Part Four - Practise - section(3)

- King Henry VIII., Act III, Scene2…Shakespeare
- King John, Parts Of Acts III and IV…Shakespeare
- Julius Cesar, Act III, Scene 2…Shakespeare
- Julius Cesar, Act IV, Scene 3…Shakespeare
- As You Like It, Sct I, Scene 3…Shakespeare
- Hamlet, Part Of Act V…Shakespeare
- Othello, Act I, Scene 3…Shakespeare
- The Shipwreck…Charles Dickens
- Como…Joaquin Miller
- The Revenge…Alfred, Lord Tennyson
- Magdalena; Or, The Spanish Duel…J. F. Waller
- Jean Valjean The Convict Victor Hugo
- The Revolutionary Rising…Thomas Buchanan Read
- The Legend Of The Organ-Builder…Julia C. B. Dorr
- Shipwrecked…Francois Coppee
- The First Settler's Story…Will Carleton
- The Monster Cannon…Victor Hugo
- Time's Silent Lesson

KING HENRY VIII.

ACT III, SCENE 2 WOLSEY AND CROMWELL

SCENE : An antechamber in Henry VIII. 's palace.

Wol. So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth; my high blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world,
I hate ye; I feel my heart new-opened. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Enter CROMWELL.
"Why, how now, Cromwell ?
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.
Wol. What, amazed

At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep, I am fall'n indeed.
Crom. How does your grace ?
Wol. Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now; and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders, These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy too much honor;
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!
Grom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it
Wol. I hope I have; I am able now, methinks,
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,
To endure more miseries and greater far
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad?
Crom.  The heaviest and the worst
Is your displeasure with the king.
Wol. God bless him!
Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord chancellor in your place.
Wol. That's somewhat sudden;
But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice
For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones, When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on them! What more ?
Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,
Install 'd lord archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news indeed.
Crom.  Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, This day was view'd in open as his queen, Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O
Cromwell,
The king has gone beyond me; all my glories In that one woman I have lost forever;
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;
I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master; seek the king;
That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him
What and how true thou art; he will advance thee;
Some little memory of me will stir him
I know his noble nature not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too; good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.
Crom.  O my lord,
Must I, then, leave you? must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of
iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leave s his lord.
The king shall have my service; but my prayers
For ever and for ever shall be yours.
Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast fore 'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And,
when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee,
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, tho thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?

Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not;
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall 'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;
And, prithee lead me in;
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's; my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, are all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!
Crom. Good sir, have patience.
Wol.     So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.
[Exeunt]

KING JOHN

PARTS OF ACTS III AND IV

SCENE : Plain near Anglers. Elinor the Queen-mother, has
taken Arthur aside to console him, and John
beckons to Hubert.
K. John. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert, We owe thee much; within this wall of flesh
There is a soul, counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love:
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,
But I will fit it with some better time.

By Heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed To say what good respect I have of thee.
Hub. I am much bounden to your majesty.
K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet: But thou shalt have; and creep time ne 'er so slow,
Yet it shall come, for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say, But let it go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,
To give me audience: If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a churchyard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had baked thy blood, and made it heavy, thick,
(Which, else, runs tickling up and down the veins, Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes;)
Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:

But ah, I will not: Yet I love thee well;
And, by my troth, I think, thou lovest me well.
Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake, Tho that my death were adjunct to my act,
By Heaven, I'd do't.

K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend, He is a very serpent in my way;
And, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me: Dost thou understand me ? Thou art his keeper.
Hub. And I will keep him so That he shall not offend your majesty.
K. John. Death.
Hub. My lord?
K. John. A grave.
Hub. He shall not live.
K. John. Enough.
I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee; Well, I '11 not say what I intend for thee: Remember.

SCENE: In a castle, Northampton; Hubert comes in with two 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 Attend. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to't.
[Exeunt ATTENDANTS.

HUBERT unlocks the door of a cell.

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

Enter ARTHUR.

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 as merry as the day is long:
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me;
He is afraid of me, and I of him:
Is it my fault, that I was Geoffrey's son?
No, indeed, it's not; and I would to Heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. [Aside,
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.
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.       [Aside.
Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now,
foolish rheum!
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out of 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 cheer 'd 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 crafty love,
And call it, cunning: Do, and if you will:
If Heaven be pleased, that you must use me ill,

Why, then thou 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, tho heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, And quench his fiery indignation, Even in the matter of mine innocence:

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd 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.

Eeenter ATTENDANTS with cord, irons, etc.

Do as I bid you do.
Arth. Oh, 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 boist'rous-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 iron angerly:
Thrust but these men away, and I'ii forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to.
Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
1 Atten. I am best pleased to be 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 wand'ring hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous 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; Oh, spare mine eyes;
Tho 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;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strew'd 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: 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. Oh, 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.      [Exeunt.

JULIUS CAESAR

ACT III, SCENE 2

SCENE: Forum at Borne after murder of Ccesar. Large and excited crowd. Brutus goes into the rostrum to speak. 3 Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended: Silence! Bru. Be patient till the last.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe : censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar this is my answer, Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves; than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men ? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him: but, as he was ambitious, I slew him: There is tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honor, for his valor; and death, for his ambition. "Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country ? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.

Cit. None, Brutus, none. [Several speaking at once.

Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar, than you should do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol: his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offenses enforced, for which he suffered death.

Enter ANTONY and others, with Caesar's body.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, tho he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not ? With this I depart; That, as I slew my best lover for the good Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. Cit. Live, Brutus, live! live!

1. Cit. Bring him with triumph home unto his house.
2. Cit. Give him a statue with his ancestors.
3. Cit. Let him be Caesar.
4. Cit. Caesar's better parts

Shall now be crown 'd in Brutus.

1. Cit. We'll bring him to his home with shouts and clamors.
Bru. My countrymen.
2. Cit. Peace; silence! Brutus speaks.
1. Cit. Peace, ho!
Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone,
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony:

Do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech
Tending to Caesar's glories; which Mark Antony,
By our permission, is allow'd to make.
I do entreat you, not a man depart,
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke.     [Exit.
1. Cit. Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony.
3. Cit. Let him go up into the public chair j
We'll hear him: Noble Antony, go up.
Ant. For Brutus' sake, I am beholden to you.
4 Cit. What does he say of Brutus ?
3 Cit. He says, for Brutus' sake,
He finds himself beholden to us all.
4 Cit. 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here.
1 Cit. This Caesar was a tyrant.
3 Cit. Nay, that's certain:
We are bless 'd, that Rome is rid of him.
2 Cit. Peace; let us hear what Antony can say.
Ant. You gentle Romans,
Cit. Peace, ho! let us hear him.

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest
(For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men),
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome.
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see, that on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause, till it come back to me.

1 Cit. Methinks, there is much reason in his sayings.
2 Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter,
Caesar has had great wrong.
3 Cit. Has he, masters ?
I fear, there will a worse come in his place.
4 Cit. Mark'd ye his words? he would not take the crown;

Therefore, 'tis certain, he was not ambitious.

1. Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it.
2. Cit. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with weeping.
3. Cit. There's not a nobler man in Eome than Antony.
4. Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak.

Ant. But yesterday, the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world: now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.

O masters! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men.
But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar.
I found it in his closet; 'tis his will:
Let but the commons hear his testament
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read)
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue.

4 Cit. We '11 hear the will: Read it, Mark Antony.
Cit. The will, the will; we will hear Caesar's will.
Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;

It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar,

It will inflame you, it will make you mad:
"Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;

For if you should, O, what would come of it!

4 Git. Read the will; we will hear it, Antony: You shall read us the will; Caesar's will.

Ant. Will you be patient ? Will you stay a while ? I have o 'ershot myself, to tell you of it.

I fear, I wrong the honorable men,

Whose daggers have stabb 'd Caesar: I do fear it.

