Why, it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks;

He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he asks ?

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best;

Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest.

Too slender for over-much study-why, his master has made him to-day

Go out with his ball on the common-and you have drafted a child at his play!

"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I whimper when Robert stood up with his gun,

And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run?

Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall, "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall."

"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day

When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay.

Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame We'll lay on the candidate's altar "- -and christened the child with his name.

Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with harm,

(Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough little farm,)

That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my eyes,

That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice ?

Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there is

no appeal,

But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel?

Five stalwart sons has my neighbor, and never the lot upon one; Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is done?

Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his rest,

With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his

breast?

Too ender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled

or scarred ?

My boy! Thank God for these tears-I was growing so bitter and

Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night,

Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight;

Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is higher than mine,

And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly campfires shine.

Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide down in the yard;

That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket on guard.

Spirits of loving and lost ones-watch softly with Harry to-night, For to-morrow he goes forth to battle-to arm him for Freedor and Right!

PUBLIC VIRTUE.

HENRY CLAY.

The speaker snould commence this with a rather slow, measured manner, and a rather low tone, which rises gradually as the glowing thoughts seem to fill the soul; till at the last paragraph the voice should rise, the form dilate as if under the inspiration enkindled by the glorious theme:

I hope, that in all that relates to personal firmness, all that concerns a just appreciation of the insignificance of human life,whatever may be attempted to threaten or alarm a soul not easily swayed by opposition, or awed or intimidated by menace,—a stout heart and a steady eye, that can survey, unmoved and undaunted, any mere personal perils that assail this poor, transient, perishing frame, I may, without disparagement, compare with other men.

But there is a sort of courage, which, I frankly confess it, I do not possess, a boldness to which I dare not aspire, a valor which I cannot covet. I cannot lay myself down in the way of the welfare and happiness of my country. That I cannot, I have not the courage to do. I cannot interpose the power with which I may be invested-a power conferred, not for my personal benefit, nor for my aggrandizement, but for my country's good-to check her

THE DESERTED WIFE

91

onward march to greatness and glory. I have not courage enough. I am too cowardly for that.

I would not, I dare not, in the exercise of such a trust, lie down, and place my body across the path that leads my country to prosperity and happiness. This is a sort of courage widely different from that which a man may display in his private conduct and personal relations. Personal or private courage is totally distinct from that higher and nobler courage which prompts the patriot to offer himself a voluntary sacrifice to his country's good.

Apprehensions of the imputation of the want of firmness sometimes impel us to perform rash and inconsiderate acts. It is the greatest courage to be able to bear the imputation of the want of courage. But pride, vanity, egotism, so unamiable and offensive in private life, are vices which partake of the character of crimes, in the conduct of public affairs. The unfortunate victim of these passions cannot see beyond the little, petty, contemptible circle of his own personal interests. All his thoughts are withdrawn from his country, and concentrated on his consistency, his firmness, himself.

The high, the exalted, the sublime emotions of a patriotism, which, soaring toward heaven, rises far above all mean, low, or selfish things, and is absorbed by one soul-transporting thought of the good and the glory of one's country, are never felt in his impenetrable bosom. That patriotism, which, catching its inspirations from the immortal God, and leaving at an immeasurable distance below all lesser, grovelling, personal interests and feelings, animates and prompts to deeds of self-sacrifice, of valor, of devotion, and of death itself,-that is public virtue; that is the noblest, the sublimest, of all public virtues !

THE DESERTED WIFE.

PERCIVAL.

These lines should be spoken in a somewhat low tonerising at times a little above an ordinary conversational style of speaking-sorrow, deep sorrow, should be expressed by the depth rather than the strength of the voice :

He comes not I have watched the moon go down,
But yet he comes not. Once it was not so.

He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow,

The while he holds his riot in that town.

Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep,
And he will wake my infant from its sleep,
To blend its feeble wailing with my tears.

O! how I love a mother's watch to keep,

Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers
My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fixed and deep.
I had a husband once, who loved me-now
He ever wears a frown upon his brow,
And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip,
As bees from laurel flowers a poison sip.

But yet I cannot hate-O! there were hours
When I could hang forever on his eye,

And time, who stole with silent swiftness by,
Strewed, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.

I loved him then-he loved me too. My heart
Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile;
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venomed and barbed, and waste upon the vile
Caresses which his babe and mine should share,—
Though he should spurn me,-I will calmly bear,,
His madness; and should sickness come and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then

I would with kindness, all my wrongs repay
Until the penitent should weep and say,
How injured and how faithful I had been !

RED JACKET.

HALLEOK.

This piece of fine descriptive writing will give the speaker an excellent opportunity of quietly suggesting an ironical meaning by the tone and manner of delivery:

Who will believe ?-not I-for in deceiving

Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream,"

I cannot spare the luxury of believing

That all things beautiful are what they seem.

Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing
Would, like the patriarch's, soothe a dying hour;
With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing,

As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower;
With look like patient Job's, eschewing evil;
With motions graceful as a bird's in air;

Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil
That e'er clinched fingers in a captive's hair?

THE SCHOOLMASTER.

That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain,
Deadlier than that which bathes the upas-tree;
And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'-mountain

Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee?
And underneath that face like summer's oceans
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear,
Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions-
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all, save fear.
Love for thy land, as if she were thy daughter,
Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars;
Hatred of missionaries and cold water;

Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars;
Hope that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit
Remembered and revenged when thou art gone;
Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit

Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne.

93

THE SCHOOLMASTER.

J. G. WHITTIER.

This should be recited in a quiet, rather subdued tone, in a pleasant, almost conversational style, a style by the way, often very effective, both at the bar and on the stump; as a relief from the more elevated and highly wrought eloquence:

Brisk wielder of the birch and rule,
The master of the district school
Held at the fire his favored place;
Its warm glow lit a laughing face

Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared
The uncertain prophecy of beard.
He teased the mitten-blinded cat,
Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat,
Sang songs, and told us what befalls
In classic Dartmouth's college halls.
Born the wild northern hills among,
From whence his yeoman father wrung
By patient toil subsistence scant,
Not competence and yet not want,
He early gained the power to pay
His cheerful, self-reliant way;
Could doff at ease his scholar's gown
To peddle wares from town to town;