A. o.And* let* the* triple* rainbow* rest* |o'er all the mountainTOPS.
D. e.Here* let* the* tumults* of* passion* |foreverCEASE!
H. e.Spread*widea ROUND the heaven-breathingcalm!
A. e.Heaven* |openedWIDE her ever-duringgates.
H. f.HENCE*, hideousspectre!
A. f.AVERT*, OGod, the frown of Thy indignation!
H. o.Far* from* OURheartsbe so inhuman a feeling.
A. o.Let* me* not* | NAME it toyou, ye chaste stars!
H. e.And* if* the* night* have* gathered* aught* of* evil* or* concealed*, dis PERSE it.
A. e.Melt* and* dis* PEL, ye spectredoubts!
* * * * *
The speaker should present himself to the audience with modesty, and without any show of self-consequence, and should avoid everything opposed to true dignity and self respect; he should feel the importance of his subject and the occasion. He should be deliberate and calm, and should take his position with his face directed to the audience.
A bow, being the most marked and appropriate symbol of respect, should be made on the last step going to his place on the platform. In making a graceful bow, there should be a gentle bend of the whole body, the eyes should not be permitted to fall below the person addressed, and the arms should lightly move forward, and a little inward. On raising himself into an erect position from the introductory bow, the speaker should fall back into the first position of the advanced foot. In this position he commences to speak. In his discourse let him appear graceful, easy, and natural, and when warmed and animated by the importance of his subject, his dignity and mien should become still more elevated and commanding, and he should assume a somewhat lofty and noble bearing.
The student must ever bear in mind that there is no royal road of attaining excellence in Elocutionary art without labour. No matter under what favourable circumstances he may have been placed for observing good methods, or how much aid he may receive from good teachers, he never can make anyrealimprovement, unless he does the work for himself, and by diligence and perseverance he may achieve a great measure of success, and free himself from many blemishes and defects.
As the highest attainment of art, is the best imitation of nature, to attain to excellence in art the student must study nature as it exists in the manner of the age,—
"And catch the manners, living as they rise."
The rules of every science, as far as they are just and useful, are founded in nature, or in good usage; hence their adoption and application tend to free us from our artificial defects, all of which may be regarded as departures from the simplicity of nature. Let the student, therefore, ever bear in mind that whatever is artificial is unnatural, and that whatever is unnatural is opposed to genuine eloquence.
Good reading is exactly like good talking—one, therefore, who would read well or who would speak well, who would interest, rivet the attention, convince the understanding, and excite the feelings of his hearers—need not expect to do it by any extraordinary exertion or desperate effort; for genuine eloquence is not to be wooed and won by any such boisterous course of courtship, but by more gentle means. But, the pupil must not be tied down to a too slavish attention to rules, for one flash of genuine emotion, one touch of real nature, will produce a greater effect than the application of all the studied rules of rhetorical art.
"He who in earnest studies o'er his part,Will find true nature cling around his heart,The modes of grief are not included allIn the white handkerchief and mournful drawl."
Before attempting to give a piece in public the pupil must practice it well in private, until the words and ideas are perfectly familiar, and it must be repeated o'er and o'er again, with perfect distinctness and clear articulation,—for more declaimers break down in consequence of forgetting the words of their piece, than from any other cause, and the pupil must practice assiduously until there is no danger of failure from this source.
Do not be discouraged if your early attempts are not very successful ones, but persevere; the most renowned actors and orators were not at all remarkable in the commencement of their career, they all, with scarcely an exception, attained to eminence by untiring perseverance.
Never rest satisfied with having done as you think—"well"—but be constantly trying to improve and to do better, and do not let the flattery of injudicious friends lead you to imagine you have a remarkable genius for oratory or for reading—such a foolish notion will be productive of great harm and effectually stop your further improvement, and those who are led to believe they are great geniuses and above the necessity of being guided by the rules suited for more commonplace mortals, rarely, if ever, attain to eminence, or become useful members of society.
Do not rely too much on others for instruction or advice as to the way of reading or speaking a passage, think for yourself, read it over carefully until you have formed a definite opinion as to how it ought to be delivered, then declaim it according to your own idea of its meaning and character.
Avoid everything like affectation; think of your subject and its requirements, not of yourself, and do not try to make a great display. Let your tone, look and gestures be all in harmony—be deliberate, yet earnest and natural; let nature be the mistress with art for her handmaiden.
Do not be such a slavish imitator of others, that it can be said of you, as it is of many—"Oh! I know who taught him Elocution. Every gesture and every movement is in accordance with some specific rule, and a slavish mannerism that never breaks into the slightest originality, marks his whole delivery, and all of ——'s pupils do exactly the same way."
Remember always that the GOLDEN RULE of Elocution is:—
Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South,The dust like the smoke from the cannon's mouth,Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.The heart of the steed and the heart of the masterWere beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,With Sheridan only ten miles away!
Under his spurning feet, the roadLike an arrowy Alpine river flowed;And the landscape sped away behind,Like an ocean flying before the wind;And the steed, like a barque fed with furnace ire,Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire;—But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire!He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,With Sheridan only five miles away!
