Chapter II: Part 2

Patrick O'Flanigan, from Erin's isle
Just fresh, thinking he'd walk around a while,
With open mouth and widely staring eyes,
Cried "Och!" and "Whist!" at every new surprise.
He saw some labourers in a field of corn;
The golden pumpkins lit the scene with glory;
Of all that he had heard since being born,
Nothing had equaled this in song or story.
"The holy mither! and, sirs, would ye plaise
To be a tellin' me what might be these?
An' sure I'm thinkin' that they're not pratees,
But mebbe it's the way you grow your chase."
"Ah, Patrick, these are mare's eggs," said the hand,
Giving a wink to John, and Jim, and Bill;
"Just hatch it out, and then you have your horse;
Take one and try it; it will pay you well."
"Faith an' that's aisy sure; in dear ould Ireland
I always had my Christmas pig so nate,
Fatted on buttermilk, and hard to bate;
But only gintlemen can own a horse.
Ameriky's a great counthry indade,
I thought that here I'd kape a pig, of coorse,
Have me own land, and shanty without rent,
An' have me vote, an' taxes not a cint;
But sure I niver thought to own a baste.
An' won't the wife and childer now be glad?
A thousand blissings on your honor's head!
But could ye tell by lookin' at the egg
What colour it will hatch? It's to me taste
To have a dapple gray, with a long tail,
High in the neck, and slinder in the leg,
To jump a twel' feet bog, and niver fail,
Like me Lord Dumferline's at last year's races--"
Just then the merry look on all their faces
Checked Patrick's flow of talk, and with a blush
That swept his face as milk goes over mush,
He added, "Sure, I know it is no use
To try to tell by peering at an egg
If it will hatch a gander or a goose;"
Then looked around to make judicious choice.
"Pick out the largest one that you can hide
Out of the owner's sight there by the river;
Don't drop and break it, or the colt is gone;
Carry it gently to your little farm,
Put it in bed, and keep it six weeks warm."
Quickly Pat seized a huge, ripe, yellow one,
"Faith, sure, an' I'll do every bit of that
The whole sax wakes I'll lie meself in bed,
An' kape it warrum, as your honour said;
Long life to yees, and may you niver walk,
Not even to your grave, but ride foriver;
Good luck to yees," and without more of talk
He pulled the forelock 'neath his tattered hat,
And started off; but plans of mice and men
Gang oft agley, again and yet again.
Full half a mile upon his homeward road
Poor Patrick toiled beneath his heavy load.
A hilltop gained, he stopped to rest, alas!
He laid his mare's egg on some treacherous grass;
When down the steep hillside it rolled away,
And at poor Patrick's call made no delay.
Gaining momentum, with a heavy thump,
It struck and split upon a hollow stump,
In which a rabbit lived with child and wife,
Frightened, the timid creature ran for life.
"Shtop, shtop my colt!" cried Patrick, as he ran
After his straying colt, but all in vain.
With ears erect poor Bunny faster fled
As "Shtop my colt!" in mournful, eager tones
Struck on those organs, till with fright half dead
He hid away among some grass and stones.
Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon,
Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse,
Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat;
"For won't the young thing want his mither soon,
And come to take a bit of something t'eat?"
But vain the tender accents of his call--
No colt responded from the broken wall;
And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on,
To tell how he had got and lost his horse.
"As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on,"
He said to Bridget and the children eight,
After thrice telling the whole story o'er,
"The way he run it would be hard to bate;
So little, too, with jist a whisk o' tail,
Not a pin-feather on it as I could see,
For it was hatched out just sax weeks too soon!
An' such long ears were niver grown before
On any donkey in grane Ireland!
So little, too, you'd hold it in your hand;
Och hone! he would have made a gray donkey."
So all the sad O'Flanigans that night
Held a loud wake over the donkey gone,
Eating their "pratees" without milk or salt,
Howling between whiles, "Och! my little colt!"
While Bunny, trembling from his dreadful fright,
Skipped home to Mrs. B. by light of moon,
And told the story of his scare and flight;
And all the neighbouring rabbits played around
The broken mare's egg scattered on the ground.

THE WORLD FOR SALE.

REV. RALPH HOYT.

