Chapter V: Part 5

Ah! well do I remember those
Whose names those records bear,
Who round the hearthstone used to close
After the evening prayer,
And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who learned God's word to hear.
Her angel-face--I see it yet!
What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;
Where all were false I found thee true,
My counsellor and guide.
The mines of earth no treasure give
That could this volume buy:
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

ENLISTING AS ARMY NURSE.

LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

"I want something to do."--This remark being addressed to the world in general, no one in particular felt it his duty to reply; so I repeated it to the smaller world about me, received the following suggestions, and settled the matter by answering my own inquiry, as people are apt to do when very much in earnest.

"Write a book," quoth my father.

"Don't know enough, sir. First live, then write."

"Try teaching again," suggested my mother.

"No, thank you, ma'am; ten years of that is enough."

"Take a husband like my Darby, and fulfil your mission," said Sister Jane, home on a visit.

"Can't afford expensive luxuries, Mrs. Coobiddy."

"Turn actress, and immortalize your name," said Sister Vashti, striking an attitude.

"I won't."

"Go nurse the soldiers," said my young neighbor, Tom, panting for "the tented field."

"I will!"

Arriving at this satisfactory conclusion, the meeting adjourned; and the fact that Miss Tribulation was available as army nurse went abroad on the wings of the wind.

In a few days a townswoman heard of my desire, approved of it, and brought about an interview with one of the sisterhood I wished to join, who was at home on a furlough, and able and willing to satisfy inquiries.

A morning chat with Miss General S.--we hear no end of Mrs. Generals, why not a Miss?--produced three results: I felt that I could do the work, was offered a place, and accepted it; promising not to desert, but to stand ready to march on Washington at an hour's notice.

A few days were necessary for the letter containing my request and recommendation to reach head-quarters, and another, containing my commission, to return; therefore no time was to be lost; and, heartily thanking my pair of friends, I hurried home through the December slush, as if the Rebels were after me, and, like many another recruit, burst in upon my family with the announcement,--"I've enlisted!"

An impressive silence followed. Tom, the irrepressible, broke it with a slap on the shoulder and the grateful compliment,--"Old Trib, you're a trump!"

"Thank you; then I'll _take_ something,"--which I did, in the shape of dinner, reeling off my news at the rate of three dozen words to a mouthful; and as every one else talked equally fast, and all together, the scene was most inspiring.

As boys going to sea immediately become nautical in speech, walk as if they already had their sea-legs on, and shiver their timbers on all possible occasions, so I turned military at once, called my dinner my rations, saluted all new-comers, and ordered a dress-parade that very afternoon.

Having reviewed every rag I possessed, I detailed some pieces for picket duty while airing on the fence; some to the sanitary influences of the wash-tub; others to mount guard in the trunk; while the weak and wounded went to the Work-basket Hospital, to be made ready for active service again.

To this squad I devoted myself for a week; but all was done, and I had time to get powerfully impatient before the letter came. It did arrive, however, and brought a disappointment along with its good-will and friendliness; for it told me that the place in the Armory Hospital that I supposed I was to take was already filled, and a much less desirable one at Hurly-burly House was offered instead.

"That's just your luck, Trib. I'll take your trunk up garret for you again; for of course you won't go," Tom remarked, with the disdainful pity which small boys affect when they get into their teens.

I was wavering in my secret soul; but that remark settled the matter, and I crushed him on the spot with martial brevity,--"It is now one; I shall march at six."

I have a confused recollection of spending the afternoon in pervading the house like an executive whirlwind, with my family swarming after me,--all working, talking, prophesying, and lamenting while I packed such of my things as I was to take with me, tumbled the rest into two big boxes, danced on the lids till they shut, and gave them in charge, with the direction,--"If I never come back, make a bonfire of them."

Then I choked down a cup of tea, generously salted instead of sugared by some agitated relative, shouldered my knapsack,--it was only a travelling-bag, but do let me preserve the unities,--hugged my family three times all round without a vestige of unmanly emotion, till a certain dear old lady broke down upon my neck, with a despairing sort of wail,--"O my dear, my dear! how can I let you go?"

"I'll stay, if you say so, mother."

"But I don't; go, and the Lord will take care of you."

Much of the Roman matron's courage had gone into the Yankee matron's composition, and, in spite of her tears, she would have sent ten sons to the war, had she possessed them, as freely as she sent one daughter, smiling and flapping on the door-step till I vanished, though the eyes that followed me were very dim, and the handkerchief she waved was very wet.

My transit from The Gables to the village depot was a funny mixture of good wishes and good-bys, mud-puddles and shopping. A December twilight is not the most cheering time to enter upon a somewhat perilous enterprise; but I'd no thought of giving out, O, bless you, no!

When the ingine screeched "Here we are!" I clutched my escort in a fervent embrace, and skipped into the car with as blithe a farewell as if going on a bridal tour,--though I believe brides don't usually wear cavernous black bonnets and fuzzy brown coats, with a hair-brush, a pair of rubbers, two books, and a bag of gingerbread distorting the pockets.

