“Hush thy babble, O fountain! Let me listen, let me listen!”

THE SPEAKER’S

Ideal Entertainments;

FOR

Home, Church and School.

CONSISTING OF

Recitals, Dialogues and Dramas.

WRITTEN AND EDITED BY

GEORGE M. VICKERS.

With Annotations, Hints upon Gesture
and Dramatic Poses, by

FRANCES E. PEIRCE,

PRINCIPAL OF MT. VERNON INSTITUTE
OF ELOCUTION AND LANGUAGES, PHILADELPHIA.

S. I. BELL & CO.

PHILADELPHIA AND CHICAGO.

Copyright, 1892, by S. I. Bell.

INTRODUCTION.

In preparing this work for the public it has been our aim to choose the very best, and every selection has been made with a special view to elocutionary merits. The “Speakers’ Ideal” is composed of carefully selected pieces from the writings of well known authors, and as a source of supply to the giver of dramatic entertainments, from which they may obtain at once a suitable subject for declamation, recital, dialogue and drama, this volume is without a peer.

The work contains many new pieces not found in any other book, and we have been able to secure a number of selections in the original manuscript, which are here published for the first time. Most of the recitations are accompanied by Annotations for Gesture, by which the amateur, as well as the elocutionist, may be guided in the necessary action, and by a method so extremely simple that the novice who has never had the privilege of instructions in the art of elocution will be enabled to give that indispensable accompaniment, without which, there can be neither natural, oratorical, nor dramatical delivery. This important feature has been carefully prepared by one who stands at the head of the profession as an instructor of elocution, and is found in no other “Speaker.”

Another of the chief characteristics of this work is the large number of full-page and exquisitely engraved half-toned plates, which have been taken from life and produced at large expense expressly for this book. The “Speakers’ Ideal” contains every characteristic of a complete book of elocution, and is, strictly speaking, the only “Speaker” ever published.

The unprecedented success that has attended the sale of the first editions, is proof that our hope to supply a long-felt want has been fully realized, and it is with entire confidence in its merits that we present this work to the public.

THE PUBLISHERS.

NOTATION OF GESTURE.

As a tree without leaves, so is recitation without gesture; but the most beautiful pieces are sometimes marred and burlesqued by awkward or inappropriate action. Our object, therefore, in presenting our system of notation is not to teach gesture—for that can only be acquired from a teacher—but to guide the reciter in a general way.

Gestures are divided, 1st, into front, oblique, lateral and backward; and 2d, into descending, horizontal and ascending; for instance, if the hand is thrown to the front, it must take a position on a level with the shoulder, or above, or below, which three divisions constitute the positions last named. The same applies to the oblique, which lies anywhere between the front and the lateral; to the lateral, which, as its name indicates, lies to the side; and to the backward. These positions are designated by the following letters: D. F., descending front; D. O., descending oblique; D. L., descending lateral; D. B., descending backward; H. F., horizontal front; H. O., horizontal oblique; H. L., horizontal lateral; H. B., horizontal backward; A. F., ascending front; A. O., ascending oblique; A. L., ascending lateral; A. B., ascending backward. b placed before the above combinations indicates that both hands are used. When not mentioned to the contrary, the supine hand, palm upwards, is used. P. represents prone hand, or palm downward; V. vertical, or palm outward; Ind., index finger as in pointing. This must be carefully distinguished from P. Ind., which means Prone Index or the back of the hand upward, and finger pointing. Cl., expresses clinched hand or fist. Par. expresses both arms parallel towards right or left. If a gesture is illustrative and cannot be expressed by any of the above letters, it will be called special and designated by Sp. All gestures of a bold, descriptive, or emphatic character should be made from the shoulder, whilst unimportant or conversational gestures proceed from the elbow. Good taste dictates that a few gestures, properly made, are preferable to a large number crudely constructed.

Let your gestures be so modulated, and so accord with the sentiment, that they may seem a part of a perfect whole.

FRANCES L. PEIRCE.

