Chapter I: Part 1

Transcriber's Note:

There are a few pieces which contain some dialect. All dialect, period spelling, etc., has been preserved.

The remainder of the TN is at the end of the book.

* * * * *

When the voice is weak, it should be strengthened by frequent practice, by exercising it in the open air, and upon all convenient occasions.

* * * * *

The Universal Reciter,

CONTAINING

81 Choice Pieces.

* * * * *

It is necessary not only to practise a little, but to practise a great deal. In this way ease, grace, and fluency are acquired.

OH! TELL ME, I SAID, RAPID STREAM OF THE VALLEY,
THAT BEAR'ST IN THY COURSE THE BLUE WATERS AWAY,
CAN THE JOYS OF LIFE'S MORNING AWAKE BUT TO VANISH,
CAN THE FEELINGS OF LOVE BE ALL DOOM'D TO DECAY?
AN ECHO REPEATED--"ALL DOOM'D TO DECAY."

]

THE

UNIVERSAL RECITER,

A

LITERARY BOUQUET,

CONTAINING

81 CHOICE PIECES

OF RARE POETICAL GEMS, FINE SPECIMENS OF ORATORY, THRILLING SENTIMENT, ELOQUENCE, TENDER PATHOS, AND SPARKLING HUMOR.

* * * * *

LONDON:

WILLIAM NICHOLSON AND SONS, 20, WARWICK SQUARE PATERNOSTER ROW, AND ALBION WORKS, WAKEFIELD.

CONTENTS.

PAGE.
A Horse Car Incident 194

A love of a Bonnet 87

An Eruption of Mount Vesuvius 100

A Plea for the Ox 103

A Pleasure Exertion 203

A Precious Pickle 125

A Psalm of Life 231

Bell of the "Atlantic" 243

Big Oyster, The 122

Black Regiment, The 162

Boy Archer, The 72

David and Goliath 109

David's lament over Absalom 71

Drafted 98

Dying Hebrew, The 41

Enlisting as Army Nurse 139

Falstaff's Boasting 64

Forging of the Anchor 148

Flowers, The 246

Give me back my Husband 44

Graves of a Household 249

Green Goose, The 175

Gridiron, The 144

Here she goes, and there she goes 105

How we hunted a Mouse 38

Hypochondriac, The 247

Ignorance is bliss 58

Injured Mother, The 50

Juvenile Pugilists 221

Knife Grinder, The 191

Last Man, The 232

Lord Dundreary at Brighton 151

Mantle of St. John De Matha, The 234

Mariner's Wife, The 11

Menagerie, The 56

Migratory Bones 177

Mills of God, The 55

Miser's Fate, The 16

Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question 119

Murdered Traveller, The 70

My Mother's Bible 138

My Friend's Secret 156

One Hoss Shay, The 46

Only Sixteen 143

On to Freedom 68

On the Shores of Tennessee 159

Owl, The 245

Pat and the Fox 22

Pat-ent Gun 229

Patrick's Colt 34

Paul Revere's Ride 200

Pauper's Death Bed 193

Pledge with Wine 250

Polish Boy, The 237

Preaching to the Poor 192

Rain Drops, The 172

Red Chignon 180

Sambo's Dilemma 20

San Francisco Auctioneer 227

Satan's Address to the Sun 32

Scolding Old Dame 174

Shamus O'Brien 214

She would be a Mason 18

Snyder's Nose 13

Socrates Snooks 198

That Hired Girl 241

There's but one pair of Stockings to mend to night 85

Thief of Time, The 164

The Old Man in the Stylish Church 223

The Old Man in the Model Church 225

The World for Sale 37

To my Mother 27

Two Weavers, The 117

Vain Regrets 158

Ventriloquist on a Stage Coach 76

Voices at the Throne 155

Vulture of the Alps, The 62

What ailed "Ugly Sam" 29

Which am de Mightiest 219

Widow Bedott's Poetry 112

Wilkins on Accomplishments
7

THE

UNIVERSAL RECITER.

WILKINS ON ACCOMPLISHMENTS.

A DUOLOGUE.

JOHN QUILL.

MR. WILKINS. Mrs. Wilkins, of all the aggravating women I ever came across, you are the worst. I believe you'd raise a riot in the cemetry if you were dead, you would. Don't you ever go prowling around any Quaker meeting, or you'll break it up in a plug muss. You? Why you'd put any other man's back up until he broke his spine. Oh! you're too annoying to live; I don't want to bother with you. Go to sleep.

MRS. WILKINS. But, Wilkins dear, just listen a minute. We must have that piano, and--

MR. W. Oh! don't "dear" me; I won't have it. You're the only dear thing around here--you're dear at any price. I tell you once for all that I don't get any new piano, and Mary Jane don't take singing lessons as long as I'm her father. There! If you don't understand that I'll say it over again. And now stop your clatter and go to sleep; I'm tired of hearing you cackle.

