"The Sun will give out in ten million years more;It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before."And he worried about it;It would surely give out, so the scientists saidAnd they proved it in many a book he had read,And the whole mighty universe then would be dead.And he worried about it.
"Or some day the earth will fall into the sun,Just as sure and as straight, as if shot from a gun."And he worried about it."For when gravitation unbuckles her straps,Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse!It will come in a few million ages, perhaps."And he worried about it.
"The earth will become far too small for the race,And we'll pay at a fabulous rate for our space."And he worried about it."The earth will be crowded so much without doubt,There will hardly be room for one's tongue to stick out,Nor room for one's thoughts when they'd wander about."And he worried about it.
"And in ten thousand years, there's no manner of doubt,Our lumber supply and our coal will give out."And he worried about it:"And then the Ice Age will return cold and raw,Frozen men will stand stiff with arms stretched out in awe,As if vainly beseeching a general thaw."And he worried about it.
His wife took in washing (two shillings a day).He didn't worry about it.His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer to pay.He didn't worry about it.While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dubOn the washboard drum in her old wooden tub,He sat by the fire and he just let her rub.He didn't worry about it,
I saw and heard him as I was going home the other evening. A big telescope was pointed heavenward from the public square, and he stood beside it and thoughtfully inquired,—
"Is it possible, gentlemen, that you do not care to view the beautiful works of nature above the earth? Can it be true that men of your intellectual appearance will sordidly cling to ten cents, rather than take a look through this telescope and bring the beauties of heaven within one and a half miles of your eyes?"
The appeal was too much for one young man to resist. He was a tall young man, with a long face, high cheek bones, and an anxious look. He looked at the ten cents and then at the telescope, hesitated for a single moment, and then took his seat on the stool.
"Here is a young man who prefers to feast his soul with scientific knowledge rather than become a sordid, grasping, avaricious capitalist," remarked the astronomer, as he arranged the instrument. "Fall back, you people who prefer the paltry sum of ten cents to a view of the starry heavens, and give this noble young man plenty of room!"
The noble young man removed his hat, placed his eye to the instrument, a cloth was thrown over his head, and the astronomer continued:—
"Behold the bright star of Venus! A sight of this star is worth a thousand dollars to any man who prefers education to money." There was an instant of deep silence, and then the young man exclaimed:—
"I say!"
I stood behind him, and knew that the telescope pointed at the fifth storey of a building across the square, where a dance was in progress.
"All people indulge in exclamations of admiration as they view the beauties and mysteries of nature," remarked the astronomer. "Young man, tell the crowd what you see."
"I see a feller hugging a girl!" was the prompt reply. "And if there isn't a dozen of them!"
"And yet," continued the astronomer, "there are sordid wretches in this crowd who hang to ten cents in preference to observing such sights as these in ethereal space. Venus is millions of miles away, and yet by means of this telescope and by paying ten cents this intellectual young man is enabled to observe the inhabitants of that far-off world hugging each other just as natural as they do in this!"
The instrument was wheeled around to bear on the tower of the engine-house some distance away, and the astronomer, continued:—
"Behold the beauties and the wonders of Saturn! This star, to the naked eye, appears no larger than a pin's point, and yet for the paltry sum of ten cents this noble young man is placed within one mile of it!"
"Well, this beats all!" murmured the young man, as he slapped his leg.
"Tell me what you see, my friend."
"I see two fellows in a small room, smoking cigars and playing chess!" was the prompt reply.
"Saturn is 86,000,000 of miles from this town," continued the astronomer, "and yet the insignificant sum of ten cents has enabled this progressive young man to learn for himself that the celestial beings enjoy themselves pretty much as we do in this world. I venture to say that there is not a man in this crowd who ever knew before that the inhabitants of Saturn knew anything about chess or cigars."
Once more he wheeled the instrument round. This time it got the range of the upper storey of a tenement-house on the hill The young man had scarcely taken a glance through the tube, when he yelled out:—
"Great guns! But what planet is this?"
