Chapter III: Part 3

In the Roman streets, with Gracchus,
Hark! I hear that cry outswell;
In the German woods with Hermann,
And on Switzer hills, with Tell;
Up from Spartacus, the Bondman,
When his tyrants yoke he clave,
And from Stalwart Wat the Tyler--
Saxon slave!
Still the old, old cry of Egypt,
Struggling up from wilds of Edom--
Sounding still through all the ages:
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!

On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
Gospel cry of laboring Time:
Uttering still, through seers and sages,
Words of hope and faith sublime!
From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens,
And our Washingtons they come:
And we cannot, and we dare not
Make them dumb!
Out of all the shames of Egypt--
Out of all the snares of Edom;
Out of darkness--out of bondage--
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

When spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded, careless, by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead;
And, fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset.

Nor how, when round the frosty pole,
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole,
To banquet on the dead;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared and wept,
Within his distant home;
And dreamt and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

So long they looked--but never spied
His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died,
Far down that narrow glen.

DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM.

N.P. WILLIS.

This admirable composition gives ample scope for gentle,
mournful, tear-stricken recitation. The thoughts prompt the
speaker to natural expression:

The king stood still
Till the last echo died: then throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:--

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair.
How could he mark _thee_ for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee;
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet '_my father_' from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!

"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come
To meet me, Absalom!

"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:--
And thy dark sin!--Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My erring Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

THE BOY ARCHER.

SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

The fire and energy of Tell contrasts nobly with the youthful
ambition of his son's young and noble heart. It is a charming
exercise, and exceedingly effective when well delivered:

SCENE.--_Exterior of_ TELL'S _cottage. Enter_ ALBERT (TELL'S _son_) _with bow and arrows, and_ VERNER.

_Verner._ Ah! Albert! What have you there?

_Albert._ My bow and arrows, Verner.

_Ver._ When will you use them like your father, boy?

_Alb._ Some time, I hope.

_Ver._ You brag! There's not an archer
In all Helvetia can compare with him.

_Alb._ But I'm his son; and when I am a man
I may be like him. Verner, do I brag,
To think I some time may be like my father?
If so, then is it he that teaches me;
For, ever as I wonder at his skill,
He calls me boy, and says I must do more
Ere I become a man.

_Ver._ May you be such
A man as he--if heaven wills, better--I'll
Not quarrel with its work; yet 'twill content me
If you are only such a man.

_Alb._ I'll show you
How I can shoot (_goes out to fix the mark._)

_Ver._ Nestling as he is, he is the making of a bird
Will own no cowering wing.

_Re-enter_ ALBERT.

_Alb._ Now, Verner, look! (_shoots_) There's within
An inch!

_Ver._ Oh, fy! it wants a hand. [_Exit_ VERNER.

_Alb._ A hand's
An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it.

_While_ ALBERT _continues to shoot,_ TELL _enters and watches
him some time, in silence._

_Tell._ That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark?
Well aimed, young archer! With what ease he bends
The bow. To see those sinews, who'd believe
Such strength did lodge in them? That little arm,
His mother's palm can span, may help, anon,
To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat,
And from their chains a prostrate people lift
To liberty. I'd be content to die,
Living to see that day! What, Albert!

_Alb._ Ah!
My father!

_Tell._ You raise the bow
Too fast. (ALBERT _continues shooting._)
Bring it slowly to the eye.--You've missed.
How often have you hit the mark to-day?

_Alb._ Not once, yet.

_Tell._ You're not steady. I perceive
You wavered now. Stand firm. Let every limb
Be braced as marble, and as motionless.
Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate
Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes
Nor stirs. (ALBERT _shoots_) That's better!
See well the mark. Rivet your eye to it
There let it stick, fast as the arrow would,
Could you but send it there. (ALBERT _shoots_)
You've missed again! How would you fare,
Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you
Alone, with but your bow, and only time
To fix a single arrow? 'Twould not do
To miss the wolf! You said the other day,
Were you a man you'd not let Gesler live--
'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now,
Your life or his depended on that shot!--
Take care! That's Gesler!--Now for liberty!
Right to the tyrant's heart! (_hits the mark_) Well done, my boy!
Come here. How early were you up?

_Alb._ Before the sun.

_Tell._ Ay, strive with him. He never lies abed
When it is time to rise. Be like the sun.

_Alb._ What you would have me like, I'll be like,
As far as will to labor joined can make me.

_Tell._ Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up To-day?

_Alb._ I did; and do so every day.

_Tell._ I know you do! And think you, when you kneel,
To whom you kneel?

_Alb._ To Him who made me, father.

_Tell._ And in whose name?

_Alb._ The name of Him who died
For me and all men, that all men and I
Should live

_Tell._ That's right. Remember that my son:
Forget all things but that--remember that!
'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food;
All things on earth; yea, life itself!--It is
To live, when these are gone, when they are naught--
With God! My son remember that!

_Alb._ I will.

_Tell._ I'm glad you value what you're taught.
That is the lesson of content, my son;
He who finds which has all--who misses, nothing.

_Alb._ Content is a good thing.

