CCCLV.

FOURTH OF JULY ORATION.

Feller-Citizens,—I've bin honored with a invite to norate before you to-day; and when I say that I scarcely feel ekal to the task, I'm sure you will believe me. I'm a plane man. I don't know nothing about no ded langwidges and am a little shaky on livin ones. There 4, expect no flowry talk from me. What I shall say will be to the pint, right strate out. I am not a politician and my other habits air good. I've no enemys to reward, nor friends to sponge. But I'm a Union man. I luv the Union—it is a Big thing and it makes my hart bleed to see a lot of ornery people a-movin heaven—no, not heaven, but the other place—and earth, to bust it up.

Feller-citizens—I haint got time to notis the growth of Ameriky frum the time when the Mayflowers cum over in the Pilgrim and brawt Plymouth Rock with them, but every skool boy nose our career has bin tremenjis. You will excuse me if I don't prase the early settlers of the Kolonies. I spose they ment well, and so, in the novel and techin langwidge of the nusepapers, "peas to their ashis." There was no diskount, however, on them brave men who fit, bled and died in the American Revolushun. We need n't be afraid of setting 'em up two steep. Like my show, they will stand any amount of prase. G. Washington was abowt the best man this world ever sot eyes on, He was a clear-headed, warm-harted, and stiddy goin man. He never slept over! The prevailin weakness of most public men is to slop over! They git filled up and slop. They Rush Things. They travel too much on the high presser principle. They git onto the fust poplar hobby-hoss which trots along, not caring a cent whether the beest is even goin, clear sited and sound or spavined, blind and bawky. Of course they git throwed eventooualy, if not sooner. When they see the multitood goin it blind they go pel mel with it, instid of exerted theirselves to set it right. They can't see that the crowd which is now bearin then triumfuntly on its shoulders will soon diskiver its error and cast them into the hoss pond of oblivyon, without the slitest hesitashun. Washington never slopt over. That was n't George's stile. He luved his country dearly. He was n't after the spiles. He was a human angel in a 3 cornered hat and knee britches, and we shant see his like right away. My frends, we cant all be Washingtons, but we kin all be patrits and behave ourselves in a human and a Christian manner. When we see a brother goin down hill to Ruin let us not give him a push, but let us seize rite hold of his coat-tails and draw him back to Morality.

Imagine G. Washington and P. Henry in the characters of seseshers! As well fancy John Bunyan and Dr. Watts in spangled tites, doin the trapeze in a one-horse circus.

I tell you, feller-citizens, it would have bin ten dollars in Jeff Davis's pocket if he'd never been born! C. F. Brown.

BOOK THIRD.

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS.

POETRY.

CCCLVI.

The DUEL.

In Brentford town, of old renown, There lived a Mister Bray Who fell in love with Lucy Bell, And so did Mister Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith, By all it was allowed, Such fair "outside" was never seen,— An angel on a cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay, "You choose to rival me, And court Miss Bell; but there your court No thoroughfare shall be.

"Unless you now give up your suit, You may repent your love;— I who have shot a pigeon match, Can shoot a turtle dove.

"So pray, before you woo her more, Consider what you do: If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,— I'll pop it into you."

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray, "Your threats I do explode;— One who has been a volunteer Knows how to prime and load.

"And so I say to you, unless Your passion quiet keeps, I, who have shot and hit bulls' eyes, May chance to hit a sheep's!"

Now gold is oft for silver changed, And that for copper red; But these two went away to give Each other change for lead.

But first they found a friend apiece, This pleasant thought to give— That when they both were dead, they'd have Two seconds yet to live.

To measure out the ground, not long The seconds next forbore; And having taken one rash step, They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol pan, Against the deadly strife; By putting in the prime of death Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes; But when they took their stands, Fear made them tremble so, they found They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B., "Here one of us must fall, And, like St. Paul's Cathedral now, Be doomed to have a ball.

"I do confess I did attach Misconduct to your name! If I withdraw the charge, will then Your ramrod do the same?"

Said Mr. B., "I do agree;— But think of Honor's courts,— If we go off without a shot, There will be strange reports.

"But look! the morning now is bright, Though cloudy it begun; Why can't we aim above as if We had called out the sun?"

So up into the harmless air Their bullets they did send; And may all other duels have That upshot in the end. T. Hood.

CCCLVII.

MUSIC FOR THE MILLION.

Amongst the great inventions of this age, Which every other century surpasses, Is one,—just now the rage,— Called "Singing for all classes," That now, alas! have no more ear than asses, To learn to warble like the birds in June— In time and tune, Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!

Whether this grand harmonic scheme Will ever get beyond a dream, And tend to British happiness and glory May be no, and may be yes, Is more than I pretend to guess— However here's my story. In one of those small, quiet streets, Where business retreats,

To shun the daily bustle and the noise The shoppy Strand enjoys, But land, joint-companies, and life-insurance Find past endurance— In one of these back streets, to peace so dear, The other day a ragged wight Began to sing with all his might, "I have a silent sorrow here!"

Heard in that quiet place, Devoted to a still and studious race, The noise was quite appalling! To seek a fitting simile, and spin it, Appropriate to his calling, His voice had all Lablache's body, in it; But oh! the scientific tone it lacked, And was in fact Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling!

'T was said indeed for want of vocal nous The stage had banished him when he 'tempted it, For though his voice completely filled the house, It also emptied it. However, there he stools Vociferous—a ragged don! And with his iron pipes laid on— A row to all the neighborhood.

In vain were sashes closed, And doors against the persevering Stentor; Though brick and glass, and solid oak opposed, The intruding voice would enter, Heedless of ceremonial or decorum, Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum; Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools, Ladies, and masters who attend the schools, Clerks, agents all provided with their tools, Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools, With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em— How it did bore 'em!

Louder and louder still, The fellow sang with horrible good-will, Curses, both loud and deep, his sole gratuities, From scribes bewildered, making many a flaw, In deeds of law They had to draw; With dreadful incongruities In posting legers, making up accounts, To large amounts, Or casting up annuities— Stunned by that voice so loud and hoarse, Against whose overwhelming force No invoice stood a chance, of course!

From room to room, from floor to floor, From Number One to Twenty-four, The nuisance bellowed; till all patience lost, Down came Miss Frost, Expostulating at her open door— "Peace, monster, peace! Where is the new police? I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray, Do n't stand there bawling, fellow, don't! You really send my serious thoughts astray, Do—there's a dear, good man—do, go away." Says he, "I won't!"

The spinster pulled her door to with a slam, That sounded like a wooden d—n; For so some moral people, strictly loth To swear in words, however up, Will crash a curse in setting down a cup, Or through a door-post vent a banging oath,— In fad, this sort of physical transgression Is really no more difficult to trace, Than in a given face A very bad expression.

However in she went Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten; Who throwing up the sash, With accents rash, Thus hailed the most vociferous of men; "Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant; I cannot write a sentence—no one can't! So pack up your trumps,— And stir your stumps." Says he "I shan't!"

Down went the sash, As if devoted to "eternal smash." (Another illustration Of acted imprecation,) While close at hand, uncomfortably near, The independent voice, so loud and strong, And clanging like a gong, Roared out again the everlasting song, "I have a silent sorrow here!"

The thing was hard to stand! The music-master could not stand it, But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand, As savage as a bandit, Made up directly to the tattered man, And thus in broken sentences began: "Com—com—I say! You go away! Into two parts my head you split— My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit, When I do play— You have no business in a place so still! Can you not come another day?" Says he, "I will."

"No—no—you scream and bawl! You must not come at all! You have no right, by rights, to beg- You have not one off leg— You ought to work—you have not some complaint— You are not cripple in your back or bones— Your voice is strong enough to break some stones"— Says he, "It ain't."

"I say you ought to labor! You are in a young case, You have not sixty years upon your face, To come and beg your neighbor— And discompose his music with a noise More worse than twenty boys— Look what a street it is for quiet! No cart to make a riot, No coach, no horses, no postillion: If you will sing, I say, it is not just To sing so loud." Says he, "I must! I'm singing for the million!" T. Hood.

CCCLVIII.

ODE T0 MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS.

Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin— (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestruck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air— (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy! There goes my ink.)

Thou cherub, but of earth; Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!) With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life— (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball—bestride the stick— (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star,— (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,— (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above.) T. Hood.

CCCLIX.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.

I wrote some lines, once on a time In wondering merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit in the general way, A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), "There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon a grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad. And shot from ear to ear; He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man; And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can. O. W. Holmes.

