RECITATIONS

For the Social Circle.

SELECTED AND ORIGINAL.

BY

JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

PUBLISHED BY
THE CHRISTIAN HERALD.
Louis Klopsch, Proprietor,
BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1896.
By Louis Klopsch.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

In reading and recitation, the general tendency is to overdo. The quiet reserve force, which can be made apparent in the voice, will reach the heart and stir the soul when gesture and ranting fail. "Be bold! Be not too bold" should be the watchwords of the reciter. Self-possession, with a nervousness arising from an earnest desire to please, is the keynote to success. Never gesticulate if you can help it. When a gesture asserts itself to such an extent that you have made it before you realize it, be sure it was effective and graceful.

It is a noble ambition to wish to sway the hearts and minds of others by the subtle modulations of the voice, and only he who feels the force of what he utters can hope to accomplish his end. The thought of the author must be pursued and overtaken. The sentiments between the lines must be enlisted before the voice will lend itself, in all its glorious power, to the tones that thrill and the music that charms.

It is not always necessary to search for something your audience has never heard. It is far better to reveal hidden thought and new life in selections which are familiar. The hackneyed recitation, if rendered better than ever before, will win more applause than a fresh bit carelessly studied.

Above all, use judgment in selection. The stout lady of fifty-two should avoid "Marco Bozarris" and "The Elf Child," and the young lady just home from boarding-school should not attempt the ponderous utterances of a Roman gladiator.

Care in selection; fidelity in study; wisdom in the choice of occasion; modesty in delivery; earnestness of manner and sincerity of feeling throughout, must win at last. If you make failures, trace them to a lack in some one or more of these requisites and, by experience, learn to avoid a recurrence. Orators, like poets, are "born not made," but even the born speaker will fail at times unless these laws are considered and observed. Always render an author's lines as he wrote them. The chances are ten to one that every word carries its burden of thought, even though you may not have discerned it. Err on the conservative side if in doubt. Over-enthusiasm is less easily pardoned.

Never select dialect verses or stories unless you have the unusual gift necessary to give them the piquancy and zest which attends a good imitation. Ask a dozen friends for an honest opinion on the subject and draw an average from their criticisms to guide you in your choice of selections. Don't lose your temper over a severe criticism. Search carefully through your list of abilities and see if there is not, perhaps, some foundation for kindly suggestion. It is often a great assistance, in memorizing the work of another, to make a written copy, but attention should be given to the making of a perfect copy, properly punctuated.

Use the eye in memorizing.

Oftentimes a mental picture of a page will recall a line which for an instant seems about to escape you. Use the ear as well and study the effect of various modulations of voice as you rehearse in private.

Above all, use the best of your intelligence, earnestly, in studying and applying the thousand little nothings that in the aggregate make the perfect reader.

CONTENTS.

PAGE.
A Dream of the Universe. By Jean Paul Richter, [95]
A Friend of the Fly, [173]
After-Dinner Speech by a Frenchman, [287]
America for God. By T. DeWitt Talmage, [74]
An Affectionate Letter, [198]
An Appeal for Liberty. By Joseph Story, [296]
An Hour of Horror, [218]
Annie and Willie's Prayer. By Sophia P. Snow, [275]
Answered Prayers, By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, [175]
An Unaccountable Mystery. By Paul Denton, [80]
A Rainy Day, [260]
A Reasonable Request, [194]
At the Stage Door. By James Clarence Harvey, [16]
At the Stamp Window, [110]
Becalmed. By Samuel K. Cowan, [182]
Banford's Burglar Alarm, [314]
Behind Time. By Freeman Hunt, [77]
Bessie Kendrick's Journey. By Mrs. Annie E. Preston, [253]
Better Things, [319]
Bicycle Ride. By James Clarence Harvey, [236]
By Special Request. By Frank Castles, [47]
Charity, [308]
Cut Behind. By T. DeWitt Talmage, [14]
Daughter of the Desert. By James Clarence Harvey, [65]
De Pint Wid Ole Pete, [215]
Destiny of Our Country. By R. C. Winthrop, [188]
Eloquence, the Study of. By Cicero, [11]
Emulation (Up to Date). By James Clarence Harvey, [187]

