Two low whistles, quaint and clear,That was the signal the engineer—That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said—Gave to his wife at Providence,As through the sleeping town, and thenceOut in the night,On to the light,Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt,Yet to the woman looking out,Watching and waiting, no serenade,Love-song, or midnight roundelaySaid what that whistle seemed to say;"To my trust true,So love to you!Working or waiting. Good night!" it said.Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine,Old commuters, along the line,Brakesmen and porters, glanced ahead,Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense,Pierced through the shadows of Providence,—"Nothing amiss—Nothing!—it isOnly Guild calling his wife," they said.Summer and winter, the old refrainRang o'er the billows of ripening grain,Pierced through the budding boughs o'er head,Flew down the track when the red leaves burnedLike living coals from the engine spurned!Sang as it flew"To our trust true.First of all, duty! Good night!" it said.And then, one night, it was heard no moreFrom Stonington over Rhode Island Shore,And the folk in Providence smiled and said,As they turned in their beds: "The engineerHas once forgotten his midnight cheer."Oneonly knewTo his trust true,Guild lay under his engine, dead.
Two low whistles, quaint and clear,That was the signal the engineer—That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said—Gave to his wife at Providence,As through the sleeping town, and thenceOut in the night,On to the light,Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!
As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt,Yet to the woman looking out,Watching and waiting, no serenade,Love-song, or midnight roundelaySaid what that whistle seemed to say;"To my trust true,So love to you!Working or waiting. Good night!" it said.
Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine,Old commuters, along the line,Brakesmen and porters, glanced ahead,Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense,Pierced through the shadows of Providence,—"Nothing amiss—Nothing!—it isOnly Guild calling his wife," they said.
Summer and winter, the old refrainRang o'er the billows of ripening grain,Pierced through the budding boughs o'er head,Flew down the track when the red leaves burnedLike living coals from the engine spurned!Sang as it flew"To our trust true.First of all, duty! Good night!" it said.
And then, one night, it was heard no moreFrom Stonington over Rhode Island Shore,And the folk in Providence smiled and said,As they turned in their beds: "The engineerHas once forgotten his midnight cheer."Oneonly knewTo his trust true,Guild lay under his engine, dead.
The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added,—
"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."
"Come to what?"
"Interviewyou."
"Ah! I see. Yes—yes. Um! Yes—yes."
I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said,—
"How do you spell it?"
"Spell what?"
"Interview."
"Oh, my goodness? What do you want to spell it for?"
"I don't want to spell it: I want to see what it means."
"Well, this is astonishing, I must say.Ican tell you what it means, if you—if you"—
"Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."
"In,in, ter,ter,inter"—
"Then you spell it with anI?"
"Why, certainly!"
"Oh, that is what took me so long!"
"Why, mydearsir, what didyoupropose to spell it with?"
"Well, I—I—I hardly know. I had the Unabridged; and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition."
"Why, my friend, they wouldn't have apictureof it in even the latest e—— My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as—as—intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm,—I mean no harm at all."
"Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes—yes: they always speak of it with rapture."
"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."
"Indeed! I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?"
"Ah, well—well—well—this is disheartening. Itoughtto be done with a club, in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?"
"Oh, with pleasure,—with pleasure. I have a very bad memory; but I hope you will not mind. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me."
"Oh! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can."
"I will! I will put my whole mind on it."
"Thanks! Are you ready to begin?"
"Ready."
Question.How old are you?
Answer.Nineteen in June.
Q.Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?
A.In Missouri.
Q.When did you begin to write?
A.In 1836.
Q.Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?
A.I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.
Q.It does indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?
A.Aaron Burr.
Q.But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years——
A.Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?
Q.Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?
A.Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day; and he asked me to make less noise, and——
Q.But, good heavens! If you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and, if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not?
A.I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.
Q.Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead?
A.I didn't say he was dead.
Q.But wasn't he dead?
A.Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't.
Q.What doyouthink?
A.Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral.
Q.Did you—However we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask aboutsomething else. What was the date of your birth?
A.Monday, October 31, 1693.
Q.What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for that?
A.I don't account for it at all.
Q.But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.
A.Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy; but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing!
Q.Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters?
A.Eh! I—I—I think so,—yes—but I don't remember.
