Table Of ContentThe Project Gutenberg EBook of Standard Selections, by Various
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Title: Standard Selections
A Collection and Adaptation of Superior Productions From
Best Authors For Use in Class Room and on the Platform
Author: Various
Editor: Robert I. Fulton, Thomas C. Trueblood and Edwin P. Trueblood
Release Date: November 27, 2006 [EBook #19926]
Language: English
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STANDARD SELECTIONS
A COLLECTION AND ADAPTATION OF SUPERIOR
PRODUCTIONS FROM BEST AUTHORS
FOR USE IN CLASS ROOM AND
ON THE PLATFORM
ARRANGED AND EDITED BY
ROBERT I. FULTON
DEAN OF THE SCHOOL OF ORATORY AND PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN THE OHIO WESLEYAN
UNIVERSITY
THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD
PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
AND
EDWIN P. TRUEBLOOD
PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN EARLHAM COLLEGE
GINN AND COMPANY
BOSTON · NEW YORK · CHICAGO · LONDON
ATLANTA · DALLAS · COLUMBUS · SAN FRANCISCO
[Pg i]
COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
R. I. FULTON, T. C. TRUEBLOOD, AND E. P. TRUEBLOOD
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Athenæum Press
GINN AND COMPANY · PROPRIETORS
BOSTON · U.S.A.
PREFACE
The purpose of the compilers of this volume is:—
First, to provide some new material in poetry and eloquence that has never before appeared in books of this character,
in addition to many standard selections familiar to the general public;
Second, to furnish selections that will stand the test of literary criticism and at the same time prove to be popular and
successful for public entertainment;
Third, to offer for the use of classes in public speaking such carefully selected literature of varied scope as will be
helpful and stimulating in the practice of reading aloud and profitable in acquiring power of vocal interpretation;
Fourth, to stimulate interest in the works of the authors from whom we have chosen and in the speeches or books from
which extracts have been taken;
Fifth, to present as models for students in public speaking notable specimens of eloquence, among which are
masterpieces of the seven great orators of the world and from the six great triumphs in the history of American oratory;
Sixth, to provide carefully chosen scenes from a few standard, modern dramas for class-room and platform use. In
these scenes the attempt has been made to preserve the spirit and unity of the plays, to shorten them to practical length,
and to adapt them to the demands of the public audience.
To avoid reprinting material which is already universally accessible, we have inserted no scenes from Shakespeare; but
the reader is referred to Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings" (published by Ginn and Company), which contains
copious Indexes to choice scenes from Shakespeare, the Bible, and hymn-books. The two volumes include a wide field
of literature best suited for public speaking.
The selections throughout the book are arranged under six different classes and cover a wide range of thought and
emotion. While many shades of feeling may be found in the same selection, it has been our aim to place each one under
the division with which, as a whole, it is most closely allied.
We are grateful to the many authors and publishers who have courteously permitted us to use their publications. Instead
of naming them in the preface we have chosen to make due acknowledgment in a footnote wherever their selections
appear in the volume.
F. and T.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
I
NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC
Arena Scene from "Quo Vadis?" The Sienkiewicz.
Arrow and the Song, The
Longfellow..
[Pg ii]
[Pg iii]
[Pg iv]
[Pg v]
Aux Italiens
Lytton.
Bobby Shafto
Henry.
Carcassonne
Nadaud.
Child-wife, The
Dickens.
Count Gismond
Browning.
Death of Arbaces, The
Lytton.
Dora
Tennyson.
Easter with Parepa, An
Delano.
Evening Bells, Those
Moore.
Ginevra
Coolidge.
High Tide at Lincolnshire, The
Ingelow.
How Did You Die?
Cooke.
Indigo Bird, The
Burroughs.
Jackdaw of Rheims, The
Barham.
Jaffar
Hunt.
Jim Bludsoe
Hay.
King Robert of Sicily
Longfellow.
Lady of Shalott, The
Tennyson.
Legend of Service, A
Van Dyke.
Little Boy Blue
Field.
