New Century Speaker and Writer: Being a Standard Work on Composition and Oratory

by Henry Davenport Northrop

Patriotic Recitations.

THE BEAT OF THE DRUM AT DAYBREAK.

Speak the words in italics with full, earnest tones of command. Then change easily to a manner suited to animated description. An excellent selection for one who can make these changes effectively.

The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse!

The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs,

And the sleepy mist on the river lies,

Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes.

Awake! awake! awake!

O’er field and wood and brake,

With glories newly born,

Comes on the blushing morn.

Awake! awake!

You have dreamed of your homes and your friends all night;

You have basked in your sweethearts’ smiles so bright:

Come, part with them all for a while again—

Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men.

Turn out! turn out! turn out!

You have dreamed full long I know,

Turn out! turn out! turn out!

The east is all aglow.

Turn out! turn out!

From every valley and hill there come

The clamoring voices of fife and drum;

And out on the fresh, cool morning air

The soldiers are swarming everywhere.

Fall in! fall in! fall in!

Every man in his place.

Fall in! fall in! fall in!

Each with a cheerful face.

Fall in! fall in!

Michael O’Connor.

THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

Admirably suited to rapid utterance, vivid description and full tones on an elevated key. Hurrah in the last lines as you would if you saw the enemy routed on the field of battle.

With bray of the trumpet

And roll of the drum,

And keen ring of bugles,

The cavalry come,

Sharp clank the steel scabbards,

The bridle-chains ring,

And foam from red nostrils

The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o’er the green sward

That quivers below,

Scarce held by the curb-bit,

The fierce horses go!

And the grim-visaged colonel,

With ear-rending shout,

Peals forth to the squadrons,

The order—“Trot out.”

One hand on the sabre,

And one on the rein,

The troopers move forward

In line on the plain.

As rings the word “Gallop!”

The steel scabbards clank,

And each rowel is pressed

To a horse’s hot flank:

And swift is their rush

As the wild torrent’s flow,

When it pours from the crag

On the valley below.

“Charge!” thunders the leader.

Like shaft from the bow

Each mad horse is hurled

On the wavering foe.

A thousand bright sabres

Are gleaming in air;

A thousand dark horses

Are dashed on the square.

Resistless and reckless

Of aught may betide,

Like demons, not mortals,

The wild troopers ride.

Cut right! and cut left!

For the parry who needs?

The bayonets shiver

Like wind-shattered reeds!

Vain—vain the red volley

That bursts from the square—

The random-shot bullets

Are wasted in air.

Triumphant, remorseless,

Unerring as death,—

No sabre that’s stainless

Returns to its sheath.

The wounds that are dealt

By that murderous steel

Will never yield case

For the surgeons to heal

Hurrah! they are broken—

Hurrah! boys, they fly—

None linger save those

Who but linger to die.

THE GREAT NAVAL BATTLE OF SANTIAGO.

Hold your body erect, but not awkwardly stiff, let every nerve be tense, your voice full and round, and let your manner indicate that you have a grand story to relate, as you recite Admiral Schley’s thrilling description of the great naval battle at Santiago. You are depicting the scene as though you were there and yourself won the brilliant victory.

One hour before the Spaniards appeared my quartermaster on the Brooklyn reported to me that Cervera’s fleet was coaling up. This was just what I expected, and we prepared everything for a hot reception. Away over the hills great clouds of smoke could be faintly seen rising up to the sky. A little later and the smoke began to move towards the mouth of the harbor. The black cloud wound in and out along the narrow channel, and every eye on board the vessels in our fleet strained with expectation.

The sailor boys were silent for a full hour and the grim old vessels lay back like tigers waiting to pounce upon their prey. Suddenly the whole Spanish fleet shot out of the mouth of the channel. It was the grandest spectacle I ever witnessed. The flames were pouring out of the funnels, and as it left the channel the fleet opened fire with every gun on board. Their guns were worked as rapidly as possible, and shells were raining around like hail.

It was a grand charge. My first impression was that of a lot of maddened bulls, goaded to desperation, dashing at their tormentors. The storm of projectiles and shells was the hottest imaginable. I wondered where they all came from. Just as the vessels swung around the Brooklyn opened up with three shells, and almost simultaneously the rest of the fleet fired. Our volley was a terrible shock to the Spaniards, and so surprised them that they must have been badly rattled.

When our fleet swung around and gave chase, we not only had to face the fire from the vessels, but were bothered by a cross-fire from the forts on either side, which opened on our fleet as soon as the Spaniards shot out of the harbor. The engagement lasted three hours, but I hardly knew what time was. I remember crashing holes through the Spanish Admiral’s flagship, the Maria Teresa, and giving chase to the Colon.

I was on the bridge of the Brooklyn during the whole engagement, and at times the smoke was so dense that I could not see three yards ahead of me. The shells from the enemy’s fleet were whistling around and bursting everywhere, except where they could do some damage. I seemed to be the only thing on the vessel not protected by heavy armor, and oh! how I would have liked to get behind some of that armor!

I don’t know how I kept my head, but I do know that I surprised myself by seeing and knowing all that was going on, and I could hear my voice giving orders to do just what my head thought was right, while my heart was trying to get beneath the shelter of the armored deck. How do I account for such a victory with so little loss? That would mean how do I account for the rain of Spanish shell not doing more execution? They fought nobly and desperately, but they were not a match for our Yankee officers and sailors.

I was proud of the boys in our fleet during that engagement. They knew just what their guns could do, and not one shot was wasted. Their conduct was wonderful. It was inspiring. It was magnificent. Men who can stand behind big guns and face a black storm of shells and projectiles as coolly as though nothing was occurring; men who could laugh because a shell had missed hitting them; men who could bet one another on shots and lay odds in the midst of the horrible crashing; men who could not realize that they were in danger—such men are wonders, and we have a whole navy of wonders.

Admiral W. S. Schley.

HOBSON’S DARING DEED.

Let your tones of voice be strong and bold, not boisterous, and give to the most spirited lines full force. You are depicting a daring deed, and it must not be done in a weak, timid, hesitating way, but with strong utterance and emphasis. The sinking of the steam collier Merrimac was a famous exploit.

Thunder peal and roar and rattle of the ships in line of battle,

Rumbling noise of steel volcanoes hurling metal from the shore,

Drowned the sound of quiet speaking and the creaking, creaking, creaking

Of the steering-gear that turned her toward the narrow harbor door.

On the hulk was calm and quiet, deeper for the shoreward riot;

Dumb they watched the fountain streaming; mute they heard the waters hiss,

Till one laughed and murmured, “Surely it was worth while rising early

For a fireworks exhibition of such character as this.”

Down the channel the propeller drove her as they tried to shell her

From the dizzy heights of Morro and Socapa parapet;

She was torn and she was battered, and her upper works were shattered

By the bursting of the missiles that in air above her met.

Parallels of belching cannon marked the winding course she ran on,

And they flashed through morning darkness like a giant’s flaming teeth;

Waters steaming, boiling, churning; rows of muzzles at each turning;

Mines like geysers spouting after and before her and beneath.

Not a man was there who faltered; not a theory was altered

Of the detailed plan agreed on—not a doubt was there expressed;

This was not a time for changing, deviating, re-arranging;

Let the great God help the wounded, and their courage save the rest.

And they won. But greater glory than the winning is the story

Of the foeman’s friendly greeting of that valiant captive band;

Speech of his they understood not, talk to him in words they could not;

But their courage spoke a language that all men might understand.

GENERAL WHEELER AT SANTIAGO.

“Fighting Joe,” as he was familiarly called, was one of the most conspicuous and heroic figures in the battles fought around Santiago. Recite this tribute to the hero with feeling, and show by looks, tone and gestures that you appreciate the patriotism and valor of the famous commander of cavalry.

Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan,

Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man;

But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,

Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.

Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—

Wounded boys from the Vermont Hills and the Alabama dells;

“Put them into this ambulance; I’ll ride to the front,” he said,

And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed.

From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,

And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,

As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,

Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!

Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,

For he heard the song of the yester-years in the deep-mouthed cannon’s bay—

He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,

Where his country’s best blood splashed and flowed ’round the old Red, White and Blue.

Fevered body and hero heart! This Union’s heart to you

Beats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blue

Who stood or fell ’mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe,

As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe!

James Lindsay Gordon.

THE FLAG GOES BY.

Hats off!

Along the street there comes

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,

A flash of color beneath the sky:

Hats off!

The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines

Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines,

Hats off!

The colors before us fly!

But more than the flag is passing by,

Sea-fights and land-fights grim and great

Fought to make and to save the state;

Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Weary marches and sinking ships;

Days of plenty and years of peace

March of a strong land’s swift increase;

Equal justice, right and law,

Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation great and strong,

To ward her people from foreign wrong;

Pride and glory and honor, all

Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off!

IN MANILA BAY.

