MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

Bessie.No, no, Juno! some ipecac, or a stomach pump.

Juno.Pump, pump! Want de pump? I'll fetch it, I'll fetch it. Bress my soul, I'll fetch something.

Exit,L.

Mrs. G.Well, if this ain't drefful!—washing-day, too—and the undertaker's jest as busy as he can be—there never was so muchimmortalityin this place, never. Poor critters! poor critters!

Miss P.Girls, what does this mean?

Sadie.O, Miss Pease, such agony!

Bessie.O, dear, what will become of me?

Jenny.O, this dreadful parching in the throat!

Mrs. G.O, I know it, I know it. I told my husband that something dreadful was a goin' to happen when he sold that colt yesterday.

Miss P.Sadie, what is the meaning of this. Your pulse is regular, your head cool, and your tongue clear.

Sadie.O, Miss Pease, it's those dreadful pickles.

Mrs. G.Yes, indeed, it is a drefful pickle—and so sudden, jest for all the world like poor Mr. Brown's sudden took, and these always seem to end fatally at some time or other—Dear me, dear me, and my wash—

Miss P.Pickles! Have you disobeyed me?

Sadie.I couldn't help it, Miss Pease; they looked so tempting. But I only took one.

Bessie.And I only tasted that.

Jenny.I only had one good bite.

Sadie.And we are poisoned!

Bessie.O, dear! poisoned!

Jenny.Yes, poisoned!

Miss P.How, poisoned?

Sadie.Mrs. Gabble says the vinegar was poisoned by Mr. Smith.

Mrs. G.Smith—vinegar—p'isoned! The land sakes! And I a good church member—and my washing—and poor Mr. Brown, tew. Well, I never! I'd have you to know that I bought no vinegar of Mr. Smith, I made my own.

Sadie.And your pickles were not poisoned?

Mrs. G.No, indeed. Never did such a thing in my life.

Sadie.O, dear! I'm so glad! (Jumping up.)

Bessie.I won't have the ipecac. (Rises.)

Jenny.My throat is decidedly better. (Rises.)

EnterJunowith a pail of water and a dipper.

Juno.Bress my soul, de pump was fastened down so tight couldn't git it up. Here's a pail of water; if dat won't do I'll git a tub.

Miss P.No matter, Juno. I think 'twill not be needed. Young ladies, I am very sorry—

Sadie.Please, Miss Pease, do not speak of it. I alone am to blame for transgressing your command, for such we should consider it, as you are for the present our guardian. Forgive me, and in future I will endeavour to control my appetite, and comply with your wishes.

Mrs. G.Well, I declare, I don't see the harm in eating pickles. My girls eat their weight in 'em, and they're just as sweet-tempered as—

Miss P.Their mother. Mrs. Gabble, it is not a question of harm, but of obedience, here. You see, the young ladies accept me as their guardian, and I only forbid that which I think their parents would not approve.

Mrs. G.And there's my washing in the suds! Where's my Sis.

EnterSissy Gabble, l.,with a large slice of bread, covered with molasses.

Sissy.Here I ith, mother. Mith Peath thed I might have thumthin, and I like bread, and 'latheth.

Juno.Bress my soul! dat are chile jest runnin' over with sweetness, sure for sartin.

Mrs. G.Yes; and the 'lasses running all over the clothes! Come, Sissy, let's go home. I'm sorry, Miss Pease, you don't like pickles; and I'm sorry, young ladies, they disagree with you. And I'm sorry, Miss Pease, I left my washing.

Miss P.Now don't be sorry at all, Mrs. Gabble. I'm always glad to see you. Your gift was well-intended, and the young ladies have suffered no harm, perhaps received a wholesome lesson.

Sadie.I think we have. I shall be very careful what I touch.

Jenny.O, dear! such a fright! I shall never get over it.

Bessie.O, Sadie, you thought it was so nice!

Jenny.Yes, such a Precious Pickle!

Mrs. G.Of course it was. My pickles are the best made in town—precious nice, I tell you. Mrs. Doolittle always sends in for 'em when she has company; and the minister says they're awful soothing arter sermon.

Sadie.O, certainly; I've no doubt of it. But I've found thatstolenfruit is not the sweetest, and that mischievous fingers make trouble when they clutch what mine sought, andmadea Precious Pickle.

[Curtain.]

MORRIS.

