Chapter VII: Act II (3)

Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; and happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit
Would ne’er commit itself to yours.

SHYLOCK.――Go to, and why?

MRS. OTHELLO.――

Oh! sir, you are too old;
Nature, in you, stands on the very
Verge of her confine.

HELENA.――

Our hostess needs no fossil staff
On which to lean through life;
The dame in scorn does at you laugh,
Go, seek an older wife!

ALL.――Yes, go! (_pounding and pushing him_.) Go! go! go!

SHYLOCK (_runs to centre and kneels_).――Mercy! (_All take positions._)

[CURTAIN.]

――_George M. Vickers._

[372]The Proud Flag of Freedom.

The proud flag of freedom, unsullied, behold
How cluster about it the glories of years,
As skyward and westward, ’mid purple and gold,
In the land of the sunset, its home, it appears.
America’s token of faith never broken,
Sweet signal that flutters o’er mountain and sea;
That mutely repeats what our fathers have spoken,
That tells the oppressed they may come and be free!

O proud flag of freedom, how swells with delight
The breast of the wand’rer who meets thee afar;
What home-visions come with the gladdening sight,
And how fond dwells his eye on each stripe and each star!
Thus be it forever, while oceans may sever,
Or fate hold in exile, a man from our shore!
Tho’ fairer the clime, an American never
Forgets his own colors, but loves them the more.

Thou proud flag of freedom, so lovely in peace,
So awfully grand in the dread crash of war,
Be ever unfaded ’till nations shall cease,
While there’s room in the blue for another bright star:
From danger defending, still onward, ascending;
The hope of mankind and the envy of none:
_E Pluribus Unum_, our motto transcending,
Till earth’s constellations are blended in one!

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

[372] By permission of J. C. Beckel, Esq., owner of the
copyright.]

Lost in the Mountains.

See you that[373] yellow thread, that, snake-like, winds
High up the mountain side, now hid, now seen,
Now lost[374] to view amid the shelving crags
And stunted pines? That is a rugged pass,
Called, hereabouts, The Devil’s Trail. Just where
We stand,[375] I stood one Autumn day, and heard
The legend from an aged mountaineer,
And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word,
Like this the story ran:

Mark Lysle, a rich,
Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,
Long years agone, lived in that house[376] whose red
Roof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and though
You see a light, blue plume of smoke above
The chimney top, yet other hearts now sit
About the hearth and watch its glow, for that
Bright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died out
One stormy night, never to burn again.
For miles and miles,[377] which way you went, the fame
Of Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies,
His open house and hospitalities,
Were themes discussed no less than were his quick
Resentment of a fancied slight, his fierce,
Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness to
Avenge a wrong. But those who knew his child,
Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair,
And read the truth within her hazel eyes,

Deemed her in ev’ry[378] trait of character
His antipode, his very opposite――
A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle.
Together lived they in that[379] red-roofed house,
He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns:
She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient,
So like her mother――an exotic frail,
A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.

One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380]
Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro huts
Gleamed white amid the evergreens; the man
Her father called his chosen friend, this man,
Her senior by a score of years, and ill
Of feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimed
It by a compact with her father made
Before her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud,
Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound,
Whose only statute was her father’s will,
Thus far had viewed her marriage in the light
Of something that she might escape, a thing
She might avoid, that would not come to pass;
As those condemned to death will hope when hope
Is dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,
And comfort took in hoping that it would
Not be; and though his would-be gallantries
Oft filled her with disgust,[381] and oft provoked
A loathing in her breast, she hated not.

Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,
Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,

Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed:
A sudden cry aroused them both in time
To see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382]
Across the road and leap the hedge. While yet
They stood amazed some field hands moving slow,
Came up the shaded walk[383] bearing between
Their swarthy forms the helpless body of
A man. With almost woman’s tenderness
Mark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youth
Borne to his choicest room, and summoned quick
A surgeon, nor would rest until assured
His uninvited guest was doing well,
As well as one with broken limb could do.
Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home,
Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.

The leaves[384] have lost their summer hue of green;
The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low;
The grain is garnered, and a late bee wings
Its way across the porch. Young Clair and Maud
Stand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines full
Upon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad,
And hers all tenderness and sympathy:
His time to go has come; this night will be
His last beneath her father’s roof. In two
Short months, by merest chance, their youthful hearts
Have learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly.
Behind a tree[387] two other forms crouch low;
Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale.
They glide away[388] unseen.

That night when all
Were gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle,
In tones that fell like death upon the ears
Of those who heard him speak, announced
It as his will,[389] that on the coming day
His daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend;
“And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deem
It time to go, I shall not press you to
Remain, but bid you speed upon your way,”
And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]

“Farewell,[391]
Until we meet again――” “No,[392] Maud, we must
Not say good-bye; to leave you now would be
To part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sank
Into a whisper; then, with one pure kiss
In haste imprinted on her brow, he left
The room, and then the house.