Extract from Blaine's Oration on James A. Garfield, [208]
Fashionable, [261]
Fast Mail and the Stage. By John H. Yates, [230]
Frenchman and the Landlord. Anonymous, [18]
Gentle Alice Brown. By W. S. Gilbert, [149]
Get Acquainted With Yourself. By R. J. Burdette, [119]
God in the Constitution. By T. DeWitt Talmage, [176]
Good Old Way, [207]
Good Reading. By John S. Hart, L.L.D., [41]
Go Vay, Becky Miller, Go Vay, [220]
Guild's Signal. By Francis Bret Harte, [21]
His Last Court, [104]
Hornets. By Bill Nye, [70]
How "Old Mose" Counted Eggs, [272]
How Shall I Love You? By Will C. Ferril, [212]
Imperfectus. By James Clarence Harvey, [83]
In Arabia. By James Berry Bensel, [37]
In the Bottom Drawer, [185]
It is a Winter Night. By Richard Henry Stoddard, [221]
I Wonder. By James Clarence Harvey, [159]
Katrina's Visit to New York, [138]
Keenan's Charge. By George P. Lathrop, [97]
Kittens and Babies. By Lizzie M. Hadley, [80]
Land of Our Birth. By Lillie E. Barr, [239]
Legend of the Ivy. By James Clarence Harvey, [34]
Let Us Give Thanks, [258]
Literary Attractions of the Bible. By Dr. Hamilton, [88]
Little Brown Curl, [213]
Little Feet, [259]
Little Jim. By George R. Sims, [118]
Little White Hearse. By J. W. Riley, [121]
Lullaby, [114]
Maid of Orleans. By J. E. Sagebeer, [144]
Mark Twain and the Interviewer, [22]
Mother, Home and Heaven, [56]
Mother's Doughnuts. By Charles F. Adams, [87]
Mother's Fool, [217]
Mr. Winkle Puts on Skates. By Charles Dickens, [281]
Mutation. By James Clarence Harvey, [164]
My Mother's Bible. By George P. Morris, [286]
New Year Ledger. By Amelia E. Barr, [39]
No Objection to Children, [309]
Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, [51]
Old Uncle Jake, [298]
Only a Song, [235]
Our Own. By Margaret E. Sangster, [76]
Our Heroes Shall Live. By Henry Ward Beecher, [113]
Paul Revere's Ride. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, [43]
Penning a Pig. By James A. Bailey, [115]
Praying for Papa, [180]
Praying for Shoes. By Paul Hamilton Hayne, [58]
Puzzled Dutchman, [227]
Queen Vashti. By T. DeWitt Talmage, [131]
Rabbi and the Prince. By James Clarence Harvey, [143]
Resignation. By Longfellow, [196]
Resurgam. By Eben E. Rexford, [262]
Roman Legend. By James Clarence Harvey, [170]
Rum's Devastation and Destiny. By William Sullivan, [60]
Serenade. By Thomas Hood, [129]
She Cuts His Hair, [294]
Shwate Kittie Kehoe. By James Clarence Harvey, [155]
Since She Went Home. By R. J. Burdette, [72]
Six Love Letters, [165]
Speech of Patrick Henry, [160]
Story of the Little Rid Hin. By Mrs. Whitney, [232]
Supporting the Guns, [30]
The American Union. By Daniel Webster, [52]
The Black Horse and His Rider. By Charles Sheppard, [290]
The Book Canvasser. By Max Adeler, [264]
The Children. By Charles Dickens, [306]
The Children We Keep, [73]
The Christmas Baby. By Will Carleton, [92]
The Country's Greatest Evil, [156]
The Crowded Street. By William Cullen Bryant, [252]
The Dead Doll. By Margaret Vandegrift, [108]
The Doorstep. By E. C. Stedman, [270]
The Enchanted Shirt. By John Hay, [177]
The Fatal Glass. By Laura U. Case, [137]
The Fault of the Age. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, [263]
The Hot Axle. By T. DeWitt Talmage, [303]
The Minister's Grievances, [204]
The Misnomer. By Josie C. Malott, [269]
The Modern Belle, [226]
The Nameless Guest. By James Clarence Harvey, [112]
The Old Oaken Bucket. By Samuel Woodworth, [279]
The Pilot. By John B. Gough, [135]
The Poppy Land Limited Express. By Edgar Wade Abbot, [55]
The Prime of Life. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, [29]
There is a Tongue in Every Leaf, [257]
There'll Be Room in Heaven, [122]
The Retort Dis-courteous. By James Clarence Harvey, [125]
The Teacher's Diadem, [240]
The United States. By Daniel Webster, [35]
The Whirling Wheel. By Tudor Jenks, [288]
The Whistling Regiment. By James Clarence Harvey, [199]
Tobe's Monument. By Elizabeth Kilham, [243]
Useful Precepts for Girls, [100]
W'en de Darky am A-whis'lin'. By S. Q. Lapius, [134]
We're Building Two a Day! By Rev. Alfred J. Hough, [224]
What the Little Girl Said, [221]
Widder Budd, [102]
Wind and Sea. By Bayard Taylor, [13]
Woman's Pocket. By James M. Bailey, [84]
Women of Mumbles Head. By Clement Scott, [190]
Young America, [153]
Zenobia's Defence. By William Ware, [126]

RECITATIONS FOR THE SOCIAL CIRCLE.

THE STUDY OF ELOQUENCE.

BY CICERO.

I cannot conceive anything more excellent, than to be able, by language, to captivate the affections, to charm the understanding, and to impel or restrain the will of whole assemblies, at pleasure. Among every free people, especially in peaceful, settled governments, this single art has always eminently flourished, and always exercised the greatest sway. For what can be more surprising than that, amidst an infinite multitude, one man should appear, who shall be the only, or almost the only man capable of doing what Nature has put in every man's power? Or, can anything impart such exquisite pleasure to the ear and to the intellect, as a speech in which the wisdom and dignity of the sentiments are heightened by the utmost force and beauty of expression?

Is there anything so commanding, so grand, as that the eloquence of one man should direct the inclinations of the people, the consciences of judges, and the majesty of senates? Nay, farther, can aught be esteemed so great, so generous, so public-spirited, as to assist the suppliant, to rear the prostrate, to communicate happiness, to avert danger, and to save a fellow-citizen from exile? Can anything be so necessary, as to keep those arms always in readiness, with which you may defend yourself, attack the profligate, and redress your own, or your country's wrongs?

But let us consider this accomplishment as detached from public business, and from its wonderful efficacy in popular assemblies, at the bar, and in the senate; can anything be more agreeable, or more endearing in private life, than elegant language? For the great characteristic of our nature, and what eminently distinguishes us from brutes, is the faculty of social conversation, the power of expressing our thoughts and sentiments by words. To excel mankind, therefore, in the exercise of that very talent which gives them the preference to the brute creation, is what everybody must not only admire, but look upon as the just object of the most indefatigable pursuit.