Q.Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard.
A.Why, what makes you think that?
Q.How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?
A.Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it, thatwasa brother of mine. That's William,Billwe called him. Poor old Bill!
Q.Why, is he dead, then?
A.Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.
Q.That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?
A.Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him.
Q.Buriedhim! Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not?
A.Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough.
Q.Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was dead——
A.No, no! We only thought he was.
Q.Oh, I see! He came to life again?
A.I bet he didn't.
Q.Well. I never heard anything like this.Somebodywas dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery?
A.Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see we were twins,—defunct and I; and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill; and some think it was me.
Q.Well, thatisremarkable. What doyouthink?
A.Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my wholelife. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand; that wasme.That child was the one that was drowned.
Q.Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.
A.You don't; well,Ido. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heart-breaking troubles enough without adding this.
Q.Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present; and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what peculiar circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?
A.Oh, it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery; and so hegot up, and rode with the driver.
Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company; and I was sorry to see him go.
I read the sentence or heard it spoken—A stalwart phrase and with meaning rife—And I said: "Now I know, by youth's sweet token,That this is the time called the 'prime of life.'"For my hopes soar over the loftiest mountain,And the future glows red, like a fair sunrise;And my spirits gush forth, like a spring-fed fountain,And never a grief in the heart of me lies."Yet later on, when with blood and muscleEquipped I plunged in the world's hard strife,When I loved its danger, and laughed at the tussle,"Whythis," I said, "is the prime of life."And then, when the tide in my veins ran slower,And youth's first follies had passed away,When the fervent fires in my heart burned lower,And over my body my brain had sway,I said: "It is when, through the veiled idealThe vigorous reason thrusts a knifeAnd rends the illusion, and shows us the real,Oh! this is the time called 'prime of life.'"Hut now when brain and body are troubled(For one is tired and one is ill,Yet my soul soars up with a strength redoubledAnd sits on the throne of my broken will),Now when on the ear of my listening spirit,That is turned away from the earth's harsh strife,The river of death sounds murmuring near it—I know thatthis"is the prime of life."
I read the sentence or heard it spoken—A stalwart phrase and with meaning rife—And I said: "Now I know, by youth's sweet token,That this is the time called the 'prime of life.'
"For my hopes soar over the loftiest mountain,And the future glows red, like a fair sunrise;And my spirits gush forth, like a spring-fed fountain,And never a grief in the heart of me lies."
Yet later on, when with blood and muscleEquipped I plunged in the world's hard strife,When I loved its danger, and laughed at the tussle,"Whythis," I said, "is the prime of life."
And then, when the tide in my veins ran slower,And youth's first follies had passed away,When the fervent fires in my heart burned lower,And over my body my brain had sway,
I said: "It is when, through the veiled idealThe vigorous reason thrusts a knifeAnd rends the illusion, and shows us the real,Oh! this is the time called 'prime of life.'"
Hut now when brain and body are troubled(For one is tired and one is ill,Yet my soul soars up with a strength redoubledAnd sits on the throne of my broken will),Now when on the ear of my listening spirit,That is turned away from the earth's harsh strife,The river of death sounds murmuring near it—I know thatthis"is the prime of life."
Did you ever see a battery take position?
It hasn't the thrill of a cavalry charge, nor the grimness of a line of bayonets moving slowly and determinedly on, but there is peculiar excitement about it that makes old veterans rise in the saddle and cheer.
We have been fighting at the edge of the woods. Every cartridge-box has been emptied once and more, and a fourth of the brigade has melted away in dead and wounded and missing. Not a cheer is heard in the whole brigade. We know that we are being driven foot by foot, and that when we break back once more, the line will go to pieces and the enemy will pour through the gap.
Here comes help!
Down the crowded highway gallops a battery, withdrawn from some other position to save ours. The field fence is scattered while you could count thirty, and the guns rush for the hill behind us. Six horses to a piece, three riders to each gun. Over dry ditches where a farmer could not drive awagon; through clumps of bushes, over logs a foot thick, every horse on the gallop, every rider lashing his team and yelling,—the sight behind us makes us forget the foe in front. The guns jump two feet high as the heavy wheels strike rock or log, but not a horse slackens his pace, not a cannoneer loses his seat. Six guns, six caissons, sixty horses, eighty men, race for the brow of the hill as if he who reached it first was to be knighted.
