Part 19

4. Claude Lorrain (b. 1600, d. 1682), whose proper name was Claude Gelee, was a celebrated landscape painter, born in Champagne, Vosges, France.

Nicolas Poussin (b. 1594, d. 1665) was a French painter, who became one of the most remarkable artists of his age. His fame chiefly arises from his historical and mythological paintings.

LXXXIII. CALLING THE ROLL.

1. "CORPORAL GREEN!" the orderly cried; "Here!" was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of a soldier standing near; And "here!" was the word the next replied. "Cyrus Drew!" and a silence fell; This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear man saw him fall, Killed or wounded he could not tell.

2. There they stood in the fading light, These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night. The fern on the slope was splashed with blood, And down in the corn, where the poppies grew, Were redder stains than the poppies knew; And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

3. For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire; And their lifeblood went to color the tide. "Herbert Cline!" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them Herbert Cline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

4. "Ezra Kerr!" and a voice said "here!" "Hiram Kerr!" but no man replied: They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. "Ephraim Deane!"--then a soldier spoke: "Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said, "When our ensign was shot; I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

5. "Close to the roadside his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him to drink; He murmured his mother's name, I think; And death came with it and closed his eyes." 'T was a victory--yes; but it cost us dear; For that company's roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered "here!" --Shepherd.

LXXXIV. TURTLE SOUP.

Charles Frederick Briggs (b. 1804, d. 1877) was born on the island of Nantucket. When quite young, however, he became a resident of New York City. In 1845, in conjunction with Edgar A. Poe, he began the publication of the "Broadway Journal;" he was also connected with the "New York Times," and the "Evening Mirror;" also as editor from 1853 to 1856 with "Putnam's Magazine." Mr. Briggs wrote a few novels, some poetry, and numerous little humorous tales and sketches. The following selection is from "Working a Passage; or, Life on a Liner," one of his best stories.

1. Among the luxuries which the captain had provided for himself and passengers was a fine green turtle, which was not likely to suffer from exposure to salt water, so it was reserved until all the pigs, and sheep, and poultry had been eaten. A few days before we arrived, it was determined to kill the turtle and have a feast the next day.

2. Our cabin gentlemen had been long enough deprived of fresh meats to make them cast lickerish glances towards their hard-skinned friend, and there was a great smacking of lips the day before he was killed. As I walked aft occasionally, I heard them congratulating themselves on their prospective turtle soup and forcemeat balls; and one of them, to heighten the luxury of the feast, ate nothing but a dry biscuit for the twenty-four hours preceding, that he might be prepared to devour his full share of the unctuous compound.

3. It was to be a gala day with them; and though it was not champagne day, that falling on Saturday and this on Friday, they agreed to have champagne a day in advance, that nothing should be wanting to give a finish to their turtle. It happened to be a rougher day than usual when the turtle was cooked, but they had become too well used to the motion of the ship to mind that.

4. It happened to be my turn at the wheel the hour before dinner, and I had the tantalizing misery of hearing them laughing and talking about their turtle, while I was hungry from want of dry bread and salt meat. I had resolutely kept my thoughts from the cabin during all the passage but once, and now I found my ideas clustering round a tureen of turtle in spite of all my philosophy.

5. Confound them, if they had gone out of my hearing with their exulting smacks, I should not have envied their soup, but their hungry glee so excited my imagination that I could see nothing through the glazing of the binnacle but a white plate with a slice of lemon on the rim, a loaf of delicate bread, a silver spoon, a napkin, two or three wine glasses of different hues and shapes, and a water goblet clustering round it, and a stream of black, thick, and fragrant turtle pouring into the plate.

6. By and by it was four bells: they dined at three. And all the gentlemen, with the captain at their head, darted below into the cabin, where their mirth increased when they caught sight of the soup plates. "Hurry with the soup, steward," roared the captain. "Coming, sir," replied the steward. In a few moments the cook opened the door of his galley, and out came the delicious steam of the turtle.