"You are now looking at Uranus," replied the professor. "Uranus is 97,502,304 miles distant from the earth, and yet I warrant that it doesn't appear over eighty rods away to you. Will you be kind enough, my friend, to tell this crowd what you see?"
"Give it to him! That's it! Go it old woman!" shouted the young man, slapping one leg and then the other.
"Speak up, my friend. What do you see?"
"By jove! she's got him by the hair now! Why, she'll beat him hollow!"
"Will you be kind enough, my friend, to allay the curiosity of your friends?"
"Whoop! that's it; now she's got him. Toughest fight I ever saw!" cried the young man as he moved back and slapped his thigh.
The professor covered up the instrument slowly and carefully, picked up and unlocked a satchel which had been lying near his feet, and then softly said:—
"Gentlemen, we will pause here for a moment. When a man tells you after this that the planet of Saturn is not inhabited, tell him that you know better, that it is not only inhabited, but that the married couples up there have family fights the same as on this mundane sphere. In about ten minutes I will be ready again to explain the wonders and beauties of the sparkling heavens to such of you as prefer a million dollars' worth of scientific knowledge to ten cents in vile dross. Meanwhile permit me to call your attention to my celebrated toothache drops, the only perfect remedy yet invented for aching teeth."
An old southern preacher, who had a great habit of talking through his nose, left one congregation and came to another. The first Sunday he addressed his new congregation he went on about as follows:—
My beloved brederin, before I take my text, I must tell you of parting with my old congregation-ah, on the morning of last Sabbath-ah I entered into my church to preach my farewell discourse-ah. Before me sat the old fadders and mothers of Israel-ah. The tears course down their furrowed cheeks, their tottering forms and quivering lips breathed out a sad fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
Behind them sat middle-aged men and matrons, youth and vigour bloomed from every countenance, and as they looked up, I thought I could see in their dreamy eyes fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
Behind them sat the little boys and girls I had baptised and gathered into the Sabbath school. Ofttimes had they been rude and boisterous; but now their merry laugh was hushed and in the silence I could hear fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
Away in the back seats and along the aisles stood and sat the coloured bretherin with their black faces and honest hearts, and as they looked up I thought I could see in their eyes fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
When I had finished my discourse, and shaken hands with the bretherin-ah, I went out to take a last look at the church-ah, and the broken steps-ah, the flopping blinds-ah, and the moss-covered roof-ah, suggested fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
I mounted my old grey mare with all my earthly possessions in my saddle-bags, and as I passed down the street the servant girls stood in the doors-ah and waved their brooms with a fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
As I passed out of the village, I thought I could hear the wind-ah moaning through the waving branches of the trees, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
I came on to the creek, and as the old mare stopped to drink I thought I could hear the water rippling over the pebbles, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. Even the little fishes-ah, as their bright fins glistened in the sunlight-ah, gathered round to say as best they could, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
I was slowly passing up the hill meditating-ah on the sad vicissitudes of life-ah, when out bounded a big hog from the fence corner-ah with an a-boo a-boo and I came to the ground-ah, with my saddle bags-ah by my side-ah, and as the old mare ran up the hill-ah, she waved her tail back at me-ah seemingly to say-ah, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.
"My dear, be sensible! Upon my word,This—for a woman even—is absurd.His income's not a hundred pounds, I know.He's not worth loving."—"But I love him so."
"You silly child, he is well made and tall;But looks are far from being all in all.His social standing's low, his family's low.He's not worth loving."—"And I love him so."
"Is that he picking up the fallen fan?My dear! he's such an awkward, ugly man!You must be certain, pet, to answer 'No.'He's not worth loving."—" And I love him so."
"By jove! were I a girl—through horrid hap—I wouldn't have a milk-and-water chap.The man has not a single spark of 'go.'He's not worth loving."—" Yet I love him so."
"And were he everything to which I've listened,Though he were ugly, awkward (and he isn't),Poor, lowly-born, and destitute of 'go,'Heisworth loving, for I love him so."
South Mountain towered on our rightFar off the river lay;And over on the wooded heightWe kept their lines at bay.