A moment ago the battery was a confused mob. We look again and the six guns are in position, the detached horses hurrying away, the ammunition-chests open, and along our line runs the command: "Give them one more volley and fall back to support the guns!" We have scarcely obeyed when boom! boom! boom! opens the battery, and jets of fire jump down and scorch the green trees under which we fought and despaired.
The shattered old brigade has a chance to breathe for the first time in three hours as we form a line of battle behind the guns and lie down. What grim, cool fellows these cannoneers are. Every man is a perfect machine. Bullets plash dust in their faces, but they do not wince. Bullets sing over and around them, but they do not dodge. There goes one to the earth, shot through the head as he sponged his gun. Themachinery loses just one beat,—misses just one cog in the wheel, and then works away again as before.
Every gun is using short-fuse shell. The ground shakes and trembles—the roar shuts out all sounds from a battle-line three miles long, and the shells go shrieking into the swamp to cut trees short off—to mow great gaps in the bushes—to hunt out and shatter and mangle men until their corpses cannot be recognized as human. You would think a tornado was howling through the forest, followed by billows of fire, and yet men live through it—aye! press forward to capture the battery! We can hear their shouts as they form for the rush.
Now the shells are changed for grape and canister, and the guns are served so fast that all reports blend into one mighty roar. The shriek of a shell is the wickedest sound in war, but nothing makes the flesh crawl like the demoniac singing, purring, whistling grape-shot and the serpent-like hiss of canister. Men's legs and arms are not shot through, but torn off. Heads are torn from bodies and bodies cut in two. A round shot or shell takes two men out of the ranks as it crashes through. Grape and canister mow a swath and pile the dead on top of each other.
Through the smoke we see a swarm of men. It is not a battle-line, but a mob ofmen desperate enough to bathe their bayonets in the flame of the guns. The guns leap from the ground, almost, as they are depressed on the foe—and shrieks and screams and shouts blend into one awful and steady cry. Twenty men out of the battery are down, and the firing is interrupted. The foe accept it as a sign of wavering, and come rushing on. They are not ten feet away when the guns give them a last shot. That discharge picks living men off their feet and throws them into the swamp, a blackened, bloody mass.
Up now, as the enemy are among the guns! There is a silence of ten seconds, and then the flash and roar of more than three thousand muskets, and a rush forward with bayonets. For what? Neither on the right, nor left, nor in front of us is a living foe! There are corpses around us which have been struck by three, four and even six bullets, and nowhere on this acre of ground is a wounded man! The wheels of the guns cannot move until the blockade of dead is removed. Men cannot pass from caisson to gun without climbing over winrows of dead. Every gun and wheel is smeared with blood, every foot of grass has its horrible stain.
Historians write of the glory of war. Burial parties saw murder where historians saw glory.
In a quiet village of Germany, once dwelt a fair-haired maiden,Whose eyes were as blue as the summer sky and whose hair with gold was laden;Her lips were as red as a rose-bud sweet, with teeth, like pearls, behind them,Her smiles were like dreams of bliss, complete, and her waving curls enshrined them.Fond lovers thronged to the maiden's side, but of all the youth around her,One only had asked her to be his bride, and a willing listener found her,"Some time, we'll marry," she often said, then burst into song or laughter,And tripped away, while the lover's head hung low as he followed after.Impatient growing, at last he said, "The springtime birds are mating,Pray whisper, sweet, our day to wed; warm hearts grow cold from waiting.""Not yet," she smiled, with a fond caress; but he answered, "Now or never,I start for the Holy War unless I may call thee mine forever.""For the Holy War? Farewell!" she cried, with never a thought of grieving.His wish so often had been denied, she could not help believingHis heart would wait till her budding life had blown to its full completeness.She did not know that a wedded wife holds a spell in her youthful sweetness.But alas! for the "Yes" too long delayed, he fought and he bravely perished;And alas! for the heart of the tender maid, and the love it fondly cherished;Her smile grew sad for all hope was gone; life's sands were swiftly fleeting,And just at the break of a wintry dawn, her broken heart ceased beating;And when, on her grave, at the early spring, bright flowers her friends were throwing,They knelt and there, just blossoming, they saw a strange plant growing,Its tender fingers, at first, just seen, crept on through the grass and clover,Till, at last, with a mound of perfect green, it covered the whole grave over;And often the village youth would stand by the vine-clad mound, in the gloaming,And holding a maiden's willing hand, would tell that the strange plant roamingWas the maiden's soul, which could not rest and with fruitless, fond endeavor,Went seeking the heart it loved the best, but sought in vain, forever.
