He raised the cup to his pure, sweet lips—Lips fresh from a mother's kisses;Merry the banquet hall that night,For youth and beauty were there, and brightThe glittering lamps shone o'er them;And one had sung with a voice divine,A song in praise of the ruby wine,That graced the feast before them.Little he dreamed as he lightly quaffedThe sparkling wine, that the first rare draughtWas a link in the chain to bind him,And drag his soul, like a servile slave,Down slippery steps to a shameful grave,From a throne where love enshrined him.She raised the cup to her tainted lips—Lips foul with the vilest curses—In a loathsome haunt of sin and shame,Where Christian charity seldom came,With its holy words to teach themOf the pastures green and waters sweet—Of her who wept at the Master's feet,Whose boundless love could reach them.Is love so dear, and life so cheap,That one poor soul, like a wandering sheep,Alone on the bleak, cold mountain,Should gladly turn from a life accursed,To drown the past and quench the thirstIn draughts from a poisonous fountain?He raised the cup to his trembling lips—Lips wrinkled by age and hunger;The meagre pittance he'd begged for food,Brightened the palm of the man who stoodAt his bar with his wines around him.He drank, and turned on tottering feetTo the bitter storm and the cold, dark street,Where a corpse in the morn they found him.And oh! could those speechless lips have toldOf the want and sorrow, hunger and coldHe had known, or the answer given,When his trembling soul for entrance pleadAt the crystal gates, where One has said,"No drunkard shall enter Heaven!"
He raised the cup to his pure, sweet lips—Lips fresh from a mother's kisses;Merry the banquet hall that night,For youth and beauty were there, and brightThe glittering lamps shone o'er them;And one had sung with a voice divine,A song in praise of the ruby wine,That graced the feast before them.Little he dreamed as he lightly quaffedThe sparkling wine, that the first rare draughtWas a link in the chain to bind him,And drag his soul, like a servile slave,Down slippery steps to a shameful grave,From a throne where love enshrined him.
She raised the cup to her tainted lips—Lips foul with the vilest curses—In a loathsome haunt of sin and shame,Where Christian charity seldom came,With its holy words to teach themOf the pastures green and waters sweet—Of her who wept at the Master's feet,Whose boundless love could reach them.Is love so dear, and life so cheap,That one poor soul, like a wandering sheep,Alone on the bleak, cold mountain,Should gladly turn from a life accursed,To drown the past and quench the thirstIn draughts from a poisonous fountain?
He raised the cup to his trembling lips—Lips wrinkled by age and hunger;The meagre pittance he'd begged for food,Brightened the palm of the man who stoodAt his bar with his wines around him.He drank, and turned on tottering feetTo the bitter storm and the cold, dark street,Where a corpse in the morn they found him.And oh! could those speechless lips have toldOf the want and sorrow, hunger and coldHe had known, or the answer given,When his trembling soul for entrance pleadAt the crystal gates, where One has said,"No drunkard shall enter Heaven!"
Vell, von morning I says to Hans (Hans vos mein husband): "Hans, I tinks I goes down to New York, und see some sights in dot village."
Und Hans he say: "Vell Katrina, you vork hard pooty mooch, I tinks it vould petter be dot you goes und rest yourselfsome." So I gets meinself ready righd avay quick und in two days I vos de shteam cars on vistling avay for New York. Ve vent so fast I tinks mein head vould shplit sometimes. De poles for dot delegraph vires goes by like dey vos mad und running a races demselves mit to see vich could go de fastest mit de oder. De engine vistled like sometimes it vos hurt bad, und screeched mit de pain, und de horses by dem fields vould run as dey vas scared.
I vas pooty mooch as ten hours ven ve rushed into some houses so big enough as all our village, und de cars begin to shtop vith so many leetle jerks I dinks me I shall lose all de dinner vot I eat vile I vas coming all de vay apoudt.
