The Canadian Elocutionist

A >> Anna Kelsey Howard >> The Canadian Elocutionist

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_A. M. Bell._

* * * * *

GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY.

She stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,
In features too old for a child,
For a look so worn and pathetic
Was stamped on her pale young face,
It seemed long years of suffering
Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her
With kindly look yet keen,
"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir,"
"And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen."
"Well, Mary," and then from a paper
He slowly and gravely read,
"You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it--
With stealing three loaves of bread."

"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?"
A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply,
But she dried her tears in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir,
My father and mother are dead,
And my little brother and sisters
Were hungry and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them
By working hard all day,
But somehow times were bad, sir,
And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment;
The weather was bitter cold,
The young ones cried and shivered--
(Little Johnny's but four years old;)--
So, what was I to do, sir?
I am guilty, but do not condemn,
I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?--
The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room--
Grey-beard and thoughtless youth--
Knew, as he looked upon her,
That the prisoner spoke the truth,
Out from their pockets came kerchiefs.
Out from their eyes sprung tears,
And out from old faded wallets
Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study--
The strangest you ever saw,
As he cleared his throat and murmured
_Something_ about the _law_.
For one so learned in such matters,
So wise in dealing with men,
He seemed, on a simple question,
Sorely puzzled just then.

But no one blamed him or wondered
When at last these words they heard,
"The sentence of this young prisoner
Is, for the present, deferred."
And no one blamed him or wondered
When he went to her and smiled,
And tenderly led from the court-room,
Himself the "guilty" child.

* * * * *

MEMORY'S PICTURES.

Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest;
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips,
It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother
With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep;
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And one of the autumn eves
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep, by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

_Alice Cary._

* * * * *

PAPA CAN'T FIND ME.

No little step do I hear in the hall,
Only a sweet little laugh, that is all.
No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight,
I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright,
Two little hands a wee face try to screen,
Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen.
"Where is my precious I've missed So all day'"
"Papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say.

"Dear me, I wonder where baby can be!"
Then I go by, and pretend not to see.
"Not in the parlour, and not on the stairs'
Then I must peep under sofas and chairs."
The dear little rogue is now laughing outright,
Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight.
Home will indeed be sad, weary and lone,
When papa can't find you, my darling, my own.

* * * * *

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was
one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the
churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by
his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful,
and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the
year 1630:

'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamed
The early sunlight in one chamber there;
Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed,
Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where
Murillo, the famed painter, came to share
With young aspirants his long-cherished art,
To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,
Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart
The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.

The pupils came and glancing round,
Mendez upon his canvas found,
Not his own work of yesterday,
But glowing in the morning ray,
A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright,
It almost seemed that there were given
To glow before his dazzled sight,
Tints and expression warm from heaven.

'Twas but a sketch--the Virgin's head--
Yet was unearthly beauty shed
Upon the mildly beaming face;
The lip, the eye, the flowing hair,
Had separate, yet blended grace--
A poet's brightest dream was there!!

Murillo entered, and amazed,
On the mysterious painting gazed;
"Whose work is this?--speak, tell me!--he
Who to his aid such power can call,"
Exclaimed the teacher eagerly,
"Will yet be master of us all;
Would I had done it!--Ferdinand!
Isturitz! Mendez!--say, whose hand
Among ye all?"--With half-breathed sigh,
Each pupil answered,--"'Twas not I!"

"How came it then?" impatiently
Murillo cried; "but we shall see,
Ere long into this mystery.
Sebastian!"
At the summons came
A bright-eyed slave,
Who trembled at the stern rebuke
His master gave.
For ordered in that room to sleep,
And faithful guard o'er all to keep,
Murillo bade him now declare
What rash intruder had been there,
And threatened--if he did not tell
The truth at once--the dungeon-cell.
"Thou answerest not," Murillo said;
(The boy had stood in speechless fear.)
"Speak on!"--At last he raised his head
And murmured, "No one has been here."
"'Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee,
And clasped his hands imploringly,
And said. "I swear it, none but me!"

"List!" said his master. "I would know
Who enters here--there have been found
Before, rough sketches strewn around,
By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show;
Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep.
If on to-morrow morn you fail
To answer what I ask,
The lash shall force you--do you hear?
Hence! to your daily task."