In a quiet village of Germany, once dwelt a fair-haired maiden,Whose eyes were as blue as the summer sky and whose hair with gold was laden;Her lips were as red as a rose-bud sweet, with teeth, like pearls, behind them,Her smiles were like dreams of bliss, complete, and her waving curls enshrined them.Fond lovers thronged to the maiden's side, but of all the youth around her,One only had asked her to be his bride, and a willing listener found her,"Some time, we'll marry," she often said, then burst into song or laughter,And tripped away, while the lover's head hung low as he followed after.Impatient growing, at last he said, "The springtime birds are mating,Pray whisper, sweet, our day to wed; warm hearts grow cold from waiting.""Not yet," she smiled, with a fond caress; but he answered, "Now or never,I start for the Holy War unless I may call thee mine forever.""For the Holy War? Farewell!" she cried, with never a thought of grieving.His wish so often had been denied, she could not help believingHis heart would wait till her budding life had blown to its full completeness.She did not know that a wedded wife holds a spell in her youthful sweetness.But alas! for the "Yes" too long delayed, he fought and he bravely perished;And alas! for the heart of the tender maid, and the love it fondly cherished;Her smile grew sad for all hope was gone; life's sands were swiftly fleeting,And just at the break of a wintry dawn, her broken heart ceased beating;And when, on her grave, at the early spring, bright flowers her friends were throwing,They knelt and there, just blossoming, they saw a strange plant growing,Its tender fingers, at first, just seen, crept on through the grass and clover,Till, at last, with a mound of perfect green, it covered the whole grave over;And often the village youth would stand by the vine-clad mound, in the gloaming,And holding a maiden's willing hand, would tell that the strange plant roamingWas the maiden's soul, which could not rest and with fruitless, fond endeavor,Went seeking the heart it loved the best, but sought in vain, forever.
And now, Mr. President, instead of speaking of the possibility or utility of secession, instead of dwelling in these caverns of darkness, instead of groping with those ideas so full of all that is horrid and horrible, let uscome out into the light of day; let us enjoy the fresh air of Liberty and Union; let us cherish those hopes which belong to us; let us devote ourselves to those great objects that are fit for our consideration and our action; let us raise our conceptions to the magnitude and the importance of the duties that devolve upon us; let our comprehension be as broad as the country for which we act, our aspirations as high as its certain destiny; let us not be pigmies in a case that calls for men.
Never did there devolve on any generation of men higher trusts than now devolve upon us, for the preservation of this constitution, and the harmony and peace of all who are destined to live under it. Let us make our generation one of the strongest and brightest links in that golden chain, which is destined, I fondly believe, to grapple the people of all the states to this constitution, for ages to come.
We have a great, popular, constitutional government, guarded by law and by judicature, and defended by the whole affections of the people. No monarchical throne presses these states together; no iron chain of military power encircles them; they live and stand upon a government popular in its form, representative in its character, founded upon principles of equality, and so constructed, we hope, as to last forever.
In all its history it has been beneficent: ithas trodden down no man's liberty; it has crushed no state. Its daily respiration is liberty and patriotism; its yet youthful veins are full of enterprise, courage, and honorable love of glory and renown. Large before, the country has now, by recent events, becomes vastly larger.
This republic now extends, with a vast breadth, across the whole continent. The two great seas of the world wash the one and the other shore. We realize, on a mighty scale, the beautiful description of the ornamental edging of the buckler of Achilles—
"Now the broad shield complete, the artist crownedWith his last hand, and poured the ocean round;In living silver seemed the waves to roll,And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the whole."
"Now the broad shield complete, the artist crownedWith his last hand, and poured the ocean round;In living silver seemed the waves to roll,And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the whole."