Vell, ven dem cars got shtopped, de peoples all got oudt und I picked mein traps oup und got oudt too. I had shust shtepped de blatform on, ven so mooch as ein hundert men, mit vips in dere hands, und dere fingers all in de air oup, asked me all at vonce, "Vere I go?" Und every one of dem fellers vanted me to go mit him to his hotel. But I tells em I guess not; I vas going mit my brudder-mit-law, vot keeps ein pakeshop on de Powery, vere it didn't cost me notings. So I got me in dot shtreet cars, und pays de man mit brass buttons on his coat to let me oudt mit de shtreet vere dot Yawcup Schneider leeves. Oh, my!vot lots of houses! De shtreets vos all ofer filled mit dem. Und so many peoples I tinks me dere must be a fire, or a barade, or some oxcitement vot gets de whole city in von blaces. It dakes me so mooch time to look at everytings I forgot me ven to got oudt und rides apast de blaces I vants to shtop to, und has to valk again pack mit dree or four shquares. But I vind me dot brudder-mit-law who vos make me so velcome as nefer vos.
Vell, dot vos Saturday mit de afternoon. I vas tired mit dot day's travel und I goes me pooty quick to bed und ven I vakes in de morning de sun vas high oup in de shky. But I gets me oup und puts on mein new silk vrock und tinks me I shall go to some fine churches und hear ein grosse breacher. Der pells vas ringing so schveet I dinks I nefer pefore hear such music. Ven I got de shtreet on de beoples vos all going quiet und nice to dere blaces mit worship, und I makes oup my mind to go in von of dem churches so soon as von comes along. Pooty soon I comes to de von mit ein shteeples high oup in de shky und I goes in mit de beoples und sits me down on ein seat all covered mit a leetle mattress. De big organ vas blaying so soft it seemed likes as if some angels must be dere to make dot music.
Pooty soon de breacher man shtood in de bulbit oup und read de hymn oudt, und allde beoples sing until de churches vos filled mit de shweetness. Den de breacher man pray, und read de Pible, und den he say dot de bulbit would be occupied by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas.
Den dot man gommence to breach und he read mit his dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." He talks for so mooch as ein half hour already ven de beoples sings again und goes homes. I tells mein brudder-mit-law it vos so nice I tinks me I goes again mit some oder churches. So vot you tinks? I goes mit anoder churches dot afternoon und dot same Villiam R. Shtover vos dere und breach dot same sermon ofer again mit dot same dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." I tinks to my ownself—dot vos too bad, und I goes home und dells Yawcup, und he says, "Nefer mind, Katrina, to-night ve goes somevhere else to churches." So ven de night vas come und de lamps vos all lighted mit de shtreets, me und mein brudder-mit-law, ve goes over to dot Brooklyn town to hear dot Heinrich Vard Peecher.
My but dot vos ein grosse church, und so many beobles vas dere, ve vas crowded mit de vall back. Ven de singing vas all done, a man vot vos sitting mit a leetle chair got oup und say dot de Rev. Heinrich Vard Peecher vas to de Vhite Mountains gone mitdot hay fever, but dot de bulbit vould be occupied on this occasion by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas. Und dot Villiam R. Shtover he gots mit dot bulbit oup und breaches dot same sermon mit dot same dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever."
Dot vos too bad again und I gets mad. I vos so mad I vish dot he got dot fever himself.
Vell, von dot man vas troo Yawcup says to me, "Come, Katrina, ve'll go down to dot ferry und take de boat vot goes to New York!" Ven ve vas on dot boat de fog vas so tick dot you couldn't see your hands pehind your pack. De vistles vas plowing, und dem pells vos ringing, und von man shtepped up mit Yawcup und say "Vot vor dem pells pe ringing so mooch?"
Und ven I looked around dere shtood dot Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas—und I said pooty quick: "Vot vor dem pells vas ringing? Vy for Simon's vife's mudder, vot must be died, for I hear dree times to-day already dot she vas sick mit ein fever."