If I thought that people would believe it, I'd boldly state that I slept from C. to B., which would simplify matters immensely; but as I know they wouldn't, I'll confess that the head under the funereal coal-hod fermented with all manner of high thoughts and heroic purposes "to do or die,"--perhaps both; and the heart under the fuzzy brown coat felt very tender with the memory of the dear old lady, probably sobbing over her army socks and the loss of her topsy-turvy Trib.

At this juncture I took the veil, and what I did behind it is nobody's business; but I maintain that the soldier who cries when his mother says "Good by" is the boy to fight best, and die bravest, when the time comes, or go back to her better than he went.

ONLY SIXTEEN.

"When last seen, he was considerably intoxicated.... and was
found dead in the highway."--_Republican and Democrat of_ May
17.

Only sixteen, so the papers say,
Yet there on the cold, stony ground he lay;
'Tis the same sad story we hear every day--
He came to his death in the public highway.
Full of promise, talent, and pride,
Yet the rum fiend conquered him; so he died.
Did not the angels weep over the scene?
For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen,
Only sixteen.

Oh! it were sad he must die all alone:
That of all his friends, not even one
Was there to list to his last faint moan,
Or point the suffering soul to the throne
Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son
Would say, "Whosoever will may come."
But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,
With his God we leave him--only sixteen.
Only sixteen.

Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought:
Witness the suffering and pain you have brought
To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,
And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell
That beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned,
And left him to die out there all alone.
What if 'twere _your_ son instead of another?
What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,
And he only sixteen?

Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grant
The license to sell, do you think you will want
That record to meet in the last great day,
When the earth and the heavens shall have passed away,
When the elements, melted with fervent heat,
Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete?
Will you wish to have his blood on your hands
When before the great throne you each shall stand,
And he only sixteen?

Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,
To action and duty; into the light
Come with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum."
Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;
Strike killing blows; hew to the line;
Make it a felony even to sign
A petition to license; you would do it, I ween,
If that were your son, and "only sixteen,"
Only sixteen.

THE WATCHWORD.

THE GRIDIRON.

THE CAPTAIN, PATRICK, AND THE FRENCHMAN.

_Patrick._ Well, Captain, whereabouts in the wide world _are_ we? Is it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant?

_Captain._ Tut, you fool; it's France.

_Patrick._ Tare and ouns! do you tell me so? and how do you know it's France, Captain dear?

_Captain._ Because we were on the coast of the Bay of Biscay when the vessel was wrecked.

_Patrick._ Throth, I was thinkin' so myself. And now, Captain jewel, it is I that wishes we had a gridiron.

_Captain._ Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a gridiron into your head?

_Patrick._ Because I'm starving with hunger, Captain dear.

_Captain._ Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do you?

_Patrick._ Ate a gridiron; bad luck to it! no. But if we had a gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak.

_Captain._ Yes; but where's the beefsteak, Patrick?

_Patrick._ Sure, couldn't we cut it off the pork?

_Captain._ I never thought of that. You are a clever fellow, Patrick. (_Laughing._)

_Patrick._ There's many a thrue word said in joke, Captain. And now, if you will go and get the bit of pork that we saved from the rack, I'll go to the house there beyant, and ax some of them to lind me the loan of a gridiron.

_Captain._ But, Patrick, this is France, and they are all foreigners here.

_Patrick._ Well, and how do you know but I am as good a furriner myself as any o' them.

_Captain._ What do you mean, Patrick?

_Patrick._ Parley voo frongsay?

_Captain._ O, you understand French, then, is it?

_Patrick._ Throth, you may say that, Captain dear.

Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the foreigners, and I'll be back with the pork in a minute. [_He goes out._

_Patrick._ Ay, sure enough, I'll be civil to them; for the Frinch are always mighty p'lite intirely, and I'll show them I know what good manners is. Indade, and here comes munseer himself, quite convaynient. (_As the Frenchman enters, Patrick takes off his hat, and making a low bow, says:_) God save you, sir, and all your children. I beg your pardon for the liberty I take, but it's only being in disthress in regard of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye; and if you could lind me the loan of a gridiron, I'd be intirely obleeged to ye.

_Frenchman (staring at him)._ Comment!

_Patrick._ Indade it's thrue for you. I'm tathered to paces, and God knows I look quare enough; but it's by rason of the storm that dhruve us ashore jist here, and we're all starvin'.

_Frenchman._ Je m'y t--(_pronounced_ zhe meet).

_Patrick._ Oh! not at all! by no manes! we have plenty of mate ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you be plased jist to lind us the loan of a gridiron, sir. (_Making a low bow._)

_Frenchman (staring at him, but not understanding a word.)_

_Patrick._ I beg pardon, sir; but maybe I'm undher a mistake, but I thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furriners here? Parley voo frongsay?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur.

_Patrick._ Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, if you plase? (_The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if anxious to understand._) I know it's a liberty I take, sir; but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away; and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui.

_Patrick._ Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, sir and you'll obleege me?

_Frenchman._ Monsieur, pardon, monsieur--

_Patrick. (Angrily)._ By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress, and if it was to owld Ireland you came, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but something to put on it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain. Can't you understand your own language? (_Very slowly._) Parley--voo--frongsay--munseer?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur; oui, monsieur, mais--

_Patrick._ Then lend me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and bad scram to you.

