GIVE ME OLD THINGS. And who tolling, tolling, tolling, On the human heart a stone- And their king it is who tolls; A pæan from the bells! Keeping time, time, time, To the throbbing of the bells- To the sobbing of the bells: As he knells, knells, knells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 27 "Give me old things" is a good example of the persuasive. Its delivery should be earnest rather than impassioned—hearty rather than forcible. GIVE ME OLD THINGS. (46) (61)—Anon. Give me the old songs, those exquisite bursts of melody which thrilled the lyres of the inspired poets and minstrels of long ago. Every note has borne on the air a tale of joy and rapture-of sorrow and sadness! They tell of days gone by, and time hath given them a voice which speaks to us of those who once breathed these melodies-of what they now are, and what we soon shall be. My heart loves those melodies; may they be mine to hear till life shall end, and as I "launch my boat" upon the sea of eternity, may their echoes be wafted to my ear, to cheer me on my passage from the scenes of earth and earthland ! 66 Give me the old paths, where we have wandered and culled the flowers of love and friendship, in the days of “ Auld Lang Syne;" sweeter, far, the dells whose echoes have answered to our voices; whose turf is not a stranger to our footsteps, and whose rills have in childhood's days reflected back our forms, and those of our merry play-fellows, from whom we have been parted, and meet no more in the old nooks we loved so well. Give me the old house, upon whose stairs we seem to hear light footsteps, and under whose porch a merry laugh seems to mingle with the winds that whistle through old trees, beneath whose branches lie the graves of those who once trod the halls and made the chambers ring with glee. And O! above all, give me the old friends-hearts bound to mine in life's sunshiny hours, and a link so strong that all the storms of earth might not break it asunder-spirits congenial, whose hearts through life have throbbed in unison with our own! O, when death shall still this heart, I would not ask for aught more sacred to hallow my dust, than the tear of an old friend. May my funeral dirge be chanted by the old friends I love so fondly, who have not yet passed away to the spirit's bright home! The colloquial-narrative tasks the student's faculty for telling a story. A good narrator is rare, involving, as the story-teller's art does, the several qualities which are regarded as requisites to good acting. It is an art, however, which most persons can acquire by practice. A public speaker is lacking in one very popular quality who cannot narrate well. In Lippard's "Glass Railroad" we have a piece of much effect if well recited. It is a dream, and must be recited in that unaffected manner which a person would assume in talking of himself. THE GLASS RAILROAD. (8)—George Lippard. It seemed to me as though I had been suddenly aroused from my slumber. I looked around and found myself in the centre of a gay crowd. The first sensation I experienced was that of being borne along, with a peculiar motion. I looked around and found that I was in a long train of cars which were gliding over a railway, and seemed to be many miles in length. It was composed of many cars. Every car, open at the top, was filled with men and women, all gayly dressed, and happy, and all laughing, talking, and singing. The peculiarly gentle motion of the cars interested me. There was no grating, such as we usually hear on the railroad. They moved along without the least jar or sound, This, I say, interested me. I looked over the side, and to my astonishment found the railroad and cars made of glass. The glass wheels moved over the glass rails without the least noise or oscillation. The soft gliding motion produced a feeling of exquisite happiness. I was happy! It seemed as every thing was at rest within-I was full of peace. While I was wondering over this circumstance, a new sight attracted my gaze. All along the road on either side, within a THE GLASS RAILROAD. 29 foot of the track, were laid long lines of coffins on either side of the railroad, and every one contained a corpse dressed for burial, with its cold white face turned upward to the light. The sight filled me with horror; I yelled in agony, but could make no sound. The gay throng who were around me only redoubled their singing and laughter at the sight of my agony, and we swept on, gliding on with glass wheels over the railroad, every moment coming nearer to the bend of the road, which formed an angle with the road far, far in the distance. "Who are those?" I cried at last, pointing to the dead in the coffins. “These are the persons who made the trip before us,” was the reply of one of the gayest persons near me. "What trip?" I asked. 66 Why, the trip you are now making; the trip on this glass railway," was the answer. 66 "Why do they lie along the road, each one in his coffin?" I was answered with a whisper and a half laugh which froze my blood: 66 'They were dashed to death at the end of the railroad," said the person whom I addressed. "You know the railroad terminates at an abyss which is without bottom or measure. It is lined with pointed rocks. As each car arrives at the end it precipitates its passengers into the abyss. They are dashed to pieces against the rocks, and their bodies are brought here and placed in the coffins as a warning to other passengers; but no one minds it, we are so happy on the glass railroad." I can never describe the horror with which those words inspired me. "What is the name of the glass railroad?" I asked. The person whom I asked, replied in the same strain : "It is very easy to get into the cars, but very hard to get out. For, once in these, everybody is delighted with the soft, gliding motion. The cars move gently. Yes, this is a railroad of habit, and with glass wheels we are