The world for sale! Hang out the sign; call every traveler here to me: who'll buy this brave estate of mine, and set this weary spirit free? 'Tis going! yes, I mean to fling the bauble from my soul away; I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring: the world's at auction here to-day! It is a glorious sight to see--but, ah! it has deceived me sore; it is not what it seems to be. For sale! it shall be mine no more. Come, turn it o'er and view it well; I would not have you purchase dear. 'Tis going! going! I must sell! Who bids! who'll buy this splendid Tear? Here's Wealth, in glittering heaps of gold; who bids? But let me tell you fair, a baser lot was never sold! Who'll buy the heavy heaps of Care? and, here, spread out in broad domain, a goodly landscape all may trace; hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain:--who'll buy himself a burial place? Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell that Beauty flings around the heart; I know its power, alas! too well; 'tis going! Love and I must part! Must part? What can I more with Love? all o'er is the enchanter's reign. Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove--a breath of bliss, a storm of pain? And Friendship, rarest gem of earth; who e'er has found the jewel his? Frail, fickle, false, and little worth! who bids for Friendship--as it is? 'Tis going! going! hear the call; once, twice and thrice, 'tis very low! 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all, but now the broken staff must go! Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high; how dazzling every gilded name! Ye millions! now's the time to buy. How much for Fame? how much for Fame? Hear how it thunders! Would you stand on high Olympus, far renowned, now purchase, and a world command!--and be with a world's curses crowned. Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine in every sad foreboding breast, save this desponding one of mine--who bids for man's last friend, and best? Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life, this treasure should my soul sustain! But Hope and Care are now at strife, nor ever may unite again. Ambition, Fashion, Show and Pride, I part from all forever now; Grief, in an overwhelming tide, has taught my haughty heart to bow. By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod; the best of all I still have left--my Faith, My Bible, and my GOD.

HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE.

JOSHUA JENKINS.

I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, "O Joshua! a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a great--ya, shoo--horrid mouse, and--she--ew--it ran right out of the cupboard--shoo--go away--O Lord--Joshua--shoo--kill it, oh, my--shoo."

All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down, and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment. There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. That mouse was next to me. I could feel its every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me I may have yelled with a certain degree of vigor; but I deny that I yelled fire, and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict punishment on his person.

I did not loose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice at once to advantage.

Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do--as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "O Joshua," she cried, "I wish you had not killed the cat." Now I submit that the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?--rather have the mouse there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it. I reminded Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.

That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dradged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.

Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria "shoo" them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble.

THE DYING HEBREW.

KIMBIE.

The following poem, a favourite with the late Mr. Edwin
Forrest, was composed by a young law student, and first
published in Boston in 1858.

A Hebrew knelt in the dying light,
His eye was dim and cold;
The hairs on his brow were silver white,
And his blood was thin and old!
He lifted his look to his latest sun,
For he knew that his pilgrimage was done;
And as he saw God's shadow there,
His spirit poured itself in prayer!
"I come unto death's second birth
Beneath a stranger air,
A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth,
As all my fathers were!
And men have stamped me with a curse,
I feel it is not Thine;
Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made
On me, as them, to shine;
And therefore dare I lift mine eye
Through that to Thee before I die!
In this great temple, built by Thee,
Whose pillars are divine,
Beneath yon lamp, that ceaselessly
Lights up Thine own true shrine,
Oh take my latest sacrifice--
Look down and make this sod
Holy as that where, long ago,
The Hebrew met his God.
I have not caused the widow's tears,
Nor dimmed the orphan's eye;
I have not stained the virgin's years,
Nor mocked the mourner's cry.
The songs of Zion in mine ear
Have ever been most sweet,
And always, when I felt Thee near,
My shoes were off my feet.
I have known Thee in the whirlwind,
I have known Thee on the hill,
I have loved Thee in the voice of birds,
Or the music of the rill;
I dreamt Thee in the shadow,
I saw Thee in the light;
I blessed Thee in the radiant day,
And worshiped Thee at night.
All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,
Still made my soul rejoice,
And my spirit bowed within itself
To hear Thy still, small voice!
I have not felt myself a thing,
Far from Thy presence driven,
By flaming sword or waving wing
Shut off from Thee and heaven.
Must I the whirlwind reap because
My fathers sowed the storm?
Or shrink, because another sinned,
Beneath Thy red, right arm?
Oh much of this we dimly scan,
And much is all unknown;
But I will not take my curse from man--
I turn to Thee alone!
Oh bid my fainting spirit live,
And what is dark reveal,
And what is evil, oh forgive,
And what is broken heal.
And cleanse my nature from above,
In the dark Jordan of Thy love!
I know not if the Christian's heaven
Shall be the same as mine;
I only ask to be forgiven,
And taken home to Thine.
I weary on a far, dim strand,
Whose mansions are as tombs,
And long to find the Fatherland,
Where there are many homes.
Oh grant of all yon starry thrones,
Some dim and distant star,
Where Judah's lost and scattered sons
May love Thee from afar.
Where all earth's myriad harps shall meet
In choral praise and prayer,
Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,
Alone be wanting there?
Yet place me in Thy lowest seat,
Though I, as now, be there,
The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest;
But let me see and hear,
From some dim mansion in the sky,
Thy bright ones and their melody."
The sun goes down with sudden gleam,
And--beautiful as a lovely dream
And silently as air--
The vision of a dark-eyed girl,
With long and raven hair,
Glides in--as guardian spirits glide--
And lo! is kneeling by his side,
As if her sudden presence there
Were sent in answer to his prayer.
(Oh say they not that angels tread
Around the good man's dying bed?)
His child--his sweet and sinless child--
And as he gazed on her
He knew his God was reconciled,
And this the messenger,
As sure as God had hung on high
The promise bow before his eye--
Earth's purest hopes thus o'er him flung,
To point his heavenward faith,
And life's most holy feeling strung
To sing him into death;
And on his daughter's stainless breast
The dying Hebrew found his rest!