Mary's Night Ride
Cable.
Nydia, the Blind Girl
Lytton.
O Captain, My Captain!
Whitman.
On the Other Train
Anon.
Pansy, The
Anon.
"Revenge," The
Tennyson.
Rider of the Black Horse, The
Lippard.
Sailing beyond Seas
Ingelow.
Sands of Dee, The
Kingsley.
School of Squeers, The
Dickens.
Secret of Death, The
Arnold.
Shamus O'Brien
Le Fanu.
Ships, My
Wilcox.
Soldier's Reprieve, The
Robbins.
Song, The
Scott.
Stirrup Cup, The
Hay.
Swan-song, The
Brooks.
Sweet Afton
Burns.
Violet's Blue
Henry.
Waterfowl, To a
Bryant.
Wedding Gown, The
Pierce.
When the Snow Sifts Through
Gillilan.
Wild Flower, To a
Thompson.
Zoroaster, The Fate of
Crawford.
II
SOLEMN, REVERENTIAL, SUBLIME
Centennial Hymn
Whittier.
Chambered Nautilus, The
Holmes.
Crossing the Bar
Tennyson.
Destruction of Sennacherib, The
Byron.
Each and All
Emerson.
Laus Deo!
Whittier.
Pilgrim Fathers, The
Hemans.
Present Crisis, The
Lowell.
Recessional, The
Kipling.
Sacredness of Work, The
Carlyle.
What's Hallowed Ground?
Campbell.
III
PATRIOTIC, HEROIC, ORATORICAL
The Seven Great Orators of the World
I. Demosthenes
Encroachments of Philip, The
II. Cicero
Oration against Antony
III. Chrysostom
Undue Lamentations over the Dead
On Applauding Preachers
IV. Bossuet
On the Death of the Prince of Condé
V. Chatham
I. War with America
II. Attempt to Subjugate America
VI. Burke
I. Impeachment of Hastings
II. Conciliation with America
III. English Privileges in America
VII. Webster
I. Bunker Hill Monument
II. Revolutionary Patriots
III. Character of Washington
Six Great Triumphs in the History of American Oratory
I. Henry
Call to Arms, The
II. Hamilton
Coercion of Delinquent States
III. Webster
Reply to Hayne, The
IV. Phillips
Murder of Lovejoy, The
V. Lincoln
Slavery Issue, The
VI. Beecher
Moral Aspect of the American War
Abolition of War
Sumner.
American Flag, The
Beecher.
American People, The
Beveridge.
American Question, The
Bright.
America's Relation to Missions
Angell.
American Slavery
Bright.
Armenian Massacres, The
Gladstone.
Battle Hymn of the Republic
Howe.
Blue and the Gray, The
Lodge.
Corruption of Prelates
Savonarola.
Cross of Gold, The
Bryan.
Death of Congressman Burnes
Ingalls.
Death of Garfield, The
Blaine.
Death of Grady, The
Graves.
Death of Toussaint L'Ouverture
Phillips.
Dedication of Gettysburg Cemetery, The
Lincoln.
Fallen Heroes of Japan, The
Togo.
Glory of Peace, The
Sumner.
Hope of the Republic, The
Grady.
Hungarian Heroism
Kossuth.
International Relations
McKinley.
Irish Home Rule
Gladstone.
Lincoln
Castelar.
Lincoln
Garfield.
Louisiana Purchase Exposition
Hay.
Man with the Muck-rake, The
Roosevelt.
Message to the Squadron
Togo.
Minute Man, The
Curtis.
More Perfect Union, A
Curtis.
Napoleon
Corwin.
Napoleon
Ingersoll.
National Control of Corporations
Roosevelt.
Negro, The
Grady.
New England
Quincy.
New South, The
Grady.
O'Connell
Phillips.
Open Door, The
Henry.
Organization of the World
Mead.
Permanency of Empire, The
Phillips.
Pilgrims, The
Phillips.
Principles of the Founders
Mead.
Responsibility of War, The
Channing.
