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gentlemen, step this way," and the voice is the voice of Straw-hat.

Straw-hat leads us into a crumbling old hall, with the tiled back of an old fire-place still apparent, all the windows bare, with the green leaves looking in at them; this, he tells us, is the Refractory! "Here," he adds, "the monks had a fire, and I suppose they had a fire nowhere else except in the kitchen." We are shown the dormitory, where the monks slept, and outside the place where the monks slept their last sleep. In one of the old chambers our voluble friend informs us, generally, that there Cromwell littered his horses. The guide indignantly responds he never did. "Cromwell never come into these parts: he was afeard of being drownded." Straw-hat, branching off from Art to Nature, next exhibits the plantation, and shows us some "Cedair o' Lebnon, which is considered remarkable fine trees." Other interesting varieties of the same sort follow, and then we fee the guide, and are taken to the place from whence we came, not much wiser, perhaps, than when we came, and are told, there we may stop for a little while, if we like it. Says a timid stranger

May we walk on the lawn ?" "Yes."

"He says we may walk on the lawn!" So the mild stranger and his friends walk on the grass; I play for a few minutes with the two white cats; I am civil to the portress, and depart.

Now, let me say seriously that Battle Abbey, one of the most ancient ruins in England, and particularly interesting to all Englishmen conversant with the history of their country, is a relic that belongs to the public, and should be cared for by Government. Battle Abbey is owned by somebody or other-I cannot now say for certain who-and is a private place; it is made a private residence. I think it is a shame. If you want to see Battle, you must go there on Tuesdays or Fridays. If you want to see Battle Abbey, the owner will not allow you to do so without enforcing the infliction of an ignorant "guide, philosopher, and friend." If you want to see Battle Abbey, you must run through it in the course of a few minutes, and cross the hand of your tormentor with a piece of money. If I were owner of Battle Abbey, I would be more considerate and more generous, and, above all, I would not allow my retainers to cry largesse-I would not let my servants beg.

So much for that. I want you to understand that I am sparing no pains to get up "Harold Deceased" in the most complete way possible. I have been to Pevensey, and seen the dreary marsh where William landed on Michaelmas Day, 1066, and on Michaelmas Day, with a racking headache, watching the sea he came over, I thought of him and of-well, of Gooses dead and in their gravies.

Yours very truly,

THE ODD BOY.

THE BOY'S RECITER.

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And yet it moves me, Romans: it confounds
The counsels of my firm philosophy,
That ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass
o'er,

And barren salt be sown on yon proud city.
As on our olive-crowned hill we stand,
Where Kedron at our feet, its scanty waters
Distils from stone to stone with gentle
motion,

As through a valley sacred to sweet peace, How boldly doth it front us! how majestically!

Like a luxurious vineyard, the hill side

Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer To the blue heavens. Here bright and sumptuous palaces,

With cool and verdant gardens interspersed; Here towers of war that frown in massy strength.

While over all hangs the rich purple eve,
As conscious of its being her last farewell
Of light and glory to that fated city;
And, as our clouds of battle dust and smoke
Are melted into air, behold the temple,
In undisturbed and lone serenity,
Finding itself a solemn sanctuary

In the profound of heaven! It stands before us,

A mount of snow, fretted with golden pinnacles!

The very sun, as though he worshipped there, Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs;

And down the long and branching porticoes, On every flowery sculptured capital, Glitters the homage of his parting beams. By Hercules! the sight might almost win The offended majesty of Rome to mercy.

But thus it is-I know not whence or how, There is a stern command upon my soul. I feel the inexorable fate within That tells me carnage is a duty here, And that the appointed desolation chides The tardy vengeance of our war. Destiny Is over all, and hard Necessity

Holds o'er the shifting course of human things Her paramount dominion. Like a flood The irresistible stream of fate flows on, And urges in its vast and sweeping motion Kings, consuls, Cæsars, with their mightiest armies,

Each to his fixed inevitable end.
Yea, even eternal Rome, and father Jove,
Sternly submissive, sail that onward tide.
And now am I upon its rushing bosom ;
I feel its silent billows swell beneath me,
Bearing me and the conquering arms of
Rome

'Gainst yon devoted city!