_Frenchman (bowing and scraping)._ Monsieur, je ne l'entend--

_Patrick._ Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your long tongs! I don't want a tongs at all, at all. Can't you listen to rason?

_Frenchman._ Oui, oui, monsieur: certainement, mais--

_Patrick._ Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, and howld your prate. (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say he did not understand; but Patrick, thinking he meant it as a refusal, says, in a passion:_) Bad cess to the likes o' you! Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's not that-a-way they'd use you. The curse o' the crows on you, you owld sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (_The Frenchman puts his hand on his heart, and tries to express compassion in his countenance._) Well, I'll give you one chance more, you old thafe! Are you a Christhian, at all, at all? Are you a furriner that all the world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you! do you understand your mother tongue? Parley voo frongsay? (_Very loud._) Parley voo frongsay?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui, oui.

_Patrick._ Then, thunder and turf! will you lind me the loan of a gridiron? (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if he did not understand; and Pat says, vehemently:_) The curse of the hungry be on you, you owld negarly villian! the back of my hand and the sowl of my fut to you! May you want a gridiron yourself yet! and wherever I go, it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to you!

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation;
at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising
frequently into shouts of exultation:

Come, see the good ship's anchor forged--'tis at a white heat now:
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased--though on the forge's brow
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare--
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves
below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe!
It rises, roars, rends all outright--O, Vulcan, what a glow:
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright--the high sun shines not
so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;
The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row
Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slow
Sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow.

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out--leap out;" bang, bang the sledges
go;
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low--
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow
The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow
And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor--a bower thick and broad;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road--
The low reef roaring on her lee--the roll of ocean poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!
But courage still, brave mariners--the bower yet remains!
And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high;
Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I."

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;
Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime.
But while you sling your sledges, sing--and let the burden be,
"The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:"
Strike in, strike in--the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.

Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array,
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here,
For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing
seaman's cheer;
When, weighing slow, at eve they go--far, far from love and home;
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cast was cast.
O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

O, broad-armed diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?
The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;
And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play.
O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot band!
O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,
Thine iron sides would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the
sea!

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand,
To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land--
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave--
O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON.

AND THE RIDDLE HE MADE THERE.

One of the many popular delusions wespecting the Bwitish swell is the supposition that he leads an independent life,--goes to bed when he likes, gets up when he likes, d-dwesses how he likes, and dines when he pleases.

The public are gwossly deceived on this point. A weal swell is as m-much under authowity as a p-poor devil of a pwivate in the marines, a clerk in a government office, or a f-forth-form boy at Eton. Now I come under the demon--demonima--(no,--thop,--what is the word?)--dom--denom--d-denomination, that 'th it--I come under the d-denomination of a swell--(in--in fact--a _howwid_ swell--some of my friends call me, but _that'th_ only their flattewy), and I assure you a f-fellah in that capacity is so much westained by rules of f-fashion, that he can scarcely call his eyeglath his own. A swell, I take it, is a fellah who t-takes care that he swells as well as swells who swell as well as he, (there's thuch lot of thwelling in that thentence,--ha, ha!--it's what you might c-call a busting definition). What I mean is, that a f-fellah is obliged to do certain things at certain times of the year, whether he likes 'em or no. For instance, in the season I've got to go to a lot of balls and dwums and tea-fights in town, that I don't care a bit about, and show myself in the Park wegularly evewy afternoon; and latht month I had to victimize mythelf down in the countwy,--shooting (a bwutal sort of amusement, by the way). Well, about the end of October evewy one goes to Bwighton, n-no one knowth why,--that'th the betht of it,--and so I had to go too,--that's the wortht of it,--ha, ha!

Not that it's such a b-bad place after all,--I d-dare say if I hadn't _had_ to go I should have gone all the same, for what is a f-fellah to do who ith n't much of a sportsman just about this time? There 'th n-nothing particular going on in London. Evewything is b-beathly dull; so I thought I would just run down on the Southeastern Wailway to be--ha, ha!--Bwightoned up a bit. (Come, th-that's not bad for an impromptu!)

B-Bwighton was invented in the year 1784, by his Woyal Highness George P-Pwince of Wales,--the author of the shoebuckle, the stand-up collar (a b-beathly inconvenient and cut-throat thort of a machine), and a lot of other exthploded things. He built the Pavilion down there, which looks like a lot of petrified onions from Bwobdinag clapped down upon a guard-house. There'th a jolly sort of garden attached to the building, in which the b-band plays twice a week, and evewy one turns in there about four o'clock, so I went too (n-not _too_ o'clock, you know, but f-four o'clock). I--I'm vewy fond of m-martial music, mythelf. I like the dwums and the t-twombones, and the ophicleides, and all those sort of inshtwuments,--yeth, ethpethelly the bwass ones,--they're so vewy exthpiring, they are. Thtop though, ith it expiring or _p-per_thpiring?--n-neither of 'em sound quite right. Oh! I have it now, it--it's _in_thspiring,--that'th what it is, because the f-fellahs _bweathe into them_!