A graphic description of the great naval battle of Manila and Admiral Dewey’s overwhelming victory. Unless this recital is delivered in an animated, exultant manner, and with great oratorical force, the grand power of the description will be weakened, if not entirely lost. Put your whole soul into it.

On the broad Manila Bay

The Spanish cruisers lay,

In the shelter of their forts upon the shore;

And they dared their foes to sail

Through the crashing iron hail

Which the guns from decks and battlements would pour.

All the harbor ways were missed,

And along the channel blind

Slept the wild torpedoes, dreaming dreams of wrath.

Yea! the fiery hates of hell

Lay beneath the ocean’s swell,

Like a thousand demons ambushed in the path.

Breasting fierce Pacific gales,

Lo! a little squadron sails,

And the Stars and Stripes are floating from its spars.

It is friendless and alone,

Aids and allies it has none,

But a dauntless chorus sings its dauntless tars:

“We’re ten thousand miles from home;

Ocean’s wastes and wave and foam

Shut us from the land we love so far away.

We have ne’er a friendly port

For retreat as last resort,

But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“They have mines beneath the sea,

They have forts upon their lee,

They have everything to aid them in the fray;

But we’ll brave their hidden mines,

And we’ll face their blazing lines;

Yes! We’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“If we’re worsted in the fight,

We shall perish in the right—

No hand will wipe the dews of death away.

The wounded none will tend,

For we’ve not a single friend;

But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“No ironclads we sail,

Only cruisers light and frail,

With no armor plates to turn the shells away.

All the battleships now steer

In another hemisphere,

But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“Ho! Remember now the Maine!

Up! And smite the ships of Spain!

Let them not forget for years this first of May!

Though hell blaze up from beneath,

Forward through the cannon’s breath,

When Dewey leads into Manila Bay.”

There, half-way round the world,

Swift and straight the shots were hurled,

And a handful of bold sailors won the day.

Never since earth was begun

Has a braver deed been done

Than when Dewey sailed into Manila Bay.

God made for him a path

Through the mad torpedoes’ wrath,

From their slumbers never wakened into play.

When dawn smote the east with gold,

Spaniards started to behold

Dewey and his gallant fleet within their bay.

Then from forts and warships first

Iron maledictions burst,

And the guns with tongues of flame began to pray;

Like demons out of hell

The batteries roar and yell,

While Dewey answers back across the bay.

O Gods! it was a sight,

Till the smoke, as black as night,

Hid the fire-belching ships from light of day.

When it lifted from the tide,

Smitten low was Spanish pride,

And Dewey was the master of their bay.

Where the awful conflict roared,

And red blood in torrents poured,

There the Stars and Stripes are waving high to-day.

Dewey! Hero strong and grand!

Shout his name through every land!

For he sunk the ships of Spain in their own bay.

Charles Wadsworth, Jr.

MY SOLDIER BOY.

When night comes on, when morning breaks, they rise,

Those earnest prayers by faithful lips oft said,

And pierce the blue which shrouds the inner skies:

“God guard my boy; God grant he is not dead!”

“My soldier boy—where is he camped to-night?”

“God guard him waking, sleeping or in fight!”

Far, far away where tropic suns cast down

Their scorching rays, where sultry damp airs rise

And haunting breath of sickness holds its own,

A homesick boy, sore wounded, suffering lies.

“Mother! Mother!” is his ceaseless cry.

“Come, mother, come, and see me ere I die!”

Where is war’s glory? Ask the trumpet’s blare,

The marching columns run to bitter strife;

Ask of the raw recruit who knows as yet

Naught of its horrors, naught of its loss of life;

Ask not the mother; weeping for her son,

She knows the heart-aches following victories won.

THE YANKEES IN BATTLE.

For courage and dash there is no parallel in history to this action of the Spanish Admiral. He came, as he knew, to absolute destruction. There was one single hope. That was that the Spanish ship Cristobal Colon would steam faster than the American ship Brooklyn. The spectacle of two torpedo-boat destroyers, paper shells at best, deliberately steaming out in broad daylight in the face of the fire of battleships can only be described in one way. It was Spanish, and it was ordered by the Spanish General Blanco. The same may be said of the entire movement.

In contrast to the Spanish fashion was the cool, deliberate Yankee work. The American squadron was without sentiment apparently. The ships went at their Spanish opponents and literally tore them to pieces. Admiral Cervera was taken aboard the Iowa from the Gloucester, which had rescued him, and he was received with a full Admiral’s guard. The crew of the Iowa crowded aft over the turrets, half naked and black with powder, as Cervera stepped over the side bareheaded. The crew cheered vociferously. The Admiral submitted to the fortunes of war with a grace that proclaimed him a thoroughbred.

The officers of the Spanish ship Vizcaya said they simply could not hold their crews at the guns on account of the rapid fire poured upon them. The decks were flooded with water from the fire hose, and the blood from the wounded made this a dark red. Fragments of bodies floated in this along the gun deck. Every instant the crack of exploding shells told of new havoc.

The torpedo boat Ericsson was sent by the flagship to the help of the Iowa in the rescue of the Vizcaya’s crew. Her men saw a terrible sight. The flames, leaping out from the huge shot holes in the Vizcaya’s sides, licked up the decks, sizzling the flesh of the wounded who were lying there shrieking for help. Between the frequent explosions there came awful cries and groans from the men pinned in below. This carnage was chiefly due to the rapidity of the American fire.

From two 6-pounders 400 shells were fired in fifty minutes. Up in the tops the marines banged away with 1-pounders, too excited to step back to duck as the shells whistled over them. One gunner of a secondary battery under a 12-inch gun was blinded by smoke and saltpetre from the turret, and his crew were driven off, but sticking a wet handkerchief over his face, with holes cut for his eyes, he stuck to his gun.

Finally, as the 6-pounders were so close to the 8-inch turret as to make it impossible to stay there with safety, the men were ordered away before the big gun was fired, but they refused to leave. When the 3-inch gun was fired, the concussion blew two men of the smaller gun’s crew ten feet from their guns and threw them to the deck as deaf as posts. Back they went again, however, and were again blown away, and finally had to be dragged away from their stations. Such bravery and such dogged determination under the heavy fire were of frequent occurrence on all the ships engaged.

Captain R. D. Evans.

THE BANNER BETSEY MADE.

The first American flag, including the thirteen stars and stripes, was made by Mrs. Betsey Ross, a Quaker lady of Philadelphia. Recite these lines in an easy, conversational manner, yet with animation. In this and similar recitations never let your voice sink down into your throat, as if you were just ready to faint away. Your delivery should never be dull, least of all in patriotic pieces.

We have nicknamed it “Old Glory”

As it floats upon the breeze,

Rich in legend, song and story

On the land and on the seas;

Far above the shining river,

Over mountain, glen and glade

With a fame that lives forever

Streams the banner Betsey made.

Once it went from her, its maker,

To the glory of the wars,

Once the modest little Quaker

Deftly studded it with stars;

And her fingers, swiftly flying

Through the sunshine and the shade,

Welded colors bright, undying,

In the banner Betsey made.

When at last her needle rested

And her cherished work was done

Went the banner, love invested,

To the camps of Washington;

And the glorious continentals

In the morning light arrayed

Stood in ragged regimentals

’Neath the banner Betsey made.

How they cheered it and its maker,

They the gallant sons of Mars,

How they blessed the little Quaker

And her flag of stripes and stars;

’Neath its folds, the foemen scorning,

Glinted bayonets and blade,

And the breezes of the morning

Kissed the banner Betsey made.

Years have passed, but still in glory

With a pride we love to see,

Laureled with a nation’s glory

Waves the emblem of the free;

From the rugged pines of Northland

To the deep’ning everglade,

In the sunny heart of Southland

Floats the banner Betsey made.

A protector all have found it

And beneath it stands no slave,

Freemen brave have died around it

On the land and on the wave;

In the foremost front of battle

Borne by heroes not afraid,

’Mid the musket’s rapid rattle,

Soared the banner Betsey made.

Now she sleeps whose fingers flying

With a heart to freedom true

Mingled colors bright, undying—

Fashioned stars and field of blue;

It will lack for no defenders

When the nation’s foes invade,

For our country rose to splendor

’Neath the banner Betsey made.

T. C. Harbaugh.

OUR FLAG.

Now can the world once more the glory see

Of this our flag, emblem of liberty.

Now can the tyrant quake with direst fear

As o’er his land our banners shall appear.

No selfish aim shall lead our flag astray,

No base desire shall point our banner’s way;

Each star has told a tale of noble deed,

Each stripe shall mean from strife a nation free.

Our glorious past when first with thirteen stars

On field of blue with white and bright red bars,

Our flag led on in battle’s fierce array,

And freed the land from mighty Britain’s sway.

And since this time when first it was unfurled,

Our flag has proved the noblest in the world.