GIVE ME BACK MY HUSBAND.

Not many years since, a young married couple from the far "fast-anchored isle" sought our shores with the most sanguine anticipations of happiness and prosperity. They had begun to realize more than they had seen in the visions of hope, when, in an evil hour, the husband was tempted "to look upon the wine when it is red," and to taste of it, "when it giveth its colour in the cup." The charmer fastened round its victim all the serpent-spells of its sorcery, and he fell; and at every step of his degradation from the man to the brute, and downward, a heartstring broke in the bosom of his companion.

Finally, with the last spark of hope flickering on the altar of her heart, she threaded her way into one of those shambles where man is made such a thing as the beasts of the field would bellow at. She pressed her way through the bacchanalian crowd who were revelling there in their own ruin. With her bosom full of "that perilous stuff that preys upon the heart," she stood before the plunderer of her husband's destiny, and exclaimed in tones of startling anguish, "_Give me back my husband!_"

"There's your husband," said the man, as he pointed toward the prostrate wretch.

"_That my husband?_ What have you done to him? _That my husband?_ What have you done to that noble form that once, like the great oak, held its protecting shade over the fragile vine that clung to it for support and shelter? _That my husband?_ With what torpedo chill have you touched the sinews of that manly arm? What have you done to that once noble brow, which he wore high among his fellows, as if it bore the superscription of the Godhead? _That my husband?_ What have you done to that eye, with which he was wont to look erect on heaven, and see in his mirror the image of his God? What Egyptian drug have you poured into his veins, and turned the ambling fountains of the heart into black and burning pitch? Give me back my husband! Undo your basilisk spells, and give me back the _man_ that stood with me by the altar!"

The ears of the rumseller, ever since the first demijohn of that burning liquid was opened upon our shores, have been saluted, at every stage of the traffic, with just such appeals as this. Such wives, such widows, and mothers, such fatherless children, as never mourned in Israel at the massacre of Bethlehem or at the burning of the temple, have cried in his ears, morning, night, and evening, "_Give me back my husband! Give me back my boy! Give me back my brother! Give me back my sister! Give me back my wife!_"

But has the rumseller been confounded or speechless at these appeals? No! not he. He could show his credentials at a moment's notice with proud defiance. He always carried in his pocket a written absolution for all he had done and could do in his work of destruction. _He had bought a letter of indulgence_--I mean a _license!_--a precious instrument, signed and sealed by an authority stronger and more respectable than the pope's. _He_ confounded? Why, the whole artillery of civil power was ready to open in his defence and support. Thus shielded by the law, he had nothing to fear from the enemies of his traffic. He had the image and superscription of Cæsar on his credentials, and unto Cæsar he appealed; and unto Cæsar, too, his _victims_ appealed, and _appealed in vain_.

THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.

A LOGICAL STORY.

O.W. HOLMES.

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden, it--ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,--
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
_Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,--
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
And left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,--
Above or below, or within or without,--
And that's the reason beyond a doubt,
A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_.

But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,--
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"--
Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."--
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren,--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day,--
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local as one may say.
There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub _encore_.
And yet, _as a whole_, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be _worn out!_

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text,--
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
--First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,--
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,--
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
--What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,--
All at once, and nothing first,--
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.

THE INJURED MOTHER.

From the Rev. JOHN BROWN'S tragedy of BARBAROSSA.

CHARACTERS:

BARBAROSSA, _an Usurper_,
OTHMAN, _an officer_,
ZAPHIRA, _the Widowed Queen_.

[This play has many passages of splendid diction, well
calculated for bold declamation. The plot of the piece runs
thus: _Barbarossa_ having killed, and then usurped the throne
of his friend and master, tries to obtain the hand of Zaphira,
the late monarch's widow--having previously destroyed, (as is
supposed) her son, _Selim_. The following scene represents the
interviews between the unhappy queen and her faithful Othman,
and of the queen with Barbarossa.

COSTUMES.--_Barbarossa_ green velvet robe, scarlet satin
shirt, white trousers, russet boots, and turban. _Othman_,
scarlet fly, yellow satin shirt, white slippers, turban white,
scarlet cashmere vest. _Zaphira_, white dress, embroidered
with silver, turban, and Turkish shoes.

NOTE.--A little taste will enable any smart young lady to make
up these dresses. They are mostly loose, and the embroidery
may be of tinsel--while cheap velveteen looks as well as the
best velvet on the stage.]

SCENE I.--_An apartment, with sofa._

_Enter_ ZAPHIRA, R.

ZAP. (C.) When shall I be at peace? O, righteous heaven
Strengthen my fainting soul, which fain would rise
To confidence in thee! But woes on woes
O'erwhelm me. First my husband, now my son--
Both dead--both slaughter'd by the bloody hand
Of Barbarossa! What infernal power
Unchain'd thee from thy native depth of hell,
To stalk the earth with thy destructive train,
Murder and lust! To wake domestic peace,
And every heart-felt joy!

_Enter_ OTHMAN, L.

O, faithful Othman!
Our fears were true; my Selim is no more!

OTH. Has, then, the fatal secret reach'd thine ear? Inhuman tyrant!

ZAP. Strike him, heav'n with thunder,
Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence!

OTH. 'Twas what we fear'd. Oppose not heav'n's high will,
Nor struggle with the ten-fold chain of fate,
That links thee to thy woes. O, rather yield,
And wait the happier hour, when innocence
Shall weep no more. Rest in that pleasing hope,
And yield thyself to heaven, my honor'd queen.
The king----

ZAP. Whom stylest thou king?

OTH. 'Tis Barbarossa.

ZAP. Does he assume the name of king?

OTH. He does.

ZAP. O, title vilely purchas'd!--by the blood
Of innocence--by treachery and murder!
May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him,
Blast all his joys, and turn them into horror
Till phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hour
That gave his crimes their birth!--My faithful Othman,
My sole surviving prop, canst thou devise
No secret means, by which I may escape
This hated palace?

OTH. That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate;
Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee.
Rouse not, then, his anger:
Let soft persuasion and mild eloquence
Redeem that liberty, which stern rebuke
Would rob thee of for ever.

ZAP. An injur'd queen
To kneel for liberty!--And, oh! to whom!
E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son!
O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die!
For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord--
My hapless child--yes, I will follow you!

OTH. Wilt thou not see him, then?

ZAP. I will not, Othman;
Or, if I do, with bitter imprecation
More keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues,
I'll pour my curses on him.

OTH. Will Zaphira
Thus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage,
When she should wake revenge?

ZAP. Revenge!--O, tell me--
Tell, me but how?--What can a helpless woman?

OTH. (C.). Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father;
Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongs
Kindle his indignation to pursue
This vile usurper, till unceasing war
Blast his ill-gotten pow'r.

ZAP. (L.C.). Ah! say'st thou, Othman?
Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame,
And all my soul's on fire!--thou faithful friend!
Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride;
Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents;
There paint my countless woes. His kindling rage
Shall wake the valleys into honest vengeance;
The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa,
And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaft
In deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs! (_crosses to_ R.)

