Chapter I: Introduction (1)

In preparing this work for the public it has been our aim to choose the very best, and every selection has been made with a special view to elocutionary merits. The “Speakers’ Ideal” is composed of carefully selected pieces from the writings of well known authors, and as a source of supply to the giver of dramatic entertainments, from which they may obtain at once a suitable subject for declamation, recital, dialogue and drama, this volume is without a peer.

The work contains many new pieces not found in any other book, and we have been able to secure a number of selections in the original manuscript, which are here published for the first time. Most of the recitations are accompanied by Annotations for Gesture, by which the amateur, as well as the elocutionist, may be guided in the necessary action, and by a method so extremely simple that the novice who has never had the privilege of instructions in the art of elocution will be enabled to give that indispensable accompaniment, without which, there can be neither natural, oratorical, nor dramatical delivery. This important feature has been carefully prepared by one who stands at the head of the profession as an instructor of elocution, and is found in no other “Speaker.”

Another of the chief characteristics of this work is the large number of full-page and exquisitely engraved half-toned plates, which have been taken from life and produced at large expense expressly for this book. The “Speakers’ Ideal” contains every characteristic of a complete book of elocution, and is, strictly speaking, the only “Speaker” ever published.

The unprecedented success that has attended the sale of the first editions, is proof that our hope to supply a long-felt want has been fully realized, and it is with entire confidence in its merits that we present this work to the public.

THE PUBLISHERS.

_NOTATION OF GESTURE._

As a tree without leaves, so is recitation without gesture; but the most beautiful pieces are sometimes marred and burlesqued by awkward or inappropriate action. Our object, therefore, in presenting our system of notation is not to teach gesture――for that can only be acquired from a teacher――but to guide the reciter in a general way.

GESTURES are divided, 1st, into front, oblique, lateral and backward; and 2d, into descending, horizontal and ascending; for instance, if the hand is thrown to the _front_, it must take a position on a level with the shoulder, or above, or below, which three divisions constitute the positions last named. The same applies to the _oblique_, which lies anywhere between the front and the lateral; to the _lateral_, which, as its name indicates, lies to the side; and to the _backward_. These positions are designated by the following letters: D. F., descending front; D. O., descending oblique; D. L., descending lateral; D. B., descending backward; H. F., horizontal front; H. O., horizontal oblique; H. L., horizontal lateral; H. B., horizontal backward; A. F., ascending front; A. O., ascending oblique; A. L., ascending lateral; A. B., ascending backward. _b_ placed before the above combinations indicates that both hands are used. When not mentioned to the contrary, the _supine_ hand, palm upwards, is used. P. represents _prone_ hand, or palm downward; V. _vertical_, or palm outward; Ind., _index finger_ as in pointing. This must be carefully distinguished from _P. Ind._, which means _Prone Index_ or the back of the hand upward, and finger pointing. Cl., expresses _clinched_ hand or _fist_. Par. expresses both arms parallel towards right or left. If a gesture is illustrative and cannot be expressed by any of the above letters, it will be called _special_ and designated by _Sp._ All GESTURES of a bold, descriptive, or emphatic character should be made from the shoulder, whilst unimportant or conversational gestures proceed from the elbow. Good taste dictates that a few gestures, properly made, are preferable to a large number crudely constructed.

Let your gestures be so modulated, and so accord with the sentiment, that they may seem a part of a perfect whole.

FRANCES L. PEIRCE.

The Gallant Fifty-First.

Then came the memorable order from Burnside, which must have thrilled every member of the regiment: “Tell Sturgis to send the Fifty-first Pennsylvania to take the bridge.”

Along the valley’s narrow gorge
The morning mist outspread,
While rifle-pit and breast-work strong
Frowned grimly overhead.
The sluggish stream that only served
To slake the thirst of kine,
Was soon to see a drearier sight
With men drawn up in line.

Along the crest a flash of fire
Breaks red against the sky,
Along the hillside’s narrow slope
Comes back the quick reply.
Ferraro dashes up in haste,
His countenance aflame,
“The Fifty-first must storm the bridge,”
’Twas thus the order came.

“Fix bayonets!” over Hartranft’s face
A strange smile sent its beam;
The red blood flushed, his dusky cheek――
His dark eyes all agleam.
Sturgis and Cook in vain essayed,
And others yet may try,
But now the gallant Fifty-first
Must storm the bridge or die.

Bright flashed the sword their leader drew――
“Charge!” Like a simoon’s blast,
The Fifty-first, mid shot and shell,
Dashed on――the bridge is passed;
The beaten foe in wild retreat
Is flying o’er the bridge,
Huzza! huzza! The Fifty-first
Has stormed Antietam’s bridge!

Oh, men of Pennsylvania,
Along your bloody route
Lies many a comrade, dull of ear,
Who may not have heard you shout;
But o’er your country’s wide domain
A pæan grand shall burst;
A nation’s accolade be thine――
O gallant Fifty-first!

The Dead Letter.

There, now! I’ve read your letter through
Three times; I’ll read it once again
If you say so; it rests with you.[2]
What? loan you paper, ink and pen?
Why, man you’re weaker than a child.
To-morrow I will gladly write
Whate’er you wish. Be reconciled,[3]
Compose yourself and rest to-night.

You think we nuns are good to tend
The sick, to count our beads, and pray,
But that we do not comprehend
How worldly people dread delay
In getting word from those they love:
Why, sir, you know not what you say――
Ah! this dark robe too well doth prove
The sorrow of that by-gone[4] day――

No, no; I fully understand
What you would say. There’s no offence;
Naught to forgive. There take[5] my hand.
We now are friends. In confidence
The story of a broken life,
Before the doctor comes, I’ll tell:
Of how I shunned[6] the cold world’s strife
And sought a quiet convent cell.

