CCCXVIII.

THE RECONSTRUCTION OF LOUISIANA.

Mr. President and Fellow-citizens—At the request of the Committee of Arrangements, I am present as a spectator, to witness the imposing and grand ceremonies of this interesting occasion, and reluctantly to express in words my great gratification at the progress that has been made in the restoration of Louisiana to the Union of States, and in the majestic evidence before me of the returning loyalty of its people. I have watched with the deepest interest the momentous events in the struggle through which we are passing, from its inception to the present hour. In common with the mass of my countrymen I have sorrowed at reverses, and rejoiced in victories. I have mourned over the heroes who have fallen on the field of battle—my brothers in blood, my brothers in arms—and have joined in the honors which a grateful people have showered upon the gallant spirits who upon the sea and upon the land have led our hosts to victory. They never can be forgotten. Day by day and hour by hour, I have observed the receding armies of the enemy, until more than half the territory covered by the shadow of the rebel flag at the beginning of the war, has fallen into the possession of the Government, and is covered by the Stars and Stripes—the emblem of Liberty, now and forever, here and everywhere.

We have, indeed, enough to rejoice our hearts in the progress of our armies, and to give joy to the festivities of this glad hour,—

"But much remains To conquer still. Peace hath her victories No less renowned than war."

In order to maintain the ground we have recovered with such terrible sacrifice of precious life, and to enable the gallant leaders and heroic men of our armies to retire to the walks of civil life again, it is necessary that civil institutions of government should be restablished, and a new, subdued, yet patriotic spirit, like that which held

"The helm of Rome, when robes, not arms, Repelled the fierce Epirote and the bold African,"

should animate our people and restore the pristine purity and power of the nation.

Louisiana has not been faithless to her duties, nor is she now, nor will she be in the future. Among the truest spirits in the hour of trial were her sons and her daughters. Among the bravest and truest upon the field of battle have been her volunteers. She was the first in this great revolution of ideas rather than arms, to organize her public schools upon a war footing, and infuse into the uncorrupted hearts of their pupils this new sentiment of nationality, by the daily repetition, with the morning prayers, of the magnificent anthems of American liberty. She was the first to institute the system of compensated labor, that makes the restoration of the institution of slavery on this continent impossible that compels us to prepare for the elevation of the oppressed race among us, and the ultimate recognition of all their rights. She is the first in this revolution of ideas to give to the social element of the people a national interest and a national spirit in the great drama of life through which we are passing. And here, to-day, with this splendid pageant—here, to-day, at the inauguration which consummates an election by the people of more than ordinary purity and of unrestricted freedom—here, to-day she is to recognize, as a national sentiment for the new age and the new history, the doctrine that Union AND Liberty, now and forever, must be, and will be, one and inseparable.

In proportion to the confidence with which the people of the American continent shall view the results of this day's history so will arise, in all parts of our land, a cry of joy as of a people liberated from the bondage of slavery and death. And from the hearthstone and the altar will arise the prayer of the good and wise, that this first gleam of light will prove a joyful harbinger of a perpetual day of peace, prosperity, and power. N. P. Banks.

CCCXIX.

THE BIBLE—ITS INFLUENCE.

This Book has taken such a hold on the world as no other. The literature of Greece, which goes up like incense from that land of temples and heroic deeds, has not half the influence of this Book from a nation alike despised in ancient and modern times. It is read of a Sunday in all the thirty thousand pulpits of our land. In all the temples of Christendom is its voice lifted up, week by week. The sun never sets on its gleaming page. It goes equally to the cottage of the plain man and the palace of the king. It is woven into the literature of the scholar, and colors the talk of the street. The bark of the merchant cannot sail the sea without it; no ship of war goes to the conflict but the Bible is there! It enters men's closets; mingles in all the grief and cheerfulness of life. The affianced maiden prays God in Scripture for strength in her new duties; men are married by Scripture. The Bible attends them in their sickness; when the fever of the world is on them, the aching head finds a softer pillow if such leaves lie underneath. The mariner, escaping from shipwreck, clutches this first of his treasures, and keeps it sacred to God. It goes with the peddler, in his crowded pack; cheers him at eventide, when he sits down dusty and fatigued; brightens the freshness of his morning face. It blesses us when we are born; gives names to half Christendom; rejoices with us; has sympathy for our mourning; tempers our grief to finer issues. It is the better part of our sermons. It lifts man above himself; our best of uttered prayers are its storied speech, wherewith our fathers and the patriarchs prayed.

The timid man, about awaking from this dream of life, looks through the glass of Scripture and his eye grows bright; he does not fear to stand alone, to tread the way unknown and distant, to take the death-angel by the hand, and bid farewell to wife, and babes, and home. Men rest on this their dearest hopes. It tells them of God, and of his blessed Son; of earthly duties and of heavenly rest. Foolish men find it the source of Plato's wisdom, and the science of Newton, and the art of Raphael; wicked men use it to rivet the fetters of the slave. Men who believe nothing else that is Spiritual, believe the Bible all through; without this they would not confess, say they, even that there was a God. T. Parker.

CCCXX.

THE BIBLE—ITS DEEP AND LASTING POWER.

For this deep and lasting power of the Bible there must be an adequate cause. That nothing comes of nothing is true all the world over. It is no light thing to hold, with an electric chain, a thousand hearts, though but an hour, beating and bounding with such fiery speed. What is it then to hold the Christian world, and that for centuries? Are men fed with chaff and husks? The authors we reckon great, whose word is in the newspaper, and the market-place, whose articulate breath now sways the nation's mind, will soon pass away, giving place to other great men of a season, who in their turn shall follow them to eminence and then to oblivion. Some thousand "famous writers" come up in this century, to be forgotten in the next. But the silver cord of the Bible is not loosed, nor its golden bowl broken, as Time chronicles its tens of centuries passed by. Has the human race gone mad? Time sits as a refiner of metal; the dross is piled in forgotten heaps, but the pure gold is reserved for use, passes into the ages, and is current a thousand years hence as well as to-day. It is only real merit that can long pass for such. Tinsel will rust in the storms of life. False weights are soon detected there. It is only a heart that can speak deep and true, to a heart; a mind to a mind; a soul to a soul; wisdom to the wise, and religion to the pious. There must then be in the Bible, mind, conscience, heart and soul, wisdom and religion. Were it otherwise, how could millions find it in their lawgiver, friend, and prophet? Some of the greatest of human institutions seem built on the Bible; such things will not stand on heaps of chaff but on mountains of rocks. T. Parker.

CCCXXI.

SUPPORT OF THE GOVERNMENT BY FORCE.