"Choose thou between!" and to his enemyThe Arab chief a brawny hand displayed,Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea,Gleamed the gray scimitar's enamelled blade."Choose thou between death at my hand and thine!Close in my power, my vengeance I may wreak,Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mineIs noble still. Thou hast thy choosing—speak!"And Ackbar stood. About him all the bandThat hailed his captor chieftain, with grave eyesHis answer waited, while that heavy handStretched like a bar between him and the skies.Straight in the face before him Ackbar sentA sneer of scorn, and raised his noble head;"Strike!" and the desert monarch, as content,Rehung the weapon at his girdle red.Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted highHis arms toward the heaven so far and blueWherein the sunset rays began to die,While o'er the band, a deeper silence grew."Strike! I am ready! Did'st thou think to seeA son of Gheva spill upon the dustHis noble blood? Did'st hope to have my kneeBend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust,"The life thou hatest flee before thee here?Shame on thee! on thy race! Art thou the oneWho hast so long his vengeance counted dear?My hate is greater; I did strike thy son,"Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face;And by the swiftest courser of my studSent to thy door his corpse. And one might traceTheir flight across the desert by his blood."Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!"But with a frown the Arab moved away,Walked to a distant palm and stood aloneWith eyes that looked where purple mountains lay.This for an instant; then he turned againToward the place where Ackbar waited still,Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain,Or with a hateful mission to fulfil."Strike! for I hate thee!" Ackbar cried once more,"Nay, but my hate I cannot find!" said nowHis enemy. "Thy freedom I restore,Live, life were worse than death to such as thou."So with his gift of life, the Bedouin sleptThat night untroubled; but when dawn broke throughThe purple East, and o'er his eyelids creptThe long, thin finger of the light, he drewA heavy breath and woke. Above him shoneA lifted dagger—"Yea, he gave thee life,But I give death!" came in fierce undertone,And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid's wife.
"Choose thou between!" and to his enemyThe Arab chief a brawny hand displayed,Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea,Gleamed the gray scimitar's enamelled blade.
"Choose thou between death at my hand and thine!Close in my power, my vengeance I may wreak,Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mineIs noble still. Thou hast thy choosing—speak!"
And Ackbar stood. About him all the bandThat hailed his captor chieftain, with grave eyesHis answer waited, while that heavy handStretched like a bar between him and the skies.
Straight in the face before him Ackbar sentA sneer of scorn, and raised his noble head;"Strike!" and the desert monarch, as content,Rehung the weapon at his girdle red.
Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted highHis arms toward the heaven so far and blueWherein the sunset rays began to die,While o'er the band, a deeper silence grew.
"Strike! I am ready! Did'st thou think to seeA son of Gheva spill upon the dustHis noble blood? Did'st hope to have my kneeBend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust,
"The life thou hatest flee before thee here?Shame on thee! on thy race! Art thou the oneWho hast so long his vengeance counted dear?My hate is greater; I did strike thy son,
"Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face;And by the swiftest courser of my studSent to thy door his corpse. And one might traceTheir flight across the desert by his blood.
"Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!"But with a frown the Arab moved away,Walked to a distant palm and stood aloneWith eyes that looked where purple mountains lay.
This for an instant; then he turned againToward the place where Ackbar waited still,Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain,Or with a hateful mission to fulfil.
"Strike! for I hate thee!" Ackbar cried once more,"Nay, but my hate I cannot find!" said nowHis enemy. "Thy freedom I restore,Live, life were worse than death to such as thou."
So with his gift of life, the Bedouin sleptThat night untroubled; but when dawn broke throughThe purple East, and o'er his eyelids creptThe long, thin finger of the light, he drew
A heavy breath and woke. Above him shoneA lifted dagger—"Yea, he gave thee life,But I give death!" came in fierce undertone,And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid's wife.