After once reading this sweet little poem, the student will need no prompting to teach him that it is not possible for him to deliver it with too much genuine emotion:

THISbook is all that's left me now!Tears will unbidden start,—With faltering lip and throbbing brow,I press it to my heart.For many generations past,Here is our family tree;My mother's hand this Bible clasped;She, dying, gave it me.Ah! well do I remember thoseWhose names those records bear,Who round the hearthstone used to closeAfter the evening prayer,And speak of what these pages said,In tones my heart would thrill!Though they are with the silent dead,Here are they living still!My father read this holy bookTo brothers, sisters dear;How calm was my poor mother's look,Who learned God's word to hear.Her angel-face—I see it yet!What thronging memories come!Again that little group is metWithin the halls of home!Thou truest friend man ever knew,Thy constancy I've tried;Where all were false I found thee true,My counsellor and guide.The mines of earth no treasure giveThat could this volume buy:In teaching me the way to live,It taught me how to die.

HISbook is all that's left me now!

Tears will unbidden start,—

With faltering lip and throbbing brow,

I press it to my heart.

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hand this Bible clasped;

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember thoseWhose names those records bear,Who round the hearthstone used to closeAfter the evening prayer,And speak of what these pages said,In tones my heart would thrill!Though they are with the silent dead,Here are they living still!

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names those records bear,

Who round the hearthstone used to close

After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,

In tones my heart would thrill!

Though they are with the silent dead,

Here are they living still!

My father read this holy bookTo brothers, sisters dear;How calm was my poor mother's look,Who learned God's word to hear.Her angel-face—I see it yet!What thronging memories come!Again that little group is metWithin the halls of home!

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,

Who learned God's word to hear.

Her angel-face—I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!

Again that little group is met

Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,Thy constancy I've tried;Where all were false I found thee true,My counsellor and guide.The mines of earth no treasure giveThat could this volume buy:In teaching me the way to live,It taught me how to die.

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasure give

That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live,

It taught me how to die.

LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

IWANTsomething to do."—This remark being addressed to the world in general, no one in particular felt it his duty to reply; so I repeated it to the smaller world about me, received the following suggestions, and settled the matter by answering my own inquiry, as people are apt to do when very much in earnest.

"Write a book," quoth my father.

"Don't know enough, sir. First live, then write."

"Try teaching again," suggested my mother.

"No, thank you, ma'am; ten years of that is enough."

"Take a husband like my Darby, and fulfil your mission," said Sister Jane, home on a visit.

"Can't afford expensive luxuries, Mrs. Coobiddy."

"Turn actress, and immortalize your name," said Sister Vashti, striking an attitude.

"I won't."

"Go nurse the soldiers," said my young neighbor, Tom, panting for "the tented field."

"I will!"

Arriving at this satisfactory conclusion, the meeting adjourned; and the fact that Miss Tribulation was available as army nurse went abroad on the wings of the wind.

In a few days a townswoman heard of my desire, approved of it, and brought about an interview with one of the sisterhood I wished to join, who was at home on a furlough, and able and willing to satisfy inquiries.

A morning chat with Miss General S.—we hearno end of Mrs. Generals, why not a Miss?—produced three results: I felt that I could do the work, was offered a place, and accepted it; promising not to desert, but to stand ready to march on Washington at an hour's notice.

A few days were necessary for the letter containing my request and recommendation to reach head-quarters, and another, containing my commission, to return; therefore no time was to be lost; and, heartily thanking my pair of friends, I hurried home through the December slush, as if the Rebels were after me, and, like many another recruit, burst in upon my family with the announcement,—"I've enlisted!"

An impressive silence followed. Tom, the irrepressible, broke it with a slap on the shoulder and the grateful compliment,—"Old Trib, you're a trump!"

"Thank you; then I'lltakesomething,"—which I did, in the shape of dinner, reeling off my news at the rate of three dozen words to a mouthful; and as every one else talked equally fast, and all together, the scene was most inspiring.

As boys going to sea immediately become nautical in speech, walk as if they already had their sea-legs on, and shiver their timbers on all possible occasions, so I turned military at once, called my dinner my rations, saluted all new-comers, and ordered a dress-parade that very afternoon.

Having reviewed every rag I possessed, I detailed some pieces for picket duty while airing on the fence; some to the sanitary influences of the wash-tub; others to mount guard in the trunk; while the weak and wounded went to the Work-basket Hospital, to be made ready for active service again.

To this squad I devoted myself for a week;but all was done, and I had time to get powerfully impatient before the letter came. It did arrive, however, and brought a disappointment along withitsgood-will and friendliness; for it told me that the place in the Armory Hospital that I supposed I was to take was already filled, and a much less desirable one at Hurly-burly House was offered instead.

