Chapter VI: Act II (2)

Don’t say that the harvest failed us,――
“Under average,” “short,” or “light;”
Don’t say that the Bounteous Giver
Gave not as you think he might.

God is bountiful, and giveth
As becomes the Godhead’s hand;
Food for man and beast providing,
Scattering plenty o’er the land.
Man himself, the food destroyer,
Spurns and wastes the bounties given;
Turns to famine God’s abundance,
Robs his brothers, blasphemes heaven.

Don’t say that _this_ is fearful,
Killing men and burning corn;
War is raging here among us,
Day and night, and eve and morn.
Noiselessly and never ending,
In a quiet, legal way,
Murdering, starving, scourging, blasting,
All the year and every day!

Take your grain in million quarters,
Sink it in the lonely main,
There to feed the gaping fishes,
Never to be seen again;
Hide it in earth’s drearest caverns,
Burn it in the mid-day sun:――
That were mercy, that were worship,
When compared with what is done,――
Taking bread from hungry children,
And from starving, weeping wives;
Turning it to direst poison;
Demonizing human nature,
Dwarfing it in moral stature,
Blotting out each God-like feature,
Shortening, tort’ring human lives!

We say, something must be done;
Government must interfere,――
Take the “short and simple method;”
Stop the whisky, stop the beer!

You can stop them if you will.
’Tis a small thing, will you do it?
’Tis your country calls you to it;
Stop the traffic――shut the still.

――_Temperance Speaker._

Wanted――A Wife.

I do wish somebody would tell me how to get a wife. For the last ten years I’ve been continually proposing, at all sorts of times, in all sorts of places, to all sorts of girls, and in all sorts of positions. I have knelt in the clear moonlight, while the soft zephyrs of June fanned my heated brow, and with my hands on my heart made the most passionate appeal romantic maiden could desire. I have proposed in the giddy mazes of the waltz; I have besought a fair girl to be mine while skating, reminding her at the time that the path of life was far too slippery to be trodden alone; I have popped the question on the stairs, and in fact everywhere I could; the last time being in the surf at Long Branch, where I begged the object of my affections to let us breast the waves of life together.

But it’s of no earthly use! No one will have me except some superannuated female, and I’m not partial to aged charmers, though, goodness knows, I want a wife almost bad enough to take one. I’ve hardly a button on any of my shirts, or other undergarments, and am consequently obliged to fasten them with pins, (which occasionally prick me at most inconvenient times). My toes are poking out of my socks, and my fingers out of my gloves, while to crown all, I, who am a great lover of cleanliness, am forced to sit in a horribly dirty room. I have changed my boarding house ever so many times, but it does’nt make a particle of difference. My landlady always says it isn’t her business to “clean up” after me; the servants invariably remark that its no business of theirs, and I’m sure nobody can say that I ought to get a broom and dustpan and keep my own room clean.

My washerwoman is everlastingly cheating me, besides continually suppressing various articles of clothing; and when I mildly inquire where they have gone to, she solemnly swears she never had them; though I could swear equally solemnly that she had. Then she cuts the pearl buttons off my shirts, and declares they came off in “the wash;” and if I venture timidly to suggest that she should put them on again, she thanks God that all the gentlemen are not as mean as I am.

Oh, dear! It’s very hard upon a poor fellow not to be able to get a wife when he wants one! I’m not so very bad looking either; to be sure I squint a little, but then that peculiarity is sometimes admired, and if it were not, surely some kind-hearted girl might shut her eyes to the fact and confer upon me the inestimable benefit of becoming my partner for life. I’m not bad-tempered, and don’t drink nor smoke. I’m only thirty, and though I now belong to a club, I’ll promise to give it up if required. I possess enough money to keep a wife comfortably; have a good disposition; and what more could a girl ask. If, after trying six months longer, I cannot induce any girl to have me, I will emigrate to some tropical climate where clothes are almost superfluous, and washerwomen unknown, and consequently where a wife will not be one of the absolute necessities of civilized life.

Back to Griggsby’s.

Pap’s got his patent-right, and rich as all creation;
But where’s the peace and comfort that we all had before?
Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s station――
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

The like of us a-livin’ here! It’s jest a mortal pity
To see us in this great, big house, with carpets on the stairs,
And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city! city!
And nothin’ but the city all around us everywheres!

Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple,
And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree!
And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan’ people,
And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see!

Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s station――
Back where the latch-string’s a-hangin’ from the door;
And every neighbor round the place is dear as a relation――
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin’
A-drivin’ up from Shallow Ford to stay the Sunday through;
And I want to see them hitchin’ at their son-in-law’s and pilin’
Out there at Lizy Ellen’s, like they used to do!

I want to see the piece quilts the Jones girls is makin’,
And I want to pester Laury ’bout their freckled hired hand,
And joke her ’bout the widower she come purt’ nigh a-takin’,
Till her pap got his pension ’lowed in time to save his land.

Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s station――
Back where there’s nothin’ aggervatin’ anymore,
Shet away safe in the wood around the old location――
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see Mirandy and help her with her sewin’,
And hear her talk so lovin’ of her man that’s dead and gone
And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he’s growin’,
And smile as I have saw her, ’fore she put her mournin’ on.

And I want to see the Samples on the old lower Eighty――
Where John, our oldest boy, he was took and buried, for
His own sake and Katy’s――and I want to cry with Katy
As she reads all his letters over, writ from the war.

What’s in all this grand life and high situation,
And nary pink nor hollyhawk bloomin’ at the door――
Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s Station――
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

――_J. W. Riley._

The Old Spinster.

