"Samuel Hodge!" The words in question never previously filled a Conspicuous place in fiction or the Chronicles of Fame; And the Blood and Culture critics, or the Rosa and Matilda School of Novelists would shudder at the mention of the name.

It was up the Gambia River—and of that unpleasant station It is chiefly in connection with the fever that we hear!— That my hero with the vulgar and prosaic appellation Was a private—mind, a private!—and a sturdy pioneer.

It's a dreary kind of region, where the river mists arising Roll slowly out to seaward, dropping poison in their track. And accordingly few gentlemen will find the fact surprising That a rather small proportion of our garrison comes back!

It is filthy, it is foetid, it is sordid, it is squalid; If you tried it for a season, you would very soon repent; But the British trader likes it, and he finds a reason solid For the liking, in his profit at the rate of cent, per cent.

And to guard the British traders, gallant men and merry younkers, In their coats of blue and scarlet, still are stationed at the post, Whilst the migratory natives, who are known as "Tillie-bunkas," Grub up and down for ground-nuts and chaffer on the coast.

Furthermore, to help the trader in his laudable vocation, We have heaps of little treaties with a host of little kings, And, at times, the coloured caitiffs in their wild inebriation, Gather round us, little hornets, with uncomfortable stings.

To my tale:—The King of Barra had been getting rather "sarsy," In fact, for such an insect, he was coming it too strong, So we sent a small detachment—it was led by Colonel D'Arcy— To drive him from his capital of Tubabecolong!

Now on due investigation, when his land they had invaded, They learnt from information which was brought them by the guides That the worthy King of Barra had completely barracaded The spacious mud-construction where his majesty resides.

"At it, boys!" said Colonel D'Arcy, and himself was first to enter, And his fellows tried to follow with the customary cheers; Through the town he dashed impatient, but had scarcely reached the centre Ere he found the task before him was a task for pioneers.

For so strongly and so stoutly all the gates were palisaded, The supports could never enter if he did not clear a way:— But Sammy Hodge, perceiving how the foe might be "persuaded," Had certain special talents which he hastened to display.

Whilst the bullets, then, were flying, and the bayonets were glancing Whilst the whole affair in fury rather heightened than relaxed, With axe in hand, and silently, our pioneer advancing SMOTE THE GATE; AND BADE IT OPEN; AND IT DID—AS IT WAS AXED!

L'ENVOI.

Just a word of explanation, it may save us from a quarrel, I have really no intention—'twould be shameful if I had, Of preaching you a blatant, democratic kind of moral; For the "swell, you know," the D'Arcy, fought as bravely as the "cad!"

Yet I own that sometimes thinking how a courteous decoration May be won by shabby service or disreputable dodge, I regard with more than pleasure—with a sense of consolation— The Victoria Cross "For Valour" on the breast of Sammy Hodge!



THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

(October 25, 1857.)

BY R.T.S. LOWELL.

Oh! that last day in Lucknow fort! We knew that it was the last: That the enemy's mines had crept surely in, And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death; And the men and we all work'd on: It was one day more, of smoke and roar, And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife, A fair young gentle thing, Wasted with fever in the siege, And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid, And I took her head on my knee: "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, "Oh! please then waken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor In the flecking of wood-bine shade, When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, And the mother's wheel is stay'd.

It was smoke and roar, and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death: But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, Seem'd scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep, and I had my dream, Of an English village-lane, And wall and garden;—a sudden scream Brought me back to the roar again.

Then Jessie Brown stood listening, And then a broad gladness broke All over her face, and she took my hand And drew me near and spoke:

"The Highlanders! Oh! dinna ye hear The slogan far awa— The McGregor's? Ah! I ken it weel; It's the grandest o' them a'.

"God bless thae bonny Highlanders! We're saved! we're saved!" she cried: And fell on her knees, and thanks to God Pour'd forth, like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men: And they started, for they were there to die: Was life so near them then?

They listen'd, for life: and the rattling fire Far off, and the far-off roar Were all:—and the colonel shook his head, And they turn'd to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said—"That slogan's dune; But can ye no hear them, noo,— The Campbells are comin'? It's no a dream; Our succours hae broken through!"

We heard the roar and the rattle afar But the pipes we could not hear; So the men plied their work of hopeless war, And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it must be heard,— A shrilling, ceaseless sound: It was no noise of the strife afar, Or the sappers underground.

It was the pipes of the Highlanders, And now they play'd "Auld Lang Syne:" It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line.

And they wept and shook one another's hands, And the women sobb'd in a crowd: And every one knelt down where we stood, And we all thank'd God aloud.

That happy day when we welcomed them, Our men put Jessie first; And the General took her hand, and cheers From the men, like a volley, burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'd Marching round and round our line; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, For the pipes play'd "Auld Lang Syne."



A BALLAD OF WAR.

BY MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY.

(By permission of Messrs. Isbister & Co.)

"Oh! were you at war in the red Eastern land? What did you hear, and what did you see? Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand? Sent he, by you, any dear word to me?"

"I come from red war, in that dire Eastern land; Three deeds saw I done one might well die to see; But I know not your son with his sword in his hand; If you would hear of him, paint him to me."

"Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May!" "'Tis not a gentle place where I have been." "Oh, he has a smile like the outbreak of day!" "Where men are dying fast, smiles are not seen."

"Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done. Deeds of chief honour, you said you saw three: You said you saw three—I am sure he did one. My heart shall discern him, and cry, 'This is he!'"

"I saw a man scaling a tower of despair, And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud." "That was my son! Had he streams of fair hair?" "Nay; it was black as the blackest night-cloud."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the fortress was won, And they said it was grand for a man to die so." "Alas for his mother! He was not my son. Was there no fair-hair'd soldier who humbled the foe?"

"I saw a man charging in front of his rank, Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die: Straight as an arrow hurled into the flank Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the battle was won, And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air. Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son; Worn was his forehead, and gray was his hair."

"Oh! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose; I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heard Two legends of fame from the land of our foes; But you said there were three; you must tell me the third."

"I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly In a battery's face; but it was not to slay: A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die, With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay.

"He carried the boy like a babe through the rain, The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell; And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain, Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but he rescued the boy. Such a death is more noble than life (so they said). He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy, And his name"—"Speak it not! 'Tis my son! He is dead!

"Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan tree, Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam! And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me, For I shall be ready before he comes home.

"And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath, And a tale to touch hearts through the slow-spreading years— How he died his noble and beautiful death, And his mother who longed for him, died of her tears.

"But what is this face shining in at the door, With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair? Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly shore? Do not go back alone—let me follow you there!"

"Oh! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain; I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer. Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain, And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair!"



THE ALMA.

(September 20, 1854.) BY RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be, Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea: Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known— Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown. In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name, And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame. Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine, Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine, Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head, Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead. Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say— When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away— "He has pass'd from, us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side." Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose, Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old, Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold; And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done, By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won. Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free— Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.



AFTER ALMA,

(September 20, 1854.)

BY GERALD MASSEY.