"That's just your luck, Trib. I'll take your trunk up garret for you again; for of course you won't go," Tom remarked, with the disdainful pity which small boys affect when they get into their teens.

I was wavering in my secret soul; but that remark settled the matter, and I crushed him on the spot with martial brevity,—"It is now one; I shall march at six."

I have a confused recollection of spending the afternoon in pervading the house like an executive whirlwind, with my family swarming after me,—all working, talking, prophesying, and lamenting while I packed such of my things as I was to take with me, tumbled the rest into two big boxes, danced on the lids till they shut, and gave them in charge, with the direction,—"If I never come back, make a bonfire of them."

Then I choked down a cup of tea, generously salted instead of sugared by some agitated relative, shouldered my knapsack,—it was only a travelling-bag, but do let me preserve the unities,—hugged my family three times all round without a vestige of unmanly emotion, till a certain dear old lady broke down upon my neck, with a despairing sort of wail,—"O my dear, my dear! how can I let you go?"

"I'll stay, if you say so, mother."

"But I don't; go, and the Lord will take care of you."

Much of the Roman matron's courage had gone into the Yankee matron's composition, and, in spite of her tears, she would have sent ten sons to the war, had she possessed them, as freely as she sent one daughter, smiling and flapping on the door-step till I vanished, though the eyes that followed me were very dim, and the handkerchief she waved was very wet.

My transit from The Gables to the village depot was a funny mixture of good wishes and good-bys, mud-puddles and shopping. A December twilight is not the most cheering time to enter upon a somewhat perilous enterprise; but I'd no thought of giving out, O, bless you, no!

When the ingine screeched "Here we are!" I clutched my escort in a fervent embrace, and skipped into the car with as blithe a farewell as if going on a bridal tour,—though I believe brides don't usually wear cavernous black bonnets and fuzzy brown coats, with a hair-brush, a pair of rubbers, two books, and a bag of gingerbread distorting the pockets.

If I thought that people would believe it, I'd boldly state that I slept from C. to B., which would simplify matters immensely; but as I know they wouldn't, I'll confess that the head under the funereal coal-hod fermented with all manner of high thoughts and heroic purposes "to do or die,"—perhaps both; and the heart under the fuzzy brown coat felt very tender with the memory of the dear old lady, probably sobbing over her army socks and the loss of her topsy-turvy Trib.

At this juncture I took the veil, and what I did behind it is nobody's business; but I maintain that the soldier who cries when his mother says"Good by" is the boy to fight best, and die bravest, when the time comes, or go back to her better than he went.

"When last seen, he was considerably intoxicated.... and was found dead in the highway."—Republican and Democrat ofMay 17.

ONLYsixteen, so the papers say,Yet there on the cold, stony ground he lay;'Tis the same sad story we hear every day—He came to his death in the public highway.Full of promise, talent, and pride,Yet the rum fiend conquered him; so he died.Did not the angels weep over the scene?For he died a drunkard—and only sixteen,Only sixteen.Oh! it were sad he must die all alone:That of all his friends, not even oneWas there to list to his last faint moan,Or point the suffering soul to the throneOf grace. If, perchance, God's only SonWould say, "Whosoever will may come."But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,With his God we leave him—only sixteen.Only sixteen.Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought:Witness the suffering and pain you have broughtTo the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,And yet you dared the vile beverage to sellThat beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned,And left him to die out there all alone.What if 'twereyourson instead of another?What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,And he only sixteen?Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grantThe license to sell, do you think you will wantThat record to meet in the last great day,When the earth and the heavens shall have passed away,When the elements, melted with fervent heat,Shall proclaim the triumph ofRightcomplete?Will you wish to have his blood on your handsWhen before the great throne you each shall stand,And he only sixteen?Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,To action and duty; into the lightCome with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum."Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;Strike killing blows; hew to the line;Make it a felony even to signA petition to license; you would do it, I ween,If that were your son, and "only sixteen,"Only sixteen.The Watchword.

NLYsixteen, so the papers say,

Yet there on the cold, stony ground he lay;

'Tis the same sad story we hear every day—

He came to his death in the public highway.

Full of promise, talent, and pride,

Yet the rum fiend conquered him; so he died.

Did not the angels weep over the scene?

For he died a drunkard—and only sixteen,

Only sixteen.

Oh! it were sad he must die all alone:That of all his friends, not even oneWas there to list to his last faint moan,Or point the suffering soul to the throneOf grace. If, perchance, God's only SonWould say, "Whosoever will may come."But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,With his God we leave him—only sixteen.Only sixteen.

