The Canadian Elocutionist

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ROMEO. Let me stand here till thou remember it.

JULIET. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there
Remembering how I love thy company.

ROMEO. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

JULIET. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone,
And yet no further than a wanton's bird;
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of its liberty.

ROMEO. I would I were thy bird.

JULIET. Sweet, so would I!
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing
Good-night, good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow
That I shall say--Good-night, till it be morrow.

[_Exit from balcony_]

ROMEO. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell;
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

_Shakespeare_

* * * * *

THE POTION SCENE.

(_Romeo and Juliet_.)

JULIET'S CHAMBER.

_Enter Juliet and Nurse_.

JULIET. Ay, those attires are best;--but gentle nurse.
I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night;
For I have need of many orisons
To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin.

_Enter Lady Capulet_.

LADY C. What are you busy? Do you need my help?

JULIET. No, madam; we have culled such necessaries.
As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:
So please you, let me now be left alone,
And let the nurse this night sit up with you;
For, I am sure, you have your hands full all,
In this so sudden business.

LADY C. Then, good-night!
Get thee to bed, and rest! for thou hast need.

[_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse_.

JULIET. Farewell!--Heaven knows when we shall meet again--
I have a faint cold fear, thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of life:
I'll call them back again to comfort me.
Nurse!--What should she do here?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
[_Takes out the phial_.
Come, phial--
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I of force be married to the Count?
No, no;--this shall forbid it!--[_Draws a dagger_.]--Lie thou there.--
What, if it be a poison which the friar
Subtly hath ministered to have me dead,
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonoured,
Because he married me before to Romeo?
I fear it is; and yet, methinks it should not;
For he hath still been tried a holy man.
I will not entertain so bad a thought.--
How, if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
Or, if I live, is it not very like,
The horrible conceit of death and night
Together with the terror of the place,--
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
Where, for these many hundred years, the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are packed,
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort;--
Oh, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears,
And madly play with my forefathers' joints,--
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?--
Oh, look! methinks, I see my cousin's ghost
Seeking out Romeo:--Stay, Tybalt, stay!--
Romeo, I come; this do I drink to thee.--
_[Drinks the contents of the phial._
Oh, potent draught, thou hast chilled me to the heart!--
My head turns round;--my senses fail me.--
Oh, Romeo! Romeo!-- _[Throws herself on the bed._

* * * * *

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

Oh, is it a phantom? a dream of the night?
A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight?
The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain
Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain,
To and fro, up and down.
But it is not the wind
That is lifting it now; and it is not the mind
That hath moulded that vision.
A pale woman enters,
As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer,
There, all in a slumb'rous and shadowy glimmer,
The sufferer sees that still form floating on,
And feels faintly aware that he is not alone.
She is flitting before him. She pauses She stands
By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands
On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing
Softly, softly, the sore wounds: the hot blood-stained dressing
Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals
Thro' the racked weary frame; and throughout it, he feels
The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood.
Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood
Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him,
And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before him,
It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping!
A soft voice says--'Sleep!'
And he sleeps: he is sleeping.
He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there:
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care
Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering
The aspect of all things around him.
Revering
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest
Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly
Sigh'd--'Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly
'And minist'ring spirit!
A whisper serene
Slid softer than silence--'The Soeur Seraphine,
'A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire
'Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire,
'For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave.
'Thou didst not shun death: shun not life. 'Tis more brave
To live than to die. Sleep!'
He sleeps: he is sleeping.
He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping
The skies with chill splendour. And there, never flitting,
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting.
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning,
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.
He said:
'If thou be of the living, and not of the dead,
'Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing
'Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing
'Thy mission of mercy! whence art thou?
'O son
'Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One
'Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead;
'To thee, and to others, alive yet'--she said--
'So long as there liveth the poor gift in me
'Of this ministration; to them, and to thee,
'Dead in all things beside. A French nun, whose vocation
'Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation.
'Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe,
'There her land! there her kindred!'
She bent down to smooth
The hot pillow, and added--'Yet more than another
'Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother,
'I know them--I know them.'
'Oh can it be? you!
'My dearest, dear father! my mother! you knew,
'You know them?'
She bow'd, half averting her head
In silence.
He brokenly, timidly said,
'Do they know I am thus?'
'Hush!'--she smiled as she drew
From her bosom two letters; and--can it be true?
That beloved and familiar writing!
He burst
Into tears--'My poor mother,--my father! the worst
'Will have reached them!'
'No, no!' she exclaimed with a smile,
'They know you are living; they know that meanwhile
'I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!'
But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot
Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd.
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest;
And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping,
The calm voice say--'Sleep!'
And he sleeps, he is sleeping'

* * * * *

SIM'S LITTLE GIRL.