The Gallant Fifty-First.

Then came the memorable order from Burnside, which must have thrilled every member of the regiment: “Tell Sturgis to send the Fifty-first Pennsylvania to take the bridge.”

Along the valley’s narrow gorge

The morning mist outspread,

While rifle-pit and breast-work strong

Frowned grimly overhead.

The sluggish stream that only served

To slake the thirst of kine,

Was soon to see a drearier sight

With men drawn up in line.

Along the crest a flash of fire

Breaks red against the sky,

Along the hillside’s narrow slope

Comes back the quick reply.

Ferraro dashes up in haste,

His countenance aflame,

“The Fifty-first must storm the bridge,”

’Twas thus the order came.

“Fix bayonets!” over Hartranft’s face

A strange smile sent its beam;

The red blood flushed, his dusky cheek—

His dark eyes all agleam.

Sturgis and Cook in vain essayed,

And others yet may try,

But now the gallant Fifty-first

Must storm the bridge or die.

Bright flashed the sword their leader drew—

“Charge!” Like a simoon’s blast,

The Fifty-first, mid shot and shell,

Dashed on—the bridge is passed;

The beaten foe in wild retreat

Is flying o’er the bridge,

Huzza! huzza! The Fifty-first

Has stormed Antietam’s bridge!

Oh, men of Pennsylvania,

Along your bloody route

Lies many a comrade, dull of ear,

Who may not have heard you shout;

But o’er your country’s wide domain

A pæan grand shall burst;

A nation’s accolade be thine—

O gallant Fifty-first!

The Dead Letter.

There, now! I’ve read your letter through

Three times; I’ll read it once again

If you say so; it rests with you.[2]

What? loan you paper, ink and pen?

Why, man you’re weaker than a child.

To-morrow I will gladly write

Whate’er you wish. Be reconciled,[3]

Compose yourself and rest to-night.

You think we nuns are good to tend

The sick, to count our beads, and pray,

But that we do not comprehend

How worldly people dread delay

In getting word from those they love:

Why, sir, you know not what you say—

Ah! this dark robe too well doth prove

The sorrow of that by-gone[4] day—

No, no; I fully understand

What you would say. There’s no offence;

Naught to forgive. There take[5] my hand.

We now are friends. In confidence

The story of a broken life,

Before the doctor comes, I’ll tell:

Of how I shunned[6] the cold world’s strife

And sought a quiet convent cell.

Far back[7] in life I loved a man,

A gen’rous, noble heart and true:

And he loved me as only can,

As only gallant natures do.

Our days passed by so quietly,

Love’s dream so rosy-hued had grown

That seasons glided by[8] ere we

Would note that e’en a month had flown.

Thus ran my girlhood and his youth,

Till came the naming of the happy day—

Our wedding day—that would in truth

Have made us man and wife for aye,

When, like a blow from one we love,

There came an unexpected woe;

In vain ’gainst[9] fate we madly strove;

Each cherished hope lay scattered[10] low.

A crime had been committed in

The village where lived he and I;

And ’mid the first wild, senseless din

That marked the people’s hue and cry,

Suspicion on him[11] fell, and so,

To ’scape the frenzied, ‘vengeful mob,

He, innocent, resolved to go

Away[12]—and I to stay and sob.

Then, bending low, said he, “This thing

Will only for a season last,

A moment full relief may bring;

At most our grief will soon be past;

But, darling, should it not be so,

Write” (he whispered a fictitious name),

“And I will by your letter know

That in your eyes I bear no shame.”

The rain fell from a dark’ning sky,[13]

The apple blossoms scattered[14] lay,

The chill wind moaned, and night drew nigh,

As with a sigh he turned away[15]—

I watched[16] his form till lost in gloom,

And, save the dripping of the rain,[17]

There fell a stillness[18] of the tomb—

A lull that seemed to daze my brain.[19]

The morning after that sad night

The guilty one was found; and I,

With woman’s haste, sat down to write,

And wrote in joyous ecstasy;

The letter mailed, each moment seemed

An age; but days and weeks passed by—

With visions dread my fancy teemed—

But came he not, nor made reply.