Oh! it were sad he must die all alone:

That of all his friends, not even one

Was there to list to his last faint moan,

Or point the suffering soul to the throne

Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son

Would say, "Whosoever will may come."

But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,

With his God we leave him—only sixteen.

Only sixteen.

Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought:Witness the suffering and pain you have broughtTo the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,And yet you dared the vile beverage to sellThat beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned,And left him to die out there all alone.What if 'twereyourson instead of another?What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,And he only sixteen?

Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought:

Witness the suffering and pain you have brought

To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,

And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell

That beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned,

And left him to die out there all alone.

What if 'twereyourson instead of another?

What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,

And he only sixteen?

Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grantThe license to sell, do you think you will wantThat record to meet in the last great day,When the earth and the heavens shall have passed away,When the elements, melted with fervent heat,Shall proclaim the triumph ofRightcomplete?Will you wish to have his blood on your handsWhen before the great throne you each shall stand,And he only sixteen?

Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grant

The license to sell, do you think you will want

That record to meet in the last great day,

When the earth and the heavens shall have passed away,

When the elements, melted with fervent heat,

Shall proclaim the triumph ofRightcomplete?

Will you wish to have his blood on your hands

When before the great throne you each shall stand,

And he only sixteen?

Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,To action and duty; into the lightCome with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum."Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;Strike killing blows; hew to the line;Make it a felony even to signA petition to license; you would do it, I ween,If that were your son, and "only sixteen,"Only sixteen.

Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,

To action and duty; into the light

Come with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum."

Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;

Strike killing blows; hew to the line;

Make it a felony even to sign

A petition to license; you would do it, I ween,

If that were your son, and "only sixteen,"

Only sixteen.

The Watchword.

PATRICK.Well, Captain, whereabouts in the wide worldarewe? Is it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant?

Captain.Tut, you fool; it's France.

Patrick.Tare and ouns! do you tell me so? and how do you know it's France, Captain dear?

Captain.Because we were on the coast of the Bay of Biscay when the vessel was wrecked.

Patrick.Throth, I was thinkin' so myself. And now, Captain jewel, it is I that wishes we had a gridiron.

Captain.Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a gridiron into your head?

Patrick.Because I'm starving with hunger, Captain dear.

Captain.Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do you?

Patrick.Ate a gridiron; bad luck to it! no. But if we had a gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak.

Captain.Yes; but where's the beefsteak, Patrick?

Patrick.Sure, couldn't we cut it off the pork?

Captain.I never thought of that. You are a clever fellow, Patrick. (Laughing.)

Patrick.There's many a thrue word said in joke, Captain. And now, if you will go and get the bit of pork that we saved from the rack, I'll go to the house there beyant, and ax some of them to lind me the loan of a gridiron.

Captain.But, Patrick, this is France, and they are all foreigners here.

Patrick.Well, and how do you know but I am as good a furriner myself as any o' them.

Captain.What do you mean, Patrick?

Patrick.Parley voo frongsay?

Captain.O, you understand French, then, is it?

Patrick.Throth, you may say that, Captain dear.

Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the foreigners, and I'll be back with the pork in a minute.

[He goes out.

Patrick.Ay, sure enough, I'll be civil to them; for the Frinch are always mighty p'lite intirely, and I'll show them I know what goodmanners is. Indade, and here comes munseer himself, quite convaynient. (As the Frenchman enters, Patrick takes off his hat, and making a low bow, says:) God save you, sir, and all your children. I beg your pardon for the liberty I take, but it's only being in disthress in regard of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye; and if you could lind me the loan of a gridiron, I'd be intirely obleeged to ye.

Frenchman (staring at him).Comment!

Patrick.Indade it's thrue for you. I'm tathered to paces, and God knows I look quare enough; but it's by rason of the storm that dhruve us ashore jist here, and we're all starvin'.

Frenchman.Je m'y t—(pronouncedzhe meet).

Patrick.Oh! not at all! by no manes! we have plenty of mate ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you be plased jist to lind us the loan of a gridiron, sir. (Making a low bow.)

Frenchman (staring at him, but not understanding a word.)

Patrick.I beg pardon, sir; but maybe I'm undher a mistake, but I thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furriners here? Parley voo frongsay?

Frenchman.Oui, monsieur.

Patrick.Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, if you plase? (The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if anxious to understand.) I know it's a liberty I take, sir; but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away; and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay?

Frenchman.Oui, monsieur, oui.

Patrick.Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, sir and you'll obleege me?