Come out here, George Burks. Put that glass down--can't wait a minute.
Business particular--concerns the Company.

I don't often meddle in other folks' business, do I? When a tough old
fellow like me sets out to warn a body, you may know its because he sees
sore need of it. _Just takin' drinks for good fellowship?_ Yes, I know
all 'bout that. Been there myself. Sit down on the edge of the platform
here.

Of all the men in the world, I take it, engineers ought to be the last to
touch the bottle. We have life and property trusted to our hands. Ours is a
grand business--I don't think folks looks at it as they ought to. Remember
when I was a young fellow, like you, just set up with an engine, I used to
feel like a strong angel, or somethin', rushin' over the country, makin'
that iron beast do just as I wanted him to. The power sort of made me think
fast.

I was doin' well when I married, and I did well long afterwards. We had a
nice home, the little woman and me: our hearts were set on each other, and
she was a little proud of her engineer--she used to say so, anyhow. She was
sort of mild and tender with her tongue. Not one of your loud ones. And
pretty, too. But you know what it is to love a woman, George Burks--I saw
you walking with a blue-eyed little thing last Sunday.

After a while we had the little girl. We talked a good deal about what we
should call her, my wife and I. We went clean through the Bible, and set
down all the fine story names we heard of. But nothin' seemed to suit. I
used to puzzle the whole length of my route to find a name for that little
girl. My wife wanted to call her Endora Isabel. But that sounded like
folderol. Then we had up Rebeccar, and Maud, and Amanda Ann, and what not.
Finally, whenever I looked at her, I seemed to see "Katie." She looked
Katie. I took to calling her Katie, and she learned it--so Katie she was.

I tell you, George, that was a child to be noticed. She was rounder and
prettier made'n a wax figger; her eyes was bigger and blacker'n any grown
woman's you ever saw, set like stars under her forehead, and her hair was
that light kind that all runs to curls and glitter.

Soon's she could toddle, she used to come dancin' to meet me. I've soiled
a-many of her white pinafores buryin' my face in them before I was washed,
and sort of prayin' soft like under the roof of my heart, "God bless my
baby! God bless my little lamb!"

As she grew older, I used to talk to her about engin'--even took her into
my cab, and showed the 'tachments of the engin', and learned her signals
and such things. She tuk such an interest, and was the smartest little
thing! Seemed as if she had always knowed 'em. She loved the road. Remember
once hearing her say to a playmate: "There's my papa. He's an engineer.
Don't you wish he was your papa?"

My home was close by the track. Often and often the little girl stood in
our green yard, waving her mite of a hand as we rushed by.

Well, one day I started on my home trip, full of that good fellowship you
was imbibin' awhile ago. Made the engine whizz! We was awful jolly, the
fireman and me. Never was drunk when I got on my engine before, or the
Company would have shipped me. Warn't no such time made on that road before
nor since. I had just sense enough to know what I was about, but not enough
to handle an emergency. We fairly roared down on the trestle that stood at
the entrance of our town.

I had a tipsy eye out, and, George, as we was flyin' through the suburbs, I
see my little girl on the track ahead, wavin' a red flag and standin' stock
still!

The air seemed full of Katies. I could have stopped the engine if I'd only
had sense enough to know what to take hold of to reverse her! But I was too
drunk! And that grand little angel stood up to it, trying to warn us in
time, and we just swept right along into a pile of ties some wretch had
placed on the track!--right over my baby! Oh, my baby! Go away, George.