What we have to do is clear. The dictate of wisdom, the impulse of patriotism, the instinct of safety and preservation, the lessons of the past, the hopes of the future, all bid us uphold the constitutional Government of the United States, and by the power of force—a power which, of necessity, underlies all government—carry it triumphantly through this conflict, till its legitimate results are attained. Upon this power of force, the conspirators against this Government have relied from the beginning. They have expected to appeal to it, as is evident from the extent to which the Northern forts, arsenals, and people have been robbed of arms and munitions of war, which, during the last administration, were sent into the Southern States in numbers altogether disproportionate to their population, and unauthorized by law. If they believed in the right of peaceable secession from the Government of the United States, as a right clearly admitted and secured by the Constitution, it is strange that they should have made such far-sighted preparations to maintain this right by forcible resistance to its authority. To this power, these conspirators and those whom they had beguiled from their allegiance, made a direct appeal when they fired their first shot upon Fort Sumter. This appeal, the United States Government is compelled to meet, and by the strong arm of its military power, at the point of the bayonet, and beneath the smoke and blaze of its guns, enforce the obedience which reason, if it had not been dethroned, would never have refused, and recover the allegiance which patriotism, if it had not been deceived and bewildered, would never have relinquished. In this case, it is not the Government that inaugurates civil war, but the men who, by treason and rebellion, are seeking to overturn it; and for this gigantic crime,—the crime of disturbing the peace of thirty millions of people, of attempting to dismember a Union fraught with manifest advantages to all embraced in it, and to overturn, by force, a Government benignant in its sway, and mighty in its protection, its benefits, and its blessings,—for this crime they have no justification.

Under civil institutions, republican and representative in their character, where there are legitimate, constitutional channels provided for the expression of the popular will, through which the Government can be modified, its organic or its statute laws reached, altered, amended, so as to meet the wishes of the majority, or protect the rights of a minority, there can be no justification of rebellion that will stand before the world, or secure a verdict of approval from the pen of impartial history. If we would secure for ourselves that approval, let us stand be this constitutional Government of the United States, and at whatever cost, carry it thorough to the legitimate results of this conflict. S. K. Lothrop.



BOOK SECOND.

RECENT SELECTIONS.

POETRY.

CCCXXII.

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.

Lay down the axe, fling by the spade: Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.

Our country calls; away! away! To where the blood-stream blots the green, Strike to defend the gentlest sway That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts—see Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back.

Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, And moved as soon to fear and flight, Men of the glade and forest! leave Your woodcraft for the field of fight. The arms that wield the axe must pour An iron tempest on the foe; His serried ranks shall reel before The arm that lays the panther low.

And ye who breast the mountain storm By grassy steep or highland lake, Come, for the land ye love, to form A bulwark that no foe can break. Stand, like your own gray cliff's that mock The whirlwind; stand in her defence: The blast as soon shall move the rock As rushing squadron's bear ye thence.

And ye, whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land As mighty in your march as they; As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and bourn, With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn.

And ye who throng, beside the deep, Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap On his long murmuring marge of sand, Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim, He rises, all his floods to pour, And flings the proudest barks that swim, A helpless wreck against the shore.

Few, few were they whose swords, of old, Won the fair land in which we dwell; But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And glorious must their triumph be. W. C. Bryant.

CCCXXIII.

NOT YET.

O country, marvel of the earth! O realm to sudden greatness grown! The age that gloried in thy birth, Shall it behold thee overthrown? Shall traitors lay that greatness low? No, Land of Hope and Blessing, No!

And we who wear thy glorious name, Shall we, like cravens, stand apart, When those whom thou hast trusted, aim The death-blow at thy generous heart? Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo! Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land, The power that rules from sea to sea, Bled they in vain, or vainly planned To leave their country great and free? Their sleeping ashes, from below, Send up the thrilling murmur, No!

Knit they the gentle ties which long These sister States were proud to wear, And forged the kindly links so strong For idle hands in sport to tear— For scornful hands aside to throw? No, by our fathers' memories, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways, Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest, The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays, The calm, broad Ocean of the West, And Mississippi's torrent flow, And loud Niagara, answer, No!

Not yet the hour is nigh, when they Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit, Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say, "Proud country, welcome to the pit! So soon art thou, like us, brought low?" No, sullen group of shadows, No!

For now, behold the arm that gave The victory in our fathers' day, Strong as of old, to guard and save— That mighty arm which none can stay— On clouds above and fields below, Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No! W. C. Bryant.

CCCXXIV.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

At last, at last, each glowing star In that pure field of heavenly blue, On every people shining far, Burns, to its utmost promise true.

Hopes in our fathers' hearts that stirred, Justice, the seal of peace, long scorned, O perfect peace! too long deferred, At last, at last, your day has dawned.

Your day has dawned, but many an hour Of storm and cloud, of doubt and tears, Across the eternal sky must lower, Before the glorious noon appears.

And not for us that noontide glow: For us the strife and toil shall be; But welcome toil, for now we know Our children shall that glory see.

At last, at last, O Stars and Stripes! Touched in your birth by Freedom's flame, Your purifying lightning wipes Out from our history its shame.

Stand to your faith, America! Sad Europe listen to our call! Up to your manhood, Africa! That gracious flag floats over all.

And when the hour seems dark with doom, Our sacred banner, lifted higher, Shall flash away the gathering gloom With inextinguishable fire.

Pure as its white the future see! Bright as its red is now the sky! Fixed as its stars the faith shall be, That nerves our hands to do or die. G. W. Curtis

CCCXXV.

AM I FOR PEACE? YES.

For the peace which rings out from the cannons' throat, And the suasion of shot and shell, Till Rebellion's spirit is trampled down To the depths of its kindred hell.

For the peace which shall follow the squadron's tramp, Where the brazen trumpets bray, And, drunk with the fury of storm and strife, The blood-red chargers neigh.

For the peace which shall wash out the leprous stain Of our slavery—foul and grim, And shall sunder the fetters which creak and clank On the down-trodden dark man's limb.

I will curse him as traitor, and false of heart, Who would shrink from the conflict now, And will stamp it, with blistering, burning brand, On his vitreous, Cain-like brow.

Out! out of the way! with your spurious peace, Which would make us Rebellion's slaves; We will rescue our land from the traitorous grasp, Or cover it with our graves.

Out! out of the way! with your knavish schemes! You trembling and trading pack! Crouch away in the dark, like a sneaking hound That its master has beaten back.

You would barter the fruit of our fathers' blood, And sell out the Stripes and Stars, To purchase a place with Rebellion's votes, Or escape from Rebellion's scars.

By the widow's wail, by the mother's tears, By the orphans who cry for bread, By our sons who fell, we will never yield Till Rebellion's soul is dead. Anonymous.

CCCXXVI.

THE GREAT BELL ROLAND.

Toll! Roland, toll! In Old St. Bavon's tower, At midnights hour, The great bell Roland spoke! All souls that slept in Ghent awoke! What meant the thunder stroke? Why trembled wife and maid? Why caught each man his blade? Why echoed every street With tramp of thronging feet All flying to the city's wall? It was the warning call That Freedom stood in peril of a foe! And even timid hearts grew bold Whenever Roland tolled, And every hand a sword could hold! So acted men Like patriots then, Three hundred years ago!

Toll! Roland, toll! Bell never yet was hung, Between whose lips there swung So grand a tongue! If men be patriots still, At thy first sound True hearts will bound, Great souls will thrill! Then toll and strike the test Through each man's breast, Till loyal hearts shall stand confess'd,— And may God's wrath smite all the rest!