Our old War-banners on the wind Were waving merrily o'er them; The hope of half the world behind— The sullen Foe before them! They trod their march of battle, bold As death-devoted freemen; Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old, Or Rome's immortal Three Men. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow. But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

With towering heart and lightsome feet They went to their high places; The fiery valour at white heat Was kindled in their faces! Magnificent in battle-robe, And radiant, as from star-lands, That spirit shone which girds our globe With glory, as with garlands! Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

They saw the Angel Iris o'er Their deluge of grim fire; And with their life's last tide they bore The Ark of Freedom higher! And grander 'tis i' the dash of death To ride on battle's billows, When Victory's kisses take the breath, Than sink on balmiest pillows. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

Brave hearts, with noble feelings flushed; In valour's ruddy riot But yesterday! how are ye hushed Beneath the smile of quiet! For us they poured their blood like wine, From life's ripe-gathered clusters; And far through History's night shall shine Their deeds with starriest lustres. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

We laid them not in churchyard home, Beneath our darling daisies: Where to their grave-mounds Love might come, And sit and sing their praises. But soothly sweet shall be their rest Where Victory's hands have crowned them To Earth our Mother's bosom pressed, And Heaven's arms around them. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

Yes, there they lie 'neath Alma's sod, On pillows dark and gory— As brave a host as ever trod Old England's path to glory. With head to home and face to sky, And feet the tyrant spurning, So grand they look, so proud they lie, We weep for glorious yearning. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

They in life's outer circle sleep, As each in death stood sentry! And like our England's dead still keep Their watch for kin and country. Up Alma, in their red footfalls, Comes Freedom's dawn victorious, Such graves are courts to festal halls! They banquet with the Glorious. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore, And bore our shield's great burden, The nameless Heroes of the Poor, They all shall have their guerdon. In silent eloquence, each life The Earth holds up to heaven, And Britain gives for child and wife As those brave hearts have given. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

The Spirits of our Fathers still Stand up in battle by us, And, in our need, on Alma hill, The Lord of Hosts was nigh us. Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup, 'Tis an exultant story, How England's Chosen Ones went up Red Alma's hill to glory. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?



BALACLAVA.

(October 25, 1854.) THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade, Charge for the guns!" he said. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd; Plunged in the battery smoke Right thro' the line they broke, Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not— Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade? O, the wild charge they made. All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!



AFTER BALACLAVA,

BY JAMES WILLIAMS.

The fierce wild charge was over; back to old England's shore Were borne her gallant troopers, who ne'er would battle more; In hospital at Chatham, by Medway's banks they lay, Dragoon, hussar, and lancer, survivors of the fray.

One day there came a message—'twas like a golden ray— "Victoria, Britain's noble Queen, will visit you to-day;" It lighted up each visage, it acted like a spell, On Britain's wounded heroes, who'd fought for her so well.

One soldier lay among them, fast fading was his life, A lancer from the border, from the good old county Fife; Already was death's icy grasp upon his honest brow, When through the ward was passed the word, "The Queen is coming now!"

The dying Scottish laddie, with hand raised to his head, Saluted Britain's Sovereign, and with an effort said— "And may it please your Majesty, I'm noo aboot to dee, I'd like to rest wi' mither, beneath the auld raugh tree.

"But weel I ken, your Majesty, it canna, mauna be, Yet, God be thanked, I might hae slept wi' ithers o'er the sea, 'Neath Balaclava's crimsoned sward, where many a comrade fell, But now I'll rest on Medway's bank, in sound of Christian bell."

She held a bouquet in her hand, and from it then she chose For the dying soldier laddie a lovely snow-white rose; And when the lad they buried, clasped in his hand was seen The simple little snowy flower, the gift of Britain's Queen.



INKERMAN.

(November 5, 1854.)

BY GERALD MASSEY.

'Twas midnight ere our guns' loud laugh at their wild work did cease, And by the smouldering fires of war we lit the pipe of peace. At four a burst of bells went up through Night's cathedral dark, It seemed so like our Sabbath chimes, we could but wake, and hark! So like the bells that call to prayer in the dear land far away; Their music floated on the air, and kissed us—to betray. Our camp lay on the rainy hill, all silent as a cloud, Its very heart of life stood still i' the mist that brought its shroud; For Death was walking in the dark, and smiled his smile to see How all was ranged and ready for a sumptuous jubilee.

O wily are the Russians, and they came up through the mirk— Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk! While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept, Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and up the hill-side crept. In the Ruins of the Valley do the birds of carnage stir? A creaking in the gloom like wheels! feet trample—bullets whir— By God! the Foe is on us! Now the bugles with a start Thrill—like the cry of a wronged queen—to the red roots of the heart; And long and loud the wild war-drums with throbbing triumph roll— A sound to set the blood on fire, and warm the shivering soul.

The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh, and true! No weak blood curdled white i' the face, no valour turned to dew. Majestic as a God defied, arose our little host— All for the peak of peril pushed—each for the fieriest post! Thorough mist, and thorough mire, and o'er the hill brow scowling grim, As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful dream. No sun! but none is needed,—men can feel their way to fight, The lust of battle in their face—eyes filled with fiery light; And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark earth lay The prophesying morning-red of a great and glorious day.

As bridegroom leaves his wedded bride in gentle slumbers sealed, Our England slumbered in the West, when her warriors went afield. We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal blows, As all along our leagured line the roar of battle rose. Her banners waved like blessing hands, and we felt it was the hour For a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat of Russian power, And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried to kill, The lion of Old England leapt in lightnings from the hill. And there he stood superb, through all that Sabbath of the Sword, And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters, horde on horde.

All Hell seemed bursting on us, as the yelling legions came— The cannon's tongues of quick red fire licked all the hills aflame! Mad whistling shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish glee went past, Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the battle-blast; And through the air, and round the hills, there ran a wrack sublime As though Eternity were crashing on the shores of Time. On bayonets and swords the smile of conscious victory shone, As down to death we dashed the Rebels plucking at our Throne. On, on they came with face of flame, and storm of shot and shell— Up! up! like heaven-sealers, and we hurled them back to Hell.

Like the old sea, white-lipped with rage, they dash and foam despair On ranks of rock, ah! what a prize for the wrecker death was there! But as 'twere River Pleasaunce, did our fellows take that flood, A royal throbbing in the pulse that beat voluptuous blood: The Guards went down to the fight in gray that's growing gory red— See! save them, they're surrounded! leap your ramparts of the dead, And back the desperate battle, for there is but one short stride Between the Russ and victory! One more tug, you true and tried— The Red-Caps crest the hill! with bloody spur, ride, Bosquet, ride! Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour's burning tide.

Now, God for Merrie England cry! Hurrah for France the Grand! We charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand to hand! He caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma's fray Of the Destroying Angel that shall blast his strength to-day. We shout and charge together, and again, again, again Our plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with the slain. Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent heat; Against our side its breaking heart doth faint and fainter beat. And O, but 'tis a gallant show, and a merry march, as thus We sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious!

From morn till night we fought our fight, and at the set of sun Stood conquerors on Inkerman—our Soldiers' Battle won. That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp of golden grain! That night the ruddy sheaves were reaped upon the misty plain! We cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the shocks of slain: The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reeled Death's harvest-wain. We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that night, And robes of Immortality our ragged braves bedight! They fell in boyhood's comely bloom, and bravery's lusty pride; But they made their bed o' the foemen dead, ere they lay down and died.

