SHAKESPEARE.
This scene will give a good chance to practisevarietyof expression, both in words and action. Falstaff throws himself into all the attitudes, and elevates and depresses his voice, as if he was actually engaged in the combat he describes—preserving the utmost gravity of face, until he finds that the Prince has really detected him. Then the "fat rogue" bursts into a jolly, unctuous laugh, and carries off the honors, after all:
This scene will give a good chance to practisevarietyof expression, both in words and action. Falstaff throws himself into all the attitudes, and elevates and depresses his voice, as if he was actually engaged in the combat he describes—preserving the utmost gravity of face, until he finds that the Prince has really detected him. Then the "fat rogue" bursts into a jolly, unctuous laugh, and carries off the honors, after all:
P. Henry.What's the matter?
Fal.What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this morning.
P. Hen.Where is it, Jack? where is it?
Fal.Where is it? taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.
P. Hen.What, a hundred, man?
Fal.I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four, through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-sawecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards!—Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness.
P. Hen.Speak, sirs: how was it?
Gads.We four set upon some dozen,—
Fal.Sixteen at least, my lord.
Gads.And bound them.
Peto.No, no, they were not bound.
Fal.You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.
Gads.As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us.
Fal.And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.
P. Hen.What, fought ye with them all?
Fal.All! I know not what ye call, all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature.
Poins.Pray God, you have not murdered some of them.
Fal.Nay, that's past praying for, for I have peppered two of them: two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal,—if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward;—here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.—
P. Hen.What, four? thou said'st but two, even now.
Fal.Four, Hal; I told thee four.
Poins.Ay, ay, he said four.
Fal.These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.
P. Hen.Seven? why, there were but four, even now.
Fal.In buckram.
Poins.Ay, four in buckram suits.
Fal.Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
P. Hen.Pr'ythee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.
Fal.Dost thou hear me, Hal?
P. Hen.Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
Fal.Do, so, for it is worth the listening to. The nine in buckram that I told thee of,——
P. Hen.So, two more already.
Fal.Their points being broken,——
Poins.Down fell their hose.
Fal.Began to give me ground: But I followed me close, came in foot and hand: and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.
P. Hen.O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!
Fal.But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.
P. Hen.These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts; thou knotty-pated fool! thou whoreson, obscene, greasy, tallow-keech,—
Fal.What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?
P. Hen.Why, how couldst thou know these menin Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us thy reason; what sayest thou to this?
Poins.Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
Fal.What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.
P. Hen.I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh;—
Fal.Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, bull's-pizzle, you stock-fish,—O for breath to utter what is like thee!—you tailor's yard, you sheathe, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck;—
P. Hen.Well, breathe a while and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons hear me speak but this.
Poins.Mark, Jack.
P. Hen.We two saw you four set on four: you bound them, and were masters of their wealth.—Mark now how plain a tale shall put you down.—Then did we two set on you four: and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house:—and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword, as thou hast done; and then say, it was a fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?
Poins.Come, let's hear, Jack: What trick hast thou now?
Fal.By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he thatmade ye. Why, hear ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money.—Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow.—Gallant, lads, boys, hearts of gold. All the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?
DUGANNE.
This poem should be delivered with bold energy, with flashing eye, swelling breast, and free action—as though the speaker's heart was full of the nobility of the theme:
This poem should be delivered with bold energy, with flashing eye, swelling breast, and free action—as though the speaker's heart was full of the nobility of the theme:
"There has been the cry—'On to Richmond!' And still another cry—On to England!' Better than either is the cry—'On to Freedom!'"Charles Sumner.
"There has been the cry—'On to Richmond!' And still another cry—On to England!' Better than either is the cry—'On to Freedom!'"
Charles Sumner.
ONto Freedom! On to Freedom!'Tis the everlasting cryOf the floods that strive with ocean—Of the storms that smite the sky;Of the atoms in the whirlwind,Of the seed beneath the ground—Of each living thing in NatureThat is bound!'Twas the cry that led from Egypt,Through the desert wilds of Edom:Out of darkness—out of bondage—On to Freedom! On to Freedom!O! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh!Vainly warrest thou with God!Moveless, at thy palace portals,Moses waits, with lifted rod!O! thou poor barbarian, Xerxes!Vainly o'er the Pontic mainFlingest thou, to curb its utterance,Scourge or chain!For, the cry that led from Egypt,Over desert wilds of Edom,Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew;On to Freedom! On to Freedom!In the Roman streets, with Gracchus,Hark! I hear that cry outswell;In the German woods with Hermann,And on Switzer hills, with Tell;Up from Spartacus, the Bondman,When his tyrants yoke he clave,And from Stalwart Wat the Tyler—Saxon slave!Still the old, old cry of Egypt,Struggling up from wilds of Edom—Sounding still through all the ages:On to Freedom! On to Freedom!On to Freedom! On to Freedom!Gospel cry of laboring Time:Uttering still, through seers and sages,Words of hope and faith sublime!From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens,And our Washingtons they come:And we cannot, and we dare notMake them dumb!Out of all the shames of Egypt—Out of all the snares of Edom;Out of darkness—out of bondage—On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
ONto Freedom! On to Freedom!'Tis the everlasting cryOf the floods that strive with ocean—Of the storms that smite the sky;Of the atoms in the whirlwind,Of the seed beneath the ground—Of each living thing in NatureThat is bound!'Twas the cry that led from Egypt,Through the desert wilds of Edom:Out of darkness—out of bondage—On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
O
Nto Freedom! On to Freedom!