Toll! Roland, toll! Not now in old St. Bavon's tower-Not now at midnight hour— Not now from River Scheldt to Zuyder Zee, But here,—this side the sea!—. Toll here, in broad, bright day!-For not by night awaits A noble foe without the gates, But perjured friends within betray, And do the deed at noon! Toll! Roland, toll! Thy sound is not too soon! To Arms! Ring out the Leader's call! Recho it from East to West, Till every hero's breast Shall swell beneath a soldier's crest! Toll! Roland, toll! Till cottager from cottage wall Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun! The sire bequeathed them to the son, When only half their work was done! Toll! Roland, toll! Till swords from scabbards leap! Toll! Roland, toll! What tears can widows weep Less bitter than when brave men fall? Toll! Roland, toll! In shadowed hut and small Shall lie the soldier's pall, And hearts shall break while graves are filled! Amen! So God has willed! And may his grace anoint us all!

Toll! Roland, toll! The Dragon on thy tower Stands sentry to this hour, And Freedom so stands safe in Ghent! And the merrier bells now ring, And in the land's serene content Men shout "God save the King!" Until the skies are rent! So let it be; For a kingly king is he Who keeps his people free! Toll! Roland, toll! Ring out across the sea! No longer They but We Have now such need of thee! Toll! Roland, toll! Forever may thy throat Keep dumb its warning note Till Freedom's perils be outbraved! Toll! Roland, toll! Till Freedom's flag, wherever waved, Shall overshadow not a man enslaved! Toll! Roland, toll! From Northern lake to Southern strand, Toll! Roland, toll! Till friend and foe, at thy command, Once more shall clasp each other's hand, And shout, one-voiced, "God save the land!" And love the land that God hath saved! Toll! Roland, toll! T. Tilton.

CCXXVII.

THE MASSACHUSETTS LINE.

Still first, as long and long ago, Let Massachusetts muster: Give her the post right next the foe; Be sure that you may trust her. She was the first to give her blood For Freedom and for Honor; She trod her soil to crimson mud: God's blessing be upon her!

She never faltered for the right, Nor ever will hereafter: Fling up her name with all your might; Shake roof-tree and shake rafter. But of old deeds she need not brag,— How she broke sword and fetter: Fling out again the old striped Flag; She'll do yet more and better.

In peace, her sails fleck all the seas; Her mills shake every river; And where are scenes so fair as these God and her true hands give her? In war, her claim who seek to rob? All others come in later: It is hers first to front the Mob, The Tyrant, and the Traitor.

God bless, God bless, the glorious State! Let her have way to battle! She'll go where batteries crash with fate, Or where thick rifles rattle.

Give her the Right, and let her try; And then who can may press her; She'll go straight on, or she will die: God bless her, and God bless her! R. Lowell.

CCCXXVIII.

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey— Massa won't be with you long; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me, Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur, As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I've loved so long and well, I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop, Sailing up the Tennessee.

"And, Pompey, while old massa's waiting For death's last despatch to come, If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home, You shall greet it, slave no longer— Voice and hand shall both be free That shouts and points to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey; But ole darkey's happy here, Where he's tended corn and cotton For 'ese many a long-gone year. Over yonder Missis's sleeping— No one tends her grave like me; Mebbie she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee.

"'Pears like she was watching Massa— If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbie she'd remember better How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of heaven While he lived in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling Down the poor old dusky face, As he stepped behind his master, In his long accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them, As they gazed on rock and tree Pictured in the placid waters Of the rolling Tennessee.

Master dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion's side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride. Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervair, of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers 'Mid the veteran's silvery hair; Still the bondman close beside him Stands behind the old arm-chair, With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes he bends to see Where the woodland boldly jutting Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain crest, Softly creeping, aye and ever, To the river's yielding breast. Ha! above the foliage yonder Something flutters wild and free! "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! The flag's come back to Tennessee!"

"Pompey hold me on your shoulder, Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the colors As they pass my cabin-door. Here's the paper signed that frees you; Give a freeman's shout with me— 'God and Union!' be our watchword Evermore in Tennessee."

Then the trembling voice grew fainter, And the limbs refused to stand; One prayer to Jesus—and the soldier Glided to that better land. When the flag went down the river Man and master both were free, While the ringdove's note was mingled With the rippling Tennessee. E. L. Beers.

CCCXXIX.

A BATTLE-SONG FOR FREEDOM.

Men of action! men of might! Stern defenders of the right! Are you girded for the fight?

Have you marked and trenched the ground, Where the din of arms must sound, Ere the victor can be crowned?

Have you guarded well the coast? Have you marshalled all your host? Standeth each man at his post?

Have you counted up the cost? What is gained and what is lost, When the foe your lines have crost?

Gained—the infamy of fame. Gained—a dastard's spotted name. Gained—eternity of shame.

Lost—desert of manly youth. Lost—the right you had by birth. Lost—lost!—freedom for the earth.

Freemen, up! The foe is nearing! Haughty banners high uprearing— Lo, their serried ranks appearing!

Freemen, on! The drums are beating! Will you shrink from such a meeting? Forward! Give them hero greeting!

From your hearths, and homes, and altars, Backward hurl your proud assaulters. He is not a man that falters.

Hush! The hour of fate is nigh, On the help of God rely! Forward! We will do or die. G. Hamilton.

CCCXXX.

THE VOICE OF THE NORTH.

Up the hill-side, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen: Summon out the might of men!

Like a lion growling low-Like a night-storm rising slow-Like the tread of unseen foe—

It is coming—it if nigh! Stand your homes and altars by, On your own free threshold die.

Clang the bells in all your spires, On the gray hills of your sires Fling to heaven your signal-fires.

Oh! for God and duty stand, Heart to heart and hand to hand, Round the old grates of the land.

Whoso shrinks or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Brand the craven on his brow.

Freedom's soil has only place For a free and fearless race— None for traitors false and base.

Perish party—perish clan; Strike together while you can, Like the strong arm of one man.

Like the angel's voice sublime, Heard above a world of crime, Crying for the end of Time.

With one heart and with one mouth, Let the North speak to the South; Speak the word befitting both. J. G. Whittier.

CCCXXXI.

THE WATCHERS.

Beside a stricken field I stood; On the torn turf, on grass and wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood.

Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain, But all the air was quick with pain And gusty sighs and tearful rain.

Two angels, each with drooping head And folded wings and noiseless tread, Watched by that valley of the dead.

The one with forehead saintly bland And lips of blessing, not command, Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand.

The other's brows were scarred and knit, His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, His hands for battle-gauntlets fit.

"How long!" I knew the voice of Peace,— "Is there no respite?—no release?— When shall the hopeless quarrel cease?

"O Lord, how long!—One human soul Is more than any parchment scroll, Or any flag thy winds unroll.

"What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave?

"O brother! if thine eye can see, Tell me how and when the end shall be, What hope remains for thee and me."

Then Freedom sternly said: "I shun No strife nor pang beneath the sun, When human rights are staked and won.