28. SPEECH OF CATALINE. (Croly.)

[This extract exemplifies the fiercest emotions of anger, hatred, and revenge. The tones are, throughout, harsh and aspirated; the manner intensely vehement in action; the attitudes bold and defiant.]

ARE there not times, Patricians, when great states

Rush to their ruin ?-Rome is no more like Rome

Than a foul dungeon's like the glorious sky. What is she now ?-Degenerate, gross, defiled;

The tainted haunt, the gorged receptacle
Of every slave and vagabond of earth:
A mighty grave that luxury has dug,
To rid the other realms of pestilence;
And, of the mountain of corruption there,
Which once was human beings, procreate
A buzzing, fluttering swarm; or venom.
toothed,

A viper brood; insects and reptiles only! Consul!-Look on me-on this brow-these hands;

Look on this bosom, black with early wounds:

Have I not served the state from boyhood up, Scattered my blood for her, laboured for, loved her?

I had no chance; wherefore should I be Consul ?

Patricians! they have pushed me to the gulf; I have worn down my heart, wasted my

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My brother with myself? Is't victory,
If I but find, stretched by my bleeding
side,

All who came with me in the golden morn,
And shouted as my banner met the sun?
I cannot think of't. There's no faith on
earth;

The very men with whom I walked through life,

Nay, till within this hour,-in all the bonds Of courtesy and high companionship,They all deserted me; Metellus, Scipio, Æmilius, Cato, even my kinsman Cæsar,All the chief names and senators of Rome, This day, as if the heavens had stamped me black,

Turned on their heel, just at the point of fate,

Left me a mockery in the rabble's midst, And followed their plebeian consul, Cicero! No! I have run my course. Another year! Why taunt me, sir? No,-if their curule chair,

Sceptre, and robe, and all their mummery, Their whole embodied consulate, were flung, Here at my feet, and all assembled Rome Knelt to me, but to stretch my finger out, And pluck them from the dust,-I'd scorn to do it.

This was the day to which I looked through life;

And it has failed me,-vanished from my

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Crime may be cleared, and sorrow's eyes be dried,

The lowliest poverty be gilded yet,

The neck of airless, pale imprisonment
Be lightened of its chains! For all the ills

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The

[An example of the tranquil style of profound admiration, extending to awe. orotund quality, moderate force, pitch inclining low, movement deliberate,-tones expressive, but subdued, are the chief characteristics of voice, in the recitation of this piece.]

CITY of Theseus !-bursting on the mind, Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled! Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, Thus hallowed by the memory of the dead: Alone in beauty and renown,—a scene Whose tints are drawn from Freedom's loveliest ray.

'Tis but a vision now; yet thou hast been More than the brightest vision might be

tray;

And every stone with but a vestige fraught Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty thought.

Fallen are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung

To choral melodies, and tragic lore;
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung,
The song that hails Harmodius peals no

more.

Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand; Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill;

Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's hand;

The magic voice of eloquence is still; Minerva's veil is rent,-her image gone, Silent the sage's bower,-the warrior's tomb o'erthrown.

Yet in decay thine exquisite remains
Wondering we view, and silently revere
As traces left on earth's forsaken plains
By vanished beings of a nobler sphere!
Not all the old magnificence of Rome,
All that dominion there hath left to time,
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome,
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime,
Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit
steal,

That chance or nature lays upon our heads, As aught by thee impressed with beauty's

In chance or nature there is found a cure:

plastic seal.

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Where hate was stamped on each rigid face,
As foe met foe in the death-embrace;
Where the groans of the wounded and dy-
ing rose

Till the heart of the listener with horror froze,

And the wide expanse of crimsoned plain
Was piled with heaps of uncounted slain ;-
But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife,
Is that which is waged in the Battle of Life.
The hero that wars on the tented field,
With his shining sword and burnished shield,
Goes not alone with his faithful brand :-
Friends and comrades around him stand;
The trumpets sound and the war steeds
To join in the shock of the coming fray;
neigh,
And he flies to the onset, he charges the foe,
Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides

flow:

And he bears his part in that conflict dire, With an arm all nerve and a heart all fireWhat though he fall? At the battle's close, In the flush of the victory won, he goes With martial music and waving plume, From a field of fame-to a laurelled tomb!