And now, to mention the chief point of all, what other power could have been of sufficient efficacy to bring together the vagrant individuals of the human race; to tame their savage manners, to reconcile them to social life; and, after cities were founded, to mark out laws, forms, and constitutions, for their government?—Let me, in a few words, sum up this almost boundless subject. I lay it down as a maxim, that upon the wisdom and abilities of an accomplished orator, not only his own dignity, but the welfare of vast numbers of individuals, and even of the whole state, must greatly depend.

THE WIND AND THE SEA.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

The Sea is a jovial comrade;
He laughs, wherever he goes,
And the merriment shines
In the dimpling lines
That wrinkle his hale repose.
He lays himself down at the feet of the sun
And shakes all over with glee,
And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore
In the mirth of the mighty sea.

But the wind is sad and restless,
And cursed with an inward pain;
You may hark as you will,
By valley or hill,
But you hear him still complain.
He wails on the barren mountain;
Shrieks on the wintry sea;
Sobs in the cedar and moans in the pine,
And shivers all over the aspen tree.

Welcome are both their voices,
And I know not which is best,
The laughter that slips
From the ocean's lips,
Or the comfortless wind's unrest.
There's a pang in all rejoicing,
A joy in the heart of pain,
And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,
Are singing the self-same strain.

CUT BEHIND.

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.

The scene opens on a clear, crisp morning. Two boys are running to get on the back of a carriage, whose wheels are spinning along the road. One of the boys, with a quick spring, succeeds. The other leaps, but fails, and falls on the part of the body where it is most appropriate to fall. No sooner has he struck the ground than he shouts to the driver of the carriage, "Cut behind!"

Human nature is the same in boy as in man—all running to gain the vehicle of success. Some are spry, and gain that for which they strive. Others are slow, and tumble down; they who fall crying out against those who mount, "Cut behind!"

A political office rolls past. A multitude spring to their feet, and the race is on. Only one of all the number reaches that for which he runs. No sooner does he gain the prize, and begin to wipe the sweat from his brow, and think how grand a thing it is to ride in popular preferment, than the disappointed candidates cry out, "Incompetency! Stupidity! Fraud! Now let the newspapers of the other political party 'cut behind.'"

There is a golden chariot of wealth rolling down the street. A thousand people are trying to catch it. They run, they jostle; they tread on each other. Push, and pull, and tug. Those talk most against riches who cannot get there. Clear the track for the racers! One of the thousand reaches the golden prize and mounts. Forthwith the air is full of cries, "Got it by fraud! Shoddy! Petroleum aristocracy! His father was a rag-picker! His mother was a washer-woman! I knew him when he blacked his own shoes! Pitch him off the back part of the golden chariot! Cut behind! cut behind!"

In many eyes success is a crime. "I do not like you," said the snow-flake to the snow-bird. "Why?" said the snow-bird. "Because," said the snow-flake, "you are going up and I am going down."

We have to state that the man in the carriage, on the crisp morning, though he had a long lash-whip, with which he could have made the climbing boy yell most lustily, did not cut behind. He heard the shout in the rear, and said, "Good morning, my son. That is right; climb over and sit by me. Here are the reins; take hold and drive; was a boy myself once, and know what tickles youngsters."

Thank God, there are so many in the world that never "cut behind," but are ready to give a fellow a ride whenever he wants it. There are hundreds of people whose chief joy it is to help others on. Now it is a smile, now a good word, now ten dollars. When such a kind man has ridden to the end of the earthly road, it will be pleasant to hang up the whip with which he drove the enterprises of a lifetime, and feel that with it he never "cut behind" at those who were struggling.

AT THE STAGE DOOR.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

The curtain had fallen, the lights were dim,
The rain came down with a steady pour;
A white-haired man with a kindly face,
Peered through the panes of the old stage door.
"I'm getting too old to be drenched like that"
He muttered and turning met face to face,
The woman whose genius, an hour before,
Like a mighty power had filled the place.

"Yes, much too old," with a smile, she said,
And she laid her hand on his silver hair;
"You shall ride with me to your home to-night,
For that is my carriage standing there."
The old door-tender stood, doffing his hat
And holding the door, but she would not stir,
Though he said it was not for the "likes of him
To ride in a kerridge with such as her."

"Come, put out your lights," she said to him,
"I've something important I wish to say,
And I can't stand here in the draught you know—
I can tell you much better while on the way."
So into the carriage the old man crept,
Thanking her gratefully, o'er and o'er,
Till she bade him listen while she would tell
A story, concerning that old stage door.

"It was raining in torrents, ten years ago
This very night, and a friendless child
Stood, shivering there, by that old stage door,
Dreading her walk in a night so wild.
She was only one of the 'extra' girls,
But you gave her a nickle to take the car,
And said 'Heaven bless ye, my little one,
Ye can pay me back ef ye ever star.'

"So you cast your bread on the waters then,
And I pay you back, as my heart demands,
And we're even now—no! not quite," she said,
As she emptied her purse in his trembling hands.
"And if ever you're needy and want a friend,
You know where to come, for your little mite
Put hope in my heart and made me strive
To gain the success you have seen to-night."