That weminds me of a widdle I made down there (I--I've taken to widdles lately, and weally it'th a vewy harmleth thort of a way of getting thwough the morning, and it amuthes two f-fellahs at onth, because if--if you athk a fellah a widdle, and he can't guess it, you can have a jolly good laugh at _him_, and--if he--if he _doth_ guess it, he--I mean you--no--that is the widdle--stop, I--I'm getting confuthed,--where wath I? Oh! I know. If--if he _doth_ guess it.... however it ithn't vewy likely he would--so what's the good of thupposing impwobabilities?) Well, thith was the widdle I made,--I thed to Sloper (Sloper's a fwiend of mine,--a vewy gook thort of fellah Sloper is,--I d-don't know exactly what his pwofession would be called, but hith uncle got him into a b-berth where he gets f-five hundred a year,--f-for doing nothing--s-somewhere--I forget where--but I--I know he does it),--I said to Sloper, "Why is that f-fellah with the b-bassooon l-like his own instrument?" and Sloper said, "How--how the dooth should I know?" (Ha, ha!--I thought he'd give it up!) So I said to Sloper, "Why, b-because they both get _blown_--in _time_!" _You_ thee the joke, of course, but I don't think Sloper did, thomhow; all he thed was, "V-vewy mild, Dundreary,"--and t-tho--it was mild--thertainly, _f-for October_, but I d-don't thee why a f-fellah should go making wemarks about the weather instead of laughing at m-my widdle.

In this pwomenade that I was speaking of, you see such a lot of thtunning girls evewy afternoon,--dwessed twemendous swells, and looking like--yes, by Jove! l-like angels in cwinoline,--there 'th no other word for it. There are two or thwee always _will_ l-laugh, somehow, when I meet them,--they do now _weally_. I--I almost fancy they wegard me with intewest. I mutht athk Sloper if he can get me an introduction. Who knowth? pwaps I might make an impwession,--I'll twy,--I--I've got a little converthathional power,--and _theveral_ new wethcoats.

Bwighton is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day on horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I--I muthn't forget to mention that I met those two girls that always laugh when they thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em--the young one--told me, when I was intwoduced to her,--in--in confidence, mind,--that she had often heard of me and of my _widdles_. Tho you thee I'm getting quite a weputathun that way. The other morning, at Mutton's, she wath ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing in widdles. Now, I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I couldn't give her any _vewy_ great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made one latht theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her, When ith a jar not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith widdle she burtht out laughing behind her pocket-handkerchief!

"Good gwacious! what'th the matter?" said I. "Have you ever heard it before?"

"Never," she said emphatically, "in that form; do, _please_ tell me the answer."

So I told her,--When it ith a door! Upon which she--she went off again in hystewics. I--I--I never _did_ see such a girl for laughing. I know it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an effect as _that_.

By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought _he_ had heard the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He said it was: When ith a door not a door?--and the answer, When it ith ajar!

I--I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay it--d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still--pwaps the last f-form is the betht. It--it seems to me to _wead_ better. What do you think?

Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New--Newfoundland dog, and he inthpired me--the dog, you know, not the fellah,--he wath a lunatic. I'm keeping the widdle, but I don't mind telling _you_.

Why does a dog waggle hith tail? Give it up? I think motht fellahs will give that up!

You thee, the dog waggles hith tail becauth the dog's stwonger than the tail. If he wath n't, the tail would waggle the dog!

Ye-th,--that 'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I thall athtonish those two girls thome of these days.

THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.

T. WESTWOOD.

A little child,
A little meek-faced, quiet village child,
Sat singing by her cottage door at eve
A low, sweet sabbath song. No human ear
Caught the faint melody,--no human eye
Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile
That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed
The oft-repeated burden of the hymn,
"Praise God! Praise God!"

A seraph by the throne
In full glory stood. With eager hand
He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood
Of harmony on the celestial air
Welled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice,
He sang the "Holy, holy evermore,
Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts
Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,
Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned
With vehement adoration.

Higher yet
Rose the majestic anthem, without pause,
Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,
To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens
Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!"
Till, trembling with excessive awe and love,
Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne
With a mute hallelujah.

But even then,
While the ecstatic song was at its height,
Stole in an alien voice,--a voice that seemed
To float, float upward from some world afar,--
A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet!
That blended with the spirits' rushing strain,
Even as a fountain's music, with the roll
Of the reverberate thunder.

Loving smiles
Lit up the beauty of each angel's face
At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew
More joyous yet, as ever and anon
Was heard the simple burden of the hymn,
"Praise God! praise God!"

And when the seraph's song
Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre
Silence hung brooding,--when the eternal courts
Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime,
Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice
Came floating upward from its world afar,
Still murmured sweet on the celestial air,
"Praise God! praise God!"

MY FRIEND'S SECRET.

I found my friend in his easy chair,
With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care;
The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips,
His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse;
His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose,
And his chair tilted back to a classical pose.