The tall, old clock
That in the hallway stood, was striking nine
As Maud stole out[393] into the night. Dark clouds
Were rising[394] in the west. The lightning flashed
From out the distant sky;[395] the thunder boomed
And rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396]
The black mass rising soon obscured[397] the stars
O’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the storm
Had burst. “To wed the hand and not the heart
Is sin, far greater than to disobey.
May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]

Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as all
Alone she sped across the fields to reach
Yon rugged pass[399] where Clair had gone to wait,
That when she came they both might mount his steed,
And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming they
Would choose that fearful path for flight.

The sun
Shone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]
With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,
And she had gone, the star[401] of Mark Lysle’s home,
Gone――to return no more.

The dark night through,
Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliff
Had watched and listened for his promised bride;
Had bended to the rock his ear,[402] had called,
Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!”
But never came reply.

Again, “Here, Maud!”
Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403] all else was still.
At dawn of day, and fearing that she could
Not brave the storm, all wan and pale he rode
Swift down the steep descent to learn the worst.
He scarce had reached the narrow valley road
Ere Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404] or die.
Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore,
And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse.
“She’s lost! O God,[405] she’s lost! Come, follow me!”
Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horse
In terror bore him up[406] the winding path.

“I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!”
And off he dashed,[407] his livid face drawn grim
With jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and then
The throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.

A cry!
Again a cry of mortal pain was heard!
The throng pressed up, and round[408] a jutting point,
Till came in view a level breadth[409] of rock
That shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410]
Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s work
On pedestal of stone, young Henri Clair
Sat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411]
The deep abyss. In horror peered they all
Below, where lay the object of his gaze――
The white, the lifeless form of Maud.

The spell
Was broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips.
With curb he drew[412] his horse erect; he threw
His mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs,
And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]

And to this day the story still is told
Of trav’lers, who, belated on the pass,
Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voice
Call tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!――
Here, Maud!――Is that you, Maud?”

――_George M. Vickers._

GESTURES.
[373] Ind. A. O.
[374] Drop hand.
[375] D. O.
[376] Left H. O.
[377] B. H. O.
[378] H. O.
[379] Left H. O.
[380] H. Sw.
[381] V. H. O.
[382] H. Sw.
[383] H. F.
[384] A. O.
[385] H. F.
[386] B. H. F.
[387] Left H. O.
[388] Left H. Sw.
[389] D. F.
[390] H. Sw.
[391] Turn to Right.
[392] Turn to Left.
[393] H. F.
[394] Raise hand P. H. L.
[395] H. L.
[396] H. Sw.
[397] V. A. O.
[398] Hand on heart.
[399] A. O.
[400] P. D. O.
[401] Point up.
[402] Bend over.
[403] B. H. O. and turn them to P.
[404] P. Ind. H. F.
[405] Raise eyes.
[406] A. F.
[407] A. F.
[408] A. O.
[409] P. H. O.
[410] P. D. O.
[411] Point down.
[412] Draw rein with left hand.
[413] D. F.]

Maiden Song.

Long ago and long ago, and long ago still,
There dwelt three merry maidens upon a distant hill.
One was tall Meggan, and one was dainty May,
But one was fair Margaret, more fair than I can say,
Long ago and long ago.

When Meggan plucked the thorny rose, and when May pulled the brier,
Half the birds would swoop to see, half the beasts draw nigher;
Half the fishes of the stream would dart up to admire:
But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower, or poppy, hot aflame,
All the beasts and all the birds and all the fishes came
To her hand more soft than snow.

Strawberry leaves and May-dew in brisk morning air,
Strawberry leaves and May-dew make maidens fair.
“I go for strawberry leaves,” Meggan said one day:
“Fair Margaret can bide at home, but you come with me, May;
Up the hill and down the hill, along the winding way,
You and I are used to go.”

So these two fair sisters went with innocent will
Up the hill and down again, and round the homestead hill:
While the fairest sat at home, Margaret like a queen,
Like a blush-rose, like the moon in her heavenly sheen,
Fragrant-breathed as milky cow or field of blossoming bean,
Graceful as an ivy bough, born to cling and lean,
Thus she sat to sew and sing.

When she raised her lustrous eyes a beast peeped at the door;
When she downward cast her eyes a fish gasped on the floor;
When she turned away her eyes a bird perched on the sill,
Warbling out its heart of love, warbling, warbling still
With pathetic pleadings low.

Light-foot May, with Meggan, sought the choicest spot,
Clothed with thyme, alternate grass; then, while day waxed hot,
Sat at ease to play and rest, a gracious rest and play;
The loveliest maidens near or far, when Margaret was away,
Who sat at home to sing and sew.

Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, wind-play tossed their hair,
Creeping things among the grass stroked them here and there;
Meggan piped a merry note, a fitful, wayward lay,
While shrill as bird on topmost twig piped merry May;
Honey-smooth the double flow.

Sped a herdsman from the vale, mounting like a flame,
All on fire to hear and see, with floating locks he came;
Looked neither north nor south, neither east nor west,
But sat him down at Meggan’s feet as love-bird on his nest,
And wooed her with a silent awe, with trouble not expressed;
She sang the tears into his eyes, the heart out of his breast;
So he loved her, listening so.

She sang the heart out of his breast, the words out of his tongue;
Hand and foot and pulse he paused till her song was sung.