Then the carriage stopped, at the old man's door,
And the gas-light shone on him, standing there:
And he stepped to the curb, as she rolled away,
While his thin lips murmured a fervent prayer.
He looked at the silver and bills and gold,
And he said: "She gives all this to me?
My bread has come back a thousandfold,
God bless her! God bless all such as she!"

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE LANDLORD.

ANONYMOUS.

A shrewd and wealthy old landlord, away down in Maine, is noted for driving his "sharp bargains," by which he has amassed a large amount of property. He is the owner of a large number of dwelling-houses, and it is said of him that he is not over-scrupulous of his rental charges, whenever he can find a customer whom he knows to be responsible. His object is to lease his house for a term of years to the best tenants, and get the uttermost farthing in the shape of rent.

A diminutive Frenchman called on him last winter, to hire a dwelling he owned in Portland, and which had long remained empty. References were given, and the landlord, ascertaining that the tenant was a man "after his own heart," immediately commenced to "Jew" him. He found that the tenement appeared to suit the Frenchman, and he placed an exorbitant price upon it; the leases were drawn and duly executed, and the tenant removed into his new quarters.

Upon kindling fires in the house, it was found that the chimneys wouldn't "draw," and the building was filled with smoke. The window-sashes rattled in the wind at night, and the cold air rushed through a hundred crevices about the house until now unnoticed. The snow melted upon the roof, and the attics were drenched from the leakage. The rain pelted, and our Frenchman found a "natural" bathroom upon the second floor—but the lease was signed and the landlord chuckled.

"I have been vat you sall call 'tuck in,' vis zis maison," muttered our victim to himself a week afterwards, "but n'importe, ve sal se vat ve sal see."

Next morning he arose bright and early, and passing down he encountered the landlord.

"Ah ha!—Bon jour, monsieur," said he in his happiest manner.

"Good day, sir. How do you like your house?"

"Ah monsieur—elegant, beautiful, magnificent. Eh bien, monsieur, I have ze one regret!"

"Ah! What is that?"

"I sal live in zat house but tree little year."

"How so?"

"I have find by vot you call ze lease, zat you have give me ze house but for tree year, and I ver mooch sorrow for zat."

"But you can have it longer if you wish—"

"Ah, monsieur, sal be ver mooch glad if I can have zat house so long as I please—eh—monsieur?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly, sir."

"Tres bien, monsieur! I sal valk rite to your offees, and you sal give me vot you call ze lease for that maison jes so long as I sal vant the house. Eh, monsieur?"

"Certainly, sir. You can stay there your lifetime, if you like."

"Ah, monsieur—I have ver mooch tanks for zis accommodation."

The old lease was destroyed and a new one was delivered in form to the French gentleman, giving him possession of the premises for "such a period as the lessee may desire the same, he paying the rent promptly, etc."

The next morning our crafty landlord was passing the house just as the French-man's last load of furniture was being started from the door; an hour afterward, a messenger called on him with a legal tender, for the rent for eight days, accompanied with a note as follows:

"Monsieur—I have been smoke—I have been drouned—I have been frees to death, in ze house vat I av hire of you for ze period as I may desire. I have stay in ze house jes so long as I please, and ze bearer of zis vill give you ze key! Bon jour, monsieur."

It is needless to add that our landlord has never since been known to give up "a bird in the hand for one in the bush."

GUILD'S SIGNAL.

BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE, 1839.

Two low whistles, quaint and clear,
That was the signal the engineer—
That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said—
Gave to his wife at Providence,
As through the sleeping town, and thence
Out in the night,
On to the light,
Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt,
Yet to the woman looking out,
Watching and waiting, no serenade,
Love-song, or midnight roundelay
Said what that whistle seemed to say;
"To my trust true,
So love to you!
Working or waiting. Good night!" it said.

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine,
Old commuters, along the line,
Brakesmen and porters, glanced ahead,
Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense,
Pierced through the shadows of Providence,—
"Nothing amiss—
Nothing!—it is
Only Guild calling his wife," they said.

Summer and winter, the old refrain
Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain,
Pierced through the budding boughs o'er head,
Flew down the track when the red leaves burned
Like living coals from the engine spurned!
Sang as it flew
"To our trust true.
First of all, duty! Good night!" it said.

And then, one night, it was heard no more
From Stonington over Rhode Island Shore,
And the folk in Providence smiled and said,
As they turned in their beds: "The engineer
Has once forgotten his midnight cheer."
One only knew
To his trust true,
Guild lay under his engine, dead.

MARK TWAIN AND THE INTERVIEWER.

The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added,—

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."

"Come to what?"

"Interview you."

"Ah! I see. Yes—yes. Um! Yes—yes."

I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said,—

"How do you spell it?"

"Spell what?"

"Interview."

"Oh, my goodness? What do you want to spell it for?"

"I don't want to spell it: I want to see what it means."

"Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means, if you—if you"—

"Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."

"In, in, ter, ter, inter"—

"Then you spell it with an I?"

"Why, certainly!"

"Oh, that is what took me so long!"

"Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?"

"Well, I—I—I hardly know. I had the Unabridged; and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition."

"Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in even the latest e—— My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as—as—intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm,—I mean no harm at all."

"Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes—yes: they always speak of it with rapture."

"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."

"Indeed! I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?"

"Ah, well—well—well—this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club, in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?"

"Oh, with pleasure,—with pleasure. I have a very bad memory; but I hope you will not mind. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me."

"Oh! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can."

"I will! I will put my whole mind on it."

"Thanks! Are you ready to begin?"

"Ready."