I marvelled much such contentment to see--
The secret whereof I begged he'd give me.
He puffed away with re-animate zest,
As though with an added jollity blest.
"I'll tell you, my friend," said he, in a pause,
"What is the very 'identical' cause.

"Don't fret!--Let this be the first rule of your life;--
Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife;
Let everything happen as happen it may,
Be cool as a cucumber every day;
If favourite of fortune or a thing of its spite,
Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.

"If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home,
Just make up your mind to let it all come:
If people revile you or pile on offence,
'Twill not make any odds a century hence.
For all the reviling that malice can fling,
A little philosophy softens the sting.

"Run never in debt, but pay as you go;
A man free from debt feels a heaven below;
He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun,
And ranks 'mid the favoured as A No. 1.
It needs a great effort the spirit to brace
'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.

"And this one resolve you should cherish like gold,
--It has ever my life and endeavour controlled,--
If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst,
And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst,
Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent,
That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent."

There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone,
Though its depth was hard to fathom I own;
"For how can I fail," I said to myself,
"If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?"
Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light,
But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right;
And herein give out, as my earnest intent,
Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.

VAIN REGRETS.

A seedy old beggar asked alms of me
As he sat 'neath the shade of a wayside tree.
He was beggared in purse and beggared in soul,
And his voice betrayed a pitiful dole,
As he sang a song, to a dismal pitch,
With the burden, "IF THINGS WAS ONLY SICH!"

"If things was only sich," said he,
"You should see what a wonderful man I'd be;
No beggar I, by the wayside thrown,
But I'd live in a palace and millions own,
And men would court me if I were rich--
As I'd be if things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he,
"I'd be lord of the land and lord of the sea;
I would have a throne and be a king,
And rule the roast with a mighty swing--
I'd make a place in Fame's bright niche;
I'd do it if things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he,
"Rare wines I'd quaff from the far countree,
I'd cloth myself in dazzling garb,
I'd mount the back of the costly barb,
And none should ask me wherefore or which--
Did it chance that things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he,
"I'd love the fairest and they'd love me;
Yon dame, with a smile that warms my heart,
Might have borne with me life's better part,
But lost to me, here in poverty's ditch,
What were mine if things was only sich."

Thus the old beggar moodily sung,
And his eyes dropped tears as his hands he wrung.
I could but pity to hear him berate,
In dolorous tones the decrees of Fate,
That laid on his back its iron switch,
While he cried, "If things was only sich."

"If things was only sich!"--e'en all
Might the past in sad review recall;
But little the use and little the gain,
Exhuming the bones of buried pain,
And whether we're poor or whether we're rich,
We'll say not, "If things was only sich."

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

E.L. BEERS.

The opening verses should be given in a low, almost plaintive
tone; when the flag is seen, the exclamations should be
ejaculated with spirit and rapturous delight. Care should
be taken not to give the negro _patois_ too broad, or it may
prove a defect; where properly spoken it is really a beauty:

"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey--
Massa won't be with you long;
And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me,
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur
As they still the story tell,
How no vessels float the banner
That I've loved so long and well.
I shall listen to their music,
Dreaming that again I see
Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop
Sailing up the Tennessee;

"And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting
For Death's last dispatch to come,
If that exiled starry banner
Should come proudly sailing home.
You shall greet it slave no longer--
Voice and hand shall both be free
That shout and point to Union colors
On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey;
But old darkey's happy here.
Where he's tended corn and cotton
For dese many a long gone year.
Over yonder, Missis' sleeping--
No one tends her grave like me:
Mebbe she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee.

"'Pears like, she was watching Massa--
If Pompey should beside him stay,
Mebbe she'd remember better
How for him she used to pray;
Telling him that way up yonder
White as snow his soul would be,
If he served the Lord of Heaven
While he lived in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling
Down the poor old dusky face,
As he stepped behind his master,
In his long-accustomed place.
Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree
Pictured in the placid waters
Of the rolling Tennessee;--

Master, dreaming of the battle
Where he fought by Marion's side,
When he bid the haughty Tarleton
Stoop his lordly crest of pride;--
Man, remembering how yon sleeper
Once he held upon his knee,
Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers
'Mid the veteran's silver hair;
Still the bondman close beside him
Stands behind the old arm-chair,
With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes, he bends to see
Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows
Glide from tree to mountain-crest,
Softly creeping, aye and ever
To the river's yielding breast.
Ha! above the foliage yonder
Something flutters wild and free
"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!
The flag's come back to Tennessee!"

"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder,
Help me stand on foot once more,
That I may salute the colors
As they pass my cabin door.
Here's the paper signed that frees you,
Give a freeman's shout with me--
'God and Union!' be our watchword
Evermore in Tennessee!"

Then the trembling voice grew fainter,
And the legs refused to stand;
One prayer to Jesus--and the soldier
Glided to the better land.
When the flag went down the river
Man and master both were free;
While the ring-dove's note was mingled
With the rippling Tennessee.

THE BLACK REGIMENT. PORT HUDSON.

MAY 27, 1863.

GEO. H. BOKER.