Then he spoke up from his place simple words and true:
“Scanty goods have I to give, scanty skill to woo;
But I have a will to work and a heart for you:
Bid me stay or bid me go.”

Then Meggan mused within herself: “Better be first with him,
Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits, who shines my brightness dim,
Forever second where she sits, however fair I be:
I will be lady of his love, and he shall worship me;
I will be lady of his herds and stoop to his degree,
At home where kids and fatlings grow.”

Sped a shepherd from the height headlong down to look,
White lambs followed, lured by love of their shepherd’s crook:
He turned neither east nor west, neither north nor south,
But knelt right down to May, for love of her sweet-singing mouth;
Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks in parching hillside drought;
Forgot himself for weal or woe.

Trilled her song and swelled her song with maiden coy caprice
In a labyrinth of throbs, pauses, cadences:
Clear-noted as a dropping brook, soft-noted like the bees,
Wild-noted as the shivering wind forlorn through forest trees:
Love-noted like the wood-pigeon who hides herself for love,
Yet cannot keep her secret safe, but cooes and cooes thereof;
Thus the notes rang loud or low.

He hung breathless on her breath; speechless, who listened well;
Could not speak or think, or wish till silence broke the spell.
Then he spoke and spread his hands, pointing here and there:
“See my sheep, and see my lambs, twin lambs which they bare.
All myself I offer you, all my flocks and care,
Your sweet song hath moved me so.”

In her fluttered heart young May mused a dubious while:
“If he loves me as he says”――her lips curved with a smile:
“Where Margaret shines like the sun, I shine like the moon;
If sister Meggan makes her choice I can make mine as soon:
At cockcrow we were sister-maids, we may be brides at noon.
Said Meggan, “Yes;” May said not “No.”

Fair Margaret stayed alone at home, awhile she sang her song,
Awhile sat silent, then she thought: “My sisters loiter long.”
That sultry noon had waned away, shadows had waxed great:
“Surely,” she thought within herself, “My sisters loiter late.”
She rose, and peered out at the door, with patient heart to wait,
And heard a distant nightingale complaining of its mate;
Then down the garden slope she walked, down to the garden gate,
Leaned on the rail and waited so.

The slope was lightened by her eyes like summer lightning fair,
Like rising of the haloed moon lightened her glimmering hair,

While her face lightened like the sun whose dawn is rosy white.
Thus crowned with maiden majesty she peered into the night,
Looked up the hill and down the hill, to left hand and to right,
Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.

Waiting thus in weariness, she marked the nightingale,
Telling, if any one would heed, its old complaining tale.
Then lifted she her voice and sang, answering the bird:
Then lifted she her voice and sang, such notes were never heard.
From any bird when Spring’s in blow.

The king of all that country, coursing far, coursing near,
Curbed his amber-bitted steed, coursed amain to hear;
All his princes in his train, squire, and knight, and peer,
With his crown upon his head, his sceptre in his hand,
Down he fell at Margaret’s knees, Lord, King of all that land,
To her highness bending low.

Every beast and bird, and fish came mustering to the sound,
Every man and every maid from miles of country round:
Meggan on her herdsman’s arm, with her shepherd, May;
Flocks and herds trooped at their heels along the hillside way;
No foot too feeble for the ascent, not any head too gray,
Some were swift and none were slow.

So Margaret sang her sisters home in their marriage mirth;
Sang free birds out of the sky, beasts along the earth,
Sang up fishes of the deep――all breathing things that move,
Sang from far and sang from near to her lovely love;
Sang together friend and foe;

Sang a golden-bearded king straightway to her feet,
Sang him silent where he knelt in eager anguish sweet.
But when the clear voice died away, when longest echoes died,
He stood up like a royal man and claimed her for his bride.
So three maids were wooed and won in a brief May-tide,
Long ago and long ago.

――_Christina G. Rossetti._

Lecture by One of the Sex.

My antiquated hearers, male and female. Squenchin’ my native modesty which is natural to the weaker vessels of whom I am which, I feel impelled to speak to you this evenin’ on the subject of woman――her origin, her mission, her destiny. A subject, bein’ as I am a woman myself, I hev given much attention to.

Man, my hearers, claims to be the superior of woman! Is it so? and ef so, in what, and how much?

Wuz he the fust creation? He wuz, my hearers, but what does that prove?

Man wuz made fust, but the experience gained in makin’ man wuz applied to the makin’ of a betterer and more finerer bein’ of whom I am a sample.

Nachur made man but saw in a brief space of time that he couldn’t take keer of himself alone, and so he made a woman to take keer uv him, and that’s why we wuz created; tho’ seein’ all the trouble we hev, I don’t doubt that it would hev been money in our pockets if we hedn’t been made at all.

Imagine, my beloved hearers, Adam afore Eve wuz created! Who sewed on his shirt buttons? Who cooked his beefsteak? Who made his coffee in the mornin’ and did his washin’?

He wuz mizzable, he wuz,――he must have boarded out and eat hash!

But when Eve come, the scene changed. Her gentle hand soothed his achin’ brow when he come in from a hard day’s work. She hed his house in order; she hed his slippers and dressin’ gown ready, and after tea he smoked his meerschaum in peace.