A monarch sat in serious thought, alone,But little reck'd he of his robe and throne;Naught valuing the glory of control,He sought to solve the future of his soul."Why should I bow the proud, imperious knee,To mighty powers no mortal eye can see?"So mused he long and turned this question o'er,Then, with impatient tread, he paced the floor,Till maddened by conflicting trains of thoughtAnd speculation vague, which came to naught,With feverish haste he clutched a tasseled cordAs desperate hands, in battle, clutch a sword."Summon Jehoshua," the monarch cried.The white-haired Rabbi soon was at his side.*....*....*....*"I bow no more to powers I cannot see;Thy faith and learning shall be naught to me,Unless, before the setting of the sun,Mine eyes behold the uncreated one."*....*....*....*The Rabbi led him to the open air.The oriental sun with furious glareSent down its rays, like beams of molten gold.The aged teacher, pointing, said: "Behold.""I cannot," said the Prince, "my dazzled eyesRefuse their service, turned upon the skies."*....*....*....*"Son of the dust," the Rabbi gently saidAnd bowed, with reverence, his hoary head,"This one creation, thou canst not behold,Though by thy lofty state and pride made bold.How canst thou then behold the God of Light,Before whose face the sunbeams are as night?Thine eyes before this trifling labor fall,Canst gaze on him who hath created all?Son of the dust, repentance can atone;Return and worship God, who rules alone."
A monarch sat in serious thought, alone,But little reck'd he of his robe and throne;Naught valuing the glory of control,He sought to solve the future of his soul."Why should I bow the proud, imperious knee,To mighty powers no mortal eye can see?"So mused he long and turned this question o'er,Then, with impatient tread, he paced the floor,Till maddened by conflicting trains of thoughtAnd speculation vague, which came to naught,With feverish haste he clutched a tasseled cordAs desperate hands, in battle, clutch a sword."Summon Jehoshua," the monarch cried.The white-haired Rabbi soon was at his side.
*....*....*....*
"I bow no more to powers I cannot see;Thy faith and learning shall be naught to me,Unless, before the setting of the sun,Mine eyes behold the uncreated one."
*....*....*....*
The Rabbi led him to the open air.The oriental sun with furious glareSent down its rays, like beams of molten gold.The aged teacher, pointing, said: "Behold.""I cannot," said the Prince, "my dazzled eyesRefuse their service, turned upon the skies."
*....*....*....*
"Son of the dust," the Rabbi gently saidAnd bowed, with reverence, his hoary head,"This one creation, thou canst not behold,Though by thy lofty state and pride made bold.
How canst thou then behold the God of Light,Before whose face the sunbeams are as night?Thine eyes before this trifling labor fall,Canst gaze on him who hath created all?Son of the dust, repentance can atone;Return and worship God, who rules alone."
It was just at the dawn of day, when the first rays of morning were breaking over Europe and dispelling the darkness of the Middle Ages. France and England were engaged in a desperate struggle, the one for existence, the other for a throne. All the western part of France had avowed the English cause, and the English king had been proclaimed at Paris, at Rouen and at Bordeaux, while the strongly fortified city of Orleans, the key to the French possessions, was besieged. The thunder and lightning of the battlefield are bad enough, but the starvation and pestilence of a besieged city are infinitely worse. The supplies of Orleans were exhausted; the garrison was reduced to a few desperate men, and the women and children had been abandoned to the English. But far away on the border of Germany, in the little village of Domremy, the Nazareth of France, God wasraising up a deliverer for Orleans, a savior for the nation.
The out-door life of a peasant girl had given to Joan of Arc a well-developed form, while the beauties of her soul and the spiritual tendencies of her nature must have given to her face that womanly beauty that never fails to win respect and love. Her standard was a banner of snowy silk; her weapon a sword, that from the day she first drew it from its scabbard until she finally laid it down upon the grave of St. Denis, was never stained with blood; and her inspiration was a self-sacrificing devotion to the will of God, to the rights of France and her king. Without a single opposing shot she passed under the very battlements of the besieging English, and entered Orleans with soldiers for empty forts and food for starving people.
It needed no eloquent speech to incite the men of Orleans to deeds of valor and of vengeance. The ruins of their homes choked the streets; the desolated city was one open sepulchre, while the cries of half-starved children and the wails of heartbroken mothers, stirred them to such a mad frenzy of enthusiasm, that now, since a leader had come, they would have rushed headlong and thoughtlessly against the English forts as into a trap of death.