How peaceful the grave—its quiet, how deep! Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, and flowerets perfume it with ether!
How ill this taper burns!Ha! who comes here?I think it is the weakness of mine eyesThat shapes this monstrous apparition.
It comes upon me! Art thou any thing?Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,That makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare?Speak to me what thou art.
Confusion reigned below, and crowds on deckWith ashen faces and wild questioningsRushed to her fated side; another crashSucceeded, then a pause, an awful pauseOf terror and dismay. They see it all!There floats the direful cause 'longside them now!"Ahoy!" the seamen cry; "Ahoy! ahoy!Four hundred souls aboard! Ahoy! ahoy!""All will be well!" "No, no, she heeds us not!"And shrieks of awful frenzy fill the air—"We sink! we sink!" but lo! the aid so nearSlinks like a recreant coward out of sight.
No sign of succour—none! Now wild despairAnd cowardice, thy reign has come; the strongAre weak, the weak are strong.The captain cries aloud—"Launch yonder boat!"The maddened crowd press toward it, but he shouts:"Stand back, and save the women!" They but laughWith curses their response. Behold the wavesAre gaping to receive them! still he cries"Back, back, or I will fire!"—their replyComes in a roar of wild defiant groans.
Pauline. Thrice have I sought to speak: my courage fails me. Sir, is it true that you have known—nay, are you The friend of—Melnotte?
Melnotte. Lady, yes!—Myself And Misery know the man!
Pauline. And you will see him,And you will bear to him—ay—word for word,All that this heart, which breaks in parting from himWould send, ere still for ever.
Melnotte. He hath told meYou have the right to choose from out the worldA worthier bridegroom;—he foregoes all claimEven to murmur at his doom. Speak on!
Pauline. Tell him, for years I never nursed a thoughtThat was not his; that on his wandering wayDaily and nightly poured a mourner's prayers.Tell him ev'n now that I would rather shareHis lowliest lot,—walk by his side, an outcast,—Work for him, beg with him,—live upon the lightOf one kind smile from him, than wear the crownThe Bourbon lost!
Melnotte (aside). Am I already mad?And does delirium utter such sweet wordsInto a dreamer's ear? (aloud.) You love him thusAnd yet desert him?
Pauline. Say, that, if his eyeCould read this heart,—its struggles, its temptations—His love itself would pardon that desertion!Look on that poor old man—he is my father;He stands upon the verge of an abyss;He calls his child to save him! Shall I shrinkFrom him who gave me birth? Withhold my handAnd see a parent perish? Tell him this,And say—that we shall meet again in Heaven!
The stars—shall fade away,—the sun—himself—Grow dim—with age,—and Nature—sink—in years;But thou—shalt flourish—in immortal youth,—Unhurt—amidst the war of elements,—The wreck of matter,—and the crash of worlds.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,His looks adorned the venerable place;Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.The service past, around the pious man,With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;E'en children followed, with endearing wile,And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile:His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm.Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Whence and what art thou, execrable shape!That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advanceThy miscreated front athwart my wayTo yonder gates? Through them, I mean to pass—That be assured—without leave asked of thee!Retire, or taste thy folly; and learn by proof,Hell-born! not to contend with spirits of heaven!
Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire; in lightnings owned his secret stings; with one rude clash he struck the lyre, and swept with hurried hand, the strings.
The Duchess marked his weary pace, his timid mien, and reverend face; and bade her page the menials tell, that they should tend the old man well; for she had known adversity, though born in such a high degree; in pride of power, in beauty's bloom, had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.
And longer had she sung—but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose; he threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down; and, with a withering look, the war-denouncing trumpet took, and blew a blast—so loud and dread, were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.
"Fight on!" quoth he, undaunted, but our war-ships steered away;"She will burst," they said, "and sink us, one and all, beneath the bay;"But our captain knew his duty, and we cheered him as he cried,"To the rescue! We are brothers—let us perish side by side!"
Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold:Thou hast no speculation in those eyesWhich thou dost glare with! Hence, horrible shadow,Unreal mockery, hence!
All's for the best! set this on your standard,Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love,Who to the shores of Despair may have wandered,A way-wearied swallow, or heart-stricken dove;All's for the best!—be a man but confiding,Providence tenderly governs the rest,And the frail barque of his creature is guidingWisely and wanly, all for the best.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd;It droppeth as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath; it is twice blessed;It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:'Tis mightiest—in the mightiest; it becomesThe throned monarch—better than his crown;His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,The attribute to awe—and majesty,Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;But mercy—is above this sceptered sway,It is enthroned—in the hearts of kings,It is an attribute—to God himself:And earthly power—doth then show likest God's,When mercy—seasons justice.
In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;In halls, in gay attire is seen;In hamlets, dances on the green.Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,And men below, and saints above;For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!Ancient of Days! thou speakest from above!Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now—That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.Almighty! trembling, like a timid child,I hear Thy awful voice!—alarmed, afraid,I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,And in the very grave would hide my head!
O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth! who hast setThy glory above the heavens. When I consider the heavens, the work of Thyfingers; the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained; what is man thatThou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that Thou visitest him?