CCCLX.

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.

I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then, That gale I well remember; The day before my kite-string snapped, And I, my kite pursuing, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;— For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do, When married pairs get clashing; There was a heavy sigh or two, Before the fire was flashing,— A little stir among the clouds, Before they rent asunder,— A little rocking of the trees, And then came on the thunder.

Oh! how the ponds and rivers boiled, And how the shingles rattled! And oaks were scattered on the ground, As if the Titans battled; And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter,— The earth was like a frying-pan, Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying; The storm came roaring through the lines, And set them all a flying; I saw the shirts and petticoats Go riding off like witches; I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,— I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air, Alas! too late to win them; I saw them chase the clouds as if A demon had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride,— My boyhood's only riches,— "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,— "My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded thread, The winds had whistled through them; I saw the wide and ghastly rents, Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years, And tailors kind and clever, But those young pantaloons have gone Forever and forever! And not till fate has cut the last Of all my earthly stitches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn My loved, my long-lost breeches! O. W. Holmes.

CCCLVI.

LOVE AND MURDER.

In Manchester a maiden dwelt, Her name was Phbe Blown; Her cheeks were red, her hair was black, And, she was considered by good judges to be by all odds the best looking girl in town.

Her age was nearly seventeen, Her eyes were sparkling bright; A very lovely girl she was, And for about a year and a half there had been a young man paying his attention to her, by the name of Reuben Wright.

Now Reuben was a nice young man As any in the town, And Phbe loved him very dear, But, on account of his being obliged to work for a living, he never could make himself agreeable to old Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

Her parents were resolved Another she should wed, A rich old miser in the place, And old Brown frequently declared, that rather than have his daughter marry Reuben Wright, he'd sooner knock him in the head.

But Phbe's heart was brave and strong, She feared not her parents' frowns; And as for Reuben Wright so bold, I've heard him say more than fifty times that (with the exception of Phbe) he did n't care a cent for the whole race of Browns.

So Phbe Brown and Reuben Wright Determined they would marry; Three weeks ago last Tuesday night, They started for old Parson Webster's, determined to be united in the holy bonds of matrimony, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the old Harry.

But Captain Brown was wide awake, He loaded up his gun, And then pursued the loving pair; He overtook 'em when they'd got about half way to the Parson's, and then Reuben and Phbe started off upon the run.

Old Brown then took a deadly aim Toward young Reuben's head, But, oh! it was a bleeding shame, He made a mistake, and shot his only daughter, and had the unspeakable anguish of seeing her drop right down stone dead.

Then anguish filled young Reuben's heart, And vengeance crazed his brain, He drew an awful jack-knife out, And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or sixty times, so that it's very doubtful about his ever coming to again.

The briny drops from Reuben's eyes In torrents pourd down,— And in this melancholy and heart-rending manner terminates the history of Reuben and Phbe and likewise old Captain Brown. Anonymous.

CCCLXII.

THE REMOVAL.

A nervous old gentleman, tired of trade,— By which, though, it seems, he a fortune had made,— Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town, Which he meant, at his leisure, to buy and pull down.

This thought struck his mind when he viewed the estate; But, alas! when he entered he found it too late; For in each dwelt a smith;—a more hard-working two Never doctored a patient, or put on a shoe.

At six in the morning, their anvils, at work, Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk. "These fellows," he cried, "such a clattering keep, That I never can get above eight hours of sleep."

From morning till night they keep thumping away,— No sound but the anvil the whole of the day; His afternoon's nap and his daughter's new song, Were banished and spoiled by their hammer's ding-dong.

He offered each Vulcan to purchase his shop; But, no! they were stubborn, determined to stop; At length, (both his spirits and health to improved,) He cried, "I'll give each fifty guineas to move."

"Agreed!" said the pair; "that will make us amends." "Then come to my house, and let us part friends; You shall dine; and we'll drink on this joyful occasion, That each may live long in his new habitation."

He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale; He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale; So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest Would take from him noise, and restore him to rest.

"And now." said he, "tell me, where mean you to move? I hope to some spot where your trade will improve." "Why, sir," replied one with a grin on his phiz, "Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his!" Anonymous.

CCCLXIII.

NONGTONGPAW.

John Bull for pastime took a prance, Some time ago, to peep at France; To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gained in foreign parts. Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answered John in heathen Greek: To all he asked, 'bout all he saw, 'T was "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."

John, to the Palais-Royal came, Its splendor almost struck him dumb. "I say, whose house is that there here?" "House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."— "What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John; "This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he 's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marl's height, And cried, astonished at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that there here?" "State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "His? What the land and houses too? The fellow's richer than a Jew: On everything he lays his claw! I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, "What lovely wench is that there here?" "Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, he again? Upon my life! A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw: I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw."

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John. "Je vous n'entends paw."—"what is he gone? Wealth fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave! His race is run, his game is up,— I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup; But since he chooses to withdraw, Good-night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw." C. Dibdin.

CCCLXIV.

THE SWELLS SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR.

I don't approve this hawid waw; Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes; And guns and drums are such a baw— Why don't the pawties compwamise?

Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms; But why must all the vulgah crowd Pawsist in spawting uniforms In cullaws so extremely loud?

And then the ladies—precious deahs!— I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow; Bai Jove! I really have my feahs They wathah like the howid wow!

To hear the chawming cweatures talk, Like patwons of the bloody wing, Of waw and all its dawty wark?— It does n't seem a pwappah thing!

I called at Mrs. Gween's last night, To see her niece, Miss Mary Hertz, And found her making—cwushing sight!— The weddest kind of flannel shirts! Of cawce I wose and saught the daw, With fewy flashing from my eyes! I can't approve this hawid waw;— Why don't the parties compromise? Vanity Fair.

CCCLXV.

THE ALARMED SKIPPER.

Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low," How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eye's were dim, Could tell by tasting, just the spot, And so below, he'd "dowse the glim,"— After, of course, his "something hot."

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept,—for skippers' naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead.

One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag,—the pedler's son; And so he mused (the wanton wretch), "To-night I'll have a grain of fun.

"We're all a set of stupid fools, To think the skipper knows by tasting, What ground he's on; Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff; with all their basting!"

And so he took the well-greased lead, And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck—(a parsnip bed),— And then he sought the skipper's berth.

"Where are we now, sir, please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,— "Nantucket 's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!" J. T. Fields.

CCCLXVI.

THE COLD-WATER MAN.

It was an honest fisherman, I knew him passing well; And he lived by a little pond, Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he, Who loved his hook and rod; So even ran his line of life His neighbors thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said He never had a wish; No school to him was worth a fig, Except a school of fish.

In short, this honest fisherman, All other tools forsook; And though no vagrant man was he, He lived by hook and crook.

He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth, Nor cared about a name; For though much famed for fish was he, He never fished for fame!

To charm the fish he never spoke, Although his voice was fine; He found the most convenient way Was just to drop a line!

And many a gudgeon of the pond, If they could speak to-day, Would own, with grief, the angler had A mighty taking way!

One day, while fishing on a log, He mourned his want of luck,— When suddenly, he felt a bite, And jerking—caught a duck!

Alas! that day this fisherman Had taken too much grog; And being but a landsman, too, He could n't keep the log!

'T was all in vain with might and main He strove to reach the shore; Down, down he went, to feed the fish He'd baited oft before!

The jury gave their verdict, that 'T was nothing else but gin, That caused the fisherman to be So sadly taken in;

Though one stood out upon a whim, And said the angler's slaughter, To be exact about the fact, Was clearly gin-and-water.

The moral of this mournful tale, To all is plain and clear,— That drinking habits bring a man Too often to his bier;

And he who scorns to "take the pledge," And keep the promise fast, May be, in spite of fate, a stiff Cold-water man, at last! J. G. Saxe.

CCCLXVII.

WHITTLING.

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby; His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it, Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; And, in the education of the lad, No little part that implement hath had,— His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings A growing knowledge of material things.

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart, His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod, its sharp explosion and rebounding wad, His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone, Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win, His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin; Or, if his father lives upon the shore, You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor," Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers stanch And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven, Ere long he'll solve you any problem given; Make any jim-crack, musical or mute, A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute; Make you a locomotive or a clock, Cut a canal, or build a floating dock, Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;— Make anything, in short, for sea or shore, From a child's rattle, to a seventy-four;— Make it, said I?—Ay, when he undertakes it, He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.