'Tis the everlasting cry
Of the floods that strive with ocean—
Of the storms that smite the sky;
Of the atoms in the whirlwind,
Of the seed beneath the ground—
Of each living thing in Nature
That is bound!
'Twas the cry that led from Egypt,
Through the desert wilds of Edom:
Out of darkness—out of bondage—
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
O! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh!Vainly warrest thou with God!Moveless, at thy palace portals,Moses waits, with lifted rod!O! thou poor barbarian, Xerxes!Vainly o'er the Pontic mainFlingest thou, to curb its utterance,Scourge or chain!For, the cry that led from Egypt,Over desert wilds of Edom,Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew;On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
O! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh!
Vainly warrest thou with God!
Moveless, at thy palace portals,
Moses waits, with lifted rod!
O! thou poor barbarian, Xerxes!
Vainly o'er the Pontic main
Flingest thou, to curb its utterance,
Scourge or chain!
For, the cry that led from Egypt,
Over desert wilds of Edom,
Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew;
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
In the Roman streets, with Gracchus,Hark! I hear that cry outswell;In the German woods with Hermann,And on Switzer hills, with Tell;Up from Spartacus, the Bondman,When his tyrants yoke he clave,And from Stalwart Wat the Tyler—Saxon slave!Still the old, old cry of Egypt,Struggling up from wilds of Edom—Sounding still through all the ages:On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
In the Roman streets, with Gracchus,
Hark! I hear that cry outswell;
In the German woods with Hermann,
And on Switzer hills, with Tell;
Up from Spartacus, the Bondman,
When his tyrants yoke he clave,
And from Stalwart Wat the Tyler—
Saxon slave!
Still the old, old cry of Egypt,
Struggling up from wilds of Edom—
Sounding still through all the ages:
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!Gospel cry of laboring Time:Uttering still, through seers and sages,Words of hope and faith sublime!From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens,And our Washingtons they come:And we cannot, and we dare notMake them dumb!Out of all the shames of Egypt—Out of all the snares of Edom;Out of darkness—out of bondage—On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
Gospel cry of laboring Time:
Uttering still, through seers and sages,
Words of hope and faith sublime!
From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens,
And our Washingtons they come:
And we cannot, and we dare not
Make them dumb!
Out of all the shames of Egypt—
Out of all the snares of Edom;
Out of darkness—out of bondage—
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
WHENspring, to woods and wastes around,Brought bloom and joy again,The murdered traveller's bones were found,Far down a narrow glen.The fragrant birch, above him, hungHer tassels in the sky;And many a vernal blossom sprung,And nodded, careless, by.The red-bird warbled, as he wroughtHis hanging nest o'erhead;And, fearless, near the fatal spot,Her young the partridge led.But there was weeping far away,And gentle eyes, for him,With watching many an anxious day,Grew sorrowful and dim.They little knew, who loved him so,The fearful death he met,When shouting o'er the desert snow,Unarmed, and hard beset.Nor how, when round the frosty pole,The northern dawn was red,The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole,To banquet on the dead;Nor how, when strangers found his bones,They dressed the hasty bier,And marked his grave with nameless stones,Unmoistened by a tear.But long they looked, and feared and wept,Within his distant home;And dreamt and started as they slept,For joy that he was come.So long they looked—but never spiedHis welcome step again,Nor knew the fearful death he died,Far down that narrow glen.
WHENspring, to woods and wastes around,Brought bloom and joy again,The murdered traveller's bones were found,Far down a narrow glen.
W
HENspring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.
The fragrant birch, above him, hungHer tassels in the sky;And many a vernal blossom sprung,And nodded, careless, by.
The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded, careless, by.
The red-bird warbled, as he wroughtHis hanging nest o'erhead;And, fearless, near the fatal spot,Her young the partridge led.
The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead;
And, fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away,And gentle eyes, for him,With watching many an anxious day,Grew sorrowful and dim.
But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so,The fearful death he met,When shouting o'er the desert snow,Unarmed, and hard beset.
They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset.
Nor how, when round the frosty pole,The northern dawn was red,The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole,To banquet on the dead;
Nor how, when round the frosty pole,
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole,
To banquet on the dead;
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,They dressed the hasty bier,And marked his grave with nameless stones,Unmoistened by a tear.
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.
But long they looked, and feared and wept,Within his distant home;And dreamt and started as they slept,For joy that he was come.
But long they looked, and feared and wept,
Within his distant home;
And dreamt and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.
So long they looked—but never spiedHis welcome step again,Nor knew the fearful death he died,Far down that narrow glen.
So long they looked—but never spied
His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died,
Far down that narrow glen.
N. P. WILLIS.
This admirable composition gives ample scope for gentle, mournful, tear-stricken recitation. The thoughts prompt the speaker to natural expression:
This admirable composition gives ample scope for gentle, mournful, tear-stricken recitation. The thoughts prompt the speaker to natural expression:
Theking stood stillTill the last echo died: then throwing offThe sackcloth from his brow, and laying backThe pall from the still features of his child,He bowed his head upon him and broke forthIn the resistless eloquence of woe:—"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st dieThou, who wert made so beautifully fair!That death should settle in thy glorious eye,And leave his stillness in this clustering hair.How could he marktheefor the silent tomb,My proud boy, Absalom!"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,As to my bosom I have tried to press thee;How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,And hear thy sweet 'my father' from these dumbAnd cold lips, Absalom!"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gushOf music, and the voices of the young;And life will pass me in the mantling blush,And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall comeTo meet me, Absalom!"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,How will its love for thee, as I depart,Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,To see thee, Absalom!"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:—And thy dark sin!—Oh! I could drink the cup,If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,My erring Absalom!"He covered up his face, and bowed himselfA moment on his child: then, giving himA look of melting tenderness, he claspedHis hands convulsively, as if in prayer;And, as a strength were given him of God,He rose up calmly, and composed the pallFirmly and decently, and left him there,As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
Theking stood stillTill the last echo died: then throwing offThe sackcloth from his brow, and laying backThe pall from the still features of his child,He bowed his head upon him and broke forthIn the resistless eloquence of woe:—
Theking stood still
Till the last echo died: then throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:—
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st dieThou, who wert made so beautifully fair!That death should settle in thy glorious eye,And leave his stillness in this clustering hair.How could he marktheefor the silent tomb,My proud boy, Absalom!