Scotland
Flagg.
Secession
Stephens.
Second Inaugural Address
Lincoln.
Slavery and the Union
Lincoln.
Subjugation of the Filipino
Hoar.
Sufferings and Destiny of the Pilgrims
Everett.
To Arms
Kossuth.
True American Patriotism
Cockran.
Vision of War
Ingersoll.
War in the Twentieth Century
Mead.
Washington
Phillips.
IV
GAY, HUMOROUS, COMIC
A Boy's Mother
Riley.
Almost beyond Endurance
Riley.
Bird in the Hand, A
Weatherly.
Breaking the Charm
Dunbar.
Candle Lightin' Time
Dunbar.
"Day of Judgment, The"
Phelps.
De Appile Tree
Harris.
Dooley on La Grippe Microbes
Dunne.
Doctrinal Discussion, A
Edwards.
Finnigin to Flannigan
Gillilan.
Gavroche and the Elephant
Hugo.
Hazing of Valiant, The
Anon.
Hindoo's Paradise, The
Anon.
If I Knew
Anon.
Imaginary Invalid, The
Jerome.
Jane Jones
King.
Knee-deep in June
Riley.
Little Breeches
Hay.
Low-Backed Car, The
Lover.
Mammy's Pickanin'
Jenkins.
Mandalay
Kipling.
Mr. Coon and Mr. Rabbit
Harris.
Money Musk
Taylor.
One-legged Goose, The
Smith.
Pessimist, The
King.
Schneider Sees Leah
Anon.
Superfluous Man, The
Saxe.
Usual Way, The
Anon.
Wedding Fee, The
Streeter.
When Malindy Sings
Dunbar.
When the Cows Come Home
Mitchell.
V
DRAMATIC, NOT IN THE DRAMA
Confessional, The
Anon.
Jean Valjean and the Good Bishop
Hugo.
Lasca
Anon.
Michael Strogoff
Verne.
Mrs. Tree
Richards.
Portrait, The
Lytton.
Tell-tale Heart, The
Poe.
Uncle, The
Bell.
VI
SCENES FROM THE DRAMA
Beau Brummell, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene 3
Jerrold.
Bells, The, Act III, Scene I
Williams.
Lady of Lyons, The, Act II, Scene I; Act III Scene 2
Lytton.
Pygmalion and Galatea, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene I
Gilbert.
Rip Van Winkle, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene I
Irving.
Rivals, The, Act I, Scene 2; Act II, Scene I; Act III, Scene I; Act IV, Scene 2
Sheridan.
Set of Turquoise, The, Act I, Scene I; Act I, Scene 2
Aldrich.
She Stoops to Conquer, Act II, Scene I
Goldsmith.
Index of Authors
Announcements
STANDARD SELECTIONS
I
NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC
THE ARENA SCENE FROM "QUO VADIS"[1]
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
The Roman Empire in the first century presents the most revolting picture of mankind to be found in the pages of
history. Society founded on superior force, on the most barbarous cruelty, on crime and mad profligacy, was corrupt
beyond the power of words to describe. Rome ruled the world, but was also its ulcer, and the horrible monster, Nero,
guilty of all hideous and revolting crimes, seems a fit monarch for such a people.
A few years ago appeared "Quo Vadis?" the story from which this selection is made. The book attained so great a
popularity, that it was translated into almost every tongue. In spite of its many faults, it invited the attention, and,
[Pg 1]
although it shocked the sensibilities, when its great purpose was understood it melted the heart.
The author drew a startlingly vivid and horrible picture of humanity at this lowest stage, and in conflict with it he showed
us the Christ spirit.
The extract is the story of how the young Vinicius, a patrician, a soldier, a courtier of Nero, through the labyrinth of foul
sin, of self-worship and self-indulgence, with love for his guide, found his way home to the feet of Him who
commanded, "Be ye pure even as I am pure."