And when the thing is made, whether it be To move on earth, in air, or on the sea; Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide; Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring, Whether it be a piston or a spring, Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass, The thing designed shall surely come to pass; For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know That there's go in it, and he'll make it go. J. Pierpont.

CCCLXVIII.

HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped, Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home. He was perfumed like a milliner; And. 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon, He gave his nose, and took 't away again;— And still he smiled and talked; And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He called them—untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me; among the rest, demanded My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf. I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, To be so pestered with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answered neglectingly, I know not what; He should, or he should not;—for he made me mad. To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman, Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!) And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was a great pity, so it was, This villainous saltpetre should be digged Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said; And, I beseech you, let not this report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high majesty. Shakespeare.

CCCLXIX.

HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE.

Hard by a poet's attic lived a chemist, Or alchemist, who had a mighty Faith in the elixir vit; And, though unflattered by the dimmest Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping And grubbing in his dark vocation; Stupidly hoping To onto the art of changing metals, And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles, By mystery of transmutation.

Our starving poet took occasion To seek this conjurer's abode; Not with encomiastic ode, Of laudatory dedication, But with an offer to impart, For twenty pounds, the secret art Which should procure, without the pain Of metals, chemistry, and fire, What he so long had sought in vain, And gratify his heart's desire.

The money paid, our bard was hurried To the philosopher's sanctorum, Who, as it were sublimed and flurried Out of his chemical decorum, Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his Crucibles, retort, and furnace, And cried, as he secured the door, And carefully put to the shutter, "Now, now, the secret, I implore! For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!"

With grave and solemn air the poet Cried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it: Let this plain truth those ingrates strike, Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave; THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE, SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!" Horace Smith.

CCCLXX.

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand: "Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this, About the crows!"—"I don't know what it is," Replied his friend.—"No? I'm surprised at that; Where I came from 't is the common chat; But you shall hear: an odd affair indeed! And that it happened, they are all agreed. Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows." "Impossible!"—"Nay, but it 's really true; I had it from good hands, and so may you." "From whose, I pray?" So having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. "Sir, did you tell?"—relating the affair— "Yes, sir, I did; and if it's worth you care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one; he told it me; But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three." Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Whip to the third, the virtuoso went. "Sir,"—and so forth—"Why, yes; the thing is fact, Though in regard to number not exact; It was not two black crows; 't was only one; The truth of that you may depends upon, The gentleman himself told me the case." "Where may I find him?"—"Why, in such a place." Away he goes, and having found him out— "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."

Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard. "Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"—"Not I!"— "Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, And here I find at last all comes to none! Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" "Crow—crow—perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over."—"And pray, sir, what was 't?" "Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was as black, sir, as a crow." Byrom.

CCCLXXI.

HELPS TO READ.

A certain artist—I've forgot his name— Had got, for making spectacles, a fame, Or, "helps to read," as, when they first were sold, Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold; And, for all uses to be had from glass, His were allowed by readers to surpass. There came a man into his shop one day— "Are you the spectacle contriver, pray?" "Yes Sir," said he, "I can in that affair Contrive to please you, if you want a pair." "Can you? pray do, then." So at first he chose To place a youngish pair upon his nose; And, book produced, to see how they would fit, Asked how he liked them. "Like 'em!—not a bit." "Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try These in my hand will better suit your eye?"— "No, but they don't."—"Well come, sir, if you please, Here is another sort; we'll e'en try these; Still somewhat more they magnify the letter, Now, sir?"—"Why, now, I'm not a bit the better."— "No! here, take these which magnify still more,— How do they fit"?—"Like all the rest before!" In short, they tried a whole assortment through, But all in vain, for none of them would do. The operator, much surprised to find So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind! "What sort of eyes can you have got?" said he. "Why very good ones, friend, as you may see." "Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball. Pray let me ask you Can you read at all?" "No! you great blockhead!—If I could, what need Of paying you for any 'helps to read?'" And so he left the maker in a heat, Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat. Byrom.



BOOK FOURTH.

STANDARD SELECTIONS OF DIALOGUES.

BOOK FOURTH.

STANDARD DIALOGUES.

CCCLXXII.

PRINCE ARTHUR OF BRETAGNE.

PRINCE ARTHUR—HUBERT—ATTENDANTS.

HUB. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras; when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground rush forth, And bind the boy which you shall find with me, Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. 1 Att. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to it. [Exeunt Attendants.] Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. [Enter Arth.] Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince) as may be.—You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. Arth. Mercy on me! Methinks nobody should be sad but I: Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, I should be merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practices more harm to me. He is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son? No, indeed, is 't not; and I would to Heaven, I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate, He will awake my mercy, which lies dead: Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [Aside.] Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day. In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might, sit all night, and watch with you. I warrant, I love you more than you do me. Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.— Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now, foolish rheum. [Aside.] Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.— Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ? Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? Hub. Young boy, I must. Arth. And will you? Hub. And I will. Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheered up the heavy time; Saying, What lack you? and Where lies your grief? Or, What good love may I perform for you? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you: But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was a crafty love, And call it cunning: do, and if you will: If Heaven be pleased that you should use me ill, Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?— These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you? Hub. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, And quench its fiery indignation, Even in the matter of mine innocence: Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron? An if an angel should have come to me, And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believed him; no tongue, but Hubert's. Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.—Renter Attendants.] Do as I bid you. Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the irons angrily. Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. 1 Att. I am best pleased to be away from such a deed. [Exeunt Attendants.] Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend: He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Arth. Is there no remedy? Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. O, Heaven! that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a meandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. Hub. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue. Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert! Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes; O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use, but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, And would not harm me. Hub. I can heat it, boy. Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief— Being create for comfort,—to be used In undeserved extremes. See else yourself: There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strewed repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert; Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes, And, like a dog, that is compelled to fight, Snatch at his master that does tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong, Deny their office: only you do lack That mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extends,— Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised. Hub. Peace; no more: Adieu!— Your uncle must not know but you are dead; I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports. And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee. Arth. O, Heaven!—I thank you, Hubert. Hub. Silence: no more. Go closely in with me: Much danger do I undergo for thee. Shakespeare.

CCCLXXIII.

QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in this: You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein, my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted off. Brutus. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold, To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last! Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cas. Chastisement! Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice?—What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers,—shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be graspd thus?— I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman! Cas. Brutus, bay not me! I'll not endure it. You forget yourself, To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther! Bru. Away, slight man! Cas. Is 't possible? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? Cas O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this? Bru. All this? ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break; Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble! Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth,—yea for my laughter, When you are waspish! Cas. Is it come to this? Bru. You say, you are a better soldier: Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus: I said, an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say, better? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Csar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him! Cas. I durst not? Bru. No. Cas. What? durst not tempt him? Bru. For your life, you durst not! Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am armed so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;— For I can raise no money by vile means: By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection! I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces! Can. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not;—he was but a fool That brought my answer back.—Brutus hath rived my heart; A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. Cas. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world; Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes!—There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine,—richer than gold; If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth; I that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike as thou didst at Csar; for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst, then lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius! Brat. Sheathe your dagger; Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yokd with a lamb That carries anger, as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforcd, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered, too. Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart too. Cas. O, Brutus! Bru. What's the matter? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor, which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful? Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. Shakespeare.

CCCXXLXIV.

DOGBERRY'S CHARGE.

DOGBERRY—VERGES—THE WATCH.

Dog. Are you good men and true? Ver. Yea, or else it were a pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch. Ver. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry. Dog. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable? 1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. Dog. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by nature. 2 Watch. Both which, master constable,— Dog. You have; I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore, bear you the lantern. This is your charge;—you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name. 2 Watch. How, if he will not stand? Dog. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave. Ver. If he will not stand when he is bidden he is none of the prince's subjects. Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects.—You shall also make no noise in the streets: for, for the watch to babble and talk, is most tolerable, and not to be endured. 2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch. Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend: only, have a care that your bills be not stolen.—Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 2 Watch. How, if they will not? Dog. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober; if they make you not then the better answer, you may say, they are not the men you took them for. 2 Watch. Well, sir. Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. 2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? Dog. Truly, by your office, you may; but, I think, they that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and steal out of your company. Ver. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog, by my will; much more a man who hath any honesty in him. Ver. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse, and bid her still it. 2 Watch. How, if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us. Dog. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying: for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when it bleats. Ver. 'T is very true. Dog. This is the end of the charge. You, constable, are to present the prince's own person: if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. Ver. Nay, by 'r lady, that, I think, he cannot. Dog. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that knows the statues, he may stay him: marry, not without the prince be willing: for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will. Ver. By 'r lady, I think, it be so. Dog. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows' counsels and your own, and good-night.—Come, neighbor. 2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed. Dog. One word more, honest neighbors: I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato's door, for the wedding being there tomorrow there is a great coil to-night.—Adieu; be vigilant, I beseech you. Shakespeare.