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair.
How could he marktheefor the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!
"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,As to my bosom I have tried to press thee;How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,And hear thy sweet 'my father' from these dumbAnd cold lips, Absalom!
"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee;
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet 'my father' from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gushOf music, and the voices of the young;And life will pass me in the mantling blush,And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall comeTo meet me, Absalom!
"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come
To meet me, Absalom!
"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,How will its love for thee, as I depart,Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,To see thee, Absalom!
"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:—And thy dark sin!—Oh! I could drink the cup,If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,My erring Absalom!"
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:—
And thy dark sin!—Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My erring Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bowed himselfA moment on his child: then, giving himA look of melting tenderness, he claspedHis hands convulsively, as if in prayer;And, as a strength were given him of God,He rose up calmly, and composed the pallFirmly and decently, and left him there,As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
The fire and energy of Tell contrasts nobly with the youthful ambition of his son's young and noble heart. It is a charming exercise, and exceedingly effective when well delivered:
The fire and energy of Tell contrasts nobly with the youthful ambition of his son's young and noble heart. It is a charming exercise, and exceedingly effective when well delivered:
Scene.—Exterior ofTell'scottage. EnterAlbert(Tell'sson)with bow and arrows, andVerner.
Verner.Ah! Albert! What have you there?Albert.My bow and arrows, Verner.Ver.When will you use them like your father, boy?Alb.Some time, I hope.Ver.You brag! There's not an archerIn all Helvetia can compare with him.Alb.But I'm his son; and when I am a manI may be like him. Verner, do I brag,To think I some time may be like my father?If so, then is it he that teaches me;For, ever as I wonder at his skill,He calls me boy, and says I must do moreEre I become a man.Ver.May you be suchA man as he—if heaven wills, better—I'llNot quarrel with its work; yet 'twill content meIf you are only such a man.Alb.I'll show youHow I can shoot (goes out to fix the mark.)Ver.Nestling as he is, he is the making of a birdWill own no cowering wing.Re-enterAlbert.Alb.Now, Verner, look! (shoots) There's withinAn inch!Ver.Oh, fy! it wants a hand. [ExitVerner.Alb.A hand'sAn inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it.
Verner.Ah! Albert! What have you there?
Verner.Ah! Albert! What have you there?
Albert.My bow and arrows, Verner.
Albert.My bow and arrows, Verner.
Ver.When will you use them like your father, boy?
Ver.When will you use them like your father, boy?
Alb.Some time, I hope.
Alb.Some time, I hope.
Ver.You brag! There's not an archerIn all Helvetia can compare with him.
Ver.You brag! There's not an archer
In all Helvetia can compare with him.
Alb.But I'm his son; and when I am a manI may be like him. Verner, do I brag,To think I some time may be like my father?If so, then is it he that teaches me;For, ever as I wonder at his skill,He calls me boy, and says I must do moreEre I become a man.
Alb.But I'm his son; and when I am a man
I may be like him. Verner, do I brag,
To think I some time may be like my father?
If so, then is it he that teaches me;
For, ever as I wonder at his skill,
He calls me boy, and says I must do more
Ere I become a man.
Ver.May you be suchA man as he—if heaven wills, better—I'llNot quarrel with its work; yet 'twill content meIf you are only such a man.
Ver.May you be such
A man as he—if heaven wills, better—I'll
Not quarrel with its work; yet 'twill content me
If you are only such a man.
Alb.I'll show youHow I can shoot (goes out to fix the mark.)
Alb.I'll show you
How I can shoot (goes out to fix the mark.)
Ver.Nestling as he is, he is the making of a birdWill own no cowering wing.
Ver.Nestling as he is, he is the making of a bird
Will own no cowering wing.
Re-enterAlbert.
Re-enterAlbert.
Alb.Now, Verner, look! (shoots) There's withinAn inch!
Alb.Now, Verner, look! (shoots) There's within
An inch!
Ver.Oh, fy! it wants a hand. [ExitVerner.
Ver.Oh, fy! it wants a hand. [ExitVerner.
Alb.A hand'sAn inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it.
Alb.A hand's
An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it.
WhileAlbertcontinues to shoot,Tellenters and watches him some time, in silence.