OTH. (C.). There spoke the queen.--But, as thou lov'st thy freedom,
Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle,
And passion mount in flames that will consume thee.

ZAP. (R.). My murder'd son!--Yes, to revenge thy death,
I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.

OTH. Peace, peace,!--the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen,
Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge,
And check each rising passion. [_Exit_ OTHMAN, R.

_Enter_ BARBAROSSA, L.

BAR. (L.). Hail sovereign fair! in whom
Beauty and majesty conspire to charm:
Behold the conqu'ror.

ZAP. (R.C.) O, Barbarossa,
No more the pride of conquest e'er can charm
My widow'd heart. With my departed lord
My love lies buried!
Then turn thee to some happier fair, whose heart
May crown thy growing love with love sincere;
For I have none to give.

BAR. Love ne'er should die:
'Tis the soul's cordial--'tis the font of life;
Therefore should spring eternal in the breast.
One object lost, another should succeed,
And all our life be love.

ZAP. Urge me no more.--Thou mightst with equal hope
Woo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb,
To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (_approaches him._)
Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere:
Give me safe convoy to the native vales
Of dear Mutija, where my father reigns.

BAR. O, blind to proffer'd bliss!--What! fondly quit
This pomp
Of empire for an Arab's wand'ring tent,
Where the mock chieftain leads his vagrant tribes
From plain to plain, and faintly shadows out
The majesty of kings!--Far other joys
Here shall attend thy call:
Submissive realms
Shall bow the neck; and swarthy kings and Queens,
From the far-distant Niger and the Nile,
Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels,
Shall kneel before thee.

ZAP. Pomp and pow'r are toys,
Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain:
But oh! what mockery is the tinsel pride
Of splendour, when the mind
Lies desolate within!--Such, such is mine!
O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy;
Envy me not this last request, to die
In my dear father's tents.

BAR. Thy suit is vain.

ZAP. Thus, kneeling at thy feet--(_kneels._)

BAR. Thou thankless fair! (_raises_ ZAPHIRA.)
Thus to repay the labours of my love!
Had I not seiz'd the throne when Selim died,
Ere this thy foes had laid Algiers in ruin.
I check'd the warring pow'rs, and gave you peace,
Make thee but mine,
I will descend the throne, and call thy son
From banishment to empire.

ZAP. O, my heart!
Can I bear this?
Inhuman tyrant!--curses on thy head!
May dire remorse and anguish haunt thy throne,
And gender in thy bosom fell despair,--
Despair as deep as mine! (_crosses to_ L.)

BAR. (R.C.). What means Zaphira?
What means this burst of grief?

ZAP. (L.). Thou fell destroyer!
Had not guilt steel'd thy heart, awak'ning conscience
Would flash conviction on thee, and each look,
Shot from these eyes, be arm'd with serpent horrors,
To turn thee into stone!--Relentless man!
Who did the bloody deeds--O, tremble, guilt,
Where'er thou art!--Look on me; tell me, tyrant,
Who slew my blameless son?

BAR. What envious tongue
Hath dar'd to taint my name with slander?
Thy Selim lives; nay, more, he soon shall reign,
If thou consent to bless me.

ZAP. Never, O, never!--Sooner would I roam
An unknown exile through the torrid climes
Of Afric--sooner dwell with wolves and tigers,
Than mount with thee my murder'd Selim's throne!

BAR. Rash queen, forbear; think on thy captive state,
Remember, that within these palace walls
I am omnipotent. Yield thee, then;
Avert the gath'ring horrors that surround thee,
And dread my pow'r incens'd.

ZAP. Dares thy licentious tongue pollute mine ear
With that foul menace? Tyrant! dread'st thou not
Th' all-seeing eye of heav'n, its lifted thunder,
And all the red'ning vengeance which it stores
For crimes like thine?--Yet know, Zaphira scorns thee.
[_crosses to_ R.
Though robb'd by thee of ev'ry dear support,
No tyrant's threat can awe the free-born soul,
That greatly dares to die. [_Exit_ ZAPHIRA, R.

BAR. (C.). Where should she learn the tale of Selim's death?
Could Othman dare to tell it?--If he did,
My rage shall sweep him swifter than the whirlwind,
To instant death! [_Exit._

(R.) Right. (L.) Left. (C.) Centre. (R.C.) Right Centre. (L.C.) Left Centre.