CCCLXXV.

INDIGESTION.

DR. GREGORY—PATIENT.

[SCENE.——DR. GREGORY'S STUDY. ENTER A PLUMP GLASGOW MERCHANT.]

Pa. Good morning, Dr. Gregory! I'm just come into Edinburg about some law business, and I thought when I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel take your advice, sir, about my trouble. Dr. Pray, sir, sit down. And now, my good sir, what may your trouble be? Pa. Indeed, Doctor, I'm not very sure; but I'm thinking it's a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pickling about my stomachs;—I'm just na right. Dr. You are from the West country, I should suppose, sir? Pa. Yes, sir, from Glasgow. Dr. Ay; pray, sir, are you a glutton? Pa. God forbid, sir; I'm one of the plainest men living in all the West country. Dr. Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard? Pa. No, Dr. Gregory; thank God, no one can accuse me of that. I'm of the Dissenting persuasion, Doctor, and an Elder; so you may suppose I'm na drunkard. Dr. I'll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of life. I'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I would wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take at it? Pa. I breakfast at nine o'clock; take a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kipper salmon, or, may be, both, if they're good, and two or three rolls and butter. Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast? Pa. Oh, yes, sir! but I don't count that as anything. Dr. Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind of a dinner do you make? Pa. Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed; some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes; I think, some way, they never satisfy the appetite. Dr. You take a little pudding, teens and afterwards some cheese. Pa. Oh, yes! though I don't care much about them. Dr. You take a glass of ale and porter with your cheese? Pa. Yes, one or the other; but seldom both. Dr. You West-country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after dinner. Pa. Yes, we do; it as good for digestion. Dr. Do you take any wine during dinner? Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry; but I'm indifferent as to wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer Dr. What quantity of port do you drink? Pa. Oh, very little; not above half a dozen glasses or so. Dr. In the West country it is impossible, I hear to dine without punch? Pa. Yes, sir, indeed, 't is punch we drink chiefly; but for myself unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that's moderate. Dr. Oh, exceedingly moderate indeed! You then, after this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter? Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening letters. Dr. And on your return you take supper, I suppose. Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to take supper; just something before going to bed;—a rizzard haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or a half-hundred of oysters: or the like o' that and may be, two thirds of a bottle of ale; but I take no regular supper. Dr. But you take a little more punch after that? Pa. No, sir, punch does not agree with me at bedtime. I take a tumbler of warm whiskey-toddy at night; it is lighter to sleep on. Dr. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your every day life; but, upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little? Pa. No, sir, except when a friend or two dine with me, or I dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often happen. Dr. Not above twice a week? Pa. No; not oftener. Dr. Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite? Pa. Yes, sir, thank God, I have; indeed, any ill-health that I have is about meal-time. Dr. [Assuming a severe look, knitting his brow, and lowering his eyebrows.] Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow indeed. You come here and tell me you are a moderate man; but upon examination, I find by your own showing that you are a most voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man; yet, by your own showing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat indigestible suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. I see that you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand this? Go home, sir, and leave your present [course of ] riotous living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its tone, and you be in good health, like your neighbors. Pa. I'm sure, Doctor, I 'm very much obliged to you [taking out a bundle of bank-notes], I shall endeavor to. Dr. Sir, you are not obliged to me:—put up your money, sir. Do you think I 'll take a fee for telling you what you know as well as myself? Though you 're no physician, sir, you are not altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or, take my word for it, your life is not worth half a year's purchase.

CCCLXXVI.

THE TWO ROBBERS.

[Alexander THE great, in his tent. A man with a fierce countenance, chained and fettered, brought before him.] Alex. What! art thou the Thracian robber, of whose exploits I have heard so much? Rob. I am a Thracian, and a soldier. Alex. A soldier!—a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! the pest of the country! I could honor thy courage; but I must detest and punish thy crimes. Rob. What have I done of which you can complain? Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; violated the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and the properties of thy fellow-subjects? Rob. Alexander, I am your captive I must hear what you please to say, and endure what you please to inflict. But my soul is unconquered; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, I will reply like a free man. Alex. Speak freely. Far be it for me take the advantage of my power, to silence those with whom I deign to converse. Rob. I must; then, answer your question by another. How have you passed your life? Alex. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell you. Among the brave, I have been the bravest; among sovereigns, the noblest; among conquerors, the mightiest. Rob. And does not Fame speak of me, too? Was there ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was there ever— but I scorn to boast. You yourself know that I have not been easily subdued. Alex. Still, what are you, but a robber—a base dishonest robber? Rob. And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too gone about the earth like an evil genius: blasting the fair fruits of peace and industry; plundering, ravaging, killing without law, without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion? All that I have done to a single district, with a hundred followers you have done to whole nations, with a hundred thousand. If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes. If I have burned a few hamlets, you have desolated the most flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is then the difference, but that as you were born a king, and I a private man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I? Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a king. If I have subverted empires, I have founded greater. I have cherished arts, commerce, and philosophy. Rob. I, too, have freely given to the poor what I took from the rich. I have established order and discipline among the most ferocious of mankind; and I have stretched out my protecting arm over the oppressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosphy you talk of; but I believe neither you nor I shall ever atone to the world for the mischief we have done it. Alex. Leave me.—Take off his chains, and use him well. Are we, then, so much alike? Alexander to a robber?—Let me reflect. Dr. Aiken.

CCCLXXVII.

THE MISER.

LOVEGOLD—JAMES.

Love. Where have you been? I have wanted you above an hour. James. Whom do you want, sir,—your coachman or your cook? for I am both one and t' other. Love. I want my cook. James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman; for you have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses were starved; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in an instant. [ Puts off his coachman's great-coat and appears as a cook.] Now sir, I am ready for your commands. Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper. James. A supper, sir! I have not heard the word this half-year; a dinner, indeed, now and then; but, for a supper, I'm almost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out. Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide a good supper. James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir. Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money! Can you say nothing else but money, money, money? My children, my servants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money. James. Well, sir; but how many will there be at table? love. About eight or ten; but I will have supper dressed but for eight; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough for ten. James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup; at the other, a fine Westphalia ham and chickens; on one side, a fillet of veal; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bustard, which may be had for about a guinea— Love. Zounds! is the fellow providing an entertainment for my lord mayor and the court of aldermen? James. Then a ragout— Love. I'll have no ragout. Would you burst the good people you dog? James. Then pray, sir, what will you have? Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs: let there be two good dishes of soup-maigre; a large suet pudding; some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat; a fine, small lean breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. There; that's plenty and variety. James. O, dear— Love. Plenty and variety. James. But, sir, you must have some poultry. Love. No; I'll have none. James. Indeed, sir, you should. Love. Well, then,—kill the old hen, for she has done laying. James. Mercy! sir, how the folks will talk of it; indeed, people say enough of you already. Love. Eh! why, what do the people say, pray? James. Oh, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry. Love. Not at all; for I'm always glad to hear what the world says of me. James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make a jest of you everywhere; nay, of your servants, on your account. One says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to find an excuse to pay them no wages. Love. Poh! poh! James. Another says, you were taken one night stealing your own oats from your own horses. Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any. James. In a word, you are the bye-word everywhere; and you are never mentioned, but by the names of covetous, stingy, scraping, old— Love. Get along, you impudent villain! James. Nay, sir, you said you would n't be angry. Love. Get out, you dog! you— Fielding.

CCCLXXVIII.

THE LETTER.

