Chapter VI: Preface (6)

Awhile paused the Prince--too indignant to speak,
There burn'd a reply in his glance--on his cheek:
But quickly that hurried expression was gone,
And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone.
He answered--"Ere sunset hath crimson'd the sea,
To-morrow--I'll send my young daughter to thee.

"At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake,
With twenty young chiefs seek the isle on yon lake;
And there, in its coolest and pleasantest shades,
My child shall await you with twenty fair maids:
Yes--bright as my armour the damsels shall be
I send with my daughter, Turgesius, to thee."

Turgesius return'd to his palace; to him
The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim;
And tediously long was the darkness of night,
And slowly the morning unfolded its light;
The sun seem'd to linger--as if it would be
An age ere his setting would crimson the sea.

At length came the moment--the King and his band
With rapture push'd out their light boat from the land;
And bright shone the gems on the armour, and bright
Flash'd their fast-moving oars in the setting sun's light;
And long ere they landed, they saw though the trees
The maiden's white garments that waved in the breeze.

More strong in the lake was the dash of each oar,
More swift the gay vessel flew on to the shore;
Its keel touch'd the pebbles--but over the surf
The youths in a moment had leap'd to the turf,
And rushed to a shady retreat in the wood,
Where many veiled forms mute and motionless stood.

"Say, which is Melachlin's fair daughter? away
With these veils," cried Turgesius, "no longer delay;
Resistance is vain, we will quickly behold
Which robe hides the loveliest face in its fold;
These clouds shall no longer o'ershadow our bliss,
Let each seize a veil--and my trophy be this!"

He seized a white veil, and before him appear'd
No fearful, weak girl--but a foe to be fear'd!
A youth--who sprang forth from his female disguise,
Like lightning that flashes from calm summer skies:
His hand grasp'd a weapon, and wild was the joy
That shone in the glance of the warrior boy.

And under each white robe a youth was conceal'd,
Who met his opponent with sword and with shield.
Turgesius was slain--and the maidens were blest,
Melachlin's fair daughter more blithe than the rest;
And ere the last sunbeam had crimson'd the sea,
They hailed the boy-victors--and Erin was free!

GLENARA.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear,
And her sire and her people are called to the bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud:
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence--they looked to the ground.

In silence they reached over mountains and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:
"Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed!

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud,"
Cried a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud;
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

Oh, pale grew the cheek of the chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen!
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn--
'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief,
I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:--
Glenara! Glenara! now read me MY dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne;
Now joy to the house of the fair Ellen of Lorn!

A FABLE FOR MUSICIANS.

BY CLARA DOTY BATES.

He grew as a red-headed thistle
Might grow, a mere vagabond weed--
Little Frieder--as gay with his whistle
As water-wagtail on a reed--
Blithe that was indeed!

He had a little old fiddle,
A shabby and wonderful thing,
Patched at end, patched and glued in the middle
Oft lacking a key or a string,
But, oh, it could sing!

Barber's 'prentice was Frieder, but having
No sense of the true barber's art,
He cut every face in the shaving,
Pulled hair, and left gashes and smart,
Getting blows for his part.

Blows he liked not, and so off he started
One morning, his fortune to seek,
Comb and fiddle his all, yet light-hearted
As long as his fiddle could squeak,
Be it ever so weak.

Ran away! Highway rutted or dusty
Seemed velvety grass to his feet;
Sang the birds; his own stout legs were trusty;
To his hunger a black crust was sweet,
And life seemed complete.

Towards twilight he came to a meadow
Where a lovely green water, outlaid
Like a looking-glass, held in clear shadow
Low iris-grown shores--every blade
Its double had made.

Neck, the Nixie, lived under this water,
In a palace of glass, far below
Where fishes might swim, or the otter
Could dive, or a sunbeam could go,
Or a lily root grow.

And, lo, Frieder spied him that minute
In a little red coat, sitting there
By the pond, with his feet hanging in it,
And clawing his knotted green hair
In a comic despair.

Green hair, full of duck weed, and tangled
With snail shells, and moss and eel-grass
It was, and it straggled and dangled
Over forehead and shoulders--alas,
A wild hopeless mass.

"Good evening," hailed Frieder, "I know you,
Sir Neck, the Pond Nixie! I pray
You will come to the shore, and I'll show you
How hair should be combed, if I may,
The real barber's way."