Tell.That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark?Well aimed, young archer! With what ease he bendsThe bow. To see those sinews, who'd believeSuch strength did lodge in them? That little arm,His mother's palm can span, may help, anon,To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat,And from their chains a prostrate people liftTo liberty. I'd be content to die,Living to see that day! What, Albert!Alb.Ah!My father!Tell.You raise the bowToo fast. (Albertcontinues shooting.)Bring it slowly to the eye.—You've missed.How often have you hit the mark to-day?Alb.Not once, yet.Tell.You're not steady. I perceiveYou wavered now. Stand firm. Let every limbBe braced as marble, and as motionless.Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gateOf Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathesNor stirs. (Albertshoots) That's better!See well the mark. Rivet your eye to itThere let it stick, fast as the arrow would,Could you but send it there. (Albertshoots)You've missed again! How would you fare,Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and youAlone, with but your bow, and only timeTo fix a single arrow? 'Twould not doTo miss the wolf! You said the other day,Were you a man you'd not let Gesler live—'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now,Your life or his depended on that shot!—Take care! That's Gesler!—Now for liberty!Right to the tyrant's heart! (hits the mark) Well done, my boy!Come here. How early were you up?Alb.Before the sun.Tell.Ay, strive with him. He never lies abedWhen it is time to rise. Be like the sun.Alb.What you would have me like, I'll be like,As far as will to labor joined can make me.Tell.Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up To-day?Alb.I did; and do so every day.Tell.I know you do! And think you, when you kneel,To whom you kneel?Alb.To Him who made me, father.Tell.And in whose name?Alb.The name of Him who diedFor me and all men, that all men and IShould liveTell.That's right. Remember that my son:Forget all things but that—remember that!'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food;All things on earth; yea, life itself!—It isTo live, when these are gone, when they are naught—With God! My son remember that!Alb.I will.Tell.I'm glad you value what you're taught.That is the lesson of content, my son;He who finds which has all—who misses, nothing.Alb.Content is a good thing.Tell.A thing, the goodAlone can profit by. But go, Albert,Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff.Don't keep me waiting. [ExitAlbert.
Tell.That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark?Well aimed, young archer! With what ease he bendsThe bow. To see those sinews, who'd believeSuch strength did lodge in them? That little arm,His mother's palm can span, may help, anon,To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat,And from their chains a prostrate people liftTo liberty. I'd be content to die,Living to see that day! What, Albert!
Tell.That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark?
Well aimed, young archer! With what ease he bends
The bow. To see those sinews, who'd believe
Such strength did lodge in them? That little arm,
His mother's palm can span, may help, anon,
To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat,
And from their chains a prostrate people lift
To liberty. I'd be content to die,
Living to see that day! What, Albert!
Alb.Ah!My father!
Alb.Ah!
My father!
Tell.You raise the bowToo fast. (Albertcontinues shooting.)Bring it slowly to the eye.—You've missed.How often have you hit the mark to-day?
Tell.You raise the bow
Too fast. (Albertcontinues shooting.)
Bring it slowly to the eye.—You've missed.
How often have you hit the mark to-day?
Alb.Not once, yet.
Alb.Not once, yet.
Tell.You're not steady. I perceiveYou wavered now. Stand firm. Let every limbBe braced as marble, and as motionless.Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gateOf Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathesNor stirs. (Albertshoots) That's better!See well the mark. Rivet your eye to itThere let it stick, fast as the arrow would,Could you but send it there. (Albertshoots)You've missed again! How would you fare,Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and youAlone, with but your bow, and only timeTo fix a single arrow? 'Twould not doTo miss the wolf! You said the other day,Were you a man you'd not let Gesler live—'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now,Your life or his depended on that shot!—Take care! That's Gesler!—Now for liberty!Right to the tyrant's heart! (hits the mark) Well done, my boy!Come here. How early were you up?
Tell.You're not steady. I perceive
You wavered now. Stand firm. Let every limb
Be braced as marble, and as motionless.
Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate
Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes
Nor stirs. (Albertshoots) That's better!
See well the mark. Rivet your eye to it
There let it stick, fast as the arrow would,
Could you but send it there. (Albertshoots)
You've missed again! How would you fare,
Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you
Alone, with but your bow, and only time
To fix a single arrow? 'Twould not do
To miss the wolf! You said the other day,
Were you a man you'd not let Gesler live—
'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now,
Your life or his depended on that shot!—
Take care! That's Gesler!—Now for liberty!
Right to the tyrant's heart! (hits the mark) Well done, my boy!
Come here. How early were you up?
Alb.Before the sun.
Alb.Before the sun.
Tell.Ay, strive with him. He never lies abedWhen it is time to rise. Be like the sun.
Tell.Ay, strive with him. He never lies abed
When it is time to rise. Be like the sun.
Alb.What you would have me like, I'll be like,As far as will to labor joined can make me.
Alb.What you would have me like, I'll be like,
As far as will to labor joined can make me.
Tell.Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up To-day?
Tell.Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up To-day?
Alb.I did; and do so every day.
Alb.I did; and do so every day.
Tell.I know you do! And think you, when you kneel,To whom you kneel?
Tell.I know you do! And think you, when you kneel,
To whom you kneel?
Alb.To Him who made me, father.
Alb.To Him who made me, father.
Tell.And in whose name?
Tell.And in whose name?
Alb.The name of Him who diedFor me and all men, that all men and IShould live
Alb.The name of Him who died
For me and all men, that all men and I
Should live
Tell.That's right. Remember that my son:Forget all things but that—remember that!'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food;All things on earth; yea, life itself!—It isTo live, when these are gone, when they are naught—With God! My son remember that!
Tell.That's right. Remember that my son:
Forget all things but that—remember that!
'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food;
All things on earth; yea, life itself!—It is
To live, when these are gone, when they are naught—
With God! My son remember that!
Alb.I will.
Alb.I will.
Tell.I'm glad you value what you're taught.That is the lesson of content, my son;He who finds which has all—who misses, nothing.
Tell.I'm glad you value what you're taught.
That is the lesson of content, my son;
He who finds which has all—who misses, nothing.
Alb.Content is a good thing.
Alb.Content is a good thing.