One day, when hope had almost fled,

The post-man thrust it in my hand:

“This is from Washington,”[20] he said,

“Dead-letter office, understand?”

With throbbing heart I broke the seal,

My face grew whiter than a sheet,

The dreadful blunder made me reel

And drop[21] the letter at my feet.

Instead of the fictitious name

He gave, it bore his own,

Which knowing not, he could not claim—

To him my lines were never known—

In loneliness he died: and here

I nurse the sick; but I have done—

And, sir[22] no longer have a fear

To trust me, though I’m but a nun.

You’ve heard a portion of my tale

Before? From whom? Oh, tell[23] me quick!

From my lost love? You both set sail

In the same ship? My heart[24] grows sick—

What? Still alive?[25] Oh, God be praised!

Oh, joy![26] Oh, joy! And I will write?

Now that my dead to life is raised—

Will I? Yes, now—this very night.

—Geo. M. Vickers.

[Gestures.]

“Nathan said unto David, ‘Thou art the man.’”

PA.

I’ve got one of the best Pa’s in this world. Pa is very fond of me, too; in fact, no one ever comes to our house when Pa’s home that he don’t commence to praise me before he even asks the guest to be seated. Pa’s not rich, so we often have to make both ends meet by resorting to novel expedients; and even then, the ends don’t stay together worth speaking of. Pa’s memory is none of the best; poor, dear man, I’ve known him to eat two soft-boiled eggs while trying to determine whether or not he had seasoned them. The other day Pa brought young Judson, the lawyer, home to dinner; we had codfish and potatoes with warmed-up coffee from breakfast. Ma almost fainted. Judson said he doted on cod-fish—but then he is a lawyer—Ma trod on my foot—said she in a whisper, “Tell your father not to ask him to have more coffee.” Pa caught the word coffee. “Why, yes,” yelled out Pa, “Judson, my boy, pass over your cup!” I never felt so mortified in my life; there wasn’t a single drop in the pot!

“You must pardon us,” stammered Ma. “Never mind excuses,” interrupted Pa, “Pour out the nectar, Matilda—why—why—”

“Yes, why,”—mother’s face was scarlet—“it is why—why have you not had the hole in the bottom of this pot mended? the coffee’s all leaked out.” Poor ma! how I pitied her.

Last night the Higgins girls called to know if we liked the style of their new silk dresses—such stuck-up mortals I never saw—their father used to mend Pa’s boots—owes his fortune to a judicious use of chalk and an old pump—and styles himself a retired milk dealer. Pa happened to be in the parlor when the Higgins girls floated in. “Hannah,” said Pa, “go upstairs and get the silk dress you’ve just finished.” “Why Pa, how you do talk,” said I, my heart almost ceasing to beat. “Don’t be so modest, Hannah,” he continued, “show the young ladies how handy you are.” “Oh, Pa!” I cried, trying to get his mind off the dress, “did you ever see such beautiful bonnets?” The fates were against me. “Ladies,” said Pa, “that girl is worth her weight in gold; she’s just finished trimming over a last season’s hat, and has just made the handsomest dress out of her Ma’s old silk frock that ever a human eye rested on!” The Higgins girls giggled, and I—I could have sunk through the floor.

One day Pa said he would take us to a matinee. It was on a Monday, but Ma said she’d put off the washing, although the washerwoman declared she’d never put up with such tomfoolery again. Pa came home later than usual, and almost hurried us to death. At last we arrived at the theatre, streaming with perspiration. A grand opera was to be given, and the entrance was crowded. Pa began searching for his tickets. He first dove into one pocket, then into another; meantime we were elbowed and jostled by the throng. “Strange,” groaned Pa, “I put them in my vest pocket.” Just at that moment Judson and his two sisters alighted from a hack. Pa turned white as chalk, then red as a canned lobster. “Come, quick,” he gasped, “this way.” We followed him to the corner. “What’s the matter, dearie?” asked Ma. “Why,” groaned Pa, “Judson’s got my tickets. I gave them to him last night, but forgot all about it until he just now jumped out

of the hack.” So we lost that opera and a good washerwoman, too. Still, Pa’s awful nice.

