pity" unto Kafur's soul.

"Allah" he cried, "O chasten thou my heart;
Move me to mercy, and a nobler part!"
Slow strode he on, the while a new-born grace
Softened the rigid outlines of his face,
Nor paused he till he struck, as ne'er before,
A ringing summons on his foeman's door.

His mantle half across his features thrown,
He won the spacious inner court unknown,
Where, on a deep divan, lay stretched his foe,
Sipping his sherbet cool with Hermon snow;
Who, when he looked on Kafur, hurled his hate
Upon him, wrathful and infuriate,
Bidding him swift begone, and think to feel
A judge's sentence and a jailer's steel.

"Hark ye!" cried Kafur, at this burst of rage
Holding aloft a rolled parchment page;
"Prayers and not threats were more to thy behoof;
Thine is the danger, see! I hold the proof.
Should I seek out the Caliph in his bower
To-morrow when the mid-muezzin hour
Has passed, and lay before his eyes this scrip,
Silence would seal forevermore thy lip.

"Ay! quail and cringe and crook the supple knee,
And beg thy life of me, thine enemy,
Whom thou, a moment since, didst doom to death.
I will not breathe suspicion's lightest breath
Against thy vaunted fame: and even though
Before all men thou'st sworn thyself my foe,
And pledged thyself wrongly to wreak on me
Thy utmost power of mortal injury,
In spite of this, should I be first to die
And win the bowers of the blest on high,
Beside the golden gate of Paradise
Thee will I wait with ever-watchful eyes,
Ready to plead forgiveness for thy sin,
If thou shouldst come, and shouldst not enter in.

"Should Allah hear my plea, how sweet! how sweet!
For then would Kafur's vengeance be complete."

THE WISHING WELL.

BY VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD.

Around its shining edge three sat them down,
Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring.
"I wish," spake one, "the gems of Izza's crown,
For then would I be Izza and a King!"

Another, "I the royal robe he wears,
To hear men say, 'Behold, a King walks here!'"
And cried the third, "Now by his long gray hairs
I'd have his throne! Then should men cringe and fear!"

They quaffed the blessed draught and went their way
To where the city's gilded turrets shone;
Then from the shadowed palms, where rested they,
Stepped one, with bowed gray head, and passed alone.

His arms upon his breast, his eyes down bent,
Against the fading light a shadow straight;
Across the yellow sand, musing, he went
Where in the sunset gleamed the city's gate.

Lo, the next morrow a command did bring
To three who tarried in that city's wall,
Which bade them hasten straightway to the King,
Izza, the Great, and straightway went they all,

With questioning and wonder in each mind.
Majestic on his gleaming throne was he,
Izza the Just, the kingliest of his kind!
His eagle gaze upon the strangers three

Bent, to the first he spake, "Something doth tell
Me that to-day my jewelled crown should lie
Upon thy brow, that it be proven well
How any man may be a king thereby."

And to the second, "Still the same hath told
That thou shalt don this robe of royalty,
And"--to the third--"that thou this sceptre hold
To show a king to such a man as I!"

And straightway it was done. Then Izza spake
Unto the guards and said, "Go! Bring thee now
From out the city wall a child to make
Its first obeisance to the King. Speed thou!"

In Izza's name, Izza, the great and good,
Went this strange word 'mid stir and trumpet's ring,
And straightway came along and wondering stood
A child within the presence of the King.

The King? Her dark eyes, flashing, fearless gazed
To where 'mid pomp and splendor three there sate.
One, 'neath a glittering crown, shrunk sore amazed;
One cringed upon the carven throne of state,

The third, wrapped with a royal robe, hung low
His head in awkward shame, and could not see
Beyond the blazoned hem, that was to show
How any man thus garbed a king might be!

Wondering, paused the child, then turned to where
One stood apart, his arms across his breast;
No crown upon the silver of his hair,
Black-gowned and still, of stately mien possessed;

No 'broidered robe nor gemmed device to tell
Whose was that brow, majestic with its mind;
But lo, one look, and straight she prostrate fell
Before great Izza, kingliest of his kind!

* * * * *

Around the shining Well, at close of day,
Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring,
Three stopped to quaff a draught and paused to say
"Life to great Izza! Long may he be King!"

THE TWO CHURCH-BUILDERS.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.

A famous king would build a church,
A temple vast and grand;
And that the praise might be his own,
He gave a strict command
That none should add the smallest gift
To aid the work he planned.

And when the mighty dome was done,
Within the noble frame,
Upon a tablet broad and fair,
In letters all aflame
With burnished gold, the people read
The royal builder's name.

Now when the king, elate with pride,
That night had sought his bed,
He dreamed he saw an angel come
(A halo round his head),
Erase the royal name and write
Another in its stead.

What could it be? Three times that night
That wondrous vision came;
Three times he saw that angel hand
Erase the royal name,
And write a woman's in its stead
In letters all aflame.

Whose could it be? He gave command
To all about his throne
To seek the owner of the name
That on the tablet shone;
And so it was, the courtiers found
A widow poor and lone.

The king, enraged at what he heard,
Cried, "Bring the culprit here!"
And to the woman trembling sore,
He said, "'Tis very clear
That thou hast broken my command:
Now let the truth appear!"