THE MILLS OF GOD.

DUGANNE.

Apart from the noble sentiments of these verses, and their
exquisite diction--in which every word is the best that could
possibly be used--as in a piece of faultless mosaic every
minute stone is so placed as to impart strength, brilliancy,
and harmony--they afford an excellent example of lofty,
dignified recitation:

Those mills of God! those tireless mills!
I hear their ceaseless throbs and thrills:
I see their dreadful stones go round,
And all the realms beneath them ground;
And lives of men and souls of states,
Flung out, like chaff, beyond their gates.

And we, O God! with impious will,
Have made these Negroes turn Thy mill!
Their human limbs with chains we bound,
And bade them whirl Thy mill-stones round;
With branded brow and fettered wrist,
We bade them grind this Nation's grist!

And so, like Samson--blind and bound--
Our Nation's grist this Negro ground;
And all the strength of Freedom's toil,
And all the fruits of Freedom's soil,
And all her hopes and all her trust,
From Slavery's gates were flung, like dust.

With servile souls this mill we fed,
That ground the grain for Slavery's bread;
With cringing men, and grovelling deeds,
We dwarfed our land to Slavery's needs;
Till all the scornful nations hissed,
To see us ground with Slavery's grist.

The mill grinds on! From Slavery's plain,
We reap great crops of blood-red grain;
And still the Negro's strength we urge,
With Slavery's gyve and Slavery's scourge;
And still we crave--on Freedom's sod--
That Slaves shall turn the mills of God!

The Mill grinds on! God lets it grind!
We sow the seed--the sheaves we bind:
The mill-stones whirl as we ordain;
Our children's bread shall test the grain!
While Samson still in chains we bind,
The mill grinds on! God lets it grind!

THE MENAGERIE.

J. HONEYWELL.

Did you ever! No, I never!
Mercy on us, what a smell!
Don't be frightened, Johnny, dear!
Gracious! how the jackals yell!
Mother, tell me, what's the man
Doing with that pole of his?
Bless your little precious heart,
He's stirring up the beastesses!

Children! don't you go so near!
Hevings! there's the Afric cowses!
What's the matter with the child?
Why, the monkey's tore his trowses!
Here's the monstrous elephant,--
I'm all a tremble at the sight;
See his monstrous tooth-pick, boys!
Wonder if he's fastened tight?

There's the lion!--see his tail!
How he drags it on the floor!
'Sakes alive! I'm awful scared
To hear the horrid creatures roar!
Here's the monkeys in their cage,
Wide awake you are to see 'em;
Funny, ain't it? How would you
Like to have a tail and be 'em?

Johnny, darling, that's the bear
That tore the naughty boys to pieces;
Horned cattle!--only hear
How the dreadful camel wheezes!
That's the tall giraffe, my boy,
Who stoops to hear the morning lark;
'Twas him who waded Noah's flood,
And scorned the refuge of the ark.

Here's the crane,--the awkward bird!
Strong his neck is as a whaler's,
And his bill is full as long
As ever met one from the tailor's.
Look!--just see the zebra there,
Standing safe behind the bars;
Goodness me! how like a flag,
All except the corner stars!

There's the bell! the birds and beasts
Now are going to be fed;
So my little darlings, come,
It 's time for you to be abed.
"Mother, 't is n't nine o'clock!
You said we need n't go before;
Let us stay a little while,--
Want to see the monkeys more!"

Cries the showman, "Turn 'em out!
Dim the lights!--there, that will do;
Come again to-morrow, boys;
Bring your little sisters, too."
Exit mother, half distraught,
Exit father, muttering "bore?"
Exit children, blubbering still,
"Want to see the monkeys more!"

IGNORANCE IS BLISS

CHARACTERS.

FRED BROWN.
JOHNNY GRAY.
NED WHITE.

SCENE.--_Recitation-Room at a Public School._

_Enter_ FRED.