"I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock, I watered in Toussaint's cell of rock, I walked with Sidney to the block.

"The Moor of Marston felt my tread, Through Jersey snows the march I led, My voice Magenta's charges sped.

"But now through weary day and night, I watch a vague and aimless fight For leave to strike one blow aright.

"On either side my foe they own: One guards through love his ghastly throne, And one through fear to reverence grown.

"Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, By open foes, or those afraid To speed thy coming through my aid?

"Why watch to see who win or fall?— I shake the dust against them all, I leave them to their senseless brawl."

"Nay," Peace implored: "yet longer wait; The doom is near, the stake is great; God knoweth if it be too late.

"Still wait and watch; the way prepare Where I with folded wings of prayer May follow, weaponless and bare."

"Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied "Too late!" its mournful echo sighed,— In low lament the answer died.

A rustling as of wings in flight, An upward gleam of lessening white, So passed the vision, sound and sight.

But round me, like a silver bell Rung down the listening sky to tell Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.

"Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with God!" J. G. Whittier.

CCCXXXII.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-walls— Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that her heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

"Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast; "Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word:

"Who touches a hair of your gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tossed Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town! J. G. Whittier.

CCCXXXIII.

PRO PATRIA.

INSCRIBED TO THE SECOND NEW HAMPSHIRE REGIMENT.

The grand old earth shakes at the tread of the Norsemen, Who meet, as of old, in defence of the true; All hail to the stars that are set in their banner! All hail to the red, and the white, and the blue! As each column wheels by, Hear their hearts' battle-cry,— It was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die!

Lancaster and Cos, Laconia and Concord, Old Portsmouth and Keene, send their stalwart young men; They come from the plough, and the loom, and the anvil, From the marge of the sea, from the hill-top and glen. As each column wheels by, Hear their hearts' battle-cry,— It was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die!

The prayers of fair women, like legions of angels, Watch over our soldiers by day and by night; And the King of all glory, the Chief of all armies, Shall love them and lead them who dare to do right! As each column wheels by, Hear their hearts' battle-cry,— 'T was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die! T. B. Aldrich.

CCXXXIV.

THE CALVARY CHARGE.

With bray of the trumpet And roll of the drum, And keen ring of bugle, The cavalry come. Sharp clank the steel scabbards, The bridle-chains ring, And foam from red nostrils The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o'er the greensward That quivers below, Scarce held by the curb-bit The fierce horses go! And the grim-visaged colonel, With ear-rending shout, Peals forth to the squadrons The order—"Trot out!"

One hand on the sabre, And one on the rein, The troopers move forward In line on the plain. As rings the word "Gallop!" The steel scabbards clank, And each rowel is pressed To a horse's hot flank: And swift is their rush As the wild torrent's flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below.

"Charge!" thunders the leader: Like shaft from the bow Each mad horse is hurled On the wavering foe. A thousand bright sabres Are gleaming in air; A thousand dark horses Are dashed on the square.

Resistless and reckless Of aught may betide, Like demons, not mortals, The wild troopers ride. Cut right! and cut left!— For the parry who needs? The bayonets shiver Like wind-shattered reeds. Vain—vain the red volley That bursts from the square,— The random-shot bullets Are wasted in air.

Triumphant, remorseless, Unerring as death,— No sabre that's stainless Returns to its sheath.

The wounds that are dealt By that murderous steel Will never yield case For the surgeon to heal. Hurrah! they are broken— Hurrah! boys, they fly— None linger save those Who but linger to die.

Rein up your hot horses And call in your men,— The trumpet sounds "Rally To color" again. Some saddles are empty, Some comrades are slain, And some noble horses Like stark on the plain, But war's a chance game, boys, And weeping is vain. F. A. Durivage.

CCCXXXV.

THE CUMBERLAND.

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle-blast From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the South uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide.

"Strike your flag!" the Rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp.

Next morn as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the main mast-head, Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam! H. W. Longfellow.

CCCXXXVI.

UNITED STATES NATIONAL ANTHEM.

God of the Free! upon Thy breath Our Flag is for the Right unrolled, As broad and brave as when its stars First lit the hallowed time of old.

For Duty still its folds shall fly; For Honor still its glories burn, Where Truth, Religion, Valor, guard The patriot's sword and martyr's urn.

No tyrant's impious step is ours; No lust of power on nations rolled: Our Flag—for friends, a starry sky; For traitors, storm in every fold.

O thus we'll keep our Nation's life, Nor fear the bolt by despots hurled; The blood of all the world is here, And they who strike us strike the world!

God of the Free! our Nation bless In its strong manhood as its birth; And make its life a Star of Hope For all the struggling of the Earth.

Then shout beside thine Oak, O North! O South! wave answer with thy Palm; And in our Union's heritage Together sing the Nation's Psalm! W. R. Wallace.

CCCXXXVII.

THE FISHERMAN OF BEAUFORT.

The tide comes up, and the tide goes down, And still the fisherman's boat, At early dawn and at evening shade, Is ever and ever afloat: His net goes down, and his net comes up, And we hear his song of glee: "De fishes dey hates de ole slave nets, But comes to de nets of de free."

The tide comes up, and the tide goes down, And the oysterman below Is picking away, in the slimy sands, In the sands ob de long ago. But now if an empty hand he bears, He shudders no more with fear, There's no stretching-board for the aching bones, And no lash of the overseer.

The tide comes up, and the tide goes down, And ever I hear a song, As the moaning winds, through the moss-hung oaks, Sweep surging ever along: "O massa white man! help de slave, And de wife and chillen too; Eber dey'll work, wid de hard worn hand Ef ell gib 'em de work to do."

The tide comes up, and the tide goes go down, But it bides no tyrant's word, As it chants unceasing the anthem grand, Of its Freedom to the Lord. The fisherman floating on its breast Has caught up the key-note true: "De sea works, mass, for 't sef and God, And so must de brack man too."

"Den gib him de work, and gib him de pay, For de chillen and wife him love; And de yam shall grow, and de cotton shall blow, And him nearer, nebber rove; For him love de ole Carlina State, And de ole magnolia-tree: Oh! nebber him trouble de icy Norf, Ef de brack folks am go free." Mrs. F. D. Gage.

CCCXXXVIII.

THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY.

What flower is this that greets the morn, Its hues from heaven so freshly born? With burning star and flaming band It kindles all the sunset land;— O, tell us what its name may be! Is this the Flower of Liberty? It is the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

In savage Nature's far abode Its tender seed our fathers sowed; The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, Its opening leaves were streaked with blood, Till, lo! earth's tyrants shook to see The full-blown Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

Behold its streaming rays unite One mingling flood of braided light,— The red that fires the Southern rose, With spotless white from Northern snows, And, spangled o'er its azure, see The sister Stars of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

The blades of heroes fence it round; Where'er it springs is holy ground; From tower and dome its glories spread; It waves where lonely sentries tread; It makes the land as ocean free, And plants an empire on the sea! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower, Shall ever float on dome and tower, To all their heavenly colors true, In blackening frost or crimson dew,— And God love us as we love thee, Thrice holy Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! O. W. Holmes.