_Tell._ A thing, the good
Alone can profit by. But go, Albert,
Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff.
Don't keep me waiting. [_Exit_ ALBERT.

TELL. _paces the stage in thought. Re-enter_ ALBERT.

_Alb._ I am ready, father.

_Tell._ (_taking_ ALBERT _by the hand_). Now mark me, Albert
Dost thou fear the snow,
The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou for
The mountain mist that settles on the peak,
When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble at
The torrent roaring from the deep ravine,
Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie?
Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when on
The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud,
And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel
All night.

_Alb._ I'm ready; say all night again.

_Tell._ The mountains are to cross, for thou must reach
Mount Faigel by the dawn.

_Alb._ Not sooner shall
The dawn be there than I.

_Tell._ Heaven speeding thee.

_Alb._ Heaven speeding me.

_Tell._ Show me thy staff. Art sure
Of the point? I think 'tis loose. No--stay! 'Twill do.
Caution is speed when danger's to be passed.
Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow!
'Tis well there is a moon to-night.
You're sure of the track?

_Alb._ Quite sure.

_Tell._ The buskin of
That leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it.
You know the point where you must round the cliff?

_Alb._ I do.

_Tell._ Thy belt is slack--draw it tight.
Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this dagger
And give it him! you know its caverns well.
In one of them you will find him. Farewell.

A VENTRILOQUIST ON A STAGE-COACH.

HENRY COCKTON.

"Now then, look alive there!" shouted the coachman from the booking-office door, as Valentine and his Uncle John approached. "Have yow got that are mare's shoe made comfor'ble, Simon!"

"All right, sir," said Simon, and he went round to see if it were so, while the luggage was being secured.

"Jimp up, genelmen!" cried the coachman, as he waddled from the office with his whip in one hand and his huge way-bill in the other; and the passengers accordingly proceeded to arrange themselves on the various parts of the coach,--Valentine, by the particular desire of Uncle John, having deposited himself immediately behind the seat of the coachman.

"If you please," said an old lady, who had been standing in the gateway upwards of an hour, "will you be good enow, please, to take care of my darter?"

"All safe," said the coachman, untwisting the reins. "She shaunt take no harm. Is she going all the way?"

"Yes, sir," replied the old lady; "God bless her! She's got a place in Lunnun, an' I'm told--"

"Hook on them ere two sacks o' whoats there behind," cried the coachman; "I marn't go without 'em this time.--Now, all right there?"

"Good by, my dear," sobbed the old lady, "do write to me soon, be sure you do,--I only want to hear from you often. Take care of yourself."

"Hold hard!" cried the coachman, as the horses were dancing, on the cloths being drawn from their loins. "Whit, whit!" and away they pranced, as merrily as if they had known that _their_ load was nothing when compared with the load they left behind them. Even old Uncle John, as he cried "Good by, my dear boy," and waved his hand for the last time, felt the tears trickling down his cheeks.

The salute was returned, and the coach passed on.

The fulness of Valentine's heart caused him for the first hour to be silent; but after that, the constant change of scene and the pure bracing air had the effect of restoring his spirits, and he felt a powerful inclination to sing. Just, however, as he was about to commence for his own amusement, the coach stopped to change horses. In less than two minutes they started again, and Valentine, who then felt ready for anything, began to think seriously of the exercise of his power as a ventriloquist.

"Whit, whit!" said Tooler, the coachman, between a whisper and a whistle, as the fresh horses galloped up the hill.

"Stop! hoa!" cried Valentine, assuming a voice, the sound of which appeared to have travelled some distance.

"You have left some one behind," observed a gentleman in black, who had secured the box seat.

"Oh, let un run a bit!" said Tooler. "Whit! I'll give un a winder up this little hill, and teach un to be up in time in future. If we was to wait for every passenger as chooses to lag behind, we shouldn't git over the ground in a fortnit."

"Hoa! stop! stop! stop!" reiterated Valentine, in the voice of a man pretty well out of breath.

Tooler, without deigning to look behind, retickled the haunches of his leaders, and gleefully chuckled at the idea of _how_ he was making a passenger sweat.

The voice was heard no more, and Tooler, on reaching the top of the hill, pulled up and looked round, but could see no man running.

"Where is he?" inquired Tooler.

"In the ditch!" replied Valentine, throwing his voice behind.

"In the ditch!" exclaimed Tooler. "Blarm me, whereabouts?"

"There," said Valentine.

"Bless my soul!" cried the gentleman in black, who was an exceedingly nervous village clergyman. "The poor person no doubt is fallen down in an absolute state of exhaustion. How very, very wrong of you, coachman, not to stop!"

Tooler, apprehensive of some serious occurrence, got down with the view of dragging the exhausted passenger out of the ditch; but although he ran several hundred yards down the hill, no such person of course could be found.

"Who saw un?" shouted Tooler, as he panted up the hill again.

"I saw nothing," said a passenger behind, "but a boy jumping over the hedge."

Tooler looked at his way-bill, counted the passengers, found them all right, and, remounting the box, got the horses again into a gallop, in the perfect conviction that some villanous young scarecrow had raised the false alarm.