* * * * *

'Twas midnight in Seville, and faintly shone
From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray
Within Murillo's study--all were gone
Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay,
Passed cheerfully the morning hours away.
'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save,
That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey,
One bright eyed boy was there--Murillo's little slave.

Almost a child--that boy had seen
Not thrice five summers yet,
But genius marked the lotty brow,
O'er which his locks of jet
Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide,
To Africa and Spain allied.

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said
"The lash, if I refuse to tell
Who sketched those figures--if I do,
Perhaps e'en more--the dungeon-cell!"
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;
It came--for soon in slumber laid,
He slept, until the dawning day
Shed on his humble couch its ray.

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now
Three hours of freedom I may gain,
Before my master comes, for then
I shall be but a slave again.
Three blessed hours of freedom! how
Shall I employ them?--ah! e'en now
The figure on that canvas traced
Must be--yes, it must be effaced."

He seized a brush--the morning light
Gave to the head a softened glow;
Gazing enraptured on the sight,
He cried, "Shall I efface it?--No!
That breathing lip! that beaming eye
Efface them?--I would rather die!"

The terror of the humble slave
Gave place to the o'erpowering flow
Of the high feelings Nature gave-
Which only gifted spirits know.

He touched the brow--the lip--it seemed
His pencil had some magic power;
The eye with deeper feeling beamed--
Sebastian then forgot the hour!
Forgot his master, and the threat
Of punishment still hanging o'er him;
For, with each touch, new beauties met
And mingled in the face before him.

At length 'twas finished; rapturously
He gazed--could aught more beauteous be'
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood,
Then started--horror chilled his blood!
His master and the pupils all
Were there e'en at his side!
The terror-stricken slave was mute--
Mercy would be denied,
E'en could he ask it--so he deemed,
And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.
Speechless, bewildered--for a space
They gazed upon that perfect face,
Each with an artist's joy;
At length Murillo silence broke,
And with affected sternness spoke--
"Who is your master, boy?"
"You, Senor," said the trembling slave.
"Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave,
Before that Virgin's head you drew?"
Again he answered, "Only you."
"I gave you none," Murillo cried!
"But I have heard," the boy replied,
"What you to others said."
"And more than heard," in kinder tone,
The painter said; "'tis plainly shown
That you have profited."

"What (to his pupils) is his meed?
Reward or punishment?"
"Reward, reward!" they warmly cried,
(Sebastian's ear was bent
To catch the sounds he scarce believed,
But with imploring look received.)
"What shall it be?" They spoke of gold
And of a splendid dress;
But still unmoved Sebastian stood,
Silent and motionless.
"Speak!" said Murillo kindly; "choose
Your own reward--what shall it be?
Name what you wish, I'll not refuse:
Then speak at once and fearlessly."
"Oh! if I dared!"--Sebastian knelt
And feelings he could not control,
(But feared to utter even then)
With strong emotion, shook his soul.

"Courage!" his master said, and each
Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech,
To soothe his overpow'ring dread.
He scarcely heard, till some one said,
"Sebastian--ask--you have your choice,
Ask for your _freedom_!"--At the word,
The suppliant strove to raise his voice:
At first but stifled sobs were heard,
And then his prayer--breathed fervently--
"Oh! master, make my _father_ free!"
"Him and thyself, my noble boy!"
Warmly the painter cried;
Raising Sebastian from his feet,
He pressed him to his side.
"Thy talents rare, and filial love,
E'en more have fairly won;
Still be thou mine by other bonds--
My pupil and my son."

Murillo knew, e'en when the words
Of generous feeling passed his lips,
Sebastian's talents soon must lead
To fame that would his own eclipse;
And, constant to his purpose still,
He joyed to see his pupil gain,
As made his name the pride of Spain.

_Susan Wilson._

* * * * *

ONLY SIXTEEN.

Only sixteen, so the papers say,
Yet there, on the cold, stony ground he lay;
'Tis the same sad story, we hear every day--
He came to his death in the public highway.
Full of promise, talent and pride;
Yet the rum fiend conquered him--so he died.
Did not the angels weep over the scene?
For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen,--
Only sixteen.

Oh! it were sad he must die all alone;
That of all his friends, not even one
Was there to list to his last faint moan,
Or point the suffering soul to the throne
Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son
Would say, "Whosoever will may come--"
But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,
With his God we leave him--only sixteen,--
Only sixteen.

Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought!!
Witness the suffering and pain you have brought
To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,
And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell
That beclouded his brain, did his reason dethrone,
And left him to die out there all alone.
What, if 'twere _your_ son, instead of another?
What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,--
And he only sixteen?

Ye freeholders, who signed the petition to grant
The license to sell, do you think you will want
That record to meet in that last great day,
When heaven and earth shall have passed away.
When the elements, melting with fervent heat,
Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete?
Will you wish to have his blood on your hand.
When before the great throne you each shall stand,--
And he only sixteen?

Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,
To action and duty; into the light
Come with your banners, inscribed, "Death to rum!"
Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;
Strike killing blows; hew to the line;
Make it a felony even to sign
A petition to license, you would do it, I ween,
If that were your son, and he only sixteen,
Only sixteen.

* * * * *

THE RETORT.

Old Birch, who taught the village school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was stubborn as a mule,
And she was playful as a rabbit.
Poor Kate had scarce become a wife
Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country polished life,
And prim and formal--as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,
And simple Katie sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.
The husband's anger rose, and red
And white his face alternate grew:
"Less freedom, ma'am!" Kate sighed and said
"O, dear, I didn't know 'twas you."

* * * * *

"LITTLE BENNIE."

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

I had told him, Christmas morning,
As he sat upon my knee,
Holding fast his little stockings,
Stuffed as full as full can be,
And attentive listening to me
With a face demure and mild,
That old Santa Claus, who filled them,
Did not love a naughty child.

"But we'll be good, won't we, moder,"
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid.
While I turned me to my table,
Where a tempting goblet stood
Brimming high with dainty custard
Sent me by a neighbour good.

But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing both,
Sat, by way of entertainment,
Lapping off the shining froth;
And, in not the gentlest humour
At the loss of such a treat,
I confess, I rather rudely
Thrust him out into the street.

Then, how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;
Gathering up the precious store
He had busily been pouring
In his tiny pinafore,
With a generous look that shamed me
Sprang he from the carpet bright,
Showing by his mien indignant,
All a baby's sense of right.

"Come back, Harney," called he loudly,
As he held his apron white,
"You shall have my candy wabbit,"
But the door was fastened tight,
So he stood abashed and silent,
In the centre of the floor,
With defeated look alternate
Bent on me and on the door.

Then, as by some sudden impulse,
Quickly ran he to the fire,
And while eagerly his bright eyes
Watched the flames grow higher and higher,
In a brave, clear key, he shouted,
Like some lordly little elf,
"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,
Make my Mudder 'have herself."

"I will be a good girl, Bennie,"
Said I, feeling the reproof;
And straightway recalled poor Harney,
Mewing on the gallery roof.
Soon the anger was forgotten,
Laughter chased away the frown,
And they gamboled round the fireside,
Till the dusky night came down.

In my dim, fire-lighted chamber,
Harney purred beneath my chair,
And my playworn boy beside me
Knelt to say his evening prayer;
"God bess Fader, God bess Moder,
God bess Sister," then a pause,
And the sweet young lips devoutly
Murmured, "God bess Santa Kaus."

He is sleeping; brown and silken
Lie the lashes, long and meek,
Like caressing, clinging shadows,
On his plump and peachy cheek,
And I bend above him, weeping
Thankful tears, O defiled!
For a woman's crown of glory,
For the blessing of a child.

_Annie C. Ketchum._

* * * * *

SLANDER.

'Twas but a breath--
And yet a woman's fair fame wilted,
And friends once fond, grew cold and stilted;
And life was worse than death.

One venomed word,
That struck its coward, poisoned blow,
In craven whispers, hushed and low,--
And yet the wide world heard.

Twas but one whisper--one--
That muttered low, for very shame,
That thing the slanderer dare not name,--
And yet its work was done.

A hint so slight,
And yet so mighty in its power,--
A human soul in one short hour,
Lies crushed beneath its blight.

* * * * *

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been;
but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine
you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last
night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that
relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight.
For nearly a week, Doctor, I have had the worst kind of a narvous head-
ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open.
Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever
lived.

Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had
every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin.
_(Coughs.)_ Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will
relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?

Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn
my head without turning the hull of my body. _(Coughs.)_

Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the
country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have
tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does
me the leastest good. _(Coughs.)_

Oh, this cough--it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right
hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting
to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've
got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I
can hardly crawl round in any fashion.