CCCXXXIX.

AN APPEAL.

Listen, young heroes! your country is calling! Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true! Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling, Fill up the ranks that have opened for you!

You whom the fathers made free and defended, Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame! Yon whose fair heritage spotless descended, Leave not your children a birthright of shame!

Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping! Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall! Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping,— "Off for the Wars!" is enough for them all.

Break from the arms that would fondly caress you! Hark! 't is the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn! Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone!

Never or now! cries the blood of a nation, Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom; Now is the day and the hour of salvation,— Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!

Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon Through the black canopy blotting the skies; Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies!

From the foul dens where our brothers are dying, Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,— From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying Pleading in vain for a handful of earth,—

From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered, Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field's plough, Comes the loud summons; too long you have slumbered, Hear the last Angel-trump—Never or Now! O. W. Holmes.

CCCXL.

THE LAST CHARGE.

Now men of the North! will you join in the strife For country, for freedom, for honor, for life? The giant grows blind in his fury and spite,— One blow on his forehead will settle the fight!

Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel, And stun him with cannon-bolts peal upon peal! Mount, troopers, and follow your game to its lair, As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare!

Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake! Beat, drums, till the roofs of the fainthearted shake! Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on the scroll, Their names may be traced on the blood-sprinkled roll!

Trust not the false herald that painted your shield: True honor to-day must be sought on the field! Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon of red,— The life-drops of crimson for liberty shed!

The hour is at hand, and the moment draws nigh! The dog-star of treason grows dim in the sky! Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light of the morn, Call back the bright hour when the Nation was born!

The rivers of peace through our valleys shall run, As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the sun; Smite, smite the proud parricide down from his throne,— His sceptre once broken, the world is our own! O. W. Holmes.

CCCXLI.

VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION.

'Tis midnight: through my troubled dream Loud wails the tempest's cry; Before the gale, with tattered sail, A ship goes plunging by. What name? Where bound? The rocks around Repeat the loud halloo. —The good ship Union, Southward bound: God help her and her crew!

And is the old flag flying still That o'er your fathers flew, With bands of white and rosy light, And field of starry blue? —Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft Have braved the roaring blast, And still shall fly when from thy sky This black typhoon has past!

Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark! May I thy peril share? —O landsman, these are fearful seas The brave alone may dare! —Nay, ruler of the rebel deep, What matters wind or wave? The rocks that wreck your reeling deck Will leave me nought to save!

O landsman, art thou false or true? What sign hast thou to show? —The crimson stains from loyal veins That hold my heart-blood's flow! —Enough! what more shall honor claim? I know the sacred sign; Above thy head our flag shall spread! Our ocean path be thine!

The bark sails on; the Pilgrim's cape Lies low along her lee, Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes To lock the shore and sea. No treason here! it cost too dear To win this barren realm! And true and free the hands must be That hold the whaler's helm.

Still on! Manhattan's narrowing bay No Rebel cruiser scars; Her raters feel no pirate's keel That flaunts the fallen stars! But watch the light on yonder height,— Ay, pilot, have a care! Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud The capes of Delaware!

Say, pilot, what this fort may be, Whose sentinels look down From moated wails that show the sea Their deep embrasures' frown? The Rebel host claims all the coast, But these are friends, we know, Whose footprints spoil the "sacred soil," And this is?—Fort Monroe!

The breakers roar,—how bears the shore? —The traitorous wreckers' hands Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays Along the Hatteras sands. —Ha! say not so! I see its glow! Again the shoals display The beacon light that shines by night, The Union Stars by day!

The good ship flies to milder skies, The wave more gently flows; The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas The breath of Beaufort's rose. What fold is this the sweet winds kiss, Fair-striped and many-starred, Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls, The twins of Beauregard?

What! heard you not Port Royal's doom? How the black war-ships came And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom To redder wreaths of flame? How from Rebellion's broken reed We saw his emblem fall, As soon his cursd poison-weed Shall drop from Sumter's wall?

On! on! Pulaski's iron hail Falls harmless on Tybee! Her topsails feel the freshening gale,— She strikes the open sea; She rounds the point, she threads the Keys That guard the Land of Flowers, And rides at last where firm and fast Her own Gibraltar towers!

The good ship Union's voyage is o'er, At anchor safe she swings, And loud and clear with cheer on cheer Her joyous welcome rings: Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave, It thunders on the shore,— One flag, one land, one heart, one hand, One Nation, evermore! O. W. Holmes.

CCCXLII.

THE STRIPES AND THE STARS.

O Star Spangled Banner! the flag of our pride! Though trampled by traitors and basely defied, Fling out to the glad winds your Red, White, and Blue, For the heart of the North-land is beating for you! And her strong arm is nerving to strike with a will Till the foe and his boastings are humbled and still! Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death—for the Stripes and the Stars!

From prairie, O ploughman! speed boldly away— There's seed to be sown in God's furrows to-day— Row landward, lone fisher! stout woodman, come home! Let smith leave his anvil and weaver his loom, And hamlet and city ring loud with the cry, "For God and our country we'll fight till we die! Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death—for the Stripes and the Stars!"

Invincible Banner! the Flag of the Free! O, where treads the foot that would falter for thee? Or the hands to be folded, till triumph is won And the eagle looks proud, as of old, to the sun? Give tears for the parting—a murmur of prayer— Then Forward! the fame of our standard to share! With welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death—for the Stripes and the Stars!

O God of our Fathers! this Banner must shine Where battle is hottest, in warfare divine! The cannon has thundered, the bugle has blown,— We fear not the summons—we fight not alone! O, lead us, till wide from the Gulf to the Sea The land shall be sacred to Freedom and Thee! With love, for oppression; with blessing, for scars— One Country—one Banner—the Stripes and the Stars! E. D. Proctor.

CCCXLIII.

WHO'S READY?

God help us! Who's ready? There's danger before! Who's armed and who's mounted? The foe's at the door! The smoke of his cannon hangs black o'er the plain; His shouts ring exultant while counting our slain; And northward and northward he presses his line,— Who's ready? O, forward!—for yours and for mine!

No halting, no discord, the moments are Fates; To shame or to glory they open the gates! There's all we hold dearest to lose or to win; The web of the future to-day we must spin; And bid the hours follow with knell or with chime!— Who's ready? O, forward!—while yet there is time!

Lead armies or councils,—be soldier a-field,— Alike, so your valor is Liberty's shield! Alike, so you strike when the bugle-notes call, For Country, for Fireside, for Freedom to All! The blows of the boldest will carry the day,— Who's ready? O, forward!—there's death in delay!

Earth's noblest are praying, at home and o'er sea,— "God keep the great nation united and free!" Her tyrants watch, eager to leap at our life, If once we should falter or faint in the strife; Our trust is unshaken, though legions assail,— Who's ready? O, forward! and Right shall prevail.

Who's ready? "All ready!" undaunted we cry; "For Country, for Freedom, we'll fight till we die; No traitor, at midnight, shall pierce us in rest; No alien, at noonday, shall stab us abreast; The God of our Fathers is guiding us still,— All forward! we're ready,—and conquer we will!" E. D. Proctor.