4 Cit. They were traitors: Honorable men!

Cit. The will! the testament!

2 at. They were villains, murderers: The will! read the will!

Ant. You will compel me then to read the will ? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,

And let me show you him that made the will.

Shall I descend ? And will you give me leave ? at. Come down.

2 at. Descend.  [He comes down from the pulpit.

3 Cit. You shall have leave.

4 at. A ring; stand round.

1 Cit. S,tand from the hearse, stand from the body.

2 at. Room for Antony most noble Antony.

Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. at. Stand back! room! bear back!

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember

The first time ever Caesar put it on;

'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent;

That day he overcame the Nervii:
Look! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through:
See, what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd;
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it;
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knock 'd, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all:
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue
(Which all the while ran blood), great Caesar fell.
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then 1, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst .bloody treason flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold
Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here,
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.

1. Cit. O piteous spectacle!
2. Cit. O noble Caesar!
3. Cit. O woful day!
4. Cit. O traitors, villains!

1 Cit. O, most bloody sight!

2 Cit. We will be revenged; revenge; about, seek, burn, fire, kill, slay! let not a traitor live.

Ant. Stay, countrymen.

1 Cit. Peace there! hear the noble Antony.
2 Cit. We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him
Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They, that have done this deed, are honorable;
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honorable,

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not friends, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator, as Brutus is:
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men’s blood; I only speak right on;
I tell you that, which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweat Caesar’s wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths.
And bid them speak for me: But were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
Cit. We’ll mutiny.
1Cit. We’ll burn the house of Brutus.
3 Cit. Away then come, seek the conspirators.

Ant. Yet here me, countrymen; yet her me speak.
Cit. Peace, ho! Hear Antony, most noble Antony.
Ant. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what:
Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves?

Alas! you know not: I must tell you then: You have forgot the will I told you of.
Cit. Most true; the will; let's stay, and hear the will.
Ant. Here is the will, and under Caesar 's seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
2 Cit. Most noble Caesar! we '11 revenge his death.
3 Cit. O royal Caesar!
Ant. Hear me with patience.
Cit. Peace, ho!
Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs forever; common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Caesar: When comes such another ?
1 Cit. Never, never: Come away, away:
We '11 burn his body in the holy place,
And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Take up the body.
2 Cit. Go, fetch fire.
3 Cit. Pluck down benches.
4 Cit. Pluck down forms, windows, anything.

[Exeunt CITIZENS with the body. Ant. Now let it work: Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt!

JULIUS CIESAR

ACT IV, SCENE 3 THE QUAKEEL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS

SCENE : Within the tent of Brutus.

Enter BRUTUS and CASSIUS.

Cas. That you have wrong'd me, doth appear in this: You have condemn'd 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.

Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case.

Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offense should bear his comment.

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn'd 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 touch'd 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 grasped thus ? » I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me, I '11 not endure it: you forget yourself, To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, Older in practise, abler than yourself To make conditions.

Bru. Go to; you're 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,

Tho 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. Caesar 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 arm'd 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 answer'd 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.

 Cas. 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 would never see such faults.

Bru. A flatterer's would not, tho they do appear As huge as high Olympus.

Cos. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is a-weary of the world:
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learn'd and conn'd 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 Caesar; for, I know,
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius.

Bru. Sheathe your dagger:

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger, as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, 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-temper 'd, vexeth him ?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd, 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, henceforth, "When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He '11 think your mother chides, and leave you so.

AS YOU LIKE IT

ACT I, SCENE 3 BANISHMENT OF CELIA

SCENE : A room in the palace.

Duke F. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste And get you from our court.
Bos Me, uncle?
Duke F. You, cousin.
Within these ten days if that thou be 'st found

So near our public court as twenty miles, Thou diest for it.
Bos. I do beseech your grace,
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me; If with myself I hold intelligence
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,
As I do trust I am not then, dear uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn
Did I offend your highness.
Duke F. Thus do all traitors:
If their purgation did consist in words, They are as innocent as grace itself:
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
Bos. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor: Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough.
Bos. So was I when your highness took his dukedom;
So was I when your highness banish'd him;
Treason is not inherited, my lord;

Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor:
Then, my good liege, mistake me not so much
To think my poverty is treacherous.
Gel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Duke F. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake, Else had she with her father rang'd along.
Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay;
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse;
I was too young that time to value her;
But now I know her; if she be a traitor,
Why so am I; we still have slept together,

Rose at an instant, learn 'd, play'd, eat together, And wheresoe 'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupl'd and inseparable.
Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness, Her very silence and her patience
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool; she robs thee of thy name;
And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous When she is gone. Then open not thy lips;
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass 'd upon her; she is banish 'd.
Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege; I can not live out of her company.
Duke F. You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself; If you outstay the time, upon mine honor,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.
[Exit DUKE FREDERICK.
Cel. O! my poor Eosalind, whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
Bos. I have more cause.
Cel.      Thou hast not, cousin;
Prithee, be cheerful; know 'st thou not, the duke Hath banish 'd me, his daughter ?
Bos.     That he hath not.
Cel. No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I are one;
Shall we be sunder 'd ? Shall we part, sweet girl ?
No; let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us;
And do not seek to take your charge upon you,

To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out; For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou canst, I '11 go along with thee.

Bos. Why, whither shall we go ?

Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

Bos. Alas! what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Cel. I '11 put myself in poor and mean attire, And with a kind of umber smirch my face; The like do you; so shall we pass along And never stir assailants.

Bos.     Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man ?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand; and in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,
As many other mannish cowards have
That do outface it with their semblances.

Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a man ?

Bos. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page; And therefore look you call me Ganymede. But what will you be call'd?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state; No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Eos. But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal The clownish fool out of your father's court? Would he not be a comfort to our travel ?

Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me; Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,

And get our jewels and our wealth" together, Devise the fittest time and safest way To hide us from pursuit that will be made After my flight. Now go we in content To liberty and not to banishment.

HAMLET

PART OF ACT V

SCENE: A churchyard. Two grave-diggers.

1st G. D. Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?

2d G. D. I tell thee she is; and therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath set on her, and finds it Christian burial.

1st G. D. How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defense?

2d. G. D. Why, 'tis found so.

1st G. D. It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies the point: If I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches; it is, to act, to do, and to perform: Argal, she drowned herself wittingly.

2d G. D. Nay, but hear you, goodman delver.

1st. G. D. Give me leave. Here lies the water: good; here stands the man: good; if the man go to this water, and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes; mark you that; but if the water come to him, and drown him, he drowns not himself: Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death, shortens not his own life.

2d G. D. But is this law ?

1st G. D. Ay, marry is't; crowner's quest-law. Come,
my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners,
ditchers, and grave-makers. I'll put a question to thee: if
thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself 

2d G. D. Go to.

1st G. D. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

2d G. D. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

1st G. D. I like thy wit well, in good faith: the gallows does well. But how does it well ? It does well to those that do ill: now, thou dost ill, to say the gallows is built stronger than the church: Argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To't again; come.

2d G. D. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter ?

1st G. D. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

2d G. D. Marry, now I can tell.

1st G. D. To't.

2d G. D. Mass, I cannot tell.

Enter HAMLET and HORATIO, at a distance.

1st G. D. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and, when you are asked this question next, say, a grave-maker: the houses that he makes last till doomsday. Go, fetch me a stoup of liquor.

[Exit 2d Grave-digger.

1st G. D. [digs and sings]:
In youth, when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet,

To contract, (O!) the time, for a my behove, O, methought, there was nothing a meet.

Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?

Hor. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. Ham. 'Tis e 'en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. 1st Q. D.:

But age, with his stealing steps, Hath claw'd me in his clutch, And hath shipped me intil the land, As if I had never been such.

[Throws up a skull.

Hamlet. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'erreaches, one that would circumvent heaven, might it not?