Far back[7] in life I loved a man,
A gen’rous, noble heart and true:
And he loved me as only can,
As only gallant natures do.
Our days passed by so quietly,
Love’s dream so rosy-hued had grown
That seasons glided by[8] ere we
Would note that e’en a month had flown.

Thus ran my girlhood and his youth,
Till came the naming of the happy day――
Our wedding day――that would in truth
Have made us man and wife for aye,
When, like a blow from one we love,
There came an unexpected woe;
In vain ’gainst[9] fate we madly strove;
Each cherished hope lay scattered[10] low.

A crime had been committed in
The village where lived he and I;
And ’mid the first wild, senseless din
That marked the people’s hue and cry,
Suspicion on him[11] fell, and so,
To ’scape the frenzied, ‘vengeful mob,
He, innocent, resolved to go
Away[12]――and I to stay and sob.

Then, bending low, said he, “This thing
Will only for a season last,
A moment full relief may bring;
At most our grief will soon be past;
But, darling, should it not be so,
Write” (he whispered a fictitious name),
“And I will by your letter know
That in your eyes I bear no shame.”

The rain fell from a dark’ning sky,[13]
The apple blossoms scattered[14] lay,
The chill wind moaned, and night drew nigh,
As with a sigh he turned away[15]――
I watched[16] his form till lost in gloom,
And, save the dripping of the rain,[17]
There fell a stillness[18] of the tomb――
A lull that seemed to daze my brain.[19]

The morning after that sad night
The guilty one was found; and I,
With woman’s haste, sat down to write,
And wrote in joyous ecstasy;
The letter mailed, each moment seemed
An age; but days and weeks passed by――
With visions dread my fancy teemed――
But came he not, nor made reply.

One day, when hope had almost fled,
The post-man thrust it in my hand:
“This is from Washington,”[20] he said,
“Dead-letter office, understand?”
With throbbing heart I broke the seal,
My face grew whiter than a sheet,
The dreadful blunder made me reel
And drop[21] the letter at my feet.

Instead of the fictitious name
He gave, it bore his _own_,
Which knowing not, he could not claim――
To him my lines were never known――
In loneliness he died: and here
I nurse the sick; but I have done――
And, sir[22] no longer have a fear
To trust me, though I’m but a nun.

You’ve heard a portion of my tale
Before? From whom? Oh, tell[23] me quick!
From my lost love? You both set sail
In the same ship? My heart[24] grows sick――
What? Still alive?[25] Oh, God be praised!
Oh, joy![26] Oh, joy! And I will write?
Now that my dead to life is raised――
Will I? Yes, now――this very night.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

GESTURES.
[1] Locate person spoken to, slightly to left of front
[2] Left H. O.
[3] P. H. F.
[4] H. B.
[5] H. F.
[6] V. H. O.
[7] H. B.
[8] H. Sweep.
[9] B. Par. V. H. O.
[10] B. D. O.
[11] P. H. F.
[12] H. L.
[13] B. A. O.
[14] B. D. O.
[15] H. O.
[16] Hands over eyes.
[17] H. O.
[18] B. P. H. O.
[19] Hand to head.
[20] H. F.
[21] D. F.
[22] Left H. F.
[23] B. H. F.
[24] Hand to heart
[25] Clasp hands.
[26] B. A. O.

PA.

I’ve got one of the best Pa’s in this world. Pa is very fond of me, too; in fact, no one ever comes to our house when Pa’s home that he don’t commence to praise me before he even asks the guest to be seated. Pa’s not rich, so we often have to make both ends meet by resorting to novel expedients; and even then, the ends don’t stay together worth speaking of. Pa’s memory is none of the best; poor, dear man, I’ve known him to eat two soft-boiled eggs while trying to determine whether or not he had seasoned them. The other day Pa brought young Judson, the lawyer, home to dinner; we had codfish and potatoes with warmed-up coffee from breakfast. Ma almost fainted. Judson said he doted on cod-fish――but then he is a lawyer――Ma trod on my foot――said she in a whisper, “Tell your father not to ask him to have more coffee.” Pa caught the word coffee. “Why, yes,” yelled out Pa, “Judson, my boy, pass over your cup!” I never felt so mortified in my life; there wasn’t a single drop in the pot!

“You must pardon us,” stammered Ma. “Never mind excuses,” interrupted Pa, “Pour out the nectar, Matilda――why――why――”

“Yes, why,”――mother’s face was scarlet――“it is why――why have you not had the hole in the bottom of this pot mended? the coffee’s all leaked out.” Poor ma! how I pitied her.

Last night the Higgins girls called to know if we liked the style of their new silk dresses――such stuck-up mortals I never saw――their father used to mend Pa’s boots――owes his fortune to a judicious use of chalk and an old pump――and styles himself a retired milk dealer. Pa happened to be in the parlor when the Higgins girls floated in. “Hannah,” said Pa, “go upstairs and get the silk dress you’ve just finished.” “Why Pa, how you do talk,” said I, my heart almost ceasing to beat. “Don’t be so modest, Hannah,” he continued, “show the young ladies how handy you are.” “Oh, Pa!” I cried, trying to get his mind off the dress, “did you ever see such beautiful bonnets?” The fates were against me. “Ladies,” said Pa, “that girl is worth her weight in gold; she’s just finished trimming over a last season’s hat, and has just made the handsomest dress out of her Ma’s old silk frock that ever a human eye rested on!” The Higgins girls giggled, and I――I could have sunk through the floor.