For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands: Thou hast put all things under his feet. O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth!
* * * * *
O happy they! the happiest of their kind!Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fateTheir hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws,Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,That binds their peace, but harmony itself,Attuning all their passions into love;Where friendship full exerts her softest power,Perfect esteem, enliven'd by desireIneffable, and sympathy of soul;Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,With boundless confidence; for nought but loveCan answer love, and render bliss secure.Let him, ungenerous, who, alone intentTo bless himself, from sordid parents buysThe loathing virgin, in eternal care,Well-merited, consume his nights and days:Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman loveIs wild desire, fierce as the sun they feel;Let eastern tyrants from the light of HeavenSeclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'dOf a mere lifeless, violated form:While those whom love cements in holy faith,And equal transport, free as nature live,Disdaining fear. What is the world to them,Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all?Who in each other clasp whatever fairHigh fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish,Something than beauty dearer, should they lookOr on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face;Truth, goodness, honour, harmony and love,The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.Meantime a smiling offspring rises round,And mingles both their graces. By degreesThe human blossom blows; and every day,Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm,The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom.Then infant reason grows apace, and callsFor the kind hand of an assiduous care.Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,To teach the young idea how to shoot,To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fixThe generous purpose in the glowing breast.Oh, speak the joy! ye, whom the sudden tearSurprises often, while you look around,And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss,All various nature pressing on the heart:An elegant sufficiency, content,Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,Ease and alternate labour, useful life,Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven.These are the matchless joys of virtuous love:And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus,As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,Still find them happy; and consenting springSheds her own rosy garland on their heads:Till evening comes at last, serene and mild;When, after the long vernal day of life,Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swellsWith many a proof of recollected love,Together down they sink in social sleep;Together freed, their gentle spirits flyTo scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.
Thomson.
* * * * *
These, as they change, ALMIGHTY FATHER, theseAre but the varied GOD. The rolling yearIs full of THEE. Forth in the pleasing SpringTHY beauty walks, THY tenderness and loveWide flush the fields; the softening air is balm,Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;And every sense, and every heart is joy.Then comes THY glory in the Summer months,With light and heat refulgent. Then THY sunShoots full perfection through the swelling year,And oft THY voice in dreadful thunder speaks;And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,By brooks, and groves, in hollow-whispering galesTHY bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd,And spreads a common feast for all that lives.In Winter, awful THOU! with clouds and stormsAround THEE thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd.Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing,Riding sublime, THOU bids't the world adore,And humblest Nature with THY northern blast.
Thomson.
* * * * *
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest he returning chide—"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"I fondly ask; but Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies: "God doth not needEither man's work, or his own gifts; who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his stateIs kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,And post o'er land and ocean without rest;They also serve who only stand and wait."
Milton.
* * * * *
There is a land, of every land the pride,Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;Where brighter suns dispense serener light,And milder moons imparadise the night:A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.The wandering mariner, whose eye exploresThe wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores;Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air!In every clime, the magnet of his soul,Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,The heritage of nature's noblest race,There is a spot of earth supremely blest,A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,Where man, creation's tyrant, casts asideHis sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride;While, in his softened looks, benignly blendThe sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life.In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,An angel guard of loves and graces lie;Around her knees domestic duties meet,And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?Art thou a man?—a patriot?—look around!Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,That land thy COUNTRY, and that spot thy HOME.
Montgomery.
* * * * *
So on he fares; and to the border comesOf Eden, where delicious Paradise,Now nearer, crowns, with her enclosure green,As with a rural mound, the champaign headOf a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides,With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild,Access denied; and overhead up grewInsuperable height of loftiest shade,Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,—A sylvan scene; and, as the ranks ascend,Shade above shade, a woody theatreOf stateliest view. Yet higher than their topsThe verd'rous wall of Paradise up sprung;Which to our general sire gave prospect largeInto his nether empire neighbouring round:And, higher than that wall, a circling rowOf goodliest trees, laden with fairest fruit,Blossoms and fruits, at once, of golden hue,Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed;On which the Sun more glad impressed his beamsThan in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemedThat landscape: and of pure, now purer airMeets his approach, and to the heart inspiresVernal delight and joy, able to driveAll sadness but despair: now gentle gales,Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispenseNative perfumes, and whisper whence they stoleThose balmy spoils;—as when, to them who sailBeyond the Cape of Hope, and now are pastMozambique, off at sea north-east winds blowSabean odours from the spicy shoreOf Araby the blest; with such delayWell pleased they slack their course; and, many a league,Cheered with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles.
Milton.
* * * * *
OBE. Well, go thy way; thou shalt not from this grove,Till I torment thee for this injury.My gentle Puck, come hither: Thou remember'stSince once I sat upon a promontory,And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back,Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,That the rude sea grew civil at her song;And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,To hear the sea-maid's music.
PUCK. I remember.
OBE. That very time I saw (but thou could'st not),Flying between the cold moon and the earth,Cupid, all armed: a certain aim he tookAt a fair vestal, throned by the west;And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow,As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaftQuench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon;And the imperial votaress passed on,In maiden meditation, fancy-free.Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:It fell upon a little western flower,—Before, milk-white, now purple with love's wound,—And maidens call it love-in-idleness.Fetch me that flower; the herb I show'd thee once;The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,Will make or man or woman madly doteUpon the next live creature that it sees.Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again,Ere the leviathan can swim a league.