Dark as the clouds of even,
Ranked in the western heaven,
Waiting the breath that lifts
All the dread mass, and drifts
Tempest and falling brand
Over a ruined land;--
So still and orderly,
Arm to arm, knee to knee,
Waiting the great event
Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line
Teeth gleam and eye-balls shine,
And the bright bayonet,
Bristling, and firmly set,
Flashed with a purpose grand,
Long, ere the sharp command
Of the fierce rolling drum
Told them their time had come,
Told them what work was sent
For the black regiment.

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried,
"Though death and hell betide,
Let the whole nation see
If we are fit to be
Free in this land; or bound
Down, like the whining hound,--
Bound with red stripes of pain
In our cold chains again!"
Oh! what a shout there went
From the black regiment!

"Charge!" trump and drum awoke,
Onward the bondmen broke:
Bayonet and sabre stroke
Vainly opposed their rush.
Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,
In the guns' mouths they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands
Leaping with open hands,
Down they tear man and horse,
Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel
Over the crashing steel,
All their eyes forward bent,
Rushed the black regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,--
"Freedom! or learn to die!"
Ah! and they meant the word,
Not as with us 'tis heard,
Not a mere party shout:
They gave their spirits out;
Trusted the end to God,
And on the glory sod
Rolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;
Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death,
Praying--alas! in vain!--
That they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That burst to liberty!
This was what "freedom" lent
To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell;
But they are resting well;
Scourges and shackles strong
Never shall do them wrong.
O, to the living few,
Soldiers, be just and true!
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;
Never in field or tent,
Scorn the black regiment.

THE THIEF OF TIME.

CHARACTERS.

JOHN RAY, }
CHARLEY CHEERFUL, } School-boys.
RALPH READY, }
MR. HANKS, a Deaf Gentleman.
JOHN CLOD, a Countryman.
PATSY FLINN, an Irishman.

SCENE.--_A Quiet Place in the Country._

_Enter_ RALPH READY, R., _with School-books_.

_Ralph._ Twenty minutes of nine. I can take it easy this morning. How glad I am I staid at home last night and studied "Spartacus." It's Declamation Day, and I want to win the highest mark. If I fail, it will not be for want of study. I believe I'm all right. (_Declaims._)

"Ye call me Chief--"[1]

[Footnote 1: The dialogue can be lengthened, if necessary,
by allowing Charley and Ralph to declaim the whole of their
pieces.]

_Enter_ CHARLEY CHEERFUL, L.

_Charley._ (_Clapping his hands._) Bravo! Bravo! Spartacus. "They do well to call _you_ chief!" number one in arithmetic, history, and geography; and to-day I've no doubt we shall call you number one in declamation.

_Ralph._ Ah, Charley, glad to see you. Are you all ready for the contest?

_Charley._ Yes, Ralph. (_Declaims._)

"Again to the battle, Achaians;
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance."

_Ralph._ I see "a foeman worthy of my steel." Well, Charley, good luck to you.

_Charley._ The same to you. I believe we are about equally matched. I want to take the highest mark, but if I am to be defeated, there's no one to whom I'd sooner surrender the "victor's laurels" than to you.

_Ralph._ And I can heartily say the same of you; but we must both look out. John Ray told the boys yesterday he was bound to have the highest mark.

_Charley._ I don't fear him.

_Ralph._ But he's a good declaimer, Charley.

_Charley._ I'll acknowledge that; but you know he's a terrible fellow for putting off study until the last moment. It was only yesterday morning Master Jones decided to have declamation to-day. The only time we had to prepare was yesterday noon, last night, and this morning.

_Ralph._ Time enough, Charley.

_Charley._ Certainly. But I know John Ray hasn't employed it. Yesterday noon he went boating; last night I'm afraid he visited Hopkins's melon patch; and this morning I saw him from my window playing ball.

_Ralph._ Then we've not much to fear from him; but here he is, puffing like a porpoise.

_Enter_ JOHN RAY, L., _with a book._

_John._ Hallo, boys! what's the time?

_Charley._ Eighteen minutes of nine. All ready for the declamation?

_John._ Not yet; there's time enough.

_Ralph._ Time enough! What have you selected?

_John._ "Tell's Address." I'm going to pitch into it now. I can do it in eighteen minutes.

_Charley._ Why, you haven't left it till now?

_John._ Of course I have. Time enough, I tell you. I've got a locomotive memory, you know. None of your slow coaches. I shall only have to read it over two or three times.

_Ralph._ But why didn't you take it up before?

_John._ What's the use? I went boating yesterday; and last night I went--somewhere else.

_Charley._ Yes! you took a _melon_choly walk. Hey, John?

_John._ What do you mean by that?

_Charley._ No matter. You'd better study Tell's Address, if you expect to be ready by nine o'clock.

_John._ So I had. Well, you run along, and let me have this place to myself. It's a quiet place. So good by. I'll see you by nine o'clock, with Tell's Address perfect.

_Charley._ Well, good luck to you. Come Ralph.

_Ralph._ I say, Ray; what's the proverb about the "thief of time"?

_John._ Who do you call a thief?