Tell.A thing, the goodAlone can profit by. But go, Albert,Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff.Don't keep me waiting. [ExitAlbert.
Tell.A thing, the good
Alone can profit by. But go, Albert,
Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff.
Don't keep me waiting. [ExitAlbert.
Tellpaces the stage in thought. Re-enterAlbert.
Alb.I am ready, father.Tell.(takingAlbertby the hand). Now mark me, AlbertDost thou fear the snow,The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou forThe mountain mist that settles on the peak,When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble atThe torrent roaring from the deep ravine,Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie?Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when onThe hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud,And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travelAll night.Alb.I'm ready; say all night again.Tell.The mountains are to cross, for thou must reachMount Faigel by the dawn.Alb.Not sooner shallThe dawn be there than I.Tell.Heaven speeding thee.Alb.Heaven speeding me.Tell.Show me thy staff. Art sureOf the point? I think 'tis loose. No—stay! 'Twill do.Caution is speed when danger's to be passed.Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow!'Tis well there is a moon to-night.You're sure of the track?Alb.Quite sure.Tell.The buskin ofThat leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it.You know the point where you must round the cliff?Alb.I do.Tell.Thy belt is slack—draw it tight.Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this daggerAnd give it him! you know its caverns well.In one of them you will find him. Farewell.
Alb.I am ready, father.
Alb.I am ready, father.
Tell.(takingAlbertby the hand). Now mark me, AlbertDost thou fear the snow,The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou forThe mountain mist that settles on the peak,When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble atThe torrent roaring from the deep ravine,Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie?Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when onThe hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud,And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travelAll night.
Tell.(takingAlbertby the hand). Now mark me, Albert
Dost thou fear the snow,
The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou for
The mountain mist that settles on the peak,
When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble at
The torrent roaring from the deep ravine,
Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie?
Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when on
The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud,
And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel
All night.
Alb.I'm ready; say all night again.
Alb.I'm ready; say all night again.
Tell.The mountains are to cross, for thou must reachMount Faigel by the dawn.
Tell.The mountains are to cross, for thou must reach
Mount Faigel by the dawn.
Alb.Not sooner shallThe dawn be there than I.
Alb.Not sooner shall
The dawn be there than I.
Tell.Heaven speeding thee.
Tell.Heaven speeding thee.
Alb.Heaven speeding me.
Alb.Heaven speeding me.
Tell.Show me thy staff. Art sureOf the point? I think 'tis loose. No—stay! 'Twill do.Caution is speed when danger's to be passed.Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow!'Tis well there is a moon to-night.You're sure of the track?
Tell.Show me thy staff. Art sure
Of the point? I think 'tis loose. No—stay! 'Twill do.
Caution is speed when danger's to be passed.
Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow!
'Tis well there is a moon to-night.
You're sure of the track?
Alb.Quite sure.
Alb.Quite sure.
Tell.The buskin ofThat leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it.You know the point where you must round the cliff?
Tell.The buskin of
That leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it.
You know the point where you must round the cliff?
Alb.I do.
Alb.I do.
Tell.Thy belt is slack—draw it tight.Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this daggerAnd give it him! you know its caverns well.In one of them you will find him. Farewell.
Tell.Thy belt is slack—draw it tight.
Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this dagger
And give it him! you know its caverns well.
In one of them you will find him. Farewell.
HENRY COCKTON.
NOWthen, look alive there!" shouted the coachman from the booking-office door, as Valentine and his Uncle John approached. "Have yow got that are mare's shoe made comfor'ble, Simon!"
"All right, sir," said Simon, and he went round to see if it were so, while the luggage was being secured.
"Jimp up, genelmen!" cried the coachman, as he waddled from the office with his whip in one hand and his huge way-bill in the other; and the passengers accordingly proceeded to arrange themselves on the various parts of the coach,—Valentine, by the particular desire of Uncle John, having deposited himself immediately behind the seat of the coachman.
"If you please," said an old lady, who had been standing in the gateway upwards of an hour, "willyou be good enow, please, to take care of my darter?"
"All safe," said the coachman, untwisting the reins. "She shaunt take no harm. Is she going all the way?"
"Yes, sir," replied the old lady; "God bless her! She's got a place in Lunnun, an' I'm told—"
"Hook on them ere two sacks o' whoats there behind," cried the coachman; "I marn't go without 'em this time.—Now, all right there?"
"Good by, my dear," sobbed the old lady, "do write to me soon, be sure you do,—I only want to hear from you often. Take care of yourself."
"Hold hard!" cried the coachman, as the horses were dancing, on the cloths being drawn from their loins. "Whit, whit!" and away they pranced, as merrily as if they had known thattheirload was nothing when compared with the load they left behind them. Even old Uncle John, as he cried "Good by, my dear boy," and waved his hand for the last time, felt the tears trickling down his cheeks.
The salute was returned, and the coach passed on.
The fulness of Valentine's heart caused him for the first hour to be silent; but after that, the constant change of scene and the pure bracing air had the effect of restoring his spirits, and he felt a powerful inclination to sing. Just, however, as he was about to commence for his own amusement, the coach stopped to change horses. In less than two minutes they started again, and Valentine, who then felt ready for anything, began to think seriously of the exercise of his power as a ventriloquist.
"Whit, whit!" said Tooler, the coachman, between a whisper and a whistle, as the fresh horses galloped up the hill.
"Stop! hoa!" cried Valentine, assuming a voice,the sound of which appeared to have travelled some distance.
"You have left some one behind," observed a gentleman in black, who had secured the box seat.