PUCK. I'll put a girdle round about the earthIn forty minutes.
Shakespeare.
* * * * *
As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to contemplate the distant church in which Shakespeare lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction,
"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear,To dig the dust enclosed here.Blest be the man that spares these stones;And cursed be he who moves my bones,"
which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honour could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty companionship, with the epitaphs, and escutcheons, and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude about the grave, may be but the offspring of an overwrought sensibility; but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favour, will find, after all, there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honour, among his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart and the failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to its mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scenes of his childhood.
How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen, that, before many years, he should return to it covered with renown; that his name would become the boast and the glory of his native place; that his ashes would be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed with tearful contemplation, would one day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb!
Irving.
* * * * *
Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;Ah! little think they, while they dance along,How many feel, this very moment, deathAnd all the sad variety of pain.How many sink in the devouring flood,Or more devouring flame; how many bleed,By shameful variance betwixt man and man.How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,Shut from the common air and common useOf their own limbs; how many drink the cupOf baleful grief, or eat the bitter breadOf misery. Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,How many shrink into the sordid hutOf cheerless poverty; how many shakeWith all the fiercer tortures of the mind,Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;Whence tumbling headlong from the height of life,They furnish matter for the tragic Muse.Even in the vale, where Wisdom loves to dwell,With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,How many rack'd, with honest passions droopIn deep retir'd distress; how many standAround the death-bed of their dearest friendsAnd point the parting anguish.—Thought fond ManOf these, and all the thousand nameless ills,That one incessant struggle render lifeOne scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think,The conscious heart of Charity would warm,And her wide wish Benevolence dilate;The social tear would rise, the social sighAnd into clear perfection, gradual bliss,Refining still, the social passions, work.
Thomson.
* * * * *
Then Agrippa said unto Paul, Thou art permitted to speak for thyself. Then Paul stretched forth his hand, and answered for himself: I think myself happy, King Agrippa, because I shall answer for myself this day before thee touching all the things whereof I am accused of the Jews: especially because I know thee to be expert in all customs and questions which are among the Jews wherefore I beseech thee to hear me patiently.
My manner of life from my youth, which was at the first among mine own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews; which knew me from the beginning, if they would testify, that after the most straightest sect of our religion I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and am judged for the hope of the promise made of God unto our fathers unto which promise our twelve tribes, instantly serving God day and night, hope to come. For which hope's sake, King Agrippa, I am accused of the Jews.
Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise the dead? I verily thought with myself, that I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth. Which thing I also did in Jerusalem: and many of the saints did I shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests; and when they were put to death, I gave my voice against them. And I punished them oft in every synagogue, and compelled them to blaspheme; and being exceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities.
Whereupon as I went to Damascus with authority and commission from the chief priests, at mid-day, O king, I saw in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me and them which journeyed with me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a voice speaking to me, and saying in the Hebrew tongue, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And I said, Who art thou, Lord? And he said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. But rise, and stand upon thy feet; for I have appeared unto thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister and a witness both of these things which thou hast seen, and of those things in the which I will appear unto thee; delivering thee from the people, and from the Gentiles, unto whom now I send thee, to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified by faith that is in me.
Whereupon, O King Agrippa, I was not disobedient unto the heavenly vision; but shewed first unto them of Damascus, and of Jerusalem, and throughout all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should repent and turn to God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes the Jews caught me in the temple, and went about to kill me. Having therefore obtained help of God, I continue unto this day witnessing both to small and great, saying none other things than those which the prophets and Moses did say should come; that Christ should suffer, and that he should be the first that should rise from the dead, and should shew light unto the people and to the Gentiles.
And as he thus spake for himself. Festus said with a loud voice, Paul, thou art beside thyself, much learning doth make thee mad.
But he said, I am not mad, most noble Festus; but speak forth the words of truth and soberness. For the king knoweth of these things, before whom also I speak freely: for I am persuaded that none of these things are hidden from him; for this thing was not done in a corner King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets? I know that thou believest. Then Agrippa said unto Paul, Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian. And Paul said I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I am, except these bonds.
And when he had thus spoken, the king rose up, and the governor, and Bernice, and they that sat with them and when they were gone aside, they talked between themselves, saying, This man doeth nothing worthy of death or of bonds. Then said Agrippa unto Festus, This man might have been set at liberty, if he had not appealed unto Caesar.
Bible.
* * * * *
In a humble room, in one of the poorest streets of London, Pierre, a fatherless French boy, sat humming by the bed-side of his sick mother. There was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day he had not tasted food. Yet he sat humming, to keep up his spirits. Still, at times, he thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could scarcely keep the tears from his eyes; for he knew nothing would be so grateful to his poor invalid mother as a good sweet orange, and yet he had not a penny in the world.
The little song he was singing was his own—one he had composed with air and words; for the child was a genius.