We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold and gray, And thought of those who ranked with us in battle's rough array, Our comrades of the morn who came no more from that fell fray! The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells far away— The eyes of lurking Death that in Life's crimson bubbles play— The stern white faces of the dead that on the dark ground lay Like statues of old heroes, cut in precious human clay— Some with a smile as life had stopped to music proudly gay— The household gods of many a heart all dark and dumb to-day! And hard hot eyes grew ripe for tears, and hearts sank down to pray.

From alien lands, and dungeon-grates, how eyes will strain to mark This waving Sword of Freedom burn and beckon through the dark! The martyrs stir in their red graves, the rusted armour rings Adown the long aisles of the dead, where lie the warrior kings. To the proud Mother England came the radiant victory With laurels red, and a bitter cup like some last agony. She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her laurelled brow: Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she looked so noble now. The dim divine of distance died—the purpled past grew wan, As came that crowning glory o'er the heights of Inkerman.



KILLED IN ACTION.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

For him no words, the best were only weak And could not say what love desires to speak; For him no praise, no prizes did he ask, To serve his Queen was a sufficient task; For him no show, no idle tears be shed, No fading laurels on that lowly head. He fought for England, and for her he fell And did his duty then—and it is well.

He deemed it but a little act, to give His life and all, if Freedom thus might live; And though he found the shock of battle rough, He might not flinch—the glory was enough. What if he broke, who would not tamely bend? He strove for us, and craved no other end. Nor should we ring too long his dying knell, He has a soldier's crown—and it is well.

For him the tomb that is a nation's heart, And doth endure when crumbling stones depart; To him the honour, like the brave to stand, With those who were in danger our right hand; For him no empty epitaph of dust, But that he kept for England safe her trust. He is not dead; but, over war's loud swell, Heard he his Captain's call—and it is well.



AT THE BREACH.

BY SARAH WILLIAMS.

All over for me The struggle and possible glory! All swept past, In the rush of my own brigade. Will charges instead, And fills up my place in the story; Well,—'tis well, By the merry old games we played.

There's a fellow asleep, the lout! in the shade of the hillock yonder; What a dog it must be to drowse in the midst of a time like this! Why, the horses might neigh contempt at him; what is he like, I wonder? If the smoke would but clear away, I have strength in me yet to hiss.

Will, comrade and friend, We parted in hurry of battle; All I heard Was your sonorous, "Up, my men!" Soon conquering paeans Shall cover the cannonade's rattle; Then, home bells, Will you think of me sometimes, then?

How that rascal enjoys his snooze! Would he wake to the touch of powder? A reveille of broken bones, or a prick of a sword might do. "Hai, man! the general wants you;" if I could but for once call louder: There is something infectious here, for my eyelids are dropping too.

Will, can you recall The time we were lost on the Bright Down? Coming home late in the day, As Susie was kneeling to pray, Little blue eyes and white night-gown, Saying, "Our Father, who art,— Art what?" so she stayed with a start. "In Heaven," your mother said softly. And Susie sighed, "So far away!"— 'Tis nearer, Will, now, to us all.

It is strange how that fellow sleeps! stranger still that his sleep should haunt me; If I could but command his face, to make sure of the lesser ill: I will crawl to his side and see, for what should there be to daunt me? What there! what there! Holy Father in Heaven, not Will!

Will, dead Will! Lying here, I could not feel you! Will, brave Will! Oh, alas, for the noble end! Will, dear Will! Since no love nor remorse could heal you, Will, good Will! Let me die on your breast, old friend!



SANTA FILOMENA.

(FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.)

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[It was the practice of Florence Nightingale to pay a last visit to the wards of the military hospital in the Crimea after the doctors and the other nurses had retired for the night. Bearing a light in her hand she passed from bed to bed and from ward to ward, until she became known as "the Lady with the Lamp."]

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares, Out of all meaner cares.

Honour to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow, Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,—

The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom And flit from room to room.

And slow as in a dream of bliss The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent.

On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past.

A lady with a lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore St. Filomena bore.



THE LITTLE HATCHET STORY.

WITH OCCASIONAL QUESTIONS BY A FIVE-YEAR-OLD HEARER.

BY BURDETTE.

Mrs. Caruthers had left her infant prodigy, Clarence, in our care for a little while that she might not be distracted by his innocent prattle while selecting the material for a new gown.

He was a bright, intelligent boy, of five summers, with a commendable thirst for knowledge, and a praiseworthy desire to understand what was said to him.

We had described many deep and mysterious things to him, and to escape the possibility of still more puzzling questions, offered to tell him a story—the story—the story of George Washington and his little hatchet. After a few necessary preliminaries we proceeded.

"Well, one day, George's father—"

"George who?" asked Clarence.

"George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father—"

"Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest.

"George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One day George Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a—"

"Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. So we went on.

"George Washington."

"Who gave him the little hatchet?"

"His father. And his father—"

"Whose father?"

"George Washington's."

"Oh!"

"Yes, George Washington's. And his father told him—"

"Told who?"

"Told George."

"Oh, yes, George."

And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said:

"And he was told—"

"George told him?" queried Clarence.

"No, his father told George—"

"Oh!"

"Yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet—"

"Who must be careful?"

"George must."

"Oh!"

"Yes, must be careful with his hatchet—"

"What hatchet?"

"Why, George's."

"Oh!"

"Careful with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out of doors all night. So George went around cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. At last he came to a splendid apple tree, his father's favourite apple tree, and cut it down—"

"Who cut it down?"

"George did."

"Oh!"

"But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and—"

"Saw the hatchet?"

"No, saw the apple tree. And he said, 'Who has cut down my favourite apple tree?'"

"What apple tree?"

"George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it, and—"

"Anything about what?"

"The apple tree."

"Oh!"

"And George came up and heard them talking about it—"

"Heard who talking about it?"

"Heard his father and the men."

"What were they talking about?"

"About the apple tree."

"What apple tree?"

"The favourite tree that George had cut down."

"George who?"

"George Washington."

"Oh!"

"So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he—"

"What did he cut it down for?"

"Just to try his little hatchet."

"Whose little hatchet?"

"Why, his own, the one his father gave him—"

"Gave who?"

"Why, George Washington."

"Oh!"

"So George came up, and he said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I—"

"Who couldn't tell a lie?"

"George couldn't."

"Oh, George; oh, yes."

"It was I who cut down your apple tree; I did—"

"His father did?"

"No, no; it was George said this."

"Said he cut his father?"

"No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree."

"George's apple tree?"

"No, no; his father's."

"Oh!"

"He said—"

"His father said?"

"No, no, no; George said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.' And his father said, 'Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand apple trees than have you tell a lie.'"

"George did?"

"No, his father said that."

"Said he'd rather have a thousand apple trees?"

"No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple trees than—"

"Said he'd rather George would?"

"No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie."

"Oh, George would rather have his father lie?"

We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl.

And as Clarence Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree.



THE LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD."

(February 25, 1852.)

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

[The Birkenhead was lost off the coast of Africa by striking on a hidden rock, when the soldiers on board sacrificed themselves, in order that the boats might be left free for the women and children.]

Right on our flank the sun was dropping down; The deep sea heaved around in bright repose; When, like the wild shriek from some captured town, A cry of women rose.

The stout ship Birkenhead lay hard and fast, Caught without hope upon a hidden rock; Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when thro' them passed The spirit of that shock.

And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks In danger's hour, before the rush of steel, Drifted away, disorderly, the planks From underneath her keel.