At last the muttering guns were stilled,The day died slow and wan;At last the gunners' pipes were filled,The sergeant's yarns began.
When, as the wind a moment blewAside the fragrant flood,Our brushwood razed, before our viewA little maiden stood.
A tiny tot of six or seven,From fireside fresh she seemed;Of such a little one in heavenI know one soldier dreamed.
And as she stood, her little handWent to her curly head;In grave salute, "And who are you?"At length the sergeant said.
"Where is your home?" he growled again.She lisped out, "Who is me?Why, don't you know I'm little Jane,The pride of Battery B?
"My home? Why, that was burnt away,And Pa and Ma is dead;But now I ride the guns all day,Along with Sergeant Ned.
"And I've a drum that's not a toy,And a cap with feathers too;And I march beside the drummer-boyOn Sundays at review.
"But now our baccy's all give outThe men can't have their smoke,And so they're cross; why even NedWon't play with me, and joke!
"And the big colonel said to-day—I hate to hear him swear—'I'd give a leg for a good smokeLike the Yanks have over there.'
"And so I thought when beat the drum,And the big guns were still,I'd creep beneath the tent, and comeOut here across the hill.
"And beg, good Mr. Yankee-men,You'd give me some Long Jack;Please do, when we get some again,I'll surely bring it back.
"And so I came; for Ned, says he,'If you do what you say,You'll be a general yet, maybe,And ride a prancing bay.'"
We brimmed her tiny apron o'er,—You should have heard her laugh,As each man from his scanty storeShook out a generous half.
To kiss the little mouth stooped downA score of grimy men,Until the sergeant's husky voiceSaid "'Tention, squad?" and then,
We gave her escort till good-nightThe little waif we bid,Then watched her toddle out of sight,Or else 'twas tears that hid.
Her baby form nor turned about,A man nor spoke a word,Until at length a far faint shoutUpon the wind we heard,
We sent it back, and cast sad eyesUpon the scene around,That baby's hand had touched the tiesThat brother's once had bound.
That's all, save when the dawn awoke:Again the work of hell,And through the sullen clouds of smokeThe screaming missiles fell.
Our colonel often rubbed his glass,And marvelled much to see,Not a single shell that whole day fellIn the camp of Battery B.
'Twas the time of the working men's great strike,When all the land stood stillAt the sudden roar from the hungry mouthsThat labour could not fill;When the thunder of the railroad ceased,And startled towns could spyA hundred blazing factoriesPainting each midnight sky.
Through Philadelphia's surging streetsMarched the brown ranks of toil,The grimy legions of the shops,The tillers of the soil;White-faced militia-men looked on,And women shrank with dread;'Twas muscle against money then—'Twas riches against bread.
Once, as the mighty mob tramped on,A carriage stopped the way,Upon the silken seat of whichA young patrician lay.And as, with haughty glance, he sweptAlong the jeering crowd,A white-haired blacksmith in the ranksTook off his cap and bowed.
That night the Labour League was met,And soon the chairman said:"There hides a Judas in our midst;One man who bows his head,Who bends the coward's servile kneeWhen capital rolls by.""Down with him! Kill the traitor cur!"Rang out the savage cry.
Up rose the blacksmith, then, and heldErect his head of grey—"I am no traitor, though I bowedTo a rich man's son to-day;And though you kill me as I stand—As like you mean to do—I want to tell you a story short,And I ask you'll hear me through.
"I was one of those who enlisted first,The old flag to defend,With Pope and Hallick, with 'Mac' and Grant,I followed to the end;And 'twas somewhere down on the Rapidan,When the Union cause looked drear,That a regiment of rich young bloodsCame down to us from here.
"Their uniforms were by tailors cut,They brought hampers of good wine;And every squad had a nigger, too,To keep their boots in shine;They'd nought to say to us dusty 'vets,'And through the whole brigade,We called them the kid-gloved Dandy FifthWhen we passed them on parade.