From Cuba’s shore out to Manila Bay

Its mighty folds protecting fly to-day.

Beneath this flag with patriotic pride

For freedom’s cause great men have gladly died

Our noblest sons beneath its folds so free

In conflict died for Cuba’s liberty.

Float on, dear flag, our nation’s greatest joy,

Thy starry folds no despot shall destroy;

Stretch out thy arms till war forever cease,

And all the world is universal peace.

Chas. F. Alsop.

THAT STARRY FLAG OF OURS.

Unfurl the starry banner,

Till with loving eyes we view

The stars and stripes we honor

And the folds of azure blue

’Tis the pride of all our nation

And the emblem of its powers—

The gem of all creation

Is that starry flag of ours.

Then raise aloft “Old Glory,”

And its colors bright surround,

In battle fierce and gory,

Or in peace with honor bound.

Let it float from spire and steeple,

And from house-tops, masts and towers,

For the banner of the people

Is that starry flag of ours.

Now, behold it, bright and peerless,

In the light of freedom’s sky;

See its colors floating, fearless

As the eagle soaring high.

And amid the cannon’s rattle

And the bullets’ deadly showers,

Ten million men will battle

For that starry flag of ours.

THE NEGRO SOLDIER.

In reciting this piece give stress and emphasis to the words, “the Tenth at La Quasina.” You are praising the valor of this regiment, and should not do it in a doubtful or hesitating manner.

We used to think the negro didn’t count for very much—

Light-fingered in the melon patch, and chicken yard, and such;

Much mixed in point of morals and absurd in point of dress,

The butt of droll cartoonists and the target of the press;

But we’ve got to reconstruct our views on color, more or less,

Now we know about the Tenth at La Quasina!

When a rain of shot was falling, with a song upon his lips,

In the horror where such gallant lives went out in death’s eclipse,

Face to face with Spanish bullets, on the slope of San Juan,

The negro soldier showed himself another type of man;

Read the story of his courage, coldly, carelessly, who can—

The story of the Tenth at La Quasina!

We have heaped the Cuban soil above their bodies, black and white—

The strangely sorted comrades of that grand and glorious fight—

And many a fair-skinned volunteer goes whole and sound to-day

For the succor of the colored troops, the battle records say,

And the feud is done forever, of the blue coat and the gray—

All honor to the Tenth at La Quasina!

B. M. Channing.

DEEDS OF VALOR AT SANTIAGO.

To be delivered with full, ringing tones. You are an exultant patriot, picturing the glorious deeds of our American army. This selection affords opportunity for very effective gestures.

Who cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far,

That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero’s star?

Let the deeds of the dead be laureled, the brave of the elder years,

But a song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers!

High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun,

And down with its crown of guns a-frown looks the hill-top to be won;

There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his hiding-place,

And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.

The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;

Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?

Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!

Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word.

“Charge!” and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,

While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet’s sting.

Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,

While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.

Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,

With “Up with the flag of the stripes and stars, and down with the flag of the Don!”

What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of Spain,

For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of Anthony Wayne!

See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone!

And now “Old Glory” waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan!

And so, while the dead are laureled, the brave of the elder years,

A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers!

Clinton Scollard.

A RACE FOR DEAR LIFE.

The battleships Brooklyn, Oregon and Texas pushed ahead after the Spanish ships Colon and Almirante Oquendo, which were now running the race of their lives along the coast. When Admiral Cervera’s flagship, the Almirante Oquendo, suddenly headed in shore, she had the Brooklyn and Oregon abeam and the Texas astern. The Brooklyn and Oregon pushed on after the Cristobal Colon, which was making fine time, and which looked as if she might escape, leaving the Texas to finish the Almirante Oquendo. This work did not take long. The Spanish ship was already burning. Just as the Texas got abeam of her she was shaken by a loud and mighty explosion.

The crew of the Texas started to cheer. “Don’t cheer, because the poor devils are dying!” called Captain Philip, and the Texas left the Almirante Oquendo to her fate to join in the chase of the Cristobal Colon.

That ship, in desperation, was ploughing the waters at a rate that caused the fast Brooklyn trouble. The Oregon made great speed for a battleship, and the Texas made the effort of her life. Never since her trial trip had she made such time. The Brooklyn might have proved a match to the Cristobal Colon in speed, but was not supposed to be her match in strength.

It would never do to allow even one of the Spanish ships to get away. Straight into the west the strongest chase of modern times took place. The Brooklyn headed the pursuers. She stood well out from the shore in order to try to cut off the Cristobal Colon at a point jutting out into the sea far ahead. The Oregon kept a middle course about a mile from the cruiser. The Desperate Don ran close along the shore, and now and then he threw a shell of defiance. The old Texas kept well up in the chase under forced draught for over two hours.

The fleet Spaniard led the Americans a merry chase, but she had no chance. The Brooklyn gradually forged ahead, so that the escape of the Cristobal Colon was cut off. The Oregon was abeam of the Colon then, and the gallant Don gave it up. He headed for the shore, and five minutes later down came the Spanish flag. None of our ships were then within a mile of her, but her escape was cut off. The Texas, Oregon and Brooklyn closed in on her, and stopped their engines a few hundred yards away.

With the capture of the Cristobal Colon the battle was ended, and there was great rejoicing on all our ships. Meantime the New York, with Admiral Sampson on board, and the Vixen were coming up on the run. Commodore Schley signalled to Admiral Sampson: “We have won a great victory.”

PATRIOTISM OF AMERICAN WOMEN.

The maid who binds her warrior’s sash

With smile that well her pain dissembles,

The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,

Though heaven alone records the tear,

And fame shall never know her story,

Her heart has shed a drop as dear

As e’er bedewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband’s sword,

Mid little ones who weep or wonder,

And bravely speaks the cheering word,

What though her heart be rent asunder,

Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear

The bolts of death around him rattle,

Hath shed as sacred blood as e’er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief

While to her breast her son she presses,

Then breathes a few brave words and brief,

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,

With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her

Sheds holy blood as e’er the sod

Received on Freedom’s field of honor!

Thomas Buchanan Read.

OUR COUNTRY’S CALL.

There is a strain of gladness, a tone of rejoicing in this selection, which requires a spirited delivery and full volume of voice. Patriotic emotions should always be expressed in an exultant, joyous manner by voice, attitude and gestures.

The clouds grew dark as the people paused,

A people of peace and toil,

And there came a cry from all the sky:

“Come, children of mart and soil,

Your mother needs you—hear her voice;

Though she has not a son to spare,

She has spoken the word that ye all have heard,

Come, answer ye everywhere!”

They need no urging to stir them on.

They yearn for no battle cry;

At the word that their country calls for men

They throw down hammer and scythe and pen,

And are ready to serve and die!

From the North, from the South, from East, from West,

Hear the thrill of the rumbling drum!

Under one flag they march along,

With their voices swelling a single song,

Here they come, they come, they come!

List! the North men cheer the men from the South

And the South returns the cheer;

There is no question of East or West,

For hearts are a-tune in every breast,

’Tis a nation answering here.

It is elbow to elbow and knee to knee,

One land for each and for all,

And the veterans’ eyes see their children rise

To answer their country’s call.

They have not forgotten—God grant not so!

(Ah, we know of the graves on the hill.)

But these eager feet make the old hearts beat,

And the old eyes dim and fill!

The Past sweeps out, and the Present comes—

A Present that all have wrought!

And the sons of these sires, at the same campfires,

Cheer one flag where their fathers fought!

Yes, we know of the graves on the Southern hills

That are filled with the Blue and the Gray.

We know how they fought and how they died,

We honor them both there side by side,

And they’re brothers again to-day.

Brothers again—thank God on high!

(Here’s a hand-clasp all around.)

The sons of one race now take their place

On one common and holy ground.

Richard Barry.

THE STORY OF SEVENTY-SIX.

What heroes from the woodland sprung,

When, through the fresh awakened land,

The thrilling cry of freedom rung,

And to the work of warfare strung

The yeoman’s iron hand!

Hills flung the cry to hills around,

And ocean-mart replied to mart,

And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,

Pealed far away the startling sound

Into the forest’s heart.

Then marched the brave from rocky steep,

From mountain river swift and cold;

The borders of the stormy deep,

The vales where gathered waters sleep,

Sent up the strong and bold—

As if the very earth again

Grew quick with God’s creating breath,

And, from the sods of grove and glen,

Rose ranks of lion-hearted men

To battle to the death.

The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,

The fair fond bride of yestereve,

And aged sire and matron gray,

Saw the loved warriors haste away,

And deemed it sin to grieve.

Already had the strife begun;

Already blood on Concord’s plain

Along the springing grass had run,

And blood had flowed at Lexington,

Like brooks of April rain.

That death-stain on the vernal sward

Hallowed to freedom all the shore;

In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—

The footstep of a foreign lord

Profaned the soil no more.