_Fred._ A pretty task Master Green has given me this time! He calls me to his desk, and says, "Brown, those boys, Gray and White, have been very inattentive during the music lesson: take them into the recitation-room, and keep them there until they can sing four stanzas of 'The Battle-cry of Freedom.'" A nice music-master I am! I can't read, sing, or growl a note, and I don't know a single line of "The Battle-cry of Freedom." But I must not let them know that. Here they are. (_Enter_ GRAY _and_ WHITE; _they get in a corner of the stage, and whisper together._) Now, what conspiracy is hatching? Hem! Here, you fellows, do you know what you came here for?

_Gray._ To take a music lesson, I suppose.

_Fred._ Well, you had better commence.

_White._ Certainly, after you.

_Fred._ After me! What do you mean?

_White._ I believe it's the custom of all music-masters to first sing the song they wish to teach. (_Aside to_ GRAY.) He can't sing a note.

_Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) He can't? good! Let's plague him. (_Aloud._) Come, singing-master, proceed.

_Fred._ No matter about me. You two can sing, and when you make a mistake I will correct it.

_Gray._ You'll correct it! That's good. With what, pray?

_Fred._ With this. (_Producing a ratten from under his jacket._)

_White._ O, dear, I don't like that sort of tuning-fork.

_Fred._ You'll get it if you don't hurry. Come, boys, "The Battle-cry of Freedom."

_Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) Ned, do you know the song?

_White._ (_Aside._) I know just one line.

_Gray._ (_Aside._) O, dear, we're in a scrape. (_Aloud._) Master Fred, will you please give me the first line? I've forgotten it.

_Fred._ Certainly. Let me see. "Rock me to sleep, mother." No, that isn't it.

_White._ (_Aside._) He's split on that rock.

_Fred._ Hem! ah! "Dear father, dear father, come home." O, bother!

_Gray._ (_Aside._) It'll bother him to "come home" with that line.

_Fred._ "Give me a cot."--O, pshaw! I tell you what, boys, I didn't come here to talk, but to listen: now you two sing away at once, or down comes the ratten.

_Gray._ (_Aside._) I say, Ned, Brown doesn't know it? here's fun. Now you just keep quiet, and ring in your line when I snap my fingers.

_White._ (_Aside._) All right. I understand. When you snap, I sing.

_Fred._ Come, come! Strike up, or I shall strike down.

_Gray._ (_Sings to the tune of the Battle-cry of Freedom_,)--

"Mary had a little lamb;
Its fleece was white as snow."

(_Snaps his fingers._)

_White._ (_Very loud._)

"Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Fred._ Capital! Perfectly correct, perfectly correct. Sing again.

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"It followed her to school one day;
It was against the rule." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Fred._ Beautiful! beautiful! I couldn't do it better myself.

_Gray._ (_Aside._) I should think not.

_White._ Come, Mr. Singing-master, you try a stanza.

_Fred._ What, sir! do you want to shirk your task? Sing away.

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"And so the teacher turned him out;
Yet still he lingered near." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Gray._

"And waited patiently about,
Till Mary did appear." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Fred._ Glorious! Why, boys, it's a perfect uproar.

_White._ There's enough, isn't there?

_Fred._ No, sir, four stanzas. Come, be quick.

_Gray._ I don't know any more.

_White._ I'm sure I don't.

_Fred._ Yes you do, you're trying to shirk; but I won't have it. You want a taste of the rattan. Come, be lively.

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"'What makes the lamb love Mary so?'
The eager children cry." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Gray._

"'Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,'
The teacher did reply." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Fred._ There, boys, I knew you could sing. Now come in, and I will tell Master Green how capitally you have done--that I couldn't do better myself.

[_Exit._

_White._ Well, Johnny, we got out of that scrape pretty well.

_Gray._ Yes, Ned; but it's a poor way. I must pay a little more attention to my singing.

_White._ And so must I, for we may not always have a teacher on whom the old saying fits so well.

_Gray._ Old saying? What's that?

_White._ "Where ignorance is bliss--"

_Gray._ O, yes, "'Twere folly to be wise."

[_Exeunt._

THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS.

ANONYMOUS.

[The following stirring poem is highly dramatic. The reader
should, as far as possible, realize the feelings of the
shepherd-parent as he sees "the youngest of his babes" borne
in the iron-claws of the vulture high in mid air towards his
golgotha of a nest. Much force of attitude and gesture is not
only admissable, but called for, as the agonized father leans
forward following the flight of the vulture.]

I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,
And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,
As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er
They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:--

"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;
But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,
When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,
As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.