"Well, they were sent to hold a fortThe Rebs tried hard to take,'Twas the key of all our line which naughtWhile it held out could break,But a fearful fight we lost just then,The reserve came up too late;And on that fort, and the Dandy Fifth,Hung the whole division's fate.
"Three times we tried to take them aid,And each time back we fell,Though once we could hear the fort's far gunsBoom like a funeral knell;Till at length Joe Hooker's corps came up,An' then straight through we broke;How we cheered as we saw those dandy coatsStill back of the drifting smoke.
"With the bands at play and the colours spreadWe swarmed up the parapet,But the sight that silenced our welcome shoutI shall never in life forget.Four days before had their water gone—They bad dreaded that the most—The next their last scant rations went,And each man looked a ghost,
"As he stood, gaunt-eyed, behind his gun,Like a crippled stag at bay,And watched starvation—but not defeat—Draw nearer every day.Of all the Fifth, not four-score menCould in their places stand,And their white lips told a fearful tale,As we grasped each bloodless hand.
"The rest in the stupor of famine lay,Save here and there a fewIn death sat rigid against the guns,Grim sentinels in blue;And their Col'nel,hecould not speak nor stir,But we saw his proud eye thrillAs he simply glanced at the shot-scarred staffWhere the old flag floated still!
"Now, I hate the tyrants who grind us down,While the wolf snarls at our door,And the men who've risen from us—to laughAt the misery of the poor;But I tell you, mates, while this weak old handI have left the strength to lift,It will touch my cap to the proudest swellWho fought in the Dandy Fifth!"
'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg—Perhaps the day you reck—Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine,Kept Early's men in check.Just where Wade Hampton boomed awayThe fight went neck and neck.
All day we held the weaker wing,And held it with a will;Five several stubborn times we chargedThe battery on the hill,And five times beaten back, re-formed,And kept our columns still.
At last from out the centre fightSpurred up a general's aid."That batterymustsilenced be!"He cried, as past he sped.Our colonel simply touched his cap,And then, with measured tread,
To lead the crouching line once moreThe grand old fellow came.No wounded man but raised his headAnd strove to gasp his name,And those who could not speak nor stir"God blessed him" just the same.
For he was all the world to us,That hero grey and grim;Right well he knew that fearful slopeWe'd climb with none but him,Though while his white head led the wayWe'd charge hell's portals in.
This time we were not half-way up,When, 'midst the storm of shell,Our leader, with his sword upraised,Beneath our bay'nets fell;And, as we bore him back, the foeSet up a joyous yell.
Our hearts went with him. Back we swept,And when the bugle said,"Up, charge, again!" no man was thereBut hung his dogged head."We've no one left to lead us now,"The sullen soldiers said.
Just then, before the laggard line,The colonel's horse we spied—Bay Billy, with his trappings on,His nostrils swelling wide,As though still on his gallant backHis master sat astride.
Right royally he took the placeThat was his old of wont,And with a neigh, that seemed to say,Above the battle's brunt,"How can the Twenty-second chargeIf I am not in front?"
Like statues we stood rooted there,And gazed a little space;Above that floating mane we missedThe dear familiar face;But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire,And it gave us hearts of grace.
No bugle-call could rouse us allAs that brave sight had done;Down all the battered line we feltA lightning impulse run;Up, up the hill we followed Bill,And captured every gun!
And when upon the conquered heightDied out the battle's hum;Vainly 'mid living and the deadWe sought our leader dumb;It seemed as if a spectre steedTo win that day had come.
At last the morning broke. The larkSang in the merry skies,As if to e'en the sleepers thereIt said awake, arise!—Though naught but that last trump of allCould ope their heavy eyes.
And then once more, with banners gay,Stretched out the long brigade;Trimly upon the furrowed fieldThe troops stood on parade,And bravely 'mid the ranks we closedThe gaps the fight had made.
Not half the Twenty-second's menWere in their place that morn,And Corp'ral Dick, who yester-mornStood six brave fellows on,Now touched my elbow in the ranks,For all between were gone.
Ah! who forgets that dreary hourWhen, as with misty eyes,To call the old familiar rollThe solemn sergeant tries—One feels that thumping of the heartAs no prompt voice replies.