W. C. Bryant.

THE ROLL CALL.

Speak the names of persons in this recitation, exactly as you would if you were the orderly calling the roll, or the private in the ranks who is answering. The general character of the selection is pathetic; recite it with subdued and tender force.

“Corporal Green!” the orderly cried;

“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of a soldier who stood near,

And “Here!” was the word the next replied.

“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—

This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear man had seen him fall,

Killed or wounded he could not tell.

There they stood in the falling 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 hill-side 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.

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 life-blood went to color the tide.

“Herbert Kline!” At the call, there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,

Wounded and bleeding to answer his name.

“Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered “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;

“Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead,

Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

“Close to the roadside his body lies.

I paused a moment and gave him a drink.

He murmured his mother’s name I think,

And death came with it and closed his eyes.”

’Twas 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

The number was few that answered “Here!”

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

This striking poem is an American classic. Two lines alone, if there were no others, are enough to give it immortal fame:

“Truth crushed to earth, shall rise again;

The eternal years of God are hers.”

Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,

And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her brave,

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,

Upon the soil they sought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,

Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

Soon rested those who fought; but thou

Who mightiest in the harder strife

For truths which men receive not now,

Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year.

A wild and many-weaponed throng

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot.

The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may front—yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;

For with thy side shall dwell, at last,

The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;

The eternal years of God are hers;

But Error, wounded, writes with pain,

And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who helped thee flee in fear,

Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave,

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed

The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.

W. C. Bryant.

THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMAC.

The sinking of the ship Merrimac at the mouth of Santiago harbor, by Lieutenant Hobson, was one of the most daring exploits on record. It is here told in his own words. Although this selection is simple narrative, you should recite it in a spirited manner, with strong tones of voice, and show by your demeanor and expression that you are relating an event worthy of admiration.

The figures printed in the text refer you to the corresponding numbers in “Typical Gestures,” near the beginning of Part II. of this volume. Use other gestures that are appropriate, not in a stiff awkward way, but gracefully, making them appear, not forced, but natural.

I did not miss the entrance to the harbor, I turned east until I got my bearings and then made[6] for it, straight in. Then came the firing. It was grand,[11] flashing out first from one side of the harbor and then from the other, from those big guns[2] on the hills, the Spanish ship Vizcaya, lying inside the harbor, joining in.

Troops from Santiago had rushed down when the news of the Merrimac’s coming was telegraphed and soon lined the foot of the cliff, firing wildly across and killing each other with the cross fire. The Merrimac’s steering gear broke as she got to Estrella Point. Only three of the torpedoes on her side exploded when I touched the button. A huge submarine mine caught her full amidships, hurling the water high in the air and tearing[25] a great rent in the Merrimac’s side.

Her stern ran upon Estrella Point. Chiefly owing to the work done by the mine she began to sink slowly. At that time she was across the channel, but before she settled the tide drifted her around. We were all aft, lying on the deck. Shells[13] and bullets whistled around. Six-inch shells from the Vizcaya came tearing into the Merrimac, crashing into wood and iron and passing clear through while the plunging shots from the fort broke through her decks.

“Not a man[3] must move,” I said, and it was only owing to the splendid discipline of the men that we all were not killed, as the shells rained over us and minutes became hours of suspense. The men’s mouths grew parched, but we must lie there till daylight, I told them. Now and again one or the other of the men lying with his face glued to the deck and wondering whether the next shell would not come our way would say: “Hadn’t[3] we better drop off now, sir?” but I said: “Wait[12] till daylight.”

It would have been impossible to get the catamaran or raft anywhere but to the shore, where the soldiers stood shooting, and I hoped that by daylight we might be recognized and saved. The grand old Merrimac kept sinking. I wanted to go forward and see the damage done there, where nearly all the fire was directed, but one man said that if I rose it would draw all the fire on the rest. So I lay motionless. It was splendid[11] the way these men behaved. The fire[6] of the soldiers, the batteries and the Vizcaya was awful.

When the water came up on the Merrimac’s decks the raft floated amid the wreckage, but she was still made fast to the boom, and we caught hold[23] of the edge and clung on, our heads only being above water. One man thought we were safer right[6] there; it was quite light; the firing had ceased, except that on the launch which followed to rescue us, and I feared[20] Ensign Powell and his men had been killed.

A Spanish launch[2] came toward the Merrimac. We agreed to capture her and run. Just as she came close the Spaniards saw us, and a half-dozen marines jumped up and pointed[2] their rifles at our heads. “Is there any officer in that boat to receive a surrender of prisoners of war?” I shouted. An old man leaned out under the awning and held out[6] his hand. It was the Spanish Admiral Cervera.

THE STARS AND STRIPES.

The following glowing tributes to our American Flag afford excellent selections for any patriotic occasion. They make suitable recitations for children at celebrations on the Fourth of July, Washington’s birthday, etc.

NOTHING BUT FLAGS.

Nothing but flags! but simple flags!

Tattered and torn, and hanging in rags;

And we walk beneath them with careless tread,

Nor think of the hosts of the mighty dead

Who have marched beneath them in days gone by

With a burning cheek and a kindling eye,

And have bathed their folds with their young life’s tide,

And dying blessed them, and blessing died.

OUR BANNER.

Hail to our banner brave

All o’er the land and wave

To-day unfurled.

No folds to us so fair

Thrown on the summer air;

None with thee compare

In all the world.

W. P. Tilden.

STAINED BY THE BLOOD OF HEROES.

Around the globe, through every clime,

Where commerce wafts or man hath trod,

It floats aloft, unstained with crime,

But hallowed by heroic blood.

THE TATTERED ENSIGN.

We seek not strife, but when our outraged laws

Cry for protection in so just a cause,

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky.

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the God of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

THE FLAG OF OUR UNION.

The union of lakes, the union of lands,

The union of States none can sever;

The union of hearts, the union of hands,

And the flag of our Union forever.

George P. Morris.

FLAG OF THE FREE.

When freedom from her mountain height

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night

And set the stars of glory there.

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes

The milky baldric of the skies,

And striped its pure, celestial white

With streakings of the morning light.

Flag of the free hearts’ hope and home!

By angel hands to valor given!

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet,

Where breathes the foe, but falls before us,

With freedom’s soil beneath our feet,

And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us.

Joseph Rodman Drake.

STAND BY THE FLAG.

Stand by the flag! on land and ocean billow;

By it your fathers stood, unmoved and true;

Living, defended; dying, from their pillow,

With their last blessing, passed it on to you.

The lines that divide us are written in water,

The love that unite us is cut deep as rock.

Thus by friendship’s ties united,

We will change the bloody past

Into golden links of union,

Blending all in love at last.

Thus beneath the one broad banner,

Flag of the true, the brave, the free,

We will build anew the Union,

Fortress of our Liberty.

FREEDOM’S STANDARD.

God bless our star-gemmed banner;

Shake its folds out to the breeze;

From church, from fort, from house-top,

Over the city, on the seas;

The die is cast, the storm at last

Has broken in its might;

Unfurl the starry banner,

And may God defend the right.

Then bless our banner, God of hosts!

Watch o’er each starry fold;

’Tis Freedom’s standard, tried and proved

On many a field of old;

And Thou, who long has blessed us,

Now bless us yet again,

And crown our cause with victory,

And keep our flag from stain.

RODNEY’S RIDE.

On the third day of July, 1776, Cæsar Rodney rode on horseback from St. James’s Neck, below Dover, Delaware, to Philadelphia, in a driving rain storm, for the purpose of voting for the Declaration of Independence.

This is an excellent reading for quick changes of voice and manner. To render it well will prove that you have genuine dramatic ability. You should study this selection carefully and practice it until you are the complete master of it. It requires a great deal of life and spirit, with changes of voice from the low tone to the loud call. For the most part your utterance should be rapid, yet distinct.

In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear

The North and South on the genial air,

Through the county of Kent, on affairs of State,

Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Burly and big, and bold and bluff,

In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,

A foe to King George and the English State,

Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Into Dover village he rode apace,

And his kinsfolk knew from his anxious face,

It was matter grave that brought him there,

To the counties three upon the Delaware.

“Money and men we must have,” he said,

“Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead,

Give us both and the King shall not work his will,

We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill.”

Comes a rider swift on a panting bay;

“Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,

For the Congress halts at a deed so great,

And your vote alone may decide its fate.”

Answered Rodney then: “I will ride with speed;

It is Liberty’s stress; it is Freedom’s need.”

“When stands it?” “To-night.” “Not a moment to spare,

But ride like the wind from the Delaware.”

“Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half a day,

And the Congress sits eighty miles away—

But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace,

To shake my fist in King George’s face.”

He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies

On the northward road ere the “God-speed” dies,

It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,

And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.

It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling

The Fieldsboro’ dust with a clang and a cling,

It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where

The road winds down to the Delaware.

Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,

From his panting steed he gets him down—

“A fresh one quick! and not a moment’s wait!”

And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.

It is five; and the beams of the western sun

Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun;

Six; and the dust of Chester street

Flies back in a cloud from his courser’s feet.

It is seven; the horse-boat, broad of beam,

At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—

And at seven fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,

He flings his rein to the tavern jock.

The Congress is met; the debate’s begun,

And Liberty lags for the vote of one—

When into the hall, not a moment late,

Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Not a moment late! and that half day’s ride

Forwards the world with a mighty stride;

For the act was passed; ere the midnight stroke

O’er the Quaker City its echoes woke.

At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet flung;

“We are free!” all the bells through the colonies rung,

And the sons of the free may recall with pride,

The day of Delegate Rodney’s ride.

A SPOOL OF THREAD.

The last battle of the Civil War was at Brazos, Texas, May 13, 1865, resulting in the surrender of the Texan army. Recite this in a conversational tone, as you would tell any story.

Well, yes, I’ve lived in Texas, since the spring of ’61;

And I’ll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when ’tis done,

’Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing,

Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.

There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,

To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant’s name was fear;

For secession’s drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,

And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.

They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,

And all the muniments of war surrender to the State,

But he sent from San Antonio an order to the sea

To convey on board the steamer all the fort’s artillery.

Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,

And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the man

Detailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with care

That neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.

Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,

But the Major who was chief of staff resolved to have his way,

Despite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,

With a little box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;

And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:

“The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way.”

He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,

The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to show

The contents of the letter. They read it o’er and o’er,

But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.

So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,

But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heard

He wished a spool of cotton. And great was his surprise

At such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies.

“There’s some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift,” he said.

Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of thread

Was Major Nichols’ order, bidding him convey to sea

All the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan’s battery.

“Down to Brazon speed your horses,” thus the Major’s letter ran,

“Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can.”

Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,

Ere the Texans guessed their purpose they had vanished from the land.

Do I know it for a fact, sir? ’Tis no story that I’ve read—

I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.

Sophie E. Eastman.

THE YOUNG PATRIOT, ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

One Fourth of July, when Abraham Lincoln was a boy, he heard an oration by old ’Squire Godfrey. As in the olden days, the ’Squire’s oration was full of Washington; inspiring in the heart of young Lincoln an enthusiasm that sent him home burning with a desire to know more of the great man who heretofore had seemed more of a dream than a reality. Learning that a man some six miles up the creek owned a copy of Washington’s life, Abraham did not rest that night until he had footed the whole distance and begged the loan of the book.

“Sartin, sartin,” said the owner. “The book is fairly well worn, but no leaves are missin’, and a lad keen enough to read as to walk six miles to get a book, ought to be encouraged.”

It was a much-worn copy of Weem’s “Life of Washington,” and Abe, thanking the stranger for his kindness, walked back under the stars, stopping every little while to catch a glimpse of the features of the “Father of his Country” as shown in the frontispiece.

After reaching home, tired as he was, he could not close his eyes until, by the light of a pine knot, he had found out all that was recorded regarding the boyhood of the man who had so suddenly sprung into prominence in his mind. In that busy harvest season he had no time to read or study during the day, but every night, long after the other members of the family were sleeping peacefully, Abe lay, stretched upon the floor with his book on the hearth, reading, reading, reading, the pine knot in the fireplace furnishing all the light he needed, the fire within burning with such intense heat as to kindle a blaze that grew and increased until it placed him in the highest seat of his countrymen.

What a marvelous insight into the human heart did Abraham Lincoln get between the covers of that wonderful book. The little cabin grew to be a paradise as he learned from the printed pages the story of one great man’s life. The barefooted boy in buckskin breeches, so shrunken that they reached only halfway between the knee and ankle, actually asked himself whether there might not be some place—great and honorable, awaiting him in the future.

Before this treasured “Life of Washington” was returned to its owner, it met with such a mishap as almost to ruin it. The book, which was lying on a board upheld by two pegs, was soaked by the rain that dashed between the logs one night, when a storm beat with unusual force against the north end of the cabin. Abraham was heartbroken over the catastrophe, and sadly carried the book back to its owner, offering to work to pay for the damage done. The man consented, and the borrower worked for three days at seventy-five cents a day, and thus himself became the possessor of the old, faded, stained book—a book that had more to do with shaping his life, perhaps, than any one other thing.

Abe had not expected to take the book back with him, but merely to pay for the damage done, and was surprised when the man handed it to him when starting. He was very grateful, however, and when he gave expression to his feelings the old man said, patting him on the shoulder: “You have earned it, my boy, and are welcome to it. It’s a mighty fine thing to have a head for books, just as fine to have a heart for honesty, and if you keep agoin’ as you have started, maybe some day you’ll git to be President yourself. President Abraham Lincoln! That would sound fust rate, fust rate, now, wouldn’t it, sonny?”

“It’s not a very handsome name, to be sure,” Abe replied, looking as though he thought such an event possible, away off, in the future. “No, it’s not a very very handsome name, but I guess it’s about as handsome as its owner,” he added, glancing at the reflection of his homely features in the little old-fashioned, cracked mirror hanging opposite where he sat.

“Handsome is that handsome does,” said the old farmer, nodding his gray head in an approving style. “Yes, indeedy; handsome deeds make handsome men. We hain’t a nation of royal idiots, with one generation of kings passin’ away to make room for another. No, sir-ee. In this free country of ourn, the rich and poor stand equal chances, and a boy without money is just as likely to work up to the Presidential chair as the one who inherits from his parents lands and stocks and money and influence. It’s brains that counts in this land of liberty, and Abraham Lincoln has just as much right to sit in the highest seat in the land as Washington’s son himself, if he had had a son, which he hadn’t.”

Who knows but the future War President of this great Republic received his first aspirations from this kindly neighbor’s words?

COLUMBIA.

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;

The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;

Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,

While ages on ages thy splendors unfold.

Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time,

Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;

Let the crimes of the east ne’er encrimson thy name,

Be freedom, and science, and virtue, thy fame.

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire,

Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;

Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,

And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.

A world is thy realm—for a world be thy laws—

Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;

On freedom’s broad basis thy empire shall rise,

Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.

Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,

The nations admire, and the ocean obey;

Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,

And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.

As the day-spring, unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,

And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow,

While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,

Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world.

Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread,

From war’s dread confusion, I pensively strayed,

The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;

The winds ceased to murmur; the thunder expired;

Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along,

And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung,

“Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;

The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.”

Joel Barlow.

CAPTAIN MOLLY AT MONMOUTH.

One of the famous battles of the Revolution was that of Monmouth, New Jersey, which was fought on the 28th of June, 1778. General Washington was in command on the American side, and General Sir Henry Clinton was commander-in-chief of the British forces. The British troops met with a decisive defeat. The wife of an Irish gunner on the American side who went by the name of Molly had followed her husband to the battle. During the engagement he was shot down. With the most undaunted heroism Molly rushed forward and took his place at the gun and remained there throughout the thickest of the fight. In reciting this graphic account of her courageous deed you should show great spirit and animation, pointing her out as she takes her husband’s place, and in glowing manner describe her patriotism.

On the bloody field of Monmouth flashed the guns of Greene and Wayne;

Fiercely roared the tide of battle; thick the sward was heaped with slain.

Foremost, facing death and danger, Hessian horse and grenadier,

In the vanguard, fiercely fighting, stood an Irish cannoneer.

Loudly roared his iron cannon, mingling ever in the strife,

And beside him, firm and daring, stood his faithful Irish wife;

Of her bold contempt of danger, Greene and Lee’s brigade could tell,

Every one knew “Captain Molly,” and the army loved her well.

Surged the roar of battle round them; swiftly flew the iron hail;

Forward dashed a thousand bayonets that lone battery to assail;

From the foeman’s foremost columns swept a furious fusilade,

Mowing down the massed battalions in the ranks of Greene’s brigade.

Faster and faster worked the gunner, soiled with powder, blood and dust;

English bayonets shone before him, shot and shell around him burst;

Still he fought with reckless daring, stood and manned her long and well,

Till at last the gallant fellow dead beside his cannon fell.

With a bitter cry of sorrow, and a dark and angry frown,

Looked that band of gallant patriots at their gunner stricken down.

“Fall back, comrades! It is folly thus to strive against the foe.”

“Not so!” cried Irish Molly, “we can strike another blow!”

Quickly leaped she to the cannon in her fallen husband’s place,

Sponged and rammed it fast and steady, fired it in the foeman’s face.

Flashed another ringing volley, roared another from the gun;

“Boys, hurrah!” cried gallant Molly, “for the flag of Washington!”

Greene’s brigade, though shorn and shattered, slain and bleeding half their men,

When they heard that Irish slogan, turned and charged the foe again;

Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, to the front they forward wheel,

And before their rushing onset Clinton’s English columns reel.