"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,
The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight
I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care,
But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the
air.

"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye!
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry!
And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!

"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free,
At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed:
Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew,
A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view:
But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight;
'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er
forgot,
When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,
From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,
He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away;
I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay;
A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred,
The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."

That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by,
Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.
And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

FALSTAFF'S BOASTING

SHAKESPEARE.

This scene will give a good chance to practise _variety_ of
expression, both in words and action. Falstaff throws himself
into all the attitudes, and elevates and depresses his
voice, as if he was actually engaged in the combat he
describes--preserving the utmost gravity of face, until he
finds that the Prince has really detected him. Then the "fat
rogue" bursts into a jolly, unctuous laugh, and carries off
the honors, after all:

_P. Henry._ What's the matter?

_Fal._ What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this morning.

_P. Hen._ Where is it, Jack? where is it?

_Fal._ Where is it? taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.

_P. Hen._ What, a hundred, man?

_Fal._ I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four, through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw _ecce signum_. I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards!--Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness.

_P. Hen._ Speak, sirs: how was it?

_Gads._ We four set upon some dozen,--

_Fal._ Sixteen at least, my lord.

_Gads._ And bound them.

_Peto._ No, no, they were not bound.

_Fal._ You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

_Gads._ As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us.

_Fal._ And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

_P. Hen._ What, fought ye with them all?

_Fal._ All! I know not what ye call, all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature.

_Poins._ Pray God, you have not murdered some of them.

_Fal._ Nay, that's past praying for, for I have peppered two of them: two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal,--if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward;--here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.--

_P. Hen._ What, four? thou said'st but two, even now.

_Fal._ Four, Hal; I told thee four.

_Poins._ Ay, ay, he said four.

_Fal._ These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

_P. Hen._ Seven? why, there were but four, even now.

_Fal._ In buckram.

_Poins._ Ay, four in buckram suits.

_Fal._ Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

_P. Hen._ Pr'ythee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.

_Fal._ Dost thou hear me, Hal?

_P. Hen._ Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

_Fal._ Do, so, for it is worth the listening to. The nine in buckram that I told thee of,----

_P. Hen._ So, two more already.

_Fal._ Their points being broken,----

_Poins._ Down fell their hose.

_Fal._ Began to give me ground: But I followed me close, came in foot and hand: and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.

_P. Hen._ O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!

_Fal._ But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

_P. Hen._ These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts; thou knotty-pated fool! thou whoreson, obscene, greasy, tallow-keech,--

_Fal._ What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?

_P. Hen._ Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us thy reason; what sayest thou to this?

_Poins._ Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

_Fal._ What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.

_P. Hen._ I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh;--

_Fal._ Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, bull's-pizzle, you stock-fish,--O for breath to utter what is like thee!--you tailor's yard, you sheathe, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck;--

_P. Hen._ Well, breathe a while and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons hear me speak but this.

_Poins._ Mark, Jack.

_P. Hen._ We two saw you four set on four: you bound them, and were masters of their wealth.--Mark now how plain a tale shall put you down.--Then did we two set on you four: and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house:--and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword, as thou hast done; and then say, it was a fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

_Poins._ Come, let's hear, Jack: What trick hast thou now?

_Fal._ By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money.--Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow.--Gallant, lads, boys, hearts of gold. All the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?

ON TO FREEDOM.

DUGANNE.

This poem should be delivered with bold energy, with flashing
eye, swelling breast, and free action--as though the speaker's
heart was full of the nobility of the theme:

"There has been the cry--'On to Richmond!' And still another
cry--On to England!' Better than either is the cry--'On to
Freedom!'"

CHARLES SUMNER.

On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
'Tis the everlasting cry
Of the floods that strive with ocean--
Of the storms that smite the sky;
Of the atoms in the whirlwind,
Of the seed beneath the ground--
Of each living thing in Nature
That is bound!
'Twas the cry that led from Egypt,
Through the desert wilds of Edom:
Out of darkness--out of bondage--
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!

O! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh!
Vainly warrest thou with God!
Moveless, at thy palace portals,
Moses waits, with lifted rod!
O! thou poor barbarian, Xerxes!
Vainly o'er the Pontic main
Flingest thou, to curb its utterance,
Scourge or chain!
For, the cry that led from Egypt,
Over desert wilds of Edom,
Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew;
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!