CCCXLIV.

MITCHELL.

"HUNG BE THE HEAVENS WITH BLACK."

His mighty life was burned away By Carolina's fiery sun; The pestilence that walks by day Smote him before his course seemed run.

The constellations of the sky,— The Pleiades, the Southern Cross,— Looked sadly down to see him die, To see a nation weep his loss.

"Send him to us," the stars might cry,— "You do not feel his worth below; Your petty great men do not try The measure of his mind to know.

"His eye could pierce our vast expanse,— His ear could hear our morning songs,— His mind, amid our mystic dance, Could follow all our myriad throngs.

"Send him to us! No martyr's soul, No hero slain in righteous wars No raptured saint could e'er control A holier welcome from the stars." Take him, ye stars! Take him on high To your vast realms of boundless space; But once he turned from you to try His name on martial scrolls to trace. That once was when his country's call

Said danger to her flag was nigh; And then her banner's stars dimmed all The radiant lights which gemmed the sky. Take him, loved orbs! His country's life,— Freedom for all,—for these he wars; For these he welcomed bloody strife, And followed in the wake of Mars. W. F. Williams.

CCCXLV.

WAR SONG.

DEDICATED TO THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENTS.

Up with the Flag of the Stripes and the Stars! Gather together from plough and from loom! Hark to the signal!—the music of wars Sounding for tyrants and traitors their doom. March, march, march, march! Brothers unite—rouse in your might, For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right!

Down with the foe to the land and the laws! Marching together our country to save, God shall be with us to strengthen our cause, Nerving the heart and the hand of the brave. March, march, march, march! Brother's unite—rouse in your might, For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right!

Flag of the Free! under thee will we fight, Shoulder to shoulder, our face to the foe; Death to all traitors, and God for the Right! Singing this song as to battle we go: March, march, march, march! Freemen unite—rouse in your might For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right!

Land of the Free—that our fathers of old, Bleeding together, cemented in blood— Give us thy blessing, as brave and as bold, Standing like one, as our ancestors stood— We march, march, march, march! Conquer or fall! Hark to the call: Justice and Freedom for one and for all!

Chain of the slave we have suffered so long— Striving together thy links we will break! Hark! for God hears us, as echoes our song, Sounding the cry to make Tyranny quake: March, march, march, march! Conquer or fall! Rouse to the call— Justice and Freedom for one and for all!

Workmen, arise! There is work for us now; Ours the red ledger for bayonet pen; Sword be our hammer, and cannon our plough; Liberty's loom must be driven by men. March, march, march, march! Freemen we fight, roused in our might, For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right. W. W. Story.

CCCXLVI.

THE BLACK REGIMENT; OR, THE SECOND LOUISIANA AT THE STORMING OF PORT HUDSON.

Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land— So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee Waiting the great event, Stands the Black Regiment.

Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come— Told them what work was sent For the Black Regiment.

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down like the whining hound— Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!" Oh! what a shout there went From the Black Regiment.

"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke; Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear, man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the Black Regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry "Freedom! or leave to die!" Ah! and they meant the word, Not as with us 't is heard, Not a mere party shout; They gave their spirits out; Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood, Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death, Praying—alas! in vain!— That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what "Freedom" lent To the Black Regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the Black Regiment! G. H. Boker.

CCCXLVII.

FORWARD!

God, to the human soul, And all the spheres that roll, Wrapped by his Spirit in their robes of light, Hath said: "The primal plan, Of all the world, and man, Is forward! Progress is your law—your right." The despots of the earth, Since Freedom had her birth, Have to their subject nations said, "Stand still;" So, from the Polar Bear, Comes down the freezing air, And stiffens all things with its deadly chill. He who doth God resist— God's old antagonist— Would snap the chain that binds all things to him; And in his godless pride, All peoples would divide, And scatter even the choirs of seraphim.

God, all the orbs that roll, Binds to one common goal— One source of light and life—his radiant throne. In one fraternal mind All races would he bind, Till every man in man a brother own.

Tyrants with tyrants league, Corruption and intrigue To strangle infant Liberty conspire. Around her cradle, then, Let self-devoted men Gather, and keep unquenched her vital fire.

When Tyranny, grown bold, To Freedom's host cries, "Hold! Ye towards her temple at your peril march;" "Stop," that great host replies, Raising to heaven its eyes, "Stop, first, the host that moves across yon arch!"

When Tyranny commands, "Hold thou my victim's hands, While I more firmly rivet on his chains, Or with my bowie-knife I'll take your craven life, Or show my streets bespattered with your brains,"—

Freedom with forward tread, Unblenching, turns her head, And drawing from its sheath her flashing glave, Calmly makes answer: "Dare Touch of my head one hair, I'll cut the cord that holds your every slave!" J. Pierpont.



BOOK THIRD.

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS

FOR

RECITATION AND DECLAMATION

IN PROSE AND POETRY.



BOOK THIRD.

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS.

PROSE.

CCCXLVIII.

PLEA OF SERJEANT BUZFUZ, IN "BARDELL vs. PICKWICK."

The plaintiff gentlemen, the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying for many years the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford. Some time before his death he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street; and here she placed in her front parlor window a written placard, bearing this inscription—"Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Enquire within." I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document—"Apartments furnished for a single gentleman!" Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear—she had no distrust—she had no suspicion—all was confidence and reliance. "Mr. Bardell," said the widow, "Mr. Bardell was a man of honor—Mr. Bardell was a man of his word—Mr. Bardell was no deceiver—Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let." Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse, (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen,) the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlor window. Did it remain their long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlor window three days—three days, gentlemen—a being erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick—Pickwick, the defendant.

Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and I gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness and systematic villainy. I say systematic villainy gentlemen, and when I say systematic villainy, let me tell the defendant, Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down with you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated, nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first or the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff, or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.

I shall allow you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bar-dell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave half-pence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and after inquiring whether he had won any alley-tors or commoneys lately, (both of which I understand to be species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town,) made use of this respectable expression—"How would you like to have another father?"

Two letters have passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervid, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery—letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye—letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first:—"Garraway's, twelve o'clock—Dear Mrs. B.—Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick." Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious heavens! and tomato sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicions—"Dear Mrs. B.—I shall not be at home to-morrow. Slow coach." And then follows this very remarkable expression:—"Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan!" The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed about a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is Mrs. Barbell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire—a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeable to some preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will soon be greased by you!

But enough of this, gentlemen: it is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down—but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass but there is no invitation for them to inquire within, or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his "alley-tors" and his "commoneys" are alike neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of "knuckle-down," and at tip-chesse, or odd-and-even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in Goswell Street-Pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward—Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and warming-pans—Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen—heavy damages, is the only punishment with which you can visit him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen. C. Dickens

CCCXLIX.