[Bones thrown up.

Hora. It might, my lord.

Hamlet. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with ? Mine ache to think on't.

1st G. D. [sings] :

A pick-ax, and a spade, a spade,
For and a shrouding sheet: O! a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet.

[Throws up another skull.

Hamlet. There's another. Why might not that be the skull of a lawyer ? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery ? I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave's this, sir?

1st G. Z. Mine, sir. [Sings.]

O! a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.

Hamlet. I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in't.

1st G. D. You lie out on't, sir, and therefore it is not yours: for my part, I do not lie in't, and yet it is mine.

Hamlet. Thou dost lie in't, to be in 't, and say it is thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.

1st G. D. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away again, from me to you.

Hamlet. What man dost thou dig it for ?

1st G. D. For no man, sir.

Hamlet. What woman, then ?

1st G. D. For none, neither.

Hamlet. Who is to be buried in't?

1st G. D. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's dead.

Hamlet. How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. How long hast thou been a grave-maker?

1st. G. B. Of all the days i* the year, I came to't that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.

Hamlet. How long is that since ?

1st G. D. Can not you tell that? every fool can tell that It was the very day that young Hamlet was born; he that is mad, and sent into England.

Hamlet. Ay, marry; why was he sent into England?

1st G. B. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or if he do not, 'tis no great matter there.

Hamlet. Why?

1st G. B. 'Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.

Hamlet. How came he mad?

1st G. B. Very strangely, they say.

Hamlet. How strangely?

1st G. B. 'Faith, e'en with losing his wits.

Hamlet. Upon what ground?

1st G. B. Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.

Hamlet. How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot ?

1st G. B. 'Faith, if he be not rotten before he die, he will last you some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year. Here's a skull now; this skull hath lain i' the earth three-and-twenty years.

Hamlet. Whose was it ?
1st G. B. A mad fellow's it was: Whose do you think it was?

Hamlet. Nay, I know not.

1st G. B. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! a' poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester.

Hamlet. This?

st G. B. E'en that.

Hamlet. Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips, that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now, get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come; make her laugh at that. Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Hora. What's that, my lord?

Hamlet Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' the earth?

Hora. E'en so.

Hamlet. And smelt so? pah!

Hora. E'en so, my lord.

[Takes and puts down the skull.

Hamlet. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole!

Hora. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.

Hamlet No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam: and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel ?
Imperious Caesar, dead, and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: O! that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!

OTHELLO

ACT I, SCENE 3 OTHELLO ON HIS MARRIAGE

SCENE: The Council-chamber at Venice.

Oth. Most potent, grave and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv'd good masters, That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless 'd with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd Their dearest action in the tented field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish 'd tale deliver Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration and what mighty magic, For such proceeding I am charg'd withal, I won his daughter.

Bra. A maiden never bold;

Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion Blush'd at herself; I therefore vouch again That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,

Or with some dram conjur'd to this effect, He wrought upon her.

Duke.   To vouch this, is no proof,

Without more wider and more overt test Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming do prefer against him.

Sen. But, Othello, speak:

Did you by indirect and forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid's affections? Or came it by request and such fair question As soul to soul affordeth?

Oth. I do beseech you,

Send for the lady to the Sagittary, And let her speak of me before her father; If you do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office I do hold of you, Not only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my life. And, till she come, as truly as to heaven, I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, And she in mine.

Duke. Say it, Othello.

Oth. Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;

Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd.

I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it; Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of hairbreadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach,

Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence And portance in my travels' history; Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak, such was the process; And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house-affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come again and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse; which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively; I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs; She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange,

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful; She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd That heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me,

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake ;
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I lov'd her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used;
Here comes the lady; let her witness it.
Enter DESDEMONA and ATTENDANTS.
Bra. Come hither, gentle mistress;

Do you perceive, in all this noble company, Where most you owe obedience?
Des. My noble father,

I do perceive here a divided duty; To you I am bound for life and education; My life and education both do learn me How to respect you; you are the lord of duty; I am hitherto your daughter; but here's my husband, And so much duty as my mother showed To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor my lord.

Bra. God be with you! I have done.

THE SHIPWRECK

BY CHARLES DICKENS

On a late September night the sleeping town of Yarmouth is startled by the cry: *' A wreck close by!" '' What wreck ?'' '' A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with fruit and wine. It's thought down on the beach she'll go to pieces any moment!"

Numbers of excited people are to be seen, all running in one direction toward the beach and now an immense crowd stands facing the wild sea. The height to which the breakers rise, and, looking over one another, bear one another down, and roll in, in interminable hosts, is most appalling. Suddenly the wreck closes in toward the shore. One mast is broken off six or eight feet from the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in a maze of sail and rigging, and all that ruin, as the ship rolls and beats which she does without a moment's pause and with a violence quite inconceivable beats the side as if it would stave it in. As the ship turns toward the shore in her rolling, her people are plainly descried at work with axes, especially one active figure with long curling hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a great cry, which is audible even above the wind and water, rises from the shore at this moment; the sea, sweeping over the rolling wreck, makes a clean breach, and carries men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the boiling surge. The second mast is still standing, with the rags of a rent sail and a wild confusion of broken cordage flapping to and fro.

But the rolling and beating is too tremendous for any human work to suffer long. There is another great cry of pity from the beach; four men rise with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the rigging of the remaining mast; uppermost the active figure with the curling hair. There is a bell on board, and as the ship rolls and dashes, the bell rings; and its sound, the knell of those unhappy men, is borne to those standing on shore. Again the ship is lost from view, now she rises again. Two men are gone. The agony on shore increases. Men groan and clasp their hands; women shriek and turn away their faces. Some run wildly up and down along the beach, crying for help where no help can be.

And now a new sensation moves the people on the beach, and as they part, Ham Peggotty comes breaking through them to the front. Another cry arises on shore, and looking to the wreck they see the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the two men and fly up in triumph round the active figure left alone upon the mast. Ham is heard to cry: " Mates, if my time is come, 'tis come. If 'tain't, I'll bide it. Lord above bless you all! Mates, make me ready, I'm a-going for the wreck!"

There is hurry on the beach, men running with ropes from a capstan that is there, and Ham stands out alone in a seaman's frock and trousers; a rope in his hand, another round his body, and several of the best men holding at a little distance to the latter. The wreck is breaking up. She is parting in the middle and the life of the solitary man upon the mast hangs by a thread. Still he clings to it. He has a singular red cap on not like a sailor's cap, but of a finer color; and as the few yielding planks between him and destruction roll and bulge, and his anticipative death-knell rings, he is seen to wave it.

Ham watches the sea, standing alone, with the silence of suspended breath behind him, and the storm before, until there is a great retiring wave, when, with a backward glance at those who hold the rope which is made fast round his body, he dashes in after it and in a moment is buffeting with the water; rising with the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne in toward the shore, borne on toward the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distance is nothing, but the power of the sea and wind makes the strife deadly. At length he nears the wreck. He is so near that with one of his vigorous strokes he will be clinging to it when a high, green, vast hillside of water, moving on shoreward, from beyond the ship, seems to leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship is gone! They haul in hastily, but consternation is seen in every face for there at their feet lies poor old Ham dead! He had been beaten to death by the great wave and his generous heart was stilled forever. And as they bend compassionately over the form of their brave young comrade, another body is washed ashore that of the solitary figure which had been seen alone upon the mast, and there next to him whom he had so unjustly wronged, lay the dead body of James Steerforth!