So calm the air—so calm and still the flood, That low down in its blue translucent glass We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood, Pass slowly, then repass.

They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey! The sea turned one clear smile! Like things asleep Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay, As quiet as the deep.

Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck, Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply, Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck Form'd us in line to die.

To die!—'twas hard, while the sleek ocean glow'd Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers: "All to the Boats!" cried one—he was, thank God, No officer of ours.

Our English hearts beat true—we would not stir: That base appeal we heard, but heeded not: On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir, To keep without a spot.

They shall not say in England, that we fought With shameful strength, unhonour'd life to seek; Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought By trampling down the weak.

So we made the women with their children go, The oars ply back again, and yet again; Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low, Still, under steadfast men.

——What follows, why recall?—The brave who died, Died without flinching in the bloody surf, They sleep as well beneath that purple tide As others under turf.

They sleep as well! and, roused from their wild grave, Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again, Joint heirs with Christ, because they bled to save His weak ones, not in vain.

If that day's work no clasp or medal mark, If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press, Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower or Park, This feel we none the less:

That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill, Those also left His martyrs in the bay, Though not by siege, though not in battle, still Full well had earned their pay.



ELIHU.

BY ALICE CAREY.

"O sailor, tell me, tell me true, Is my little lad—my Elihu— A-sailing in your ship?" The sailor's eyes were dimmed with dew. "Your little lad? Your Elihu?" He said with trembling lip; "What little lad—what ship?"

What little lad?—as if there could be Another such a one as he! "What little lad, do you say? Why, Elihu, that took to the sea The moment I put him off my knee. It was just the other day The Grey Swan sailed away."

The other day? The sailor's eyes Stood wide open with surprise. "The other day?—the Swan?" His heart began in his throat to rise. "Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on." "And so your lad is gone!"

"Gone with the Swan." "And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand For a month, and never stir?" "Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, The wild sea kissing her— A sight to remember, sir."

"But, my good mother, do you know, All this was twenty years ago? I stood on the Grey Swan's deck, And to that lad I saw you throw— Taking it off, as it might be so— The kerchief from your neck;" "Ay, and he'll bring it back."

"And did the little lawless lad, That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the Grey Swan's crew?" "Lawless! the man is going mad; The best boy ever mother had; Be sure, he sailed with the crew— What would you have him do?"

"And he has never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign, To say he was alive?" "Hold—if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides, he may be in the brine; And could he write from the grave? Tut, man! what would you have?"

"Gone twenty years! a long, long cruise; 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you you can Forgive him?" "Miserable man! You're mad as the sea; you rave— What have I to forgive?"

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild: "My God!—my Father!—is it true? My little lad—my Elihu? And is it?—is it?—is it you? My blessed boy—my child— My dead—my living child!"



THE LAST OF THE "EURYDICE."

BY SIR NOEL PATON.

(Sunday, March 24, 1878.)

The training ship Eurydice— As tight a craft, I ween, As ever bore brave men who loved Their country and their queen— Built when a ship, sir, was a ship, And not a steam-machine.

Six months or more she had been out, Cruising the Indian Sea; And now, with all her canvas bent— A fresh breeze blowing free— Up Channel in her pride she came, The brave Eurydice.

On Saturday it was we saw The English cliffs appear, And fore and aft from man and boy Uprang one mighty cheer; While many a rough-and-ready hand Dashed off the gathering tear.

We saw the heads of Dorset rise Fair in the Sabbath sun. We marked each hamlet gleaming white, The church spires one by one. We thought we heard the church bells ring To hail our voyage done!

"Only an hour from Spithead, lads: Only an hour from home!" So sang the captain's cheery voice As we spurned the ebbing foam; And each young sea-dog's heart sang back, "Only an hour from home!"

No warning ripple crisped the wave, To tell of danger nigh; Nor looming rack, nor driving scud; From out a smiling sky, With sound as of the tramp of doom, The squall broke suddenly,

A hurricane of wind and snow From off the Shanklin shore. It caught us in its blinding whirl One instant, and no more;— For ere we dreamt of trouble near, All earthly hope was o'er.

No time to shorten sail—no time To change the vessel's course; The storm had caught her crowded masts With swift, resistless force. Only one shrill, despairing cry Rose o'er the tumult hoarse,

And broadside the great ship went down Amid the swirling foam; And with her nigh four hundred men Went down in sight of home (Fletcher and I alone were saved) Only an hour from home!



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

BY H.W. LONGFELLOW.

(September 13, 1852.)

A mist was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover, Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well.

And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure Awaken with its call!

No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal Be seen upon his post!

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled.

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew and deeper The silence and the gloom.

He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar; Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble, And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead: Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead.



ENGLAND'S DEAD.

BY FELICIA HEMANS.

Son of the ocean isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free, the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'erswayed, With fearful power the noon-day reigns, And the palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun From Heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done! There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far, by Ganges' banks at night, Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone;— There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods The western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia's woods, The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done? There slumber England's dead.

The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storms rage on! Let the forest-wreaths be shed: For the Roncesvalles' field is won,— There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose 'Tis a dark and dreadful hour When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern-night-clouds lour;

But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done, Even there sleep England's dead.

The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles? The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.



MEHRAB KHAN.

BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.

["Mehrab Khan died, as he said he would, sword in hand, at the door of his own Zenana."—Capture of Kelat.]

(1839.)

With all his fearless chiefs around The Moslem leader stood forlorn, And heard at intervals the sound Of drums athwart the desert borne. To him a sign of fate, they told That Britain in her wrath was nigh, And his great heart its powers unrolled In steadiness of will to die.

"Ye come, in your mechanic force, A soulless mass of strength and skill— Ye come, resistless in your course, What matters it?—'Tis but to kill. A serpent in the bath, a gust Of venomed breezes through the door, Have power to give us back to dust— Has all your grasping empire more?

"Your thousand ships upon the sea, Your guns and bristling squares by land, Are means of death—and so may be A dagger in a damsel's hand. Put forth the might you boast, and try If it can shake my seated will; By knowing when and how to die, I can escape, and scorn you still.

"The noble heart, as from a tower, Looks down on life that wears a stain; He lives too long who lives an hour Beneath the clanking of a chain. I breathe my spirit on my sword, I leave a name to honour known, And perish, to the last the lord Of all that man can call his own."

Such was the mountain leader's speech; Say ye, who tell the bloody tale, When havoc smote the howling breach, Then did the noble savage quail? No—when through dust, and steel, and flame, Hot streams of blood, and smothering smoke, True as an arrow to its aim, The meteor-flag of England broke;

And volley after volley threw A storm of ruin, crushing all, Still cheering on a faithful few, He would not yield his father's hall. At his yet unpolluted door He stood, a lion-hearted man, And died, A FREEMAN STILL, before The merchant thieves of Frangistan.



THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR.

BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.

[Told to the author by the late Sir Charles James Napier.]

Eleven men of England A breast-work charged in vain; Eleven men of England Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. Slain; but of foes that guarded Their rock-built fortress well, Some twenty had been mastered, When the last soldier fell.

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way Across the sand-waves of the desert sea, Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay, Lord of their wild Truckee.

These missed the glen to which their steps were bent, Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard, And, in that glorious error, calmly went To death without a word.