MRS. W. But, Wilk--

MR. W. Now don't aggravate me. I say Mary Jane shan't learn to sing and plant another instrument of torture in this house, while I'm boss of the family. Her voice is just like yours; it's got a twang to it like blowing on the edge of a piece of paper.

MRS. W. Ain't you ashamed, Wilk--

MR. W. It's disgrace enough to have _you_ sitting down and pretending to sing, and trying to deafen people, without having the children do it. The first time I heard you sing I started round to the station-house and got six policemen, because I thought there was a murder in your house, and they were cutting you up by inches. I wish somebody would! I wouldn't go for any policeman now, not much!

MRS. W. I declare, you are a perfect brute!

MR. W. Not much, I wouldn't! But Smith, he told me yesterday that his family were kept awake half the night by the noise you made; and he said if I didn't stop those dogs from yowling in my cellar, he'd be obliged to complain to the board of health.

MRS. W. What an awful story, Mr. Wilk--

MR. W. Then I told him it was you, and you thought you could sing; and he advised me as a friend to get a divorce, because he said no man could live happily with any woman who had a voice like a cross-cut saw. He said I might as well have a machine-shop with a lot of files at work in my house as that, and he'd rather any time.

MRS. W. Phugh! I don't care what Smith says.

MR. W. And you a-talking about a new piano! Why, haven't we got musical instruments enough in the house? There's Holofernes Montgomery been blowing away in the garret for ten days with that old key bugle, until he got so black in the face that he won't get his colour back for a month, and then he only gets a spurt out of her every now and then. He's blown enough wind in her to get up a hurricane, and I expect nothing else but he'll get the old machine so chock full that she'll blow back at him some day and burst his brains out, and all along of your tomfoolery. You're a pretty mother, you are! You'd better go and join some asylum for feeble-minded idiots, you had.

MRS. W. Wilkins! I declare you're too bad, for--

MR. W. Yes--and there's Bucephalus Alexander, he's got his head full of your sentimental nonsense, and he thinks he's in love with a girl round the corner, and he meanders about and tries to sigh, and won't eat his victuals, and he's got to going down into the cellar and trying to sing "No one to love" in the coal-bin; and he like to scared the hired girl out of her senses, so that she went upstairs and had a fit on the kitchen door-mat, and came near dying on my hands.

MRS. W. That's not true, Mr. Wil--

MR. W. And never came to until I put her head under the hydrant. And then what does Bucephalus Alexander do but go round, night before last, and try to serenade the girl, until the old man histed up the sash and cracked away at Bucephalus Alexander with an old boot, and hit him in the face and blacked his eye, because he thought it was two cats a-yelping. Hang such a mother as you are! You go right to work to ruin your offspring.

MRS. W. You're talking nonsense, Wilk--

MR. W. You're about as fit to bring up children as a tadpole is to run a ferry boat, you are! But while I'm alive Mary Jane takes no singing lessons. Do you understand? It's bad enough to have her battering away at that piano like she had some grudge against it, and to have her visitors wriggle around and fidget and look miserable, as if they had cramp colic, while you make her play for them and have them get up and lie, and ask what it was, and say how beautiful it is, and steep their souls in falsehood and hypocrisy all on account of you. You'll have enough sins to answer for, old woman, without that.

MRS. W. I never did such a thing, and you--

MR. W. Yes--and you think Mary Jane can play, don't you? You think she can sit down and jerk more music than a whole orchestra, don't you? But she can't. You might about as well set a crowbar to opening oysters as set her to playing on that piano. You might, indeed!

MRS. W. You talk like a fool, Wilkins!

MR. W. Play! She play? Pshaw! Why, she's drummed away at that polka for six months and she can't get her grip on it yet. You might as well try to sing a long-metre hymn to "Fisher's Hornpipe," as to undertake to dance to that polka. It would jerk your legs out at the sockets, certain, or else it would give you St. Vitus' dance, and cripple you for life.

MRS. W. Mr. Wilkins, I'm going to tell you a secret.

MR. W. Oh! I don't want to hear your secrets--keep them to yourself.

MRS. W. It's about Mary Jane's singing.

MR. W. What?

MRS. W. Mary Jane, you know--her singing.

MR. W. I don't know, and I don't want to; she shan't take lessons, so dry up.

MRS. W. But she shall take them!

MR. W. I say she shan't!

MRS. W. She shall, and you can't help it.

MR. W. By George! What do you mean? I'm master in this house I'd like you to know.

MRS. W. Yes--but she's been taking lessons for a whole quarter, while you were down town, and I paid the bill out of the market money.