Question. How old are you?

Answer. Nineteen in June.

Q. Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?

A. In Missouri.

Q. When did you begin to write?

A. In 1836.

Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?

A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.

Q. It does indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?

A. Aaron Burr.

Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years——

A. Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?

Q. Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?

A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day; and he asked me to make less noise, and——

Q. But, good heavens! If you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and, if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not?

A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.

Q. Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead?

A. I didn't say he was dead.

Q. But wasn't he dead?

A. Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't.

Q. What do you think?

A. Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral.

Q. Did you—However we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth?

A. Monday, October 31, 1693.

Q. What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for that?

A. I don't account for it at all.

Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.

A. Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy; but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing!

Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters?

A. Eh! I—I—I think so,—yes—but I don't remember.

Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard.

A. Why, what makes you think that?

Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?

A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it, that was a brother of mine. That's William, Bill we called him. Poor old Bill!

Q. Why, is he dead, then?

A. Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.

Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?

A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him.

Q. Buried him! Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not?

A. Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough.

Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was dead——

A. No, no! We only thought he was.

Q. Oh, I see! He came to life again?

A. I bet he didn't.

Q. Well. I never heard anything like this. Somebody was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery?

A. Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see we were twins,—defunct and I; and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill; and some think it was me.

Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think?

A. Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand; that was me. That child was the one that was drowned.

Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.

A. You don't; well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heart-breaking troubles enough without adding this.

Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present; and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what peculiar circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?

A. Oh, it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery; and so he got up, and rode with the driver.

Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company; and I was sorry to see him go.

THE PRIME OF LIFE.

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

I read the sentence or heard it spoken—
A stalwart phrase and with meaning rife—
And I said: "Now I know, by youth's sweet token,
That this is the time called the 'prime of life.'

"For my hopes soar over the loftiest mountain,
And the future glows red, like a fair sunrise;
And my spirits gush forth, like a spring-fed fountain,
And never a grief in the heart of me lies."

Yet later on, when with blood and muscle
Equipped I plunged in the world's hard strife,
When I loved its danger, and laughed at the tussle,
"Why this," I said, "is the prime of life."

And then, when the tide in my veins ran slower,
And youth's first follies had passed away,
When the fervent fires in my heart burned lower,
And over my body my brain had sway,

I said: "It is when, through the veiled ideal
The vigorous reason thrusts a knife
And rends the illusion, and shows us the real,
Oh! this is the time called 'prime of life.'"

Hut now when brain and body are troubled
(For one is tired and one is ill,
Yet my soul soars up with a strength redoubled
And sits on the throne of my broken will),
Now when on the ear of my listening spirit,
That is turned away from the earth's harsh strife,
The river of death sounds murmuring near it—
I know that this "is the prime of life."

SUPPORTING THE GUNS.

Did you ever see a battery take position?

It hasn't the thrill of a cavalry charge, nor the grimness of a line of bayonets moving slowly and determinedly on, but there is peculiar excitement about it that makes old veterans rise in the saddle and cheer.

We have been fighting at the edge of the woods. Every cartridge-box has been emptied once and more, and a fourth of the brigade has melted away in dead and wounded and missing. Not a cheer is heard in the whole brigade. We know that we are being driven foot by foot, and that when we break back once more, the line will go to pieces and the enemy will pour through the gap.

Here comes help!

Down the crowded highway gallops a battery, withdrawn from some other position to save ours. The field fence is scattered while you could count thirty, and the guns rush for the hill behind us. Six horses to a piece, three riders to each gun. Over dry ditches where a farmer could not drive a wagon; through clumps of bushes, over logs a foot thick, every horse on the gallop, every rider lashing his team and yelling,—the sight behind us makes us forget the foe in front. The guns jump two feet high as the heavy wheels strike rock or log, but not a horse slackens his pace, not a cannoneer loses his seat. Six guns, six caissons, sixty horses, eighty men, race for the brow of the hill as if he who reached it first was to be knighted.

A moment ago the battery was a confused mob. We look again and the six guns are in position, the detached horses hurrying away, the ammunition-chests open, and along our line runs the command: "Give them one more volley and fall back to support the guns!" We have scarcely obeyed when boom! boom! boom! opens the battery, and jets of fire jump down and scorch the green trees under which we fought and despaired.

The shattered old brigade has a chance to breathe for the first time in three hours as we form a line of battle behind the guns and lie down. What grim, cool fellows these cannoneers are. Every man is a perfect machine. Bullets plash dust in their faces, but they do not wince. Bullets sing over and around them, but they do not dodge. There goes one to the earth, shot through the head as he sponged his gun. The machinery loses just one beat,—misses just one cog in the wheel, and then works away again as before.

Every gun is using short-fuse shell. The ground shakes and trembles—the roar shuts out all sounds from a battle-line three miles long, and the shells go shrieking into the swamp to cut trees short off—to mow great gaps in the bushes—to hunt out and shatter and mangle men until their corpses cannot be recognized as human. You would think a tornado was howling through the forest, followed by billows of fire, and yet men live through it—aye! press forward to capture the battery! We can hear their shouts as they form for the rush.

Now the shells are changed for grape and canister, and the guns are served so fast that all reports blend into one mighty roar. The shriek of a shell is the wickedest sound in war, but nothing makes the flesh crawl like the demoniac singing, purring, whistling grape-shot and the serpent-like hiss of canister. Men's legs and arms are not shot through, but torn off. Heads are torn from bodies and bodies cut in two. A round shot or shell takes two men out of the ranks as it crashes through. Grape and canister mow a swath and pile the dead on top of each other.