COMO

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

The red-clad fishers row and creep Below the crags, as half asleep, Nor even make a single sound. The walls are steep, The waves are deep;

And if the dead man should be found
By these fishers in their round,
Why, who shall say but he was drowned?
The lake lay bright, as bits of broken moon
Just newly set within the cloven earth;
The ripened fields drew round a golden girth
Far up the steppes, and glittered in the noon.
And when the sun fell down, from leafy shore
Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar.
The stars, as large as lilies, flecked the blue;
From out the Alps the moon came wheeling through This rocky pass the great Napoleon knew.
A gala night it was the season's prime;
We rode from castled lake to festal town,
To fair Milan my friend and I; rode down
By night, where grasses waved in rippled rhyme;
And so what theme but love in such a time ?
His proud lip curved the while in silent scorn
At thought of love; and then, as one forlorn,
He sighed, then bared his temples, dashed with gray,
Then mocked, as one outworn and well blasé.
A gorgeous tiger-lily, flaming red,
So full of battle, of the trumpet's blare,
Of old-time passion, upreared its head.
I galloped past, I leaned, I clutched it there.
From out the long strong grass I held it high,
And cried "Lo! this to-night shall deck her hair
Through all the dance. And mark! the man shall die
Who dares assault, for good or ill design,
The citadel where I shall set this sign."

He spoke no spare word all the after while.

That scornful, cold, contemptuous smile of his! Why, better men have died for less than this. Then in the hall the same old hateful smile!
Then marvel not that when she graced the floor,
With all the beauties gathered from the four
Far quarters of the world, and she, my fair,
The fairest, wore within her midnight hair

My tiger-lily marvel not, I say,
That he glared like some wild beast well at bay!
Oh, she shone fairer than the summer star,
Or curled sweet moon in middle destiny.
More fair than sunrise climbing up the sea,
Where all the loves of Ariadne are.
Who loves, who truly loves, will stand aloof,
The noisy tongue makes most unholy proof
Of shallow waters, all the while afar
From out the dance I stood, and watched my star,
My tiger-lily, borne an oriflamme of war.

A thousand beauties flashed at love's advance; Like bright white mice at moonlight in their play, Or sunfish shooting in the shining bay, The swift feet shot and glittered in the dance. Oh, have you loved, and truly loved, and seen Aught else the while than your own stately queen? Her presence, it was majesty so tall; Her proud development encompassed all. She filled all space. I sought, I saw but her. I followed as some fervid worshiper.

Adown the dance she moved with matchless pace.
The world my world moved with her. Suddenly
I questioned whom her cavalier might be.
'Twas he! His face was leaning to her face!
I clutched my blade; I sprang; I caught my breath,
And so stood leaning still as death.
And they stood still. She blushed, then reached and tore
The lily as she passed, and down the floor
She strewed its heart like bits of gushing gore.
'Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break.
He taught me this that night in splendid scorn.
I learned too well. The dance was done. Ere morn
We mounted he and I but no more spake.
And this for woman's love! My lily worn
In her dark hair in pride to be thus torn
And trampled on for this bold stranger's sake!
Two men rode silent back toward the lake.
Two men rode silent down, but only one
Rode up at morn to greet the rising sun.
The walls are steep,
The waves are deep;
And if the dead man should be found
By red-clad fishers in their round,
"Why, who shall say but he was drowned?

THE REVENGE

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

At Plores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: " 'Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;

You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. "Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Kichard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet."

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on thro* the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh 'd, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
Bunning on and on, till delay'd
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred
tons, And upshadowing nigh above us with her yawning tiers
of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.
And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day,

And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all.
And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame.
For some were sunk and many were shatter 'd, and so could fight us no more
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before 1

For he said "Fight on! fight on!" Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
"With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said "Fight on! fight on!"
And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over
the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all
in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting,
So they watch'd what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maim 'd for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent and the powder was all of it spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men!

And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
We die does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner sink her, split her in
twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!''
And the gunner said "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:
"We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniards promise, if we yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow!" And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him
then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught
at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: *' I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and
true, !And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap

That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man ? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; "When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,

And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main.

MAGDALENA; OR, THE SPANISH DUEL

BY J. F. WALLER

Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago Dwelt a lady in a villa
Years and years ago; < And her hair was black as night, And her eyes were starry bright; Olives on her brow were blooming, Roses red her lips perfuming,

And her step was light and airy
As the tripping of a fairy;
When she spoke, you thought each minute,
'Twas the trilling of a linnet;
When she sang, you heard a gush
Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush;
And she struck from the guitar
Ringing music, sweeter far
Than the morning breezes make
Through the lime trees when they
Than the ocean murmuring o'er
Pebbles on the foamy shore.
Orphaned both of sire and mother
Dwelt she in that lonely villa, Absent now her guardian brother

On a mission from Sevilla. Skills it little now the telling
How I wooed that maiden fair, Tracked her to her lonely dwelling
And obtained an entrance there. Ah! that lady of the villa!
And I loved her so, Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago.
'Twas an autumn eve; the splendor
Of the day was gone, And the twilight, soft and tender,
Stole so gently on That the eye could scarce discover How the shadows, spreading over,
Like a veil of silver gray,

Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted, Till they paled, and paled, and fainted
From the face of heaven away. And a dim light rising slowly
O'er the welkin spread, Till the blue sky, calm and holy,
Gleamed above our head.
Seated half within a bower
Where the languid evening breeze Shook out odors in a shower
From oranges and citron trees,
Sang she from a romancero,
How a Moorish chieftain bold Fought a Spanish caballero
By Sevilla's walls of old.
How they battled for a lady,
Fairest of the maids of Spain How the Christian's lance, so steady,
Pierced the Moslem through the brain.
Then she ceased her black eyes moving, Flashed, as asked she with a smile,
"Say, are maids as fair and loving Men as faithful, in your isle?"
"British maids," I said, "are ever
Counted fairest of the fair; Like the swans on yonder river
Moving with a stately air.

"Wooed not quickly, won not lightly-But, when won, forever true;
Trial draws the bond more tightly, Time can ne 'er the knot undo.''
"And the men?" "Ah! dearest lady, Are quien sabe? who can say?
To make love they're ever ready, When they can and where they may;
" Fixed as waves, as breezes steady In a changeful April day
Como brisas, como rios, No se sabe, sabe Dios."
"Are they faithful?" "Ah! quien sabe?
Who can answer that they are ? While we may we should be happy."
Then I took up her guitar, And I sang in sportive strain, A song to an old air of Spain.

As I sang the lady listened, Silent save one gentle sigh;
When I ceased, a tear-drop glistened On the dark fringe of her eye.
Then my heart reproved the feeling Of that false and heartless strain
Which I sang in words concealing What my heart would hide in vain.

Up I sprang. What words were uttered
Bootless now to think or tell Tongues speak wild when hearts are fluttered
By the mighty master spell.
Love, avowed with sudden boldness, Heard with flushings that reveal,
Spite of woman's studied coldness, Thoughts the heart cannot conceal.
"Magdalena, dearest, hear me," Sighed I, as I seized her hand
"Hola! Senor," very near me, Cries a voice of stern command.
And a stalwart caballero
Comes upon me with a stride,
On his head a slouched sombrero, A toledo by his side.
From his breast he flung his capa With a stately Spanish air
(On the whole, he looked the chap a Man to slight would scarcely dare.)
"Will your worship have the goodness To release that lady's hand?"
"Senor," I replied, "this rudeness I am not prepared to stand.