He went to the window, and looking out saw a man putting up a great bill with yellow letters, announcing that Madame Malibran would sing that night in public.
"Oh, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre; and then, pausing a moment, he clasped his hands; his eyes lighted with a new hope. Running to the little stand, he smoothed down his yellow curls, and taking from a little box some old stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house.
* * * * *
"Who did you say is waiting for me?" said the lady to her servant. "I am already worn out with company."
"It is only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who says if he can just see you, he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep you a moment."
"Oh! well, let him come," said the beautiful singer, with a smile; "I can never refuse children."
Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm, and in his hand a little roll of paper. With manliness unusual for a child, he walked straight to the lady, and bowing said, "I came to see you because my mother is very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine. I thought that, perhaps, if you would only sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, may be some publisher would buy it for a small sum, and so I could get food and medicine for my mother."
The beautiful woman rose from her seat; very tall and stately she was; she took the little roll from his hand, and lightly hummed the air.
"Did you compose it?" she asked,—"you, a child! And the words? Would you like to come to my concert?" she asked, after a few moments of thought.
"Oh, yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness; "but I couldn't leave my mother."
"I will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening; and here is a crown, with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here is also one of my tickets; come to-night; that will admit you to a seat near me."
Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid, telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune.
* * * * *
When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert-hall, he felt that never in his life had he been in so grand a place. The music, the myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silk, bewildered his eyes and brain.
At last she came, and the child sat with his glance riveted upon her glorious face. Could he believe that the grand lady, all blazing with jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship, would really sing his little song?
Breathless he waited,—the band, the whole band, struck up a little plaintive melody; he knew it, and clapped his hands for joy. And oh, how she sang it! It was so simple, so mournful, so soul-subduing;—many a bright eye dimmed with tears, and naught could be heard but the touching words of that little song,—oh, so touching!
Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air. What cared he for money now? The greatest singer in all Europe had sung his little song, and thousands had wept at his grief.
The next day he was frightened at a visit from Madame Malibran. She laid her hand on his yellow curls, and turning to the sick woman said, "Your little boy, madam, has brought you a fortune. I was offered, this morning, by the best publisher in London, three hundred pounds for his little song: and after he has realized a certain amount from the sale, little Pierre, here, is to share the profits. Madam, thank God that your son has a gift from heaven."
The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. As to Pierre, always mindful of Him who watches over the tried and tempted, he knelt down by his mother's bedside, and uttered a simple but eloquent prayer, asking God's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice their affliction.
The memory of that prayer made the singer even more tender-hearted, and she who was the idol of England's nobility went about doing good. And in her early, happy death he who stood by her bed, and smoothed her pillow, and lightened her last moments by his undying affection, was the little Pierre of former days—now rich, accomplished, and the most talented composer of the day.
All honour to those great hearts who, from their high stations, send down bounty to the widow and to the fatherless child.
* * * * *
THE KISS.He kissed me—and I knew 'twas wrong,For he was neither kith nor kin;Need one do penance very longFor such a tiny little sin?
He pressed my hand—that was not right;Why will men have such wicked ways?It was not for a moment quite,But in it there were days and days!
There's mischief in the moon, I know;I'm positive I saw her winkWhen I requested him to go;I meant it, too—I think.
But, after all, I'm not to blameHe took the kiss; I do think menAre born without a sense of shameI wonder when he'll come again!
* * * * *
Whene'er you speak, remember every causeStands not on eloquence, but stands on laws—Pregnant in matter, in expression brief,Let every sentence stand with bold relief;On trifling points nor time nor talents waste,A sad offence to learning and to taste;Nor deal with pompous phrase, nor e'er supposePoetic flights belong to reasoning prose.
Loose declamation may deceive the crowd,And seem more striking as it grows more loud;But sober sense rejects it with disdain,As nought but empty noise, and weak as vain.
The froth of words, the schoolboy's vain parade,Of books and cases—all his stock in trade—The pert conceits, the cunning tricks and playOf low attorneys, strung in long array,The unseemly jest, the petulant reply,That chatters on, and cares not how, or why,Strictly avoid—unworthy themes to scan,They sink the speaker and disgrace the man,Like the false lights, by flying shadows cast,Scarce seen when present and forgot when past.
Begin with dignity; expound with graceEach ground of reasoning in its time and place;Let order reign throughout—each topic touch,Nor urge its power too little, nor too much;Give each strong thought its most attractive view,In diction clear and yet severely true,And as the arguments in splendour grow,Let each reflect its light on all below;When to the close arrived, make no delaysBy petty flourishes, or verbal plays,But sum the whole in one deep solemn strain,Like a strong current hastening to the main.
Judge Story.
* * * * *
Late, late, so late! and dark the night, and chill!Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.—Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now!
No light had we—for that do we repent;And learning this, the Bridegroom will relent.—Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now!
No light! so late! and dark and chill the night!Oh, let us in, that we may find the light!—Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now!
Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet?Oh, let us in, though late, to kiss His feet!—No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now!
Tennyson.