Through the smoke we see a swarm of men. It is not a battle-line, but a mob of men desperate enough to bathe their bayonets in the flame of the guns. The guns leap from the ground, almost, as they are depressed on the foe—and shrieks and screams and shouts blend into one awful and steady cry. Twenty men out of the battery are down, and the firing is interrupted. The foe accept it as a sign of wavering, and come rushing on. They are not ten feet away when the guns give them a last shot. That discharge picks living men off their feet and throws them into the swamp, a blackened, bloody mass.

Up now, as the enemy are among the guns! There is a silence of ten seconds, and then the flash and roar of more than three thousand muskets, and a rush forward with bayonets. For what? Neither on the right, nor left, nor in front of us is a living foe! There are corpses around us which have been struck by three, four and even six bullets, and nowhere on this acre of ground is a wounded man! The wheels of the guns cannot move until the blockade of dead is removed. Men cannot pass from caisson to gun without climbing over winrows of dead. Every gun and wheel is smeared with blood, every foot of grass has its horrible stain.

Historians write of the glory of war. Burial parties saw murder where historians saw glory.

A LEGEND OF THE IVY.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

In a quiet village of Germany, once dwelt a fair-haired maiden,
Whose eyes were as blue as the summer sky and whose hair with gold was laden;
Her lips were as red as a rose-bud sweet, with teeth, like pearls, behind them,
Her smiles were like dreams of bliss, complete, and her waving curls enshrined them.
Fond lovers thronged to the maiden's side, but of all the youth around her,
One only had asked her to be his bride, and a willing listener found her,
"Some time, we'll marry," she often said, then burst into song or laughter,
And tripped away, while the lover's head hung low as he followed after.
Impatient growing, at last he said, "The springtime birds are mating,
Pray whisper, sweet, our day to wed; warm hearts grow cold from waiting."
"Not yet," she smiled, with a fond caress; but he answered, "Now or never,
I start for the Holy War unless I may call thee mine forever."
"For the Holy War? Farewell!" she cried, with never a thought of grieving.
His wish so often had been denied, she could not help believing
His heart would wait till her budding life had blown to its full completeness.
She did not know that a wedded wife holds a spell in her youthful sweetness.
But alas! for the "Yes" too long delayed, he fought and he bravely perished;
And alas! for the heart of the tender maid, and the love it fondly cherished;
Her smile grew sad for all hope was gone; life's sands were swiftly fleeting,
And just at the break of a wintry dawn, her broken heart ceased beating;
And when, on her grave, at the early spring, bright flowers her friends were throwing,
They knelt and there, just blossoming, they saw a strange plant growing,
Its tender fingers, at first, just seen, crept on through the grass and clover,
Till, at last, with a mound of perfect green, it covered the whole grave over;
And often the village youth would stand by the vine-clad mound, in the gloaming,
And holding a maiden's willing hand, would tell that the strange plant roaming
Was the maiden's soul, which could not rest and with fruitless, fond endeavor,
Went seeking the heart it loved the best, but sought in vain, forever.

THE UNITED STATES.

BY DANIEL WEBSTER.

And now, Mr. President, instead of speaking of the possibility or utility of secession, instead of dwelling in these caverns of darkness, instead of groping with those ideas so full of all that is horrid and horrible, let us come out into the light of day; let us enjoy the fresh air of Liberty and Union; let us cherish those hopes which belong to us; let us devote ourselves to those great objects that are fit for our consideration and our action; let us raise our conceptions to the magnitude and the importance of the duties that devolve upon us; let our comprehension be as broad as the country for which we act, our aspirations as high as its certain destiny; let us not be pigmies in a case that calls for men.

Never did there devolve on any generation of men higher trusts than now devolve upon us, for the preservation of this constitution, and the harmony and peace of all who are destined to live under it. Let us make our generation one of the strongest and brightest links in that golden chain, which is destined, I fondly believe, to grapple the people of all the states to this constitution, for ages to come.

We have a great, popular, constitutional government, guarded by law and by judicature, and defended by the whole affections of the people. No monarchical throne presses these states together; no iron chain of military power encircles them; they live and stand upon a government popular in its form, representative in its character, founded upon principles of equality, and so constructed, we hope, as to last forever.

In all its history it has been beneficent: it has trodden down no man's liberty; it has crushed no state. Its daily respiration is liberty and patriotism; its yet youthful veins are full of enterprise, courage, and honorable love of glory and renown. Large before, the country has now, by recent events, becomes vastly larger.

This republic now extends, with a vast breadth, across the whole continent. The two great seas of the world wash the one and the other shore. We realize, on a mighty scale, the beautiful description of the ornamental edging of the buckler of Achilles—

"Now the broad shield complete, the artist crowned
With his last hand, and poured the ocean round;
In living silver seemed the waves to roll,
And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the whole."

IN ARABIA.

BY JAMES BERRY BENSEL, 1856.

"Choose thou between!" and to his enemy
The Arab chief a brawny hand displayed,
Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea,
Gleamed the gray scimitar's enamelled blade.

"Choose thou between death at my hand and thine!
Close in my power, my vengeance I may wreak,
Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mine
Is noble still. Thou hast thy choosing—speak!"

And Ackbar stood. About him all the band
That hailed his captor chieftain, with grave eyes
His answer waited, while that heavy hand
Stretched like a bar between him and the skies.