MR. PUFF'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

Sir,—I make no secret of the trade I follow. Among friends and brother authors, I love to be frank on the subject, and to advertise myself viv voc. I am, sir, a practitioner in panegyric; or, to speak more plainly, a professor of the art of puffing, at your service—or anybody's else. I dare say, now, you conceive half the very civil paragraphs and advertisements you see to be written by the parties concerned, or their friends. No such thing; nine out of ten manufactured by me, in the way of business. Yon must know, sir, that from the first time I tried my hand at an advertisement, my success was such, that for some time after I led a most extraordinary life, indeed. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely by my misfortunes; by advertisements To the charitable and humane! and To those whom Providence has blessed with affluence! And, in truth, I deserved what I got; for I suppose never man went through such a series of calamities in the same space of time. Sir, I was five times made a bankrupt, and reduced from a state of affluence, by a train of unavoidable misfortunes; then, sir, though a very industrious tradesman, I was twice burned out, and lost my little all both times. I lived upon those fires a month. I soon after was confined by a most excruciating disorder, and lost the use of my limbs. That told very well; for I had the case strongly attested, and went about to collect the subscriptions myself. I was afterwards twice tapped for a dropsy, which declined into a very profitable consumption. I was then reduced to—O no!—then I became a widower with six helpless children. All this I bore with patience, though I made some occasional attempts at felo de se; but, as I did not find those rash actions answer, I left off killing myself very soon. Well, sir, at last, what with bankruptcies, fires, gouts, dropsies, imprisonments, and other valuable calamities, having got together a pretty handsome sum, I determined to quit a business which had always gone rather against my conscience, and in a more liberal way still to indulge my talents for fiction and embellishments, through my favorite channel of diurnal communication; and so, sir, you have my history. R. B. Sheridan.

CCCL.

LYCEUM SPEECH OF MR. ORATOR CLIMAX.

Mr. President,—Happiness is like a crow perched upon the neighboring top of a far distant mountain, which some fisherman vainly strives, to no purpose, to ensnare. He looks at the crow, Mr. President,—and—Mr. President the crow looks at him; and, sir, they both look at each other. But the moment he attempts to reproach him, he banishes away like the schismatic taints of the rainbow, the cause of which it was the astonishing and perspiring genius of a Newton, who first deplored and enveloped the cause of it. Cannot the poor man, sir, precipitate into all the beauties of nature, from the loftiest mounting up to the most humblest valley as well as the man prepossessed of indigence? Yes, sir; while trilling transports crown his view, and rosy hours allure his sanguinary youth, he can raise his mind up to the laws of nature, incompressible as they are, while viewing the lawless storm that kindleth up the pretentious roaring thunder, and fireth up the dark and rapid lightnings, and causeth it to fly through the intensity of space, that belches forth those awful and sublime meteors, and roll-abolly-aliases, through the unfathomable regions of fiery hemispheres. Sometimes, sir, seated in some lonely retreat, beneath the shadowy shades of an umbrageous tree, at whose venal foot flows some limping stagnant stream, he gathers around him his wife and the rest of his orphan children. He there takes a retrospective view upon the diagram of futurity, and casts his eye like a flashing meteor forward into the past. Seated in their midst, aggravated and exhaled by the dignity and independence coincident with honorable poverty, his countenance irrigated with an intense glow of self-deficiency and excommunicated knowledge, he quietly turns to instruct his little assemblage. He there endeavors to distil into their young youthful minds useless lessons, to guard their juvenile youths against vice and immortality. There, on a clear sunny evening, when the silvery moon is shining forth in all her indulgence and ubiquity, he teaches them the first sediments of gastronomy, by pointing out to them the bear, the lion, and many other fixed invisible consternations, which are continually involving upon their axletrees, through the blue cerulean fundamus above. From this vast ethereal he dives with them to the very bottom of the unfathomable oceans, bringing up from thence liquid treasures of earth and air. He then courses with them on the imaginable wing of fancy through the boundless regions of unimaginable either, until, swelling into impalpable immensity, he is forever lost in the infinite radiation of his own overwhelming genius. Anonymous.

CCCLI.

BULLUM vs. BOATUM.

What a profound study is the law! How shall I define it? Law is—law. Law is—law; and so forth, and hereby and aforesaid, provided always, nevertheless, notwithstanding. Law is like a country dance; people are led up and down in it till they are tired. It is like physic; they that take the least of it are best off. Law is like a homely gentlewoman; very well to follow. Law is like a scolding wife; very bad when it follows us. Law is like a new fashion; people are bewitched to get into it; it is also like bad weather; most people are glad when they get out of it. We will now mention, in illustration, a case that came before us,—the case of Bullum vs. Boatum. It was as follows:—

There were two farmers—farmer A. and farmer B. Farmer A was seized or possessed of a bull; farmer B. was seized or possessed of a ferry-boat. Now, the owner of the ferry-boat, having made his boat fast to a post on shore, with a piece of hay twisted rope-fashion, or, as we say, vulgo vocato, a hay-band,—after he had made his boat fast to the aforesaid post (as it was very natural for a hungry man to do) went up to town to dinner. Farmer A.'s bull (as it was natural for a hungry bull to do) came down town to look for a dinner; and, observing, discovering, seeing, and spying out some turnips in the bottom of the ferryboat, ate up the turnips, and, to make an end of his meal, fell to work upon the hay-band. The boat, being eaten from its moorings, floated down the river with the bull in it; it struck against a rock, beat a hole in the bottom of the boat, and tossed the bull overboard; whereupon the owner of the bull brought his action against the boat for running away with the bull. The owner of the boat brought his action against the bull for running away with the boat. And thus notice of trial was given, Bullum vs. Boatum, Boatum vs. Bullum. The counsel for the bull begun with saying:—"My lord, and you, gentlemen of the jury, we are counsel in this cause for the bull. We are indicted for running away with the boat. Now, my lord, we have heard of running horses, but never of running bulls before. Now, my lord, the bull could no more run away with the boat than a man in a coach may be said to run away with the horses; therefore, my lord, how can we punish what is not punishable? How can we eat what is not eatable? Or, how can we drink what is not drinkable? Or, as the law says, how can we think what is not thinkable? Therefore, my lord, as we are counsel in this cause for the bull, if the jury should bring the bull in guilty, the jury would be guilty of a bull."

The counsel for the boat observed, that the bull should be non-suited, because, in his declaration, he had not specified what color he was of; for thus wisely, and thus learnedly, spoke the counsel:—"My lord, if the bull was of no color, he must be of some color; and, if he was not of any color, what color could the bull be of?" I overruled this motion myself, by observing the bull was a white bull, and that white is no color; besides, as I told my brethren, they should not trouble their heads to talk of color t in law, for the law can color anything. This cause being afterwards left to a reference, upon the award, both bull and boat were acquitted, it being proved that the tide of the river carried them both away; upon which I gave it as my opinion, that, as, the tide of the river carried both bull and boat away, both bull and boat had good action against the water-bailiff.

My opinion being taken, an action was issued, and, upon the traverse, this point of law arose: How, wherefore, and whether, why, when, and what, whatsoever, whereas, and whereby, as the boat was not a compos mentis evidence, how could an oath be administered? That point was soon settled by Boatum's attorney declaring that, for his client, he would swear anything.