"Whit! blarm them 'ere boys!" said Tooler, "'stead o' mindin' their crows, they are allus up to suffen. I only wish I had un here, I'd pay _on_ to their blarmed bodies; if I would n't--" At this interesting moment, and as if to give a practical illustration of what he would have done in the case, he gave the off-wheeler so telling a cut round the loins that the animal without any ceremony kicked over the trace. Of course Tooler was compelled to pull up again immediately; and after having adjusted the trace, and asking the animal seriously what he meant, at the same time enforcing the question by giving him a blow on the bony part of the nose, he prepared to remount; but just as he had got his left foot upon the nave of the wheel, Valentine so admirably imitated the sharp snapping growl of a dog in the front boot, that Tooler started back as quickly as if he had been shot, while the gentleman in black dropped the reins and almost jumped into the road.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, trembling with great energy; "How wrong, how very horribly wrong, of you, coachman, not to tell me that a dog had been placed beneath my feet."

"Blarm their carcases!" cried Tooler, "they never told _me_ a dog was shoved there. Lay _down_! We'll soon have yow out there together!"

"Not for the world!" cried the gentleman in black, as Tooler approached the foot-board in order to open it. "Not for the world! un-un-un-less you le-le-let me get down first. I have no desire to pe-pe-perish of hydropho-phobia."

"Kip yar fut on the board then, sir, please," said Tooler, "we'll soon have the varmint out o' that." So saying, he gathered up the reins, remounted the box, and started off the horses again at full gallop.

The gentleman in black then began to explain to Tooler how utterly inconceivable was the number of persons who had died of hydrophobia within an almost unspeakable short space of time, in the immediate vicinity of the residence of a friend of his in London; and just as he had got into the marrow of a most excruciating description of the intense mental and physical agony of which the disease in its worst stage was productive, both he and Tooler suddenly sprang back, with their feet in the air, and their heads between the knees of the passengers behind them, on Valentine giving a loud growling snap, more bitingly indicative of anger than before.

As Tooler had tightly hold of the reins when he made this involuntary spring, the horses stopped on the instant, and allowed him time to scramble up again without rendering the slow process dangerous.

"I cannot, I-I-I positively cannot," said the gentleman in black, who had been thrown again into a dreadful state of excitement, "I cannot sit here,--my nerves cannot endure it; it's perfectly shocking."

"Blister their bowls!" exclaimed Tooler, whose first impulse was to drag the dog out of the boot at all hazards, but who, on seeing the horses waiting in the road a short distance ahead for the next stage, thought it better to wait till he had reached them. "I'll make un remember this the longest day o' thar blessed lives,--blarm un! Phih! I'll let un know when I get back, I warrant. I'll larn un to--"

"Hoa, coachman! hoa! my hat's off!" cried Valentine, throwing his voice to the back of the coach.

"Well, _may_ I be--phit!" said Tooler. "I'll make yow run for't anyhow--phit!"

In less than a minute the coach drew up opposite the stable, when the gentleman in black at once proceeded to alight. Just, however, as his foot reached the plate of the roller-bolt, another growl from Valentine frightened him backwards, when falling upon one of the old horse-keepers, he knocked him fairly down, and rolled over him heavily.

"Darng your cloomsy carkus," cried the horse-keeper, gathering himself up, "carn't you git oof ar cooarch aroat knocking o' pipple darn?"

"I-I-I beg pardon," tremblingly observed the gentleman in black; "I hope I-I--"

"Whoap! pardon!" contemptuously echoed the horse-keeper as he limped towards the bars to unhook the leaders' traces.

"Now then, yow warmint, let's see who yow belong to," said Tooler, approaching the mouth of the boot; but just as he was in the act of raising the foot-board, another angry snap made him close it again with the utmost rapidity.

"Lay down! blarm your body!" cried Tooler, shrinking back. "Here, yow Jim, kim here, bor, and take this 'ere devil of a dog out o' that."

Jim approached, and the growling was louder than before, while the gentleman in black implored Jim to take care that the animal didn't get hold of his hand.

"Here, yow Harry!" shouted Jim, "yare noot afeared o' doogs together,--darng un, _I_ doont like un."

Accordingly Harry came, and then Sam, and then Bob, and then Bill; but as the dog could not be seen, and as the snarling continued, neither of them dared to put his hand in to drag the monster forth. Bob therefore ran off for Tom Titus the blacksmith, who was supposed to care for nothing, and in less than two minutes Tom Titus arrived with about three feet of rod-iron red hot.

"Darng un!" cried Tom, "this ere 'll maake un _quit_ together!"

"Dear me! my good man," said the gentleman in black, "don't use that unchristian implement! don't put the dumb thing to such horrible torture!"

"It don't siggerfy a button," cried Tooler, "I marn't go to stop here all day. Out he must come."

Upon this Tom Titus introduced his professional weapon, and commenced poking about with considerable energy, while the snapping and growling increased with each poke.

"I'll tell you what it is," said Tom Titus, turning round and wiping the sweat off his brow with his naked arm, "this here cretur here's stark raavin' mad."