It is the love story of Vinicius and the Princess Lygia, a convert to Christ. The girl's happy and innocent life was rudely
disturbed by a summons to the court of the profligate emperor. Arrived there, she found that Nero had given her to
Vinicius, who had fallen passionately in love with her; but on the way to Vinicius' house she was rescued by the giant
Ursus, one of her devoted attendants and a member of her own faith. They escaped in safety to the Christians, who
were living in hiding in the city.
The imperious nature of the youthful soldier for the first time in his life met resistance. He was so transported with rage
and disappointment that he ordered the slaves from whom Lygia had escaped to be flogged to death, while he set out to
find the girl who had dared to thwart his desire. His egotism was so great that he would have seen the city and the
whole world sunk in ruins rather than fail of his purpose. For days and days his search was unceasing, and at last he
found Lygia, but in making a second attempt to carry her off was severely wounded by the giant Ursus. Finding himself
helpless in the Christians' hands, he expected nothing but death; but instead he was carefully and tenderly nursed back
to health. Waking from his delirium, he found at his bedside Lygia—Lygia, whom he had most injured, watching alone,
while the others had gone to rest. Gradually in his pagan head the idea began to hatch with difficulty that at the side of
naked beauty, confident and proud of Greek and Roman symmetry, there is another in the world, new, immensely pure,
in which a soul resides. As the days went by, Vinicius was thrilled to the very depths of his soul by the consciousness
that Lygia was learning to love him. With that revelation came the certain conviction that his religion would forever make
an inseparable barrier between them. Then he hated Christianity with all the powers of his soul, yet he could not but
acknowledge that it had adorned Lygia with that exceptional, unexplained beauty, which was producing in his heart
besides love, respect; besides desire, homage. Yet, when he thought of accepting the religion of the Nazarene, all the
Roman in him rose up in revolt against the idea. He knew that if he were to accept that teaching he would have to
throw, as on a burning pile, all his thoughts, ideas, ambitions, habits of life, his very nature up to that moment, burn them
into ashes and fill himself with an entirely new life, and from his soul he cried that it was impossible; it was impossible!
Before Vinicius had entirely recovered Nero commanded his presence at Antium, whither the court was going for the
hot summer months. Nero was ambitious to write an immortal epic poem which should rival the "Odyssey," and in order
that he might describe realistically a burning city, gave a secret command while he was in Antium that Rome should be
set on fire.
One evening, when the court was assembled to hear Nero recite some of his poetry, a slave appeared.
"Pardon, Divine Imperator, Rome is burning! The whole city is a sea of flames!" A moment of horrified silence followed,
broken by the cry of Vinicius. He rushed forth, and, springing on his horse, dashed into the deep night. A horseman,
rushing also like a whirlwind, but in the opposite direction, toward Antium, shouted as he raced past: "Rome is
perishing!" To the ears of Vinicius came only one more expression: "Gods!" The rest was drowned by the thunder of
hoofs. But the expression sobered him. "Gods!" He raised his head suddenly, and, stretching his arms toward the sky
filled with stars, began to pray.
"Not to you, whose temples are burning, do I call, but to Thee. Thou Thyself hast suffered. Thou alone hast understood
people's pain. If Thou art what Peter and Paul declare, save Lygia. Seek her in the burning; save her and I will give
Thee my blood!"
Before he had reached the top of the mountain he felt the wind on his face, and with it the odor of smoke came to his
nostrils. He touched the summit at last, and then a terrible sight struck his eyes. The whole lower region was covered
with smoke, but beyond this gray, ghastly plain the city was burning on the hills. The conflagration had not the form of a
pillar, but of a long belt, shaped like the dawn.
Vinicius' horse, choking with the smoke, became unmanageable. He sprang to the earth and rushed forward on foot.
The tunic began to smolder on him in places; breath failed his lungs; strength failed his bones; he fell! Two men, with
gourds full of water, ran to him and bore him away. When he regained consciousness he found himself in a spacious
cave, lighted with torches and tapers. He saw a throng of people kneeling, and over him bent the tender, beautiful face
of his soul's beloved.