Frenchman.Monsieur, pardon, monsieur—

Patrick. (Angrily).By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress, and if it was to owld Ireland youcame, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but something to put on it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain. Can't you understand your own language? (Very slowly.) Parley—voo—frongsay—munseer?

Frenchman.Oui, monsieur; oui, monsieur, mais—

Patrick.Then lend me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and bad scram to you.

Frenchman (bowing and scraping).Monsieur, je ne l'entend—

Patrick.Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your long tongs! I don't want a tongs at all, at all. Can't you listen to rason?

Frenchman.Oui, oui, monsieur: certainement, mais—

Patrick.Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, and howld your prate. (The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say he did not understand; but Patrick, thinking he meant it as a refusal, says, in a passion:) Bad cess to the likes o' you! Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's not that-a-way they'd use you. The curse o' the crows on you, you owld sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (The Frenchman puts his hand on his heart, and tries to express compassion in his countenance.) Well, I'll give you one chance more, you old thafe! Are you a Christhian, at all, at all? Are you a furriner that all the world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you! do you understand your mother tongue? Parley voo frongsay? (Very loud.) Parley voo frongsay?

Frenchman.Oui, monsieur, oui, oui.

Patrick.Then, thunder and turf! will you lind me the loan of a gridiron? (The Frenchman shakes his head, as if he did not understand; and Pat says, vehemently:) The curse of the hungry be on you, you owld negarly villian! the back of my hand and the sowl of my fut to you! May you want a gridironyourself yet! and wherever I go, it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to you!

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation; at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising frequently into shouts of exultation:

COME, see the good ship's anchor forged—'tis at a white heat now:The bellows ceased, the flames decreased—though on the forge's browThe little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare—Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe!It rises, roars, rends all outright—O, Vulcan, what a glow:'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright—the high sun shines not so!The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid rowOf smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foeAs, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slowSinks on the anvil—all about the faces fiery grow."Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out—leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go;Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low—A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow;The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strowThe ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flowAnd thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!Let's forge a goodly anchor—a bower thick and broad;For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road—The low reef roaring on her lee—the roll of ocean pouredFrom stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!But courage still, brave mariners—the bower yet remains!And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high;Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing—here am I."Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime.But while you sling your sledges, sing—and let the burden be,"The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:"Strike in, strike in—the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array,For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here,For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing seaman's cheer;When, weighing slow, at eve they go—far, far from love and home;And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cast was cast.O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!O, broad-armed diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play.O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understandWhose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot band!O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,Thine iron sides would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea!Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand,To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land—Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard graveSo freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave—O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

OME, see the good ship's anchor forged—'tis at a white heat now:

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased—though on the forge's brow

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,

And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare—

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe!It rises, roars, rends all outright—O, Vulcan, what a glow:'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright—the high sun shines not so!The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid rowOf smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foeAs, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slowSinks on the anvil—all about the faces fiery grow.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe!

It rises, roars, rends all outright—O, Vulcan, what a glow:

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright—the high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;

The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slow

Sinks on the anvil—all about the faces fiery grow.

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out—leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go;Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low—A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow;The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strowThe ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flowAnd thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out—leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go;

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low—

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow;

The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow

The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow

And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!Let's forge a goodly anchor—a bower thick and broad;For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road—The low reef roaring on her lee—the roll of ocean pouredFrom stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!But courage still, brave mariners—the bower yet remains!And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high;Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing—here am I."

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor—a bower thick and broad;

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road—

The low reef roaring on her lee—the roll of ocean poured

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!

But courage still, brave mariners—the bower yet remains!

And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high;

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing—here am I."

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime.But while you sling your sledges, sing—and let the burden be,"The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:"Strike in, strike in—the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;

Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime.

But while you sling your sledges, sing—and let the burden be,

"The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:"

Strike in, strike in—the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;

Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.

Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array,For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here,For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing seaman's cheer;When, weighing slow, at eve they go—far, far from love and home;And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array,

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;

Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here,

For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing seaman's cheer;

When, weighing slow, at eve they go—far, far from love and home;

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cast was cast.O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cast was cast.

O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

O, broad-armed diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play.O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understandWhose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot band!O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,Thine iron sides would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea!

O, broad-armed diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?

The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;

And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,

Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play.

O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand

Whose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot band!

O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,

Thine iron sides would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea!

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand,To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land—Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard graveSo freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave—O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand,

To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land—

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave—

O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,

Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

ONEof the many popular delusions wespecting the Bwitish swell is the supposition that he leads an independent life,—goes to bed when he likes, gets up when he likes, d-dwesses how he likes, and dines when he pleases.