MR. W. Well! I hope I may be shot! You don't mean to say that? Well, if you ain't a perfectly abandoned wretch, hang me! Farewell, Mrs. Wilkins, farewell! I'm off by the first express-train for the West! I'll stop at Chicago, where the cars wait fifteen minutes for refreshments and a divorce--I'll take the divorce, that will be indeed refreshing! Farewell! F-a-r-e-well! Fare-r-r-r-r-r-r-well! Mrs. Wil-l-l-l-l-l-l-kins!

THE MARINERS WIFE.

WM. JULIUS MICKLE.

THIS WAS A FAVOURITE RECITATION OF THE LATE CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Make haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this a time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie's wife,
That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the mukle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my own gudeman,
For he's been long awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And mak our table neat and clean,
Let everything look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair.
And shall I see his face again?
And shall I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!

The cold blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirléd through my heart,
They're a' blown by, I hae him safe,
'Till death we'll never part;
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa!
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

Since Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboov the lave.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae lack at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

SNYDER'S NOSE.

"OUR FAT CONTRIBUTOR."

Snyder kept a beer saloon some years ago "over the Rhine." Snyder was a ponderous Teuton of very irascible temper--"sudden and quick in quarrel"--get mad in a minute. Nevertheless his saloon was a great resort for "the boys"--partly because of the excellence of his beer, and partly because they liked to chafe "Old Snyder," as they called him; for, although his bark was terrific, experience had taught them that he wouldn't bite.

One day Snyder was missing; and it was explained by his "frau," who "jerked" the beer that day, that he had "gone out fishing mit der poys." The next day one of the boys, who was particularly fond of "roasting" old Snyder, dropped in to get a glass of beer, and discovered Snyder's nose, which was a big one at any time, swollen and blistered by the sun, until it looked like a dead-ripe tomato.

"Why, Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?" said the caller.

"I peen out fishing mit der poys," replied Snyder, laying his finger tenderly against his proboscis; "the sun it pese hot like ash never vas, und I purns my nose. Nice nose, don't it?" And Snyder viewed it with a look of comical sadness in the little mirror back of his bar. It entered at once into the head of the mischievous fellow in front of the bar to play a joke upon Snyder; so he went out and collected half a dozen of his comrades, with whom he arranged that they should drop in at the saloon one after another, and ask Snyder, "What's the matter with that nose?" to see how long he would stand it. The man who put up the job went in first with a companion, and seating themselves at a table called for beer. Snyder brought it to them, and the new-comer exclaimed as he saw him, "Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?"

"I yust dell your friend here I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun he purnt 'em--zwi lager--den cents--all right."

Another boy rushes in. "Halloo, boys, you're ahead of me this time; s'pose I'm in, though. Here, Snyder, bring me a glass of lager and a pret"--(appears to catch a sudden glimpse of Snyder's nose, looks wonderingly a moment and then bursts out laughing)--"ha! ha! ha! Why, Snyder--ha!--ha!--what's the matter with that nose?"

Snyder, of course, can't see any fun in having a burnt nose or having it laughed at; and he says, in a tone sternly emphatic:

"I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun it yust ash hot ash blazes, unt I purnt my nose; dat ish all right."

Another tormentor comes in, and insists on "setting 'em up" for the whole house. "Snyder," says he, "fill up the boys' glasses, and take a drink yourse----ho! ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! ha! Snyder, wha--ha! ha!--what's the matter with that nose?"

Snyder's brow darkens with wrath by this time, and his voice grows deeper and sterner:

"I peen out fishin' mit der poys on the Leedle Miami. De sun pese hot like ash--vel, I burn my pugle. Now that is more vot I don't got to say. Vot gind o' peseness? Dat ish all right; I purn my _own_ nose, don't it?"

"Burn your nose--burn all the hair off your head for what I care; you needn't get mad about it."

It was evident that Snyder wouldn't stand more than one tweak at that nose; for he was tramping about behind his bar, and growling like an exasperated old bear in his cage. Another one of his tormentors walks in. Some one sings out to him, "Have a glass of beer, Billy?"

"Don't care about any beer," says Billy, "but, Snyder, you may give me one of your best ciga--Ha-a-a! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! he! he! he! ah-h-h-ha! ha! ha! ha! Why--why--Snyder--who who--ha-ha! ha! what's the matter with that nose?"

Snyder was absolutely fearful to behold by this time; his face was purple with rage, all except his nose, which glowed like a ball of fire. Leaning his ponderous figure far over the bar, and raising his arm aloft to emphasize his words with it, he fairly roared:

"I peen out fishin' mit ter poys. The sun it pese hot like ash never was. I purnt my nose. Now you no like dose nose, you yust take dose nose unt wr-wr-wr-wring your mean American finger mit 'em. That's the kind of man vot I am!" And Snyder was right.

THE MISER'S FATE.

OSBORNE.