The robber chief mused deeply, Above those daring dead, "Bring here," at length he shouted, "Bring quick, the battle thread. Let Eblis blast for ever Their souls, if Allah will: But we must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill.

"Before the Ghiznee tiger Leapt forth to burn and slay; Before the holy Prophet Taught our grim tribes to pray; Before Secunder's lances Pierced through each Indian glen; The mountain laws of honour Were framed for fearless men.

"Still when a chief dies bravely, We bind with green one wrist— Green for the brave, for heroes One crimson thread we twist. Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen, For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting colour, The green one, or the red?"

"Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear Their green reward," each noble savage said; "To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, Who dares deny the red?"

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more the chief gazed keenly Down on those daring dead; From his good sword their heart's blood Crept to that crimson thread. Once more he cried, "The judgment, Good friends, is wise and true, But though the red be given, Have we not more to do?

"These were not stirred by anger, Nor yet by lust made bold; Renown they thought above them, Nor did they look for gold. To them their leader's signal Was as the voice of God: Unmoved, and uncomplaining, The path it showed they trod.

"As, without sound or struggle, The stars unhurrying march, Where Allah's finger guides them, Through yonder purple arch. These Franks, sublimely silent, Without a quickened breath, Went, in the strength of duty, Straight to their goal of death.

"If I were now to ask you To name our bravest man, Ye all at once would answer, They called him Mehrab Khan. He sleeps among his fathers, Dear to our native land, With the bright mark he bled for Firm round his faithful hand.

"The songs they sing of Roostrum Fill all the past with light; If truth be in their music, He was a noble knight. But were those heroes living, And strong for battle still, Would Mehrab Khan or Roostrum Have climbed, like these, the Hill?"

And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Roostrum lied, his forfeit life to save, Which these had never done."

"Enough!" he shouted fiercely; "Doomed though they be to hell, Bind fast the crimson trophy Round both wrists—bind it well. Who knows but that great Allah May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven, To the fiends' flaming den?"

Then all those gallant robbers Shouted a stern "Amen!". They raised the slaughtered sergeant, They raised his mangled ten. And when we found their bodies Left bleaching in the wind, Around both wrists in glory That crimson thread was twined.

Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core, Rung like an echo to that knightly deed; He bade its memory live for evermore, That those who run may read.



THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

["Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the Kotow. The Sikhs obeyed, but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill."—Times.]

Last night among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore; A drunken private of the Buffs Who never looked before. To-day beneath the foeman's frown He stands in Elgin's place Ambassador from Britain's crown, And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, A heart with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord or axe or flame; He only knows that not through him Shall England come to shame.

For Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd Like dreams, to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleam'd One sheet of living snow; The smoke above his father's door, In grey, soft eddyings hung: Must he then watch it rise no more Doom'd by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel He put the vision by. Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed; Vain, those all-shattering guns; Unless proud England keep, untamed, The strong heart of her sons. So, let his name through Europe ring— A man of mean estate, Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great.



A FISHERMAN'S SONG.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Hurrah! the craft is dashing Athwart the briny sea; Hurrah! the wind is lashing The white sails merrily; The sun is shining overhead, The rough sea heaves below; We sail with every canvas spread, Yo ho! my lads, yo ho!

Simple is our vocation, We seek no hostile strife; But 'mid the storm's vexation We succour human life; O, simple are our pleasures, We crave no miser's hoard, But haul the great sea's treasures To spread a frugal board.

But if at usurpation We needs must strike a blow, Our hardy avocation Shall fit us for the foe; Then let the despot's strength compete Upon the open sea, And on the proudest of his fleet Our flag shall flutter free.



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

BY LORD BYRON.

Stop!—for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so. As the ground was before, thus let it be; How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?...

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;— But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet— But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is! it is!—the cannon's opening roar!

Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings; such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated! Who would guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star: While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips—"The foe! they come, they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose— The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard—and heard too have her Saxon foes— How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass Grieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves— Over the unreturning brave—alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal sound of strife; The morn the marshalling of arms; the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent!



THE LAY OF THE BRAVE CAMERON.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

At Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high, Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye, Eager to leap as a mettlesome hound, Into the fray with a plunge and a bound, But Wellington, lord of the cool command, Held the reins with a steady hand, Saying, "Cameron, wait, you'll soon have enough. Give the Frenchmen a taste of your stuff, When the Cameron men are wanted."

Now hotter and hotter the battle grew, With tramp and rattle, and wild halloo, And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery flood, Right on the ditch where Cameron stood. Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stance On his captain brave a lightning glance, Saying, "Cameron, now have at them, boy, Take care of the road to Charleroi, Where the Cameron men are wanted."

Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bow Into the midst of the plunging foe, And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent, Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current; And he fell the first in the fervid fray, Where a deathful shot had shove its way, But his men pushed on where the work was rough, Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their stuff, Where the Cameron men were wanted.

'Brave Cameron, then, front the battle's roar His foster-brother stoutly bore, His foster-brother with service true, Back to the village of Waterloo. And they laid him on the soft green sod, And he breathed his spirit there to God, But not till he heard the loud hurrah Of victory billowed from Quatre Bras, Where the Cameron men were wanted.

By the road to Ghent they buried him then, This noble chief of the Cameron men, And not an eye was tearless seen That day beside the alley, green: Wellington wept—the iron man! And from every eye in the Cameron clan The big round drop in bitterness fell, As with the pipes he loved so well His funeral wail they chanted.

And now he sleeps (for they bore him home, When the war was done across the foam), Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben, With his sires, the pride of the Cameron men. Three thousand Highlandmen stood round, As they laid him to rest in his native ground; The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed, Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never failed, Where a Cameron man was wanted.



A SONG FOR STOUT WORKERS.

BY JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

Onward, brave men, onward go, Place is none for rest below; He who laggeth faints and fails. He who presses on prevails!

Monks may nurse their mouldy moods Caged in musty solitudes; Men beneath the breezy sky March to conquer or to die!

Work and live—this only charm Warms the blood and nerves the arm, As the stout pine stronger grows By each gusty blast that blows.

On high throne or lonely sod, Fellow-workers we with God; Then most like to Him when we March through toil to victory.

If there be who sob and sigh. Let them sleep or let them die; While we live we strain and strive, Working most when most alive!

Where the fairest blossom grew, There the spade had most to do; Hearts that bravely serve the Lord, Like St. Paul, must wear the sword!

Onward, brothers, onward go! Face to face to find the foe! Words are weak, and wishing fails, But the well-aimed blow prevails!



AT THE BURIAL OF A VETERAN.

"Hodie tibi, cras mihii."

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Yours to-day and ours to-morrow, Hither, comrade, hence to go; Yours the joy and ours the sorrow, Yours the weal and ours the woe.

What the profit of the stronger? Life is loss and death is gain; Though we live a little longer, Longer life is longer pain.

Which the better for the weary— Longer travel? Longer rest? Death is peace, and life is dreary: He must die who would be blest.

You have passed across the borders, Death has led you safely home; We are standing, waiting orders, Ready for the word to come.

Empty-handed, empty-hearted, All we love have gone before, And since they have all departed, We are loveless evermore.

Yours to-day and ours to-morrow, Hither, comrade, hence to go; Yours the joy and ours the sorrow, Yours the weal and ours the woe.



NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

I love contemplating—apart From all his homicidal glory— The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's story.