Men, cruel, hard-hearted men, assert that Eve wuz the cause of his expulsion from Eden――that she plucked the apple and give him half; oh, my sisters, it’s true, it’s too true, but what uv it?

It proves fustly, her goodness. Had _Adam_ plucked the apple, if it had been a good one, he’d never a thought of his wife at home, but would have gobbled it down himself, and perhaps have taken her the core.

Eve, angel that we all are, thought of him and went halvers with him.

_Secondly_, it wuz the means of good anyhow. It introduced death into the world, which separated ’em while they still hed love for each other.

I appeal to the sterner sex present to-night. S’posin’ all of you had been fortunate enough to win such virgin souls as me, could you endure charms like mine for an eternity. If I had a husband, I know he’d bless Eve for introducin’ death into the world.

Woman is man’s equal, but is she occupyin’ her true speer? Alas, not! We are deprived of the ballot, we ain’t allowed to make stump speeches, or take part in politics. Is it right? How many men vote who know what they are votin’ for?

I demand the ballot. I want to take part in torchlight processions! I want to demonstrate my fitness for governing by coming home elevated on election nights. I demand the right of going to Congress. I want to assume that speer which nachur fitted me for equally with man, but from which masculine jealousy has thus far excluded me.

There hev been women in the world who have done something. There was the Queen of Sheba, who was excelled only by Solomon, and all that surpassed her in him wuz that he could support 3,000 women.

Bless Solomon’s heart! I’d like to see him do it now. Where could he find a house big enough to hold ’em with their dozen Saratoga trunks apiece?

How shall we gain our lost rights and assume that position in the world to which we are entitled to?

Oh, my sisters, these is a question upon which I have cogitated long and vigorously.

We might do it by pisonin’ all the men, but we would be robbed of one-half of our triumph, for they wouldn’t be alive to see how well we did things without ’em.

We might resolve to do no more of the degradin’ work they have imposed onto us. But if we didn’t, who would?

One week’s eatin’ what they would cook, would sicken any well-regulated woman, and besides, they might not let us eat at all.

Matrimony, thus far in the world’s history, has been our only destiny.

I am glad I had always strength of mind enough to resist all propositions leadin’ to my enslavement.

I had too much respect for myself to make myself the slave of a man.

Wunst, indeed, I might have done so, but the merest accident in the world saved me. A young man in my younger days, when the bloom wuz on the peach, ere sleepless nights spent in meditatin’ on the wrongs of my sex had worn furrows into these wunst blushing cheeks, a young man come to our house, and conversed sweetly with me.

It wuz my fust beau, and oh, my sisters, had he that night asked me to be his’n, I should have been weak enough to have said Yes, and I would have been a washer of dishes and a mender of stockin’s for life.

But fate saved me! He did’nt ask me.

――_Revised by F. Lizzie Peirce._

Enguerrande’s Child.

La Comtesse Marie holds festival
In the fairest nook of her fair demesne,
For courtly gallants and smiling dames
To mimic the sports of the village green,
In hats à la paysanne looped up with gems,
And rustic kirtles of satin sheen.

But Comtesse Marie, though crowned with May,
Scarce smiles on the lovers who round her press,
And sits on her floral throne _distrait_,
Nor heeds who, watching her, strives to guess
What troubles this heiress, free to choose
From the proudest peers of the _haute noblesse_.

She sighs--and a suitor the sigh repeats;
Again--and another bends over her chair,
For every mood of a lady charms
When la dame is so wealthy, so young, and fair;
She speaks--and the murmur of talk is hushed,
And they throng around with expectant air:

“Too sad to sing, and too tired to dance--
Shall our sport take sober cast to-night?
And gathering under the fragrant limes,
Shall we tell old stories of maidens bright,
Of crusader bold, and the Soldan grim,
Of dreary legend of ghost and sprite?”

Then gay De Norville, for wild, weird tale
To please the layde, has racked his brain;
While Saint Leu, with twirls of his huge mustache,
His last duello fights o’er again,
And fancies that Marie’s cheek grows pale
As he lightly dwells on his wounds and pain.

But on one tall figure, that stands aloof,
The eye of la Comtesse is seen to fall:
And hast _thou_ nothing to tell?” she asks,
“Canst thou from the past no deed recall,
That might quicken awhile our sluggish blood?
Bethink thee, I pray, good Capitaine Paul.”

Le Capitaine Paul, whom no one knows,
A soldier of fortune, scarred and browned,
A man more prized in the camp than court,
Steps into the circle and glances round;
And scornful eyes on his boldness frown,
But Marie has smiled, and he holds his ground.

What boots the rest if _she_ bids him speak?
What matter who lists if he gains _her_ ear?
The shaft of malice is launched in vain,
That aims at the stranger a barbèd sneer,
And the sauciest suitors of belle Marie
Unchecked may flout him while she is near.

He turns from the guests, with their covert smiles,
Begins with a stammer, and speaks by rote
Till treasured mem’ries awake--and then
His full lip quivers, and swells his throat,
And his sinewy hand is clenched, as oft
It hath clenched at the ring of the bugle’s note.