Neck swam like a frog to him, grinning,
And Frieder attacked the green mane
That had neither end nor beginning!
Neck bore like a hero the strain
Of the pulling and pain.

Till at length, without whimper or whining
The task of the combing was done,
And each lock was as smooth and as shining
As long iris leaves in the sun--
Soft as silk that is spun.

Then Neck thrust his hand in the rushes
And pulled out his own violin,
And played--why, it seemed as if thrushes
Had song-perches under his chin,
So sweet was the din.

The barber boy's heart fell to throbbing;
"Herr Neck"--this was all he could say,
Between fits of laughing and sobbing--
"Herr Neck, oh, pray teach me to play
In that wonderful way!"

Neck glanced at the comb. "Will you give it
For this little fiddle?" he cried.
"My comb--why, of course you can have it,
And jacket and supper beside!"
Eager Frieder replied.

Neck flung down his fiddle, and catching
The comb at arm's length, dived below.
And Frieder, the instrument snatching
Across the weird strings drew the bow,
To and fro--to and fro!

Till out of the forest came springing
Roebuck and rabbit and deer;
Till the nightingale stopped in its singing
And the black flitter-mice crowded near,
The sweet music to hear.

* * * * *

Forth from that moment went Frieder
Far countries and kingdoms to roam,
Of all earth's musicians the leader,
King's castles and courts for a home,
But, alas, for his comb!

Gold he had, but a comb again, never!
And his hair in a wild disarray
Henceforth grew at random.--And ever
Musicians to this very day
Wear theirs the same way!

"ONWARD." _A TALE OF THE S. E. RAILWAY_.

ANONYMOUS.

No doubt you've 'eard the tale, sir. Thanks,--'arf o' stout and mild. Of the man who did his dooty, though it might have killed his child. He was only a railway porter, yet he earned undy'n' fame. Well!--Mine's a similar story, though the end ain't quite the same.

I were pointsman on the South Eastern, with an only child--a girl As got switched to a houtside porter, though fit to 'ave married a pearl. With a back as straight as a tunnel, and lovely carrotty 'air, She used to bring me my dinner, sir, and couldn't she take her share!--

One day she strayed on the metals, and fell asleep on the track; I didn't 'appen to miss her, sir, or I should ha' called her back. She'd gone quite out of earshot, and I daresen't leave my post, For the lightnin' express was comin', but four hours late at the most!

'Ave you ever seen the "lightnin'" thunder through New Cross? Fourteen miles an hour, sir, with stoppages, of course. And just in the track of the monster was where my darling slept. I could hear the rattle already, as nearer the monster crept!

I might turn the train on the sidin', but I glanced at the loop line and saw That right on the outer metals was lyin' a bundle of straw; And right in the track of the "lightnin'" was where my darlin' laid, But the loop line 'ud smash up the engine, and there'd be no dividend paid

I thought of the awful disaster, of the blood and the coroner's 'quest; Of the verdict, "No blame to the pointsman, he did it all for the best!" And I thought of the compensation the Co. would 'ave to pay If I turned the train on the sidin' where the 'eap of stubble lay.

So I switched her off on the main, sir, and she thundered by like a snail, And I didn't recover my senses till I'd drunk 'arf a gallon o' ale. For though only a common pointsman, I've a father's feelings, too, So I sank down in a faint, sir, as my Polly was 'id from view.

And now comes the strangest part, sir, my Polly was roused by the sound. You think she escaped the engine by lyin' flat on the ground? No! always a good 'un to run, sir, by jove she must 'ave flown, For she raced the "lightnin' express," sir, till the engine was puffed and blown!!!

When next you see the boss, sir, tell him o' what I did, How I nobly done my dooty, though it might a killed my kid; And you may, if you like, spare a trifle for the agony I endured, When I thought that my Polly was killed, sir, and I 'adn't got her insured!

THE DECLARATION.

BY NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air.
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,
And with the fervour of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden--and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke.
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd
Earnestly on me--_She had been asleep!_

LOVE AND AGE.

BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wandered hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden.
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along:
And I did love you very dearly,
How dearly words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly;
But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you,
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The centre of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your hand bestow;'
Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking,--
But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another:
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression,--
But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glistened
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was christened,--
But that was twenty years ago.