"Magdalena, say" the maiden, With a cry of wild surprise,
As with secret sorrow laden, Fainting sank before my eyes.
Then the Spanish caballero Bowed with haughty courtesy,
Solemn as a tragic hero, And announced himself to me.
"Senor, I am Don Camillo Guzman Miguel Pedrillo De De Xymenes y Ribera
Y Santallos y Herrera
Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa
Y Zorilla y " "No more, sir,
'Tis as good as twenty score, sir,"
Said I to him, with a frown; "Mucha bulla para nada, No palabras, draw your 'spada; If you're up for a duelo You will find I'm just your fellow
Senor, I am PETER BROWN !''
By the river's bank that night, Foot to foot in strife,
Fought we in the dubious light A fight of death or life.
Don Camillo slashed my shoulder,
With the pain I grew the bolder, Close, and closer still I pressed;

Fortune favored me at last, I broke his guard, my weapon passed Through the caballero 's breast • Down to the earth went Don Camillo Guzman Miguel Pedrillo De Ximenes y Ribera
Y Santallos y Herrera
Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa
Y Zorilla y One groan, And he lay motionless as stone. The man of many names went down, Pierced by the sword of PETER BROWN !
Kneeling down, I raised his head;
The caballero faintly said,
''Signor Ingles, fly from Spain
"With all speed, for you have slain
A Spanish noble, Don Camillo
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo
De Ximenes y Ribera
Y Santallos y Herrera
Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa
Y Zorilla y " He swooned
With the bleeding from his wound.
If he be living still, or dead,
I never knew; I ne 'er shall know. That night from Spain in haste I fled, Years and years ago.

JEAN VALJEAN THE CONVICT

BY VICTOR HUGO

One evening in the beginning of October, 1815, the Bishop of D had remained in his bedroom until a late hour. At eight o'clock, feeling that supper was ready, and that his sister might be waiting, he closed his book, rose from the table and walked into the dining-room.

There was a loud rap at the front door. "Come in," said the Bishop. A man entered and stopped; the firelight fell on him; he was hideous. It was a sinister apparition.

"My name is Jean Valjean. I am a galley-slave, and have spent nineteen years in the bagne. I was liberated four days ago, and to-day I have marched twelve leagues. On coming into the town I went to the inn, but was sent away in consequence of my yellow passport. I went to another inn, and the landlord said to me, 'Be off!' I went to the prison and the jailer would not take me in. I got into a dog's kennel, but the dog bit me and drove me off. I went in the fields to sleep in the starlight, but there were no stars. I thought it would rain and, as there was no God to prevent it from raining, I came back to town to sleep in a doorway. A good woman pointed to your house and said, 'Go and knock there.' I have money, one hundred francs, fifteen sous, which I have earned by my nineteen years' toil. I will pay. I am very tired and frightfully hungry; will you let me stay?"

"Madame Magloire, you will lay another plate, knife and fork."

"Wait a minute; that will not do. Did you not hear me say that I was a galley-slave, a convict, and had just come from the bagne ? Here is my passport, which turns me out wherever I go: 'Jean Valjean, a liberated convict, has remained nineteen years at the galleys, ^five years for robbing with housebreaking, fourteen years for trying to escape four times. The man is very dangerous. All the world has turned me out; will you give me some food and a bed? Have you a stable?"

"Madame Magloire, you will put clean sheets on the bed in the alcove. Sit down and warm yourself, sir. We shall sup directly, and your bed will be got ready while we are supping/'

"Is it true? What? You will let me stay; you will not turn me out a convict ? You call me, * Sir'! I really believed you would turn me out, and hence told you at once who I am. I shall have supper; a bed with mattresses and sheets like anybody else! For nineteen years I have not slept in a bed. What is your name, Mr. Landlord ?"

"I am a priest living in this house."

"A priest! oh, what a worthy priest! Then you do not want me to pay?"

"No, keep your money. How long did you take earning these one hundred francs?"

“ Nineteen years.''

“ Nineteen years!” The Bishop gave a deep sigh.

Madame Magloire came in bringing a silver spoon and fork, which she placed on the table.

"Madame Magloire, lay them as near as you can to the fire. The night breeze is sharp on the Alps, and you must be cold, sir."

Each time he said "sir" in his gentle, grave voice the man's face was illumined. "Sir" to a convict is the glass of water to the shipwrecked sailor. Ignominy thirsts for respect.

"This lamp gives a very bad light." Madame Magloire understood and fetched from the chimney of Monseigneur's bedroom two silver candlesticks, which she placed on the table ready lighted.

"Monsieur le Cure, you receive me as a friend and light your wax candles for me, and yet I have not hidden from you whence I come.''

The Bishop gently touched his hand.

'l You need not have told me who you are; this is not my house but the house of Christ. This door does not ask a man whether he has a name, but if he has sorrow. You are suffering, you are hungering and thirsting, and so be welcome. And do not thank me nor say that I am receiving you in my house, for no one is at home here excepting the man who is in need of an asylum. I tell you who are a passer-by, that you are more at home than I am myself. Why do I want to know your name? Besides, before you told it to me, you had one which I knew.''

“Is that true ? You know my name ?''

"Yes, you are my brother you have suffered greatly?"

"Oh, the red jacket, the cannon ball on your foot, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, the set of men, the blows, the double chain for nothing, a dungeon for a word, even when you are ill in bed, and the chain-gang! The very dogs are happier. Nineteen years! And now I am forty-six and the yellow passport!"

"Yes, you have come from a place of sorrow. If you leave that mournful place with thoughts of hatred and anger against your fellow man, you are worthy of pity; if you leave it with thoughts of kindliness, gentleness and peace, you are worth more than any of us."

Meanwhile Madame Magloire had served the supper. The Bishop during the whole evening did not utter a word which could remind this man of what he was. He supped with Jean Valjean with the same air and in the same way as if he had been M. Gedeon le Provost or the parish curate. Was not this really charity?

The rooms were so arranged that in order to reach the oratory where the alcove was it was necessary to pass through the Bishop's bedroom. At the moment he went through this room Madame Magloire was putting away the plate in the cupboard over the bed head.

'11 trust you will pass a good night,'' said the Bishop.

"Thank you, Monsieur l'Abbe." He suddenly turned, "What! you really lodge me so close to you as that? Who tells you that I have not committed a murder?"

'' That concerns God.''

The Bishop stretched out two fingers of his right hand and blessed the man, who did not bow his head, and returned to his bedroom.
As two o'clock peeled from the cathedral bell Jean Valjean awoke. One thought held his mind, the six silver forks and spoons and the great ladle which alone was worth two hundred francs, or double what he had earned in nineteen years.

When three o 'clock struck it seemed to say, '' To work!'' He noiselessly opened his knapsack, took a bar in his right hand, walked toward the door of the adjoining room and pushed it boldly. A badly-oiled hinge suddenly uttered a hoarse prolonged cry in the darkness. Jean Valjean started, shuddering and dismayed. A few minutes passed; nothing had stirred. He heard from the end of the room the calm and regular breathing of the sleeping Bishop. Suddenly he stopped, for he was close to the bed. At this moment a cloud was rent asunder and a moonbeam suddenly illumined the Bishop's pale face. The sleeper seemed to be surrounded by a glory. There was almost a divinity in this unconsciously august man. Jean Valjean was standing in the shadow with the crowbar in his hand, motionless and terrified. He had never seen anything like this before, and such confidence horrified him. It seemed as tho he was hesitating between two abysses the one that saves and the one that destroys. He was ready to dash out the Bishop's brain or kiss his hand. A moonbeam rendered dimly visible the crucifix over the mantel-piece; it seemed to open its arms for both, with a blessing for one and a pardon for the other. All at once Jean Valjean went straight to the cupboard, seized the plate basket, hurried across the room, opened the window, put the silver in his pocket, threw away the basket, leaped into the garden, bounded over the wall like a tiger, and fled.

The next morning at service Monseigneur was walking outside when Madame Magloire came running toward him in a state of great alarm.

Monseigneur, the man is gone the plate is stolen.''

"Was that plate ours?" Madame Magloire was speech-

"Madame Magloire, I had wrongfully held back this silver, which belonged to the poor. Who was this person? Evidently a poor man."

As the brother and sister were leaving the breakfast table there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," said the Bishop.

The door opened and a strange and violent group appeared on the threshold. Three men were holding a fourth by the collar the fourth was Jean Valjean.