* * * * *
The woman was old, and ragged, and grey,And bent with the chill of the winter's day;
The street was wet with a recent snow,And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited longAlone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by,Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street, with laughter and shout,Glad in the freedom of school let out,
Came the boys, like a flock of sheep,Hailing the snow piled white and deep,
Past the woman so old and grey,Hastened the children on their way,
Nor offered a helping hand to her,So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feetShould crowd her down in the slippery street.
At last came one of the merry troop—The gayest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her, and whispered low,"I'll help you across if you wish to go."
Her aged hand on his strong, young armShe placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided her trembling feet along,Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,For all she's old, and poor, and slow;
"And I hope some fellow will lend a handTo help my mother, you understand,
"If ever so poor, and old, and grey,When her own dear boy is far away."
And "somebody's mother" bowed low her headIn her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was—"God be kind to the noble boy,Who is somebody's son, and pride, and joy!"
* * * * *
O the long and dreary Winter!O the cold and cruel Winter!Ever thicker, thicker, thicker,Froze the ice on lake and river;Ever deeper, deeper, deeper,Fell the snow o'er all the landscape,Fell the covering snow, and driftedThrough the forest, round the village.Hardly from his buried wigwamCould the hunter force a passage;With his mittens and his snow-shoesVainly walk'd he through the forest,Sought for bird or beast and found none;Saw no track of deer or rabbit,In the snow beheld no footprints,In the ghastly, gleaming forestFell, and could not rise from weakness,Perish'd there from cold and hunger.
O the famine and the fever!O the wasting of the famine!O the blasting of the fever!O the wailing of the children!O the anguish of the women!All the earth was sick and famished;Hungry was the air around them,Hungry was the sky above them,And the hungry stars in heaven,Like the eyes of wolves glared at them!
Into Hiawatha's wigwamCame two other guests, as silentAs the ghosts were, and as gloomy,Waited not to be invited,Did not parley at the doorway,Sat there without word of welcomeIn the seat of Laughing Water;Looked with haggard eyes and hollowAt the face of Laughing Water.And the foremost said: "Behold me!I am Famine, Bukadawin!"And the other said: "Behold me!I am Fever, Ahkosewin!"And the lovely MinnehahaShudder'd as they look'd upon her,Shudder'd at the words they uttered,Lay down on her bed in silence,Hid her face, but made no answer;Lay there trembling, freezing, burningAt the looks they cast upon her,At the fearful words they utter'd.
Forth into the empty forestRush'd the madden'd Hiawatha;In his heart was deadly sorrow,In his face a stony firmness,On his brow the sweat of anguishStarted, but it froze and fell not.Wrapp'd in furs and arm'd for hunting,With his mighty bow of ash-tree,With his quiver full of arrows,With his mittens, Minjekahwun,Into the vast and vacant forest,On his snow-shoes strode he forward.
"Gitche Manito, the Mighty!"Cried he, with his face upliftedIn that bitter hour of anguish,"Give your children food, O Father!Give us food, or we must perish!Give me food for Minnehaha,For my dying Minnehaha!"
Through the far-resounding forest,Through the forest vast and vacant,Rang that cry of desolation;But there came no other answerThan the echo of his crying,Than the echo of the woodlands,"MINNEHAHA! MINNEHAHA!"
All day long roved HiawathaIn that melancholy forest,Through the shadow of whose thickets,In the pleasant days of summer,Of that ne'er forgotten summer,He had brought his young wife homewardFrom the land of the Dakotahs;When the birds sang in the thickets,And the streamlets laugh'd and glisten'd,And the air was full of fragrance,And the lovely Laughing WaterSaid with voice that did not tremble,"I will follow you, my husband!"
In the wigwam with Nokomis,With those gloomy guests that watch'd her,With the Famine and the Fever,She was lying, the beloved,She the dying Minnehaha."Hark!" she said, "I hear a rushing,Hear a roaring and a rushing,Hear the Falls of MinnehahaCalling to me from a distance!""No, my child!" said old Nokomis,"'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!""Look!" she said; "I see my fatherStanding lonely in his doorway,Beckoning to me from his wigwamIn the land of the Dakotahs!""No, my child!" said old Nokomis,"'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!"
"Ah!" she said, "the eyes of PaugukGlare upon me in the darkness,I can feel his icy fingersClasping mine amid the darkness!Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"And the desolate Hiawatha,Far away amid the forest,Miles away among the mountains,Heard that sudden cry of anguish,Heard the voice of MinnehahaCalling to him in the darkness,"HIAWATHA! HIAWATHA!"
Over snow-fields waste and pathless,Under snow-encumber'd branches,Homeward hurried Hiawatha,Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing;"Wahonowin! Wahonowin!Would that I had perish'd for you,Would that I were dead as you are!Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"And he rush'd into the wigwam,Saw the old Nokomis slowlyRocking to and fro and moaning,Saw his lovely MinnehahaLying dead and cold before him,And his bursting heart within himUtter'd such a cry of anguishThat the forest moan'd and shudder'd,That the very stars in heavenShook and trembled with his anguish.