"I knew that he was," cried the gentleman in black, getting into an empty wagon which stood without horses just out of the road; "I felt perfectly sure that he was rabid."

"He 's a bull-terrier too," said Tom Titus, "I knows it by 's growl. It 's the worsest and dargdest to go maad as is."

"Well, what shall us do wi' th' warment?" said Tooler.

"Shoot him! shoot him!" cried the gentleman in black.

"O, I 've goot a blunderbus, Bob!" said Tom Titus, "yow run for 't together, it 's top o' the forge."

Bob started at once, and Tom kept on the bar, while Tooler, Sam, and Harry, and Bob held the heads of the horses.

"He 's got un; all right!" cried Tom Titus, as Bob neared the coach with the weapon on his shoulder. "Yow 'll be doon in noo time," he added as he felt with his rod to ascertain in which corner of the boot the bull-terrier lay.

"Is she loarded?" asked Bob, as he handed Tom Titus the instrument of death.

"Mind you make the shot come out at bottom," shouted Tooler.

"I hool," said Tom Titus, putting the weapon to his shoulder. "Noo the Loord ha' marcy on yar, as joodge says sizes," and instantly let fly.

The horses of course plunged considerably, but still did no mischief; and before the smoke had evaporated, Valentine introduced into the boot a low melancholy howl, which convinced Tom Titus that the shot had taken effect.

"He 's giv oop the ghost; darng his carkus!" cried Tom, as he poked the dead body in the corner.

"Well, let 's have a look at un," said Tooler, "let 's see what the warment is like."

The gentleman in black at once leaped out of the wagon, and every one present drew near, when Tom, guided by the rod which he had kept upon the body, put his hand into the boot, and drew forth a fine hare that had been shattered by the shot all to pieces.

"He arn't a bull-terrier," cried Bob.

"But that arn't he," said Tom Titus. "He 's some'er aboot here as dead as a darng'd nail. I know he 's a corpse."

"Are you sure on 't?" asked Tooler.

"There arn't any barn door deader," cried Tom. "Here, I'll lug um out an' show yar."

"No, no!" shouted Tooler, as Tom proceeded to pull out the luggage. "I marn't stay for that. I 'm an hour behind now, blarm un! jimp up, genelmen!"

Tom Titus and his companions, who wanted the bull-terrier as a trophy, entreated Tooler to allow them to have it, and, having at length gained his consent, Tom proceeded to empty the boot. Every eye was, of course, directed to everything drawn out, and when Tom made a solemn declaration that the boot was empty, they were all, at once, struck with amazement. Each looked at the other with astounding incredulity, and overhauled the luggage again and again.

"Do you mean to say," said Tooler, "that there arn't nuffin else in the boot?"

"Darnged a thing!" cried Tom Titus, "coom and look." And Tooler did look, and the gentleman in black looked, and Bob looked, and Harry looked, and Bill looked, and Sam looked, and all looked, but found the boot empty.

"Well, blarm me!" cried Tooler. "But darng it all, he must be somewhere!"

"I' ll taake my solum davy," said Bill, "that he _was_ there."

"I seed um myself," exclaimed Bob, "wi' my oarn eyes, an' didn't loike the looks on um a bit."

"There cannot," said the gentleman in black, "be the smallest possible doubt about his having been there; but the question for our mature consideration is, where is he now?"

"I 'll bet a pint," said Harry, "you blowed um away?"

"Blowed um away, you fool!--how could I ha' blowed um away?"

"Why, he _was_ there," said Bob, "and he baint there noo, and he baint here nayther, so you mus ha' blowed um out o' th' boot; 'sides, look at the muzzle o' this ere blunderbust!"

"Well, of all the rummest goes as ever happened," said Tooler, thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his pockets, "this ere flogs 'em all into nuffin!"

"It is perfectly astounding!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, looking again into the boot, while the men stood and stared at each other with their mouths as wide open as human mouths could be.

"Well, in wi' 'em agin," cried Tooler, "in wi' 'em!--Blarm me if this here arn't a queer un to get over."

The luggage was accordingly replaced, and Tooler, on mounting the box, told the men to get a gallon of beer, when the gentleman in black generously gave them half a crown, and the horses started off, leaving Tom with his blunderbuss, Harry, Bill, Sam, and their companions, bewildered with the mystery which the whole day spent in the alehouse by no means enabled them to solve.

THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND TO-NIGHT.

Recite this in a simple unaffected manner; carefully
avoiding anything like _rant_. At times the voice should sink
tremulously low, as the good dame recalls memories of her
departed children:

An old wife sat by her bright fireside,
Swaying thoughtfully to and fro,
In an ancient chair whose creaky frame
Told a tale of long ago;
While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,
Stood a basket of worsted balls--a score.

The old man dozed o'er the latest news,
Till the light of his pipe went out,
And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws,
Rolled and tangled the balls about;
Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,
Swaying to and fro, in the firelight glare.

But anon a misty tear-drop came
In her eye of faded blue,
Then trickled down in a furrow deep,
Like a single drop of dew;
So deep was the channel--so silent the stream--
The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.

Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful light
Of her eye had weary grown,
And marvelled he more at the tangled balls;
So he said in a gentle tone,
"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,
Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."

Then she spoke of the time when the basket there
Was filled to the very brim,
And how there remained of the goodly pile
But a single pair--for him.
"Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,
There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"I cannot but think of the busy feet,
Whose wrappings were wont to lie
In the basket, awaiting the needle's time,
Now wandered so far away;
How the sprightly steps to a mother dear,
Unheeded fell on the careless ear.

"For each empty nook in the basket old,
By the hearth there's a vacant seat;
And I miss the shadows from off the wall,
And the patter of many feet;
'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight
At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"'Twas said that far through the forest wild,
And over the mountains bold,
Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves
Were gemmed with the rarest gold;
Then my first-born turned from the oaken door,
And I knew the shadows were only four.

"Another went forth on the foaming waves
And diminished the basket's store--
But his feet grew cold--so weary and cold--
They'll never be warm any more--
And this nook in its emptiness, seemeth to me
To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.

"Two others have gone towards the setting sun,
And made them a home in its light,
And fairy fingers have taken their share
To mend by the fireside bright;
Some other baskets their garments fill--
But mine! Oh, mine is emptier still.

"Another--the dearest--the fairest--the best--
Was ta'en by the angels away,
And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,
In a land of continual day.
Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,
While I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."

A LOVE OF A BONNET

(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS.

MRS. CLIPPER, a Widow.
KITTY, her Daughter.
AUNT JEMIMA HOPKINS, a leetle inquisitive.
MRS. HORTENSIA FASTONE, very genteel.
DORA, her Daughter.
KATY DOOLAN, Irish Help.

SCENE.--_Room in_ MRS. CLIPPER'S _House. Lounge_, L.; _Chairs_, C.; _Table and Rocking-chair, Looking-glass_, R.

_Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER _and_ KITTY, R.

_Mrs. C._ But really, Kitty, I cannot afford it.

_Kitty._ O, yes, you can, mother; just this once. It's such a love of a bonnet! it's so becoming! and it only costs fifteen dollars.

_Mrs. C._ Fifteen dollars! Why, child, you are crazy! We cannot afford to be so extravagant. The income derived from the property your dear father left will only allow us to dress in the most economical manner.

_Kitty._ But this bonnet is not extravagant. Dora Fastone wears a bonnet which cost twenty-five-dollars, and her father has failed five or six times. I don't see why I can't have a new bonnet as well as that proud, stuck-up--

_Mrs. C._ Hush, my child! never speak ill of our neighbors because they dress better than we do. If they spend money foolishly, we should endeavor to use ours to better purpose. I am sure I should be glad to gratify you, but we have so many expenses. Your music lessons cost a great deal of money; and your brother Harry, off at school, is really suffering for a new suit of clothes. I must send him some money to-day.

_Kitty._ O, he can wait; he's only a boy; and no one cares how he looks; but young ladies must dress, or they are thought nothing of. O, you must let me have the bonnet, mamma!

_Mrs. C._ If you have this bonnet, Kitty, Harry must go without his new suit.

_Kitty._ If you could just see it! It's such a love of a bonnet! Do let me run down and ask Miss Thompson to send it up for you to look at.

_Mrs. C._ I've no objection to that; and if you think you need it more than Harry does his new suit, why--

_Kitty._ You'll let me have it. That's a good, dear mother. I know you wouldn't refuse. I'll run to Miss Thompson's. I won't be gone long. I suppose I am selfish; but then, mother, it's such a love of a bonnet. [_Exit_, L.

_Mrs. C._ (_Sits in a rocking-chair._) Dear child, it is hard to refuse her! But one should be made of money to keep up with the extravagant fashions of the day.

_Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R.

_Aunt H._ Angelina, what on airth have them air Joneses got for dinner? I've sot and sot at that air front winder till I've got a crick in my back a tryin' to find out whether it's lamb or mutton. It's something roasted, anyhow.

_Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins, you are very inquisitive!

_Aunt H._ Inquisitive! Law sakes, do hear the child talk! Neow, what harm kin there be in tryin' to find eout what your neighbors have got for dinner? I mean to put on my bunnet and run acrost and see. I know they've got apple dumplin's, for I see the hired gal throw the parin's out into the yard.

_Mrs. C._ Run across! Don't dream of such a thing!

_Aunt H._ Well, I'm goin' up stairs to git my specs and have another good look, anyhow; for I'm jest dyin' to know whether it's lamb or mutton. Land sakes! what's the use of livin', ef you can't know how other folks live? [_Exit_, R.

_Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins!--She's gone! Dear me, she does worry me terribly! What will our neighbors think of us?

_Enter_ KATY DOOLAN, L.

_Katy._ If you plase, mam, may I coome in?

_Mrs. C._ Certainly, Katy. What's the matter?

_Katy._ If you plase, mam, I have a letther; and would you plase rade it for me?

_Mrs. C._ (_Takes letter._) Certainly, Katy. From your lover?

_Katy._ Indeed, mam, I have no lover. It's my cousin, mam.

