Recitations for the Social Circle Part 15

She was a little old woman, very plainly dressed in black bombazine that had seen much careful wear; her bonnet was very old-fas.h.i.+oned, and people stared at her tottering up the aisle of the church, evidently bent on securing one of the best seats, for a great man preached that day. The house was filled with splendidly dressed people who had heard of the fame of the preacher, of his learning, his intellect and goodness, and they wondered at the presumption of the poor old woman. She must have been in her dotage, for she picked out the pew of the richest and proudest member of the church and took a seat. The three ladies who were seated there beckoned to the s.e.xton, who bent over the intruder and whispered something, but she was hard of hearing, and smiled a little withered smile, as she said, gently: "Oh, I'm quite comfortable here, quite comfortable."

"But you are not wanted here," said the s.e.xton, pompously; "there is not room. Come with me, my good woman; I will see that you have a seat."

"Not room," said the old woman, looking at her shrunken proportions, and then at the fine ladies. "Why, I'm not crowded a bit. I rode ten miles to hear the sermon to-day, because--"

But here the s.e.xton took her by the arm, shook her roughly in a polite underhand way, and then she took the hint. Her faded old eyes filled with tears, her chin quivered; but she rose meekly and left the pew. Turning quietly to the ladies, who were spreading their rich dresses over the s.p.a.ce she left vacant, she said gently: "I hope, my dears, there'll be room in heaven for us all." Then she followed the pompous s.e.xton to the rear of the church where, in the last pew, she was seated between a threadbare girl and a shabby old man.

"She must be crazy," said one of the ladies in the pew which she had first occupied. "What can an ignorant old woman like her want to hear Dr. ---- preach for? She would not be able to understand a word he said."

"Those people are so persistent! The idea of her forcing herself into our pew! Isn't that voluntary lovely? There's Dr. ---- coming out of the vestry. Is he not grand?"

"Splendid! What a stately man! You know he has promised to dine with us while he is here."

He was a commanding looking man, and as the organ voluntary stopped, and he looked over the great crowd of wors.h.i.+pers gathered in the vast church, he seemed to scan every face. His hand was on the Bible when suddenly he leaned over the reading desk and beckoned to the s.e.xton, who obsequiously mounted the steps to receive a mysterious message. And then the three ladies in the grand pew were electrified to see him take his way the whole length of the church to return with the old woman, when he placed her in the front pew of all, its other occupants making willing room for her. The great preacher looked at her with a smile of recognition, and then the services proceeded, and he preached a sermon that struck fire from every heart.

"Who was she?" asked the ladies who could not make room for her, as they pa.s.sed the s.e.xton at the door.

"The preacher's mother," was the reply.

THE RETORT DIS-COURTEOUS.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

Mr. Michael McGlynn, of Dublin town, And Dinny O'Doyle, of Kildare, Through the streets of the city, went up and down, A remarkably guileless pair.

Said Michael to Dinny: "Me darlin' bhoy, Since the roise o' the mornin' sun, Niver a dhrop or a boite have Oi, Oi think I could ate a bun."

Said Dinny to Michael: "Av coorse: av coorse!

To ate is the woise man's part; Oi have a sinsation loike that mesilf, Oi think Oi could touch a tart."

So the kindred souls of this guileless pair, An eating house speedily found, And before them a jar on the table sat, Full of horseradish, freshly ground.

With a tablespoon, Mr. Michael McGlynn Took all that his mouth would hold, Then gasped for breath, while his head turned hot And his spine turned icy cold.

The tears on his cheeks came rolling down, But he had no breath to swear, So he simply clutched at the tablecloth, And tore at his red, red hair.

Amazed and surprised, Mr. Dinny O'Doyle Said: "Michael, me darlin' bhoy, Phwat's troublin' yer sowl? Phwat's wrong wid ye now?

Phwat's the raison ye've tears in yer oi?"

"Oh, nothin," said Michael; "my grandfather doid Some twenty-foive years ago, Oi chanced to remember the fine owld man, An' Oi couldn't help croiyin', ye know.

"But, Dinny O'Doyle, doant mind it at all; How wake an' how choildish Oi same,"

Then he pa.s.sed the horseradish and spoon and all; "Have some of this nice oice crame!"