And now the attack was planned and thelines were formed; and then as the crumbling walls of the city echoed back the wild shouts of the Orleanites, the maid of Domremy, waving her sword aloft and followed by her snowy banner, led her Frenchmen on to slaughter and to victory. Then from the English archers came flight after flight of swift-winged arrows, while the wild catapults threw clouds of death-laden stones crashing among the French. Broadsword and battle-axe clashed on shield and helmet, while the wild horses, mad with rage and pain, rushed with fierce yells upon the foe; but ever above the din and noise of battle, above death shouts and saber strokes, though the dust and smoke obscured her banner, ever could be heard the clear, ringing voice of their leader, shouting for victory and for France. An arrow pierced her bosom, but drawing it out with her own hand and throwing it aside, she showed the French her blood-stained corselet, and once more urged them on. As when the Archangel Michael, leading the heavenly cohorts, forced the rebellious angels to the very brink of hell, then hurled them over and so saved the throne of heaven, so did the maid of Orleans, leading on frenzied Frenchmen, press back the English step by step, and slaughtered rank by rank, till the whole army turned and fled, and Orleans was free and France was safe.
And now her work was done. Wouldthat some kindly voice had bade her now go home to tend the sheep and roll their white wool on her distaff! But she who had raised the siege of Orleans and led the way to Rheims, could not escape a jealous fate. The Duke of Burgundy had laid siege to Compiegne. Joan of Arc went to the rescue and was repulsed, and while bravely fighting in the rear of her retreating troops, fell prisoner to the recreant French and was sold by them to the English. For one long year she languished in her prison tower. Her keepers insulted her and called her a witch; and when in desperation she sprang from the tower and was taken up insensible, they loaded her poor body with chains, and two guards stayed in her cell day and night.
Her trial came, but her doom was already sealed. The Bishop of Beauvais, with a hundred doctors of theology, were her judges. Without a particle of evidence against her, they convicted her of sorcery and sentenced her to be burnt at the stake. A howl of fiendish joy went up from the blood-thirsty court of Paris,—a howl of fiendish joy that made its way to every battlefield where she had fought; it rang against the rescued walls of Orleans and was echoed to the royal court at Rheims; it reached to the bottomless pit and made the imps of Satan dance with glee; it echoed through the halls of heaven and made theangels weep; but there was no rescuer for the helpless girl. Even the gladiator, forced into the fight, against his will, when fallen in the arena, his sword broken and the enemy's knee upon his breast, might yet hope for "thumbs down," and mercy from the hard-hearted Roman spectators. But not a single hand was raised to save the maid of Domremy, the saviour of Orleans.
Had she not faithfully done her work? Had she not bled for them? Had she not saved the kingdom? And in all chivalrous France was there not a champion to take up the gauntlet in defence of a helpless girl? When she led their armies, their spears blazed in heaven's sunlight; now they would quench them in her blood. With scarcely time to think of death, she was hurried away to the public square and chained to the stake, and when the fagots were fired, more painful than the circling flames, she heard the mocking laugh of the angry crowd. Higher and higher rose the flames, until, pressing the cross to her heart, her unconscious head sank upon her bosom, and her pure spirit went up amid the smoke and soared away to heaven.
[This is one of the Bab-Ballads, on which the very successful comic opera "Pinafore" was founded.]
[This is one of the Bab-Ballads, on which the very successful comic opera "Pinafore" was founded.]
It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown,Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.As Alice was a sitting at her window-sill one day,A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;She cast her eyes upon, and he looked so good and true,That she thought: "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten;A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode).But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wiseTo look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes;So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed."Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not,To discover that I was a most disreputable lot?Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!"The padre said: "Whatever have you been and gone and done?""I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad,I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check,And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear,And said: "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear;It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;But sins like these one expiates at half a crown apiece."Girls will be girls—you're very young, and flighty in your mind;Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks—Let's see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six.""Oh, father!" little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep,You do these little things for me so singularly cheap—Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;But, oh! there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!"A pleasant looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,I've noticed at my window, as I've sat acatching flies;He passes by it every day as certain as can be—I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!""For shame!" said father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my wordThis is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your handTo a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parent so!They are the most remunerative customers I know;For many, many years they've kept starvation from my doors;I never knew so criminal a family as yours!"The common country folk in this insipid neighborhoodHave nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good;And if you marry any one respectable at all.Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown—To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit,Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well;He said: "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits."I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two:Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do—A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fallWhen she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware;He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head,And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind,She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind,Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty handOn the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.