SQUIRE EGAN AND HIS NEW IRISH SERVANT, ANDY. Squire. Well, Andy, you went to the postoffice, as I ordered you? Andy. Yis, sir. Squire. Well, what did you find? Andy. A most impertinent fellow indade, sir. Squire. How so? Andy Says I, as decent like as a gentleman, "I want a letther, sir, if you plase." "Who do you want it for?" said the posth-masther, as ye call him. "I want a letter, sir, if you plase," said I "And whom do you want it for?" said he again. "And what 's that to you?" said I. Squire. You blockhead, what did he say to that? Andy. He laughed at me, sir, and said he could not tell what leather to give me, unless I told him the direction. Squire. Well, you told him then, did you? Andy. "The directions I got," said I "was to get a leather here,—that 's the directions." "Who gave you the directions?" says he. "The masther" said I. "And who 's your masther?" said he. "What consarn is that of yours?" said I. Squire. Did he break your head, then? Andy. No sir. "Why you stupid rascal," said he, "if you don't tell me his name, how can I give you his leather?" "You could give it, if you liked," said I; "only you are fond of axing impudent questions, because you think I'm simple." "Get out o' this!" said he. "Your masther must be as great a goose as yourself, to send such a missenger." Squire. Well, how did you save my honor, Andy? Andy. "Bad luck to your impudence!" said I. "Is it Squire Egan you dare say goose to?" "O Squire Egan's your masther?" said he. "Yes," says I; "Have you anything to say agin it?" Squire. You got the letter, then, did you? Andy. "Here 's a leather for the squire," says he. "You are to pay me eleven pence posthage." "What 'ud I pay 'levenpence for?" said I "For posthage," said he. "Did n't I see you give that gentlewoman a leather for four-pence, this blessed minit?" said I; "and a bigger letther than this? Do you think I 'm a fool?" says I? "Here 's a four-pence for you, and give me the letther." Squire. I wonder he did n't break your skull, and let some light into it. Andy. "Go along, you stupid thafe!" says he, because I would n't let him chate your honor. Square. Well, well; give me the letter. Andy. I have n't it, sir. He would n't give it to me, sir. Squire. Who would n't give it to you? Andy. That old chate beyant in the town. Square. Did n't you pay what he asked? Andy. Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated, when he was selling them before my face for four-pence a-piece? Squire. Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you. Andy. He'll murther me, if I say another word to him about the leather; he swore he would. Squire. I'll do it, if he don't, if you are not back in less than an hour. [Exit] Andy. O, that the like of me should be murthered for defending the charrackter of my masther! It's not I'll go to dale with that bloody chate again. I'll off to Dublin, and let the leather rot on his dirty hands, bad luck to him! Anonymous.

CCCLXXIX.

THE FRENCHMAN'S LESSON.

Frenchman. Ha! my friend! I have met one very strange name in my lesson. Vat you call H-o-u-g-h,—eh? Tutor. "Huff." Fr. Trs bien, "huff;" and snuff you spell s-n-o-u-p-h? Tut. Oh! no, no! "Snuff" is spelled s-n-u-f-f. In fact, words in o-u-g-h are a little irregular. Fr. Ah, very good!—'t is beautiful language! H-o-u-g-h is "huff." I will remember; and of course, c-o-u-g-h is "cuff." I have a bad "cuff,"—eh? Tut. No, that is wrong; we say "kauff,"—not "cuff" Fr. "Kauff," eh? "Huff," and "kauff;" and, pardonnez-moi, how you call d-o-u-g-h—"duff,"—eh? is it "duff?" Tut. No, not "duff." Fr. Not "duff!" Ah oui; I understand, it is "dauff," —eh? Tut. No; d-o-u-g-h spells "doe." Fr. "Doe!" It 's ver' fine! Wonderful language! It is "doe;" and t-o-u-g-h is "toe," certainement. My beefsteak is very "toe." Tut. Oh! no, no! You should say "tuff." Fr. "Tuff!" And the thing the farmer uses, how you call him, p-l-o-u-g-h,—"pluff," is it? Ha! you smile. I see that I am wrong; it must be "plaff." No? then it is "ploe," like "doe?" It is one beautiful language! ver' fine! "ploe!" Tut. You are still wrong, my friend; it is "plow." Fr. "Plow!" Wonderful language! I shall understand ver' soon. "Plow" "doe" "kauff;" and one more r-o-u-g-h —what you call General Taylor,—"Rauff and Ready?" No? then "Row and Ready?" Tut. No; r-o-u-g-h spells "ruff." Fr. "Ruff," ha? Let me not forget. R-o-u-g-h is "ruff," and b-o-u-g-h is "buff,"—ha? Tut. No; "bow." Fr. Ah! 't is ver' simple! Wonderful language! But I have had vat you call e-n-o-u-g-h,—ha? Vat you call him?—Ha! ha! ha! Anonymous.

CCCLXXX.

HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS.

Mr. H.—Steward.

Mr. H. Ha! Steward, How are you, my old boy? How do things go on at home? Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead. Mr. H. Poor mag! so he's gone. How came he to die? Stew. Over-ate himself sir. Mr. H. Did he, faith? a greedy dog; why, what did he get he liked so well? Stew. Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse-flesh. Mr. H. How came he to get so much horse-flesh? Stew. All your father's horses, sir. Mr. H. What! Are they dead, too? Stew. Ay, sir; they died of over-work. Mr. H. And why were they over-worked, pray? Stew. To carry water, sir. Mr. H. To carry water! and what were they carrying water for? Stew. Sure, sir, to put out the fire. Mr. H. Fire! what fire? Stew. Oh, sir, your father's house is burned down to the ground. Mr. H. My father's house burned down! and how came it set on fire? Stew. I think, sir, it must have been the torches. Mr. H. Torches! what torches? Stew. At your mother's funeral. Mr. H. My mother dead! Stem. Ah, poor lady, she never looked up after it. Mr. H. After what? Stew. The loss of your father. Mr. H. My father gone too? Stew. Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as soon as he heard of it. Mr. H. Heard of what? Stew. The bad news, sir, and please your Honor. Mr. H. What! more miseries! more bad news? Stew. Yes, sir, your bank has failed, and your credit is lost, and you are not worth a shilling in the world. I made bold, sir, to come to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like to hear the news. Anonymous.

CCCLXXXI.

THE CHOLERIC father.

CAPT. ABSOLUTE—SIR ANTHONY

Capt. A. Sir, I am delighted to see you here and looking so well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health. Sir A. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, are you recruiting here, eh? Capt. A. Yes, sir; I am on duty. Sir A. Well, Jack! I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long. Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; and I pray fervently that you may continue so. Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that as I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. Capt. A. Sir, you are very good. Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. Capt. A Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such generosity makes the gratitude of reason more lively than the sensation even of filial affection. Sir A. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention; and you shall be master of a large estate in a few weeks. Capt. A. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude. I cannot express the sense I have of your munificence. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army? Sir A. O, that shall be as your wife chooses. Capt. A. My wife, sir? Sir A. Ay, ay, settle that between you—settle that between you. Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say? Sir A. Ay, a wife—why did I not mention her before? Capt A. Not a word of her, sir. Sir A. Upon my word, I must n't forget her, though! Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage—the fortune is saddled with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference? Capt. A. Sir! sir, you amaze me! Sir A. What 's the matter? Just now you were all gratitude and duty. Capt. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not one word of a wife. Sir A. Why, what difference does that make? Sir, if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands. Capt. A. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave to decline the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady? Sir A. What 's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly. Capt. A. Sure, sir, that 's not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of! Sir A. I am sure, sir, 't is more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of. Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that on this point I cannot obey you. Sir A. Hark you, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience; I have been cool,—quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led—when I have my own way; but don't put me in a frenzy. Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey you. Sir A. Now, shoot me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live! Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. Sir A. Sir, U won't hear a word—not a word!—not one word!—So, give me your promise by a nod; and I 'll tell you what, Jack,—I mean, you dog,—if you don't— Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; to— Sir A. Sir, the lady shall be as ugly as I choose; she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's Museum; she shall leave a skin like a mumps and the beard of a Jew; he shall be all this, sir! Yet, I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty! Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed! Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes! Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life. Sir A. 'T is false, sir! I know you are laughing in your sleeve. I know you'll grin when I am gone, sir! Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. Sir A. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if, you please! It won't do with me, I promise you. Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. Sir A. I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog! But it won't do! Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word Sir A. So you will fly out! Can't you be cool like me? What good can passion do? Passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! Don't provoke me! But you rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! You play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet, take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! But, mark: I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree without any condition, to do everything on earth that I choose, why, I may, in time, forgive you. lf not, don't enter the same hemisphere with me; don't care to breathe the same air, or use the same light, with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a five-and-three-pence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest! I'll disown you. I'll disinherit you! I'll never call you Jack again. [Exit.] Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hand. R. B. Sheridan.

CCCLXXXII.

ROLLA AND ALONZO.

[ENTER ROLLA DISGUISED AS A MONK.]