And as in falt'ring tone and slowThe last few names were said,Across the field some missing horseToiled up with weary tread.It caught the sergeant's eye, and quickBay Billy's name was read.
Yes! there the old bay hero stood,All safe from battle's harms,And ere an order could be heard,Or the bugle's quick alarms,Down all the front, from end to end,The troops presented arms!
Not all the shoulder-straps on earthCould still our mighty cheer.And ever from that famous day,When rang the roll-call clear,Bay Billy's name was read, and thenThe whole line answered "Here!"
An old and crippled veteran to the War Department came,He sought the Chief who led him on many a field of fame—The Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er his banner rose,And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes.
"Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried,"The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I was at your side?Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane?'Tis true I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again."
"Have I forgotten?" said the Chief: "my brave old soldier, no!And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so;But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old, andgray,And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day."
"But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow,"The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors now;They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old red, white and blue,And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true."
"I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun,To get the range of traitors' hearts, and prick them one by one.Your Minie rifles and such arms, it ain't worth while to try;I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my powder dry"
"God bless you, comrade!" said the Chief,—"God bless your loyalheart!But younger men are in the field, and claim to have a part;They'll plant our sacred banner firm, in each rebellious town,And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down!"
"But, General!"—still persisting, the weeping veteran cried,"I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide;And some you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least can I;So give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die!"
"If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in commandPut me upon the ramparts with the flag-staff in my hand:No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shell may fly,I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!"
"I'm ready, General; so you let a post to me be given,Where Washington can look at me, as he looks down from Heaven,And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne,—'There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane!'"
"And when the fight is raging hot, before the traitors fly,When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky,If any shot should pierce through me, and lay me on my face,My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's place!"
The bells were ringing their cheerful chimesIn the old grey belfry tow'r,The choir were singing their carols betimesIn the wintry midnight hour,The waits were playing with eerie drawl"The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,"And the old policeman was stomping his feetAs he quiver'd and shiver'd along on his beat;
The snow was falling as fast as it couldO'er city and hamlet, forest and wood,And Jack Frost, busy with might and main,Was sketching away at each window-pane;
Father Christinas was travelling fast,Mid the fall of the snow and the howl of the blast,With millions of turkeys for millions to taste,And millions of puddings all tied to his waist,And millions of mince-pies that scented the air,To cover the country with Christmas fare,—
When over the hills, from far away,Came Santa Claus with the dawn of day;He rode on a cycle, as seasons do,With Christmas behind him a-tandem too;His pockets were bigger than sacks from the mill—The Soho Bazaar would not one of them fill,And the Lowther Arcade and the good things that stock itWould travel with ease in his tiniest pocket.And these were all full of delights and surprisesFor gifts and rewards and for presents and prizes.
Little knick-knackeries, beautiful toysFor mas and papas and for girls and for boysThere were dolls of all sorts, there were dolls of all sizes,In comical costumes and funny disguises,—Dolls of all countries and dolls of all climes,Dolls of all ages and dolls of all times;Soldier dolls, sailor dolls, red, white and blue;Khaki dolls, darkie dolls, trusty and true;Curio Chinese and quaint little Japs,Nid-nodding at nothing, the queer little chaps;Bigger dolls, nigger dolls woolly and black,With never a coat or a shirt to their back.Dolls made of china and dolls made of wood,Dutch dolls and such dolls, and all of them good;Dolls of fat features, and dolls with more pointed ones,Dolls that were rigid and dolls that were jointed ones,Dolls made of sawdust and dolls made of wax,Dolls that go "bye-bye" when laid on their backs,Dolls that are silent when nobody teases them,Dolls that will cry when one pinches or squeezes them;Dolls with fair faces and eyes bright of hue,The black and the brunette, the blond and the blue;Bride dolls and bridegrooms, the meekest of spouses;And hundreds and thousands of pretty dolls' houses.And as for the furniture—think for a dayHe brought all you'll think of and all I could say!