One day Pa said he would take us to a matinee. It was on a Monday, but Ma said she’d put off the washing, although the washerwoman declared she’d never put up with such tomfoolery again. Pa came home later than usual, and almost hurried us to death. At last we arrived at the theatre, streaming with perspiration. A grand opera was to be given, and the entrance was crowded. Pa began searching for his tickets. He first dove into one pocket, then into another; meantime we were elbowed and jostled by the throng. “Strange,” groaned Pa, “I put them in my vest pocket.” Just at that moment Judson and his two sisters alighted from a hack. Pa turned white as chalk, then red as a canned lobster. “Come, quick,” he gasped, “this way.” We followed him to the corner. “What’s the matter, dearie?” asked Ma. “Why,” groaned Pa, “Judson’s got my tickets. I gave them to him last night, but forgot all about it until he just now jumped out of the hack.” So we lost that opera and a good washerwoman, too. Still, Pa’s awful nice.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Dying to Win.

Fierce blows the gale and cold,
Loudly the windows[27] rattle;
Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.
Hark![28] ’Twas a bell that tolled――
There, again! must I battle
Through another dreadful winter night?

Better by far to die.
Who[29] in this mighty city
Wastes a thought on such a wretched life?
Who heeds my weary sigh?
Who sheds a tear in pity?
All alone I wage[30] the bitter strife.

Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]
Gay sound the reckless voices;
And how tempting warm the red grate glows!
No![32] rather perish here――
Ah, no――my soul rejoices,[33]
For I triumph spite of all my woes.

Now, that I’ve made my vow,
Who[34] comes to help me keep it?
Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?
Ripe is the harvest now,
Yet comes there none to reap it.
Not a cent![35] no home; no crust of bread.

Fie,[36] upon hearts so cold!
Not one will deign to aid me;
And my own sex turn[37] me off with scorn;
Sneer at me; call me bold;
Taunt me, and then upbraid me――
O, my God,[38] how can I wait till morn?

Mother, is that you[39] there?
Surely,[40] I must be dreaming――
Do not leave me, mother;[41] take me home!
Oh, how keen[42] bites the air!
Yonder[43] the dawn is gleaming.
It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44] come!

Sleepy, indeed, am I――
Wait till I kneel[45] down, mother――
Now[46] I lay me down to sleep――keep off――[47]
Help! help! help! I shall die――
Give me some air――I smother!
I am saved![48] Now let the cold world scoff.

* * * * *

Fierce blows the gale and cold,
Loudly the windows[49] rattle,
And the stars are paling[50] out with fright:
Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:
Done is the hard-fought battle――
And a weary soul has said good-night.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

GESTURES.
[27] H. O.
[28] Hand raised to listen.
[29] H. O.
[30] Clasp hands.
[31] H. F.
[32] B. V. H. F.
[33] A. O.
[34] H. O.
[35] D. L.
[36] P. Ind. H. O.
[37] Ver. H. L.
[38] Look up.
[39] B. H. F.
[40] Hand to brow.
[41] B. H. F.
[42] Shiver.
[43] Ind. H. O.
[44] B. H. F.
[45] Kneel.
[46] Clasp hands.
[47] B. Par. H. O.
[48] B. A. O.
[49] H. O.
[50] V. A. Sweep.

LITTLE BROWN EYES.

Many years ago there lived in a tiny cottage, a widow and her two children, Frank and Edith. The cottage stood by the roadside, not far from a village, and was almost hidden from view by the pretty roses and vines that clung to its sides.

One warm summer afternoon, when Frank was away to the village with his donkey and cart, and the widow was busy sewing in the back part of the cottage, little Edith, who had been weaving a wreath of flowers, lay fast asleep on the front porch, shaded from the rays of the sun by the arbor that covered the door. She lay there with her long golden hair partly hiding her pretty face, with the unfinished wreath still held in her hands, and her little straw hat filled with buds and sprays, upset at her side.

Now, the road that passed the cottage was much used by travelers, as it led in both directions to large cities; but on this particular afternoon not a human being, nor an animal, nor a vehicle of any sort could be seen on its white, gleaming surface; and save the drone of a passing bee, or an occasional chirp from a cricket under the porch, not a sound broke the deep stillness. Even the birds seemed to be dozing, so nap-inspiring was that sultry summer afternoon.

An hour later and Edith was still sleeping, when the distant rumble of wheels could be heard. They were yet a long way down the road, although from their peculiar rattle it was evident they belonged to a light wagon――perhaps some farmer returning from market. Presently a cloud of white dust rose above the trees and indicated the point reached by the wagon, but the latter could not yet be seen from the cottage on account of the intervening foliage that skirted the roadside. A few moments later an odd-looking, top-heavy vehicle, drawn by two lank horses, emerged into view. Behind the wagon, mounted on a mule, rode a dark-visaged man.

When the wagon arrived in front of the house it stopped, and the man on the mule advanced to the garden fence, dismounted, and threw his reins over the gate post. He then opened the gate, and was about to pass to the rear of the cottage when he spied little Edith. The slanting sunbeams had crept so close to her face that it was only a question of a few moments when the bright glare would end her sleep.

The man paused and glanced cautiously about him; then, taking another look at Edith, he stealthily moved on until he reached the back part of the house. The widow sat in a large arm-chair near the kitchen door, which was open. In her lap lay an old garment that she had been mending; the cool breeze that came through the door from the front of the house blew the pendant honey-suckle against her cheek, but she heeded it not, for she, too, like little Edith, had succumbed to the influence of the sleepy afternoon.