No, she never was married, but was to have been――
At the time she was running the loom――
But the fact’ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred,
And her lover was never her groom,
As he wedded a handsomer girl.

To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed,
For her features were grim and distorted;
Tho’ in years long gone by she was lovely and fair,
As the hopes of her life that were thwarted
By the dreadful mishap in the mill.

But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore,
Beat a heart that was loving and tender――
As the villagers knew――and man, woman or child
’Gainst the merest rude speech would defend her
So well was the poor woman loved.

And right many’s the maid, who, bewailing her woe,
Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her,
Only soon to trip on with a happier look,
While the silly goose inwardly blessed her,
For her comforting words and advice.

Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud,
Afraid to go home――perhaps crying――
But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains,
And they laughed while their garments were drying,
In the yard at the back of her cot.

When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl,
And the rustling of leaves were unheeded,
In the room of the sick, by the flickering light
Was she seen, where her presence was needed,
While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall.

And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust,
Ere they went on their wearisome ways,
Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate,
Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days,
And who reckoned them not by their rags.

But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,――
Save to Jesus――the friend of the lowly――
Bore her down――and the sands of her desolate life,
Which for years had been ebbing out slowly,
Ceased to run――and her spirit was freed.

When the villagers stood at the side of her grave,
When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered,
When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men――
Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unaltered
As when happy she worked in the mill.

And oft where she lies a bent form can be seen
When the twilight is deep’ning its shadows:
And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb,
All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows;
Yet who gathers them no one can tell.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

A String of Broken Beads; or, Jingles from Favorite Authors.

Oh, with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And bless him that the land was free. ’Twas free――
From end to end, from cliff to lake, ’twas free!
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plow our valleys, without asking leave!
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the Light Brigade.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,
All a gwine into the ark.

And there was the elephant-ah, that g-r-e-a-t animal-ah of which Goldsmith describes in his Animated Nater-ah, which is as big as a house-ah, and his bones as big as a tree-ah, depending somewhat upon the size of the tree-ah; and there was Shem, and there was Ham, and there was Japhet-ah, a-l-l a-gwine into the show-room.

The auctioneer then in his labor began;
And called out aloud as he held up a man,
How much for a bachelor, who wants to buy?
In a twinkling each maiden responded, “I――I!”
In short, at a hugely extravagant price,
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice,
And forty old maidens――some younger, some older――
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.
But scarce had the honeymoon passed o’er their heads,
When one morning to Zantippe, Socrates said,
“I think for a man of my standing in life,
This house is too small as I now have a wife:
So without further delay Carpenter Cary
Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy.”
“Now, Socrates, dearest,” Zantippe replied,
“I hate to hear everything vulgarly my’d;
Now, whenever you speak of your chattles again,
Say _our_ cowhouse, _our_ barn-yard; _our_ pig-pen.”
“By your leave Mrs. Snooks, I’ll say what I please
Of _my_ houses, _my_ lands, _my_ gardens, _my_ trees.”
Then he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the fields alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court the Bugle Song.
Oh, love, they die in yon fair sky,
They faint on field, and hill, and river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Answer, echoes, answer.
Hark! how the sign-board creaks! the blast howls by!
Moan! moan! a dirge swells through the angry sky!
Ha! tis his knock! he comes, he comes once more――
Ha, ha! Take that! and that! and that!
Ha, ha! So, through your coward throat
The full day shines!... Two fox tails float
And drift and drive adown the stream;

Therefore, my bruddren, if you’s a-gwine to git saved, you’s got to git aboard de Ship of Faith. Dere ain’t no udder way my bruddren. Dere ain’t no gitting up de back stairs, nor goin’ ’cross lots, you’s got to git aboard de Ship of Faith, for

Me thought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house,
Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore,
Cawdor shall sleep no more!
Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor,
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “Thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath
sent thee
Respite――respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven――Good night.

――_Arranged by F. Lizzie Peirce._

The Legend of Wissahickon.

While yet the Pale-face ne’er had peeped
Within that tranquil vale,――where steeped
In sombre, fir-clothed heights,[336] and bound
On either side[337] with moss-grown ground
And craggy cliff,[338] a goodly stream,[339]
With many a rippling noontide gleam,
Nor ceased her daily tithes to pay
To good Queen Ocean[340] far away――
Deep sheltered from the hostile world
The smoke from many a tent up-curled,
Where, round the wigwam fire, red dames
Talked o’er their tawny lords’ brave names,
While they, with feathered death and bow
And trackless step, now quick, now slow,
Gave chase, in neighboring hills,[341] the game,
There pasturing heedless, till death came
In one fell dart. Life surely here――
With naught but Manitou[342] to fear――
Seemed sweet to those blest sons of men;
Yet it did find its cares e’en then,
For lo![343] at last there came a day
Of sorrow and of dread dismay,
When from a lowering cloud that spread[344]
Across the summer blue o’erhead,
Their God-chiefs awful voice was heard,
As like the thunder rolled each word:

“My children, I am called away
Where other souls my presence pray,
But ere I leave ye I must ask
One boon of all,――a simple task
’Twill be to those whose faith hath borne
The tests of fiery stake or thorn.
Yet some I know among ye, who
Will find it hard to sin eschew
When left alone, and all must know,
An evil spirit dwells below
These rocks, and ever guards his chance
To tempt ye, with his fiendish dance
And wicked ways, to but forsake
My laws for aught that he may make;
Lo, should he rise when I am gone,
Let no temptation lead ye on
To overstep the bounds here set
About your hunting grounds, nor let
Aught of shape, however fair
And good it seems, entice ye where
My word hath said ye nay.”