Then he sat down still and speechless,On the bed of Minnehaha,At the feet of Laughing Water,At those willing feet, that neverMore would lightly run to meet him,Never more would lightly follow.With both hands his face he cover'd,Seven long days and nights he sat there,As if in a swoon he sat there,Speechless, motionless, unconsciousOf the daylight or the darkness.Then they buried Minnehaha;In the snow a grave they made her,In the forest deep and darksome,Underneath the moaning hemlocks;Cloth'd her in her richest garments:Wrapp'd her in her robes of ermine,Cover'd her with snow like ermine:Thus they buried Minnehaha.And at night a fire was lighted,On her grave four times was kindled.For her soul upon its journeyTo the Islands of the Blessed.From his doorway HiawathaSaw it burning in the forest,Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;From his sleepless bed uprising,From the bed of Minnehaha,Stood and watch'd it at the doorway,That it might not be extinguish'd,Might not leave her in the darkness.
"Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha!Farewell, O my Laughing Water!All my heart is buried with you,All my thoughts go onward with you!Come not back again to labour,Come not back again to suffer,Where the Famine and the FeverWear the heart and waste the body.Soon my task will be completed,Soon your footsteps I shall followTo the Islands of the Blessed,To the Kingdom of Ponemah,To the Land of the Hereafter!"
H. W. Longfellow.
* * * * *
It chanced one day, so I've been told(The story is not very old),As Will and Tom, two servants able,Were waiting at their master's table,Tom brought a fine fat turkey in,The sumptuous dinner to begin:Then Will appeared—superbly cooked,A tongue upon the platter smoked;When, oh! sad fate! he struck the door,And tumbled flat upon the floor;The servants stared, the guests looked down,When quick uprising with a frown,The master cried, "Sirra! I sayBegone, nor wait a single day,You stupid cur! you've spoiled the feast,How can another tongue be dressed!"While thus the master stormed and roared,Will, who with wit was somewhat stored(For he by no means was a foolSome Latin, too, he'd learned at school),Said (thinking he might change disgraceFor laughter, and thus save his place),"Oh! call me not a stupid cur,'Twas but alapsus linguae, sir.""Alapsus linguae?" one guest cries,"A pun!" another straight replies.The joke was caught—the laugh went round;Nor could a serious face be found.The master, when the uproar ceased,Finding his guests were all well pleased,Forgave the servant's slippery feet,And quick revoked his former threat.Now Tom had all this time stood still;And heard the applause bestowed on Will;Delighted he had seen the funOf what his comrade late had done,And thought, should he but do the same,An equal share of praise he'd claim.As soon as told the meat to fetch in,Bolted like lightning to the kitchen,And seizing there a leg of lamb(I am not certain, perhaps 'twas ham,No matter which), without delayOff to the parlour marched away,And stumbling as he turned him round,Twirled joint and dish upon the ground.For this my lord was ill-prepared;Again the astonished servants stared.Tom grinned—but seeing no one stir,"Anotherlapsus linguae, sir!"Loud he exclaimed. No laugh was raised.No "clever fellow's" wit was praised.Confounded, yet not knowing whyHiswit could not one laugh supply,And fearing lest he had mistookThe words, again thus loudly spoke(Thinking again it might be tried):"'Twas but alapsus linguae," cried.My lord, who long had quiet sat,Now clearly saw what he was at.In wrath this warning now he gave—"When next thou triest, unlettered knave,To give, as thine, another's wit,Mind well thou knowest what's meant by it;Nor let alapsus linguaeslipFrom out thy pert assuming lip,Till well thou knowest thy stolen song,Nor think a leg of lamb a tongue,"He said—and quickly from the floorStraight kicked him through the unlucky door.
Let each pert coxcomb learn from thisTrue wit will never come amiss!But should a borrowed phrase appear,Derision's always in the rear.
* * * * *
"Am I my brother's keeper?"Long ago,When first the human heart-strings felt the touchOf Death's cold fingers—when upon the earthShroudless and coffinless Death's first-born lay,Slain by the hand of violence, the wailOf human grief arose:—"My son, my son!Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;A mother mourns thee, and her tears of griefAre falling on thy pale, unconscious brow;Awake and bless her with thy wonted smile."
In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke.His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixedA stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fledA voice pursued him to the wilderness:"Where is thy brother, Cain?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
O black impiety! that seeks to shunThe dire responsibility of sin—That cries with the ever-warning voice:"Be still—away, the crime is not my own—My brother lived—is dead, when, where,Or how, it matters not, but he is dead.Why judge the living for the dead one's fall?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Cain, Cain,Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his bloodCries up to Heaven against thee; every stoneWill find a tongue to curse thee; and the windsWill ever wail this question in thy ear:"Where is thy brother?" Every sight and soundWill mind thee of the lost.
I saw a manDeal death unto his brother. Drop by dropThe poison was distilled for cursèd gold;And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death,Invisible to that poor trembling slave.He seized the cup, he drank the poison down,Rushed forth into the streets—home had he none—Staggered and fell and miserably died.They buried him—ah! little recks it whereHis bloated form was given to the worms.No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot;No mourner sorrowing at evening came,To pray by that unhallowed mound; no handPlanted sweet flowers above his place of rest.Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grewAbove that sunken grave, and men forgotWho slept there.