In the year 1762 a miser, of the name of Foscue, in France,
having amassed enormous wealth by habits of extortion and
the most sordid parsimony, was requested by the government
to advance a sum of money as a loan. The miser demurred,
pretending that he was poor. In order to hide his gold
effectually, he dug a deep cave in his cellar, the descent
to which was by a ladder, and which was entered by means of a
trap-door, to which was attached a spring-lock.

He entered this cave one day to gloat over his gold, when the
door fell upon him, and the spring-lock, the key to which he
had left on the outside, snapped, and held him a prisoner in
the cave, where he perished miserably. Some months afterwards
a search was made, and his body was found in the midst of his
money-bags, with a candlestick lying beside it on the floor.
In the following lines the miser is supposed to have just
entered his cave, and to be soliloquizing.

So, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty sparklers--
Come forth, and feast my eyes! Be not afraid!
No keen-eyed agent of the government
Can see you here. They wanted me, forsooth,
To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance,
For the state's needs. Ha, ha! my shining pets,
My yellow darlings, my sweet golden circlets!
Too well I loved you to do that--and so
I pleaded poverty, and none could prove
My story was not true.
Ha! could they see
These bags of ducats, and that precious pile
Of ingots, and those bars of solid gold,
Their eyes, methinks, would water. What a comfort
Is it to see my moneys in a heap
All safely lodged under my very roof!
Here's a fat bag--let me untie the mouth of it.
What eloquence! What beauty! What expression!
Could Cicero so plead? Could Helen look
One-half so charming? [_The trap-door falls._]
Ah! what sound was that?
The Trap-door fallen--and the spring-lock caught!
Well, have I not the key? Of course I have.
'Tis in this pocket. No. In this? No. Then
I left it at the bottom of the ladder.
Ha! 'tis not there. Where then? Ah! mercy, Heaven!
'Tis in the lock outside!
What's to be done?
Help, help! Will no one hear? Oh, would that I
Had not discharged old Simon! but he begged
Each week for wages--would not give me credit.
I'll try my strength upon the door. Despair!
I might as soon uproot the eternal rocks
As force it open. Am I here a prisoner,
And no one in the house? no one at hand,
Or likely soon to be, to hear my cries?
Am I entombed alive? Horrible fate!
I sink--I faint beneath the bare conception!
[_Awakes._] Darkness? Where am I? I remember, now,
This is a bag of ducats--'tis no dream--
No dream! The trap-door fell, and here am I
Immured with my dear gold--my candle out--
All gloom--all silence--all despair! What, ho!
Friends! Friends? I have no friends. What right have I
To use the name? These money-bags have been
The only friends I've cared for--and for these
I've toiled, and pinched, and screwed--shutting my heart
To charity, humanity and love!
Detested traitors! Since I gave you all--
Aye, gave my very soul--can ye do naught
For me in this extremity? Ho! Without there!
A thousand ducats for a loaf of bread!
Ten thousand ducats for a glass of water!
A pile of ingots for a helping hand!
Was that a laugh? Aye, 'twas a fiend that laughed
To see a miser in the grip of death.
Offended Heaven, have mercy! I will give
In alms all this vile rubbish; aid me thou
In this most dreadful strait! I'll build a church--
A hospital! Vain, vain! Too late, too late!
Heaven knows the miser's heart too well to trust him!
Heaven will not hear! Why should it? What have I
Done to enlist Heaven's favor--to help on
Heaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes?
Nothing! God's kingdom will not come the sooner
For any work or any prayer of mine.
But must I die here--in my own trap caught?
Die--die? and then! Oh, mercy! Grant me time--
Thou who canst save--grant me a little time,
And I'll redeem the past--undo the evil
That I have done--make thousands happy with
This hoarded treasure--do Thy will on earth
As it is done in Heaven--grant me but time!
Nor man nor God will heed my shrieks! All's lost!

SHE WOULD BE A MASON.

ANONYMOUS.