It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown,Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.
As Alice was a sitting at her window-sill one day,A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;She cast her eyes upon, and he looked so good and true,That she thought: "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"
And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten;A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode).
But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wiseTo look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes;So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.
"Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not,To discover that I was a most disreputable lot?Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!"The padre said: "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"
"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad,I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check,And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"
The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear,And said: "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear;It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;But sins like these one expiates at half a crown apiece.
"Girls will be girls—you're very young, and flighty in your mind;Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks—Let's see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six."
"Oh, father!" little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep,You do these little things for me so singularly cheap—Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;But, oh! there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!
"A pleasant looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,I've noticed at my window, as I've sat acatching flies;He passes by it every day as certain as can be—I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!"
"For shame!" said father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my wordThis is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your handTo a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!
"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parent so!They are the most remunerative customers I know;For many, many years they've kept starvation from my doors;I never knew so criminal a family as yours!
"The common country folk in this insipid neighborhoodHave nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good;And if you marry any one respectable at all.Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"
The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown—To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit,Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.
Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well;He said: "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.
"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two:Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do—A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fallWhen she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."
He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware;He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head,And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.
And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind,She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind,Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty handOn the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.
The central figure was a bareheaded woman with a broom in her hand. She stood on the back step, and was crying:
"George!"
There was no response, but anybody who had been on the other side of the close-boarded fence at the foot of the garden might have observed two boys intently engaged in building a mud pie.
"That's your mother hollerin' Georgie," said one of the two, placing his eye to a knothole and glancing through to the stoop.
"I don't care," said the other.
"Ain't you going in?"
"No!"
"Georgie!" came another call, short and sharp; "do you hear me?"
There was no answer.
"Where is she now?" inquired Georgie, putting in the filling of the pie.
"On the stoop," replied his friend at the knothole.
"What's she doin'?"
"Ain't doin' nothin'."
"George Augustus!"
Still no answer.
"You needn't think you can hide fromme, young man, for I can see you, and if you don't come in here at once, I'll come out there in a way that you'll know it."
Now this was an eminently natural statement, but hardly plausible as her eyes would have had to pierce an inch board fence to see Georgie; and even were this possible, it would have required a glance in that special direction, and not over the top of a pear tree in an almost opposite way. Even the boy at the knothole could hardly repress a smile.
"What's she doin' now?" inquired Georgie.
"She stands there yet."
"I won't speak to you again, George Augustus," came the voice. "Your father will be home in a few minutes, and I shall tell him all about what you have done."
Still no answer.
"Ain't you afraid?" asked the conscientious young man, drawing his eye from the knothole to rest it.
"No! she won't tell pa; she never does, she only says it to scare me."
Thus enlightened and reassured, the guard covered the knothole again.
"Ain't you acoming in here, young man?" again demanded the woman, "or do you want me to come out there to you with a stick? I won't speak to you again, sir!"
"Is she comin'?" asked the baker.
"No."
"Which way is she lookin'?"
"She's lookin' over in the other yard."
"Do you hear me, I say?" came the call again.
No answer.
"George Augustus! do you hear your mother?"
Still no answer.
"Oh, you just wait, young man, till your father comes home, and he'll make you hear, I'll warrant ye."
"She's gone in now," announced the faithful sentinel, withdrawing from his post.
"All right! take hold of this crust and pull it down on that side, and that'll be another pie done," said the remorse-stricken George Augustus.