The water-bailiff's charter was then read, taken out of the original record in true law Latin; which set forth in their declaration, that they were carried away either by the tide of flood or the tide of ebb. The character of the water-bailiff was as follows: "Aqu bailiffi est magistratus in choici, sapor omnibus fishibus qui habuerunt finos et scalos, claws, shells, et talos, qui swimmare in freshibus, vel saltibus riveris, lakos, pondis, canalibus et well-boats, sive oysteri, prawni, whitini, shrimpi, turbutus solus;" that is, not turbots alone, but turbots and soles both together. But now comes the nicety of the law; for the law is as nice as a new-laid egg. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and flood, to avoid quibbling; but, it being proved that they were carried away neither by the tide of flood nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of high water, they were nonsuited; but, such was the lenity of the court, that, upon their paying all costs they were allowed to begin again de novo. G. A Stevens.

CCCLII.

PLEADING EXTRAORDINARY.

May it please the Court—Gentlemen of the Jury—You sit in that box as the great reservoir of Roman liberty, Spartan fame, and Grecian polytheism. You are to swing the great flail of justice and electricity over this immense community, in hydraulic majesty, and conjugal superfluity. You are the great triumphal arch on which evaporates the even scales of justice and numerical computation. You are to ascend the deep arcana of nature, and dispose of my client with equiponderating concatenation, in reference to his future velocity and reverberating momentum. Such is your sedative and stimulating character. My client is only a man of domestic eccentricity and matrimonial configuration, not permitted, as you are, gentlemen, to walk in the primeval and lowest vales of society, but he has to endure the red-hot sun of the universe, on the heights of nobility and feudal eminence. He has a beautiful wife of horticultural propensities, that hen-pecks the remainder of his days with soothing and bewitching verbosity that makes the nectar of his pandemonium as cool as Tartarus.

He has a family of domestic children, that gathers around the fireplace of his peaceful homicide in tumultudinous consanguinity, and cry with screaming and rebounding pertinacity for bread, butter, and molasses. Such is the glowing and overwhelming character and defeasance of my client, who stands convicted before this court of oyer and terminer, and lex non scripta, by the persecuting pettifogger of this court, who is as much exterior to me as I am interior to the judge, and you, gentlemen of the jury.

This Borax of the law here has brought witnesses into this court, who swear that my client has stolen a firkin of butter. Now, I say, every one of them swore to a lie, and the truth is concentrated within them. But if it is so, I justify the act on the ground that the butter was necessary for a public good, to tune his family into harmonious discord. But I take no other mountainous and absquatulated grounds on this trial, and move that a quash be laid upon this indictment.

Now I will prove this by a learned expectoration of the principle of the law. Now butter is made of grass, and, it is laid down by St. Peter Pindar, in his principle of subterraneous law, that grass is couchant and levant, which in our obicular tongue, means that grass is of a mild and free nature; consequently, my client had a right to grass and butter both.

To prove my second great principle, "let facts be submitted to a candid world." Now butter is grease, and Greece is a foreign country, situated in the emaciated regions of Liberia and California; consequently my client cannot be tried in this horizon, and is out of the benediction of this court. I will now bring forward the ultimatum respondentia, and cap the great climax of logic, by quoting an inconceivable principle of law, as laid down in Latin, by Pothier, Hudibras, Blackstone, Hannibal, and Sangrado. It is thus: Hc hoc morus multicaulis, a mensa et thoro, ruta baga centum. Which means; in English, that ninety-nine men are guilty, where one is innocent.

Now, it is your duty to convict ninety-nine men first; then you come to my client, who is innocent and acquitted according to law. If these great principles shall be duly depreciated in this court, then the great North pole of liberty, that has stood so many years in pneumatic tallness, shading there publican regions of commerce and agriculture, will stand the wreck of the Spanish Inquisition, the pirates of the hyperborean seas, and the marauders of the Aurora Blivar! But, gentlemen of the jury, if you convict my client, his children will be doomed to pine away in a state of hopeless matrimony; and his beautiful wife i will stand lone and delighted like a dried up mullen-stalk in a sheep-pasture. Anonymous.

CCCLIII.

FUSS AT FIRES.

It having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way,—for the furthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better; you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, "break" for it immediately; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling, all the time; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and set them yelling, too; 't will help amazingly. A brace of cats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a "powerful auxiliary." When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don't forget to yell, all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for "doing it brown." Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man "smoke" that interrupts you. If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forget to yell! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cow-chains. Never mind the horse,—he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs,—let them save their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away the stone steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement story; and if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor share a similar fate. Should the "devouring element" still pursue the "even tenor of its way," you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time!

If you find a baby a-bed, fling it into the second story window of the house across the way; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window; telling somebody below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water hogshead at the same time. Of course, you will attend to the mirror. The further it can be thrown, the more pieces will be made. If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs down from the second story; the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulder, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bedclothes carefully on the floor, and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed; and, of course, you require no further directions. Anonymous.

CCCLIV.

MR. PEPPERAGE'S PERORATION.

The Union! Inspiring theme! How shall I find words to describe its momentous magnificence and its beatific lustre? The Union!—it is the ark of our safety!—the palladium of our liberties!—the safeguard of our happiness!—and the gis of our virtues! In the Union we live and move and go ahead It watches over us at our birth—it fans us in our cradles—it accompanies us to the district school—it gives us our victuals in due season—it selects our wives for us from "America's fair daughters," and it does a great many other things; to say nothing of putting us to sleep sometimes, and keeping the flies from our innocent repose.

While the Union lasts, we have the most remarkable prospect of plenty of fodder, with occasional drinks. By its beneficent energies, however, should the present supply give out, we shall rise superior to the calculations of an ordinary and narrow prudence, and take in Cuba, Hayti, and Mexico, and such parts of all contiguous islands as may offer prospects for an advantageous investment.

Palsied be the arm, then, and blistered the tongue, and humped the back, and broken the legs, and eviscerated the stomach, of every person who dares to think, or even dream of harming it! May the heaviest curses of time fall upon his scoundrelly soul! May his juleps curdle in his mouth. May he smoke none but New Orleans tobacco! May his family be perpetually ascending the Mississippi in a steamboat! May his own grandmother disown him! And may the suffrages of his fellow-citizens pursue him like avenging furies, till he is driven howling into Congress. For oh! my dear, dear friends—my beloved fellow-citizens, who can foretell the agonies, or the sorrows, or the blights, and the anguish, and the despair, and the black eyes, and the bloody noses, that would follows upon the dispersion of our too happy, happy family.

The accursed myrmidons of despotism, with gnashing teeth and blood-stained eyes, would rush at large over the planet. They would lap the crimson gore of the most respectable and wealthy citizens. The sobs of females, and the screams of children, would mingle with the bark of dogs and the crash of falling columns. A universal and horrid night would mantle the skies, and one by one, the strong pillars of the universe go crumbling into ruin, amid the gleam of bowie-knives and the lurid glare of exploding steamboats. Anonymous.