The funniest story I ever heard,
The funniest thing that ever occurred,
Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde,
Who wanted to be a Mason.
Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true,
As good a Mason as any of you;
He is tyler of lodge Cerulian Blue,
And tyles and delivers the summons due,
And she wanted to be a Mason too--
This ridiculous Mrs. Byrde.
She followed him round, this inquisitive wife,
And nabbed and teased him half out of his life;
So to terminate this unhallowed strife,
He consented at last to admit her.
And first to disguise her from bonnet to shoon,
The ridiculous lady agreed to put on
His breech--ah! forgive me--I meant pantaloon;
And miraculously did they fit her.
The Lodge was at work on the Master's Degree;
The light was ablaze on the letter G;
High soared the pillars J. and B.;
The officers sat like Solomon, wise;
The brimstone burned amid horrid cries;
The goat roamed wildly through the room;
The candidate begged 'em to let him go home;
And the devil himself stood up in the east,
As proud as an alderman at a feast;--
When in came Mrs. Byrde.
Oh, horrible sounds! oh, horrible sight!
Can it be that Masons take delight
In spending thus the hours of night?
Ah! could their wives and daughters know
The unutterable things they say and do,
Their feminine hearts would burst with woe;
But this is not all my story,
For those Masons joined in a hideous ring,
The candidate howling like everything,
And thus in tones of death they sing
(The Candidate's name was Morey):
"Blood to drink and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash and lives to take,
Hearts to crush and souls to burn--
Give old Morey another turn,
And make him all grim and gory."
Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,
Unable to speak a single word;
She staggered and fell in the nearest chair,
On the left of the Junior Warden there,
And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans,
That the chair was made of human bones.
Of human bones! on grinning skulls
That ghastly throne of horror rolls--
Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore!
Those bones the bones that Morgan wore!
His scalp across the top was flung,
His teeth around the arms were strung--
Never in all romance was known
Such uses made of human bone.
The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame,
Just like a place we will not name;
Good angels, that inquiring came
From blissful courts, looked on with shame
And tearful melancholy.
Again they dance, but twice as bad,
They jump and sing like demons mad;
The tune is Hunkey Dorey--
"Blood to drink," etc., etc.
Then came a pause--a pair of paws
Reached through the floor, up sliding doors,
And grabbed the unhappy candidate!
How can I without tears relate
The lost and ruined Morey's fate?
She saw him sink in a fiery hole,
She heard him scream, "My soul! my soul!"
While roars of fiendish laughter roll,
And drown the yells of mercy!
"Blood to drink," etc., etc.
The ridiculous woman could stand no more--
She fainted and fell on the checkered floor,
'Midst all the diabolical roar.
What then, you ask me, did befall
Mehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all--
_She had dreamed_ she'd been in the Masons' hall.

SAMBO'S DILEMMA.

"Midas, I want to s'posen a case to you, an' I want you to gim me the gospel truth on your 'pinion 'bout de matter."

That's the manner in which one of Washington's dusky damsels put it to her adorer last evening.

"Now, Midas, you knows you'se tole me more times 'an you'se got fingers an' toes, as you lubbed me harder 'an a marble-top washstand, an' 'at I'se sweeter to you 'an buckwheat cakes and 'lassas foreber. Midas, this am only s'posen case, but I wants you to s'posen jus' as if'n 'twas a shunuff one.

"S'posen me an' you was goin' on a scursion down de riber!"

"Yas," broke in Midas, "down to Mount Vernon."

"Anywha's 'tall, down the riber. Midas, can you swim?"

"No, Luce, I's sorry to 'form you dat de only d'reckshon what I kin circumstanshiate fru de water am de bottom."

"Well, den, as I was 'latin'. S'posen we was on de boat, glidin' lubingly an' harmunly down de bussum ob der riber's stream, de moon was lookin' shiningly down pon de smoke-stack, an' you wos sottin' rite up to me (jus' slide up here closer, an' lem me show you how), dats de way."

"Yah, yah! but wouldn't dat be scrumptuous?" interrupted Midas.

"S'posen," continued Lucy, "you had jest put your arm roun' my wai' (dat's it), der wasn't nobody 'bout, you was a squeezin' me up, an' was jest gwine to gimme de lubinest kind ob a kiss, an'--an'--an' de biler would bust!"

"Oh, de debbil!" said the disappointed Midas.

"Now, Midas, I is s'posen dis case, an' I wants you to mind de words what I am a speakin'. S'posen when dat biler busted we bof went up in de air, come down in de ribber, an' when we arrive in de water we found de only thing lef' of dat boat was one piece ob board dat wasn't big enough to hole us bof, but we bof grab at it; now, Midas, wud you let go dat board, or would you put me off an' took it all y'self? Dat's de question what I'm s'posen."

"Luce, can you swim?" he asked, after hesitating a few moments.

"No, Midas, ob course not. You know I can't swim."

"Well den, Luce, my conchenshus 'pinion ob de whole matter am dat we won't go on no scursions."

PAT AND THE FOX.

SAMUEL LOVER.

"Paddy," said the squire, "perhaps you would favor the gentleman with that story you told me once about a fox?"

"Indeed and I will, plaze yer honor," said Paddy, "though I know full well the divil a one word iv it you b'lieve, nor the gintlemen won't either, though you're axin' me for it--but only want to laugh at me, and call me a big liar when my back's turned."

"Maybe we wouldn't wait for your back being turned, Paddy, to honor you with that title."

"Oh, indeed, I'm not sayin' that you wouldn't do it as soon foreninst my face, yer honor, as you often did before, and will agin, plaze God, and welkim."

"Well, Paddy, say no more about that, but let's have the story."

"Sure I'm losing no time, only telling the gintlemen beforehand that it's what they'll be callin' it, a lie--and indeed it's ancommon, sure enough; but you see, gintlemen, you must remimber that the fox is the cunnin'est baste in the world, barrin' the wran----"

Here Paddy was questioned why he considered the wren as cunning a _baste_ as the fox.