7. Then came the steward with a large covered tureen in his hand, towards the cabin gangway. I forgot the ship for a moment in looking at this precious cargo, the wheel slipped from my hands, the ship broached to with a sudden jerk; the steward had got only one foot upon the stairs, when this unexpected motion threw him off his balance, and down he went by the run, the tureen slipped from his hands, and part of its contents flew into the lee scuppers, and the balance followed him in his fall.

8. I laughed outright. I enjoyed the turtle a thousand times more than I should have done if I had eaten the whole of it. But I was forced to restrain my mirth, for the next moment the steward ran upon deck, followed by the captain, in a furious rage, threatening if he caught him to throw him overboard. Not a spoonful of the soup had been left in the coppers, for the steward had taken it all away at once to keep it warm. In about an hour afterwards the passengers came upon deck, looking more sober than I had seen them since we left Liverpool. They had dined upon cold ham.

DEFINTIONS.--1. Re-served', kept back, retained. 2. Lick'er. ish, eager or greedy to swallow. Aft, toward the stern of a vessel. Pro-spec'tive, relating to the future. Force'meat, meat chopped fine and highly seasoned. Unc'tu-ous, fat. 5. Glaz'ing, glass or glass-like substance. Bin'na-cle, a box containing the compass of a ship. 6. Gal'ley, the kitchen of a ship. 7. Tu-reen', a large deep vessel for holding soup. Gang'way, a passageway. Lee, pertaining to the side opposite that against which the wind blows. Scup'pers, channels cut through the side of a ship for carrying off water from the deck. Cop'pers, large copper boilers.

NOTE.--6. Four bells; i.e., two o'clock.

LXXXV. THE BEST KIND OF REVENGE.

1. Some years ago a warehouseman in Manchester, England, published a scurrilous pamphlet, in which he endeavored to hold up the house of Grant Brothers to ridicule. William Grant remarked upon the occurrence that the man would live to repent of what he had done; and this was conveyed by some talebearer to the libeler, who said, "Oh, I suppose he thinks I shall some time or other be in his debt; but I will take good care of that." It happens, however, that a man in business can not always choose who shall be his creditors. The pamphleteer became a bankrupt, and the brothers held an acceptance of his which had been indorsed to them by the drawer, who had also become a bankrupt.

2. The wantonly libeled men had thus become creditors of the libeler! They now had it in their power to make him repent of his audacity. He could not obtain his certificate without their signature, and without it he could not enter into business again. He had obtained the number of signatures required by the bankrupt law except one. It seemed folly to hope that the firm of "the brothers" would supply the deficiency. What! they who had cruelly been made the laughingstock of the public, forget the wrong and favor the wrongdoer? He despaired. But the claims of a wife and children forced him at last to make the application. Humbled by misery, he presented himself at the countinghouse of the wronged.

3. Mr. William Grant was there alone, and his first words to the delinquent were, "Shut the door, sir!" sternly uttered. The door was shut, and the libeler stood trembling before the libeled. He told his tale and produced his certificate, which was instantly clutched by the injured merchant. "You wrote a pamphlet against us once!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. The suppliant expected to see his parchment thrown into the fire. But this was not its destination. Mr. Grant took a pen, and writing something upon the document, handed it back to the bankrupt. He, poor wretch, expected to see "rogue, scoundrel, libeler," inscribed; but there was, in fair round characters, the signature of the firm.

4. "We make it a rule," said Mr. Grant, "never to refuse signing the certificate of an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were anything else." The tears started into the poor man's eyes. "Ah," said Mr. Grant, "my saying was true! I said you would live to repent writing that pamphlet. I did not mean it as a threat. I only meant that some day you would know us better, and be sorry you had tried to injure us. I see you repent of it now." "I do, I do!" said the grateful man; "I bitterly repent it." "Well, well, my dear fellow, you know us now. How do you get on? What are you going to do?" The poor man stated he had friends who could assist him when his certificate was obtained. "But how are you off in the meantime?"