"Oh, let un run a bit!" said Tooler. "Whit! I'll give un a winder up this little hill, and teach un to be up in time in future. If we was to wait for every passenger as chooses to lag behind, we shouldn't git over the ground in a fortnit."
"Hoa! stop! stop! stop!" reiterated Valentine, in the voice of a man pretty well out of breath.
Tooler, without deigning to look behind, retickled the haunches of his leaders, and gleefully chuckled at the idea ofhowhe was making a passenger sweat.
The voice was heard no more, and Tooler, on reaching the top of the hill, pulled up and looked round, but could see no man running.
"Where is he?" inquired Tooler.
"In the ditch!" replied Valentine, throwing his voice behind.
"In the ditch!" exclaimed Tooler. "Blarm me, whereabouts?"
"There," said Valentine.
"Bless my soul!" cried the gentleman in black, who was an exceedingly nervous village clergyman. "The poor person no doubt is fallen down in an absolute state of exhaustion. How very, very wrong of you, coachman, not to stop!"
Tooler, apprehensive of some serious occurrence, got down with the view of dragging the exhausted passenger out of the ditch; but although he ran several hundred yards down the hill, no such person of course could be found.
"Who saw un?" shouted Tooler, as he panted up the hill again.
"I saw nothing," said a passenger behind, "but a boy jumping over the hedge."
Tooler looked at his way-bill, counted the passengers, found them all right, and, remounting the box, got the horses again into a gallop, in the perfect conviction that some villanous young scarecrow had raised the false alarm.
"Whit! blarm them 'ere boys!" said Tooler, "'stead o' mindin' their crows, they are allus up to suffen. I only wish I had un here, I'd payonto their blarmed bodies; if I would n't—" At this interesting moment, and as if to give a practical illustration of what he would have done in the case, he gave the off-wheeler so telling a cut round the loins that the animal without any ceremony kicked over the trace. Of course Tooler was compelled to pull up again immediately; and after having adjusted the trace, and asking the animal seriously what he meant, at the same time enforcing the question by giving him a blow on the bony part of the nose, he prepared to remount; but just as he had got his left foot upon the nave of the wheel, Valentine so admirably imitated the sharp snapping growl of a dog in the front boot, that Tooler started back as quickly as if he had been shot, while the gentleman in black dropped the reins and almost jumped into the road.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, trembling with great energy; "How wrong, how very horribly wrong, of you, coachman, not to tell me that a dog had been placed beneath my feet."
"Blarm their carcases!" cried Tooler, "they never toldmea dog was shoved there. Laydown! We'll soon have yow out there together!"
"Not for the world!" cried the gentleman in black, as Tooler approached the foot-board in order to open it. "Not for the world! un-un-un-less you le-le-let me get down first. I have no desire to pe-pe-perish of hydropho-phobia."
"Kip yar fut on the board then, sir, please," said Tooler, "we'll soon have the varmint out o' that." So saying, he gathered up the reins, remounted the box, and started off the horses again at full gallop.
The gentleman in black then began to explain to Tooler how utterly inconceivable was the number of persons who had died of hydrophobia within an almost unspeakable short space of time, in the immediate vicinity of the residence of a friend of his in London; and just as he had got into the marrow of a most excruciating description of the intense mental and physical agony of which the disease in its worst stage was productive, both he and Tooler suddenly sprang back, with their feet in the air, and their heads between the knees of the passengers behind them, on Valentine giving a loud growling snap, more bitingly indicative of anger than before.
As Tooler had tightly hold of the reins when he made this involuntary spring, the horses stopped on the instant, and allowed him time to scramble up again without rendering the slow process dangerous.
"I cannot, I-I-I positively cannot," said the gentleman in black, who had been thrown again into a dreadful state of excitement, "I cannot sit here,—my nerves cannot endure it; it's perfectly shocking."
"Blister their bowls!" exclaimed Tooler, whose first impulse was to drag the dog out of the boot at all hazards, but who, on seeing the horses waiting in the road a short distance ahead for the next stage, thought it better to wait till he had reached them. "I'll make un remember this the longest day o' thar blessed lives,—blarm un! Phih! I'll let un know when I get back, I warrant. I'll larn un to—"
"Hoa, coachman! hoa! my hat's off!" cried Valentine, throwing his voice to the back of the coach.
"Well,mayI be—phit!" said Tooler. "I'll make yow run for't anyhow—phit!"
In less than a minute the coach drew up opposite the stable, when the gentleman in black at once proceeded to alight. Just, however, as his foot reached the plate of the roller-bolt, another growl from Valentine frightened him backwards, when falling upon one of the old horse-keepers, he knocked him fairly down, and rolled over him heavily.
"Darng your cloomsy carkus," cried the horse-keeper, gathering himself up, "carn't you git oof ar cooarch aroat knocking o' pipple darn?"
"I-I-I beg pardon," tremblingly observed the gentleman in black; "I hope I-I—"
"Whoap! pardon!" contemptuously echoed the horse-keeper as he limped towards the bars to unhook the leaders' traces.
"Now then, yow warmint, let's see who yow belong to," said Tooler, approaching the mouth of the boot; but just as he was in the act of raising the foot-board, another angry snap made him close it again with the utmost rapidity.
"Lay down! blarm your body!" cried Tooler, shrinking back. "Here, yow Jim, kim here, bor, and take this 'ere devil of a dog out o' that."
Jim approached, and the growling was louder than before, while the gentleman in black implored Jim to take care that the animal didn't get hold of his hand.
"Here, yow Harry!" shouted Jim, "yare noot afeared o' doogs together,—darng un,Idoont like un."