"Why, sir, bekase all the birds build their nest wid one hole to it only, excep'n the wran; but the wran builds two holes to the nest, and so that if any inimy comes to disturb it upon one door it can go out an the other. But the fox is cute to that degree that there's many mortial a fool to him--and, by dad, the fox could by and sell many a Christian, as you'll soon see by-and-by, when I tell you what happened to a wood-ranger that I knew wanst, and a dacent man he was, and wouldn't say the thing in a lie.

"Well, you see, he kem home one night mighty tired--for he was out wid a party in the domain cock-shootin' that day; and whin he got back to his lodge he threw a few logs o' wood an the fire to make himself comfortable, and he tuk whatever little matther he had for his supper--and afther that he felt himself so tired that he wint to bed. But you're to understand that, though he wint to bed, it was more for to rest himself like, than to sleep, for it was airly; and so he jist wint into bed, and there he divarted himself lookin' at the fire, that was blazin' as merry as a bonfire an the hearth.

"Well, as he was lyin' that-a-way, jist thinkin' o' nothin' at all, what should come into the place but a fox. But I must tell you, what I forgot to tell you, before, that the ranger's house was on the bordhers o' the wood, and he had no one to live wid him but himself, barrin' the dogs that he had the care iv, that was his only companions, and he had a hole cut an the door, with a swingin' boord to it, that the dogs might go in or out accordin' as it plazed thim; and, by dad, the fox kem in as I told you, through the hole in the door, as bould as a ram, and walked over to the fire, and sat down foreninst it.

"Now it was mighty provokin' that all the dogs was out; they wor rovin' about the wood, you see, lookin for to catch rabbits to ate, or some other mischief, and so it happened that there wasn't as much as one individual dog in the place; and, by gor, I'll go bail the fox knew that right well before he put his nose inside the ranger's lodge.

"Well, the ranger was in hopes some o' the dogs id come home and ketch the chap, and he was loath to stir hand or fut himself, afeared o' frightenin' away the fox, but by gor, he could hardly keep his timper at all at all, whin he seen the fox take his pipe aff o' the hob where he left it afore he wint to bed, and puttin' the bowl o' the pipe into the fire to kindle it (it's as thrue as I'm here), he began to smoke foreninst the fire, as nath'ral as any other man you ever seen.

"'Musha, bad luck to your impidence, you long-tailed blackguard,' says the ranger, 'and is it smokin' my pipe you are? Oh, thin, by this and by that, iv I had my gun convaynient to me, it's fire and smoke of another sort, and what you wouldn't bargain for, I'd give you,' says he. But still he was loath to stir, hopin the dogs id come home; and 'By gor, my fine fellow,' says he to the fox, 'if one o' the dogs comes home, saltpethre wouldn't save you, and that's a sthrong pickle.'

"So with that he watched antil the fox wasn't mindin' him, but was busy shakin' the cindhers out o' the pipe whin he was done wid it, and so the ranger thought he was goin' to go immediately afther gettin an air o' the fire and a shough o' the pipe; and so, says he, 'Faix, my lad, I won't let you go so aisy as all that, as cunnin' as you think yourself;' and with that he made a dart out o' bed, and run over to the door, and got betune it and the fox, 'And now,' says he, 'your bread's baked, my buck, and maybe my lord won't have a fine run out o' you, and the dogs at your brish every yard, you morodin' thief, and the divil mind you,' says he, 'for your impidence--for sure, if you hadn't the impidence of a highwayman's horse it's not into my very house, undher my nose, you'd daar for to come:' and with that he began to whistle for the dogs; and the fox, that stood eyein' him all the time while he was spakin', began to think it was time to be joggin' whin he heard the whistle--and says the fox to himself, 'Troth, indeed, you think yourself a mighty great ranger now,' says he, 'and you think you're very cute, but upon my tail, and that's a big oath, I'd be long sorry to let such a mallet-headed bog-throtter as yourself take a dirty advantage o' me, and I'll engage,' says the fox, 'I'll make you lave the door soon and suddint,'--and with that he turned to where the ranger's brogues was lyin' hard by beside the fire, and, what would you think, but the fox tuk one o' the brogues, and wint over to the fire, and threw it into it.

"'I think that'll make you start,' says the fox.

"'Divil resave the start,' says the ranger--'that won't do, my buck,' says he, 'the brogue may burn to cindhers,' says he, 'but out o' this I won't stir;' and thin, puttin' his fingers into his mouth, he gev a blast of a whistle you'd hear a mile off, and shouted for the dogs.

"'So that won't do,' says the fox--'well, I must thry another offer,' says he, and with that he tuk up the other brogue, and threw it into the fire too.