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne, Armed in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.

They suffered him,—I know not how, Unprisoned on the shore to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain, half-way over, With envy—they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep, He saw one morning, dreaming, doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong day, laborious, lurking, Until he launched a tiny boat, By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond Description wretched: such a wherry, Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt-sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,— No sail—no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows.

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering. Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger, And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger.

"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned, Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad; "But,—absent years from one another,— Great was the longing that I had To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, "You've both my favour fairly won, A noble mother must have bred So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty, But never changed the coin and gift Of Buonaparte.



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

(January 16, 1809.)

BY REV. CHARLES WOLFE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampant we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our weary task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We Carved not a line and we raised not a stone. But left him alone in his glory.



AT TRAFALGAR.

(October 21, 1805.)

AN OLD MAN-O'-WARSMAN'S YARN.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

Ay, ay, good neighbours, I have seen Him! sure as God's my life; One of his chosen crew I've been, Haven't I, old good wife? God bless your dear eyes! didn't you vow To marry me any weather, If I came back with limbs enow To keep my soul together?

Brave as a lion was our Nel And gentle as a lamb: It warms my blood once more to tell The tale—gray as I am— It makes the old life in me climb, It sets my soul aswim; I live twice over every time That I can talk of him.

You should have seen him as he trod The deck, our joy, and pride; You should have seen him, like a god Of storm, his war-horse ride! You should have seen him as he stood Fighting for our good land, With all the iron of soul and blood Turned to a sword in hand.

Our best beloved of all the brave That ever for freedom fought; And all his wonders of the wave For Fatherland were wrought! He was the manner of man to show How victories may be won; So swift you scarcely saw the blow; You looked—the deed was done.

He sailed his ships for work; he bore His sword for battle-wear; His creed was "Best man to the fore"; And he was always there. Up any peak of peril where There was but room for one; The only thing he did not dare Was any death to shun.

The Nelson touch his men he taught, And his great stride to keep; His faithful fellows round him fought Ten thousand heroes deep. With a red pride of life, and hot For him, their blood ran free; They "minded not the showers of shot No more than peas," said he.

Napoleon saw our Sea-king thwart His landing on our Isle; He gnashed his teeth, he gnawed his heart At Nelson of the Nile, Who set his fleet in flames, to light The Lion to his prey, And lead Destruction through the night Upon his dreadful way.

Around the world he drove his game, And ran his glorious race; Nor rested till he hunted them From off the ocean's face; Like that old wardog who, till death, Clung to the vessel's side Till hands were lopped, then with his teeth He held on till he died.

Ay, he could do the deeds that set Old fighters' hearts afire; The edge of every spirit whet, And every arm inspire. Yet I have seen upon his face The tears that, as they roll, Show what a light of saintly grace May clothe a sailor's soul.

And when our darling went to meet Trafalgar's judgment day, The people knelt down in the street To bless him on his way. He felt the country of his love Watching him from afar; It saw him through the battle move; His heaven was in that star.

Magnificently glorious sight It was in that great dawn! Like one vast sapphire flashing light, The sea, just breathing shone. Their ships, fresh-painted, stood up tall And stately; ours were grim And weatherworn, but one and all In rare good fighting trim.

Our spirits were all flying light, And into battle sped, Straining for it on wings of might, With feet of springy tread; The light of battle on each face, Its lust in every eye; Our sailor blood at swiftest pace To catch the victory nigh.

His proudly wasted face, wave worn, Was loftily serene; I saw the brave bright spirit burn There, all too plainly seen; As though the sword this time was drawn Forever from the sheath; And when its work to-day was done, All would be dark in death.

His eye shone like a lamp of night Set in the porch of power; The deed unborn was burning bright Within him at that hour! His purpose, welded to white heat, Cried like some visible fate, "To-day we must not merely beat, We must annihilate."

He smiled to see the Frenchman show His reckoning for retreat, With Cadiz port on his lee bow, And held him then half beat. They flew no colours till we drew Them out to strike with there! Old Victory for a prize or two Had flags enough to spare.

Mast-high the famous signal ran; Breathless we caught each word: "England expects that every man Will do his duty." Lord, You should have seen our faces! heard Us cheering, row on row; Like men before some furnace stirred To a fiery fearful glow!

'Twas Collingwood our lee line led, And cut their centre through. "See how he goes in!" Nelson said, As his first broadside flew, And near four hundred foemen fall. Up went another cheer. "Ah! what would Nelson give," said Coll, "But to be with us here!"

We grimly kept our vanward path; Over us hummed their shot; But, silently, we reined our wrath, Held on and answered not, Till we could grip them face to face, And pound them for our own, Or hug them in a war-embrace, Till we or both went down.

How calm he was! when first he felt The sharp edge of that fight. Cabined with God alone he knelt; The prayer still lay in light Upon his face, that used to shine In battle—flash with life, As though the glorious blood ran wine, Dancing with that wild strife.

"Fight for us, Thou Almighty one! Give victory once again! And if I fall, Thy will be done. Amen, Amen, Amen!" With such a voice he bade good-bye; The mournfullest old smile wore: "Farewell! God bless you, Blackwood, I Shall never see you more."

And four hours after, he had done With winds and troubled foam: The Reaper was borne dead upon Our load of Harvest home— Not till he knew the Old Flag flew Alone on all the deep; Then said he, "Hardy, is that you? Kiss me." And fell asleep.

Well, 'twas his chosen death below The deck in triumph trod; 'Tis well. A sailor's soul should go From his good ship to God. He would have chosen death aboard, From all the crowns of rest; And burial with the Patriot sword Upon the Victor's breast.

"Not a great sinner." No, dear heart, God grant in our death pain, We may have played as well our part, And feel as free from stain. We see the spots on such a star, Because it burned so bright; But on the other side they are All lost in greater light.

And so he went upon his way, A higher deck to walk, Or sit in some eternal day And of the old time talk With sailors old, who, on that coast, Welcome the homeward bound, Where many a gallant soul we've lost And Franklin will be found.

Where amidst London's roar and moil That cross of peace upstands, Like Martyr with his heavenward smile, And flame-lit, lifted hands, There lies the dark and moulder'd dust; But that magnanimous And manly Seaman's soul, I trust, Lives on in some of us.



CAMPERDOWN.

(October 11, 1797.)

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

We were lying calm and peaceful as an infant lies asleep, Rocked in the mighty cradle of the ever-restless deep, Or like a lion resting ere he rises to the fray, With eyes half closed in slumber and half open for the prey. We had waited long, and restless was the spirit of the fleet, For the long-expected conquest and the long-delayed defeat, When, uprose the mists of morning, as a curtain rolls away, For the high heroic action of some old chivalric play. And athwart the sea to starboard waved the colours high and free Of the famous fighting squadron that usurped the loyal sea.

Quick the signal came for action, quick replied we with a cheer, For the friends at home behind us, and the foes before so near; Three times three the cheering sounded, and 'mid deafening hurrahs We sprang into position—five hundred lusty tars. And the cannons joined our shouting with a burly, booming cheer That aroused the hero's action, and awoke the coward's fear; And the lightning and the thunder gleamed and pealed athwart the scene, Till the noontide mist was greater than the morning mist had been, And the foeman and the stranger and the brother and the friend Were mingled in one seething mass the battle's end to end.