The dark-visaged man no sooner took in the situation than he quickly, but quietly, returned to the wagon and said some strange words to a big, stupid-looking fellow who was perched on the front seat of the odd-shaped vehicle, and from whose hands dangled the lines of the lank horses. The fellow stood up, and shading his eyes with his huge, brawny hand, peered toward the house: then fastening his lines to a hook in the wagon bow, he jumped lightly to the ground and followed his companion to where little Edith lay sleeping.

In the back portion of the wagon sat two persons; one was an old woman with a swarthy, wrinkled face, and the other was a beautiful little girl about ten years of age. Her hair was not black as was that of the old woman, it was of a rich chestnut hue, and her complexion, although darkened by the sun, was extremely fair; but her eyes! oh, they were the rarest of brown eyes! and as she turned them inquiringly towards the old crone, they seemed like pansies wet with dew; so velvety, so liquid. Without saying a word, she let her long silken lashes drop until her lovely eyes were fixed upon the blankets that lay at her feet. The old woman was restless and looked through the curtain windows towards the cottage.

Mean while the men had reached the porch. Their movements were noiseless and cat-like. The dark-visaged man drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and the stupid looking fellow held a stout cord in his right hand. In an instant they gagged and bound little Edith and rapidly bore her to the rear of the wagon, when, opening the leather door, they handed her struggling form to the old crone, who stood ready to receive her. Quickly shutting the wagon door, the stupid-looking fellow mounted his seat, the dark-visaged man leaped upon the back of his mule, and in a twinkling the gypsies had disappeared behind a bend in the road.

As soon as the little girl with brown eyes saw the men bring Edith to the wagon she trembled and began to weep. The old crone shook her finger at her and bade her to have a care what she did. Then turning to Edith she said, “I will remove the gag from your mouth if you promise not to make any noise.” Edith, who was almost frightened to death, nodded her head whereupon the old crone untied the handkerchief not from kindness, but fear that the child would suffocate. Poor Edith sobbed as though her heart would break, and more than once looked appealingly at the brown-eyed girl. The latter, whenever the crone turned her head, glanced at Edith and tried in every possible way to mutely assure her of her sympathy and friendship.

The gypsies drove very fast for several miles, when they suddenly left the main road and turned into a narrow lane that led through a dense forest. The horses were then allowed to slacken their speed. After an hour’s drive the party came upon a gypsy encampment in an open space. The forest trees formed a semi-circle about the sides and rear of the camp while the front was somewhat protected from view by the wagons, which were ranged on a line with the lane.

The lank horses neighed as they entered the clearing, and in a moment the wagon was surrounded by a swarm of tawny-skinned people, men, women and children. Without speaking a word to any one, save the crone, the dark-visaged man led Edith and the brown-eyed little girl to a tent which they entered. “Now,” said he, for the first time speaking to Edith, “if you are a good girl, you will be treated well, but if you are a cross and troublesome, look out! And you, Little Brown Eyes,” he: continued, “see that your mate eats her supper when it comes. That’s all.” He then left them.

Edith advanced to the little girl and was about to speak, when the latter raised her finger, shook her head, and pointed to the door. Edith looked in the direction indicated, and saw the old crone seated without, just in the act of lighting her pipe. “You can talk, but speak low; old Myra will try to hear what we say,” and the little brown-eyed girl kissed Edith on the forehead.

“Oh, I am so dreadfully frightened,” whispered Edith, “will they never take me home again?” “I cannot tell,” replied the child. “I, too, was taken from my home, a long, long time ago; but Myra and Ike――that was Ike who came with us to the tent――say they will take me home some day. My name is Mary, yet they call me Little Brown Eyes; maybe they’ll call you Little Blue Eyes.”

This conversation was cut short by the entrance of a gypsy boy, who brought two tin plates of chicken stew, some bread and a big bowl of milk. He said nothing, merely placing their supper on the ground, when he walked out again without so much as looking at them. Little Brown Eyes sat on one end of an empty sack and motioned Edith to sit on the other end; which she did.

The little girls, in spite of their low spirits, could not resist the savory smell of the stew, for they were very hungry, and in a short time nothing remained of what the gypsy boy brought them except the empty bowls and the two tin plates. All at once there was a great noise in the camp. The tramping of horses’ feet could be heard, and the voices of men shouting; what could it mean? The little girls looked at one another in utter wonderment. “Let us peep out,” said Little Brown Eyes, and raising one corner of the canvas they looked out. Everything was in confusion. A body of horsemen were pulling down the tents, some of the gypsies were fleeing to the woods, while others were opposing the horsemen with all their might. Just then the dark-visaged man and Myra entered the tent. “Come, quick,” yelled the man, “this way,” and taking hold of each little girl, he pulled them to the door. Edith uttered a scream. Immediately the horsemen galloped toward them. “My papa! my papa!” cried Little Brown Eyes. A fine looking gentleman leaped from his horse, and in a moment his daughter was clasped in his arms. “Take these people prisoners,” said he, “they shall pay dearly for kidnapping my daughter. Who is this?” he continued, looking at Edith. “This, papa, is a little girl Ike stole to-day, as she lay asleep on her front porch.” “Poor child, we must return her to her parents,” spoke Little Brown Eyes’ papa; “come, we will go away from here at once.” So the little girls were led away to the lane where stood waiting a splendid carriage. “Oh, see! there comes brother Frank in his donkey-cart,” and clapping her hands with joy, Edith pointed down the lane, where, sure enough, her brother came jogging along as complacently as if nothing had happened.