"'There, now,' says he, 'you may keep the other company,' says he; 'and there's a pair o' you now, as the divil said to his knee-buckles.'

"'Oh, you thievin' varment,' says the ranger, 'you won't lave me a tack to my feet; but no matter,' says he, 'your head's worth more nor a pair o' brogues to me any day, and by the Piper of Blessintown, you're money in my pocket this minit,' says he: and with that, the fingers was in his mouth agin, and he was goin' to whistle, whin, what would you think, but up sets the fox on his hunkers, and puts his two fore-paws into his mouth, makin' game o' the ranger--(bad luck to the lie I tell you.)

"'Well, the ranger, and no wondher, although in a rage as he was, couldn't help laughin' at the thought o' the fox mockin' him, and, by dad, he tuk sitch a fit o' laughin' that he couldn't whistle--and that was the 'cuteness o' the fox to gain time; but whin his first laugh was over, the ranger recovered himself, and gev another whistle; and so says the fox, 'By my soul,' says he, 'I think it wouldn't be good for my health to stay here much longer, and I mustn't be triflin' with that blackguard ranger any more,' says he, 'and I must make him sensible that it is time to let me go, and though he hasn't understandin' to be sorry for his brogues, I'll go bail I'll make him lave that,' says he, 'before he'd say _sparables_'--and with that what do you think the fox done? By all that's good--and the ranger himself told me out iv his own mouth, and said he would never have b'lieved it, ownly he seen it--the fox tuk a lighted piece iv a log out o' the blazin' fire, and run over wid it to the ranger's bed, and was goin' to throw it into the sthraw, and burn him out of house and home; so when the ranger seen that he gev a shout out iv him--

"'Hillo! hillo! you murtherin' villain,' says he, 'you're worse nor Captain Rock; is it goin' to burn me out you are, you red rogue iv a Ribbonman?" and he made a dart betune him and the bed, to save the house from bein' burnt,--but, my jew'l, that was all the fox wanted--and as soon as the ranger quitted the hole in the door that he was standin' foreninst, the fox let go the blazin' faggit, and made one jump through the door and escaped.

"But before he wint, the ranger gev me his oath that the fox turned round and gev him the most contemptible look he ever got in his life, and showed every tooth in his head with laughin', and at last he put out his tongue at him, as much as to say--'You've missed me like your mammy's blessin',' and off wid him, like a flash o' lightnin'."

TO MY MOTHER.

FORRESTER.

[It is hardly necessary to say that too much tenderness cannot
be imparted to the voice while reading these beautiful lines.
The heart that recalls a departed mother's memory will be the
best monitor.]

Give me my old seat, mother,
With my head upon thy knee;
I've passed through many a changing scene,
Since thus I sat by thee.
Oh! let me look into thine eyes;
Their meek, soft, loving light
Falls like a gleam of holiness,
Upon my heart, to-night.

I've not been long away, mother;
Few suns have risen and set,
Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek,
My lips in kisses met.
'Tis but a little time, I know,
But very long it seems;
Though every night I came to thee,
Dear mother, in my dreams.

The world has kindly dealt, mother,
By the child thou lov'st so well;
The prayers have circled round her path;
And 'twas their holy spell
Which made that path so dearly bright;
Which strewed the roses there;
Which gave the light, and cast the balm
On every breath of air.

I bear a happy heart, mother;
A happier never beat;
And, even now, new buds of hope
Are bursting at my feet.
Oh! mother! life may be a dream;
But if such _dreams_ are given,
While at the portals thus we stand,
What are the _truths_ of Heaven?

I bear a happy heart, mother!
Yet, when fond eyes I see,
And hear soft tones and winning words,
I ever think of thee.
And then, the tears my spirit weeps
Unbidden fill my eye;
And, like a houseless dove, I long
Unto thy breast to fly.

_Then_ I am very sad, mother,
I'm very sad and lone:
O! there's no heart whose inmost fold
Opes to me like thine own!
Though sunny smiles wreath blooming lips,
While love-tones meet my ear;
My mother, one fond glance of thine
Were thousand times more dear.

Then with a closer clasp, mother,
Now hold me to thy heart:
I'll feel it beating 'gainst my own,
Once more before we part.
And mother, to this love-lit spot,
When I am far away,
Come oft--_too oft_ thou canst not come!
And for thy darling pray.

WHAT AILED "UGLY SAM."

DETROIT FREE PRESS.

He had been missing from the "Potomac" for several days, and Cleveland Tom, Port Huron Bill, Tall Chicago, and the rest of the boys who were wont to get drunk with him, couldn't make out what had happened. They hadn't heard that there was a warrant out for him, had never known of his being sick for a day, and his absence from the old haunts puzzled them. They were in the Hole-in-the-Wall saloon yesterday morning, nearly a dozen of them, drinking, smoking, and playing cards, when in walked Ugly Sam.