Still the cannon’s voice in anger rolled and rattled o’er the plain,

Till they lay in swarms around it mingled heaps of Hessian slain.

“Forward! charge them with the bayonet!” ’twas the voice of Washington;

And there burst a fiery greeting from the Irishwoman’s gun.

Monckton falls; against his columns leap the troops of Wayne and Lee,

And before their reeking bayonets Clinton’s red battalions flee;

Morgan’s rifles, fiercely flashing, thin the foe’s retreating ranks,

And behind them, onward dashing, Ogden hovers on their flanks.

Fast they fly, those boasting Britons, who in all their glory came,

With their brutal Hessian hirelings to wipe out our country’s name.

Proudly floats the starry banner; Monmouth’s glorious field is won;

And, in triumph, Irish Molly stands besides her smoking gun.

William Collins.

DOUGLAS TO THE POPULACE OF STIRLING.

Hear, gentle friends! ere yet, for me,

Ye break the bands of fealty.

My life, my honor, and my cause,

I tender free to Scotland’s laws.

Are these so weak as must require

The aid of your misguided ire?

Or, if I suffer causeless wrong,

Is then my selfish rage so strong,

My sense of public weal so low,

That, for mean vengeance on a foe,

Those cords of love I should unbind

Which knit my country and my kind?

Oh no! believe, in yonder tower

It will not soothe my captive hour,

To know those spears our foes should dread

For me in kindred gore are red;

To know, in fruitless brawl begun,

For me, that mother wails her son;

For me that widow’s mate expires,

For me, that orphans weep their sires,

That patriots mourn insulted laws,

And curse the Douglas for the cause.

O let your patience ward such ill,

And keep your right to love me still.

Sir Walter Scott.

OUR COUNTRY.

Our country!—’tis a glorious land!

With broad arms stretched from shore to shore,

The proud Pacific chafes her strand,

She hears the dark Atlantic roar;

And, nurtured on her ample breast,

How many a goodly prospect lies

In Nature’s wildest grandeur drest,

Enamelled with her loveliest dyes.

Rich prairies, decked with flowers of gold,

Like sunlit oceans roll afar;

Broad lakes her azure heavens behold,

Reflecting clear each trembling star,

And mighty rivers, mountain-born,

Go sweeping onward dark and deep,

Through forests where the bounding fawn

Beneath their sheltering branches leap.

And, cradled mid her clustering hills,

Sweet vales in dreamlike beauty hide,

Where love the air with music fills;

And calm content and peace abide;

For plenty here her fulness pours

In rich profusion o’er the land,

And sent to seize her generous stores,

There prowls no tyrant’s hireling band.

Great God! we thank thee for this home—

This bounteous birthland of the free;

Where wanderers from afar may come,

And breathe the air of liberty!—

Still may her flowers untrampled spring,

Her harvests wave, her cities rise;

And yet, till Time shall fold his wing,

Remain Earth’s loveliest paradise!

W. G. Peabodie.

M’ILRATH OF MALATE.

Acting Sergeant J. A. McIlrath, Battery H, Third Artillery, Regulars; enlisted from New York; fifteen years’ service. The heroism of our brave Regulars in the War with Spain was the theme of universal admiration. Throw plenty of life and fire into this reading, and avoid a sing-song tone.

Yes, yes, my boy, there’s no mistake,

You put the contract through!

You lads with Shafter, I’ll allow,

Were heroes, tried and true;

But don’t forget the men who fought

About Manila Bay,

And don’t forget brave McIlrath

Who died at Malaté.

The night was black, save where the forks

Of tropic lightning ran,

When, with a long deep thunder-roar,

The typhoon storm began.

Then, suddenly above the din,

We heard the steady bay

Of volleys from the trenches where

The Pennsylvanians lay.

The Tenth, we thought, could hold their own

Against the feigned attack,

And, if the Spaniards dared advance,

Would pay them doubly back.

But soon we marked the volleys sink

Into a scattered fire—

And, now we heard the Spanish gun

Boom nigher yet and nigher!

Then, like a ghost, a courier

Seemed past our picket tossed

With wild hair streaming in his face—

“We’re lost—we’re lost—we’re lost.”

“Front, front—in God’s name—front!” he cried:

“Our ammunition’s gone!”

He turned a face of dazed dismay—

And through the night sped on!

“Men, follow me!” cried McIlrath,

Our acting Sergeant then;

And when he gave the word he knew

He gave the word to men!

Twenty there—not one man more—

But down the sunken road

We dragged the guns of Battery H,

Nor even stopped to load!

Sudden, from the darkness poured

A storm of Mauser hail—

But not a man there thought to pause,

Nor any man to quail!

Ahead, the Pennsylvanians’ guns

In scattered firing broke;

The Spanish trenches, red with flame,

In fiercer volleys spoke!

Down with a rush our twenty came—

The open field we passed—

And in among the hard-pressed Tenth

We set our feet at last!

Up, with a leap, sprang McIlrath,

Mud-spattered, worn and wet,

And, in an instant, there he stood

High on the parapet!

“Steady, boys! we’ve got ’em now—

Only a minute late!

It’s all right, lads—we’ve got ’em whipped.

Just give ’em volleys straight!”

Then, up and down the parapet

With head erect he went,

As cool as when he sat with us

Beside our evening tent!

Not one of us, close sheltered there

Down in the trench’s pen,

But felt that he would rather die

Than shame or grieve him then!

The fire, so close to being quenched

In panic and defeat,

Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped,

In one long deadly sheet!

A cheer went up along the line

As breaks the thunder-call—

But, as it rose, great God! we saw

Our gallant Sergeant fall!

He sank into our outstretched arms

Dead—but immortal grown;

And Glory brightened where he fell,

And valor claimed her own!

John Jerome Rooney.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

If you should read or recite this tragic selection in a dull monotone, as most persons read poetry, the effect would be ludicrous. The brave captain is dying. With gasping utterance, signs of weakness and appealing looks, his words should be delivered. Some of the sentences should be whispered. Do not attempt to recite this piece until you have mastered it and can render it with telling effect. It demands the trained powers of a competent elocutionist.

“Brave captain! canst thou speak?

What is it thou dost see?

A wondrous glory lingers on thy face,

The night is past; I’ve watched the night with thee.

Knowest thou the place?”

“The place? ’Tis San Juan, comrade.

Is the battle over?

The victory—the victory—is it won?

My wound is mortal; I know I cannot recover—

The battle for me is done!

“I never thought it would come to this!

Does it rain?

The musketry! Give me a drink; ah, that is glorious!

Now if it were not for this pain—this pain—

Didst thou say victorious?

“It would not be strange, would it, if I do wander?

A man can’t remember with a bullet in his brain.

I wish when at home I had been a little fonder—

Shall I ever be well again?

“It can make no difference whether I go from here or there.

Thou’lt write to father and tell him when I am dead?—

The eye that sees the sparrow fall numbers every hair

Even of this poor head.

“Tarry awhile, comrade, the battle can wait for thee;

I will try to keep thee but a few brief moments longer;

Thou’lt say good-bye to the friends at home for me?—

If only I were a little stronger!

“I must not think of it. Thou art sorry for me?

The glory—is it the glory?—makes me blind;

Strange, for the light, comrade, the light I cannot see—

Thou hast been very kind!

“I do not think I have done so very much evil—

I did not mean it. ‘I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul’—just a little rude and uncivil—

Comrade, why dost thou weep?

“Oh! if human pity is so gentle and tender—

Good-night, good friends! ‘I lay me down to sleep!’—

Who from a Heavenly Father’s love needs a defender?

‘My soul to keep!’

“‘If I should die before I wake’—comrade, tell mother,

Remember—‘I pray the Lord my soul to take!’

My musket thou’lt carry back to my little brother

For my dear sake!

“Attention, company! Reverse arms! Very well, men; my thanks.

Where am I? Do I wander, comrade,—wander again?—

Parade is over. Company E, break ranks! break ranks!

I know it is the pain.

“Give me thy strong hand; fain would I cling, comrade to thee;

I feel a chill air blown from a far-off shore;

My sight revives; Death stands and looks at me.

What waits he for?

“Keep back my ebbing pulse till I be bolder grown;

I would know something of the Silent Land;

It’s hard to struggle to the front alone—

Comrade, thy hand.

“The reveille calls! be strong, my soul, and peaceful;

The Eternal City bursts upon my sight!

The ringing air with ravishing melody is full—

I’ve won the fight!

“Nay, comrade, let me go; hold not my hand so steadfast;

I am commissioned—under marching orders—

I know the Future—let the Past be past—

I cross the borders.”

THE GREAT NAVAL BATTLE OF MANILA.

With the United States Flag Flying at all their mastheads, our ships moved to the attack in line ahead, with a speed of eight knots, first passing in front of Manila, where the action was begun by three batteries mounting guns powerful enough to send a shell over us at a distance of five miles. The Concord’s guns boomed out a reply to these batteries with two shots. No more were fired, because Admiral Dewey could not engage with these batteries without sending death and destruction into the crowded city.