_Mrs. C._ O, your cousin. (_Opens letter._) "Light ov my sowl!" Why, this cannot be your cousin.

_Katy._ Indade, indade, it be, sure! It's only the insinivatin' way he has, mam!

_Mrs. C._ (_Reads._) "Bewitchin' Katy! and how are ye's onyhow? I take my pin in hand to till ye's I am yurs, in good hilth and sphirits; and it's hopin' ye's the same, truly! The pulsitations uv my heart are batin' wid the love I bears ye's, darlin' Katy! the fairest flower--niver mind the blot--that iver bloomed an the family tree uv Phil Doolan uv Tipperary, dead and gone this siven years, bliss his sowl,--and how are ye's? An' by the same token that I loves ye's much, I sind by the ixpriss, freight paid, a new bunnit, which my cousin Biddy Ryan, for my dear love, have made for ye's charmin' Katy Doolan! Wear it nixt ye's heart! And if ye git it before this letther coomes to hand, ye's may know it is from

Your ever sighin',
Wid love for ye's dyin',
CORNALIUS RYAN.

P.S. If ye's don't resave this letther, sind me word uv mouth by the man who fetches the bunnit."

_Mrs. C._ That's a very loving epistle.

_Katy._ Pistol, it is? Faith, I thought it was a letther.

_Mrs. C._ And so it is; and a very loving one! Your _cousin_ has sent you a new bonnet.

_Katy._ Is it in the letther, mam!

_Mrs. C._ It is coming by express.

_Katy._ Sure, he might sind it in the letther, and save expinse. What will I do?

_Mrs. C._ Wait patiently until the bonnet arrives.

_Katy._ Will Cornalius coome wid it?

_Mrs. C._ I think not. The expressman will bring it.

_Katy._ Sure, I don't want the ixpressman. It's Cornalius I want.

_Mrs. C._ This cousin of yours seems very affectionate. Are you going to marry him some day?

_Katy._ Some day?--yis, mam. He tould me, Would I? and I axed him, Yes. What will I do with the letther, mam?

_Mrs. C._ Keep it with your treasures. It should be precious to you.

_Katy._ Faith, thin I'll put it in the savings bank with my money. I'm obliged, to ye's Mrs. Clipper, mam. If you plase, what was that last in the letther?

_Mrs. C._

"Your ever sighin',
Wid love for ye's dyin',
Cornalius Ryan."

_Katy._ O, don't, ma'am! Ye's make me blush wid the shame I fail. Och! it's a quare darlin', wid all his sighin', is Cornalius Ryan! Och, musha! it's an illigant lad he is, onyhow! [_Exit_, L.

_Mrs. C._ So we are to have another new bonnet in the family! Well, Katy is a good girl, and I hope will get a good husband, as well as a new bonnet.

[_Exit_, L.

_Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R., _with a bandbox._

_Aunt H._ It's mutton! I was determined to find eout, and I have! I saw that air Jones boy a playin' in the street, and I asked him what his folks had got for dinner, and he said mutton, and neow I'm satisfied on that air p'int. I wonder what's in this 'ere bandbox! I saw that express cart stop here, and the man said it was for Miss Kitty somebody; of course, Angelina's darter. I do wonder what it is! (_Opens box._) Well I declare! A spic span new bunnet! (_Takes out a very large, gaudily-trimmed bonnet._) And sich a bunnet! Ribbons and lace, flowers and feathers! Now that's jest what I call a tasty bunnet! I mean to try it on. It'll jest suit my complexion. Law sakes! here comes Kitty! 'Twon't do to let her know I've been at her things! (_Puts bonnet back into box, and places it behind the table._)

_Enter_ KITTY, L.,

_Kitty._ O, aunt Hopkins! Where's mother?

_Aunt H._ Land sakes! I don't know no more than the child unborn!

_Kitty._ Dear me! Here are Mrs. Fastone and Dora coming up the steps! What shall I do?

_Aunt H._ Why, let 'em in, of course!

_Kitty._ Has my new bonnet come yet?

_Aunt H._ Indeed it has! And sich a beauty!

_Kitty._ O, I'm so glad! But where is it?

_Aunt H._ Down there behind the table. I hain't teched it; only jest took a peep.

_Kitty._ I'll let Miss Dora see that some people can dress as well as some other people. Aunt Hopkins, you must manage to draw attention to my new bonnet while the visitors are here, to give me an opportunity to show it.

_Aunt H._ Why, I'll take it right eout the fust hing.

_Kitty._ No, no! that would be too abrupt. Manage to speak of bonnets; but do not show it until they ask to see it.

_Aunt H._ Well, I guess I know heow to do it genteelly.

_Enter_ KATY, L.

_Katy._ Two ladies to see you, miss. (_Crosses to_ R.)

_Kitty._ Where's mother, Katy?

_Katy._ Gone to the butcher's, miss. [_Exit_ R.

_Aunt H._ Butcher's? Wal, I do hope she'll git some mutton, for the Joneses has it; and we ought to be as genteel as our neighbours.

_Enter_ MRS. FASTONE _and_ DORA, L., _very elegantly attired_.

_Mrs. F._ My dear child, how do you do?