Rolla. Inform me, friend, is Alonzo, the Peruvian, confined in this dungeon? Sentinel. He is. Rolla. I must speak with him. Sentinel. You must not. Rolla. He is my friend. Sentinel. Not if he were your brother. Rolla. What is to be his fate? Sentinel. He dies at sunrise. Rolla. Ha! then I am come in time, Sentinel. Just to witness his death. Rolla. [Advancing toward the door.] Soldier, I must speak with him. Sentinel. [Pushing him back with his gun.] Back! Back! it is impossible. Rolla. I do entreat you, but for one moment. Sentinel. You entreat in vain, my orders are most strict. Rolla. Look on this massive wedge of gold! look on these precious gems! In thy land they will be wealth for thee and thine, beyond thy hope or wish. Take them; they are thine; let me but pass one moment with Alonzo. Sentinel. Away! Wouldest thou corrupt me?—me, an old Castilian! I know my duty better. Rolla. Soldier, hast thou a wife? Sentinel. I have. Rolla. Hast thou children? Sentinel. Four honest, lovely boys. Rolla. Where didst thou leave them? Sentinel. In my native village, in the very cot where I was born. Rolla. Dost thou love thy wife and children? Rolla. Do I love them? God knows my heart,—I do. Rolla. Soldier, imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death, in a strange land,—what would be thy last request? Sentinel. That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife and children. Rolla. What if that comrade was at thy prison door, and should there be told, "Thy fellow-soldier dies at sunrise, yet thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children, or his wretched wife!"— What would'st thou think of him who thus could drive thy comrade from the door? Sentinel. How! Rolla. Alonzo has a wife and child; and I am come but to receive for her, and for her poor babes the last blessing of my friend. Sentinel. Go in. [Exit sentinel.] Rolla. [ Calls] Alonzo! Alonzo! [Enter Alonzo, speaking as he comes in.] Alonzo. How! is my hour elapsed? Well, I am ready. Rolla Alonzo—Know me! Alonzo. Rolla! Heavens! how didst thou pass the guard? Rolla. There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field of battle. It has gained me entrance to thy dungeon; now take it thou, and fly. Alonzo And Rolla,— Rolla. Will remain here in thy place. Alonzo. And die for me! No! Rather eternal torture rack me. Rolla. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's; and thy arm may soon deliver me from prison. Or, should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted tree in the desert; nothing lives beneath my shelter. Thou art a husband and a father; the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant depend upon thy life. Go, go, along, not to save thyself but Cora and thy child. Alonzo. Urge me not thus, my friend. I am prepared to die in peace. Rolla. To die in peace! devoting her you have sworn to live for to madness, misery, and death! Alonzo. Merciful Heavens! Rolla. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo,—now mark me well. Thou knowest that Rolla never pledged his word, and shrank from its fulfilment. And here I swear, if thou art proudly obstinate, thou shalt have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side. Alonzo. O, Rolla! you distract me! Wear you the robe and though dreadful the necessity we will strike down the guard and force our passage. Rolla. What, the soldier on duty here? Alonzo Yes,—else, seeing two, the alarm will be instant death. Rolla. For my nation's safety, I would not harm him. That soldier, mark me, is a man! All are not men that wear the human form. He refused my prayers, refused my gold, refused to admit, till his own feelings bribed him. I will not risk a hair of that man's head, to save my heartstrings from consuming fire But haste! A moment's further pause, and all is lost. Alonzo Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honor and from right.. Rolla. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonor to his friend? [ Throwing the friar's garment over his shoulder.] There! conceal thy face. Now, God be with thee! Kotzebue.

CCCLXXXIII.

THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER.

Traveller. Do you belong to this house, friend? Landlord. No, it belongs to me, I guess. [ The Traveller takes out his memorandum-book, and in a low voice reads what he writes.] Trav. "Mem. Yankee landlords do not belong to their house's [Aloud] You seem young for a landlord: may I ask how old you are? Land. Yes, if you'd like to know. Trav. Hem! [Disconcerted.] Are you a native, sir? Land. No, sir; there are no natives hereabouts. Trav. "Mem. None of the inhabitants natives; ergo, all foreigners." [Aloud] Where were you born, sir? Land. Do you know where Marblehead is? Trav. Yes. Land. Well, I was not born there. Trav. Why did you ask the question, then? Land. Because my daddy was. Trav. But you were born somewhere. Land. That 's true; but as father moved up country afore the townships were marked out, my case is somewhat like the Indian's who was born at Nantucket, Cape Cod, and all along shore. Trav. Were you brought up in this place, sir? Land. No; I was raised in Varmount till mother died, and then, as father was good for nothing after that I pulled up stakes and went to sea a bit. Trav. "Mem. Yankees, instead of putting up gravestones, pull up stakes, and go to sea, when a parent dies" [Aloud] You did not follow the sea long, for you have not the air of a mariner. Land. why, you see, I had a leetle knack at the coopering business; and larning that them folks that carry it on in the West Indies die off fast, I calculated I should stand a chance to get a handsome living there. Trav. And so you turned sailor to get there? Land. Not exactly; for I agreed to work my passage by cooking for the crew, and tending the dumb critters. Trav. Dumb critters! Of what was your lading composed? Land. A leetle of everything;—horses, hogs, hoop-poles, and Hingham boxes; boards, ingyons, soap, candles, and ile. Trav. "Mem. Soap, candles, and ile, called dumb critters by the Yankees." [Aloud.] Did you arrive there safely? Land. No, I guess we did n't. Trav. Why not? Land. We had a fair wind, and sailed a pretty piece, I tell you; but jest afore we reached the eend of our vige, some pirates overhauled us, and stole all our molasses, rum, and gingerbread. Trav. Is that all they did to you? Land. No, they ordered us on board their vessel, and promised us some black-strap. Trav. "Mem. Pirates catch Yankees with a black-strap." [Aloud] Did you accept the invitation? Land. No, I guess we did n't. And so they threatened to fire into us. Trav. What did your captain do? Land. "Fire, and be dammed!" says he, "but you'd better not spill the deacon's ile, I tell you." Trav. And so you ran off, did you? Land. No; we sailed off a small piece. But the captain said it was a tarnal shame to let them steal our necessaries; and so he right about, and peppered them, I tell you. Trav. "Mem. Yankees pepper pirates when they meet them." [Aloud.] Did you take them? Land. Yes, and my shear built this house. Trav. "Mem. Yankees build houses with shears." Land. It 's an ill wind that blows nowhere, as the saying is. And now, may I make so bold as to ask whose name I shall enter in my books? Trav. Mine! Land. Hem!—if it 's not an impertinent question, may I ask which way you are travelling? Trav. Home. Land. Faith! have I not as good a right to catechize you, as you had to catechize me? Trav. Yes. "Mem. Yankees the most inquisitive people in the world,—impertinent, and unwilling to communicate information to travellers." [Aloud] Well, sir, if you have accommodations fit for a gentleman, I will put up with you. Land. They have always suited gentlemen, but I can't say how you'll like 'em. Trav. There is a tolerable prospect from this window. What hill is that, yonder? Land. Bunker Hill, sir. Trav. Pretty hill! If I had my instruments here, I should like to take it. Land. You had better not try. It required three thousand instruments to take it in '75. Tram "Mem. A common Yankee hill cannot be drawn without three thousand instruments." [Aloud] Faith, Landlord, your Yankee draughtsmen must be great bunglers. But come, sir, give me breakfast, for I must be going; There is nothing else in the vicinity worthy the notice of a traveller. Anon.

CCCLXXXIV.

THE EMBRYO LAWYER.

OLD FICKLE—TRISTAM FICKLE.