There! And do you want me to tell you how that mangled little mass killed
her mother? And do you want me to tell you I walked alive a murderer of my
own child, who stood up to save me? And do you want me to tell you the good
fellowship you were drinkin' awhile ago brought all this on me?

You'll let this pass by, makin' up your mind to be moderate. Hope you will.
I was a moderate un.

(Oh, God! Oh, my baby!)

_Mary Hartwell._

* * * * *

PRAYER.

More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day:
For what are men better than sheep or goats,
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friends?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

_Tennyson._

* * * * *

EXPERIENCE WITH EUROPEAN GUIDES.

European guides know about enough English to tangle everything up so that a
man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart,--
the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show
you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would,--and if you interrupt and
throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All
their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners
and listening to their bursts of admiration.

It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what
prompts children to say "smart" things and do absurd ones, and in other
ways "show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out
in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news.
Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is,
every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect
ecstacies of admiration! He gets so that he could not by any possibility
live in a soberer atmosphere.

After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more,--we never
admired anything,--we never showed anything but impassable faces and stupid
indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to
display. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever
since. We have made some of those people savage at times, but we never lost
our serenity.

The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his
countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more
imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes
natural to him.

The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because
Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before
any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had
swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation,--full of
impatience. He said:--

"Come wis me, genteelmen!--come! I show you ze letter writing by
Christopher Colombo!--write it himself!--write it wis his own hand!--come!"

He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys
and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us.
The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with
his finger:--

"What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher
Colombo!--write it himself!"

We looked indifferent,--unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very
deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of
interest,--

"Ah,--Ferguson,--what--what did you say was the name of the party who wrote
this?"

"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"

Another deliberate examination.

"Ah,--did he write it himself, or,--or, how?"

"He write it himself!--Christopher Colombo! he's own handwriting, write by
himself!"

Then the doctor laid the document down and said,--

"Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write
better than that."

"But zis is ze great Christo--"

"I don't care who it is! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn't
think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a
good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot
them out!--and if you haven't, drive on!"

We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more
venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said,--

"Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us! I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent
bust Christopher Colombo!--splendid, grand, magnificent!"

He brought us before the beautiful bust,--for it was beautiful,--and sprang
back and struck an attitude,--

"Ah, look, genteelmen!--beautiful, grand,--bust Christopher Columbo!--
beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!"

The doctor put up his eye-glass,--procured for such occasions:--

"Ah,--what did you say this gentleman's name was?"

"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"

"Christopher Colombo,--the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he
do?"

"Discover America!--discover America--oh, ze diable!"

"Discover America? No,--that statement will hardly wash. We are just from
America ourselves. Christopher Colombo,--pleasant name,--is--is he dead?"

"Oh, corpo di Bacco!--three hundred year!"

"What did he die of?"

"I do not know. I cannot tell."

"Small-pox, think?"

"I do not know, genteelmen,--I do not know what he die of!"

"Measles, likely?"

"Maybe,--maybe. I do not know,--I think he die of something."

"Parents living?"

"Im-posseeble"

"Ah,--which is the bust and which is the pedestal?"

"Santa Maria!--zis ze bust!--zis ze pedestal!"

"Ah, I see, I see,--happy combination,--very happy combination, indeed. Is
--is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust."

That joke was lost on the foreigner,--guides cannot master the subtleties
of the American joke.

We have made it interesting for this Roman guide.

Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful
world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even
admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else
ever did in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He
walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted
all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest
in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder
till the last,--a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world,
perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure this time that some of his old
enthusiasm came back to him:--

"See, genteelmen!--Mummy! Mummy!"

The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.

"Ah,--Ferguson,--what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name
was?"

"Name?--he got no name!--Mummy!--'Gyptian mummy!"

"Yes, yes. Born here?"

"No. 'Gyptian mummy!"

"Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?"

"No! Not Frenchman, not Roman! Born in Egypta!"

"Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely.
Mummy,--mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed! Is--ah!--is he dead?"

"Oh, sacre bleu! been dead three thousan' year!"

The doctor turned on him savagely:--

"Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing us for
Chinamen, because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose
your vile secondhand carcasses on us! Thunder and lightning! I've a notion
to--to--if you've got a nice, fresh corpse fetch him out!--or we'll brain
you!"