Monseigneur had advanced as rapidly as his great age permitted, saying:

"Ah, there you are; I am glad to see you. Why, I gave you the candlesticks, too, which are also silver. Why did you not take them away with the rest of the plate ?' *

Jean Valjean looked at the Bishop with an expression no human language could describe.

Monseigneur, then what this man told us was true. We met him and, as he looked as if he were running away, we arrested him. He had this plate."

"And he told you that it was given to him by an old priest at whose house he had passed the night ? I see it all. And you brought him back here; that was a mistake. * *

The gendarmes loosed their hold of Jean Valjean, who tottered back.

*' My friend, before you go take your candlesticks.''

Jean Valjean was trembling in all his limbs; he took the candlesticks mechanically, and with wandering looks.

"Now, go in peace. By-the-by, when you return, my friend, it is unnecessary to pass through the garden, for you can always enter, day and night, by the front door, which is only latched."

Then, turning to the gendarmes, he said, "Gentlemen, you can retire.''

Jean Valjean looked as if he were on the point of fainting. The Bishop walked up to him and said:

"Never forget that you have promised me to employ this money in becoming an honest man. Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. I have bought your soul of you. I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and give it to God."

THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ

Out of the North the wild news came, Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies. And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere

The answering tread of hurrying feet; While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington; And Concord roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swelled the discord of the hour.

Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkley Manor stood,
There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteemed of gentle blood.
In vain their feet with loitering tread
Passed mid the graves where rank is naught, All could not read the lesson taught
In that republic of the dead.
How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, The vale with peace and sunshine full,
Where all the happy people walk, Decked in their homespun flax and wool;
Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom; And every maid, with simple art, Wears on her breast, like her own heart,
A bud whose depths are all perfume;
While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.
The pastor came; his snowy locks
Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, He led into the house of prayer.
Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The Psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came. The stirring sentences he spake Compelled the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on the theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant king.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of attitude, Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside, And, lo! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause
When Berkley cried, '' Cease, traitor! cease!
God's temple is the house of peace!"

The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers
That frown upon the tyrant foe; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and pray!''
And now before the open door
The warrior priest had ordered so * The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow.
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead, with wild increase,

Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before.
It seemed as it would never cease;
And every word its order flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "War! WAR! WAR!"

"Who dares?" this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came "Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die!" A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answered, "I!
 "

THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER

BY JULIA C. R. DORR

Bay by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber
wrought;
Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his
thought;
Till at last the work was ended; and no organ voice so grand Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand.
Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride, Who, in God's sight were well-pleasing, in the church stood
side by side,
Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play, And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed
to stray.

He was young, the Organ-builder, and o'er all the land his fame
Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.
All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled
By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.
So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set:
Happy day the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet! But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride
Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.
"Ah!" thought he, "how great a master am I! When the organ plays,

How the vast cathedral-arches will reecho with my praise!'' Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,
With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.
But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer,
For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.
All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone,
And the bride's robe trailing softly o 'er the floor of fretted stone.

Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him.
Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim!
Whose the fault then ? Hers the maiden standing meekly at his side!
Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him his bride.
Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;
On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth. Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name:
For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.
Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day
Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray;
Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;
Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood ;
Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete,
And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.
Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night,
Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!

Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread;
There he met a long procession mourners following the dead.
Now why weep ye so, good people? And whom bury ye to-day ?
Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way ?
Has some saint gone up to heaven?" "Yes," they answered, weeping sore;
"For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;
And because her days were given to the service of God's poor,
From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door."
No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;
No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.
'Tis some one she has comforted, who mourns with us," they said,
As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head;
Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while.
When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to play Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!

All the vaulted arches rang with music sweet and clear; All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near; And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head, With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it dead.
They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride;
Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side;
While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,
And then softly sank to silence silence kept forevermore.

SHIPWRECKED

BY FRANQOIS COPPlSE

'Tis fifty years ago this very day
Since I first went to sea; on board, you know,
Of La Belle Honorine lost long ago
An old three-masted tub, rotten almost,
Just fit to burn, bound for the Guinea coast.
We set all sail. The breeze was fair and stiff.
My boyhood had been passed 'neath yonder cliff,
Where an old man my uncle, so he said
Kept me at prawning for my daily bread.
At night he came home drunk. Such kicks and blows!
Ah me! what children suffer no man knows!
But once at sea 'twas ten times worse, I found.
I learned to take, to bear, and make no sound.

First place, our ship was in the negro trade, And once off land, no vain attempts were made At secrecy. Our captain after that (Round as an egg) was liberal of the cat. The rope 's-end, cuffs, kicks, blows, all fell on me; I was ship's boy 'twas natural, you see And as I went about the decks my arm Was always raised to fend my face from harm. No man had pity. Blows an<J stripes always, For sailors knew no better in those days Than to thrash boys, till those who lived at last As able seamen shipped before the mast.

I ceased to cry. Tears brought me no relief.
I think I might have perished of mute grief,
Had not God sent a friend a friend to me.
Sailors believe in God one must at sea.
On board that ship a God of mercy then
Had placed a dog among those cruel men.
Like me, he shunned their brutal kicks and blows.
We soon grew friends, fast friends, true friends, God knows!
He was Newfoundland. Black, they called him there.
His eyes were golden brown, and black his hair.
He was my shadow from that blessed night
When we made friends; and by the star's half light.
When all the forecastle was fast asleep,
And our men "caulked their watch," I used to creep

With Black among some boxes stowed on deck,
And with my arms clasped tightly round his neck,
I used to cry and cry, and press my head
Close to the heart grieved by the tears I shed.

Night after night I mourned our piteous case,
While Black 's large tongue licked my poor tear-stained face.
Poor Black! I think of him so often still!
At first we had fair winds our sails to fill, But one hot night, when all was calm and mute, Our skipper a good sailor, tho a brute Gave a long look over the vessel's side, Then to the steersman whispered, half aside, "See that ox-eye out yonder? It looks queer." The man replied, "The storm will soon be here." 1' Hullo! All hands on deck! We '11 be prepared. Stow royals! Reef the courses! Pass the word!'' Vain! The squall broke ere we could shorten sail; We lowered the topsails, but the raging gale Spun our old ship about. The captain roared His orders lost in the great noise on board. The devil was in that squall! But all men could, To save their ship we did. Do what we would, The gale grew worse and worse. She sprang a leak; Her hold filled fast. We found we had to seek Some way to save our lives. *' Lower a boat!'' The captain shouted. Before one would float Our ship broached to. The strain had broke her back, Like a whole broadside boomed the awful crack. She settled fast.

Landsmen can have no notion Of how it feels to sink beneath the ocean. As the blue billows closed above our deck, And with slow motion swallowed down the wreck, I saw my past life, by some flash, outspread;

Saw the old port, its ships, its old pier-head, My own bare feet, the rocks, the sandy shore-s Salt-water filled my mouth I saw no more.
I did not struggle much I could not swim.
I sank down deep, it seemed drowned but for
For Black, I mean who seized my jacket tight,
And dragged me out of darkness back to light.
The ship was gone the captain's gig afloat;
By one brave tug he brought me near the boat.
I seized the gunwale, sprang on board, and drew
My friend in after me. Of all our crew,
The dog and I alone survived the gale:
Afloat with neither rudder, oars, nor sail!
For five long nights, and longer dreadful days,
We floated onward in a tropic haze.
Fierce hunger gnawed us with its cruel fangs,
And mental anguish with its keener pangs.
Each morn I hoped; each night, when hope was gone,
My poor dog licked me with his tender tongue.
Under the blazing sun and starlit night

I watched in vain. No sail appeared in sight.
Round us the blue spread wider, bluer, higher.
The fifth day my parched throat was all on fire,
When something suddenly my notice caught
Black, crouching, shivering, underneath athwart.
He looked his dreadful look no tongue can tell
And his kind eyes glared like coals of hell!
"Here, Black! old fellow! here!" I cried in vain.
He looked me in the face and crouched again. I rose; he snarled, drew back. How piteously

His eyes entreated help! He snapped at me! "What can this mean?" I cried, yet shook with fear, With that great shudder felt when Death is near. Black seized the gunwale with his teeth. I saw Thick slimy foam drip from his awful jaw; Then I knew all! Five days of tropic heat, Without one drop of drink, one scrap of meat, Had made him rabid. He whose courage had Preserved my life my messmate, friend was mad! You understand 1 Can you see him and me, The open boat tossed on a brassy sea, A child and a wild beast on board alone, While overhead streams down the tropic sun And the boy crouching, trembling for his life?