Straight in the face before him Ackbar sent
A sneer of scorn, and raised his noble head;
"Strike!" and the desert monarch, as content,
Rehung the weapon at his girdle red.

Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted high
His arms toward the heaven so far and blue
Wherein the sunset rays began to die,
While o'er the band, a deeper silence grew.

"Strike! I am ready! Did'st thou think to see
A son of Gheva spill upon the dust
His noble blood? Did'st hope to have my knee
Bend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust,

"The life thou hatest flee before thee here?
Shame on thee! on thy race! Art thou the one
Who hast so long his vengeance counted dear?
My hate is greater; I did strike thy son,

"Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face;
And by the swiftest courser of my stud
Sent to thy door his corpse. And one might trace
Their flight across the desert by his blood.

"Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!"
But with a frown the Arab moved away,
Walked to a distant palm and stood alone
With eyes that looked where purple mountains lay.

This for an instant; then he turned again
Toward the place where Ackbar waited still,
Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain,
Or with a hateful mission to fulfil.

"Strike! for I hate thee!" Ackbar cried once more,
"Nay, but my hate I cannot find!" said now
His enemy. "Thy freedom I restore,
Live, life were worse than death to such as thou."

So with his gift of life, the Bedouin slept
That night untroubled; but when dawn broke through
The purple East, and o'er his eyelids crept
The long, thin finger of the light, he drew

A heavy breath and woke. Above him shone
A lifted dagger—"Yea, he gave thee life,
But I give death!" came in fierce undertone,
And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid's wife.

The New Year Ledger.

BY AMELIA E. BARR.

I said one year ago,
"I wonder, if I truly kept
A list of days when life burnt low,
Of days I smiled and days I wept,
If good or bad would highest mount
When I made up the year's account?"

I took a ledger fair and fine,
"And now," I said, "when days are glad,
I'll write with bright red ink the line,
And write with black when they are bad,
So that they'll stand before my sight
As clear apart as day and night.

"I will not heed the changing skies,
Nor if it shine nor if it rain;
But if there comes some sweet surprise,
Or friendship, love or honest gain,
Why, then it shall be understood
That day is written down as good.

"Or if to anyone I love
A blessing meets them on the way,
That will to me a pleasure prove:
So it shall be a happy day;
And if some day, I've cause to dread
Pass harmless by, I'll write it red.

"When hands and brain stand labor's test,
And I can do the thing I would,
Those days when I am at my best
Shall all be traced as very good.
And in 'red letter,' too, I'll write
Those rare, strong hours when right is might.

"When first I meet in some grand book
A noble soul that touches mine,
And with this vision I can look
Through some gate beautiful of time,
That day such happiness will shed
That golden-lined will seem the red.

"And when pure, holy thoughts have power
To touch my heart and dim my eyes,
And I in some diviner hour
Can hold sweet converse with the skies,
Ah! then my soul may safely write:
'This day has been most good and bright.'"

What do I see on looking back?
A red-lined book before me lies,
With here and there a thread of black,
That like a gloomy shadow flies,—
A shadow it must be confessed,
That often rose in my own breast.

And I have found it good to note
The blessing that is mine each day;
For happiness is vainly sought
In some dim future far away.
Just try my ledger for a year,
Then look with grateful wonder back,
And you will find, there is no fear,
The red days far exceed the black.

GOOD READING THE GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT.

BY JOHN S. HART, LL.D.

There is one accomplishment, in particular, which I would earnestly recommend to you. Cultivate assiduously the ability to read well. I stop to particularize this, because it is a thing so very much neglected, and because it is such an elegant and charming accomplishment. Where one person is really interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. Where one person is capable of becoming a skillful musician, twenty may become good readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading.

The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, gives a delightful charm to the same voice in conversation. Good reading is the natural exponent and vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective of all commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems to bring dead authors to life again, and makes us sit down familiarly with the great and good of all ages.

Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy Scriptures have when well read? Have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth Fry on the criminals of Newgate, by simply reading to them the parable of the Prodigal Son? Princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvelous pathos which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story.

What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it gives one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amusement, to the comfort, the pleasure of dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of man's devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful instrument, the human voice. It is God's special gift and endowment to his chosen creatures. Fold it not away in a napkin.

If you would double the value of all your other acquisitions, if you would add immeasurably to your own enjoyment and to your power of promoting the enjoyment of others, cultivate, with incessant care, this divine gift. No music below the skies is equal to that of pure, silvery speech from the lips of a man or woman of high culture.

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear,
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five—
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year—

He said to his friend: "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light;
One, if by land, and two if by sea,
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night," and, with muffled oar,
Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay
The "Somerset," British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill.
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead,
For, suddenly, all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth
And turned and lighted his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched, with eager search,
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in the village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark,
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all; and yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He had left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides,
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town;
He heard the crowing of the cock
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river's fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock
When he came to the bridge in Concord town;
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest; in the books you have read,
How the British regulars fired and fled;
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields, to emerge again
Under the trees, at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere,
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the past,
Through all our history to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

BY SPECIAL REQUEST.

BY FRANK CASTLES.

A Lady Standing with one Hand on a Chair in a Somewhat Amateurish Attitude.