As we neared Cavite two very powerful submarine mines were exploded ahead of the flagship. The Spaniards had misjudged our position. Immense volumes of water were thrown high in air by these destroyers, but no harm was done to our ships.

Admiral Dewey had fought with Farragut at New Orleans and Mobile Bay, where he had his first experience with torpedoes. Not knowing how many more mines there might be ahead, he still kept on without faltering. No other mines exploded, however, and it is believed that the Spaniards had only these two in place.

Only a few minutes later the shore battery at Cavite Point sent over the flagship a shot that nearly hit the battery in Manila, but soon the guns got a better range, and the shells began to strike near us, or burst close aboard from both the batteries and the Spanish vessels. The heat was intense. Men stripped off all clothing except their trousers.

As the Admiral’s flagship, the Olympia, drew nearer all was as silent on board as if the ship had been empty, except for the whirr of blowers and the throb of the engines. Suddenly a shell burst directly over us. From the boatswain’s mate at the after 5-inch gun came a hoarse cry. “Remember the Maine!” arose from the throats of five hundred men at the guns. This watchword was caught up in turrets and fire-rooms, wherever seaman or fireman stood at his post.

“Remember the Maine!” had rung out for defiance and revenge. Its utterance seemed unpremeditated, but was evidently in every man’s mind, and, now that the moment had come to make adequate reply to the murder of the Maine’s crew, every man shouted what was in his heart.

The Olympia was now ready to begin the fight. “You may fire when ready, Captain Gridley,” said the Admiral, and at nineteen minutes of six o’clock, at a distance of 5,500 yards, the starboard 8-inch gun in the forward turret roared forth a compliment to the Spanish forts. Presently similar guns from the Baltimore and the Boston sent 250-pound shells hurtling toward the Spanish ships Castilla and the Reina Christina for accuracy. The Spaniards seemed encouraged to fire faster, knowing exactly our distance, while we had to guess theirs. Their ship and shore guns were making things hot for us.

The piercing scream of shot was varied often by the bursting of time fuse shells, fragments of which would lash the water like shrapnel or cut our hull and rigging. One large shell that was coming straight at the Olympia’s forward bridge fortunately fell within less than one hundred feet away. One fragment cut the rigging exactly over the heads of some of the officers. Another struck the bridge gratings in line with it. A third passed just under Dewey and gouged a hole in the deck. Incidents like these were plentiful.

“Capture and destroy Spanish squadron,” were Dewey’s orders. Never were instructions more effectually carried out. Within seven hours after arriving on the scene of action nothing remained to be done. The Admiral closed the day by anchoring off the city of Manila and sending word to the Governor General that if a shot was fired from the city at the fleet he would lay Manila in ashes.

What was Dewey’s achievement? He steamed into Manila Bay at the dead hour of the night, through the narrower of the two channels, and as soon as there was daylight enough to grope his way about he put his ships in line of battle and brought on an engagement, the greatest in many respects in ancient or modern warfare. The results are known the world over—every ship in the Spanish fleet destroyed, the harbor Dewey’s own, his own ships safe from the shore batteries, owing to the strategic position he occupied, and Manila his whenever he cared to take it.

Henceforth, so long as ships sail and flags wave, high on the scroll that bears the names of the world’s greatest naval heroes will be written that of George Dewey.

THE SINKING OF THE SHIPS.

This is an excellent selection for any one who can put dramatic force into its recital. Picture to your imagination the “Sinking of the Ships,” and then describe it to your hearers as though the actual scene were before you. You have command in these words, “Now, sailors, stand by,” etc.; rapid utterance in these words, “And the Oregon flew,” etc.; subdued tenderness in the words, “Giving mercy to all,” etc. In short, the whole piece affords an excellent opportunity for intense dramatic description.

Dark, dark is the night; not a star in the sky,

And the Maine rides serenely; what danger is nigh?

Our nation’s at peace with the Kingdom of Spain,

So calmly they rest in the battleship Maine.

But, hark to that roar! See, the water is red!

And the sailor sleeps now with the slime for his bed.

Havana then shook, like the leaves of the trees,

When the tornado rides on the breast of the breeze;

Then people sprang up from their beds in the gloom,

As they’ll spring from their graves at the thunder of doom;

And they rushed through the streets, in their terror and fear,

Crying out as they ran, “Have the rebels come here?”

“Oh, see how the flame lights the shores of the bay,

Like the red rising sun at the coming of day;

’Tis a ship in a blaze! ’Tis the battleship Maine!

What means this to us and the Kingdom of Spain?

The eagle will come at that loud sounding roar,

And our flag will fly free over Cuba no more.”

Dark, dark is the night on the face of the deep,

In the forts all is still; are the soldiers asleep?

Oh, see how that ship glides along through the night;

’Tis the ghost of the Maine—she has come to the fight;

A flash, and a roar, and a cry of despair;

The eagle has come, for brave Dewey is there.

Oh, Spaniards, come out, for the daylight has fled,

And look on those ships—look with terror and dread;

The eagle has come, and he swoops to his prey;

Oh, fly, Spaniards, fly, to that creek in the bay!

The eagle has come—“Remember the Maine!”

And the water is red with the blood of the slain.

They rest for a time—now they sail in again!

Oh, woe, doom and woe, to the kingdom of Spain.

Their ships are ablaze, they are battered and rent,

By the death-dealing shells which our sailors have sent.

Not a man have we lost; yet the battle is o’er,

And their ships ride the bay of Manila no more.

Dark, silent and dark, on the face of the deep,

A ship glides in there; are the Spaniards asleep?

The channel is mined! Oh, rash sailors beware!

Or that death dealing fiend will spring up from his lair;

He will tear you, and rend you, with wild fiendish roar,

And cast you afar on the bay and the shore!

They laugh at the danger; what care they for death?

’Tis only a shock and the ceasing of breath;

Their souls to their Maker, their forms to the wave,

What nation has sons like the home of the brave?

That ship they would steer to the pit of despair,

If duty cried “Onward!” and glory were there.

The shore is ablaze, but the channel they gain;

A word of command, and the rattle of chain;

A flash—and the Merrimac’s sunk in the bay,

And the Spaniard must leave in the light of the day.

Santiago and Hobson remembered shall be,

While waves the proud flag of the brave and the free.

The Spaniards sail out—what a glorious sight!

Now, sailors, stand by and prepare for the fight;

O, Glo’ster, in there, pelt the Dons as they fly,

Make us glorious news for the Fourth of July!

And Wainwright remembered the Maine with a roar,

And that shell-battered hulk is a terror no more.

Then Schley and the Brooklyn were right in the way,

But Sampson had gone to see Shafter, they say;

And the Oregon flew like a fury from hell,

Spreading wreckage and death with the might of her shell;

Then Evans stood out, like a chivalrous knight,

Giving mercy to all at the end of the fight.

The Colon still flies, but a shell cleaves the air,

Its number is fatal—a cry of despair—

She turns to the shore, she bursts into flame,

And down comes the flag of the kingdom of Spain;

Men float all around, the battle is done,

And their ships are all sunk for the sinking of one.

Not ours is the hand that would strike in the night,

With the fiendish intention to mangle and slay;

We strike at obstruction to freedom and right,

And strike when we strike in the light of the day.

W. B. Collison.

PERRY’S CELEBRATED VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE.

Perry’s famous battle on Lake Erie raised the spirits of the Americans. The British had six ships, with sixty-three guns. The Americans had nine ships, with fifty-four guns, and the American ships were much smaller than the English. At this time Perry, the American commander, was but twenty-six years of age. His flagship was the Lawrence. The ship’s watchword was the last charge of the Chesapeake’s dying Commander—“Don’t give up the ship.” The battle was witnessed by thousands of people on shore.

At first the advantage seemed to be with the English. Perry’s flagship was riddled by English shots, her guns were dismounted and the battle seemed lost. At the supreme crisis Perry embarked in a small boat with some of his officers, and under the fire of many cannon passed to the Niagara, another ship of the fleet, of which he took command.

After he had left the Lawrence she hauled down her flag and surrendered, but the other American ships carried on the battle with such fierce impetuosity that the English battle-ship in turn surrendered, the Lawrence was retaken and all the English ships yielded with the exception of one, which took flight. The Americans pursued her, took her and came back with the entire British squadron. In the Capitol at Washington is a historical picture showing this famous victory.

In Perry’s great battle on Lake Erie was shown the true stuff of which American sailors are made. Perry was young, bold and dashing, but withal, he had the coolness and intrepidity of the veteran. History records few braver acts than his passage in an open boat from one ship to another under the galling fire of the enemy.