5. And the answer was, that, having given up every farthing to his creditors, he had been compelled to stint his family of even common necessaries, that he might be enabled to pay the cost of his certificate. "My dear fellow, this will not do; your family must not suffer. Be kind enough to take this ten-pound note to your wife from me. There, there, my dear fellow! Nay, do not cry; it will all be well with you yet. Keep up your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will raise your head among us yet." The overpowered man endeavored in vain to express his thanks; the swelling in his throat forbade words. He put his handkerchief to his face and went out of the door, crying like a child.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Ware'house-man (English usage), one who keeps a wholesale store for woolen goods. Scur'ril-ous, low, mean. Li'bel-er, one who defames another maliciously by a writing, etc 2. Au-dac'i-ty, bold impudence. Sig'na-ture, the name of a person written with his own hand, the name of a firm signed officially. De--fi'cien-cy, want. 3. De-lin'quent, an offender. Parch'ment, sheep or goat skin prepared for writing upon. 5. Stint, to limit.

NOTE.--l. Acceptance. When a person upon whom a draft has been made, writes his name across the face of it, the draft then becomes "an acceptance." The person who makes the draft is called "the drawer;" the person to whom the money is ordered paid writes his name on the back of the draft and is called "an indorser." Paper of this kind frequently passes from hand to hand, so that there are several indorsers.

LXXXVI. THE SOLDIER OF THE RHINE.

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton (b. 1808, d. 1877) was the grand-daughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. She wrote verses and plays at a very early age. "The Sorrows of Rosalie," published in 1829, was written before she was seventeen years old. In 1827 she was married to the Hon. George Chapple Norton. The marriage was an unhappy one, and they were divorced in 1836. Her principal works are "The Undying One," "The Dream, and Other Poems," "The Child of the Islands," "Stuart of Dunleith, a Romance," and "English Laws for English Women of the 19th Century." She contributed extensively to the magazines and other periodicals.

1. A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen,--at Bingen on the Rhine.

2. "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And, 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,-- The death wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,-- And one had come from Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine.

3. "Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, For I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and, even when a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen,--calm Bingen on the Rhine.

4. "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die; And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen,--dear Bingen on the Rhine.

5. "There's another,--not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,--too fond for idle scorning,-- O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life--(for, ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine.

6. "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along: I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,-- But we'll meet no more at Bingen,--loved Bingen all the Rhine."

7. His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse; his grasp was childish weak, His eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak. His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battlefield, with bloody corses strewn; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Le'gion (pro. le'jun), division of an army. Dearth (pro. derth), scarcity. Ebbed, flowed out. 2. Corse, a dead body. 4. Stead'fast, firm, resolute. 5. Co-quet'ry, trifling in love. 6. Cho'rus, music in which all join. Yore, old times.

NOTE.--l. Bingen is pronounced Bing'en, not Bin'gen, nor Bin'jen.

LXXXVII. THE WINGED WORSHIPERS.

Charles Sprague (b. 1791, d. 1875) was born in Boston, Mass. He engaged in mercantile business when quite young, leaving school for that purpose. In 1825, he was elected cashier of the Globe Bank of Boston, which position he held until 1864. Mr. Sprague has not been a prolific writer; but his poems, though few in number, are deservedly classed among the best productions of American poets. His chief poem is entitled "Curiosity."

1. Gay, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

272 ECLECTIC SERIES.

2. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend? Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend?

3. Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep; Penance is not for you, Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

4. To you 't is given To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays; Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise.

5. Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

6. Or, if ye stay To note the consecrated hour, Teach me the airy way, And let me try your envied power.

7. Above the crowd, On upward wings could I but fly, I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, And seek the stars that gem the sky.

8. 'T were Heaven indeed, Through fields of trackless light to soar, On Nature's charms to feed, And Nature's own great God adore.