I said one year ago,"I wonder, if I truly keptA list of days when life burnt low,Of days I smiled and days I wept,If good or bad would highest mountWhen I made up the year's account?"I took a ledger fair and fine,"And now," I said, "when days are glad,I'll write with bright red ink the line,And write with black when they are bad,So that they'll stand before my sightAs clear apart as day and night."I will not heed the changing skies,Nor if it shine nor if it rain;But if there comes some sweet surprise,Or friendship, love or honest gain,Why, then it shall be understoodThat day is written down as good."Or if to anyone I loveA blessing meets them on the way,That will to me a pleasure prove:So it shall be a happy day;And if some day, I've cause to dreadPass harmless by, I'll write it red."When hands and brain stand labor's test,And I can do the thing I would,Those days when I am at my bestShall all be traced as very good.And in 'red letter,' too, I'll writeThose rare, strong hours when right is might."When first I meet in some grand bookA noble soul that touches mine,And with this vision I can lookThrough some gate beautiful of time,That day such happiness will shedThat golden-lined will seem the red."And when pure, holy thoughts have powerTo touch my heart and dim my eyes,And I in some diviner hourCan hold sweet converse with the skies,Ah! then my soul may safely write:'This day has been most good and bright.'"What do I see on looking back?A red-lined book before me lies,With here and there a thread of black,That like a gloomy shadow flies,—A shadow it must be confessed,That often rose in my own breast.And I have found it good to noteThe blessing that is mine each day;For happiness is vainly soughtIn some dim future far away.Just try my ledger for a year,Then look with grateful wonder back,And you will find, there is no fear,The red days far exceed the black.
I said one year ago,"I wonder, if I truly keptA list of days when life burnt low,Of days I smiled and days I wept,If good or bad would highest mountWhen I made up the year's account?"
I took a ledger fair and fine,"And now," I said, "when days are glad,I'll write with bright red ink the line,And write with black when they are bad,So that they'll stand before my sightAs clear apart as day and night.
"I will not heed the changing skies,Nor if it shine nor if it rain;But if there comes some sweet surprise,Or friendship, love or honest gain,Why, then it shall be understoodThat day is written down as good.
"Or if to anyone I loveA blessing meets them on the way,That will to me a pleasure prove:So it shall be a happy day;And if some day, I've cause to dreadPass harmless by, I'll write it red.
"When hands and brain stand labor's test,And I can do the thing I would,Those days when I am at my bestShall all be traced as very good.And in 'red letter,' too, I'll writeThose rare, strong hours when right is might.
"When first I meet in some grand bookA noble soul that touches mine,And with this vision I can lookThrough some gate beautiful of time,That day such happiness will shedThat golden-lined will seem the red.
"And when pure, holy thoughts have powerTo touch my heart and dim my eyes,And I in some diviner hourCan hold sweet converse with the skies,Ah! then my soul may safely write:'This day has been most good and bright.'"
What do I see on looking back?A red-lined book before me lies,With here and there a thread of black,That like a gloomy shadow flies,—A shadow it must be confessed,That often rose in my own breast.
And I have found it good to noteThe blessing that is mine each day;For happiness is vainly soughtIn some dim future far away.Just try my ledger for a year,Then look with grateful wonder back,And you will find, there is no fear,The red days far exceed the black.
There is one accomplishment, in particular, which I would earnestly recommend to you. Cultivate assiduously the ability to read well. I stop to particularize this, because it is a thing so very much neglected, and because it is such an elegant and charming accomplishment. Where one person is really interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. Where one person is capable of becoming a skillful musician, twenty may become good readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading.
The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, gives a delightful charm to the same voice in conversation. Good reading is the natural exponent and vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective ofall commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems to bring dead authors to life again, and makes us sit down familiarly with the great and good of all ages.
Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy Scriptures have when well read? Have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth Fry on the criminals of Newgate, by simply reading to them the parable of the Prodigal Son? Princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvelous pathos which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story.
What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it gives one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amusement, to the comfort, the pleasure of dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of man's devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful instrument, the human voice. It is God's special gift and endowment to his chosen creatures. Fold it not away in a napkin.
If you would double the value of all yourother acquisitions, if you would add immeasurably to your own enjoyment and to your power of promoting the enjoyment of others, cultivate, with incessant care, this divine gift. No music below the skies is equal to that of pure, silvery speech from the lips of a man or woman of high culture.