The public are gwossly deceived on this point. A weal swell is as m-much under authowity as a p-poor devil of a pwivate in the marines, a clerk in a government office, or a f-forth-form boy at Eton. Now I come under the demon—demonima—(no,—thop,—what is the word?)—dom—denom—d-denomination, that 'th it—I come under the d-denomination of a swell—(in—in fact—ahowwidswell—some of my friends call me, butthat'thonly their flattewy), and I assure you a f-fellah in that capacity is so much westained by rules of f-fashion, that he can scarcely call his eyeglath his own. A swell, I take it, is a fellah who t-takes care that he swells as well as swells who swell as well as he, (there's thuch lot of thwelling in that thentence,—ha, ha!—it's what you might c-call a busting definition). What I mean is, that a f-fellah is obliged to do certain things at certain times of the year, whether he likes 'em or no. For instance, in the season I've got to go to a lot of balls and dwums and tea-fights in town, that I don't care a bit about, and show myself in the Park wegularly evewy afternoon; and latht month I had to victimize mythelf down in the countwy,—shooting (a bwutal sort of amusement, by the way). Well, about the end of October evewy one goes to Bwighton, n-no one knowth why,—that'th the betht of it,—and so I had to go too,—that's the wortht of it,—ha, ha!

Not that it's such a b-bad place after all,—I d-daresay if I hadn'thadto go I should have gone all the same, for what is a f-fellah to do who ith n't much of a sportsman just about this time? There 'th n-nothing particular going on in London. Evewything is b-beathly dull; so I thought I would just run down on the Southeastern Wailway to be—ha, ha!—Bwightoned up a bit. (Come, th-that's not bad for an impromptu!)

B-Bwighton was invented in the year 1784, by his Woyal Highness George P-Pwince of Wales,—the author of the shoebuckle, the stand-up collar (a b-beathly inconvenient and cut-throat thort of a machine), and a lot of other exthploded things. He built the Pavilion down there, which looks like a lot of petrified onions from Bwobdinag clapped down upon a guard-house. There'th a jolly sort of garden attached to the building, in which the b-band plays twice a week, and evewy one turns in there about four o'clock, so I went too (n-nottooo'clock, you know, but f-four o'clock). I—I'm vewy fond of m-martial music, mythelf. I like the dwums and the t-twombones, and the ophicleides, and all those sort of inshtwuments,—yeth, ethpethelly the bwass ones,—they're so vewy exthpiring, they are. Thtop though, ith it expiring orp-perthpiring?—n-neither of 'em sound quite right. Oh! I have it now, it—it'sinthspiring,—that'th what it is, because the f-fellahsbweathe into them!

That weminds me of a widdle I made down there (I—I've taken to widdles lately, and weally it'th a vewy harmleth thort of a way of getting thwough the morning, and it amuthes two f-fellahs at onth, because if—if you athk a fellah a widdle, and he can't guess it, you can have a jolly good laugh athim, and—if he—if hedothguess it, he—I mean you—no—that is the widdle—stop, I—I'm getting confuthed,—where wath I? Oh! I know. If—if hedothguess it.... however it ithn't vewy likely he would—so what's the good of thupposing impwobabilities?) Well, thith was the widdle I made,—I thed to Sloper (Sloper's a fwiend of mine,—a vewy gook thort of fellah Sloper is,—I d-don't know exactly what his pwofession would be called, but hith uncle got him into a b-berth where he gets f-five hundred a year,—f-for doing nothing—s-somewhere—I forget where—but I—I know he does it),—I said to Sloper, "Why is that f-fellah with the b-bassooon l-like his own instrument?" and Sloper said, "How—how the dooth should I know?" (Ha, ha!—I thought he'd give it up!) So I said to Sloper, "Why, b-because they both getblown—intime!"Youthee the joke, of course, but I don't think Sloper did, thomhow; all he thed was, "V-vewy mild, Dundreary,"—and t-tho—it was mild—thertainly,f-for October, but I d-don't thee why a f-fellah should go making wemarks about the weather instead of laughing at m-my widdle.

In this pwomenade that I was speaking of, you see such a lot of thtunning girls evewy afternoon,—dwessed twemendous swells, and looking like—yes, by Jove! l-like angels in cwinoline,—there 'th no other word for it. There are two or thwee alwayswilll-laugh, somehow, when I meet them,—they do nowweally. I—I almost fancy they wegard me with intewest. I mutht athk Sloper if he can get me an introduction. Who knowth? pwaps I might make an impwession,—I'll twy,—I—I've got a little converthathional power,—andtheveralnew wethcoats.