Shwate Kittie Kehoe,Can ye tell, I do' know.Phwat the mischief's about ye that bothers me so?For there's that in yer eye.That I wish I may dieIf it doesn't pursue me wherever I go.Och hone!Shwate Kitty Kehoe.It's a livin' disgraceThat yer shwate purty faceShould be dhrivin' me sinses all over the place!I go this way an' that,Loike a man fur a hat,Wid the wind up an alley-way, runnin' a race.Och hone!Shwate Kittie Kehoe.Oh! Faith, but I'm sad,Fur to know that I'm mad,That only intinsifies all that is bad;But phwat can I do,Whin a shwate smile from youTurns everythin' rosy and makes me sowl glad?Och hone!Shwate Kittie Kehoe.Shwate Kittie Kehoe,I beg of ye, goTo the outermost inds of the earth, I do' know;If ye'll only do this,Jist lave me wan kiss,An' I'll die whin yer sthartin', Shwate Kittie Kehoe.Och hone! Och hone!Shwate Kittie Kehoe.
Shwate Kittie Kehoe,Can ye tell, I do' know.Phwat the mischief's about ye that bothers me so?For there's that in yer eye.That I wish I may dieIf it doesn't pursue me wherever I go.Och hone!Shwate Kitty Kehoe.
It's a livin' disgraceThat yer shwate purty faceShould be dhrivin' me sinses all over the place!I go this way an' that,Loike a man fur a hat,Wid the wind up an alley-way, runnin' a race.Och hone!Shwate Kittie Kehoe.
Oh! Faith, but I'm sad,Fur to know that I'm mad,That only intinsifies all that is bad;But phwat can I do,Whin a shwate smile from youTurns everythin' rosy and makes me sowl glad?Och hone!Shwate Kittie Kehoe.
Shwate Kittie Kehoe,I beg of ye, goTo the outermost inds of the earth, I do' know;If ye'll only do this,Jist lave me wan kiss,An' I'll die whin yer sthartin', Shwate Kittie Kehoe.Och hone! Och hone!Shwate Kittie Kehoe.
[A short speech by Vice-President Henry Wilson, delivered at the National Temperance Convention, in Chicago, June, 1875.]
[A short speech by Vice-President Henry Wilson, delivered at the National Temperance Convention, in Chicago, June, 1875.]
Forty years of experience and observation have taught me that the greatest evil of our country, next, at any rate, to the one that has gone down in fire and blood to rise nomore, is the evil of intemperance. Every day's experience, every hour of reflection, teaches me that it is the duty of patriotism, the duty of humanity, the duty of Christianity, to live Christian lives, and to exert temperance influence among the people.
There was a time, when I was younger than I am now, when I hoped to live long enough to see the cause which my heart loves and my judgment approves stronger than it is to-day. I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that the present is a rather dark and troubled night for that cause, and it is because it so seems to me that I believe it to be the duty of every honest, conscientious, self-sacrificing man of our country to speak and to work for the cause in every legitimate and proper way. And my reliance for the advancement of the cause of temperance is the same reliance which I have for the spread of the Gospel of our Divine Lord and Master.
The heart, the conscience and the reason must be appealed to continually; and Christian men and women must remember that the heart of Christianity is temperance. If it costs a sacrifice, give it. What is sacrifice to doing good and lifting toward heaven our fellow-men? We have got to rely on appeals and addresses made to the heart of this nation, to the conscience of the people and the reason of the country. We havegot to train up our children in the cause from infancy. We must teach it in the schools and everywhere by word, and above all by example; and it seems to me that Christian ministers, in this dark hour of our country, when they see so much intemperance, and what looks to some of us like a reaction, should make the voice of the pulpits of this land heard.
Members of Christian churches should remember that they have something to do in this cause. If anything stands in the way of Christianity it is the drunkenness in our land. A word for temperance at this time is the strongest blow against the kingdom of Satan and for the cause of our Lord and Master.
Suppose you have been disappointed. Suppose that many of your laws have failed. We know that we are right. We personally feel and see it. The evidence is around and about us that we cannot be mistaken in living total abstinence lives and recommending such a course to our neighbors.
When it costs something to stand by the temperance cause, then is the hour to stand by it. If I could be heard to-day by the people of the land, by the patriotic young men of this country, full of life, vigor and hope, I would say that it is among the first, the highest, and the grandest duties, whichthe country, God, and the love of humanity impose, to work for the cause oftotal abstinence.