Our kind hostess has asked me to recite something, "by special request," but I really don't know what to do. I have only a very small repertoire, and I'm afraid you know all my stock recitations. What shall I do? (Pause.) I have it; I'll give you something entirely original. I'll tell you about my last experience of reciting, which really is the cause of my being so nervous to-night. I began reciting about a year ago; I took elocution lessons with Mr. ——; no, I won't tell you his name, I want to keep him all to myself. I studied the usual things with him—the "Mercy" speech from the "Merchant of Venice," and Juliet's "Balcony scene," but I somehow never could imagine my fat, red-faced, snub-nosed old master (there! I've told you who he was), I never could fancy him as an ideal Romeo; he looked much more like Polonius, or the Ghost before he was a ghost—I mean as he probably was in the flesh.

My elocution master told me that Shakespeare was not my forte, so I studied some more modern pieces. He told me I was getting on very well—"one of my most promising pupils," but I found that he said that to every one.

Well, it soon became known that I recited (one must have some little vices, you know, just to show up one's virtues). I received an invitation from Lady Midas for a musical evening last Friday, and in a postscript, "We hope you will favor us with a recitation." Very flattering, wasn't it?

I went there fully primed with three pieces—"The Lifeboat," by Sims, "The Lost Soul," and Calverley's "Waiting." I thought that I had hit on a perfectly original selection; but I was soon undeceived. There were a great many people at Lady Midas', quite fifty, I should think, or perhaps two hundred; but I'm very bad at guessing numbers. We had a lot of music. A young man, with red hair and little twinkling light eyes, sang a song by De Lara, but it did not sound as well as when I heard the composer sing it. Then two girls played a banjo duet; then—no, we had another song first, then a girl with big eyes and an ugly dress—brown nun's veiling with yellow lace, and beads, and ribbons, and sham flowers and all sorts of horrid things, so ugly, I'm sure it was made at home. Well—where was I? Oh, yes!—she stood up and recited, what do you think? Why, "Calverley's Waiting!" Oh! I was so cross when it came to the last verses; you remember how they go (imitating)—

"'Hush! hark! I see a hovering form!
From the dim distance slowly rolled;
It rocks like lilies in a storm,
And oh! its hues are green and gold.

'It comes, it comes! Ah! rest is sweet,
And there is rest, my babe, for us!'
She ceased, as at her very feet
Stopped the St. John's Wood omnibus."

Well, when I heard that I felt inclined to cry. Just imagine how provoking; one of the pieces I had been practicing for weeks past. Oh, it was annoying! After that there was a violin solo, then another—no, then I had an ice, such a nice young man, just up from Aldershot, very young, but so amusing, and so full of somebody of "ours" who had won something, or lost something, I could not quite make out which.

Then we came back to the drawing-room, and an elderly spinster, with curls, sang, "Oh that we two were Maying," and the young man from Aldershot said, "Thank goodness we aren't."

Afterward I had another ice, not because I wanted it, not a bit, but the young man from Aldershot said he was so thirsty.

Then I saw a youth with long hair and badly-fitting clothes. I thought he was going to sing, but he wasn't; oh no! much worse! he recited. When I heard the first words I thought I should faint (imitating):

"Been out in the lifeboat often? Aye, aye, sir, oft enough.
When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you, this ain't what we calls
rough."

How well I knew the lines! Wasn't it cruel? However, I had one hope left—my "Lost Soul," a beautiful poem, serious and sentimental. The æsthetic youth was so tedious that the young man from Aldershot asked me to come into the conservatory, and really I was so vexed and disappointed that I think I would have gone into the coal-cellar if he had asked me.

We went into the conservatory and had a nice long talk, all about——well, it would take too long to tell you now, and besides it would not interest you.

All at once mamma came in, and I felt rather frightened at first (I don't know why), but she was laughing and smiling. "O, Mary," she said, "that æsthetic young man has been so funny; they encored 'The Lifeboat,' so he recited a very comic piece of poetry, that sent us all into fits of laughter, it was called 'The Fried Sole,' a parody on 'The Lost Soul' that you used to recite."

Alas! my last hope was wrecked; I could not read after that! I believe I burst into tears. Anyhow, mamma hurried me off in a cab, and I cried all the way home and—and—I forgot to say good-night to the young man from Aldershot. Wasn't it a pity?

And you see that's why I don't like to recite anything to-night. (Some one from the audience comes up and whispers to her). No! really, have I? How stupid! I'm told that I've been reciting all this time. I am so sorry; will you ever forgive me? I do beg pardon; I'll never do it again! (Runs out.)

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP.

[Found in the Knapsack of a Soldier of the Civil War After He Had Been Slain in Battle.]

Near the camp-fire's flickering light,
In my blanket bed I lie,
Gazing through the shades of night
And the twinkling stars on high;
O'er me spirits in the air
Silent vigils seem to keep,
As I breathe my childhood's prayer,
"Now I lay me down to sleep."

Sadly sings the whip-poor-will
In the boughs of yonder tree;
Laughingly the dancing rill
Swells the midnight melody.
Foemen may be lurking near,
In the cañon dark and deep;
Low I breathe in Jesus' ear:
"I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep."

'Mid those stars one face I see—
One the Saviour turned away—
Mother, who in infancy
Taught my baby lips to pray;
Her sweet spirit hovers near
In this lonely mountain-brake.
Take me to her Saviour dear
"If I should die before I wake."

Fainter grows the flickering light,
As each ember slowly dies;
Plaintively the birds of night
Fill the air with sad'ning cries;
Over me they seem to cry:
"You may never more awake."
Low I lisp: "If I should die,
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take."

Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take.

THE AMERICAN UNION.

BY DANIEL WEBSTER.

I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country.