I said one year ago, "I wonder, if I truly kept A list of days when life burnt low, Of days I smiled and days I wept, If good or bad would highest mount When I made up the year"s account?"
I took a ledger fair and fine, "And now," I said, "when days are glad, I"ll write with bright red ink the line, And write with black when they are bad, So that they"ll stand before my sight As clear apart as day and night.
"I will not heed the changing skies, Nor if it shine nor if it rain; But if there comes some sweet surprise, Or friendship, love or honest gain, Why, then it shall be understood That day is written down as good.
"Or if to anyone I love A blessing meets them on the way, That will to me a pleasure prove: So it shall be a happy day; And if some day, I"ve cause to dread Pa.s.s harmless by, I"ll write it red.
"When hands and brain stand labor"s test, And I can do the thing I would, Those days when I am at my best Shall all be traced as very good.
And in "red letter," too, I"ll write Those rare, strong hours when right is might.
"When first I meet in some grand book A n.o.ble soul that touches mine, And with this vision I can look Through some gate beautiful of time, That day such happiness will shed That golden-lined will seem the red.
"And when pure, holy thoughts have power To touch my heart and dim my eyes, And I in some diviner hour Can hold sweet converse with the skies, Ah! then my soul may safely write: "This day has been most good and bright.""
What do I see on looking back?
A red-lined book before me lies, With here and there a thread of black, That like a gloomy shadow flies,-- A shadow it must be confessed, That often rose in my own breast.
And I have found it good to note The blessing that is mine each day; For happiness is vainly sought In some dim future far away.
Just try my ledger for a year, Then look with grateful wonder back, And you will find, there is no fear, The red days far exceed the black.
GOOD READING THE GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT.
BY JOHN S. HART, LL.D.
There is one accomplishment, in particular, which I would earnestly recommend to you. Cultivate a.s.siduously the ability to read well. I stop to particularize this, because it is a thing so very much neglected, and because it is such an elegant and charming accomplishment. Where one person is really interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. Where one person is capable of becoming a skillful musician, twenty may become good readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading.
The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, gives a delightful charm to the same voice in conversation. Good reading is the natural exponent and vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective of all commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems to bring dead authors to life again, and makes us sit down familiarly with the great and good of all ages.
Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy Scriptures have when well read? Have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth Fry on the criminals of Newgate, by simply reading to them the parable of the Prodigal Son? Princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvelous pathos which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story.
What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it gives one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amus.e.m.e.nt, to the comfort, the pleasure of dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of man"s devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful instrument, the human voice. It is G.o.d"s special gift and endowment to his chosen creatures. Fold it not away in a napkin.
If you would double the value of all your other acquisitions, if you would add immeasurably to your own enjoyment and to your power of promoting the enjoyment of others, cultivate, with incessant care, this divine gift. No music below the skies is equal to that of pure, silvery speech from the lips of a man or woman of high culture.
PAUL REVERE"S RIDE.
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Listen, my children, and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five-- Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year--
He said to his friend: "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light; One, if by land, and two if by sea, And I on the opposite sh.o.r.e will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middles.e.x village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night," and, with m.u.f.fled oar, Silently row"d to the Charlestown sh.o.r.e, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay The "Somerset," British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the sh.o.r.e.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Ma.s.ses and moving shapes of shade, By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night encampment on the hill.
Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel"s tread, The watchful night wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead, For, suddenly, all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite sh.o.r.e walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse"s side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth And turned and lighted his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched, with eager search, The belfry tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry"s height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight, A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in the village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in pa.s.sing, a spark, Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all; and yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He had left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides, And under the alders that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town; He heard the crowing of the c.o.c.k And the barking of the farmer"s dog, And felt the damp of the river"s fog, That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weatherc.o.c.k Swim in the moonlight as he pa.s.sed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the b.l.o.o.d.y work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock When he came to the bridge in Concord town; He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest; in the books you have read, How the British regulars fired and fled; How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields, to emerge again Under the trees, at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere, And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middles.e.x village and farm,-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the past, Through all our history to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
BY SPECIAL REQUEST.
BY FRANK CASTLES.
_A Lady Standing with one Hand on a Chair in a Somewhat Amateurish Att.i.tude._
Our kind hostess has asked me to recite something, "by special request,"
but I really don"t know what to do. I have only a very small _repertoire_, and I"m afraid you know all my stock recitations. What shall I do?
(_Pause._) I have it; I"ll give you something entirely original. I"ll tell you about my last experience of reciting, which really is the cause of my being so nervous to-night. I began reciting about a year ago; I took elocution lessons with Mr. ----; no, I won"t tell you his name, I want to keep him all to myself. I studied the usual things with him--the "Mercy"
speech from the "Merchant of Venice," and Juliet"s "Balcony scene," but I somehow never could imagine my fat, red-faced, snub-nosed old master (there! I"ve told you who he was), I never could fancy him as an ideal Romeo; he looked much more like Polonius, or the Ghost before he was a ghost--I mean as he probably was in the flesh.
My elocution master told me that Shakespeare was not my forte, so I studied some more modern pieces. He told me I was getting on very well--"one of my most promising pupils," but I found that he said that to every one.