I wonder if, under the grass-grown sod,The weary human heart finds rest!If the soul, with its woes, when it flies to God,Leaves all its pain, in the earth's cold breast!Or whether we feel, as we do to-day,That joy holds sorrow in hand, alway.I wonder if, after the kiss of death,The love that was sweet, in days of yore.Departs with the last, faint, fleeting breath,Or deeper grows than ever before!I wonder if, there in the great Unknown,Fond hearts grow weary when left alone!I think of the daily life I lead,Its broken dreams and its fitful starts,The hopeless hunger, the heart's sore need,The joy that gladdens, the wrong that parts,And wonder whether the coming yearsWill bring contentment, or toil and tears.
I wonder if, under the grass-grown sod,The weary human heart finds rest!If the soul, with its woes, when it flies to God,Leaves all its pain, in the earth's cold breast!Or whether we feel, as we do to-day,That joy holds sorrow in hand, alway.
I wonder if, after the kiss of death,The love that was sweet, in days of yore.Departs with the last, faint, fleeting breath,Or deeper grows than ever before!I wonder if, there in the great Unknown,Fond hearts grow weary when left alone!
I think of the daily life I lead,Its broken dreams and its fitful starts,The hopeless hunger, the heart's sore need,The joy that gladdens, the wrong that parts,And wonder whether the coming yearsWill bring contentment, or toil and tears.
[Delivered before the Convention of Delegates of Virginia, March 23, 1775.]
[Delivered before the Convention of Delegates of Virginia, March 23, 1775.]
Mr. President: It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern our temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth,—to know the worst, and to provide for it!
I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet! Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss! Askyourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love?
Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation,—the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them?—Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that, for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain.
Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not already been exhausted?Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our supplications have been disregarded, and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne.
In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained,—we must fight; I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us!
They tell us, sir, that we are weak,—unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year?Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power.
Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable; and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come!
It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry: Peace, peace!—but there is no peace. The war is actuallybegun! The next gale that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!
Upon the shores of No-man's-land,I met an angel, one whose wingsShed beams of light on either hand,As radiant as the sunrise brings.And happy souls, with eager tread,Passed up and down the sandy slope;"Oh, tell me your fair name!" I said;She turned and smiled, and answered: "Hope."Along the shores of No-man's-land,The angel walked, with folded wings,And shadows fell on every hand,The burden that the night-wind brings.With head turned backward, sad and slowShe paced the sands, her eyelids wet,"Hope mourns," I said, and soft and low,The angel sighed: "I am Regret."
Upon the shores of No-man's-land,I met an angel, one whose wingsShed beams of light on either hand,As radiant as the sunrise brings.And happy souls, with eager tread,Passed up and down the sandy slope;"Oh, tell me your fair name!" I said;She turned and smiled, and answered: "Hope."
Along the shores of No-man's-land,The angel walked, with folded wings,And shadows fell on every hand,The burden that the night-wind brings.With head turned backward, sad and slowShe paced the sands, her eyelids wet,"Hope mourns," I said, and soft and low,The angel sighed: "I am Regret."
"Are there any more of those letters?"
When her father asked this question in an awful tone, Lucilla Richmond could not say No, and dared not say Yes, but as an intermediate course burst into tears and sobbed behind her handkerchief.
"Bring them to me, Lucilla," said her father, as if she had answered him, as indeed she had; and the girl, trembling and weeping, arose to obey him.
Then Mrs. Richmond, her daughter's own self grown older, came behind her husband's chair and patted him on the shoulder. "Please don't be hard with her, my dear," she said, coaxingly. "He's a nice young man, and it's all our fault, after all, as much as hers."
"Perhaps you approve of the whole affair, ma'am," said Mr. Richmond.
"I—no—that is I only—" gasped the little woman; and hearing Lucilla coming, she sank into a chair, blaming herself dreadfully for not having been present at all her daughter's music lessons during the past year.
"It was inexcusable in a poor music teacher, who should have known his place," Mr. Richmond declared; and he clutchedthe little perfumed billet which had fallen into his hands, as he might a scorpion, and waited for the others with a look upon his face which told of no softening. At last six little white envelopes, tied together with blue ribbons, were laid at his elbow by his trembling daughter.