Thus said,
The cloudy spirit, then vanished
Into the air from whence it grew;
And now a wild commotion[345] flew
Throughout the warriors gathered there;
And wondered all how soon, and where,
This new-brought ill its face should show,
To tempt their Eve-like hearts; when lo!
Ere two short days had dragged away,
Within a distant wood,[346] where lay
Soft twilight[347] ever ’mong the trees,
Strange music stirred, and on the breeze
Of evening came wild shouts of mirth,[348]
That seemed to wake the very earth,[349]
So boisterous were they, and, alas!
The youths could not a moment pass
Till they with stealthy steps were brought
Close to that God-forbidden spot;
And there, as o’er a lofty brow
That hemmed the darksome glade, they now
Did creep,[350] behold! a wondrous sight,[351]
Such as their soul’s most fancied flight
Had ne’er conceived of, met their eyes,
Even like some glimpse of paradise:
A Pale-face spirit,[352] lank and grim,
With horns and claws that gave to him
A weird, unearthly look, sat high
Upon a rock that towered nigh;
And while below[353] fair damsels played
Wild antics through the woodland shade,
He to loud fits of mirth gave vent,
As near the maidens came and went,
And cast before him laurels wreathed
In crowns; then――ere the watchers breathed,
Lest they should be discovered there――
Lo! quick as lightning ’thwart the air,
The fiendish god turned full to view,
And ere the astonished gazers knew,
Close by their side[354] with devilish smile
He stood, and thus addressed them,[355] while
With spell-bound gaze――their eyes made dim
With fascination――now from him
From whom they had no power to go,
Did wander to the scene below,[356]
Where still,――though now the sun had gone――
To music soft, the dance went on:――

“Would’st thou, oh man, to pleasure blind,
Seeking a gift thou ne’er shalt find,
Led by a promise far astray[357]
Along that hard and narrow way,
Would’st thou no more sad anguish know,
Nor lose the chase with feeble bow?
Would’st thou be free,[358] and tread once more
The grounds your fathers roamed of yore?
Wouldst thou find game in every copse
And stream,[359] and gather plenteous crops
In autumn, yet know naught of care
Nor labor, but with damsels fair[360]
And waxen, pass life’s endless days
Along my smooth and flower-girt ways?
Would’st thou, in fine, the height of bliss[361]
Attain? I offer[362] ye all this,
And more; come, follow me.”

He ceased,
And like some semi-human beast,
His blood-cast eye the crowd scanned o’er,
Where some, entranced, could hear no more,
But, weak of heart, with outstretched hand,
Forgetting quite their God’s command
Of yester morn, were quickly led
Adown the cliff[363] with dizzy head
And burning brain, and those, alas!
From mortal view for aye did pass;

But some there were who still delayed,
Not resolute and half afraid
To follow; lingering there they stood
Till lo! the dawn[364] crept through the wood;
And on its gentle face, behold![365]
A strange-shaped cloud, fringed round[366] with gold,
Came darkly flitting through the sky,
Till seemingly it had drawn nigh
Above[367] that gathering in the vale.
Then quick the subtle fiend turned pale,
As from the frowning mists o’erhead
A mighty voice and angry said:――

“Depart, ye tempter of the night!
Hence! Dare ye show your face in light?
Did I not bid thee well beware
Lest thou shouldst fall in thine own snare?”
The spirit fled,[368] but scarce had left
His seat, when some great earthquake cleft
The rock beneath his feet in twain,
And deep he plunged[369] between. In vain
He strove to rise again, for quick
The waters from a hillside creek[370]
O’erran that pool,[371] that marks to-day
The spot where Satan passed away.
Then kindly smiled the Manitou
On those around, and said:――

“To you
My children, who have yet withstood
The things of evil for the good;
To you whose faith has ne’er been turned
Astray by sin, well have ye earned
The joys foretold; so now go forth;
The boundless woods from south to north,
From east to west, are yours to roam
For aye, till I shall call ye home.”

――_John L. Cooper._

GESTURES.
[336] A. O.
[337] B. H. O.
[338] A. O.
[339] D. F.
[340] Left. H. L.
[341] H. O.
[342] Ind. fin. A. O.
[343] Raise hand.
[344] V. A. O.
[345] B. H. L.
[346] H. F.
[347] P. H. F.
[348] H. F.
[349] D. F.
[350] P. D. F.
[351] B. H. O.
[352] Left. A. F.
[353] D. F.
[354] Left. H. L.
[355] Look to left.
[356] D. F.
[356] Speak to H. O.
[357] H. O.
[358] B. H. O.
[359] Left. H. O.
[360] D. F.
[361] Ind. fin. A. O.
[362] B. O. H.
[363] D. F.
[364] H. L.
[365] A. L.
[366] A. Sw.
[367] A. F.
[368] Left. H. O.
[369] Left. D. O.
[370] Left. H. L.
[371] Left. D. O.]

A New Mother.

I was with my lady when she died:
I it was who guided her weak hand,
For a blessing on each little head,
And laid her baby by her on the bed,
Heard the words they could not understand.

And I drew them round my knee at night,
Hushed their childish glee, and made them say,

They would keep her words with loving tears,
They would not forget her dying fears,
Lest the thought of her should fade away.