Lygia was indeed safe from the burning, but before the first thrill of relief was over an infinitely more horrible danger
threatened her. The people were in wrath and threatened violence to Nero and his court, for it was popularly believed
that the city had been set on fire at the emperor's instigation. The coward, Nero, was startled and thoroughly alarmed,
and welcomed gladly the suggestion that the calamity should be blamed on the Christians, who were viewed with great
[Pg 2]
[Pg 3]
[Pg 4]
suspicion by the common people, and obliged even then to live in hiding. In order to clear himself and to divert the
people's minds, he instituted at once against the Christians the most horrible persecutions that have ever stained man's
history. For days and days the people came in countless numbers to witness the tortures of the innocent victims; but at
last they grew weary of blood-spilling. Then it was given out that Nero had arranged a climax for the last of the
Christians who were to die at an evening spectacle in a brilliantly lighted amphitheater. Chief interest both of the
Augustinians and the people centered in Lygia and Vinicius, for the story of their love was now generally known, and
everybody felt that Nero was intending to make a tragedy for himself out of the suffering of Vinicius.
At last the evening arrived. The sight was in truth magnificent. All that was powerful, brilliant and wealthy in Rome was
there. The lower seats were crowded with togas as white as snow. In a gilded padium sat Nero, wearing a diamond
collar and a golden crown upon his head. Every eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where the unfortunate
lover was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and his forehead was covered with drops of sweat. To his tortured mind
came the thought that faith of itself would spare Lygia. Peter had said that faith would move the earth to its foundations.
He crushed doubt in himself, compressed his whole being into the sentence, "I believe," and he looked for a miracle.
The prefect of the city waved a red handkerchief, and out of the dark gully into the brilliantly lighted arena came Ursus.
In Rome there was no lack of gladiators, larger by far than the common measure of man; but Roman eyes had never
seen the like of Ursus. The people gazed with the delight of experts at his mighty limbs, as large as tree trunks; at his
breast, as large as two shields joined together, and his arms of a Hercules. He was unarmed, and had determined to die
as became a follower of the Lamb, peacefully and patiently. Meanwhile he wished to pray once more to the Saviour.
So he knelt on the arena, joined his hands and raised his eyes towards the stars. This act displeased the crowd. They
had had enough of those Christians, who died like sheep. They understood that if the giant would not defend himself,
the spectacle would be a failure. Here and there hisses were heard. Some began to cry for scourgers, whose office it
was to lash combatants unwilling to fight. But soon all had grown silent, for no one knew what was waiting for the giant,
nor whether he would not defend himself when he met death eye to eye.
In fact, they had not long to wait. Suddenly the shrill sound of brazen trumpets was heard, and at that signal into the
arena rushed, amid the shouts of the beast-keepers, an enormous German aurochs, bearing on his head the naked body
of a woman.
Vinicius sprang to his feet.
"Lygia! Oh, ... I believe! I believe! Oh, Christ, a miracle! a miracle!" And he did not even know that Petronius had
covered his head at that moment with a toga. He did not look; he did not see. The feeling of some awful emptiness
possessed him. In his head there remained not a thought. His lips merely repeated as if in madness, "I believe! I believe!
I believe!"
This time the amphitheater was silent, for in the arena something uncommon had happened. That giant, obedient and
ready to die, when he saw his queen on the horns of the wild beast, sprang up, as if touched by living fire, and, bending
forward, he ran at the raging animal.
From all breasts a sudden cry of amazement was heard, as the giant fell on the raging bull and seized him by the horns.
And then came deep silence. All breasts ceased to breathe. In the amphitheater a fly might be heard on the wing.
People could not believe their own eyes. Since Rome was Rome no one had ever seen such a spectacle. The man's feet
sank in the sand to his ankle; his back was bent like a bow; his head was hidden between his shoulders; on his arms the
muscles came out so that the skin almost burst from their pressure; but he had stopped the bull in his tracks. The man
and the bull remained so still that the spectators thought themselves looking at a group hewn in stone. But in that
apparent repose there was a tremendous exertion of two struggling forces. The bull's feet, as well as the man's, sank in
the sand, and the dark, shaggy body was curved so that it seemed a gigantic ball. Which of the two would fail first?