The rest of the horsemen rode up to the carriage, and were about to start, when one of their number said, “Look! we have fixed the gypsies.” All looked toward the camp. It was in a blaze; both tents and wagons were being devoured by the red-tongued flames. “Why, Edith,” shouted Frank, who had just reached the carriage, “what on earth are you doing here?” The heat from the burning camp became so intense that Edith’s face was almost scorched, “Edith,” shouted Frank, louder than before. Edith looked at her brother, rubbed her eyes, and then looked again. “Where are the gypsies?” she asked――“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Frank, “you have been dreaming; you are almost baked by the sun.”

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

The Last Salute.

Yes, the ranks are growing smaller
With the coming of each May,
And the beards and locks once raven
Now are mingled thick with gray;
Soon the hands that strew the flowers
Will be folded still and cold,
And our story of devotion
Will forever have been told.

Years and years have passed by, comrades,
Though it seems but yesterday
Since the Blue-garbed Northern legions
Marched to meet the Southern Gray――
But a day since Massachusetts
Bade her soldier boys good-bye――
But a day since Alabama
Heard her brave sons’ farewell cry.

Those are days we all remember,
In our hearts we hold them yet;
And the kiss we got at parting,
Who can ever that forget?
And it may have been a mother,
A fond father, or a wife,
Or a maid whose love was dearer
To the soldier’s heart than life.

Then the silent midnight marches,
And the fierce-fought battle’s roar,
And the sailor’s lonely watches,
Gone, please God, forevermore:
Though these ne’er can be forgotten
While the dew our graves shall wet,
Yet the color of our jackets
Let each gallant heart forget;

For the ranks are growing smaller,
And though decked in blue or gray,
Soon both armies will be sleeping
In their shelter-tents of clay.
But the loud reverberation
Of the last salute shall be
Oft re-echoed through the ages
As the tocsin of the free!

For we both but did our duty,
In the Great Jehovah’s plan,
And the world has learned a lesson
That all men may read who can;
And when gathered for the muster
On the last and dreadful day,
May that God extend His mercy
Sweet, alike to Blue and Gray.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Studying For The Contest.

Oh dear! If ever I try to learn another piece I hope to be swallowed by a whale ten times the size of the one that lunched on Jonah. Here I’ve been three weeks trying to get “The Flight of the Hottentots” by heart, and to-morrow night I am to recite at the contest; but I’m bound that that squint-eyed Caddy Screech shall not out-do me this time. Well, here it goes again: [_Reads from the book without gesture._]

The swarthy forms steal one by one
Like shadows past the guard;
Now soft they creep, now leap, now run,
From tyrants base and hard;

But hark! what sound is that which comes
Across the sandy plain?
The sentry’s cry, the roll of drums!
Alas! their flight is vain.

Behold! a thousand torches flash
Like meteors into view!
While swift the Pagans onward dash
The bold dragoons pursue!

See! now the captives reach a stream,
A rushing torrent wild;
They cannot pass――[_Throws book on floor._]

Oh, grief! now for the gestures: [_With hesitation as though forgetting lines._]

The swarthy forms steal[51] one by one
Like shadows past the guard――

Confound[52] the gestures! they bother me worse than anything else. Why didn’t the fool that wrote the piece say which way they stole, up[53] a hill, down[54] a hill, or across[55] the road? Well, I’ll try the next two lines.

Now soft they creep,[56] now leap,[57] now run[58]
From tyrants base and hard――

They must have been acrobats to get over the ground in that shape; I’m desperate, I am!

But hark![59] what sound is that which comes
Across the sandy plain?

No; I mustn’t put my finger up like that.[60] Why should a person when alone be required to do it? Am I to warn myself to listen when I have ears? or if at all necessary, why not do it effectually and hold up both fingers, thus?[61] I’ll skip that part.

The sentry’s cry, the roll of drums,
Alas! their flight is vain[62]――

Now this is a puzzler.

The sentry’s cry――

Was it a whoop, a yell, a shriek, a halloo――but fiddle! Who ever heard a sentry cry? Why soldiers are brave men, and never weep. That is unquestionably a poetical _li_-cence.

――the roll of drums.

What on earth were the drums rolled for? It looks to me as though the Hottentots were drummed out of camp.

Alas! their flight is vain――

I don’t believe there was a flight of the Hottentots. What authority[63] is there for the flight? What made them fly anyhow? Well, I must move on:

Behold![64] a thousand torches flash
Like meteors into view!
While swift the Pagans onward[65] dash
The bold dragoons[66] pursue!

That’s better. The Principal could not beat that, particularly the _Be_hold, and the s-w-i-f-t. Next comes the climax――a long respiration, and――and――

See![67] the captives pass a stream,
A rushing torrent[68] wild,
They cannot pass――

Now I object to this vague style of literature. The poet is silent as to how they reached it. With their hands, thus![69] or with their feet, thus![70] or on horseback, with a whoa![71] whoa! Dobbin? How am I to gesticulate correctly, not knowing the facts? I’ll do the poem to suit myself, and if I fail to win the prize, it will be through the stupidity of the judges, so there!

_Geo. M. Vickers._

GESTURES.
[51] Uncertain motions of hand.
[52] D. F.
[53] A. O.
[54] D. O.
[55] H. F.
[56] P. D. F.
[57] B. to imitate leaping.
[58] H. O.
[59] Index finger raised to listen.
[60] Turn finger round and look at it.
[61] Raise index finger of both hands.
[62] D. L.
[63] H. F.
[64] Left H. O.
[65] H. O.
[66] Left H. O.
[67] H. O.
[68] B. V. Par. H. O.
[69] Special.
[70] Run.
[71] H. F. B. draw back.