I, who guess’d what her last dread had been,
Made a promise to that still, cold face,
That her children’s hearts, at any cost,
Should be with the mother they had lost,
When a stranger came to take her place.

And I knew so much: for I had lived
With my lady since her childhood: known
What her young and happy days had been,
And the grief no other eyes had seen――
I had watch’d and sorrow’d for alone.

Ah! she once had such a happy smile!
I had known how sorely she was tried:
Six short years before, her eyes were bright
As her little blue-eyed May’s that night,
When she stood by her dead mother’s side.

No――I will not say he was unkind;
But she had been used to love and praise.
He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth,
Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth
Into all his stern and serious ways.

She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,
First in pride and honor as in grace――
She, whose will had once ruled all around,
Queen and darling of us all――she found
Change enough in that cold, stately place.

Yet she would not blame him, even to me,
Though she often sat and wept alone;
But she could not hide it near her death,
When she said with her last struggling breath,
“Let my babies still remain my own!”

I it was who drew the sheet aside,
When he saw his dead wife’s face. That test
Seem’d to strike right to his heart. He said,
In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,
“God knows, love, I did it for the best!”

And he wept――O yes, I will be just――
When I brought the children to him there,
Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;
And he sooth’d them with his fond replies
Bidding me give double love and care.

Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake:
Little Arthur, with his serious air;
May, with all her mother’s pretty ways,
Blushing, and at any word of praise
Shaking out her sunny golden hair.

And the little one of all――poor child!
She had cost that dear and precious life.
Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name,
When the baby’s gloomy christening came,
And he call’d her “Olga――like my wife.”

Save that time he never spoke of her.
He grew graver, sterner every day:
And the children felt it, for they dropp’d
Low their voices, and their laughter stopp’d
While he stood and watch’d them at their play.

No, he never nam’d their mother’s name.
But I told them of her: told them all
She had been, so gentle, good and bright;
And I always took them every night
Where her picture hung in the great hall.

There she stood: white daisy’s in her hand,
And her red lips parted as to speak
With a smile; the blue and sunny air
Seem’d to stir her floating golden hair,
And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.

Well, so time pass’d on; a year was gone,
And Sir Arthur had been much away,
When the news came! I shed many tears
When I saw the truth of all my fears
Rise before me on that bitter day.

Any one but her I could have borne!
But my lady lov’d her as her friend,
Through their childhood and their early youth,
How she used to count upon the truth
Of this friendship that would never end!

Older, graver than my lady was,
Whose young, gentle heart on her relied,
She would give advice, and praise, and blame,
And my lady lean on Margaret’s name,
As her dearest comfort, help and guide.

I had never liked her, and I think
That my lady grew to doubt her too
Since her marriage; for she named her less,
Never saw her, and I used to guess
At some secret wrong that I never knew.

That might be or not. But now, to hear
She would come and reign here in her stead,
With the pomp and splendor of a bride:
Would no thought reproach her in her pride
With the silent memory of the dead?

Lo the day came, and the bells rang out,
And I laid the children’s black aside;
And I held each little trembling hand,
As I strove to make them understand,
They must greet their father’s new-made bride.

Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,
And his lady’s eyes might well grow dim,
When the children shrank in fear away,――
Little Arthur hid his face, and May
Would not raise her eyes, or speak to him.

When Sir Arthur bade them greet “their mother,”
I was forced to chide, yet proud to hear
How my little loving May replied,
With her mother’s pretty air of pride,――
“Our dear mother has been dead a year!”

Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast,
As she kiss’d them, and then turned away.
She might strive to smile or to forget,
But I think some shadow of regret
Must have risen to blight her wedding-day.

She had some strange touch of self-reproach;
For she used to linger day by day
By the nursery door or garden gate
With a sad, calm, wistful look, and wait
Watching the children at their play.

But they always shrank away from her
When she strove to comfort their alarms,
And their grave, cold silence to beguile:
Even little Olga’s baby smile
Quiver’d into tears when in her arms.

I never could chide them; for I saw
How their mother’s memory grew more deep
In their hearts. Each night I had to tell
Stories of her whom I loved so well
When a child, to send them off to sleep.

But Sir Arthur――O, this was too hard!――
He who had been always stern and sad
In my lady’s time, seem’d to rejoice
Each day more; and I could hear his voice
Even, sounding younger and more glad.

He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wife
Never failed to take the children’s part.
She would stay him with her pleading tone,
Saying she would strive, and strive alone,
Till she gained each little wayward heart.

And she strove indeed, and seem’d to be
Always waiting for their love, in vain;
Yet when May had most their mother’s look,
Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shook
With some memory of reproachful pain.

Little May would never call her mother:
So one day, the lady bending low,
Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said,
“Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,――
Your dear mother used to call me so.”

She was gentle, kind, and patient too,
Yet in vain: the children held apart.
Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dwelt
Near them, and her little orphans felt
She had the first claim upon their hearts.

So three years pass’d; then the war broke out;
And a rumor seemed to spread and rise;
First we guess’d what sorrow must befall,
Then all doubt fled, for we read it all
In the depths of her despairing eyes.

Yes; Sir Arthur had been called away
To that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,
Now he seemed to know with double pain
The cold, bitter gulf that must remain
To divide his children from his wife.

Nearer came the day he was to sail,
Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,
When one night, the children at my knee,
Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,
I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.

There he waited till their low “Amen;”
Stopp’d their rosy lips raised for “good night!”
Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,
As he bade them stay with him, and hear
Something that would make his heart more light.

Little Olga crept into his arms;
Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May
Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes
Lifted up in patient, calm surprise――
I can almost hear his words to-day.