Old F. What reputation, what honor, what profit can accrue to you from such conduct as yours? One moment you tell me you are going to become the greatest musician in the world, and straight you fill my house with fiddlers. Tri. I am clear out of that scrape now, sir. Old F. Then from a fiddler you are metamorphosed into a philosopher; and for the noise of drums, trumpets, and hautboys, you substitute a vile jargon, more unintelligible than was ever heard at the tower of Babel. Tri. You are right, sir, I have found out that philosophy is folly; so, I have cut the philosophers of all sects, from Plato and Aristotle down to the puzzlers of modern date. Old F. How much had I to pay the cooper, the other day, for barreling you up in a large tub, when you resolved to live like Diogenes? Tri. You should not have paid him anything, sir, for the tub would not hold. You see the contents are run out. Old F. No jesting, sir; this is no laughing matter. Your follies have tired me out. I verily believe you have taken the whole round of arts and science in a month, and have been of fifty different minds in half an hour. Tri. And, by that, shown the versatility of my genius. Old F. Don't tell me of versatility, sir. Let me see a little steadiness. You have never yet been constant to anything but extravagance. Tri. Yes, sir, one thing more. Old F. What is that, sir. Tri. Affection for you. However my head may have wandered, my heart has always been constantly attached to the kindest of parents; and, from this moment, I am resolved to lay my follies aside, and pursue that line of conduct which will be most pleasing to the best of fathers and of friends. Old F. Well said, my boy,—well said! You make me happy indeed. [patting him on the shoulder] Now, then, my dear Tristram, let me know what you really mean to do. Tri. To study the law. Old F. The law! Tri. I am most resolutely bent on following that profession. Old F. No! Tri. Absolutely and irrevocably fixed. Old F. Better and better. I am overjoyed. Why, 't is the very thing I wished. Now I am happy. [ Tristram makes gestures as if speaking.] See how his mind is engaged! Tri, Gentlemen of the jury,— Old F. Why Tristram,— Tri. This is a cause,— Old F. O, my dear boy! I forgive you all your tricks. I see something about you, now, that I can depend upon. [ Tristram continues making gestures.] Tri. I am for the plaintiff in this cause,— Old F. Bravo! bravo! excellent boy! I'll go and order your books directly. Tri. It is done sir. Old F. What, already! Tri. I ordered twelve square feet of books when I first thought of embracing the arduous profession of the law. Old F. What, do you mean to read by the foot? Tri. By the foot, sir; that is the only way to become a solid lawyer. Old F. Twelve square feet of learning! Well,— Tri. I have likewise sent for a barber, Old F. What, is he to teach you to shave close? Tri. He is to shave one half of my head, sir. Old F. You will excuse me if I cannot perfectly understand what that has to do with the study of the law. Tri. Did you never hear of Demosthenes, sir, the Athenian orator? He had half his head shaved, and locked himself up in a coal-cellar. Old F. Ah! he was perfectly right to lock himself up after having undergone such an operation as that. He certainly would have made rather an odd figure abroad. Tri. I think I see him now, awaking the dormant patriotism of his countrymen,—lightning in his eye, and thunder in his voice: he pours forth a torrent of eloquence, resistless in its force—the throne of Philip trembles while he speaks; he denounces, and indignation fills the bosom of his hearers; he exposes the impending danger, and every one sees impending ruin; he threatens the tyrant,—they grasp their swords; he calls for vengeance, their thirsty weapons glitter in the air, and thousands reverberate the cry. One soul animates the nation, and that soul is the soul of the orator. Old F. O! what a figure he'll make in the King's Bench! But, come, I will tell you now what my plan is, and then you will see how happily this determination of yours will further it. You have [ Tristram makes extravagant gestures, as if speaking,] often heard me speak of my friend Briefwit, the barrister,— Tri. Who is against me in this cause?— Old F. He is a most learned lawyer,— Tri. But as I have justice on my side,— Old F. Zounds! he does n't hear a word I say! Why, Tristram! Tri. I beg your pardon, sir, I was prosecuting my studies. Old F. Now, attend,— Tri. As my learned friend observes,—Go on, sir, I am all attention. Old F. Well, my friend the counselor,— Tri. Say learned friend, if you please, sir. We gentlemen of the law always,— Old F. Well, well,—my learned friend,— Tri. A black patch! Old F. Will you listen, and be silent? Tri. I am as mute as a judge. Old F. My friend, I say, has a ward, who is very handsome, and who has a very handsome fortune. She would make you a charming wife. Tri. This is an action, Old F. Now, I have hitherto been afraid to introduce you to my friend, the barrister, because I thought your lightness and his gravity,— Tri. Might be plaintiff and defendant. Old F. But now you are growing serious and steady, and have resolved to pursue his profession, I will shortly bring you together; you will obtain his good opinion, and all the rest follows of course. Tri. A verdict in my favor. Old F. You marry and sit down, happy for life. Tri. In the King's Bench. Old F. Bravo! Ha, ha, ha! But now run to your study, —run to your study, my dear Tristram, and I'll go and call upon the counsellor. Tri. I remove by habeas corpus. Old F. Pray have the goodness to make haste, then. [Hurrying him off.] Tri. Gentlemen of the jury this is a cause. [Exit.] Old F. The inimitable boy! I am now the happiest father living. What genius he has! He'll be Lord Chancellor one day or other, I dare be sworn. I am sure he has talents! O! how I long to see him at the bar! Allingham.

NOTES.

Page No.

3. I. BROUGHAM, (broom,) HENRY, Lord, philosopher, law-reformer, statesman, orator, and critic, was born in 1779, at Edinburgh, where he was educated at the High School and University. He united with Jeffrey and Horner in establishing the "Edinburgh Review," and for nearly twenty years he was one of its most regular contributors. Having for a few years practised law at the Scottish bar, he removed to England in 1807, and entered Parliament in 1810. His long parliamentary career has been characterized as one of desultory warfare. "A great part of his life has been spent in beating down; in detecting false pretensions whether in literature or politics; in searching out the abuses of long-established institutions; in laying open the perversions of public charities; in exposing the cruelties of the criminal code; or in rousing public attention to a world of evils resulting from the irregularities in the administration of municipal law." The character of his eloquence is well suited to the purposes of an assailant. "For fierce, vengeful, and irresistible assault," says John Foster, "Brougham stands the foremost man in all the world." This extract is taken from his Inaugural Discourse as Lord Rector of the university of Glasgow delivered in 1825.

4. II. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN was born at Dublin, September, 1751. His father was Thomas Sheridan, author of a Pronouncing Dictionary, and a distinguished teacher of elocution. His career was brilliant and successful, both as a dramatist and an orator. He entered Parliament in 1780 where his first speech was a failure; and when told, at its close, by one of his disappointed friends, that he had better have stuck to his former pursuit of writing plays, he rested his head on his hand for some minutes, and then exclaimed with vehemence, "It is in me, and it shall come out of me!" And so it did. Of his speech against Hastings, on the charge of the Begums, Mr. Pitt said, "an abler speech was perhaps never delivered;" and Mr. Fox characterized it as "the greatest that had been delivered within the memory of man." But his convivial habits betrayed him into gross intemperance, and he became bankrupt in character and health, as well as in fortune, and died on the 7th of July, 1816, at the age of sixty-four, a melancholy example of brilliant talents sacrificed to a love of display and sensual indulgence.

4. II. This is a very useful piece for practice, on account of the excellent illustrations of emphasis and inflections which it affords. The third paragraph is a fine example of the circumflex slides.

5. III. From the speech on the Begum Charge, before the House of Lords, sitting as a High Court of Parliament, June, 1788, and, said to be the most graphic and powerful description to be found in the speeches of Sheridan.

—Oude, (ood.): Begums, Hindoo Princesses. —Zenana. (ze-nh-nah): that part of a house in India particularly reserved for women.

6. IV. THOMAS SMITH GRIMKE was born in Charleston S. C., September 26, 1786. He was a descendant of the Huguenots. In the days of Nullification he supported the General Government. He was an eloquent advocate of the Union, and in a Fourth of July Oration at Charleston, in 1809, he graphically depicts the horrors of civil war, which must follow disunion. He died on the 12th of Octobers 1834.

8. V. Lycian (l-she-an ): Achan ( a-kee'-an): Hanseatic (han-se-at'-ic), from Hance (hn-seh), a German word signifying "association for mutual support." Hamburg, Lubeck, Bremen, and Frankfort, constitute the present free Hanseatic cities.

12. VIII. CHAUNCEY A. GOODRICH Occupied the chair of Rhetoric and Oratory in Yale College, from 1817 until 1839, when he was transferred to that of Pastoral Theology, which he filled for more than twenty years. His chief literary works are his "Collection of Select British Eloquence," an excellent book, and his revised and enlarged edition of "Webster's Dictionary." Mr. Webster's argument in the Dartmouth College case, was delivered in 1818 and Professor Goodrich says that he went to Washington chiefly for the sake of hearing it.

14. IX. JOSHUA QUINCY was born in 1772 and graduated at Harvard College in 1790. He was in Congress from 1805 until 1813; mayor of Boston for six years, and President of Harvard from 1829 until 1845. He died July 1, 1864. This extract is from his Centennial Address on the Two Hundredth Anniversary of the Settlement of Boston, delivered in 1830.

16 X. Bon Homme Richard: (bo nom ree'-shar'') Guerrire: (ghr-re-air'').

17. XI. WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING, grandson of William Ellery, one of the signers of the Declaration, was born at Newport, R. I., April 7, 1780. In 1798, he was graduated at Harvard, with the highest honors. For nearly forty years he was pastor of the Federal Street Church in Boston. The collection of his Works embraces six volumes. He was one of the most eloquent of American divines, and he wrote largely on war, temperance, slavery, and education. He died October 2, 1842.