Crazy Nell.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and, looked
Out on the road that passed my window wide,
And saw a woman and a fair-haired child
That knelt and picked the daisies at the side.

The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,
And, laughing, held it high above its head;
A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,
And in that light a mother’s love I read.

She took the little hand, and both passed on;
The prattle of the child I still could hear,
Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,
That came in loving words upon my ear.

“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,
But yet had left the recollection of that scene――
The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt
And picked the daisies on the roadside green.

I looked. The old familiar road was there――
A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;
And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare
That fixed itself back where the daisies grew.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child
Run from the daisies with its gathered prize;
“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh
To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.

“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road
The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;
Caressing tones――not mixed with prattle now,
But full of loving words――I still could hear.

I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;
He told the story――all there was to tell:
A little mound the village churchyard bore;
And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.

――_Joseph Whitton._

Sir Rupert’s Wife.

You see where the cliffs frown yonder in a line of dingy red?――
That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known as Sir Rupert’s Head:
It’s five hundred feet and over from the brow to the sea below,
And it won its name in the winter, a hundred years ago.
There wasn’t a squire in Devon so famous as Rupert Leigh;
He was lord of the broad, rich acres, good-looking and fancy free.
He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two in his socks,
And once, for a drunken wager, with his fist he had felled an ox.

Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless line
Who had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and
wine.
He wasn’t so bad as they were――he was more of a hunting squire,
And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire.
His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch,
And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest well might flinch.
When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed it from base to crest,
For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs from a seagull’s nest.

One winter he went to London――he then was about forty-three;
His steward had told the parson he’d lawyers in town to see.
’Twas dull in the place without him, for his mansion was Liberty Hall;
There was always a warm, wet welcome for neighbors who chose to call.
He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing to no old friends,
But a Devonshire man in London news to the parson sends.
Sir Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting, mincing wench,
Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and
French.

She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time,
That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime.
She sang in a minor play-house――in opera, so they say――
And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay.
He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye,
So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by,
He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced
skill,
Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will.

They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome――
Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bringing his lady home.
The people about here liked him, and no warmth did their welcome lack,
But they looked askance at my lady, and she gave them their glances
back.
They hated her then directly, they chafed at her cold disdain,
And they gossiped her story over in language a bit too plain.
They called her a “stuck-up stroller,” and somehow the scandal grew,
Till my lady as “Polly Peachum” the whole of the country knew.

Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of the mocking tone,
And he quarreled with all his comrades until he was left alone――
Alone at the Hall with “Polly,” for the gentry had cut her dead,
But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he had stooped to wed.
To him she was just an angel who had come from the holy skies
That his heart might bask forever in the light of her lustrous eyes.
No wine, no cards, and no hunting: he kept at my lady’s side――
’Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a man with a year-won
bride.

She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted society-life――
She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert’s wife.
Sir Rupert must ask a party――not of bumpkins, but folks from the town;
He had plenty of friends in London; would he not ask them down?
They came, and the sound of laughter rang through the Hall once more,
And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore;
He had learned from an idle whisper――a whisper not meant for him――
A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart
limb.

He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth:
’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth,
A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum――
He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come.
Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too,
And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo;
He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing;
He said at the time he knew her――’twas a planned and plotted thing!

And now she was always with him, they chatted and laughed away;
She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert,――with him she was kind and gay.
She was weary of playing my lady, and of being Sir Rupert’s wife――
She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohemian life.
She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal tie――
Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the tempter whispered “Fly!”
One night their chairs were empty, and slowly the news leaked out:
Two horses were gone from the stable――’twas a settled thing, no doubt.

Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned to the gaping crew
And cried, “It’s a lie, I tell you!――who dares to say its true?”
Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted his fleetest mare
And made straight for the Red Cliff roadway――he guessed they had
gone by there,
For that was the way to London, from Exmouth the pair would post,
And the road they were bound to travel was the road by the rugged
coast.
If you look you will see it passes right over the headland’s brow――
Only a century distant it wasn’t as good as now.

He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up the fearful steep,
’Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the snow lay thick and
deep;
But the moon through the clouds had broken, and right on the Head
he spied
A horse that had slipped and fallen, and the rider by its side;
And over them bent a figure, but whose he could scarcely see,
Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife unharmed might be;
And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the slippery snow,
While the wild waves roared a warning five hundred feet below.

A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate,
But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland
straight.
They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned,
And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned.
Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice
reared,
And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she
feared.
For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cry
Went over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky.

For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared,
While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared;
Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf,
And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf.
And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge,
Something his eyes detected――a heap on a narrow ledge;
It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched
wife,
And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty
life.

He could see there were tiny juttings where his foot might find a
hold,
And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight in gold.
The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die,
But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he’d shoot him by-and-by
Then the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands,
And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands.
Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat,
And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet.

The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life,
But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife,
Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope,
Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her,
“Darling――hope!”
Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night,
He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height.
A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand,
And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand.

Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road!
There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless
load.
Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and
gushed;
And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were
crushed.
No trace of the lady’s gallant; he’d limped to a horse and flown:
Sir Rupert and “Polly Peachum” were there on the heights alone.
He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms,
And galloped across the country to one of his tenants’ farms.

For six long months my lady hovered ’twixt death and life――
’Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert’s wife――
And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed,
A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed.
But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they traveled from place to place,
And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face.
It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care:
And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair.

For many a year she lingered――’twas up at the Hall she died,
And here in the village churchyard they’re sleeping side by side.
She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love,
And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above.
There stands the great bluff headland――there swells the sea below――
And the story I’ve told you happened nigh a hundred years ago,
Yet there isn’t a soul that visits those towering crags of red
But thinks of the love and daring that hallowed “Sir Rupert’s Head.”