“Years ago, my children, years ago,
When your mother was a child, she came
From her northern home, and here she met
Love for love, and comfort for regret,
In one early friend,――you know her name.

“And this friend――a few years older――gave
Such fond care, such love, that day by day
The new home grew happy, joy complete,
Studies easier, and play more sweet,
While all childish sorrows pass’d away.

“And your mother――fragile, like my May――
Leant on this deep love,――nor leant in vain.
For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)
Gave the sweet and took the bitter part,
Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.

“Years pass’d on, and then I saw them first:
It was hard to say which was most fair,
Your mother’s bright and blushing face,
Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;
Golden locks, or braided raven hair.

“Then it happen’d by a strange, sad fate,
One thought entered into each young soul:
Joy for one――if for the other pain;
Loss for one,――if for the other gain,
One must lose, and one possess the whole.

“And so this――this――what they car’d for――came
And belong’d to Margaret: was her own.
But she laid the gift aside, would take
Pain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,
And none knew it but herself alone.

“Then she travell’d far away, and none
The strange mystery of her absence knew,
Margaret’s secret thought was never told:
Even your mother thought her changed and cold,
And for many years I thought so too.

“She was gone; and then your mother took
That poor gift which Margaret cast aside:
Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not――
What it was had better be forgot;
It was just then she became my bride.

“Margaret is my dear and honored wife,
And I hold her so. But she can claim
From your hearts dear ones, a loving debt
I can neither pay, nor yet forget:
You can give it in your mother’s name.”

Next day was farewell――a day of tears;
Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away,
And turned back to see his lady stand
With the children clinging to her hand,
Look’d as if it were a happy day.

Ah, they lov’d her soon! The little one
Crept into her arms as to a nest;
Arthur always with her now; and May
Growing nearer to her every day:――
Well, I loved my own dear lady best.

――_Adelaide Proctor._

Richard Dingle’s Speech.

I am Master Richard Dingle,
Tho’ my comrades call me Dick,
And I have a purpose single,
Which I’ll mention very quick.

Every day I get a lecture
For behaving very wrong;
And with wise looks some conjecture
That I’ll never get along.

But what’s past my mind’s construing
Is, that all these busy elves
Scold and thrash poor me for doing
What they daily do themselves!

Master Meekly says ’tis fearful,
To be crushing harmless flies,
Yet can he, with gun, quite cheerful
Seek the bird that bleeding lies.

Others say: “Look here, Dick Dingle,
Love of gold is vain and vile.”
Yet when they detect its jingle,
Why, somehow they always smile.

Doctor Blacktooth says tobacco
Is not even fit for brutes,
Yet to make his teeth still blacker
Smokes the rankest of cheroots!

Now it seems to me the purest
Seldom scold us when they teach,
For they know the way that’s surest
Is to practice what they preach!

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Word Pictures.

In fulfillment of our promise in a former number, we will now endeavor to give a few ideas upon the important subject of “suiting the action to the word.” Gestures are of two kinds, curved and straight, or emphatic and descriptive.

In the preparation for emphatic gestures the hand should be brought up on the oblique to different degrees of elevation, depending upon the force of emphasis, and then given a stroke on whatever line the sense requires.

Descriptive gestures require the curved preparation, _i. e._, the hand is brought in front of the body in the direction of the opposite shoulder, and then a graceful sweep is made in the line desired.

In the preparation of a selection for recitation, the first requisite is to lay out your picture, and locate every object that is mentioned; let it be firmly set in your mind so that you will not change the position of any portion of the scene during the course of the recitation.

A very fine piece for practice upon this is the “Ballad of Breakneck,” in the present number. Suppose you turn to it and imagine yourself to be standing upon the banks of the Hudson, in a position commanding the view down the river; by examining the marked gestures you will be able to locate the entire scene. In the delivery of a piece, always try to see with your mind’s eye what you are describing to your audience, and if the object is supposed to be in sight, let the eye follow the gesture; this, however, should be avoided in emphatic GESTURES, or where the thing described is supposed to be hidden from view.

The following rules will serve as a guide in deciding the directions that gestures should take:

_Front_ gestures express unity, personality, direct address, and forward motion; also refer to the future.

_Oblique_ gestures express plurality, general assertion, and are used in addressing numbers.

_Lateral_ gestures express vastness in time, numbers, space or idea; also casting away, and negation.

_Backward_ gestures express remoteness in time or space.

_Descending_ gestures pertain to the will, express determination and emphasis.

_Horizontal_ gestures pertain to the intellect, and are used in argument and address.

_Ascending_ gestures pertain to the imagination, and express exultation.

――_F. Lizzie Peirce._

The Meeting at Wendletown.

’Twas early in the winter when first the talk began
About the rights of women and the cruelty of man,
Sech talk was new in Wendeltown, it scared us all to hear
How ignorant we women was about our proper speer;
And how we’d toiled and pinched and saved, and nothing better knew,
While our husbands did the thinking and held the pursestrings too.

Miss Harper come and tell us this――a lecturer――you know.
Law me! how beautiful she talked; her words jest seemed to flow
As smooth and easy as the brook――she looked and moved so quiet;
But she fairly shook old Wendletown, she raised up sech a riot;
And when I heerd her tell about us women’s “wasted years,”
Although I’m old and tough, you’d think, I couldn’t keep from tears.

Soon all the wives and mothers too, began to see quite plain
That jest to bake and churn and mend was laboring in vain:
While Mrs. Cap’n Brown she come and sez, sez she to me,
“I’m going to have a high career,” whatever that may be.