But the hero that wars in the Battle of Life,

Must stand alone in the fearful strife;
Alone in his weakness or strength must go,
Hero or coward, to meet the foe:
He may not fly; on that fated field
He must win or lose, he must conquer or
yield.

Warrior,-who com'st to this battle now,
With a careless step and a thoughtless brow,
As if the day were already won,—
Pause, and gird all thy armour on!

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Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless will,

An ardent soul that no fear can chill,Thy shield of faith hast thou tried and proved,-

Canst thou say to the mountain, "Be thou removed?"

In thy hand does the sword of Truth flame bright,

Is thy banner inscribed-"For God and the Right?"

In the might of prayer dost thou wrestle and plead ?

Never had warrior greater need!-
Unseen foes in thy pathway hide,
Thou art encompassed on every side:
There Pleasure waits with her syren train,
Her poison flowers and her hidden chain;

THERE are countless fields the green earth Flattery courts with her hollow smiles; o'er,

Passion with silvery tone beguiles;

Where the verdant turf has been dyed with Love and Friendship their charmed spells gore:

Where hostile ranks in their grim array, With the battle's smoke have obscured the

day;

weave:

Trust not too deeply, they may deceive! Hope with her Dead Sea fruits is there; Sin is spreading her gilded snare ;

Disease with a ruthless hand would smite, And Care spread o'er thee her withering blight;

Hate and Envy, with visage black,

And the serpent Slander, are on thy track;
Falsehood and Guilt, Remorse and Pride,
Doubt and Despair, in thy pathway glide;
Haggard Want, in her demon joy,
Waits to degrade thee, and then destroy;
And Death, the insatiate, is hovering near
To snatch from thy grasp all thou holdest
dear!

In war with these phantoms that gird
thee round,

No limbs dissevered may strew the ground: No blood may flow, and no mortal ear

The groans of the wounded heart may hear, As it struggles and writhes in their dread control,

As the iron enters the riven soul.

But the youthful form grows wasted and weak,

And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek; The brow is furrowed, but not with years; The eye is dimmed with its secret tears; And streaked with white is the raven hair; These are the tokens of conflict there.

The Battle is ended ;--the hero goes Worn and scarred, to his last repose. He has won the day, he has conquered doom;

He has sunk, unknown, to his nameless tomb: For the victor's glory, no voice may plead; Fame has no echo, and earth no meed ;-But the guardian angels are hovering near; They have watched unseen o'er the conflict here:

They bear him now on their wings away, To a realm of peace, to a cloudless day.Ended now is earthly strife;

And his brow is crowned with the Crown of Life!

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Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended,

So that all beauty awes us in his looks; Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered,

Who as the clear north-western wind is free,

Who walks with Form's observances unhampered,

And follows the One Will obediently; Whose eyes, like windows on a hazy summit, Control a lovely prospect every way; Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet,

And find a bottom still of worthless clay; Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working,

Knowing the one sure wind blows on

above,

And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking,

One God-built shrine of reverence and love; Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches

Around the centre fixed of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches

The moving globe of being, like a sky; Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer

Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer

Than that of all his brethren, low or high; Who to the right can feel himself the truer

For being gently patient with the wrong; Who sees a brother in the evil-doer,

And finds in Love the heart's blood of his song;-

This, this is he for whom the world is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty heart,

31. THE POET OF AMERICA. (James Rus- Too long hath it been patient with the

sell Lowell.)

[The elocutionary style of this piece, throughout, is that of manly, energetic declamation, aided by the music of verse, and requiring attention principally to fulness of voice and spirited action.]

AMONG the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking For one to bring the Maker's name to light, To be the voice of that Almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ;

He who would be the tongue of this wide land,

Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron

And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand;

grating

Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art.

To him the smiling soul of man shall listen,

Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside; And once again in every eye shall glisten The glory of a nature satisfied.

His verse shall have a great, commanding motion,

Heaving and swelling with a melody Learned of the sky, the river, and the ocean,

And all the pure, majestic things that be. Awake, then, thou!—we pine for thy great presence

To make us feel the soul once more sublime;

We are of far too infinite an essence

To rest contented with the lies of Time.

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