—Geo. M. Vickers.

Dying to Win.

Fierce blows the gale and cold,

Loudly the windows[27] rattle;

Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.

Hark![28] ’Twas a bell that tolled—

There, again! must I battle

Through another dreadful winter night?

Better by far to die.

Who[29] in this mighty city

Wastes a thought on such a wretched life?

Who heeds my weary sigh?

Who sheds a tear in pity?

All alone I wage[30] the bitter strife.

Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]

Gay sound the reckless voices;

And how tempting warm the red grate glows!

No![32] rather perish here—

Ah, no—my soul rejoices,[33]

For I triumph spite of all my woes.

Now, that I’ve made my vow,

Who[34] comes to help me keep it?

Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?

Ripe is the harvest now,

Yet comes there none to reap it.

Not a cent![35] no home; no crust of bread.

Fie,[36] upon hearts so cold!

Not one will deign to aid me;

And my own sex turn[37] me off with scorn;

Sneer at me; call me bold;

Taunt me, and then upbraid me—

O, my God,[38] how can I wait till morn?

Mother, is that you[39] there?

Surely,[40] I must be dreaming—

Do not leave me, mother;[41] take me home!

Oh, how keen[42] bites the air!

Yonder[43] the dawn is gleaming.

It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44] come!

Sleepy, indeed, am I—

Wait till I kneel[45] down, mother—

Now[46] I lay me down to sleep—keep off—[47]

Help! help! help! I shall die—

Give me some air—I smother!

I am saved![48] Now let the cold world scoff.

*  *  *  *  *

Fierce blows the gale and cold,

Loudly the windows[49] rattle,

And the stars are paling[50] out with fright:

Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:

Done is the hard-fought battle—

And a weary soul has said good-night.

—Geo. M. Vickers.

[Gestures.]

LITTLE BROWN EYES.

Many years ago there lived in a tiny cottage, a widow and her two children, Frank and Edith. The cottage stood by the roadside, not far from a village, and was almost hidden from view by the pretty roses and vines that clung to its sides.

One warm summer afternoon, when Frank was away to the village with his donkey and cart, and the widow was busy sewing in the back part of the cottage, little Edith, who had been weaving a wreath of flowers, lay fast asleep on the front porch, shaded from the rays of the sun by the arbor that covered the door. She lay there with her long golden hair partly hiding her pretty face, with the unfinished wreath still held in her hands, and her little straw hat filled with buds and sprays, upset at her side.

Now, the road that passed the cottage was much used by travelers, as it led in both directions to large cities; but on this particular afternoon not a human being, nor an animal, nor a vehicle of any sort could be seen on its white, gleaming surface; and save the drone of a passing bee, or an occasional chirp from a cricket under the porch, not a sound broke the deep stillness. Even the birds seemed to be dozing, so nap-inspiring was that sultry summer afternoon.

An hour later and Edith was still sleeping, when the distant rumble of wheels could be heard. They were yet a long way down the road, although from their peculiar rattle it was evident they belonged to a light wagon—perhaps some farmer returning from market. Presently a cloud of white dust rose above the trees and indicated the point reached by the wagon, but the latter could not yet be seen from the cottage on account of the intervening foliage that skirted the roadside. A few moments later an odd-looking, top-heavy vehicle,

drawn by two lank horses, emerged into view. Behind the wagon, mounted on a mule, rode a dark-visaged man.

When the wagon arrived in front of the house it stopped, and the man on the mule advanced to the garden fence, dismounted, and threw his reins over the gate post. He then opened the gate, and was about to pass to the rear of the cottage when he spied little Edith. The slanting sunbeams had crept so close to her face that it was only a question of a few moments when the bright glare would end her sleep.