Bwighton is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day on horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I—I muthn't forget to mention that I met those two girls that always laugh when they thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em—the young one—told me, when I was intwoduced to her,—in—in confidence, mind,—that she had often heardof me and of mywiddles. Tho you thee I'm getting quite a weputathun that way. The other morning, at Mutton's, she wath ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing in widdles. Now, I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I couldn't give her anyvewygreat novelty, but a fwiend of mine made one latht theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her, When ith a jar not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith widdle she burtht out laughing behind her pocket-handkerchief!

"Good gwacious! what'th the matter?" said I. "Have you ever heard it before?"

"Never," she said emphatically, "in that form; do,pleasetell me the answer."

So I told her,—When it ith a door! Upon which she—she went off again in hystewics. I—I—I neverdidsee such a girl for laughing. I know it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an effect asthat.

By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thoughthehad heard the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He said it was: When ith a door not a door?—and the answer, When it ith ajar!

I—I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay it—d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still—pwaps the last f-form is the betht. It—it seems to me toweadbetter. What do you think?

Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New—Newfoundland dog, and he inthpired me—the dog, you know, not the fellah,—he wath a lunatic. I'm keeping the widdle, but I don't mind tellingyou.

Why does a dog waggle hith tail? Give it up? I think motht fellahs will give that up!

You thee, the dog waggles hith tail becauth the dog's stwonger than the tail. If he wath n't, the tail would waggle the dog!

Ye-th,—that 'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I thall athtonish those two girls thome of these days.

T. WESTWOOD.

ALITTLEchild,A little meek-faced,quietvillage child,Sat singing by her cottage door at eveA low, sweet sabbath song. No human earCaught the faint melody,—no human eyeBeheld the upturned aspect, or the smileThat wreathed her innocent lips while they breathedThe oft-repeated burden of the hymn,"Praise God! Praise God!"A seraph by the throneIn full glory stood. With eager handHe smote the golden harp-string, till a floodOf harmony on the celestial airWelled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice,He sang the "Holy, holy evermore,Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courtsThrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burnedWith vehement adoration.Higher yetRose the majestic anthem, without pause,Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,To its full strength; and still the infinite heavensRang with the "Holy, holy evermore!"Till, trembling with excessive awe and love,Each sceptred spirit sank before the ThroneWith a mute hallelujah.But even then,While the ecstatic song was at its height,Stole in an alien voice,—a voice that seemedTo float, float upward from some world afar,—A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet!That blended with the spirits' rushing strain,Even as a fountain's music, with the rollOf the reverberate thunder.Loving smilesLit up the beauty of each angel's faceAt that new utterance, smiles of joy that grewMore joyous yet, as ever and anonWas heard the simple burden of the hymn,"Praise God! praise God!"And when the seraph's songHad reached its close, and o'er the golden lyreSilence hung brooding,—when the eternal courtsRang with the echoes of his chant sublime,Still through the abysmal space that wandering voiceCame floating upward from its world afar,Still murmured sweet on the celestial air,"Praise God! praise God!"

LITTLEchild,

A little meek-faced,quietvillage child,

Sat singing by her cottage door at eve

A low, sweet sabbath song. No human ear

Caught the faint melody,—no human eye

Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile

That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed

The oft-repeated burden of the hymn,

"Praise God! Praise God!"

A seraph by the throneIn full glory stood. With eager handHe smote the golden harp-string, till a floodOf harmony on the celestial airWelled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice,He sang the "Holy, holy evermore,Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courtsThrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burnedWith vehement adoration.

A seraph by the throne

In full glory stood. With eager hand

He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood

Of harmony on the celestial air

Welled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice,

He sang the "Holy, holy evermore,

Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts

Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,

Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned

With vehement adoration.

Higher yetRose the majestic anthem, without pause,Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,To its full strength; and still the infinite heavensRang with the "Holy, holy evermore!"Till, trembling with excessive awe and love,Each sceptred spirit sank before the ThroneWith a mute hallelujah.

Higher yet

Rose the majestic anthem, without pause,

Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,

To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens

Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!"

Till, trembling with excessive awe and love,

Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne

With a mute hallelujah.

But even then,While the ecstatic song was at its height,Stole in an alien voice,—a voice that seemedTo float, float upward from some world afar,—A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet!That blended with the spirits' rushing strain,Even as a fountain's music, with the rollOf the reverberate thunder.