_George R. Sims._

Civilization.

AS DISCOVERED BY PROFESSOR PEEKWELL, SAMUEL SEARCHER AND PHILIP DEADLIGHT.

PROFESSOR.――Civilization is the science of discontent.

SEARCHER.――How do you make that out?

PROFESSOR.――Gentlemen, allow me to explain. In the first place, all that man requires on this terrestrial ball can be expressed in three words, namely: food, shelter and raiment.

SEARCHER.――How about a wife?

DEADLIGHT.――And segars?

PROFESSOR.――I use the term man as including the human race.

SEARCHER.――Well, go on.

DEADLIGHT.――I’m ashamed of you, Professor; would you have us go back to savage life?

PROFESSOR.――Yes, but only in fancy, for the purpose of illustration. Let us drop down on a remote island in the Indian Ocean. It is night-fall. The last rosy tints of sunset are fading from the western sky. The murmur of the distant surf mingles with the soft lullaby of the Indian mother who soothes her babe to sleep.

SEARCHER.――Why didn’t the goose use soothing syrup?

DEADLIGHT.――Or a cradle?

PROFESSOR.――Beneath a tall palm, circled about the embers of a dying fire, sit the tawny natives. They are listening to the words that fall from the lips of an aged chief. With rapture they hang upon the oft-told legend of the isle. In their hearts they wonder at the old man’s wisdom. As he dilates upon their by-gone deeds, and their present might, their eyes involuntarily wander toward the rich foliage that gently sways on yonder high hill top; now they glance at the bright stars that peep forth from the upper blue, and now at the dim ocean that stretches away on either hand like a desert waste. Contentment almost perfect sits on every brow. Each savage has his spear, his hut of twigs: thus the Great Creator hath set them to fulfill their mission; and yet the spear and hut are the initial steps in the march of civilization; only luxury lies beyond them; comparative luxury is the acme of civilization.

SEARCHER.――You’re a crank!

DEADLIGHT.――No, he’s a philosopher. Think of the blessings of savage life! No creditors to ring your door bell, and make you leap out of your chair with consternation.

SEARCHER.――That is a point.

DEADLIGHT.――Then there’s no fashion to ruin a man every time the seasons change. Look at that bonnet yonder! I’ll wager it cost thirty dollars.

SEARCHER.――And that dude’s coat, to say nothing of his monstrous collar.

PROFESSOR.――Hold on――――

DEADLIGHT.――And there’s no bank cashier to skip away with your limited balance.

PROFESSOR.――Hold on, I say. Civilization is good; it elevates mankind; but the higher our civilization the greater our wants; therefore civilization is the science of discontent.

SEARCHER.――Humph!

DEADLIGHT.――Ahem!

PROFESSOR.――We will now adjourn.

_Geo. M. Vickers._

Getting Ready.

CHARACTERS.

NICHOLAS NEVERSLIP, _a modern husband_. PATRICK DOLAN, _an Irish
lad_. MATILDA, _Neverslip’s wife_. MISS SPYALL, _a gossip_. BIDDY
CROGAN, _a domestic_.

SCENE:――_A drawing room. Time, evening. Table and two chairs, C. Nicholas discovered standing near L. E. with cane and gloves in his hands: he calls to his wife, who is supposed to be up stairs dressing for the opera._

NICHOLAS.――My dear, it is half-past seven; do hurry; I am sure we will be late.

MATILDA.――I am coming――be with you in one minute. Has Biddy fastened the back gate?

NICHOLAS (_aside_).――I know we’ll be late (_calls_), Biddy! (_crosses to R. E._)

BIDDY.――I’m here, sur. [_Enter Biddy R. E._] What do you want wid me, sur?

NICHOLAS.――Biddy, is the back gate fastened?

BIDDY.――I’ll see, sur, (_turns to go_).

NICHOLAS.――Biddy!

BIDDY.――Sur!

NICHOLAS.――Biddy, I am going to the opera; that is, we are, Mrs. Neverslip and myself.

MATILDA (_calls_).――Nicholas!

NICHOLAS.――Well, what’s the matter?

MATILDA.――Where did you lay my fan?

NICHOLAS.――I never touched your fan. (_looks at his watch._) It is twenty minutes to eight; I declare we will be late.

BIDDY (_aside_).――I wonder if he manes to keep me shtandin’ here all night?

NICHOLAS (_to Matilda_).――I am going!

MATILDA.――Here I come.

NICHOLAS.――It is time you were coming.

MATILDA.――Oh, dear!

NICHOLAS.――What’s the matter?

MATILDA.――Oh, you’ve hurried me so that I’ve gone and dressed without my fichu; I can never go without it.

NICHOLAS (_aside_).――Confound her fish-hook. (_aloud_) Snails and turtles! are you never coming?

BIDDY (_aside_).――I’m nather a gate post nur a clothes prop. (_aloud_) Mr. Neverslip, I’ll be goin’ to the kitchen; I lift the banes on the sthove; I think they’re burnin’. [_Exit Biddy R. E._]

NICHOLAS.――For mercy sake do come.

MATILDA (_singing_).――I am coming, darling, coming――――

NICHOLAS.――How provokingly cool you are.

[_Enter Matilda L. E._]

MATILDA.――Now, my dear, we’ll be off. [_Both start toward L. E._] Why, where’s your hat?

NICHOLAS (_feels his head_).――Good gracious! It is up stairs――Matilda, dear, will you get it for me?

MATILDA.――You cruel man――――(_knock heard from without._)

BOTH.――Horrors! Some one at the door!