Which would fall first?
Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard from the arena, after which a brief shout was wrested from every
breast, and again there was silence. Duller and duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and more painful grew the groan of the
bull as it mingled with the whistling breath from the breast of the giant. The head of the beast began to turn in the iron
hands of the barbarian, and from his jaws crept forth a long, foaming tongue. A moment more and to the ears of the
spectators sitting nearer came, as it were, the crack of breaking bones; then the beast rolled on the earth, dead.
The giant removed in a twinkling the ropes that bound the maiden to the horns of the bull. His face was very pale; he
stood as if only half conscious; then he raised his eyes and looked at the spectators.
The amphitheater had gone wild. The walls of the building were trembling from the roar of tens of thousands of people.
Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, passionate and persistent, which soon turned into one unbroken thunder.
The giant understood that they were asking for his life and liberty, but his thoughts were not for himself. He raised the
unconscious maiden in his arms, and, going to Nero's padium, held her up and looked up imploringly.
Vinicius sprang over the barrier, which separated the lower seats from the arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her
with his toga.
Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the scars left by wounds received in the Armenian war, and
[Pg 5]
[Pg 6]
[Pg 7]
stretched out his hands to the multitude.
At this the enthusiasm passed everything ever seen in a circus before. Voices choking with tears began to demand
mercy. Yet Nero halted and hesitated. He would have preferred to see the giant and the maiden rent by the horns of the
bull.
Nero was alarmed. He understood that to oppose longer was simply dangerous. A disturbance begun in the circus
might seize the whole city. He looked once more, and, seeing everywhere frowning brows, excited faces and eyes fixed
on him, he slowly raised his hand and gave the sign for mercy.
Then a thunder of applause broke from the highest seats to the lowest. But Vinicius heard it not. He dropped on his
knees in the arena, stretched his hands toward heaven and cried: "I believe! Oh, Christ! I believe! I believe!"
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Copyright, 1896, by Jeremiah Curtin.
THE ARROW AND THE SONG[2]
H. W. LONGFELLOW
I shot an arrow into the air.
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air.
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of song.
Long, long afterward, in an oak,
I found the arrow still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his works.
AUX ITALIENS
R. BULWER LYTTON
At Paris it was, at the opera there;
And she looked like a queen that night,
With a wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
And the brooch in her breast so bright.
Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the "Trovatoré":
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.
The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"Non ti scordar di me?"
The Emperor there in his box of state,
Looked grave; as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate,
[Pg 8]
[Pg 9]
Where the eagles in bronze had been.
The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye;
You'd have thought that her fancy had gone back again,
For one moment, under the old blue sky,
To that old glad life in Spain.
Well! there in our front row box we sat
Together, my bride betrothed and I;
My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,
And hers on the stage hard by.
And both were silent and both were sad;
Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,
With that regal indolent air she had;
So confident of her charm!
I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was,
Who died the richest and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.
I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;
I wish him well for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.
Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love
As I had not been thinking of aught for years;
Till over my eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.
I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood neath the cypress-trees together,
In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather;
Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);
And her warm white neck in its golden chain;
And her full soft hair just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again.
And the Jasmine flower in her fair young breast;
(O the faint sweet smell of that Jasmine flower!)
And the one bird singing alone to its nest;
And the one star over the tower.
I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
And the letter that brought me back my ring;
And it all seemed there in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing.
For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over;
And I thought, "Were she only living still,
How I could forgive her and love her!"
And I swear as I thought of her thus in that hour,
And of how, after all, old things are best,
That I smelt the smell of that Jasmine flower
Which she used to wear in her breast.
And I turned and looked; she was sitting there,
In a dim box over the stage; and drest
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,
And that Jasmine in her breast!
I was here, and she was there;
[Pg 10]
[Pg 11]
And the glittering horse-shoe curved between;—
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair
And her sumptuous scornful mien,
To my early love with her eyes downcast,
And over her primrose face the shade,
(In short from the future back to the past)
There was but a step to be made.