But Miss Harper hed to leave us, so she advertised one day
That she’d lecture in the school-house once before she went away.
Well, the room was packed that evening and Miss Harper did her best,
Her gift of speech was wonderful,――that all the men confessed――
She soared, way up into the clouds, and back to earth again,
And showed us most convincin’ly the worthlessness of men!

Her speech was drawing to a close, and she was jest a saying:
“Dear sisters, spurn your tyrant, man, and scorn the part he’s
playing;
Let _him_ perform the menial tasks he’s set for you so long,
While _you_ stand on the mountain tops, rejoicing free and strong!”

Joe Hale was setting close at hand, right in the foremost row,
And on his knees his little child, ’bout two year old or so:
Joe was a poor, lone widower, his wife was dead and gone,
His home was near the school-house, and I ’spose he felt forlorn,
So he’d come and brought the baby, though the reason why I knew――
His hired girl had slipped away to hear the lecture too.
And jest that very minute, when the room was still as death,
And you might have heerd a pin drop as Miss Harper stopped for breath,

That little toddling thing slid from off her father’s knee,
Crept close up to the lecturer’s desk and said: “Does ’ou love me?”
Poor Joe jest turned a fiery red, and tried to snatch the child;
But Miss Harper she leaned over and looked at him and smiled;
Then dropping all her papers, in the twinkling of an eye,
She clasped the little one, who gave a wondering, happy cry,
And laid her little curly head right down upon her breast,
With both arms clinging round her neck, as if she’d found her rest!

It’s as fresh now as a picter, though it happened months ago,
How she held that little baby girl a whispering soft and low;
Her eyes as bright and smiles a-coming and a-going,
While all the sound that you could hear was jest the child a-crowing.

Up to this time astonishment had kept the folks all still;
But some one shouted out――“Three cheers and give ’em with a will!
It’s plain enough Miss Harper has found _her_ proper speer,
And man, the tyrant’s conquered! Now boys a rousing cheer!”

That meeting broke up in a tumult, but Joe was waiting there;
He’s a manly, handsome fellow, and when I saw the pair
Go walking off together, I sez, sez I, “It needs no witch to tell
What’s coming next.” And warn’t I right? Folks laughed and talked a
spell,
But we all danced at the wedding! Law! how she settled down!
There ain’t no better housewife than Mrs. Hale in all this town.

Petruchio’s Widow.

A SHAKESPERIAN TRAVESTY

IN ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

MR. ROMEO MONTAGUE, _an unlucky suitor_. MR. MOSES SHYLOCK, _a
pawnbroker_. MRS. KATE PETRUCHIO, _a dashing widow_. MISS HELENA,
_an affectionate spinster_. MRS. DESDEMONA OTHELLO, _an unhappy
neighbor_. MRS. JESSICA LORENZO, _an ungrateful daughter_.

SCENE:――_A parlor; door pract. C. flat; window L. flat, open; table beneath window; rocking chair R. C.; chairs at wings; Mrs. Petruchio discovered standing in door._

MRS. PET.――’Tis a good thing that Jessica has finished dusting this parlor; no nonsense will I tolerate from man, woman, or child within this domicile. (_Enters and throws herself in rocking chair._) Petruchio ran affairs while living; but, in his demise――poor fellow――I re-inherited the freedom of my tongue. (_Calls_) Jessica!

JESSICA (_from without_).――I am here; please wait; don’t scold; here I am. (_Enters L._) Your pleasure, madam.

MRS. PET.――Have you washed the front steps, scrubbed the pavement and wrung out the clothes that were wet by the rain?

JESSICA.――Alas! all these, and more, have I done. I have picked the beans, mixed the batter for muffins, put the mackerel in soak for breakfast, and――――

MRS. PET.――Enough! Why thus parade before my fancy’s eye the coarse details of cookery. I tell you ’tis scarce an hour since I ate――the subject is distasteful.

JESSICA.――But, madam, you asked me what――――

MRS. PET. (_stamps foot_).――Silence!

JESSICA.――You are dreadfully cross. When I came to you and told you the story of my life, how I eloped with poor, dear Lorenzo, who was all a woman could ask, while the money I took from father lasted――――

MRS. PET.――And who hastily departed simultaneously with the last ducat――――

JESSICA.――Do not wound my spirit. I repeat, you promised to give me shelter, to shield me, treat me kindly――――

MRS. PET.――Shut up! move! Lorenzo, you say, has gone to Padua to seek a position as pen-wiper to Ballario; believe it not; he is in Venice suing for a divorce before the Duke. Unhappy woman, move!

JESSICA (_aside_).――As Jessica Shylock I was envied as a rich man’s child; as Jessica Lorenzo I am――――

MRS. PET.――What’s the use of whining; you will never see Lorenzo more.

JESSICA.――

There is a tide in the affairs of men――
If men, then women, too――
Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures!

I leave for Venice this very night!

MRS. PET.――Away to the kitchen and put on the beans!

JESSICA (_looks off L_).

MRS. PET.――

Alas! how is it with you,
That you do bend your eye on vacancy
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep!

JESSICA (_points L_).――T. O. M.

MRS. PET.――T. O. M.? Tom who?

JESSICA.――No, no! The――old――man; my father, Moses Shylock, is creeping up the gravel path. Hide me! Do not betray me!

MRS. PET.――

Though all the world should crack their duty,
And throw it from their soul; though perils did
Abound as thick as thought could make them, and
Appear in forms more horrid; yet would I
Be true; yea, true as truth itself,
And stand unshaken yours,――

Away to the kitchen and you are safe!