Accordingly Harry came, and then Sam, and then Bob, and then Bill; but as the dog could not be seen, and as the snarling continued, neither of them dared to put his hand in to drag the monster forth. Bob therefore ran off for Tom Titus the blacksmith,who was supposed to care for nothing, and in less than two minutes Tom Titus arrived with about three feet of rod-iron red hot.
"Darng un!" cried Tom, "this ere 'll maake unquittogether!"
"Dear me! my good man," said the gentleman in black, "don't use that unchristian implement! don't put the dumb thing to such horrible torture!"
"It don't siggerfy a button," cried Tooler, "I marn't go to stop here all day. Out he must come."
Upon this Tom Titus introduced his professional weapon, and commenced poking about with considerable energy, while the snapping and growling increased with each poke.
"I'll tell you what it is," said Tom Titus, turning round and wiping the sweat off his brow with his naked arm, "this here cretur here's stark raavin' mad."
"I knew that he was," cried the gentleman in black, getting into an empty wagon which stood without horses just out of the road; "I felt perfectly sure that he was rabid."
"He 's a bull-terrier too," said Tom Titus, "I knows it by 's growl. It 's the worsest and dargdest to go maad as is."
"Well, what shall us do wi' th' warment?" said Tooler.
"Shoot him! shoot him!" cried the gentleman in black.
"O, I 've goot a blunderbus, Bob!" said Tom Titus, "yow run for 't together, it 's top o' the forge."
Bob started at once, and Tom kept on the bar, while Tooler, Sam, and Harry, and Bob held the heads of the horses.
"He 's got un; all right!" cried Tom Titus, as Bob neared the coach with the weapon on his shoulder. "Yow 'll be doon in noo time," he addedas he felt with his rod to ascertain in which corner of the boot the bull-terrier lay.
"Is she loarded?" asked Bob, as he handed Tom Titus the instrument of death.
"Mind you make the shot come out at bottom," shouted Tooler.
"I hool," said Tom Titus, putting the weapon to his shoulder. "Noo the Loord ha' marcy on yar, as joodge says sizes," and instantly let fly.
The horses of course plunged considerably, but still did no mischief; and before the smoke had evaporated, Valentine introduced into the boot a low melancholy howl, which convinced Tom Titus that the shot had taken effect.
"He 's giv oop the ghost; darng his carkus!" cried Tom, as he poked the dead body in the corner.
"Well, let 's have a look at un," said Tooler, "let 's see what the warment is like."
The gentleman in black at once leaped out of the wagon, and every one present drew near, when Tom, guided by the rod which he had kept upon the body, put his hand into the boot, and drew forth a fine hare that had been shattered by the shot all to pieces.
"He arn't a bull-terrier," cried Bob.
"But that arn't he," said Tom Titus. "He 's some'er aboot here as dead as a darng'd nail. I know he 's a corpse."
"Are you sure on 't?" asked Tooler.
"There arn't any barn door deader," cried Tom. "Here, I'll lug um out an' show yar."
"No, no!" shouted Tooler, as Tom proceeded to pull out the luggage. "I marn't stay for that. I 'm an hour behind now, blarm un! jimp up, genelmen!"
Tom Titus and his companions, who wanted the bull-terrier as a trophy, entreated Tooler to allow them to have it, and, having at length gained his consent, Tom proceeded to empty the boot. Every eyewas, of course, directed to everything drawn out, and when Tom made a solemn declaration that the boot was empty, they were all, at once, struck with amazement. Each looked at the other with astounding incredulity, and overhauled the luggage again and again.
"Do you mean to say," said Tooler, "that there arn't nuffin else in the boot?"
"Darnged a thing!" cried Tom Titus, "coom and look." And Tooler did look, and the gentleman in black looked, and Bob looked, and Harry looked, and Bill looked, and Sam looked, and all looked, but found the boot empty.
"Well, blarm me!" cried Tooler. "But darng it all, he must be somewhere!"
"I' ll taake my solum davy," said Bill, "that hewasthere."
"I seed um myself," exclaimed Bob, "wi' my oarn eyes, an' didn't loike the looks on um a bit."
"There cannot," said the gentleman in black, "be the smallest possible doubt about his having been there; but the question for our mature consideration is, where is he now?"
"I 'll bet a pint," said Harry, "you blowed um away?"
"Blowed um away, you fool!—how could I ha' blowed um away?"
"Why, hewasthere," said Bob, "and he baint there noo, and he baint here nayther, so you mus ha' blowed um out o' th' boot; 'sides, look at the muzzle o' this ere blunderbust!"
"Well, of all the rummest goes as ever happened," said Tooler, thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his pockets, "this ere flogs 'em all into nuffin!"
"It is perfectly astounding!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, looking again into the boot, whilethe men stood and stared at each other with their mouths as wide open as human mouths could be.
"Well, in wi' 'em agin," cried Tooler, "in wi' 'em!—Blarm me if this here arn't a queer un to get over."
The luggage was accordingly replaced, and Tooler, on mounting the box, told the men to get a gallon of beer, when the gentleman in black generously gave them half a crown, and the horses started off, leaving Tom with his blunderbuss, Harry, Bill, Sam, and their companions, bewildered with the mystery which the whole day spent in the alehouse by no means enabled them to solve.