The man paused and glanced cautiously about him; then, taking another look at Edith, he stealthily moved on until he reached the back part of the house. The widow sat in a large arm-chair near the kitchen door, which was open. In her lap lay an old garment that she had been mending; the cool breeze that came through the door from the front of the house blew the pendant honey-suckle against her cheek, but she heeded it not, for she, too, like little Edith, had succumbed to the influence of the sleepy afternoon.

The dark-visaged man no sooner took in the situation than he quickly, but quietly, returned to the wagon and said some strange words to a big, stupid-looking fellow who was perched on the front seat of the odd-shaped vehicle, and from whose hands dangled the lines of the lank horses. The fellow stood up, and shading his eyes with his huge, brawny hand, peered toward the house: then fastening his lines to a hook in the wagon bow, he jumped lightly to the ground and followed his companion to where little Edith lay sleeping.

In the back portion of the wagon sat two persons; one was an old woman with a swarthy, wrinkled face, and the other was a beautiful little girl about ten years of age. Her hair was not black as was that of the old woman, it was of a rich chestnut hue, and her complexion, although darkened by the sun, was extremely fair; but her eyes! oh, they were the rarest of

brown eyes! and as she turned them inquiringly towards the old crone, they seemed like pansies wet with dew; so velvety, so liquid. Without saying a word, she let her long silken lashes drop until her lovely eyes were fixed upon the blankets that lay at her feet. The old woman was restless and looked through the curtain windows towards the cottage.

Mean while the men had reached the porch. Their movements were noiseless and cat-like. The dark-visaged man drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and the stupid looking fellow held a stout cord in his right hand. In an instant they gagged and bound little Edith and rapidly bore her to the rear of the wagon, when, opening the leather door, they handed her struggling form to the old crone, who stood ready to receive her. Quickly shutting the wagon door, the stupid-looking fellow mounted his seat, the dark-visaged man leaped upon the back of his mule, and in a twinkling the gypsies had disappeared behind a bend in the road.

As soon as the little girl with brown eyes saw the men bring Edith to the wagon she trembled and began to weep. The old crone shook her finger at her and bade her to have a care what she did. Then turning to Edith she said, “I will remove the gag from your mouth if you promise not to make any noise.” Edith, who was almost frightened to death, nodded her head whereupon the old crone untied the handkerchief not from kindness, but fear that the child would suffocate. Poor Edith sobbed as though her heart would break, and more than once looked appealingly at the brown-eyed girl. The latter, whenever the crone turned her head, glanced at Edith and tried in every possible way to mutely assure her of her sympathy and friendship.

The gypsies drove very fast for several miles, when they suddenly left the main road and turned into a narrow lane that led through a dense forest. The horses were then allowed to

slacken their speed. After an hour’s drive the party came upon a gypsy encampment in an open space. The forest trees formed a semi-circle about the sides and rear of the camp while the front was somewhat protected from view by the wagons, which were ranged on a line with the lane.

The lank horses neighed as they entered the clearing, and in a moment the wagon was surrounded by a swarm of tawny-skinned people, men, women and children. Without speaking a word to any one, save the crone, the dark-visaged man led Edith and the brown-eyed little girl to a tent which they entered. “Now,” said he, for the first time speaking to Edith, “if you are a good girl, you will be treated well, but if you are a cross and troublesome, look out! And you, Little Brown Eyes,” he: continued, “see that your mate eats her supper when it comes. That’s all.” He then left them.

Edith advanced to the little girl and was about to speak, when the latter raised her finger, shook her head, and pointed to the door. Edith looked in the direction indicated, and saw the old crone seated without, just in the act of lighting her pipe. “You can talk, but speak low; old Myra will try to hear what we say,” and the little brown-eyed girl kissed Edith on the forehead.