There was a deep silence for a moment as they looked at him. Sam had a new hat, had been shaved clean, had on a clean collar and a white shirt, and they didn't know him at first. When they saw that it was Ugly Sam, they uttered a shout and leaped up.

"Cave in that hat!" cried one.

"Yank that collar off!" shouted another.

"Let's roll him on the floor!" screamed a third.

There was something in his look and bearing which made them hesitate. The whiskey-red had almost faded from his face, and he looked sober and dignified. His features expressed disgust and contempt as he looked around the room, and then revealed pity as his eyes fell upon the red eyes and bloated faces of the crowd before him.

"Why, what ails ye, Sam?" inquired Tall Chicago, as they all stood there.

"I've come down to bid ye good-bye, boys!" he replied, removing his hat and drawing a clean handkerchief from his pocket.

"What! Hev ye turned preacher?" they shouted in chorus.

"Boys, ye know I can lick any two of ye; but I hain't on the fight any more, an' I've put down the last drop of whiskey which is ever to go into my mouth! I've switched off. I've taken an oath. I'm going to be decent!"

"Sam, be you crazy?" asked Port Huron Bill, coming nearer to him.

"I've come down here to tell ye all about it," answered Sam. "Move the cha'rs back a little and give me room. Ye all know I've been rough, and more too. I've been a drinker, a fighter, a gambler, and a loafer. I can't look back and remember when I've earned an honest dollar. The police hez chased me around like a wolf, and I've been in jail and the work-house, and the papers has said that Ugly Sam was the terror of the Potomac. Ye all know this, boys, but ye didn't know I had an old mother."

The faces of the crowd expressed amazement.

"I never mentioned it to any of ye, for I was neglecting her," he went on. "She was a poor old body living up here in the alley, and if the neighbours hadn't helped her to fuel and food, she'd have been found dead long ago. I never helped her to a cent--didn't see her for weeks and weeks, and I used to feel mean about it. When a feller goes back on his old mother, he's a-gittin' purty low, and I know it. Well, she's dead--buried yesterday! I was up there afore she died. She sent for me by Pete, and when I got there I seen it was all day with her."

"Did she say anything?" asked one of the boys, as Sam hesitated.

"That's what ails me now," he went on. "When I went she reached out her hand to me, and says she, 'Samuel, I'm going to die, and I know'd you'd want to see me afore I passed away!' I sat down, feeling queer like. She didn't go on and say as how I was a loafer, and had neglected her, and all that, but says she, 'Samuel, you'll be all alone when I'm gone. I've tried to be a good mother to you, and have prayed for you hundreds o' nights and cried about you till my old heart was sore!' Some o' the neighbours had dropped in, and the women were crying, and I tell you, boys, I felt weak."

He paused for a moment, and then continued:

"And the old woman said she'd like to kiss me afore death came, and that broke me right down. She kept hold of my hand, and by-and-by she whispered; 'Samuel, you are throwing your life away. You've got it in you to be a man if you will only make up your mind, I hate to die and feel that my only son and the last of our family may go to the gallows. If I had your promise that you'd turn over a new leaf and try and be good, it seems as if I'd die easier. Won't you promise me, my son?' And I promised her, boys, and that's what ails me! She died holding my hand, and I promised to quit this low business and go to work. I came down to tell ye, and now you won't see me on the Potomac again. I've bought an axe, and am going up in Canada to Winter."

There was a dead silence for a moment, and then he said:

"Well, boys, I'll shake hands with ye all around afore I go. Good-by, Pete--good-by, Jack--Tom--Jim. I hope you won't fling any bricks at me, and I shan't never fling any at any of ye. It's a dying promise, ye see, and I'll keep it if it takes a right arm!"

The men looked reflectively at each other after he had passed out, and it was a long time before any one spoke. Then Tall Chicago flung his clay pipe into a corner, and said:

"I'll lick the man who says Ugly Sam's head isn't level!"

"So'll I!" repeated the others.

SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.

MILTON.

This famous speech affords opportunity for the grandest
declamation. It is studded with points--anger, hate, scorn,
admiration and defiance. The student should read, and re-read
and ponder over every line, until he catches the exact meaning
intended to be conveyed--then, following the examples already
given, he should declaim it repeatedly:

O thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd,
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
O Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down
Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless king:
Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks,
How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
I 'sdain'd subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude
So burdensome still paying, still to owe:
Forgetful what from him I still received,
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged; what burden then?
O, had his powerful destiny ordain'd
Me some inferior angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition! Yet why not? some other Power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse
But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
O then at last relent: Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent. Ah me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of hell.
With diadem and sceptre high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery! Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What faint submission swore? Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace;
All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight,
Mankind created, and for him this world,
So farewell, hope; and with hope, farewell, fear;
Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man, ere long, and this new world shall know.

PATRICK'S COLT.

ANONYMOUS.