I searched my pockets and I drew my knife For everyone instinctively, you know, Defends his life. 'Twas time that I did so, For at that moment, with a furious bound, The dog flew at me. I sprang half around. He missed me in blind haste. With all my might I seized his neck, and grasped, and held him tight. I felt him writhe and try to bite, as he Struggled beneath the pressure of my knee. His red eyes rolled; sighs heaved his shining coat. I plunged my knife three times in his poor throat.

And so I killed my friend. I had but one! What matters how, after that deed was done, They picked me up half dead, And took me back to France!

Need I say more?

I have killed men ay, many in my day, Without remorse for sailors must obey. One of a squad, once in Barbadoes, I Shot my own comrade when condemned to die. I never dream of him, for that was war. Under old Magon, too, at Trafalgar, I hacked the hands of English boarders. Ten My ax lopped off. I dream not of those men. But yet even now

The death of Black, altho so long ago, Upsets me. I '11 not sleep to-night. It brings . . . Here, boy! Another glass! We '11 talk of other things!

THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY

BY WILL CARLETON

Well, when I first infested this retreat, Things to my view look 'd frightful incomplete; But I had come with heart-thrift in my song, And brought my wife and plunder right along; I hadn't a round-trip ticket to go back, And if I had there was no railroad track; And drivin' East was what I couldn't endure: I hadn't started on a circular tour.

My girl-wife was as brave as she was good, And help'd me every blessed way she could; She seem'd to take to every rough old tree, As sing'lar as when first she took to me.

She kep' our little log house neat as wax, And once I caught her fooling with my ax. She hadn't the muscle (tho she had the heart) In outdoor work to take an active part; She was delicious, both to hear and see, That pretty girl-wife that kep' house for me.

Well, neighborhoods meant counties in those days; The roads didn't have accommodating ways; And maybe weeks would pass before she 'd see And much less talk with anyone but me. The Indians sometimes show'd their sun-baked faces, But they didn't teem with conversational graces; Some ideas from the birds and trees she stole, But 'twasn't like talking with a human soul; And finally I thought that I could trace A half heart-hunger peering from her face.

One night, when I came home unusual late, Too hungry and too tired to feel first-rate, Her supper struck me wrong (tho I'll allow She hadn't much to strike with, anyhow); And, when I went to milk the cows, and found They'd wandered from their usual feeding-ground, And maybe 'd left a few long miles behind 'em, Which I must copy if I meant to find 'em, Flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke, And in a trice these hot words I had spoke: "You ought to've kept the animals in view, And drove them in; you'd nothing else to do. The heft of all our life on me must fall; You just lie round, and let me do it all."

That speech, it hadn't been gone a half a minute
Before I saw the cold black poison in it;
And I'd have given all I had, and more,
To 've only safely got it back indoor.
I'm now what most folks "well-to-do" would call:
I feel to-day as if I'd give it all,
Provided I through fifty years might reach
And kill and bury that half-minute speech.
She handed back no words, as I could hear;

She didn't frown; she didn't shed a tear;
Half proud, half crush'd, she stood and look'd me o'er,
Like some one she had never seen before!
But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise
I never view'd before in human eyes.
(I've seen it oft enough since in a dream;
It sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.)
Next morning, when, stone-faced but heavy-hearted,
With dinner-pail and sharpen'd ax I started
Away for my day's work, she watch'd the door,
And follow'd me half-way to it or more;
And I was just a-turning round at this,
And asking for my usual good-by kiss;
But on her lip I saw a proudish curve,
And in her eye a shadow of reserve;
And she had shown perhaps half unawares »
Some little independent breakfast airs;
And so the usual parting didn't occur,
Altho her eyes invited me to her;
Or rather half invited me, for she
Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free:

You always had that is, I had to pay
Full market price, and go more'n half the way;
So, with a short "Good-by" I shut the door,
And left her as I never had before.
But when at noon my lunch I came to eat,
Put up by her so delicately neat,
Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been,
And some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in,
"Tender and pleasant thoughts," I knew they meant,- *
It seem'd as if with me her kiss she'd sent;
Then I became once more her humble lover,
And said, "To-night I'll ask forgiveness of her."

I went home over-early on that eve, Having contrived to make myself believe, By various signs I kind o' knew and guess'd, A thunder-storm was coming from the west. ('Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart, How many honest ones will take its part: A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right That I should strike home early on that night.)

Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung,
With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue;
But all within look'd desolate and bare:
My house had lost its soul: she was not there!
A pencil 'd note was on the table spread,

And these are something like the words it said:
"The cows have stray'd away again, I fear;
I watch'd them pretty close; don't scold me, dear.
And where they are I think I nearly know;
I heard the bell not very long ago.

I Ve hunted for them all the afternoon; I'll try once more, I think I'll find them soon. Dear, if a burden I have been to you, And haven't help 'd you as I ought to do, Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead; I've tried to do my best, I have, indeed. Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack, And have kind words for me when I get back.''

Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue,
Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung,
And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded:
My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn 't needed.
I rush 'd outdoor. The air was stain 'd with black:
Night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back:
And everything kept dimming to the sight,
Save when the clouds threw their electric light;
When, for a flash, so clean-cut was the view,
I 'd think I saw her, knowing 'twas not true.
Through my small clearing dash'd wide sheets of spray,
As if the ocean waves had lost their way;
Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made,
In the bold clamor of its cannonade.
And she, while I was shelter'd, dry, and warm,
Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm!
She who, when storm-frights found her at her best,
Had always hid her white face on my breast!

My dog, who'd skirmish'd round me all the day, 'Now crouch'd, and whimpering, in a corner lay. I dragg'd him by the collar to the wall, T press'd his quivering muzzle to a shawl,

"Track her, old boy!" I shouted; and he whined,
Match'd eyes with me, as if to read my mind,
Then with a yell went tearing through the wood.
I follow'-d him, as faithful as I could.
No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame
We raced with death; we hunted noble game.
All night we dragged the woods without avail;
The ground got drench'd, we could not keep the trail.
Three times again my cabin home I found,
Half hoping she might be there, safe and sound;
But each time 'twas an unavailing care:

My house had lost its soul: she was not there!
When, climbing the wet trees, next morning-sun
Laugh'd at the ruin that the night had done,
Bleeding and drench'd by toil, and sorrow bent,
Back to what used to be my home I went.
But, as I near'd our little clearing-ground,
Listen! I heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound.
The cabin door was just a bit ajar;
It gleam'd upon my glad eyes like a star.
"Brave heart," I said, "for such a fragile form!
She made them guide her homeward through the storm!"
Such pangs of joy I never felt before.
"You've come!" I shouted, and rush'd through the door.
Yes, she had come, and gone again. She lay
With all her young life crush'd and wrench'd away,
Lay, the heart-ruins of our home among,
Not far from where I kill'd her with my tongue.
The rain-drops glitter'd 'mid her hair's long strands,
The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands,

And 'midst the tears brave tears that one could trace
Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face,
I once again the mournful words could read,
"I've tried to do my best, I have, indeed."