whirled over a glass railroad towards a fathomless abyss. In a few moments we'll be there, and they'll bring our bodies and put them in coffins as a warning to others; but nobody will mind it, will they?" I was choked with horror. I struggled to breathe--made frantic efforts to leap from the cars, and in the struggle I awoke. I know it was only a dream, and yet, whenever I think of it, I can see that long train of cars moving gently over the glass railroad. I can see cars far ahead, as they are turning the bend of the road. I can see the dead in their coffins, clear and distinct on either side of the road; while the laughing and singing of the gay and happy passengers resound in my ears, I only see the cold faces of the dead, with their glassy eyes uplifted, and their frozen hands upon their shrouds. It was, indeed, a horrible dream. A long train of glass cars, gliding over a glass railway, freighted with youth, beauty, and music, while on either hand are stretched the victims of yesterday-gliding over the railway of habit toward the fathomless abyss. "There was a moral in that dream." Reader, are you addicted to any sinful habit? Break it off ere you dash against the rocks." In this example we have a strong contrast to the above. It is simply the absurd in story, yet permits none of the action in its delivery, which renders a recitation all the easier for the speaker. As no action is required, it would be well for the speaker to have before him a stand, or desk, to relieve arms, hands, and body from the awkwardness of restraint. This and the succeeding burlesque dissertations are from the pen of the "Fat Contributor" (A. M. Griswold) of the Cincinnati Times, one of the few American wits who do not depend upon atrocious grammar and absurd orthography for their effect. In humorous recitations the student must be careful to preserve his own equanimity. For him to laugh is to lose control of his audience-to excite their derision or displeasure. He must be humorously serious, and thereby add to the ridiculous or facetious impression by contrast. A "laughing philosopher" is almost certain to be a silly one. 26 MRS. MACBETH AND HUSBAND. (3) (4).--Fat Contributor. Macbeth was a Highlander, from Highland county, Ohio. He was distantly related to the Highlands of the Hudson. He early emigrated to Scotland, where he first attracted attention as a Brigadier of Militia. One night, while crossing a lonely moor, coming home from a general muster (pretty well peppered), he was accosted by three witches, one of whom cried, "All hail, Macbeth, Thane of Clam Chowder!" while another saluted him King of the Cannibal Islands!" They all united in a chorus of "Hoka, poka, waka fum," all of which had the effect to greatly inflame the ambition of the General. Thane he was already, but there was one slight difficulty in the way of his being King--the position was filled. Duncan held the throne, and it was evident to the most casual observer that Duncan wasn't such a donkey as to abdicate in favor of Mac or any other man. He wrote to his wife all about it, hinting that he would like the situation of MRS. MACBETH AND HUSBAND. 31 King, should there be a vacancy, having held almost every other office, from Alderman of his native village, up. Mrs. Macbeth was a strong-minded female, generally understood by the neighbors to wear the breeches. She couldn't wait for Duncan to pass away in the regular course of nature, so she egged Macbeth on to hasten his demise, and possess the throne. An opportunity soon offered. The King one night having remained down town until the street cars had stopped running, was forced to stay over night at the Macbeth residence. Mrs. Macbeth showed him every attention. She gave him the spare bed-room off from the parlor ; had a fire built in the parlor stove; hot water for him to wash in, etc., etc. When the good King had retired, Macbeth and his wife consulted together as to the best plan for removing him from a world of trouble. It was at length arranged that she should get his servants drunk on "apple-jack," while he probed the bosom of the aged Duncan. She would have done it herself, she said, had he not resembled Macbeth's fatherin-law, as he slept. Macbeth steals on tip-toe to the King's bed-chamber, and shortly returns with a dagger in each hand, stained with skokeberry juice. The deed is executed and stamped, and only requires to be registered. He was very pale and trembled violently, being seized with that remorse of conscience which every villain feels after committing crime until he is satisfied that he isn't going to be caught at it. He is troubled about the skokeberry juice on his hands, and wants to know if there is water enough outside of temperance organizations to wash it off. She tells him that a little turpentine will easily fix that. He starts at every sound, and seems to hear a voice which says, “Sleep nò more! Macbeth doth murder sleep," adding something to the effect that Mrs. Winslow's soothing syrup would be unavailing in the future to insure to him a quiet nap. Disgusted with his timidity, she snatches the daggers from his hands, and, bearing them to the front parlor, places them by the sides of the king's servants, who are how-come-you-so, under the piano. This is for the purpose of fastening suspicion upon them as the guilty parties, it being the well-known custom of murderers to lie down and go to sleep immediately after butchering a gentleman, with the gory implements of their profession in their hands. Just before daybreak the door-bell rings; McDuff, a Scotch nobleman of Irish extraction, who had been up all night at a Fenian ball, had stopped to see if the King was stirring yet, not knowing that the King wouldn't stir any more. Macbeth directs him to the best bedroom where the King lies. He goes there, but quickly returns, with the startling announcement that the King has been murdered. |