“Oh, I am so dreadfully frightened,” whispered Edith, “will they never take me home again?” “I cannot tell,” replied the child. “I, too, was taken from my home, a long, long time ago; but Myra and Ike—that was Ike who came with us to the tent—say they will take me home some day. My name is Mary, yet they call me Little Brown Eyes; maybe they’ll call you Little Blue Eyes.”

This conversation was cut short by the entrance of a gypsy boy, who brought two tin plates of chicken stew, some bread and a big bowl of milk. He said nothing, merely placing their supper on the ground, when he walked out again without so

much as looking at them. Little Brown Eyes sat on one end of an empty sack and motioned Edith to sit on the other end; which she did.

She little girls, in spite of their low spirits, could not resist the savory smell of the stew, for they were very hungry, and in a short time nothing remained of what the gypsy boy brought them except the empty bowls and the two tin plates. All at once there was a great noise in the camp. The tramping of horses’ feet could be heard, and the voices of men shouting; what could it mean? The little girls looked at one another in utter wonderment. “Let us peep out,” said Little Brown Eyes, and raising one corner of the canvas they looked out. Everything was in confusion. A body of horsemen were pulling down the tents, some of the gypsies were fleeing to the woods, while others were opposing the horsemen with all their might. Just then the dark-visaged man and Myra entered the tent. “Come, quick,” yelled the man, “this way,” and taking hold of each little girl, he pulled them to the door. Edith uttered a scream. Immediately the horsemen galloped toward them. “My papa! my papa!” cried Little Brown Eyes. A fine looking gentleman leaped from his horse, and in a moment his daughter was clasped in his arms. “Take these people prisoners,” said he, “they shall pay dearly for kidnapping my daughter. Who is this?” he continued, looking at Edith. “This, papa, is a little girl Ike stole to-day, as she lay asleep on her front porch.” “Poor child, we must return her to her parents,” spoke Little Brown Eyes’ papa; “come, we will go away from here at once.” So the little girls were led away to the lane where stood waiting a splendid carriage. “Oh, see! there comes brother Frank in his donkey-cart,” and clapping her hands with joy, Edith pointed down the lane, where, sure enough, her brother came jogging along as complacently as if nothing had happened.

The rest of the horsemen rode up to the carriage, and were about to start, when one of their number said, “Look! we have fixed the gypsies.” All looked toward the camp. It was in a blaze; both tents and wagons were being devoured by the red-tongued flames. “Why, Edith,” shouted Frank, who had just reached the carriage, “what on earth are you doing here?” The heat from the burning camp became so intense that Edith’s face was almost scorched, “Edith,” shouted Frank, louder than before. Edith looked at her brother, rubbed her eyes, and then looked again. “Where are the gypsies?” she asked—“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Frank, “you have been dreaming; you are almost baked by the sun.”

—Geo. M. Vickers.

“When, lo! from out the lake arose a horrid monster form.”

The Last Salute.

Yes, the ranks are growing smaller

With the coming of each May,

And the beards and locks once raven

Now are mingled thick with gray;

Soon the hands that strew the flowers

Will be folded still and cold,

And our story of devotion

Will forever have been told.

Years and years have passed by, comrades,

Though it seems but yesterday

Since the Blue-garbed Northern legions

Marched to meet the Southern Gray—

But a day since Massachusetts

Bade her soldier boys good-bye—

But a day since Alabama

Heard her brave sons’ farewell cry.

Those are days we all remember,

In our hearts we hold them yet;

And the kiss we got at parting,

Who can ever that forget?

And it may have been a mother,

A fond father, or a wife,

Or a maid whose love was dearer

To the soldier’s heart than life.

Then the silent midnight marches,

And the fierce-fought battle’s roar,

And the sailor’s lonely watches,

Gone, please God, forevermore:

Though these ne’er can be forgotten

While the dew our graves shall wet,

Yet the color of our jackets

Let each gallant heart forget;

For the ranks are growing smaller,

And though decked in blue or gray,

Soon both armies will be sleeping

In their shelter-tents of clay.

But the loud reverberation

Of the last salute shall be

Oft re-echoed through the ages