So Dinny dipped into the treacherous jar, And the tears quickly sprang to his eyes, While Michael McGlynn, who had got back his breath, Affected a strange surprise.

"Phy, Dinny, me bhoy, ye're croiyin' yersilf,"

He said with a chuckle and grin; "Phwat's troublin' _yer_ sowl? Phwat's wrong wid _ye_ now?

Is it wapin' ye are for a sin?"

"Is it askin' ye are, phwat's makin' me croiy?"

Said Dinny, "Oi'll spake as Oi'm bid, Oi'm croiyin' bekase Mr. Michael McGlynn, Didn't doi when his grandfather did."

ZEn.o.bIA'S DEFENCE.

BY WILLIAM WARE.

[Zen.o.bia became Queen of Palmyra A. D. 267, after the murder of her husband, Odenatus. She was a woman of great energy and a.s.sumed the t.i.tle of Queen of the East. She was deprived of her dominion by Aurelian A.

D. 272, and died in retirement near Rome.]

I am charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true, and I glory in its truth. Whoever achieved anything great in letters, arts, or arms, who was not ambitious? Caesar was not more ambitious than Cicero. It was but in another way. All greatness is born of ambition. Let the ambition be a n.o.ble one, and who shall blame it? I confess I did once aspire to be queen, not only of Palmyra, but of the East. That I am. I now aspire to remain so. Is it not an honorable ambition? Does it not become a descendant of the Ptolemies and of Cleopatra? I am applauded by you all for what I have already done. You would not it should have been less.

But why pause here? Is _so_ much ambition praiseworthy, and _more_ criminal? Is it fixed in nature that the limits of this empire should be Egypt on the one hand, the h.e.l.lespont and the Euxine on the other? Were not Suez and Armenia more natural limits? Or hath empire no natural limit, but is broad as the genius that can devise, and the power that can win? Rome has the West. Let Palmyra possess the East. Not that nature prescribes this and no more. The G.o.ds prospering, I mean that the Mediterranean shall not hem me in upon the west, or Persia on the east. Longinus is right,--I would that the world were mine. I feel, within, the will and the power to bless it, were it so.

Are not my people happy? I look upon the past and the present, upon my nearer and remoter subjects, and ask, nor fear the answer, Whom have I wronged? What province have I oppressed, what city pillaged, what region drained with taxes? Whose life have I unjustly taken, or whose estates have I coveted or robbed? Whose honor have I wantonly a.s.sailed? Whose rights, though of the weakest and poorest, have I violated? I dwell, where I would ever dwell, in the hearts of my people. It is written in your faces, that I reign not more over you than within you. The foundation of my throne is not more power than love.

Suppose, now, my ambition should add another province to our realm. Would that be an evil? The kingdoms already bound to us by the joint acts of ourselves and the late royal Odenatus, we found discordant and at war. They are now united and at peace. One harmonious whole has grown out of hostile and sundered parts. At my hands they receive a common justice and equal benefits. The channels of their commerce have I opened, and dug them deep and sure. Prosperity and plenty are in all their borders. The streets of our capital bear testimony to the distant and various industry which here seeks its market.

This is no vain boasting: receive it not so, good friends. It is but the truth. He who traduces himself sins in the same way as he who traduces another. He who is unjust to himself, or less than just, breaks a law, as well as he who hurts his neighbor. I tell you what I am, and what I have done, that your trust for the future may not rest upon ignorant grounds. If I am more than just to myself, rebuke me. If I have over-stepped the modesty that became me, I am open to your censure, and I will bear it.

But I have spoken that you may know your queen, not only by her acts, but by her admitted principles. I tell you, then, that I am ambitious, that I crave dominion, and while I live will reign. Sprung from a line of kings, a throne is my natural seat. I love it. But I strive, too--you can bear me witness that I do--that it shall be, while I sit upon it, an honored, unpolluted seat. If I can, I will hang a yet brighter glory around it.

A SERENADE.[1]

BY THOMAS HOOD.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"

Thus I heard a father cry.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

The brat will never shut an eye; Hither come, some power divine!

Close his lids or open mine!

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

What the mischief makes him cry?

Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Still he stares--I wonder why; Why are not the sons of earth Blind, like puppies, from their birth?

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"

Thus I heard the father cry; "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Mary, you must come and try!

Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake-- The more I sing, the more you wake!