Listen, my children, and you shall hear,Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five—Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year—He said to his friend: "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower as a signal light;One, if by land, and two if by sea,And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country folk to be up and to arm."Then he said "Good-night," and, with muffled oar,Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where, swinging wide at her moorings, layThe "Somerset," British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street,Wanders and watches with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.Then he climbed the tower of the Old North ChurchBy the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the town,And the moonlight flowing over all.Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night encampment on the hill.Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,The watchful night wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead,For, suddenly, all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide like a bridge of boats.Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earthAnd turned and lighted his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched, with eager search,The belfry tower of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,A second lamp in the belfry burns.A hurry of hoofs in the village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark,Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;That was all; and yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed in his flightKindled the land into flame with its heat.He had left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides,And under the alders that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.It was twelve by the village clockWhen he crossed the bridge into Medford town;He heard the crowing of the cockAnd the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river's fog,That rises after the sun goes down.It was one by the village clockWhen he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.It was two by the village clockWhen he came to the bridge in Concord town;He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket ball.You know the rest; in the books you have read,How the British regulars fired and fled;How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farmyard wall,Chasing the redcoats down the lane,Then crossing the fields, to emerge againUnder the trees, at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.So through the night rode Paul Revere,And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo for evermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the past,Through all our history to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steedAnd the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Listen, my children, and you shall hear,Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five—Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year—
He said to his friend: "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower as a signal light;One, if by land, and two if by sea,And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night," and, with muffled oar,Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where, swinging wide at her moorings, layThe "Somerset," British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street,Wanders and watches with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North ChurchBy the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the town,And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night encampment on the hill.Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,The watchful night wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead,For, suddenly, all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earthAnd turned and lighted his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched, with eager search,The belfry tower of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in the village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark,Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;That was all; and yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed in his flightKindled the land into flame with its heat.
He had left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides,And under the alders that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.It was twelve by the village clockWhen he crossed the bridge into Medford town;He heard the crowing of the cockAnd the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river's fog,That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clockWhen he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clockWhen he came to the bridge in Concord town;He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket ball.You know the rest; in the books you have read,How the British regulars fired and fled;How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farmyard wall,Chasing the redcoats down the lane,Then crossing the fields, to emerge againUnder the trees, at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere,And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo for evermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the past,Through all our history to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steedAnd the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Our kind hostess has asked me to recite something, "by special request," but I really don't know what to do. I have only a very smallrepertoire, and I'm afraid you know all my stock recitations. What shall I do? (Pause.) I have it; I'll give you something entirely original. I'll tell you about my last experience of reciting, which really is the cause of my being so nervous to-night. I began reciting about a year ago; I took elocution lessons with Mr. ——; no, I won't tell you his name, I want to keep him all to myself. I studied the usual things with him—the "Mercy" speech from the "Merchant of Venice," and Juliet's "Balcony scene," but I somehow never could imagine my fat, red-faced, snub-nosed old master (there! I've told you who he was), I never could fancy him as an ideal Romeo; he looked much more like Polonius, or the Ghost before he was a ghost—I mean as he probably was in the flesh.
My elocution master told me that Shakespeare was not my forte, so I studied some more modern pieces. He told me I was getting on very well—"one of my mostpromising pupils," but I found that he said that to every one.
Well, it soon became known that I recited (one must havesomelittle vices, you know, just to show up one's virtues). I received an invitation from Lady Midas for a musical evening last Friday, and in a postscript, "We hope you will favor us with a recitation." Very flattering, wasn't it?
I went there fully primed with three pieces—"The Lifeboat," by Sims, "The Lost Soul," and Calverley's "Waiting." I thought that I had hit on a perfectly original selection; but I was soon undeceived. There were a great many people at Lady Midas', quite fifty, I should think, or perhaps two hundred; but I'm very bad at guessing numbers. We had a lot of music. A young man, with red hair and little twinkling light eyes, sang a song by De Lara, but it did not sound as well as when I heard the composer sing it. Then two girls played a banjo duet; then—no, we had another song first, then a girl with big eyes and an ugly dress—brown nun's veiling with yellow lace, and beads, and ribbons, and sham flowers and all sorts of horrid things, so ugly, I'm sure it was made at home. Well—where was I? Oh, yes!—she stood up and recited, what do you think? Why, "Calverley's Waiting!" Oh! I was so cross when itcame to the last verses; you remember how they go (imitating)—