And then there were playthings and puzzles and games.With all kinds of objects and all sorts of names,—Musical instruments, boxes and glasses,And fiddles and faddles of various classes;Mandolins ready for fingers and thumbs,And banjos and tambourines, trumpets and drums.
Noah's arks, animals, reptiles and mammals,Mammoths and crocodiles, cobras and camels;Lions and tigers as tame as a cat,Eagles and vultures as blind as a bat;Bears upon bear-poles and monkeys on sticks,Foxes in farmyards at mischievous tricks;Monkeys on dogs too, and dogs too on bicycles,Clumsy old elephants triking on tricycles;Horses on rockers and horses on wheels,But never a one that could show you his heels.
There were tops for the whip, there were tops for the string,There were tops that would hum, there were tops that wouldsing;There were hoops made of iron and hoops made of wood,And hoop-sticks to match them, as strong and as good;There were books full of pictures and books full of rhymes,There were songs for the seasons and tales for the times;Pen-knives and pen-wipers, pencils and slates,Wheelers and rockers and rollers and skates;Bags full of marbles and boxes of bricks,And bundles and bundles of canes and of sticks.
There were "prams" for the girls, there were "trams" for theboys,And thousands of clever mechanical toys,—Engines and carriages running on rails,Steamers and sailers that carry the mails;Flags of all nations, and ships for all seas—The Red Sea, the Black Sea, or what sea you please—That tick it by clockwork or puff it by steam,Or outsail the weather or go with the stream;Carriages drawn by a couple of bays,'Buses and hansoms, and waggons and drays,Coaches and curricles, rallis and gigs—All sorts of wheelers, with all sorts of rigs.
Cricket and croquet, and bat, trap, and ball,And tennis—but really the list would appal.There were balls for the mouth, there were balls for the feet,There were balls you could play with and balls you could eat,There were balls made of leather and balls made of candy,Balls of all sizes, from footballs to brandy.
And then came the boxes of curious games,With all sorts of objects and all sorts of names,—Lotto and Ludo, the Fox and the Geese,Halma and Solitaire—all of a piece;Go-bang and Ringolette, Hook-it and Quoits,For junior endeavours and senior exploits;And Skittles and Spellicans, Tiddle-de-winks—But one mustn't mention the half that one thinks;Chessmen and draughtsmen, and hoards upon hoardsOf chess and backgammon and bagatelle boards;And boxes of dominoes, boxes of dice,And boxes of tricks you can try in a trice.
And Santa Claus went with his wonderful loadThrough street after street, and through road after road,And crept through the keyholes—or some other way;He got down the chimneys—so some people say:But, one way or other, he managed to creepWhere all the good children were lying asleep;And when he got there, all the stockings in rowsThat were ready hung up he cramm'd full to the toesWith the many good things he had brought with the dayFrom over the hills and far away.
And Santa Claus smiled as he look'd on the facesOf all the good children asleep in their places,And laugh'd out so loud as to almost awakenOne sharp little fellow who great pains had taken;His socks were too small—for he'd hopes of great riches—So, tying the legs, he had hung up his breeches!And surely the tears almost came in his eyesAs he open'd a letter with joy and surpriseThat he took from a stocking hung up to a bed,And surely they fell as the letter he read;'Twas a little girl's hand, and said, "Dear Santer Claws,Don't fordit baby's sox—they's hung up to the drors."
But wasn't there laughter and shouting and noiseFrom the boys and the girls, and the girls and the boys,When they counted the good things the good Saint had broughtthem,And laid them all out on their pillows to sort them.Such wonderful voices, such wonderful lungs,It was just like another confusion of tongues,A Babel of chatter from master and miss—And I don't think they've left off from that day to this.
Ah! good little people, if thus you shall findRich treasures provided, be grateful and mind,In the midst of your pleasures, a moment to pause,And think about Christmas and good Santa Claus!
Remember, in weary and desolate places,With tears in their eyes and with grime on the faces,The children of poverty, sorrow and weep,With little to cheer them awake or asleep;And remember that you who have much and to spare,Can brighten their eyes and can lighten their cares,If you take the example and work to the causeOf your own benefactor, the good Santa Claus.