What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out ploughing
last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept backing and backing on,
till she back'd me right up agin the coulter, and knocked a piece of skin
off my shin nearly so big. _(Coughs.)_

But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it
was washing-day--and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little
stove-wood--you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and
tend to everything about the house herself.

I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out--as it was a raining at the
time--but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few
chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my
feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot.
Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my
upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully
on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to
make me fit to be seen, specially by--the women folks. _(Coughs.)_ Oh,
dear! but that aint all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes--and I'm
feared I'm going to have the "yallar janders." _(Coughs.)_

* * * * *

YOUR MISSION

If you cannot on the ocean
Sail among the swiftest fleet,
Rocking on the highest billows,
Laughing at the storms you meet.
You can stand among the sailors,
Anchor'd yet within the bay,
You can lend a hand to help them,
As they launch their boats away

If you are too weak to journey,
Up the mountain steep and high,
You can stand within the valley,
While the multitudes go by
You can chant in happy measure,
As they slowly pass along;
Though they may forget the singer,
They will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver
Ever ready to command,
If you cannot towards the needy
Reach an ever open hand,
You can visit the afflicted,
O'er the erring you can weep,
You can be a true disciple,
Sitting at the Saviour's feet

If you cannot in the conflict,
Prove yourself a soldier true
If where fire and smoke are thickest
There's no work for you to do,
When the battle-field is silent,
You can go with careful tread.
You can bear away the wounded,
You can cover up the dead.

Do not, then, stand idly waiting
For some greater work to do,
Fortune is a lazy goddess,
She will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard,
Do not fear to do or dare,
If you want a field of labour,
You can find it anywhere.

* * * * *

SATISFACTION.

They sent him round the circle fair,
To bow before the prettiest there;
I'm bound to say the choice he made
A creditable taste displayed;
Although I can't see what it meant,
The little maid looked ill-content.

His task was then anew begun,
To kneel before the wittiest one.
Once more the little maid sought he
And bent him down upon his knee;
She turned her eyes upon the floor;
I think she thought the game a bore

He circled then his sweet behest
To kiss the one he loved the best;
For all she frowned, for all she chid,
He kissed that little maid--he did.
And then--though why I can't decide--
The little maid looked satisfied.

* * * * *

MY TRUNDLE BED.

As I rummaged through the attic,
List'ning to the falling rain,
As it pattered on the shingles
And against the window pane,
Peeping over chests and boxes,
Which with dust were thickly spread,
Saw I in the farthest corner
What was once my trundle bed.

So I drew it from the recess,
Where it had remained so long,
Hearing all the while the music
Of my mother's voice in song,
As she sung in sweetest accents,
What I since have often read--
"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed"

As I listened, recollections,
That I thought had been forgot,
Came with all the gush of memory,
Rushing, thronging to the spot;
And I wandered back to childhood,
To those merry days of yore,
When I knelt beside my mother,
By this bed upon the floor.

Then it was with hands so gently
Placed upon my infant head,
That she taught my lips to utter
Carefully the words she said;
Never can they be forgotten,
Deep are they in mem'ry riven--
"Hallowed be thy name, O Father!
Father! thou who art in heaven."

Years have passed, and that dear mother
Long has mouldered 'neath the sod,
And I trust her sainted spirit
Rests within the home of God:
But that scene at summer twilight
Never has from memory fled,
And it comes in all its freshness
When I see my trundle bed.

This she taught me, then she told me
Of its import great and deep--
After which I learned to utter
"Now I lay me down to sleep."
Then it was with hands uplifted,
And in accents soft and mild,
That my mother asked--"Our Father!
Father! do thou bless my child!"

* * * * *

THE RIFT OF THE ROCK.

In the rift of the rock He has covered my head,
When the tempest was wild in the desolate land
Through a pathway uncertain my steps He has led,
And I felt in the darkness the touch of His hand
Leading on, leading over the slippery steep,
Where came but the echoing sound of the shock,
And, clear through the sorrowful moan of the deep,
The singing of birds in the rift of the rock.

In the rift of the rock He has sheltered my soul
When at noonday the toilers grew faint in the heat,
Where the desert rolled far like a limitless scroll
Cool waters leaped up at the touch of His feet
And the flowers that lay with pale lips to the sod
Bloom softly and fair from a holier stock;
Winged home by the winds to the mountains of God,
They bloom evermore in the rift of the rock.

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