_Kitty._ (_Shaking hands with her, and afterwards with_ DORA.) I'm delighted to see you! Hope you are quite well, and Dora.

_Mrs. F._ Quite well--aren't you, Dora?

_Dora._ Quite, mamma.

_Kitty._ Pray be seated, ladies. (_They sit on lounge._) Mrs. Hopkins, Mrs. Fastone.

_Aunt H._ (_Steps over and shakes hands._) Hope you are pretty well, ma'am, and you, too, miss, though you do look awful delicate! And how's your husband? He's a broker--ain't he? (_Sits in rocking-chair, and keeps it in motion._)

_Mrs. F._ Yes, Mrs. Hopkins, Mr. Fastone is a broker, engaged day after day in the busy vortex of fluctuating enterprises.

_Aunt H._ Well, I never hearn tell of that business afore; but I s'pose it's profitable, or you couldn't afford to dress so. Is that a silk or a poplin you've got on?

_Kitty._ (_Brings her chair; sits_, C.) Aunt Hopkins!--Mother has stepped out to make a call.

_Aunt H._ No, she hain't; she's only gone to the butcher's.

_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, what is the news?

_Mrs. F._ Well, really nothing. I am dying of _ennui_, the world is so quiet; no excitement to move the placid waters of fashionable society--is there, Dora?

_Dora._ Nothing, mamma.

_Mrs. F._ Nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to wear,--is there, Dora?

_Dora._ Nothing, mamma.

_Aunt H._ Nothing to wear! Yes, there's bunnets.

_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, you are quite correct.

_Mrs. F._ Mrs. Hopkins spoke of bonnets. I have been so disappointed! Thompson had a perfect love of a bonnet that I had quite set my heart upon for Dora; but it is gone, and the poor child is almost broken-hearted--ain't you, Dora?

_Dora._ Quite, mamma.

_Kitty._ I am very sorry, for bonnets are so hard to find. I have been very much perplexed about them myself. They are so very commonplace; no air of refinement about them.

_Mrs. F._ None, whatever--is there, Dora?

_Dora._ None, mamma.

_Kitty._ I've just had a new one sent home, but it doesn't suit me.

_Aunt H._ Why, Kitty, how you talk! It's a regular beauty!

_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--It is not what I wanted, but Thompson said it was the most stylish she had.

_Mrs. F._ Thompson! Did you get it of Thompson?

_Kitty._ Yes, all my bonnets come from Thompson.

_Mrs. F._ Do let me see it!

_Aunt H._ (_Jumps up._) I'll show it to you right off. It's an eligunt bunnet. (_Gets bandbox._)

_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!

_Aunt H._ Neow don't aunt Hopkins me! for I'm going to show 'em jest how it looks on yer; set still; for if there's anything I pride myself on, it's showin' off a bunnet. (_Stands behind_ KITTY, _puts the bonnet on her head, and ties it._) There! ain't that a beauty?

_Mrs. F._ Why! what a hor--a handsome bonnet! Did you ever see anything like it, Dora?

_Dora._ Never, mamma!

_Aunt H._ That's the style, marm.

_Mrs. F._ Really! I want to know! And this is Thompson's most stylish bonnet! Really, how the fashions do change! Did you ever, Dora!

_Dora._ Never, mamma!

_Kitty._ (_Aside._) I do believe they are laughing! Aunt Hopkins, I cannot get it off! You've tied it in a hard knot!

_Mrs. F._ It's very becoming--isn't it, Dora?

_Dora._ O, very, mamma.

_Mrs. F._ (_Aside to_ DORA.)--What a horrid fright!

_Dora._ Frightful, mamma!

_Mrs. F._ I believe we must be moving, for I must hurry to Thompson's and order just such a bonnet for Dora. Good day. You have such a charming taste--hasn't she, Dora?

_Dora._ Charming, mamma! (_They bow, and exeunt_, L., _with their handkerchiefs to their mouths, endeavouring to conceal their laughter._)

_Kitty._ Good day. Call again.--The hateful things! They are laughing at me. What ails this bonnet. (_Goes to glass._) Goodness gracious; what a fright! This is not my bonnet. Aunt Hopkins, you've ruined me! I shall be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. (_Tears off the bonnet._)

_Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER, R.

_Mrs. C._ Have the Fastones gone?

_Kitty._ I hope so. O, mother, send aunt Hopkins home; she's made me look ridiculous!

_Aunt H._ Well, I declare! this comes of trying to please folks!

_Mrs. C._ Is _that_ your love of a bonnet, Kitty?

_Kitty._ No, indeed! Aunt Hopkins, where did you get this hateful thing?

_Aunt H._ Out of that bandbox.

_Kitty._ (_Takes up the cover._) It's marked "Miss Katy Doolan." You've made a pretty mess of it!

_Aunt H._ Sakes alive! It's the hired gal's! Well, I never!

_Mrs. C._ But where's the bonnet you sent from Thompson's?

_Katy._ (_Outside._) O, murder! that iver I should say this day!

_Enter_ KATY, R., (_holding in her hand an elegant bonnet._)

The mane, stingy blackgurd has sint me this whisp of a bunnet, that I'll niver git on my head at all at all!