With broken spars and splintered bulks the decks were strewn anon, While the rigging, torn and tangled, hung the shattered yards upon; Like a cataract of fire outpoured the steady cannonade, Till the strongest almost wavered and the bravest were dismayed. Like an endless swarm of locusts sprang they up our vessel's side, And scaled her burning bulwarks or fell backward in the tide, 'Twas a fearful day of carnage, such as none had known before, In the fiercest naval battles of those gallant days of yore.

We had battled all the morning, 'mid the never-ceasing hail Of grape and spark and splinter, of cable shred, and sail; We had thrice received their onslaught, which we thrice had driven back, And were waiting, calm and ready, for the last forlorn attack; When a shout of exultation from out their ranks arose, A frenzied shout of triumph o'er their yet unconquered foes; For the stainless flag of England, that has braved a thousand years, Had been shot clean from the masthead; and they gave three hearty cheers, "A prize! a prize!" they shouted, from end to end the host, Till a broadside gave them answer, and for ever stilled their boast.

Then a fearful struggle followed, as, to desperation spurred, They sought in deed the triumph so falsely claimed in word. 'Twas the purpose of a moment, and the bravest of our tars Plunged headlong in the boiling surf, amid the broken spars; He snatched the shot-torn colours, and wound them round his arm, Then climbed upon the deck again, and there stood safe and calm; He paused but for a moment—it was no time to stay— Then he leaped into the rigging that had yet survived the fray; Higher yet he climbed and higher, till he gained a dizzy height, Then turned and paused a moment to look down upon the fight.

Whistled wild the shots around him, as a curling, smoky wreath Formed a cloudy shroud to hide him from the enemy beneath. Beat his heart with proud elation as he firmly fixed his stand, And again the colours floated as he held them in his hand. Then a pistol deftly wielded, 'mid the battle's ceaseless blast, Fastened there the colours firmly, as he nailed them to that mast; Then as if to yield him glory—the smoke-clouds cleared away— And we sent him up the loudest cheer that reach'd his ear that day, With new-born zeal and courage, dashing fiercely to the fight, To crown the day of battle with the triumph of the night.

'Tis a story oft repeated, 'tis a triumph often won, How a thousand hearts are strengthened by the bravery of one There was never dauntless courage of the loyal and the true That did not inspirit others unto deeds of daring too; There was never bright example, be the struggle what it might, That did not inflame the ardour of the others in the fight. Up, then, ye who would be heroes, and, before the strife is past, For the sake of those about you, "nail the colours to the mast!"

For the flag is ever flying, and it floats above the free, On island and on continent, and up and down the sea; And the conflict ever rages—there are many foes to fight— There are many ills to conquer, there are many wrongs to right, For the glory of the moment, for the triumph by-and-bye; For the love of truth and duty, up and dare, and do or die, And though fire and shot and whirlwind join to tear the standard down, Up and nail it to the masthead, as we did at Camperdown.



THE ARMADA.

BY LORD MACAULAY.

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise, I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great Fleet Invincible against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing-bark put out, to pry along the coast; And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.

With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums: The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace: And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield: So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! Ho! gunners! fire a loud salute! ho! gallants! draw your blades! Thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! Our glorious semper eadem! the banner of our pride!

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold— The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright, and busy as the day; For swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly war-flame spread— High on St. Michael's Mount it shone—it shone on Beachy Head: Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves; O'er Longleat's towers, or Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge—the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town; And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.

The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood-red light: The bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street:

And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went; And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent: Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang, they sprang from hill to hill; Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales; Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till, twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.



MR. BARKER'S PICTURE.

BY MAX ADELER.

"Your charge against Mr. Barker, the artist here," said the magistrate, "is assault and battery, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"And your name is——"

"Potts! I am art critic of the Weekly Spy."

"State your case."

"I called at Mr. Barker's studio upon his invitation to see his great picture, just finished, of 'George Washington cutting down the cherry-tree with his hatchet.' Mr. Barker was expecting to sell it to Congress for fifty thousand dollars. He asked me what I thought of it, and after I had pointed out his mistake in making the handle of the hatchet twice as thick as the tree, and in turning the head of the hatchet around, so that George was cutting the tree down with the hammer end, I asked him why he foreshortened George's leg so as to make it look as if his left foot was upon the mountain on the other side of the river."

"Did Mr. Barker take it kindly?" asked the justice.

"Well, he looked a little glum—that's all. And then when I asked him why he put a guinea-pig up in the tree, and why he painted the guinea-pig with horns, he said it was not a guinea-pig but a cow; and that it was not in the tree, but in the background. Then I said that, if I had been painting George Washington, I should not have given him the complexion of a salmon-brick, I should not have given him two thumbs on each hand, and I should have tried not to slue his right eye around so that he could see around the back of his head to his left ear. And Barker said, 'Oh, wouldn't you?' Sarcastic, your honour. And I said, 'No, I wouldn't'; and I wouldn't have painted oak-leaves on a cherry-tree; and I wouldn't have left the spectator in doubt as to whether the figure off by the woods was a factory chimney, or a steamboat, or George Washington's father taking a smoke."

"Which was it?" asked the magistrate.

"I don't know. Nobody will ever know. So Barker asked me what I'd advise him to do. And I told him I thought his best chance was to abandon the Washington idea, and to fix the thing up somehow to represent 'The Boy who stood on the Burning Deck.' I told him he might paint the grass red to represent the flames, and daub over the tree so's it would look like the mast, and pull George's foot to this side of the river so's it would rest somewhere on the burning deck, and maybe he might reconstruct the factory chimney, or whatever it was, and make it the captain, while he could arrange the guinea-pig to do for the captain's dog."

"Did he agree?"

"He said the idea didn't strike him. So then I suggested that he might turn it into Columbus discovering America. Let George stand for Columbus, and the tree be turned into a native, and the hatchet made to answer for a flag, while the mountain in the background would answer for the rolling billows of the ocean. He said he'd be hanged if it should. So I mentioned that it might perhaps pass for the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. Put George in black for the headsman, bend over the tree and put a frock on it for Mary, let the hatchet stand, and work in the guinea-pig and the factory chimney as mourners. Just as I had got the words out of my mouth, Barker knocked me clean through the picture. My head tore out Washington's near leg, and my right foot carried away about four miles of the river. We had it over and over on the floor for a while, and finally Barker whipped. I am going to take the law of him in the interests of justice and high art."

So Barker was bound over, and Mr. Potts went down to the office of the Spy to write up his criticism.



THE WOODEN LEG.

BY MAX ADELER.

"Mr. Brown, you don't want to buy a first-rate wooden leg, do you? I've got one that I've been wearing for two or three years, and I want to sell it. I'm hard up for money; and although I'm attached to that leg, I'm willing to part with it, so's I kin get the necessaries of life. Legs are all well enough; they are handy to have around the house, and all that; but a man must attend to his stomach, if he has to walk about on the small of his back. Now, I'm going to make you an offer. That leg is Fairchild's patent; steel-springs, india-rubber joints, elastic toes and everything, and it's in better order now than it was when I bought it. It'd be a comfort to any man. It's the most luxurious leg I ever came across. If bliss ever kin be reached by a man this side of the tomb, it belongs to the person that gets that leg on and feels the consciousness creeping over his soul that it is his. Consequently, I say that when I offer it to you I'm doing a personal favour; and I think I see you jump at the chance, and want to clinch the bargain before I mention—you'll hardly believe it, I know—that I'll actually knock that leg down to you at four hundred dollars. Four hundred, did I say? I meant six hundred; but let it stand. I never back out when I make an offer; but it's just throwing that leg away—it is, indeed."