"Lock these up until I return home this evening," he said to his wife; "I will read them then. Meanwhile Lucilla is not to see this music teacher on any pretence whatever."
Mr. Richmond put on his hat and departed, and Lucilla and her mother took the opportunity of falling into each other's arms.
"It is so naughty of you," said Mrs. Richmond. "But oh, dear, I can't blame you. It was exactly so with your father, and my father objected because of his poverty. He used to be very romantic himself in those old times. Such letters as he wrote to me. I have them in my desk yet. He said he'd die if I refused him."
"So does Fred," said Lucilla.
"And that life would be worthless without me, and about my being beautiful,—I'm sure he ought to sympathize a little," said Mrs. Richmond.
She went into her own room to put the letters into her desk; and as she placed them into one of the pigeon holes, she saw inanother a bundle, tied exactly as these were, and drew them out. These letters were to a Lucilla also, one who had received them twenty years before. A strange idea came into Mrs. Richmond's mind.
When she left the desk she looked guilty and frightened. The dinner hour arrived, and with it came her husband, angered and more determined than ever. The meal was passed in silence; then, having adjourned to the parlor, Mr. Richmond seated himself in a great arm-chair, and demanded, in a voice of thunder: "Those absurd letters, if you please."
"Six letters—six shameful pieces of deception, Lucilla," said the indignant parent. "I am shocked that a child of mine should practice such duplicity. Hem! let me see. Number one, I believe. June, and this is December. Half a year you have deceived us then, Lucilla. Let me see—ah! 'From the first moment I adored you,' bah! Nonsense. People don't fall in love in that absurd manner. 'With your smiles for a goal, I would win both fame and fortune, poor as I am!' Fiddlesticks, Lucilla. A man who has common sense would always wait until he had a fair commencement before he proposed to a girl. Praising your beauty, eh? 'The loveliest creature I ever saw!' Exaggeration, my dear. You are not plain, but such flatteryis absurd. 'Must hear from you or die!' Dear, dear, dear—how absurd!" And Mr. Richmond dropped the first letter and picked another. "The same stuff," he commented. "I hope you do not believe a word he says. Ah! now in number three he calls you 'an angel!' He's romantic, upon my soul! And what is this? 'Those who forbid me to see you can find no fault with me but my poverty. I am honest—I am earnest in my efforts. I am by birth a gentleman, and I love you from the depths of my soul. Do not let them sell you for gold, Lucilla.' Great heavens, what impertinence to your parents!"
"I don't remember Fred saying anything of that kind," said poor little Lucilla. "He never knew you would object."
Mr. Richmond shook his head, frowned and then read on until the last sheet lay under his hand. Then with an ejaculation of rage, he sprang to his feet.
"Infamous!" he cried! "I'll go to him this instant—I'll horsewhip him, I'll—I'll murder him! As for you, by Jove, I'll send you to a convent. Elope—elope with a music teacher! Here, John, call a cab, I——"
"Oh, papa! you are crazy!" said Lucilla. "Frederick never proposed such a thing. Let me see the letter. Oh, that is not Fred's—upon my word it is not. Do look, papa,it is dated twenty years back, and Frederick's name is not Charles! Papa, these are your letters to mamma, written long ago. Mother's name is Lucilla, you know."
Mr. Richmond sat down in his arm-chair in silence, very red in the face.
"How did this occur?" he said, sternly; and little Mrs. Richmond, retreating into a corner, with her handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed:
"I did it on purpose! You know, Charles, it's so long ago, and I thought you might not exactly remember how you fell in love with me at first sight; how papa and mamma objected, and how, at last, we ran away together; and it seemed to me if we could bring it back all plainly to you as it was then, we might let Lucilla marry the man she loves, who is good, if he is not rich. I do not need to be brought back any plainer myself; women have more time to remember, you know. And we've been very happy—have we not?"
And certainly Mr. Richmond could not deny that. The little ruse was favorable to the young music teacher, who had really only been sentimental, and had not gone one half so far as an elopement; and in due course of time the two were married with all the pomp and grandeur befitting the nuptials of a wealthy merchant's daughter, with the perfect approbation of Lucilla's father.