You need not climb chimneys in tempest and storm,Nor creep into keyholes in fairy-like form;You've a magical key for the dreariest placeIn the light of your eyes and the smile of your face.And remember the joy that you give to anotherWill gladden your own heart as well as the other;For troubles are halved when together we bear them,And pleasures are doubled whenever we share them.
"And we are peacemen, also; crying forPeace, peace at any price—though it be war!We must live free, at peace, or each man diesWith death-clutch fast for ever on the prize."—GERALD MASSEY.
The Editor's thanks are due to the Rev. A. Frewen Aylward for the use of the poem "Adsum," and to Messrs. Harmsworth Bros, for permission to include Mr. Rudyard Kipling's phenomenal success, "The Absent-Minded Beggar," in this collection; also to Messrs. Harper and Brothers, of New York, for special permission to copy from "Harper's Magazine" the poem "Sheltered," by Sarah Orme Jewett; to Messrs. Chatto and Windus for permission to use "Mrs. B.'s Alarms," from "Humorous Stories," by the late James Payn; to Miss Palgrave and to Messrs. Macmillan and Co., for the use of "England Once More," by the late F. T. Palgrave; to Mr. Clement Scott for permission to include "Sound the Assembly" and "The Midnight Charge"; to Mr. F. Harald Williams and Mr. Gerald Massey for generous and unrestricted use of their respective war poems, and to numerous other authors and publishers for the use of copyright pieces.
There is a true and a false Imperialism. There is the Imperialism of the vulgar braggart, who thinks that one Englishman can fight ten men of any other nationality under the sun; and there is the Imperialism of the man of thought, who believes in the destiny of the English race, who does not shrink from the responsibilities of power from "craven fear of being great," and who holds that an Englishman ought to be ready to facetwentymen if need be, of any nationality, including his own, rather than surrender a trust or sacrifice a principle. The first would base empire on vanity and brute force, inspired by the vulgar reflection—
"We've got the men, we've got the ships, we've got the money too."
The second does not seek empire, but will not shrink from the responsibilities of its growth, and in all matters of international dispute believes with Solomon, that "He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding," and in all matters of international relationship that "Righteousness exalteth a nation."
The rapid and solid growth of the British Empire has been due largely to two characteristics of its rule—the integrity of its justice and the soundness of its finance. Native races everywhere appeal with confidence to the justice of our courts, and find in the integrity of our fiscal system relief from the oppressive taxation of barbarous governments.
These blessings we owe, and with them the strength of our empire, not to the force of our arms in the field, but to the subordination of the military to the civil spirit, both in peace and war.
Other nations fail in their attempts at colonisation because they proceed on military lines. With them it is the soldier first and the civilian where he can. England succeeds because she proceeds onindustriallines. With her it is the plough where it may be and the sword where it must.
The military spirit never yet built up an enduring empire, and the danger of military success is that it is apt to confuse means and ends in the public mind, and to encourage the subordination of the civil to the military spirit in national institutions. Such a result could only be disastrous to the British Empire, and so, while rejoicing in the success of the British arms, it behoves us to oppose with all our strength the growth of the military spirit.
The seventh decade of the nineteenth century saw the realisation of one of the greatest facts of our time, the federation of the German states in one great military empire. The tenth decade has realised a greater fact, the federation of the British colonies in a great social and commercial empire. The German Empire must fall to pieces if it continues to subordinate the civil to the military Spirit in its national policy. The British Empire can never perish while it is true to the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man.
Signs of the growth of a military spirit are to be seen in the advocacy of some form of conscription or compulsory service for home defence; and this, too, at a time when the ends of the earth have been sending usvolunteersin abundance to espouse a foreign quarrel.
Such advocates neither understand the national history nor the English character. Were England in any real danger there would be no need for forced service, and service forced without need would breed revolution. The nation that cannot depend upon its volunteers for its home defence is not worth defending.
ALFRED H. MILES.October 1, 1900.
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