To my early love from my future bride
One moment I looked, then I stole to the door,
I traversed the passage; and down at her side
I was sitting a moment more.
My thinking of her or the music's strain,
Or something which never will be expressed,
Had brought her back from the grave again,
With the Jasmine in her breast.
She is not dead, and she is not wed!
But she loves me now and she loved me then!
And the very first words that her sweet lips said,
My heart grew youthful again.
The Marchioness there, of Carabas,
She is wealthy and young and handsome still,
And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass;
She may marry whomever she will.
But I will marry my own first love,
With her primrose face, for old things are best;
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
The brooch in my lady's breast.
The world is filled with folly and sin,
And love must cling where it can, I say,
For beauty is easy enough to win,
But one isn't loved every day.
And I think in the lives of most women and men,
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.
But O! the smell of that Jasmine flower!
And O that music! and O the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Non ti scordar di me,
Non ti scordar di me!
BOBBY SHAFTO[3]
DANIEL HENRY, JR.
Theme.
"Bobby Shafto's gone to sea:—
Silver buckles on his knee—
He'll come back and marry me,
Pretty Bobby Shafto!"
"Mother Goose Melodies."
"With his treasures won at sea,
Spanish gold and Portugee,
And his heart, still fast to me,
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Pretty Bobby Shafto!
"In a captain's pomp and pride,
With a gold sword at his side,
He'll come back to claim his bride,
Pretty Bobby Shafto!"
So she sang, the winter long,
Till the sun came, golden-strong,
And the blue birds caught her song:
All of Bobby Shafto.
Days went by, and autumn came,
Eyes grew dim, and feet went lame,
But the song, it was the same,
All of Bobby Shafto.
Never came across the sea,
Silver buckles on his knee,
Bobby to his bride-to-be,
Fickle Bobby Shafto!
For where midnight never dies,
In the Storm-King's caves of ice,
Stiff and stark, poor Bobby lies—
Heigho! Bobby Shafto.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] From "Under a Fool's Cap."
CARCASSONNE
GUSTAV NADAUD, translated by M. E. W. SHERWOOD
"How old I am! I'm eighty years!
I've worked both hard and long;
Yet patient as my life has been,
One dearest sight I have not seen,—
It almost seems a wrong.
A dream I had when life was new;
Alas, our dreams! they come not true;
I thought to see fair Carcassonne,—
That lovely city,—Carcassonne!
"One sees it dimly from the height
Beyond the mountains blue,
Fain would I walk five weary leagues,—
I do not mind the road's fatigues,—
Through morn and evening's dew;
But bitter frost would fall at night;
And on the grapes,—that yellow blight!
I could not go to Carcassonne,
I never went to Carcassonne.
"They say it is as gay all times
As holidays at home!
The gentles ride in gay attire,
And in the sun each gilded spire
Shoots up like those of Rome!
The bishop the procession leads,
The generals curb their prancing steeds.
Alas! I know not Carcassonne—
Alas! I saw not Carcassonne!
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"Our Vicar's right! he preaches loud,
And bids us to beware;
He says, 'O guard the weakest-part,
And most that traitor in the heart
Against ambition's snare.'
Perhaps in autumn I can find
Two sunny days with gentle wind;
I then could go to Carcassonne,
I still could go to Carcassonne.
"My God, my Father! pardon me
If this my wish offends;
One sees some hope more high than his,
In age, as in his infancy,
To which his heart ascends!
My wife, my son have seen Narbonne,
My grandson went to Perpignan,
But I have not seen Carcassonne,
But I have not seen Carcassonne."
Thus sighed a peasant bent with age,
Half-dreaming in his chair;
I said, "My friend, come go with me
To-morrow, then thine eyes shall see
Those streets that seem so fair."
That night there came for passing soul
The church-bell's low and solemn toll.
He never saw gay Carcassonne.
Who has not known a Carcassonne?