And thus _le capitaine_ tells his tale:
“Revolt and faction had cursed our land--
Tonnerre! that Frenchmen should be such curs!
Our city walls was were but poorly manned;
I--sous lieutenant--a boy in years;
Our brave commander, Jacques Enguerrande.

“We had one treasure, we soldiers, then--
Enguerrande’s daughter, a happy child;
She had no mother, but fifty slaves,
By her winning looks and ways beguiled--
Great bearded fellows--were at her call,
And felt themselves paid if their mistress smiled.

“One night--sharp--sudden--resistless broke
The storm upon us: from every den
The lawless rabble came howling forth,
And we--ah, blind! not to learn till then,
That in all that city we loved so well,
There was but one handful of loyal men!

“For life, for honor we fought, and still
Our foes increased as the tumult spread,
Yet side by side with Jacques Enguerrande
I stood till we fell together--he, dead;
I, wounded--how badly, these scars reveal;
And then our last man, in his terror, fled.

“Over our bodies the crowd tramped on,
Nor recked if ’twere brothers their feet defiled;
The city was all their own, and the greed
Of plunder had made them mad or wild;
And I heard one voice, with a drunken laugh,
Call out for the child, Jacques Enguerrande’s child.

“At that sound the blood to my heart returns,
And fiercely I struggle on to my knees!
Never must Enguerrande’s orphaned one
Fall into such miscreant hands as these!
To my feet and away, ere the roaring mob
Can hunt back the wounded wretch who flees!

“Doubling upon them, and first to gain
The little chamber wherein she slept,
Where, roused from repose by the horrid din,
In the darkest corner she cowered and wept,
I bore her down by a winding stair,
And into the streets with my burden crept.

“Hushing her sobs I staggered on,
Faint, dizzy with pain, and perhaps despair;
For sadly we needed some refuge safe,
And who would offer it?--nay, who dare?
Till an aged crone peeped fearfully out
Of her wretched hovel, and hid us there.

“But, alas! though almost too old to live,
She feared the mob, and she feared to die,
And in selfish dread, when again night fell,
From her door she thrust us, and bade us fly;
Yet she flung me a blouse, and _bonnet rouge_,
That none should my soldier’s dress descry.

“Bribed with the little one’s rosary--
Le voici, I have it here on my breast;
I brought it back for its weight in gold--
A fellow I drew aside from the rest,
Let us slip by while he kept the guard,
And like hunted deer for the woods we pressed.

“Scarce half a league from the city walls,
Lo! swooping down like a fiery blast--
Armed to the teeth, and hot with wrath--
Rank after rank spurring quickly past--
The avengers came of Jacques Enguerrande,
And I felt that his child was safe at last!

“She knew their leader--she shrieked his name--
He halted--I told you what garb I wore,
They thought me a rebel; the little one
With oaths and blows from my arms they tore,
And left me for dead on the cold hard earth;
But the child was safe--and my tale is o’er.”

“But your payment?” a dozen voices ask,
And le Capitaine smiles in his deep disdain;
“Pardon, mesdames! for a deed of love
No soldier his palm with gold would stain;
Only this boon did I ever crave--
One look at her angel face again!

“Qu’importe? she is rich and happy, and I----”
He pauses--la Comtesse has left her throne;
Once more on his breast a fair head lies,
Once more round his neck are white arms thrown,
And sweet lips murmur, “Mon brave! mon brave!
Let my poor love for the past atone!”

The play is ended--the guests depart--
La Comtesse was none so fair after all!
But many an eye looks back with regret
On the broad domain, and the princely hall,
That Enguerrande’s child with her hand bestows
On the scarred and sun-burned Capitaine Paul.

――_Tid Bits._

The King’s Kiss.[414]

A king rode forth one summer morn, his vast domain to see;
Through fields of wheat and fields of corn, rode on his majesty:
Quoth he, “A mighty king am I; whate’er I say must be,
For none there lives that dare deny a favor asked by me.”

The king in search of rest and shade, dismounted in a dell,
Where, drawing water, stood a maid beside a mossy well;
With courtly bow the thirsty king, the proffered draught received,
And as he drank, a gallant thing his royal mind conceived.

“Fair girl,” said he, “those lips of thine were surely made to kiss,
And fain I’d press them close to mine, refuse me not that bliss.”
“No, no,” the blushing lass replied, “no kiss you’ll get from me,
For I’m a true and promised bride, to one who’s far at sea.”

“I am the King,” the monarch said, “must I be disobeyed?”
The maiden slowly dropped her head, and trembled, sore afraid:
Then looking up with marble face, and wet but brave blue eye,
Said she, “Ere thus my troth debase, within the well I die!”

“Enough,” the conquered sovereign cried, “this ring in honor wear,
For truly have I found a bride, as pure as she is fair.”
The king rode off a wiser man than oft is monarch’s lot,
And deemed that naught was sweeter than the kiss he never got.

――_George M. Vickers._

[414] By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of Copyright.]

Contrasts in Shakespeare.

Oration delivered at the Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of
Elocution and Languages, June, 1886.

Through the whole of Shakespeare’s plays, we find every prominent character stamped with a separate individuality, which is preserved in every detail and characteristic, whether in the insane jealousy of Othello, the impetuosity of Harry Hotspur, the constancy of Portia, the vindictiveness of Shylock, the wickedness of Don John, or the benign, forgiving spirit of Prospero.