JESSICA.――I love my father, but I fear his righteous rage.

MRS. PET.――Stay, then; confess and ask his pardon.

JESSICA (_Shakes head sadly and exits R_).

MRS. PET.――

What! gone without a word?
Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

[_Enter_ SHYLOCK, _door F_.]

MRS. PET.――How now, Shylock? What news among the merchants? What will you loan upon my ulster?

SHYLOCK.――Take it to my brother Solomon, on the Rialto; he’ll give you liberally and charge you naught for camphor.

MRS. PET.――Have you heard from your daughter, and your son-in-law, Lorenzo, lately?

SHYLOCK.――No, no; not I. All hope to find her long hath fled. One-half the jewels that she took no doubt Lorenzo pawned; and yet the thankless knave sent me not e’en a ticket to redeem the goods!

MRS. PET.――’Tis said, for satisfaction’s sake, you now refuse to grant renewal of your loans, e’en though the interest thereon be paid; ay, that Antonio, the poor butcher, will lose the meats that now are forfeit. Why take his venison? Wilt answer, Shylock?

SHYLOCK.――

I hate him, for he is a Christian;
But more, for that, in low simplicity,
He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe
If I forgive him.

MRS. PET.――If I were his wife you would not thus berate the man. If Petruchio could speak, he’d say so too.

SHYLOCK.――I seek my truant child; I heard she lived, not long since, hereabouts.

MRS. PET.――Excuse me, Mr. Shylock, call again.

SHYLOCK.――Have you any old garments to sell?

MRS. PET.――Leave, and call again; two neighbors now approach who may mistake the object of your visit. Go! Leave by the side door.

SHYLOCK.――

O father Abraham, what these Christians are,
Whose own hard dealings teach them to suspect
The thoughts of others! Adieu! [_Exit L._]

MRS. PET (_looking L_).――O, you miserly old money-grabber, if you think I will tell on poor Jessica, you know but little of Kate Petruchio! Go! go! go! you old parent, you stingy father, and con over your collaterals of watches, fiddles, bibles and pistols!

[_Enter_ MISS HELENA _and_ MRS. OTHELLO, _door F.;
they pause and observe_ MRS. PETRUCHIO.]

If I was your wife wouldn’t I take the kinks out of those grizzly locks, though!

MRS. OTHELLO (_to_ HELENA).――What should this mean?

HELENA.――O what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!

MRS. PET.――Ah, ladies, kind, sweet neighbors, how glad I am to see you here!

MRS. OTHELLO.――Do you have any pain here? (_Touches head_).

HELENA.――Is not the plumb-bob of your mental plumb-line out of plumb?

MRS. PET.――

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.
My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful music: It is not madness
That I have uttered: bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word, which madness
Would gambol from.

Saw you not that animated gaberdine descend my garden path?

MRS. OTHELLO.――You do not mean our mutual uncle, Moses Shylock; from whom, however, I never borrow.

HELENA.――Nor I.

MRS. PETRUCHIO.――Do you mean to insinuate that I presume upon his kinship to obtain loans?

MRS. OTHELLO.――What have I done that thou dar’st wag thy tongue in noise so rude against me?

HELENA.――Hist! he comes!

MRS. PETRUCHIO.――Who comes?

HELENA.――My Romeo.

MRS. OTHELLO.――Your Romeo! Forsooth you have not spoken to him more than twice.

ROMEO (_Without, singing_).――

“Oh, meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale
Must be told in the moonlight alone,
In the grove――――”

HELENA.――

If music be the food of love, sing on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.

MRS. PET.――

This music mads me; let it sound no more,
For though it have helped mad men to their wits,
In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.

ROMEO (_without, sings_).――

“Oh, meet me by moonlight a ―― ―― ―― ―― ―― lone!”

HELENA.――

That strain again; it had a dying fall;
Oh, it came o’er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor.

ROMEO (_without, sings_).――

“Yes, meet――yes, meet――yes, meet me by moonlight a――lone.”

MRS. PET.――Horrible! monstrous! was ever sound so nerve-destroying heard save from the larynx of a dying calf? I despise these daylight serenades.

MRS. OTHELLO.――

The woman that hath no music in herself,
Nor is not woo’d with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;
The motions of her spirit are dull as night,
And her affections dark as Erebus:
Let no such dame be trusted!

MRS. PET.――Ha! this is more than I can brook; my tongue’s my own to wag it as I will, therefore attempt not to criticise my criticisms――――I repeat, the fellow sings like a Scandinavian bag-pipe.

HELENA.――Ladies, pray be still! He may hear your dreadful comments.

[_Knock heard at door._]

’Tis he!

MRS. OTHELLO.――Let him not in until I depart! If Mr. Othello should happen to step in and find me in company with this gallant youth his jealousy would know no bounds!

[_Knock repeated._]

MRS. PET.――Nonsense! I hope he does come, I’d like to give him my opinion of jealous husbands――

Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine
To joyless dread, and mak’st the loving heart
With hateful thoughts to languish and to pine,
And feed itself with self-consuming smart;
Of all the passions in the mind thou vilest art!

ROMEO (_without_).――I suppose there’s no one home. (_Knocks_). Hello! anybody in?

HELENA (_opens door_).――Mr. Romeo! how delightful this surprise.

ROMEO (_enters_).――To me this is a pleasure sweet, sweet beyond comparison. (_Aside._) Her looks do argue her replete with modesty.