"But I don't want an artificial leg," said Brown.

"The beautiful thing about the limb," said the stranger, pulling up his trousers and displaying the article, "is that it is reliable. You kin depend on it. It's always there. Some legs that I have seen were treacherous—most always some of the springs bursting out, or the joints working backwards, or the toes turning down and ketching in things. Regular frauds. But it's almost pathetic the way this leg goes on year in and year out, like an old faithful friend, never knowing an ache or a pain, no rheumatism, nor any such foolishness as that, but always good-natured and ready to go out of its way to oblige you. A. man feels like a man when he gets such a thing under him. Talk about your kings and emperors and millionaires, and all that sort of nonsense! Which of 'em's got a leg like that? Which of 'em kin unscrew his knee-pan, and look at the gum thingamajigs in his calf? Which of 'em kin leave his leg downstairs in the entry on the hat-rack, and go to bed with only one cold foot? Why, it's enough to make one of them monarchs sick to think of such a convenience. But they can't help it. There's only one man kin buy that leg, and that's you. I want you to have it so bad that I'll deed it to you for fifty dollars down. Awful, isn't it. Just throwing it away: but take it, take it, if it does make my heart bleed to see it go out of the family."

"Really, I have no use for such a thing," said Mr. Brown.

"You can't think," urged the stranger, "what a benediction a leg like this is in a family. When you don't want to walk with it, it comes into play for the children to ride horsey on; or you kin take it off and stir the fire with it in a way that would depress the spirits of a man with a real leg. It makes the most efficient potato-masher ever you saw. Work it from the second joint, and let the knee swing loose; you kin tack carpets perfectly splendid with the heel; and when a cat sees it coming at him from the winder, he just adjourns, sine die, and goes down off the fence screaming. Now, you're probably afeared of dogs. When you see one approaching, you always change your base. I don't blame you; I used to be that way before I lost my home-made leg. But you fix yourself with this artificial extremity, and then what do you care for dogs? If a million of 'em come at you, what's the odds? You merely stand still and smile, and throw out your spare leg, and let 'em chaw, let 'em fool with that as much as they've a mind to, and howl and carry on, for you don't care. An' that's the reason why I say that when I reflect on how imposing you'd be as the owner of such a leg, I feel like saying, that if you insist on offering only a dollar and a half for it, why, take it; it's yours. I'm not the kinder man to stand on trifles. I'll take it off and wrap it up in paper for you; shall I?"

"I'm sorry," said Brown, "but the fact is, I have no use for it. I've got two good legs already. If I ever lose one, why, maybe, then I'll——"

"I don't think you exactly catch my idea on the subject," said the stranger. "Now, any man kin have a meat-and-muscle leg; they're as common as dirt. It's disgusting how monotonous people are about such things. But I take you for a man who wants to be original. You have style about you. You go it alone, as it were. Now, if I had your peculiarities, do you know what I'd do? I'd get a leg snatched off some way, so's I could walk around on this one. Or, it you hate to go to the expense of amputation, why not get your pantaloons altered, and mount this beautiful work of art just as you stand? A centipede, a mere ridicklous insect, has half a bushel of legs, and why can't a man, the grandest creature on earth, own three? You go around this community on three legs, and your fortune's made. People will go wild over you as the three-legged grocer; the nation will glory in you; Europe will hear of you; you will be heard of from pole to pole. It'll build up your business. People'll flock from everywheres to see you, and you'll make your sugar and cheese and things fairly hum. Look at it as an advertisement! Look at it any way you please, and there's money in it—there's glory, there's immortality. Now, look at it that way; and if it strikes you, I tell you what I'll do: I'll actually swap that imperishable leg off to you for two pounds of water-crackers and a tin cupful of Jamaica rum. Is it a go?"

Then Brown weighed out the crackers, gave him a drink of rum, and told him if he would take them as a present and quit he would confer a favour. And he did. After emptying the crackers in his pockets, and smacking his lips over the rum, he went to the door, and as he opened it said,—

"Good-bye. But if you ever really do want a leg, Old Reliable is ready for you; it's yours. I consider that you've got a mortgage on it, and you kin foreclose at any time. I dedicate this leg to you. My will shall mention it; and if you don't need it when I die, I'm going to have it put in the savings bank to draw interest until you check it out."



THE ENCHANTED SHIRT.

BY COLONEL JOHN HAY.

The King was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And doctors came by the score, They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat,— He had passed his life in studious toil, And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble: If they recovered they paid him well; If they died their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." "Hang him up," roared the King in a gale— In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran— The King will be well if he sleeps one night In the Shirt of a Happy Man.

* * * * *

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man....

They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there! He whistled and sang, and laughed and rolled On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary courtiers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend! You seem to be happy to-day."

"O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has led us aright. I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it," said he, and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back."

* * * * *

Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay.



JIM BLUDSO.

BY COLONEL JOHN HAY.

Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Because he don't live, you see: Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks, The night of the Prairie Bell?

He weren't no saint—them engineers Is all pretty much alike— One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill And another one here, in Pike. A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row— But he never funked, and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had— To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the Pilot's bell; And if the Prairie Bell took fire— A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last— The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. And so come tearin' along that night— The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire burst out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For the wilier-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal, roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,— And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint—but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing— And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a going to fee too hard On a man that died for men.



FREEDOM.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave? If ye do not feel the chain, When it works a brother's pain, Are ye not base slaves indeed,— Slaves unworthy to be freed?

Women! who shall one day bear Sons to breathe New England air, If ye hear, without a blush, Deeds to make the roused blood rush Like red lava through your veins, For your sisters now in chains,— Answer! are ye fit to be Mothers of the brave and free?

Is true Freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And, with leathern hearts forget That we owe mankind a debt? No! true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And, with heart and hand, to be Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.



THE COORTIN'.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru' the winder; An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side, With half a cord o' wood in; There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, Ah' in amongst em rusted The ole queen's-arm that gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur; A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A1, Clean grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton, Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells— All is, he wouldn't love 'em.

But 'long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple; The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir: My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it.

That night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heerd a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-rasping on the scraper; All ways at once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' loitered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But her'n went pity Zekle.

An yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal—no—I come dasignin'—" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin."

To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebbe to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin;" Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" Thet last word prick'd him like a pin, An'—wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips, An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy; An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.



THE HERITAGE.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The Rich Man's Son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold; And he inherits soft white hands And tender flesh that fears the cold— Nor dares to wear a garment old: A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce could wish to hold in fee. The Rich Man's Son inherits cares: The bank may break—the factory burn; A breath may burst his bubble shares; And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn. The Rich Man's Son inherits wants: His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds, with brown arms bare— And wearies in his easy-chair.

What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art: A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things; A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labour sings! What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? A patience learnt of being poor; Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it: A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the Outcast bless his door.

Oh! Rich Man's Son, there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten soft white hands— This is the best crop from thy lands. A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.