There is a silvery vein of wit threading his plays, gleaming and flashing like a sparkling brook in the sunshine.

It runs smoothly in the calmly-uttered and thoughtful sentences of Hamlet; it bubbles and laughs in the saucy badinage of Beatrice and Celia; seeks the shadow in the melancholy of Jacques; enters the realm of the pun in the wordy self-assertion of Polonius, and descends to the comic and sometimes the vulgar in Falstaff and Dogberry.

In the character of Hamlet we find a keen sense of humor, overcast by the ever-present suspicion of his father’s foul end, and a vague distrust of those around him. A certain sarcasm lurks in the depths, and imparts an incisiveness to every well-turned sentence. He says to Guildenstern:

HAMLET.――Will you play upon this pipe?

Guildenstern replies:

GUILD.――My lord, I cannot.

HAM.――I pray you.

GUILD.――Believe me, I cannot.

HAM.――I do beseech you.

GUILD.――I know no touch of it, my lord.

HAM.――’Tis as easy as lying: Govern these ventages with your finger
and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse
most excellent music. Look you, these are the stops.

GUILD.――But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I
have not the skill.

HAM.――Why, look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You
would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck
out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note
to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice
in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak! ’Sblood, do you
think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what
instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon
me.

Hamlet deals largely in simile and metaphor; no finer instance occurring than in the passage where he is called upon to account for the body of Polonius. Rosencranz, repelling his insinuations, asks:

ROS.――Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

HAM.――Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards,
his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the
end: he keeps them like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first
mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned,
it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

With a feeling of relief we turn to merry, heart-whole Beatrice, and we glory in the ease with which she puts to rout the valiant soldier Benedick. With what exquisite nonchalance she remarks:

BEAT.――I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick,
nobody marks you.

She throws down the gauntlet of defiance to Cupid in the words:

BEAT.――I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he
loves me.

And she retains her woman’s right to the last word in her parting shot:

BEAT.――You always end with a jade’s trick. I know you of old.

Her merry derision of Don Pedro is shown in her reply to his gallant offer:

DON P.――Will you have me, my lady?

BEAT.――No, my lord, unless I could have another for working days.
Your grace is too costly to wear every day.

Of the same bright, refreshing character is Celia, but Beatrice is more brusque, while Celia has a tender vein of womanliness which tones her raillery, while her sprightliness is more strongly thrown out in the early scenes of the play by its contrast with the constantly recurring melancholy of Rosalind. This antithesis is clearly observable in the following:

CEL.――Why cousin! why Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?

ROS.――Not one to throw at a dog.

CEL.――No, thy words are too precious to cast away upon curs; throw
some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

ROS.――Then were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed
with reasons and the other mad without any.

CEL.――But is this all for your father?

ROS.――No, some of it is for my child’s father. Oh, how full of
briers is this working-day world.

CEL.――They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday
foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats
will catch them.

ROS.――I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.

CEL.――Hem them away.

ROS.――I would try if I could cry “hem” and have him.

CEL.――Come, come; wrestle with thy affections.

ROS.――O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself!

CEL.――O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time in despite of a
fall.

After Rosalind and her cousin leave the court for the Forest of Arden, Rosalind’s spirits rise, and then it is she who becomes the prominent sprightly character in the play. She receives Orlando after a short absence with the reproach:

ROS.――Why how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You
a lover! And you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight
more.

ORL.――My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

ROS.――Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute
into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part
of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid
hath clapped him on the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heartwhole.

ORL.――Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

ROS.――Nay, and you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as
lief be wooed of a snail.

ORL.――Of a snail!

ROS.――Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his
house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a
woman.

In Polonius we meet with a character in direct contrast to those we have mentioned. The old gentleman, like many of the present day, loves to hear himself talk, and, owing to his high political position, has probably become so accustomed to receiving the applause of fawning courtiers, that the habit of punning has become a second nature to him; even after receiving the gentle reprimand of his Queen, it still is impossible for him to abstain from them, as is instanced in the conversation on the cause of Hamlet’s peculiarities.

POL.――My liege and madam, to expostulate
What majesty should be, what duty is,
Why day is day, night night, and time is time,
Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief. Your noble son is mad:
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?
But let that go.

QUEEN.―― More matter, with less art.

POL.――Madam, I swear I use no art at all,
That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity,
And pity ’tis ’tis true; a foolish figure;
But farewell it, for I will use no art.
Mad let us grant him, then; and now remains
That we find out the cause of this effect,
Or rather say, the cause of this defect,
For this effect, defective, comes by cause:
Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.

Let us now turn to Portia, happy, witty Portia, with a soul far above the fickle spendthrift, Bassanio, but with all a woman’s devotion, adoring him in spite of his faults. Her gentle dignity in accepting the hoped-for result of his choice of the caskets is sweetly evinced in the following:

POR.――You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
Such as I am; though for myself alone
I would not be ambitious in my wish,
To wish myself much better; yet, for you
I would be trebled twenty times myself;
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times
More rich;
That only to stand high in your account,
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
Exceed account; but the full sum of me
Is sum of nothing, which, to term in gross,
Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;
Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king.