HELENA.――It gives me wonder, great as my content, to see you here before me.

MRS. PET.――

Sir, you are very welcome to our house:
It must appear in other ways than words,
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.

MRS. OTHELLO.――

A hundred thousand welcomes; I could weep,
And I could laugh; I am light and heavy――welcome.

[_Looks about cautiously._]

Yea, I could laugh and weep (_aside_.) It entirely depends upon the movements of Mr. Othello. He’s so jealous.

MRS. PET.――Be seated, friend Romeo; Miss Helena will entertain you while Mrs. Othello and I see that the festive board is spread below. Come, away to the pantry!

[_Exit followed by_ MRS. OTHELLO.]

ROMEO (_places a chair for Helena_).

(_Aside_) There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,
Nay, her foot speaks. (_Aloud._) Be seated, miss.

HELENA.――Thank you, sir. (_Aside._) I know not why I love this youth.

ROMEO.――

Helena, I love thee; by my life I do;
I swear by that which I will lose for thee,
To prove him false that says I love thee not!

HELENA.――Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ay, and I will take thy word.

ROMEO (_takes chair_).――

O happy fair!
Your eyes are load-stars, and your tongue’s sweet air,
More tunable than lark to shepherds’ ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

HELENA.――You have bereft me of all words.

ROMEO (_aside_).――

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

[_Knock at door._]

(_Aloud._) Ah, me! for aught that I could ever read;
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.

[_Rises and opens door._]

[_Enter_ SHYLOCK _with old garments on his arm_.]

HELENA (_rising_).――

His horrid image doth unfix my hair,
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs.

ROMEO.――

Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell;
Be thy intents wicked or charitable
Thou comest in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee!

SHYLOCK (_to_ HELENA).――

I do defy him, and I spit at him;
Call him a slanderous coward and a villain,
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds,
And meet him where I tried to run a-foot;
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps.

[_Throws garments on floor._]

HELENA.――

What cracker is this same that deafs our ears
With this abundance of superfluous breath?

ROMEO.――

He gives the bastinado with his tongue;
Our ears are cudgel’d; not a word of his,
But buffets better than a fist of France:
Zounds, I was never so bethumped with words
Since I first called my brother’s father dad.

SHYLOCK.――Peace! one word: in yonder pile, for little more than half the cost, a seal-skin wrap and overcoat may grace your youthful forms.

ROMEO (_to_ SHYLOCK _in undertone_).――I pray thee, gentle signor of the Gilded Balls, say naught before this maid that will reveal the fact that half my garments now repose upon your shelves.

HELENA (_to_ SHYLOCK).――To-night I’ll steal into thy place of trade, and, under cover of the evening’s shades, examine well the seal-skin sack whereof you speak. Say nothing now, sir; mum’s the word!

SHYLOCK.――’Tis in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key of it.

[_Enter_ JESSICA, MRS. PETRUCHIO _and_ MRS. OTHELLO.]

JESSICA.――Oh! Oh! (_jumps behind_ MRS. PETRUCHIO).

MRS. OTHELLO.――Hide me! Save me!

MRS. PET.――Thou shalt be punished for thus frightening me, thou man of loans. Be quiet sweet Mrs. Othello, thy husband is not here.

MRS. OTHELLO.――Mr. Romeo, what brings this, our general kinsman, here upon the scene?

ROMEO.――His business calls him here.

MRS. PET.――Romeo, put him out: mind not his glaring eyes, but put him hence!

ROMEO.――

Prythee, peace!
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none!

MRS. PET.――

What seek’st thou?
Avaunt, and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in thy eyes
Which thou dost glare with!

HELENA (_to_ SHYLOCK).――

Win her with gifts if she respect not words;
Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind,
More quick than words do move a woman’s mind.

MRS. PET.――See here, old man, just tell me what you want?

SHYLOCK.――

My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!
Fled with a Christian! O my, my Christian ducats!
Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter!
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,
Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl!

ROMEO.――Poor man!

HELENA.――Why not advertise her in the papers?

MRS. OTHELLO.――Or, like my husband, employ a private detective?

SHYLOCK (_to_ MRS. PETRUCHIO).――Woman, tell me where to find my child! Lorenzo, he has been set free by the Venice court’s decree. If the proof you wish to see, take the train for the city by the sea.

MRS. PET.――I know not where Jessica Shylock lives, nor care to hear your family cares.

SHYLOCK.――

A serpent heart, hid with a flow’ring face,
Did ever dragon keep so fair a case?
Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical!
Just opposite to what thou seem’st――
I see my daughter’s head behind thy ear,
Ay, behind the wig that doth surmount thy head!

MRS. PET.――Me wear a wig? O wrinkled Jew, take back thy child, whom only kindness taught me to conceal. No more courage now remains: away with her! In saying that I wear a wig, you crush my heart, and now I fain would be alone.

JESSICA (_embraces_ SHYLOCK).――Father, forgive me!

ROMEO.――See! the Jew relents!

HELENA.――O gentle Romeo!

MRS. OTHELLO.――I hope I shall get home before the Moor returns!

SHYLOCK (_takes_ MRS. PETRUCHIO’S _hand_.)

You are a widow, and I without a wife,
Seek, vainly seek, for joy in life――
Will you, in short, old Shylock wed?

MRS. PET.――Think you, sir, my reason’s fled. (_Withdrawing hand indignantly._) Marry you? Never! Sooner would I see you hanged.

SHYLOCK.――But are you happy?

ROMEO.――