THE CHILD-WIFE
CHARLES DICKENS
All this time I had gone on loving Dora harder than ever. If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely
over head and ears in love with her, I was saturated through and through. I took night walks to Norwood where she
lived, and perambulated round and round the house and garden for hours together, looking through crevices in the
palings, using violent exertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the
windows, and romantically calling on the night to shield my Dora,—I don't exactly know from what,—I suppose from
fire, perhaps from mice, to which she had a great objection.
Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken in years, almost of the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose name
was Miss Mills. Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!
One day Miss Mills said: "Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming the day after to-morrow. If you would like to
call, I am sure papa would be happy to see you."
I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last, arrayed for the purpose, at a vast expense, I went to Miss
Mills's, fraught with a declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect he would be. Nobody wanted him. Miss
Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.
I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Dora's little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was
copying music, and Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized flowers I had given her!
Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at home, though I thought we all bore that with
fortitude. Miss Mills was conversational for a few minutes, and then laying down her pen, got up and left the room.
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
"I hope your poor horse was not tired when he got home at night from that picnic," said Dora, lifting up her beautiful
eyes.
"It was a long way for him."
I began to think I would do it to-day.
"It was a long way for him, for he had nothing to uphold him on the journey."
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"Wasn't he fed, poor thing?"
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
"Ye-yes, he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near to you."
I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.
"I don't know why you should care for being near me, or why you should call it a happiness. But of course you don't
mean what you say. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!"
I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I
never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and
worshiped her. Jip barked madly all the time. My eloquence increased, and I said if she would like me to die for her,
she had but to say the word, and I was ready. I had loved her to distraction every minute, day and night, since I first set
eyes upon her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers
had loved before, and lovers would love again; but no lover had ever loved, might, could, would, or should ever love,
as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us in his own way got more mad every moment.
Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap winking peacefully
at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.
Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I went to my darling to expatiate on that unfortunate drawback. I soon
carried desolation into the bosom of our joys—not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full of the subject—by asking
Dora without the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar.
"How can you ask me anything so foolish? Love a beggar!"
"Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar!"
"How can you be such a silly thing," replied Dora, slapping my hand, "as to sit there telling such stories? I'll make Jip
bite you, if you are so ridiculous."
But I looked so serious that Dora began to cry. She did nothing but exclaim, "O dear! O dear!" And oh, she was so
frightened! And where was Julia Mills? And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until I was almost beside
myself.
I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on her face; I went down on my knees; I plucked at my hair; I implored her
forgiveness; I besought her to look up; I ravaged Miss Mills's work-box for a smelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind,
applied an ivory needle-case instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora.
At last I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression which I gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her
soft, pretty cheek was lying against mine.
"Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?"
"O yes! O yes! it's all yours, oh, don't be dreadful."
"My dearest love, the crust well earned—"
"O yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts. And after we are married, Jip must have a mutton chop every
day at twelve, or he'll die."
I was charmed with her childish, winning way, and I fondly explained to her that Jip should have his mutton chop with
his accustomed regularity.
When we had been engaged some half-year or so, Dora delighted me by asking me to give her that cookery-book I
had once spoken of, and to show her how to keep accounts, as I had once promised I would. I brought the volume
with me on my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to make it look less dry and more inviting), and showed her an old
housekeeping book of my aunt's, and gave her a set of tablets, and a pretty little pencil-case, and a box of leads, to
practice housekeeping with.
But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the figures made her cry. They wouldn't add up, she said. So she
rubbed them out, and drew little nosegays, and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets.
Time went on, and at last, here in this hand of mine, I held the wedding license. There were the two names in the sweet
old visionary connection,—David Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and there in the corner was that parental institution,
the Stamp Office, looking down upon our union; and there, in the printed form of words, was the Archbishop of
Canterbury, invoking a blessing on us and doing it as cheap as could possibly be expected.
I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping house than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a
servant, of course. She kept house for us. We had an awful time of it with Mary Anne. She was the cause of our first
little quarrel.
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