In the Trial Scene we discover the contrasting side of Portia’s character, and we will close with a quotation from her speech to Shylock.

POR.――The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice.

_F. Lizzie Peirce._

Merry Mike.

Merry Mike from the door bounded off to his play,
With his head in his hat on a blustery day;
When the wind of a sudden came frolicking down
And lifted Mike’s hat from his round little crown.
Don’t you call that funny, I’d like to know?

Then he made up his mind to return to the house,
But the merry wind pushed itself under his blouse.
And it roared and it roared, and he puffed as he ran,
Till it just knocked over this queer little man.
“Ho! ho! ho!” said Mike, and he said “ha! ha! ha!
I’ll get up again, old wind, you see.”

Then the wind with a flurry of bluster and racket
Went crowding and crowding under his jacket,
And it lifted him off of his two little feet,
And carried him bodily over the street.
Mike laughed ha! ha! ha! and he laughed ho! ho! ho!

But the wind, with its antics, was plainly not through,
For fiercer and fiercer, and fiercer it blew,
Till making one effort of fury intense
It carried Mike bodily over the fence.

He met there a somewhat discouraged old cow,
That had blown thither too, though he failed to see how,
Then he smiled and said, “Make yourself easy, my friend,
Only keep your mind quiet and things will soon mend,”
Mike laughed ha! ha! ha! and he laughed ho! ho! ho!
“For the wind is just playing, old cow, you know.”

As he scampered off home, what above should he see
But the roof of a shed that had lodged in a tree;
And he laughed and he laughed till his sides fairly ached,
For, he said, this is better than wedding or wake.
And he roared, ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!

“That boy,” say the terrified folks of the town,
“He would laugh just the same if the sky tumbled down.”
“Indeed, and I would,” answered Mike, with a grin,
“For I might get a piece with a lot of stars in.”
And he chuckled, he! he! he! and he chuckled, ho! ho! ho!
The very idea delighted him so.

His father complained to the priest, “Now, I say,
Mike never stops laughing by night or by day.”
“Let him laugh,” spoke the priest, “he will change by and by;
’Tis better to laugh than to grumble and cry;
It’s the _way_ with the lad; let him laugh if he like,
And be glad you’ve a son that’s as merry as Mike.”

The Village Choir.

Half a bar, half a bar,
Half a bar onward!
Into an awful ditch,
Choir and Precentor hitch,
Into a mess of pitch,
They led the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh! that Precentor’s look,
When the sopranos took
Their own time and hook,
From the Old Hundred.

Screeched all the trebles here,
Boggled the tenors there,
Raising the parson’s hair,
While his mind wandered;
Theirs not to reason why
This psalm was pitched too high;
Theirs but to gasp and cry
Out the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Stormed they with shout and yell;
Not wise they sang, nor well,
Drowning the sexton’s bell,
While all the church wondered.

Dire the Precentor’s glare,
Flashed his pitchfork in air,
Sounding the fresh key to bear
Out the Old Hundred.
Swiftly he turned his back,
Reached he his hat from rack,
Then from the screaming pack
Himself he sundered.

Tenors to right of him,
Trebles to left of him,
Discords behind him,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, the wild howls they wrought;
Right to the end they fought!
Some tune they sang, but not――
Not the Old Hundred.

The Book Agent Beats the Bandit.

Brown, Jones and Robinson, three of as good fellows as ever melted the heart of a country trader to the merry music of the pliant chin, sat one evening of last week in the smoking compartment of a chair car on the R. and T. H. Western Railroad. With them was a tall, thin, dyspeptic man with sandy hair, dressed in a rusty suit of black. Nature had endowed him with long legs, and his tailor with short pants. His coat collar was rich enough in accumulated grease to keep a soap factory going for a month. His mouth was of brass, and his cheek as hard as last year’s cider. He was a book agent. Already had he gobbled up the drummers for a Life of Christ and Pocket Encyclopedia of 215 numbers, when suddenly a real Jesse-James-like train bandit opened the door and stood, pistol in hand, before the quartet.

Brown’s soul sank down into the heels of his boots. Beads of perspiration big as snow balls stood on Jones’ classic brow, while his hair lifted his hat two solid inches from the crown of his head. Robinson murmured the first verse of “Ever of Thee I’m Fondly Dreaming,” and thought he was praying. But the book agent bounded from his seat with a “How do, stranger? Delighted to see you. Do let me show you my superb ‘History of Boone County,’ a perfect bonanza of domestic peace and happiness to every householder who is fortunate enough to possess one. Three hundred pages of elegant letter press, printed on toned paper and embellished with fine steel engravings and an official map of the State. A carefully compiled, correct topographical and historical――――”

“Shut up!” roared the bandit.

“Shut up? You bet it will, and fastens itself with a double-action brass clasp――my own invention――and from its simplicity of design and beauty of construction worth half the price of the book. Given away, sir; literally given away, for $3 in boards or $4.50 in morocco with beveled edges.”