Recite this in a simple unaffected manner; carefully avoiding anything likerant. At times the voice should sink tremulously low, as the good dame recalls memories of her departed children:
Recite this in a simple unaffected manner; carefully avoiding anything likerant. At times the voice should sink tremulously low, as the good dame recalls memories of her departed children:
ANold wife sat by her bright fireside,Swaying thoughtfully to and fro,In an ancient chair whose creaky frameTold a tale of long ago;While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,Stood a basket of worsted balls—a score.The old man dozed o'er the latest news,Till the light of his pipe went out,And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws,Rolled and tangled the balls about;Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,Swaying to and fro, in the firelight glare.But anon a misty tear-drop cameIn her eye of faded blue,Then trickled down in a furrow deep,Like a single drop of dew;So deep was the channel—so silent the stream—The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful lightOf her eye had weary grown,And marvelled he more at the tangled balls;So he said in a gentle tone,"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."Then she spoke of the time when the basket thereWas filled to the very brim,And how there remained of the goodly pileBut a single pair—for him."Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night."I cannot but think of the busy feet,Whose wrappings were wont to lieIn the basket, awaiting the needle's time,Now wandered so far away;How the sprightly steps to a mother dear,Unheeded fell on the careless ear."For each empty nook in the basket old,By the hearth there's a vacant seat;And I miss the shadows from off the wall,And the patter of many feet;'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sightAt the one pair of stockings to mend to-night."'Twas said that far through the forest wild,And over the mountains bold,Was a land whose rivers and darkening cavesWere gemmed with the rarest gold;Then my first-born turned from the oaken door,And I knew the shadows were only four."Another went forth on the foaming wavesAnd diminished the basket's store—But his feet grew cold—so weary and cold—They'll never be warm any more—And this nook in its emptiness, seemeth to meTo give forth no voice but the moan of the sea."Two others have gone towards the setting sun,And made them a home in its light,And fairy fingers have taken their shareTo mend by the fireside bright;Some other baskets their garments fill—But mine! Oh, mine is emptier still."Another—the dearest—the fairest—the best—Was ta'en by the angels away,And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,In a land of continual day.Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,While I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."
ANold wife sat by her bright fireside,Swaying thoughtfully to and fro,In an ancient chair whose creaky frameTold a tale of long ago;While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,Stood a basket of worsted balls—a score.
A
Nold wife sat by her bright fireside,
Swaying thoughtfully to and fro,
In an ancient chair whose creaky frame
Told a tale of long ago;
While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,
Stood a basket of worsted balls—a score.
The old man dozed o'er the latest news,Till the light of his pipe went out,And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws,Rolled and tangled the balls about;Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,Swaying to and fro, in the firelight glare.
The old man dozed o'er the latest news,
Till the light of his pipe went out,
And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws,
Rolled and tangled the balls about;
Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,
Swaying to and fro, in the firelight glare.
But anon a misty tear-drop cameIn her eye of faded blue,Then trickled down in a furrow deep,Like a single drop of dew;So deep was the channel—so silent the stream—The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.
But anon a misty tear-drop came
In her eye of faded blue,
Then trickled down in a furrow deep,
Like a single drop of dew;
So deep was the channel—so silent the stream—
The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.
Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful lightOf her eye had weary grown,And marvelled he more at the tangled balls;So he said in a gentle tone,"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."
Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful light
Of her eye had weary grown,
And marvelled he more at the tangled balls;
So he said in a gentle tone,
"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,
Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."
Then she spoke of the time when the basket thereWas filled to the very brim,And how there remained of the goodly pileBut a single pair—for him."Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
Then she spoke of the time when the basket there
Was filled to the very brim,
And how there remained of the goodly pile
But a single pair—for him.
"Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,
There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
"I cannot but think of the busy feet,Whose wrappings were wont to lieIn the basket, awaiting the needle's time,Now wandered so far away;How the sprightly steps to a mother dear,Unheeded fell on the careless ear.
"I cannot but think of the busy feet,
Whose wrappings were wont to lie
In the basket, awaiting the needle's time,
Now wandered so far away;
How the sprightly steps to a mother dear,
Unheeded fell on the careless ear.
"For each empty nook in the basket old,By the hearth there's a vacant seat;And I miss the shadows from off the wall,And the patter of many feet;'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sightAt the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
"For each empty nook in the basket old,
By the hearth there's a vacant seat;
And I miss the shadows from off the wall,
And the patter of many feet;
'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight
At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
"'Twas said that far through the forest wild,And over the mountains bold,Was a land whose rivers and darkening cavesWere gemmed with the rarest gold;Then my first-born turned from the oaken door,And I knew the shadows were only four.
"'Twas said that far through the forest wild,
And over the mountains bold,
Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves
Were gemmed with the rarest gold;
Then my first-born turned from the oaken door,
And I knew the shadows were only four.
"Another went forth on the foaming wavesAnd diminished the basket's store—But his feet grew cold—so weary and cold—They'll never be warm any more—And this nook in its emptiness, seemeth to meTo give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.
"Another went forth on the foaming waves
And diminished the basket's store—
But his feet grew cold—so weary and cold—
They'll never be warm any more—
And this nook in its emptiness, seemeth to me
To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.
"Two others have gone towards the setting sun,And made them a home in its light,And fairy fingers have taken their shareTo mend by the fireside bright;Some other baskets their garments fill—But mine! Oh, mine is emptier still.
"Two others have gone towards the setting sun,
And made them a home in its light,
And fairy fingers have taken their share
To mend by the fireside bright;
Some other baskets their garments fill—
But mine! Oh, mine is emptier still.
"Another—the dearest—the fairest—the best—Was ta'en by the angels away,And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,In a land of continual day.Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,While I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."
"Another—the dearest—the fairest—the best—
Was ta'en by the angels away,
And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,
In a land of continual day.
Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,
While I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."