DEFINITIONS.--2. Perch, to light or settle on anything. 3. Pen'-ance, suffering for sin. 4. Lays, songs. 5. Choir (pro. kwir), a collection of singers. Dome, an arched structure above a roof; hence, figuratively, the heavens. 6. Con'se-crat-ed, set apart for the service of God. 8. Track'less, having no path.

NOTE.--This little poem was addressed to two swallows that flew into church during service.

LXXXVIII. THE PEEVISH WIFE.

Maria Edgeworth (b. 1767, d. 1849) was born near Reading. Berkshire, England. In 1782 her father removed with his family to Edgeworthtown, Ireland, to reside on his estate. She lived here during the remainder of her life, with the exception of occasional short visits to England, Scotland, and France. She was educated principally by her father, and they were colaborers in literary productions, among which were "Essays on Practical Education," and the "Parent's Assistant." Her novels and tales were written without assistance, and her fame as a writer rests on them. The best known of these are "Castle Rackrent," "Moral Tales," "Tales of Fashionable Life," "Frank," "The Modern Griselda," and "Helen." Miss Edgeworth excels in the truthful delineation of character, and her works are full of practical good sense and genuine humor.

Mrs. Bollingbroke. I wish I knew what was the matter with me this morning. Why do you keep the newspaper all to yourself, my dear?

Mr. Bolingbroke. Here it is for you, my dear; I have finished it. Mrs. B. I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you have done with it. I hate stale news. Is there anything in the paper? for I can not be at the trouble of hunting it.

Mr. B. Yes, my dear; there are the marriages of two of our friends.

Mrs.B. Who? Who?

Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin John Nettleby.

Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby? Dear! But why did you tell me?

Mr. B. Because you asked me, my dear.

Mrs. B. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read the paragraph one's self. One loses all the pleasure of the surprise by being told. Well, whose was the other marriage?

Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you; I will leave you the pleasure of the surprise.

Mrs. B. But you see I can not find it. How provoking you are, my dear! Do pray tell me.

Mr. B. Our friend Mr. Granby.

Mrs. B. Mr. Granby? Dear! Why did you not make me guess? I should have guessed him directly. But why do you call him our friend? I am sure he is no friend of mine, nor ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you remember, the very first day I saw him. I am sure he is no friend of mine.

Mr. B. I am sorry for it, my dear; but I hope you will go and see Mrs. Granby.

Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she?

Mr. B. Miss Cooke.

Mrs. B. Cooke? But, there are so many Cookes. Can't you distinguish her any way? Has she no Christian name?

Mr. B. Emma, I think. Yes, Emma.

Mrs. B. Emma Cooke? No; it can not be my friend Emma Cooke; for I am sure she was cut out for an old maid.

Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife.

Mrs. B. Maybe so. I am sure I'll never go to see her. Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of her?

Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I only saw her two or three times before she was married.

Mrs. B. Then, my dear, how could you decide that she was cut out for a good wife? I am sure you could not judge of her by seeing her only two or three times, and before she was married.

Mr. B. Indeed, my love, that is a very just observation.

Mrs. B. I understand that compliment perfectly, and thank you for it, my dear. I must own I can bear anything better than irony.

Mr. B. Irony? my dear, I was perfectly in earnest.

Mrs. B. Yes, yes; in earnest; so I perceive; I may naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings are quick enough; I comprehend too well. Yes, it is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or to guess what sort of a wife she will make. I presume you speak from experience; you have been disappointed yourself, and repent your choice.

Mr. B. My dear, what did I say that was like this? Upon my word, I meant no such thing. I really was not thinking of you in the least.

Mrs. B. No, you never think of me now. I can easily believe that you were not thinking of me in the least.

Mr. B. But I said that only to prove to you that I could not be thinking ill of you, my dear.

Mrs. B. But I would rather that you thought ill of me than that you should not think of me at all.

Mr. B. Well, my dear, I will even think ill of you if that will please you.