_Ralph._ A slow coach, that will rob you of your laurels spite of your locomotive memory. Come along Charley. [_Exeunt_ CHARLEY _and_ RALPH R.

_John._ Now, who told them I was after melons last night. (_Opens book._) "Tell's Address." Won't I astonish those lads! What's the use of wasting time in study before it's needed? (_Reads._)

"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again."

_Enter_ MR. HANKS, L.

_Mr. Hanks._ Look here, boy; where's Mr. Simmons's house?

_John._ O, bother! Over by the mill.

_Mr. H._ Hey?

_John._ Over by the mill.

_Mr. H._ Over that hill? Good gracious! You don't mean I've got to travel as far as that, do you, in the hot sun?

_John._ No, no; it's only a little ways.

_Mr. H._ Only a little blaze! It's an awful hot morning.

_John._ O, dear! this old fellow is as deaf as a post. (_Very loud._) Mr.--Simmons--lives--down--by--the--mill.

_Mr. H._ O, he does! Why didn't you say so before? Down that way? (_Points_ R.)

_John._ (_Loud._) Yes! To--the--right! That--old--wooden--one--ahead!

_Mr. H._ Who do you call an old wooden head?

_John._ O, dear! I never shall get that piece. You don't understand. I--said--wooden--house.

_Mr. H._ Hey?

_John._ O, dear! O, dear! (_Points_ R.) That's Mr. Simmons's--house--down--there!

_Mr. H._ O, yes. Thank you, thank you. I'm a little hard of hearing.

_John._ I see you are. Suffering from a cold?

_Mr. H._ Hey?

_John._ O, what a nuisance! Is it--from a cold you--suffer?

_Mr. H._ Old buffer, indeed! Be more respectful to your elders, young man; more respectful.

[_Exit_, R.

_John._ I've got rid of him at last, and five minutes gone. O, dear! (_Reads._)

"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!"

_Enter_ MR. HANKS, R.

_Mr. H._ Did you say right or left?

_John._ Good gracious! the man's back! To--the right! To the right! Follow the stream.

_Mr. H._ Hey?

_John._ Follow--the--stream--as--it--flows.

_Mr. H._ Follow my nose! You're an impudent scamp! I'll ask you no more questions. [_Exit_, R.

_John._ I hope you won't. This comes of trying to do a good-natured act. O, dear! that address! (_Reads._)

"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!"

_Enter_ JOHN CLOD, L.

_Clod._ I say, sonny; yer hain't seen nothin' of a keow, have yer, here or hereabouts?

_John._ No, I haven't seen no cow.

_Clod._ Well, don't git mad. It's plaguy strange where that are keow has travelled tew. Brand new keow dad brought hum from market yesterday. What on airth shall I do? She's a brindle, short horns. Yeou hain't seen her?

_John._ No, I haven't seen her. I've seen no cows or cattle of any kind. It's no use stopping here.

_Clod._ Well, I dunno what's to be did. Marm, she dropped her bakin', and scooted one way; dad quit ploughin', and scooted another; and I've been scootin' every which way. Ain't heard a keow moo--mooing, have yer?

_John._ I don't believe there's a cow within forty miles of here.

_Clod._ Sho! yer jokin' neow. Neow, see here; I kinder think yeou dew know somethin' about that keow. Jest tell me where she is, and I don't mind ginning yer fo'pence.

_John._ I tell you again, I know nothing about your cow. I'm studing my lesson; and if you don't clear out and leave me in peace, I shall never get it.

_Clod._ Sho! Well, I don't want to hender ye, but I should like to know what's become of that are keow. [_Exit_, R.

_John._ Gone at last. Was ever a fellow so plagued! I've only got eight minutes, and I must study. (_Goes to back of stage, and walks up and down, studying._)

_Enter_ PATSY FLINN, L.

_Patsy._ Begorra, it's a foine irrant I's on ony way. It's all along iv thim watthermillons, bad luck to 'em! Slaping swately on my bid last night thinking uv the bould b'ys that fit, blid, and run away from Canady, I heerd a v'ice in the millon patch, "Here's a bouncer, b'ys." Faix, didn't I lept out uv that bid, and didn't I hurry on my clo'es, and didn't I take a big shtick, and didn't I run fur the patch, and didn't I find nobody? To be sure I did! So this morning, Mr. Hopkins sinds me to the school-house to find the b'ys that invadid the sacred retrait, which is the millon-patch. But how will I find thim? Begorra, I should know that v'ice; and I'll make the whole school shtand up togither one by one and shout, "Here's a bouncer!" that I will.

_John._ (_Coming down_ R. _of stage._) Now let's see how much I know. (_Declaims._)

"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!"

_Patsy._ By my sowl, that's the v'ice of my dr'ams!

_John._ "I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free."

_Patsy._ Fray, is it, begorra! Ye'll not hould thim long, me b'y!

_John._ "Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me."

_Patsy._ Begorra, ye'll soon hear an Irish echo ax ye something else!

_John._ "And bid your tenant welcome to his home
again!"

_Patsy._ Begorra, you're wilcome to no more watermillons, ye'll find!

_John._ "Ye guards of Liberty!"

_Patsy._ Ye little blackguard!