“If yer say――――”

“I do say it, sir. Look at this exquisite title page with a vignette portrait of the gifted author. Here you see a genealogical abstract chart in which you can write the names of your illustrious ancestors and beloved family――births, marriages, deaths and――――”

“Stop!” shrieked the bandit, as the agent grasped him by the buttonhole.

“You may well say ‘stop,’ sir; I’ve said enough to make you ache to possess this beautiful volume, but I haven’t begun to――――”

“Sit down!” the robber roared in a voice that made the puffs of the engine sound like the sighs of a sick zephyr, and loosened all the joints of Jones’s limbs.

“Biographical sketches of eminent men, glowing obituary, with an original poem on death, agricultural statistics, tables of mortality, valuable notes on immigration, trade reports, all the geological――――”

“Lemme go, or I’ll blow the roof of yer head off,” shrieked the robber, as he wrested himself from the agent’s grasp and dropped off the rear car into the gathering gloom of the coming night.

Then Robinson drew from his pocket his faithful revolver and looked big. Jones rolled his sleeves up and asked where the villain was gone to. Brown fished from under the spittoon a roll of bills and hoped they didn’t think he had been scared. But the agent sank wearily to his seat, and for the first time in all that long journey was silent for nearly four consecutive minutes.

――_Evansville Argus._

Not in the Ranks.

The old army overcoat that used to be such a familiar sight on our streets is one of the rarest now; indeed, it is so seldom seen that we involuntarily turn and gaze after it, as something that brings sad and often cruel memories. The other day an old man wearing a coat of this kind, which reached to his heels, stopped at a cottage a little way out of town and asked leave to rest awhile on the porch.

“I’m a bit tired,” he said to the woman who opened the door, “an’ if you don’t mind I’ll sit here and rest myself for a spell.”

“You’re welcome,” said the woman kindly, with a glance at the martial blue. Then she left him alone, but after a little while returned with a bowl of coffee and a plate of white biscuit.

“Eat,” she said, gently; “I had a boy who was a soldier.”

“But I’m not a soldier,” answered the old man. “I never was a soldier; my boy went to war and was killed. He was all I had, too. This coat was his; seems like he’s near me when I have it on. I gave him to his country; the handsomest and bravest boy he was, too, in the whole regiment. God bless him. He did his duty, died on the field, and this coat was all that came back to his poor old dad. No; I never was a soldier.”

The woman went in and brought out some cake and the whitest honey, and added it to the coffee and biscuit.

“Are you alone in the world?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” answered the old man, cheerfully; “I’ve got a sister, but she’s old and lame, and she has a daughter that is sickly and ailing. You see I have them to work for, and they are a sight of comfort to me. Many’s the time I’d have broken down since Mary died but for them poor critters. Mary was my wife, ma’am; she was a master hand to nuss sick folks, and she thought after Tim died as it were her duty to go into the hospital service and nuss the soldiers, and she died these sixteen years ago; but she did a heap of good work first. Many a soldier has kissed her shadow on the wall! Mary, darlin’, God wanted ye in the ranks up there; I’ve often wished that I had been a soldier, if only to be fit for the little mother and Tim; but I never was.”

He drank the coffee, ate the good food thankfully, and offered to pay for it with some hoarded pieces of old worn silver; but the woman shook her head.

“Put back your money. My son was a soldier,” she said.

“But I am not a soldier. Well, well,” (as he looked into her face,) “I thank you, and I take it for his sake.”

He wished good-night to his kind entertainer and turned away. As he walked off, slow and limping, bent by infirmity, the long skirt of his army overcoat struck bright and blue against the splendor of the sunset; he shaded his eyes with one trembling hand and looked wistfully at the rose and amethyst door that seemed to open in the west. What saw he there? A little, round-shouldered woman with a small, homely face; a lank, overgrown boy, with sparse, red hair. Ay, and of such as these are angels made. So, watching, he passed down into the shadows and disappeared.

The woman at the gate looked after him.

“No soldier!” she said gently, “but I wonder if the boy who died on his first battle-field ever fought as he has, or sacrificed as much to his country? All the soldiers didn’t go into the war with flying flags and rolling drums. Some of them stayed at home and fought harder battles. I’m glad I gave him a bite and a sup. He is a soldier, and a brave one, too, and one day he will know it!”

And I think she was right.

――_Detroit Free Press._

The Old Actor’s Story.

First Honor at the Third Annual Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Languages, 1886.

Mine is a wild, strange story,――the strangest you ever heard;
There are many[415] who won’t believe it, but it’s gospel[416] every
word;
It’s the biggest drama of any in a long,[417] adventurous life;
The scene was a ship, and the actors――were myself and my new-wed wife.

You musn’t mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then;
I’m old, you know, and I wander――it’s a way with old women and men,
For their lives lie all behind[418] them, and their thoughts go far
away,[419]
And are tempted afield, like children, lost on a summer day.

The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful
night,
But I see it again this evening, I can never shut[420] out the sight.
We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know,
When we had an offer for Melbourne,[421] and made up our minds to go.

We’d acted together in England, traveling up and down[422]
With a strolling band of players, going from town to town;
We played the lovers together――we were leading lady and gent――
And at last we played in earnest, and straight[423] to the church
we went.