The grand achievements of the American navy are brilliant chapters in our country’s history. When the time comes for daring deeds, our gallant tars are equal to the occasion. Coolness in battle, splendid discipline, perfect marksmanship and a patriotism that glories in the victory of the Stars and Stripes, combine to place the officers and men of our navy in the front rank of the world’s greatest heroes.

THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC.

General Wolfe, the English commander, saw that he must take Quebec by his own efforts or not at all. He attempted several diversions above the city in the hope of drawing Montcalm, the French commander, from his intrenchments into the open field, but Montcalm merely sent De Bougainville with fifteen hundred men to watch the shore above Quebec and prevent a landing. Wolfe fell into a fever, caused by his anxiety, and his despatches to his government created the gravest uneasiness in England for the success of his enterprise.

Though ill, Wolfe examined the river with eagle eyes to detect some place at which a landing could be attempted. His energy was rewarded by his discovery of the cove which now bears his name. From the shore at the head of this cove a steep and difficult pathway, along which two men could scarcely march abreast, wound up to the summit of the heights and was guarded by a small force of Canadians.

Wolfe at once resolved to effect a landing here and ascend the heights by this path. The greatest secrecy was necessary to the success of the undertaking, and in order to deceive the French as to his real design, Captain Cook, afterwards famous as a great navigator, was sent to take soundings and place buoys opposite Montcalm’s camp, as if that were to be the real point of attack. The morning of the thirteenth of September was chosen for the movement, and the day and night of the twelfth were spent in preparations for it.

At one o’clock on the morning of the thirteenth a force of about five thousand men under Wolfe, with Monckton and Murray, set off in boats from the fleet, which had ascended the river several days before, and dropped down to the point designated for the landing. Each officer was thoroughly informed of the duties required of him, and each shared the resolution of the gallant young commander, to conquer or to die. As the boats floated down the stream, in the clear, cool starlight, Wolfe spoke to his officers of the poet Gray, and of his “Elegy in a Country Churchyard.” “I would prefer,” said he, “being the author of that poem to the glory of beating the French to-morrow.” Then in a musing voice he repeated the lines:

“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,

Await alike the inexorable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”

In a short while the landing-place was reached, and the fleet, following silently, took position to cover the landing if necessary. Wolfe and his immediate command leaped ashore and secured the pathway. The light infantry, who were carried by the tide a little below the path, climbed up the side of the heights, sustaining themselves by clinging to the roots and shrubs which lined the precipitous face of the hill. They reached the summit and drove off the picket-guard after a light skirmish. The rest of the troops ascended in safety by the pathway. Having gained the heights, Wolfe moved forward rapidly to clear the forest, and by daybreak his army was drawn up on the Heights of Abraham, in the rear of the city.

Montcalm was speedily informed of the presence of the English. “It can be but a small party come to burn a few houses and retire,” he answered incredulously. A brief examination satisfied him of his danger, and he exclaimed in amazement: “Then they have at last got to the weak side of this miserable garrison. We must give battle and crush them before mid-day.”

He at once despatched a messenger for De Bougainville, who was fifteen miles up the river, and marched from his camp opposite the city to the Heights of Abraham to drive the English from them. The opposing forces were about equal in numbers, though the English troops were superior to their adversaries in discipline, steadiness and determination.

The battle began about ten o’clock and was stubbornly contested. It was at length decided in favor of the English. Wolfe though wounded several times, continued to direct his army until, as he was leading them to a final charge, he received a musket ball in the breast. He tottered and called to an officer near him: “Support me; let not my brave fellows see me drop.” He was borne tenderly to the rear, and water was brought him to quench his thirst.

At this moment the officer upon whom he was leaning cried out: “They run! they run!” “Who run?” asked the dying hero, eagerly. “The French,” said the officer, “give way everywhere.” “What,” said Wolfe, summoning up his remaining strength, “do they run already? Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton; bid him march Webb’s regiment with all speed to Charles River to cut off the fugitives.” Then a smile of contentment overspreading his pale features, he murmured: “Now, God be praised, I die happy,” and expired. He had done his whole duty, and with his life had purchased an empire for his country.

James D. McCabe.

LITTLE JEAN.

At the battle of the Pyramids, July 21st, A.D. 1798.

Burning sands, and isles of palm, and the Mamelukes’ fierce array,

Under the solemn Pyramids, Napoleon saw that day;

“Comrades,” he cried, “from those old heights, Fame watches the deeds you do,

The eyes of forty centuries are fixed this day on you!”

They answered him with ringing shouts, they were eager for the fray,

Napoleon held their central square, in front was bold Desaix;

They gave one glance to the Pyramids, one glance to the rich Cairo,

And then they poured a rain of fire upon their charging foe.

Only a little drummer boy, from the column of Dufarge,

Tottered to where the “Forty-third” stood waiting for their “charge,”

Bleeding—but beating still his call—he said, with tear-dimmed eye:

“I’m but a baby, Forty-third, so teach me how to die!”

Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard, and Joubert turned away,

The lad had been the pet of all, they knew not what to say;

“I will not shame you, ‘Forty-third,’ though I am but a child!”

Then Regnier stooped and kissed his face, and shouted loud and wild:

“Forward! Why are we waiting here? Shall Mamelukes stop our way?

Come, little Jean, and beat the ‘charge,’ and ours shall be the day;

And we will show thee how to die, good boy! good boy! Be brave!

It is not every ‘nine years’ old’ can fill a soldier’s grave!”

It was as though a spirit spoke, the men to battle flew;

Yet each in passing, cried aloud: “My little Jean, Adieu!”

“Adieu, brave Forty-third, Adieu!” Then proudly beat his drum—

“You’ve showed me how a soldier dies—and little Jean will come!”

They found him ’mid the slain next day, amid the brave who fell,

Said Regnier, proudly, “My brave Jean, thou learned thy lesson well!”

They hung the medal round his neck, and crossed his childish hands,

And dug for him a little grave in Egypt’s lonely sands.

But, still, the corps his memory keep, and name with flashing eye,

The hero whom the “Forty-third,” in Egypt, taught to die.

Lillie E. Barr.

THE DEFEAT OF GENERAL BRADDOCK.

Washington, who, at this time, was a subordinate officer, was well convinced that the French and Indians were informed of the movements of the army and would seek to interfere with it before its arrival at Fort Duquesne, which was only ten miles distant, and urged Braddock to throw in advance the Virginia Rangers, three hundred strong, as they were experienced Indian fighters.

Braddock angrily rebuked his aide, and as if to make the rebuke more pointed, ordered the Virginia troops and other provincials to take position in the rear of the regulars.

In the meantime the French at Fort Duquesne had been informed by their scouts of Braddock’s movements, and had resolved to ambuscade him on his march. Early on the morning of the ninth a force of about two hundred and thirty French and Canadians and six hundred and thirty-seven Indians, under De Beaujeu, the commandant at Fort Duquesne, was despatched with orders to occupy a designated spot and attack the enemy upon their approach. Before reaching it, about two o’clock in the afternoon, they encountered the advanced force of the English army, under Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Gage, and at once attacked them with spirit.

The English army at this moment was moving along a narrow road, about twelve feet in width, with scarcely a scout thrown out in advance or upon the flanks. The engineer who was locating the road was the first to discover the enemy, and called out: “French and Indians!” Instantly a heavy fire was opened upon Gage’s force, and his indecision allowed the French and Indians to seize a commanding ridge, from which they maintained their attack with spirit.

The regulars were quickly thrown into confusion by the heavy fire and the fierce yells of the Indians, who could nowhere be seen, and their losses were so severe and sudden that they became panic-stricken.

The only semblance of resistance maintained by the English was by the Virginia Rangers, whom Braddock had insulted at the beginning of the day’s march. Immediately upon the commencement of the battle, they had adopted the tactics of the Indians, and had thrown themselves behind trees, from which shelter they were rapidly picking off the Indians. Washington entreated Braddock to follow the example of the Virginians, but he refused, and stubbornly endeavored to form them in platoons under the fatal fire that was being poured upon them by their hidden assailants. Thus through his obstinacy many useful lives were lost.

The officers did not share the panic of the men, but behaved with the greatest gallantry. They were the especial marks of the Indian sharpshooters, and many of them were killed or wounded. Two of Braddock’s aides were seriously wounded, and their duties devolved upon Washington in addition to his own. He passed repeatedly over the field, carrying the orders of the commander and encouraging the men. When sent to bring up the artillery, he found it surrounded by Indians, its commander, Sir Peter Halket, killed, and the men standing helpless from fear.

Springing from his horse, he appealed to the men to save the guns, pointed a field-piece and discharged it at the savages and entreated the gunners to rally. He could accomplish nothing by either his words or example. The men deserted the guns and fled. In a letter to his brother, Washington wrote: “I had four bullets through my coat, two horses shot under me, yet escaped unhurt, though death was levelling my companions on every side around me.”

James D. McCabe.