And now I'm mostly done; my story's o'er; Part of it never breathed the air before. 'Tisn't over-usual, it must be allow'd, To volunteer heart-story to a crowd, And scatter 'mongst them confidential tears, But you'll protect an old man with his years; And wheresoe'er this story's voice can reach, This is the sermon I would have it preach:

Boys flying kites haul in their white-wing'd birds: You can't do that way when you're flying words. "Careful with fire," is good advice we know; "Careful with words," is ten times doubly so. Thoughts unexpress'd may sometimes fall back dead, But God Himself can't kill them once they're said!

(Reprinted by permission. Copyright 1881, 1898, by Harper and Brothers.)

THE MONSTER CANNON

BY VICTOR HUGO

They heard a noise unlike anything usually heard. The cry and the crash came from the interior of the vessel.

One of the carronades of the battery, a. twenty-four pounder, had become detached.

This, perhaps, is the most formidable of ocean events.

Nothing more terrible can happen to a war vessel, at sea and under full sail.

A cannon which breaks its moorings becomes abruptly some indescribable, supernatural beast. It is a machine which transforms itself into a monster. This mass runs on its wheels, like billiard-balls, inclines with the rolling, plunges with the pitching, goes, comes, stops, seems to meditate, resumes its course, shoots from one end of the ship to the other like an arrow, whirls, steals away, evades, prances, strikes, breaks, kills, exterminates. It is a ram which capriciously assails a wall. Add this the ram is of iron, the wall is of wood. This furious bulk has the leaps of a panther, the weight of the elephant, the agility of the mouse, the pertinacity of the ax, the unexpectedness of the surge, the rapidity of lightning, the silence of the sepulcher. It weighs ten thousand pounds, and it rebounds like a child's ball. Its whirlings are suddenly cut at right angles. What is to be done ? How shall an end be put to its movements ? A tempest ceases, a cyclone passes, a wind goes down, a broken mast is replaced, a leak is stopped, a fire put out, but what shall be done with this enormous brute of bronze? How try to secure it? You can reason with a dog, paralyze a bull, fascinate a serpent, terrify a tiger, and soften the noble heart of a lion; no resource with such a monster as a loose cannon. You cannot kill it: it is dead, and at the same time it lives with a sinister life which comes from the Infinite. It is moved by the ship, which is moved by the sea, which is moved by the wind. This exterminator is a plaything. The horrible cannon struggles, advances, retreats, strikes to the right, strikes to the left, flees, passes, disconcerts expectation, grinds every obstacle to powder, and crushes men like flies.

In a moment the whole of the crew were on the scene of the accident. A gunner had caused all the mischief by neglecting to secure the nut of the chain which composed the lashing, and by not properly blocking the four wheels, so that the play given to the sole and frame had torn it from the platform, and ended by breaking the breeching. As a heavy sea struck the port, the carronade, badly lashed, had slipped back, and, bursting its chain, had commenced flying hither and thither between decks.

The carronade, hurled by the pitching, made havoc in the group of men, crushing four at the first blow; then receding and brought back by the rolling, it cut a fifth unfortunate man in two, and dashed against the larboard side a piece of the battery which it dismounted. Thence came the cry of distress which had been heard. All the men rushed toward the ladder. The battery was emptied in the twinkling of an eye.

The captain and lieutenant, altho both intrepid men, had halted at the head of the ladder, and, dumb, pale, hesitating, looked down into the lower deck. Some one pushed them to one side with his elbow and descended.

It was an old man, a passenger.
Once at the foot of the ladder he stood still.
Hither and thither along the lower deck came the cannon. One might have thought it the living chariot of the Apocalypse.

The captain promptly regained his presence of mind, and caused to be thrown into the lower deck all that could allay and fetter the unbridled course of the cannon, mattresses, hammocks, spare sails, rolls of cordage, bags of equipments, and bales of counterfeit assignats, of which the corvette had a full cargo.

But of what avail these rags ? Nobody daring to go down and place them properly, in a few minutes they were lint.

There was just sea enough to make the accident as complete as possible. A tempest would have been desirable; it might have thrown the cannon upside down, and, once the four wheels were in the air, it could have been mastered. As it was, the havoc increased. There were chafings and even fractures in the masts, which, jointed into the frame of the keel, go through the floors of vessels and are like great round pillars. Under the convulsive blows of the cannon, the foremast had cracked, the mainmast itself was cut. The battery was disjointed. Ten pieces out of the thirty were hors de combat; the breaches in the sides multiplied, and the corvette commenced to take in water.

The old passenger who had gone down to the lower deck seemed a man of stone at the bottom of the ladder. He cast a severe look on the devastation. He did not stir. It seemed impossible to take a step in the battery.

They must perish, or cut short the disaster; something must be done, but what?
"What a combatant that carronade was!
That frightful maniac must be stopped.
The lightning must be averted.
That thunderbolt must be conquered.
The captain said to the lieutenant:
"Do you believe in God, Chevalier t"
"Yes. No. Sometimes."
"In the tempest?"

Yes. And in moments like these."
''In reality God only can rid us of this trouble.''
All were hushed, leaving the carronade to do its horrible work.

Outside, the billows beating the vessel answered the blows of the cannon. It was like two hammers alternating.

All of a sudden, in that kind of unapproachable circuit wherein the escaped cannon bounded, a man appeared, with an iron bar in his hand. It was the author of the catastrophe, the chief gunner, guilty of negligence and the cause of the accident, the master of the carronade. Having done the evil, he wished to repair it. He had grasped a handspike in one hand, some guntackle with a slip-knot in the other, and jumped upon the lower deck.

Then a wild exploit commenced, a Titanic spectacle: the strife of the gun against the gunner, the combat of matter against mind, the duel of the lifeless and the living.

The man had posted himself in a corner, and with his bar and rope in his two fists, leaning against one of the riders, standing firmly on his legs which seemed like two pillars of steel, livid, calm, tragic, as tho rooted to the floor, he waited.

He was waiting for the cannon to pass near him.

The gunner knew his piece, and it seemed to him that it must know him. He had lived for some time with it. How many times he had thrust his hand into its jaws! It was his tamed monster. He commenced talking to it as he would to his dog.

''Come,'' said he; perhaps he loved it.

He seemed to wish that it would turn in his direction, but should it do so, he would be lost. How avoid its crushing weight? That was the question. All gazed on the scene with eyes of terror.

Not a breast breathed freely, except perhaps that of the old man who was alone below with the two combatants an impassive second.

He himself ran the chance of being crushed by the piece, and yet he never stirred.

Beneath them the sea, an invisible power, directed the combat.

At the instant when the gunner accepted this terrible hand-to-hand encounter, a lull in the motion of the vessel brought the cannon to a standstill, as tho stupefied.

"Come then!" cried he. It seemed as if it heard him.

Suddenly it leapt at him; the man avoided the shock.

The struggle now commenced such a struggle as had never before been heard of. The fragile opposing itself to the invulnerable. A creature of flesh and blood attacking a brazen monster. On one side was mind, on the other brute force. All this scene passed in a sort of twilight; it was like some miraculous event indistinctly seen.

A mind strange as it may seem, the cannon appeared to possess one also a mind filled with rage and hatred. This blind mass appeared to be endued with sight The monster had the appearance of watching for the man. It, too, waited its opportunity; you could hardly help believing that it was filled with the spirit of cunning. It resembled some gigantic iron insect inspired with the will of a demon. At an instant this colossal grasshopper would strike the low ceiling of the deck, then it would fall back on its four wheels like a tiger upon his four paws, and, recovering itself, rush upon the man. He, adroit and skilful, supple as a snake, would evade these rushes rapid as flashes of lightning; but the blows which he avoided fell on the vessel, and continued the work of destruction.

And yet the man continued the fight. At times even it was the man that attacked the cannon. He crawled along the side of the vessel, his handspike and rope ready, and the gun seemed to understand him, and fly as tho avoiding a snare. The man, formidable from his reasoning powers, pursued it.

But such a contest could not last long. The gun se