But even then,

While the ecstatic song was at its height,

Stole in an alien voice,—a voice that seemed

To float, float upward from some world afar,—

A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet!

That blended with the spirits' rushing strain,

Even as a fountain's music, with the roll

Of the reverberate thunder.

Loving smilesLit up the beauty of each angel's faceAt that new utterance, smiles of joy that grewMore joyous yet, as ever and anonWas heard the simple burden of the hymn,"Praise God! praise God!"

Loving smiles

Lit up the beauty of each angel's face

At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew

More joyous yet, as ever and anon

Was heard the simple burden of the hymn,

"Praise God! praise God!"

And when the seraph's songHad reached its close, and o'er the golden lyreSilence hung brooding,—when the eternal courtsRang with the echoes of his chant sublime,Still through the abysmal space that wandering voiceCame floating upward from its world afar,Still murmured sweet on the celestial air,"Praise God! praise God!"

And when the seraph's song

Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre

Silence hung brooding,—when the eternal courts

Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime,

Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice

Came floating upward from its world afar,

Still murmured sweet on the celestial air,

"Praise God! praise God!"

IFOUNDmy friend in his easy chair,With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care;The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips,His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse;His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose,And his chair tilted back to a classical pose.I marvelled much such contentment to see—The secret whereof I begged he'd give me.He puffed away with re-animate zest,As though with an added jollity blest."I'll tell you, my friend," said he, in a pause,"What is the very 'identical' cause."Don't fret!—Let this be the first rule of your life;—Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife;Let everything happen as happen it may,Be cool as a cucumber every day;If favourite of fortune or a thing of its spite,Keep calm, and believe that all is just right."If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home,Just make up your mind to let it all come:If people revile you or pile on offence,'Twill not make any odds a century hence.For all the reviling that malice can fling,A little philosophy softens the sting."Run never in debt, but pay as you go;A man free from debt feels a heaven below;He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun,And ranks 'mid the favoured as A No. 1.It needs a great effort the spirit to brace'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face."And this one resolve you should cherish like gold,—It has ever my life and endeavour controlled,—If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst,And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst,Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent,That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent."There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone,Though its depth was hard to fathom I own;"For how can I fail," I said to myself,"If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?"Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light,But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right;And herein give out, as my earnest intent,Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.

FOUNDmy friend in his easy chair,

With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care;

The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips,

His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse;

His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose,

And his chair tilted back to a classical pose.

I marvelled much such contentment to see—The secret whereof I begged he'd give me.He puffed away with re-animate zest,As though with an added jollity blest."I'll tell you, my friend," said he, in a pause,"What is the very 'identical' cause.

I marvelled much such contentment to see—

The secret whereof I begged he'd give me.

He puffed away with re-animate zest,

As though with an added jollity blest.

"I'll tell you, my friend," said he, in a pause,

"What is the very 'identical' cause.

"Don't fret!—Let this be the first rule of your life;—Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife;Let everything happen as happen it may,Be cool as a cucumber every day;If favourite of fortune or a thing of its spite,Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.

"Don't fret!—Let this be the first rule of your life;—

Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife;

Let everything happen as happen it may,

Be cool as a cucumber every day;

If favourite of fortune or a thing of its spite,

Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.

"If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home,Just make up your mind to let it all come:If people revile you or pile on offence,'Twill not make any odds a century hence.For all the reviling that malice can fling,A little philosophy softens the sting.

"If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home,

Just make up your mind to let it all come:

If people revile you or pile on offence,

'Twill not make any odds a century hence.

For all the reviling that malice can fling,

A little philosophy softens the sting.

"Run never in debt, but pay as you go;A man free from debt feels a heaven below;He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun,And ranks 'mid the favoured as A No. 1.It needs a great effort the spirit to brace'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.

"Run never in debt, but pay as you go;

A man free from debt feels a heaven below;

He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun,

And ranks 'mid the favoured as A No. 1.

It needs a great effort the spirit to brace

'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.

"And this one resolve you should cherish like gold,—It has ever my life and endeavour controlled,—If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst,And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst,Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent,That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent."

"And this one resolve you should cherish like gold,

—It has ever my life and endeavour controlled,—

If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst,

And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst,

Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent,

That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent."

There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone,Though its depth was hard to fathom I own;"For how can I fail," I said to myself,"If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?"Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light,But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right;And herein give out, as my earnest intent,Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.

There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone,

Though its depth was hard to fathom I own;

"For how can I fail," I said to myself,

"If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?"

Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light,

But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right;

And herein give out, as my earnest intent,

Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.

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