22. XIV. Tyrol (tyr'-ol): Innspruk (inns'-prook): Scheldt (skelt).

23. XV. THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER, an Irish patriot and orator. At present a general in the United States Army, and a stanch friend of the Union.

25. XVII. HENRY GRATTAN, born at Dublin, July 3, 1746; died May 14, 1820. He was the greatest of Irish patriots, and the greatest of Irish orators. His forte was reasoning, but it was "logic on fire." A distinguished writer described his eloquence as a "combination of cloud, whirlwind, and flame." His style was elaborated with great care. His language is select, and his periods are easy and fluent.

27. XVIII. RUFUS CHOATE was born at Ipswich, Mass., October 1, 1799, graduated at Dartmouth College, with the highest honors, in 1819, and died at Halifax, while on his way to Europe, July 13, 1859. Gifted with the most brilliant intellectual powers, he was ever a hard student. Mr. Everett says of him, "With such gifts, such attainments, and such a spirit, he placed himself, as a matter of course, not merely at the head of the jurists and advocates, but of the public speakers of the country." His most famous oration is his Eulogy on Daniel Webster, delivered at Dartmouth College. Mr. Choate's works have been edited, and an admirable Memoir of his Life written, by Professor Samuel G. Brown, the whole being published in two octavo volumes.

29. XX. Bothius ( bo-e'-thi-us). —Sibyl (sib' il ).

30 XXI. From a Lecture on the Eloquence of Revolutionary Periods, delivered in Boston, February 1857.

33. XXIII. gobelin (gob'-e-lin): Pericles ( per'-i-cles).

37. XXVII. MRS. LYDIA MARIA CHILD, whose maiden name was FRANCIS, was born in Massachusetts, but passed a portion of her earlier years in Maine. Her literary productions are numerous and are characterized by vigor and originality of thought. She has been very prominent in the anti-slavery movement. A work on the subject of slaverey, published by her in 1833, produced a great sensation. This selection is from The Rebels, a tale of the Revolution, which was published in 1825, when she was quite young.

41. XXX. PATRICK HENRY. This distinguished "orator of nature" was born in Virginia, May 29, 1736. He was a member of the first Congress, which met in Carpenter's Hall, at Philadelphia, on the 4th of September, 1774. For several years he was governor of Virginia and for more than thirty years he stood among the foremost of American patriots and statesmen. He was one of the earliest and most powerful opponents of British power. In 1765, as member of the House of Burgesses, he introduced his famous resolutions against the Stamp Act, which proved the opening of the American Revolution in the colony of Virginia. He died on the 6th of June, 1799. His life has been written by William Wirt. This speech was delivered about one month before the battle of Lexington, so that his prophecy, "The next gale," &c. was almost literally fulfilled.

44. XXXIII, Prsidium ( pre-sid'-i-um): a guard. -Publo ( pwa'-blo ): a village. —-ranch: a hut, or collection of huts; a farming establishment. —-Tehuauntepec (ta-hun-te-pec).

46. XXXIV. REV. ROBERT HALL, an eminent Baptist minister, was born at Arnsby, England, August, 1764, and died at Bristols, on the 21st of February, 1831. His writings, which have been published in six volumes, are highly finished in style, and display a remarkable combination of logical precision, metaphysical acuteness, practical sense and sagacity, with a rich luxuriance of imagination, and all the graces of composition. Dr. Parr says of him—"He has, like Jeremy Taylor, the eloquence of an orator, the fancy of a poet the subtlety of a schoolman, the profoundness of a philosopher, and the piety of a saint."

47. XXXV. JOSEPH STORY was born at Marblehead, Mass., September 18, 1779. In 1810 he was appointed by President Madison Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, and in 1829, he was made Professor of the Dane Law School, which office he held until his death, September 10th, 1845. He was an eminent jurist, an eloquent orator, and a finished scholar.

—Siloa: the metre here requires the accent on the first syllable (sil'-o-a, ) though most authorities make it (sil-'-a.).

52. XXXIX. REV. ELIJAH KELLOGG, a clergyman in Boston. He wrote this piece especially for declamation. This copy is a recent revision by the author for Hillard's Reader.

54. XL. From a speech delivered in the House of Representatives of the United States, January 8, 1847.

56. XLI. From an oration delivered at the seat of Government, on the occasion of laying the corner-stone of the National Monument to Washington, July 4, 1848.

70. LIII. FISHER AMES was born at Dedham, Mass., April 9th, 1758, where he died, July 4th, 1808 He was a member of the first Congress under the Constitution, in which body he remained eight years. In 1804, he was tendered the Presidency of Harvard College, which he declined.. He was an excellent classical scholar and an accumplished orator. His speech on Jay's Treaty, from which this extract is taken is a production of the deepest pathos and richest eloquence. Webster is said to have committed the whole speech to memory in early life.

92. LXIX. Brougham's career, though brilliant, has been marked by the most extraordinary inconsistencies and contradictions, and now, at the age of eighty-five, forgetting his brave denunciation of slavery, he takes sides with a wicked rebellion, which was set on foot for the establishment of an empire based on slavery.

97. LXXIII. RICHARD LALOR SHIEL was born in Ireland, August 17, 1791 and died in Italy, May 23, 1857. He entered Parliament in 1830, and at the time of his death, he was Minister at the Court of Tuscany. For bold, impassioned declamation, this extract has seldom been equalled.

—STRAFFORD, EARL, whose family name was Wentworth. Rene gade, because having at first resisted the arbitrary power of Charles the First, he afterwards became so obnoxious to the people by his own exercise of arbitrary power that he was impeached of high treason and executed.

—one man of great abilities: LORD LYNDHURST, who was born in Boston, Mass., May 21, 1772. He was the son of the eminent portrait and historical painter, John Singleton Copley.

68.—Assaye (as-si'), a small town in Hindostan, where the Duke of Wellington commenced his career of victory in a battle fought September 23, 1803.

98. LXXIII. Waterloo: (waw'-ter-loo,) battle of, June 18, 1815.

—Vimeira: (ve-ma-e-rah,) a town in Portugal, where the Duke of Wellington defeated the French, August 21, 1808.

—Badajos: (bad-ah-hoce') a town in Spain, taken from the French by the Duke of Wellington, April 6, 1812.

—Salamanca: (sah-lah-mang'-kah) a city in Spain near which the English, under Wellington totally defeated the French, under Marmont and Clusel, July 22, 1812,

—Albuera: (al-boo-a'-rah ) a town in Spain where the British and allies gained a victory over the French, May 16, 1811.

—Toulouse: (too-looz') a city in France, where Wellington defeated the French under Soult, April 10, 1814.

99. LXXIV. FRANCIS WAYLAND, President of Brown University from 1827 until 1856, was born at New York, March 11. 1796. 111. LXXXIII. Edward Everett was born at Dorchester Mass., April 11, 1794, took his degree at Harvard College in 1811, and was settled over the church in Brattle Street, Boston, in 1813. In 1815, he was appointed Professor of Greek Literature in Harvard College, and he devoted the four succeeding years to study and travel in Europe, with the view to further qualify himself for its duties, which he assumed in 1819, with those of editor of the "North American Review." Both these positions he held till 1825 when his took his seat in Congress as Representative from Middlesex County, which he held for ten years. He was Governor of Massachusetts from 1836 until 1840. In 1841 he was appointed Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James and on his return home in 1846, was elected President of Harvard College, which position he resigned in 1849. He succeeded Mr. Webster as Secretary of State, in 1852, and in 1853 was chosen to the Senate of the United States, but soon resigned on account of ill health. Edward Everett is the most accomplished orator in this country, and he may justly be styled the Cicero of America. His splendid oration pronounced August 26, 1824, at Cambridge, before the Society of Phi Beta Kappa, closing with the beautiful apostrophe to Lafayette, who was present, placed him before the public as one of the greatest and most accomplished orators who had ever appeared in America. The reputation then achieved by him has been steadily advancing for forty years. On the breaking out of the rebellion, he at once came out boldly in support of the Government and the constitution, and during the struggle thus far, his matchless pen, his eloquent voice, and his great personal influence have been employed, on all proper occasions, in maintaining the cause of his country. Three large octavo volumes of his orations and occasional speeches have been published constituting a body of eloquence and learning, which has been surpassed by no other orator in the language.