_Kitty._ That's my bonnet!

_Katy._ Is it, indade? and perhaps ye's be afther claiming the letther Cornalius Ryan sint wid it.

_Mrs. C._ No, no, Katy; there's a little mistake here. This is your bonnet.

_Katy._ Faith, now, isn't that a darling, jist! I'll wear it to church to-morrow, sure.

_Kitty._ Put it on now, Katy; and then take this wisp of a bonnet, as you call it, to Miss Thompson, with my best compliments and tell her I have decided not to keep it.

_Mrs. C._ Why, Kitty, I thought your heart was set upon having it.

_Kitty._ So it was, mother; but I shall never dare to wear it, after the ridiculous appearance I have just made. It's too fine for me. My conscience gave me a little twinge as I was coming home. Send Harry the money for his new suit. My old bonnet is quite good enough for me.

_Aunt H._ Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing up old bunnets.

_Kitty._ And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins. Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will make a merit of necessity, abandon fashionable society, and be more humble in my demeanor and in my dress.

_Mrs. C._ Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of fashion, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display. And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet."

DRAFTED.

MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK.

The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an
agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not
fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:--in the end
the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of
resignation fills the mother's heart:

My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books;
No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie--as delicate, too, in his
looks.
Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my
kitchen at tasks;
He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he
asks?

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the
best;
Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been
at rest.
Too slender for over much study--why, his master has made him to-day
Go out with his ball on the common--and you have drafted a child
at his play!

"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his
gun,
And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of
Bull Run?
Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall,
"There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert,
"if I am to fall."

"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day
When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot
for Clay.
Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame
We'll lay on the candidate's altar"--and christened the child with
his name.

Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with
harm,
(Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough
little farm,)
That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my
eyes,
That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?

Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there
is no appeal,
But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel?
Five stalwart sons has my neighbour, and never the lot upon one;
Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is
done?

Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his
rest,
With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his
breast?
Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled
or scarred?
My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard!

* * * * *

Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack
to-night,
Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in
flight;
Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is
higher than mine,
And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly
camp-fires shine.

Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide
down in the yard;
That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket
on guard.
Spirits of loving and lost ones--watch softly with Harry to-night,
For to-morrow he goes forth to battle--to arm him for Freedom and
Right!

AN ERUPTION OF MOUNT VESUVIUS.

BULWER.

The following magnificent description of perhaps the most
awful phenomenon in nature, gives full scope for almost every
tone and gesture. Care should, however, be taken that the
natural grandeur of the subject be not marred by a stilted,
pompous, or affected delivery. Let the speaker try to realize
the thought and feelings of a spectator of the dark scene of
desolation, and he cannot go amiss:

The eyes of the crowd beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk, blackness; the branches, fire, that shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment: now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare.

Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the theatre trembled; and beyond, in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs. An instant more, and the mountain-cloud seemed to roll toward them, dark and rapid like a torrent; at the same time it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with fragments of burning stone! Over the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over the amphitheatre itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea, fell that awful shower!

The cloud advanced, darker, disgorging showers of ashes and pumice stones; and, amid the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the half-burning ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the streets, in frequent intervals.

The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, at length settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. But in proportion as the blackness gathered did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare.

Nor was their horrible beauty confined to their hues of fire. Now brightly blue, as the most azure depth of a southern sky; now of a livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro, as the folds of an enormous serpent; now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke far and wide, and lighting up all Pompeii; then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the ghost of its own life!

In the pauses of the showers were heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain.

The ashes, in many places, were already knee-deep; and in some places immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house-roofs, bore down along the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt; the footing seemed to slide and creep, nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on the most level ground.

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved, for several houses and even vineyards had been set on flames; and at various intervals the fire rose fiercely and sullenly against the solid gloom. The citizens had endeavoured to place rows of torches in the most frequented spots; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the wind extinguished them.

Suddenly arose an intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the darkness which closed around it, the mountain shone, a pile of fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface, there seemed to rise two monster-shapes, each confronting each, as demons contending for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere; but below, the nether part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in three places, adown which flowed serpentine, and irregular rivers of molten lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. And through the still air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon another, as they were borne down the fiery cataracts, darkening for one instant the spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the burnished hues of the flood along which they floated!

Suddenly a duller shade fell over the air; and one of the two gigantic crests into which the summit had been divided, rocked and waved to and fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness of which no language can describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down the sides of the mountain. At the same instant gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke, rolling on, over air, sea and earth. Another, and another, and another shower of ashes, far more profuse than before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets, and darkness once more wrapped them as a veil.

The whole elements of civilization were broken up. If in the darkness, wife was separated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing was left save the law of self-preservation.

A PLEA FOR THE OX.

DUGANNE.

This beautiful poem should be recited with a calm, even devout
dignity; occasionally rising into energetic expression as the
poet apostrophizes the Deity in behalf of the down-trodden:

Of all my Father's herds and flocks,
I love the Ox--the large-eyed Ox!
I think no Christian man would wrong
The Ox--so patient, calm, and strong!