Once had he friends,A happy home was his, and love was his.His Mary loved him, and around him playedHis smiling children. Oh, a dream of joyWere those unclouded years, and, more than all,He had an interest in the world above.The big "Old Bible" lay upon the stand,And he was wont to read its sacred pageAnd then to pray: "Our Father, bless the poorAnd save the tempted from the tempter's art,Save us from sin, and let us ever beUnited in Thy love, and may we meet,When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."Thus prayed he—thus lived he—years passed,And o'er the sunshine of that happy home,A cloud came from the pit; the fatal boltFell from that cloud. The towering treeWas shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke,And laid its coronal of glory low.A happy home was ruined; want and woePlayed with his children, and the joy of youthLeft their sweet faces no more to return.His Mary's face grew pale and paler still,Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soulWent out through those blue portals. Mary died,And yet he wept not. At the demon's callHe drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl,And when they buried her from sight, he sankIn drunken stupor by her new-made grave!His friend was gone—he never had another,And the world shrank from him, all save one,And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugsAnd bade him drink, forget his God, and die.
He died.Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now?Lives he still—if dead, still where is he?Where? In Heaven? Go read the sacred page:"No drunkard ever shall inherit there."Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down?Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiledWhile yet the hellish work went on? Who graspedHis gold—his health—his life—his hope—his all?Who saw his Mary fade and die? Who sawHis beggared children wandering in the streets?Speak—Coward—if thou hast a tongue,Tell why with hellish art you slew A MAN.
"Where is my brother?""Am I my brother's keeper?"
Ah, man! A deeper mark is on your browThan that of Cain. Accursed was the nameOf him who slew a righteous man, whose soulWas ripe for Heaven; thrice accursed heWhose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.
E. Evans Edwards.
* * * * *
In Sunshine.
My window overlooks thee,—and thy sheen of silver glory,In musical monotony advances and recedes;Till I dimly see the "shining ones" of ancient song and story,With aureoles of ocean-haze invite to distant meads,
Where summer song and sunshine on placid waters play;—Drifting dreamily, insensibly, on fragrance-laden breeze—Floating onward on the wavelets, without hurry or delay,I reach some blissful haven in the bright Hesperides.
Overcast.
How wearily and drearily the mist hangs over all!And dismally the fog-horn shrieks its warning o'er the wave!How sullenly the billows heave, beneath the funeral pall!An impenetrable solitude!—a universal grave!
In Storm.
O! measureless and merciless! vindictive, wild, and stern!Fire, Pestilence and Whirlwind all yield the palm to thee!Roar on in bad pre-eminence—a worse thou canst not earn,Than clings in famine, wreck, and death, to thee, O cruel Sea!
Ocean's Lessons.
I have seen thee in thy gladness, thy sullenness and wrath—What lesson has thou taught, O Sea! to guide my daily path?I hear thy massive monotone, to me it seems to say,"When summer skies are over thee, dream not thy life away.
"In days of dark despondency, when either good or ill"Seems scarcely worth the caring for, then wait and trust Him still;"Though mist and cloud surround thee, thou art safe by sea or land,"For thy Father holds the waters in the hollow of His hand.
"Perchance a storm in future life thy fragile bark may toss,"And every struggle, cry, or prayer, bring nought but harm and loss,"O tempest-tossed and stricken one! He comes His own to save,"For not on Galilee alone, did Jesus walk the wave."
W. Wetherald.
* * * * *
And so, smiling, we went on.
"Well, one day, George's father—"
"George who?" asked Clarence.
"George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father—"
"Who's father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest.
"George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One day GeorgeWashington's father gave him a little hatchet for a—"
"Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted, with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. So we went on:
"George Washington. His—"
"Who gave him the little hatchet?"
"His father. And his father—"
"Whose father?"
"George Washington's."
"Oh!"
"Yes, George Washington. And his father told him—"
"Told who?"
"Told George."
"Oh, yes, George."
And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said:
"And he was told—"
"George told him?" queried Clarence.
"No, his father told George—"
"Oh!"
"Yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet—"
"Who must be careful?"
"George must."
"Oh!"
"Yes, must be careful with his hatchet—"
"What hatchet?"
"Why, George's."
"Oh!"
"With the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out in the grass all night. So George went round cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. And at last he came to a splendid apple-tree, his father's favourite, and cut it down, and—"
"Who cut it down?"
"George did."
"Oh!"
"But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and—"
"Saw the hatchet?"
"No, saw the apple-tree. And he said, 'Who has cut down my favourite apple- tree?'"
"What apple-tree?"
"George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it, and—"
"Anything about what?"
"The apple-tree."
"Oh!"
"And George came up and heard them talking about it—"
"Heard who taking about it?"
"Heard his father and the men"
"What were they talking about?"
"About this apple-tree."
"What apple-tree?"
"The favourite tree that George cut down."
"George who?"
"George Washington"
"Oh!"
"So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he—"
"What did he cut it down for?"
"Just to try his little hatchet."
"Whose little hatchet?"
"Why, his own, the one his father gave him."
"Gave who?"