Time passed. My eldest girl was married,
And I am now a grandsire gray!
One pet of four years old I've carried
Among the wild-flowered meads to play.
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure,--
And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassioned blindness
Has passed away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night
The ever-rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know,
When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be a hundred years ago.

HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER.

BY BRET HARTE.

"So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea--the lady you met on the train, And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?"

"Of course," he replied, "she would know me; there was never womankind yet Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget."

"Then you told her your love?" asked the elder; while the younger looked up with a smile: "I sat by her side half an hour--what else was I doing the while?

"What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky, And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to her eye?

"No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as
the look,
And I held up myself to herself--that was more than she got from her
book."

"Young blood!" laughed the elder; "no doubt you are voicing the mode of to-day: But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay.

"There's my wife--(you must know)--we first met on the journey from
Florence to Rome;
It took me three weeks to discover who was she, and where was her
home;

"Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again; And a year ere my romance _began_ where yours ended that day on the train."

"Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by
express;
Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passion
that's less."

"But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The younger half
sighed.
"What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" he
replied.

"Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "but
submit
Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no
whit.

"Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I try your ideal With something, if not quite so fair, at least more _en règle_ and real?

"Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist--you shall follow--this way. My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay?

"My wife, Mr. Rapid--Eh, what? Why, he's gone--yet he said he would
come.
How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson and
dumb?"

HE WORRIED ABOUT IT.

BY S. W. FOSS.

"The Sun will give out in ten million years more;
It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before."
And he worried about it;
It would surely give out, so the scientists said
And they proved it in many a book he had read,
And the whole mighty universe then would be dead.
And he worried about it.

"Or some day the earth will fall into the sun,
Just as sure and as straight, as if shot from a gun."
And he worried about it.
"For when gravitation unbuckles her straps,
Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse!
It will come in a few million ages, perhaps."
And he worried about it.

"The earth will become far too small for the race,
And we'll pay at a fabulous rate for our space."
And he worried about it.
"The earth will be crowded so much without doubt,
There will hardly be room for one's tongue to stick out,
Nor room for one's thoughts when they'd wander about."
And he worried about it.

"And in ten thousand years, there's no manner of doubt,
Our lumber supply and our coal will give out."
And he worried about it:
"And then the Ice Age will return cold and raw,
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms stretched out in awe,
As if vainly beseeching a general thaw."
And he worried about it.

His wife took in washing (two shillings a day).
He didn't worry about it.
His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer to pay.
He didn't worry about it.
While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub
On the washboard drum in her old wooden tub,
He sat by the fire and he just let her rub.
He didn't worry about it,

ASTRONOMY MADE EASY.

I saw and heard him as I was going home the other evening. A big telescope was pointed heavenward from the public square, and he stood beside it and thoughtfully inquired,--

"Is it possible, gentlemen, that you do not care to view the beautiful works of nature above the earth? Can it be true that men of your intellectual appearance will sordidly cling to ten cents, rather than take a look through this telescope and bring the beauties of heaven within one and a half miles of your eyes?"

The appeal was too much for one young man to resist. He was a tall young man, with a long face, high cheek bones, and an anxious look. He looked at the ten cents and then at the telescope, hesitated for a single moment, and then took his seat on the stool.

"Here is a young man who prefers to feast his soul with scientific knowledge rather than become a sordid, grasping, avaricious capitalist," remarked the astronomer, as he arranged the instrument. "Fall back, you people who prefer the paltry sum of ten cents to a view of the starry heavens, and give this noble young man plenty of room!"

The noble young man removed his hat, placed his eye to the instrument, a cloth was thrown over his head, and the astronomer continued:--

"Behold the bright star of Venus! A sight of this star is worth a thousand dollars to any man who prefers education to money." There was an instant of deep silence, and then the young man exclaimed:--

"I say!"

I stood behind him, and knew that the telescope pointed at the fifth storey of a building across the square, where a dance was in progress.

"All people indulge in exclamations of admiration as they view the beauties and mysteries of nature," remarked the astronomer. "Young man, tell the crowd what you see."

"I see a feller hugging a girl!" was the prompt reply. "And if there isn't a dozen of them!"

"And yet," continued the astronomer, "there are sordid wretches in this crowd who hang to ten cents in preference to observing such sights as these in ethereal space. Venus is millions of miles away, and yet by means of this telescope and by paying ten cents this intellectual young man is enabled to observe the inhabitants of that far-off world hugging each other just as natural as they do in this!"