NICHOLAS.――Biddy!

BIDDY.――Ay, sur! [_Enter Biddy R. E._]

NICHOLAS.――Biddy, we’re out.

BIDDY.――Yer what?

NICHOLAS.――We’re out; that is, we soon will be. We do not wish to see anyone――you comprehend?

BIDDY (_angrily_).――Don’t want to see anyone I comprehend! Sur, I’m an honest Irish girl, and I niver comprehended anybody. (_arms akimbo_) Niver!

[_Prolonged knock at the door._]

NICHOLAS.――Go to the door and say we’re out!

BIDDY (_aside_).――The man is surely out of his head.

[_Exit Biddy L. E._]

MATILDA.――Oh my! we’ll never get off.

NICHOLAS.――My dear it’s all your own fault.

MATILDA (_puts handkerchief to eyes_).――Dear, dear! Nicholas. Hark!

MISS SPYALL (_from without_).――Take this card to――――

BIDDY (_from without_).――They’re out, mum.

MISS SPYALL.――Then I’ll just step in a moment and write a line or two.

BIDDY.――But they’re out!

MATILDA.――Oh grief! It is that awful Spyall; good-bye opera to-night.

NICHOLAS.――We might as well give up now.

[_Enter Biddy L. E. walking backward followed by Miss Spyall._]

MISS SPYALL (_aside_).――Out of the street; ah! I understand! (_Extends hands to Nicholas and Matilda_)――(_aloud_) How delighted I am to see you! What! going out?

BIDDY.――Yis, out; they’re out――outward bound, I forgot part of the wurruds.

NICHOLAS.――Silence, Bridget!

MATILDA.――We need you no longer, Biddy.

BIDDY.――Indade, ye’ll give me two wakes’ notice. I’ll not lave now.

MATILDA.――I mean we do not need you here. You may go to the kitchen. Oh, bother! My hair is coming down. Biddy get me a hair-pin, quick!

[_Exit Biddy R. E._]

MISS SPYALL.――What a beautiful dress; is it all silk?

NICHOLAS.――Part muslin, Miss.

MATILDA.――Nicholas, you shock me.

NICHOLAS (_Pulls out watch and starts to go_).――Oh, oh, oh!

MISS SPYALL.――Going to church?

NICHOLAS.――No, not to church.

MISS SPYALL.――Oh, I see; the museum.

NICHOLAS.――We have an engagement.

MISS SPYALL.――A wedding? That’s it! I know. Who is it? Do tell me if it is Nancy Beadle? I thought she and John――――

MATILDA.――My husband and I are about going down town on important business, it is time we were there now.

MISS SPYALL.――Anything important? You know I can be trusted.

NICHOLAS.――Gone! gone! gone!

MISS SPYALL.――Hey?

MATILDA.――Miss Spyall, you will please excuse me this evening, we must go at once.

[_Enter Biddy R. E. with, clothes-pins in each hand._]

NICHOLAS (_pointing to watch_).――We’ve lost our seats. (_Matilda and Miss Spyall take seats._)

BIDDY (_to Nicholas_).――Niver moind me; still, I’ll bring two chairs from the dining-room if ye insist. (_To Matilda_) Here’s the puns, mum.

MATILDA.――Stupid girl, these are clothes-pins.

MISS SPYALL.――What a silly creature.

BIDDY (_aside_).――The spalpeen!

NICHOLAS.――Excuse me. I must get my hat. [_Exit L. E._]

MATILDA.――Oh, he’s a darling man!

MISS SPYALL.――Spe-len-did! (_A crash heard._)

MATILDA.――What have you done?

NICHOLAS (_groans_).――Broken my shins, smashed my hat and upset your toilet stand!

MATILDA.――You wretch-edly unfortunate man.

_Enter Nicholas L. E. limping with smashed hat in hand._]

MISS SPYALL.――I must be going.

MATILDA.――We are going to the opera.

NICHOLAS.――To hear the final chorus.

MISS SPYALL.――How delightful!

MATILDA.――Biddy, keep a sharp look out.

[_Exit all except Biddy L. E._]

BIDDY.――Yis, I’ll kape a sharp look out. I’ll first take a look at the back gate. Poor Pat’s been waitin’ at that same gate for a whole hour; faith he’s stharved wid the cold (_starts and listens_) Arrah, what’s that? Sure some one’s in the kitchen. I hear a brogan on the stairs――the saints protect me. [_Enter Pat R. E., looking around cautiously._] Oh, Pat Dolan! How dare ye frighten me loike that? How did ye enter the house?――What if the folks had been in?

PAT.――Whist, me darlin’; I saw them lave by the front door, and in the wink of an eye, its meself that lepped over the fince; I thried the back door, it was unlatched, and here I am, Biddy dear!

BIDDY.――Niver do the loikes of that again. You might be shot for a burglar or a dynamiter.

PAT. (_sitting at table_).――Niver fear, Biddy dear; go ye and bring a crust of bread and sup of――of something stronger than tay, if yer have it; sure I’ve room here for a loaf, and I’m thrimblin’ wid wakeness――――

BIDDY.――I’ll see what’s lift in the pantry. Be aisy till I come back. (_Starts to go._)

PAT.――Biddy!

BIDDY.――What, darlint? (_Pauses._)

PAT.――Do ye hear anything?

BIDDY.――Its the Niverslips! Run for your life!

PAT.――Be aisy; it’s me poor heart beatin’; and nothin’ more. It always bates whin I see that face.

BIDDY (_Looks over her shoulder_).――What face? I see no face!

PAT.――Don’t be a greenhorn. I mane your own lovely countenance.