_John._ "I'm with you once again! I hold my hands to you,
To show they still are free!"

_Patsy._ Begorra, they're stained with watermillons, sure!

_John._ "I rush to you,
As though I could embrace you!"

(_Runs into_ PATSY'S _arms._)

_Patsy._ Come on, I'm waiting for you! O, you blackguard! O, yes spalpeen! I've got yes!

_John._ Who are you? What do you want? Let me go!

_Patsy._ Niver! Ye must go along wid me, my fine lad; there's a bill a waiting for you at farmer Hopkins's.

_John._ Farmer Hopkins! But I shall be late for school.

_Patsy._ O, niver mind the school. You'll get a little uv it there, from a nice big cowhide.

_John._ Let me go, I say!

_Patsy._ Quit your howling, and come along.

_John._ I won't. Help! Help! Help!

_Enter_ CHARLEY _and_ RALPH, R.

_Charley._ What's the matter, Ray?

_Ralph._ Hallo, Patsy! What's to pay now?

_Patsy._ A small bill for watermillons, Master Ralph.

_Ralph._ O, I see; you're found out, Ray!

_John._ Well, I wan't the only one in the patch last night.

_Ralph._ But you're the only one found out; so you must take the consequences.

_Charley._ Master Jones sent us to look for you; it's five minutes after nine.

_John._ O, dear, what's to become of me!

_Ralph._ You must get to school at once. Patsy, I'll be answerable for John Ray's appearance at Farmer Hopkins's after school. Won't that do?

_Patsy._ To be sure it will. I can depind upon you, Master Ralph. But mind and cape an eye on that chap; fur it's my opinion he's a little cracked; he's bin ravin' about crags, and peaks, and liberty like a full-blooded Fenian. I'll go home and practise a bit wid that cowhide. [_Exit_, L.

_Charley._ Well, John, got your piece?

_John._ Got my piece? No. I've been bothered to death!

_Ralph._ You've been keeping company with the "thief of time."

_John._ I'd like to know what you mean by that.

_Ralph._ I'll tell you. You should have studied your piece yesterday noon; but, instead of that, you went boating. You should have studied last night; but instead of that, you got into a scrape, which promises to make trouble for you; and this morning you played ball instead of taking time for your work.

_John._ Well, I meant to have studied it yesterday, but I thought I had plenty of time. I wanted a little recreation.

_Charley._ Yes, John; but you should look out for the lessons first, and not neglect them. Come, let's go to school.

_John._ And be at the foot of the class. I don't like this.

_Ralph._ You'll find a remedy for it in the copy-book.

_John._ What is it?

_Ralph._ A warning to the dilatory--"Procrastination is the thief of time."

[_Exeunt_, R.

THE RAIN-DROPS.

T.H. EVANS.

A farmer had a field of corn of rather large extent,
In tending which, with anxious care, much time and toil he spent;
But after working long and hard, he saw, with grief and pain,
His corn began to droop and fade, because it wanted rain.

So sad and restless was his mind, at home he could not stop,
But to his field repaired each day to view his withering crop.
One day, when he stood looking up, despairing, at the sky,
Two little rain-drops in the clouds his sad face chanced to spy.

"I very sorry feel," said one, "to see him look so sad;
I wish I could do him some good; indeed, I should be glad.
Just see the trouble he has had; and if it should not rain,
Why, all his toil, and time, and care he will have spent in vain."

"What use are you," cried number two, "to water so much ground?
You're nothing but a drop of rain, and could not wet one mound."
"What you have said," his friend replied, "I know is very true;
But I'm resolved to do my best, and more I cannot do.

I'll try to cheer his heart a bit: so now I'm off--here goes!"
And down the little rain-drop fell upon the farmer's nose.
"Whatever's that?" the farmer cried. "Was it a drop of rain?
I do believe it's come at last; I have not watched in vain."

Now, when the second rain-drop saw his willing friend depart,
Said he, "I'll go as well, and try to cheer the farmer's heart."
But many rain-drops by this time had been attracted out,
To see and hear what their two friends were talking so about.

"We'll go as well," a number cried, "as our two friends have gone.
We shall not only cheer his heart, but water, too, his corn.
We're off! we're off!" they shout with glee, and down they fell so
fast.
"O bless the Lord!" the farmer cried, "the rain has come at last."

The corn it grew and ripened well, and into food was dressed,
Because a little rain-drop said, "I'll try, and do my best."
This little lesson, children dear, you'll not forget I'm sure;
Try, do your best, do what you can--angels can do no more.

THE SCOLDING OLD DAME.

There once was a toper--I'll not tell his name--
Who had for his comfort a scolding old dame;
And often and often he wished himself dead,
For, if drunk he came home, she would beat him to bed.
He spent all his evenings away from his home,
And, when he returned, he would sneakingly come
And try to walk straightly, and say not a word--
Just to keep his dear wife from abusing her lord;
For if he dared say his tongue was his own,
'Twould set her tongue going, in no gentle tone,
And she'd huff him, and cuff him, and call him hard names,
And he'd sigh to be rid of all scolding old dames.