The instrument was wheeled around to bear on the tower of the engine-house some distance away, and the astronomer, continued:--

"Behold the beauties and the wonders of Saturn! This star, to the naked eye, appears no larger than a pin's point, and yet for the paltry sum of ten cents this noble young man is placed within one mile of it!"

"Well, this beats all!" murmured the young man, as he slapped his leg.

"Tell me what you see, my friend."

"I see two fellows in a small room, smoking cigars and playing chess!" was the prompt reply.

"Saturn is 86,000,000 of miles from this town," continued the astronomer, "and yet the insignificant sum of ten cents has enabled this progressive young man to learn for himself that the celestial beings enjoy themselves pretty much as we do in this world. I venture to say that there is not a man in this crowd who ever knew before that the inhabitants of Saturn knew anything about chess or cigars."

Once more he wheeled the instrument round. This time it got the range of the upper storey of a tenement-house on the hill The young man had scarcely taken a glance through the tube, when he yelled out:--

"Great guns! But what planet is this?"

"You are now looking at Uranus," replied the professor. "Uranus is 97,502,304 miles distant from the earth, and yet I warrant that it doesn't appear over eighty rods away to you. Will you be kind enough, my friend, to tell this crowd what you see?"

"Give it to him! That's it! Go it old woman!" shouted the young man, slapping one leg and then the other.

"Speak up, my friend. What do you see?"

"By jove! she's got him by the hair now! Why, she'll beat him hollow!"

"Will you be kind enough, my friend, to allay the curiosity of your friends?"

"Whoop! that's it; now she's got him. Toughest fight I ever saw!" cried the young man as he moved back and slapped his thigh.

The professor covered up the instrument slowly and carefully, picked up and unlocked a satchel which had been lying near his feet, and then softly said:--

"Gentlemen, we will pause here for a moment. When a man tells you after this that the planet of Saturn is not inhabited, tell him that you know better, that it is not only inhabited, but that the married couples up there have family fights the same as on this mundane sphere. In about ten minutes I will be ready again to explain the wonders and beauties of the sparkling heavens to such of you as prefer a million dollars' worth of scientific knowledge to ten cents in vile dross. Meanwhile permit me to call your attention to my celebrated toothache drops, the only perfect remedy yet invented for aching teeth."

BROTHER WATKINS.

BY JOHN B. GOUGH.

An old southern preacher, who had a great habit of talking through his nose, left one congregation and came to another. The first Sunday he addressed his new congregation he went on about as follows:--

My beloved brederin, before I take my text, I must tell you of parting with my old congregation-ah, on the morning of last Sabbath-ah I entered into my church to preach my farewell discourse-ah. Before me sat the old fadders and mothers of Israel-ah. The tears course down their furrowed cheeks, their tottering forms and quivering lips breathed out a sad fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

Behind them sat middle-aged men and matrons, youth and vigour bloomed from every countenance, and as they looked up, I thought I could see in their dreamy eyes fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

Behind them sat the little boys and girls I had baptised and gathered into the Sabbath school. Ofttimes had they been rude and boisterous; but now their merry laugh was hushed and in the silence I could hear fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

Away in the back seats and along the aisles stood and sat the coloured bretherin with their black faces and honest hearts, and as they looked up I thought I could see in their eyes fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

When I had finished my discourse, and shaken hands with the bretherin-ah, I went out to take a last look at the church-ah, and the broken steps-ah, the flopping blinds-ah, and the moss-covered roof-ah, suggested fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

I mounted my old grey mare with all my earthly possessions in my saddle-bags, and as I passed down the street the servant girls stood in the doors-ah and waved their brooms with a fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

As I passed out of the village, I thought I could hear the wind-ah moaning through the waving branches of the trees, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

I came on to the creek, and as the old mare stopped to drink I thought I could hear the water rippling over the pebbles, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. Even the little fishes-ah, as their bright fins glistened in the sunlight-ah, gathered round to say as best they could, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

I was slowly passing up the hill meditating-ah on the sad vicissitudes of life-ah, when out bounded a big hog from the fence corner-ah with an a-boo a-boo and I came to the ground-ah, with my saddle bags-ah by my side-ah, and as the old mare ran up the hill-ah, she waved her tail back at me-ah seemingly to say-ah, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

LOGIC.

ANONYMOUS.