However, he has paid us back partly, and without knowing it. He came to the
hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavoured, as well as he
could, to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he
meant. He finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The
observation was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good
thing for a guide to say.

Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering
subject we have had yet. We shall be sorry to part with him. We have
enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are
harassed with doubts.

_Mark Twain._

* * * * *

FIRST EXPERIENCE.

A very intelligent Irishman tells the following incident of his experience
in America: I came to this country several years ago, and, as soon as I
arrived, hired out to a gentleman who farmed a few acres. He showed me over
the premises, the stables, the cow, and where the corn, hay, oats, etc.,
were kept, and then sent me in to my supper. After supper, he said to me,
"James, you may feed the cow, and give her corn in the ear." I went out and
walked about, thinking, "what could he mean? Had I understood him?" I
scratched my head, then resolved I would enquire again; so I went into the
library where my master was writing very busily and he answered me without
looking up: "I thought I told you to give the cow some corn in the ear."

I went out more puzzled than ever. What sort of an animal must this Yankee
cow be? I examined her mouth and ears. The teeth were good, and the ears
like those of kine in the old country. Dripping with sweat, I entered my
master's presence once more "Please, sir, you bid me give the cow some corn
_in the ear_, but didn't you mean the _mouth?_" He looked at me a
moment, and then burst into such a convulsion of laughter, that I made for
the stable as fast as my feet could take me, thinking I was in the service
of a crazy man.

* * * * *

POOR LITTLE JOE.

Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey,
Fur I've brought you sumpin great.
Apples? No, a deal sight better!
Don't you take no interest, wait'
Flowers, Joe,--I know'd you'd like 'em--
Ain't them scrumptious, ain't them high
Tears, my boy, what's them fur, Joey?
There--poor little Joe--don't cry.

I was skippin' past a winder,
Where a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes--
Each one climbin' from a pot.
Every bush had flowers on it;
Pretty! Mebbe' not! Oh no'
Wish you could a-seen'm growin',
It was such a stunnin show.

Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
Lyin' here so sick and weak,
Never knowin' any comfort,
And I puts on lots o' cheek;
"Missus," says I, "if yo please, mum,
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus,
Never seed one, I suppose."

Then I told her all about you--
How I bringed you up,--poor Joe!
(Lackin' women-folks to do it)
Sich a imp you was, you know--
Till yer got that awful tumble,
Jist as I had broke yer in
(Hard work, too), to earn yer livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you--
So's you couldn't hyper much--
Joe, it hurted when I see you
For the first time with your crutch.
"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,
'Pears to weaken every day."
Joe, she up and went to cuttin'--
That's the how of this bokay.

Say! it seems to me, ole feller,
You is quite yourself to-night;
Kind o' chirk, it's been a fortnight
Sence your eyes have been so bright.
Better! well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe,
Smellin' of them's made you happy?
Well, I thought it would, you know.

Never see the country did you?
Flowers growin' everywhere!
Sometime when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven! 'M--I spose so;
Dunno much about it though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.

But I've heerd it hinted somewheres,
That in heaven's golden gates,
Things is everlastin' cheerful,
B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't get hungry;
So good people when they dies,
Finds themselves well-fixed for ever--
Joe, my boy, wot ails your eyes?

Thought they looked a Jittle singler.
Oh no! don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made for such as you is--
Joe, what makes you look so queer?
Here--wake up! Oh, don't look that way!
Joe, my boy, hold up your head!
Here's your flowers you dropped 'em, Joey.
Oh, my Joe! can he be dead?

_Peleg Arkwright._

* * * * *

NIAGARA.

The thoughts are strange that crowd upon my brain
As I look upward to thee! It would seem
As if God poured thee from His hollow hand,
And hung His bow upon thine awful front,
And spake in that loud voice that seemed to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
The sound of many waters; and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch His centuries in the eternal rock!

Deep calleth unto deep, and what are we
That hear the questions of that voice sublime?
O what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side?
Yea, what is all the riot man can make,
In his short life, to thine unceasing roar?
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave
That runs and whispers of thy Maker's might!

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