chances of mortal being, but the spirit of truth is incorruptible; it may be developed, illustrated and applied; it never can die, never can decline.

No truth can perish, no truth can pass away; the flame is undying, though generations disappear. Wherever moral truth has struck into being, humanity claims and guards the greatest bequest. Each generation gathers together imperishable children of the past, and increases them by new sons of light alike radiant with immortality.

The Right.

VICTOR HUGO.

Ah! Whether you will or no the past is passed Your law is null, void and dead, even before its birth; because it is not just; because it is not true; because, while it goes furtively to plunder the poor man and the weak of his right of suffrage, it encounters the withering glance of a Nation's probity and sense of right, before which your work of darkness shall vanish; because in the depths of the conscience of every citizen, of the humblest as well as the highest-there is a sentiment sublime, sacred, indestructible, incorruptible, eternal, the Right.

This sentiment, which is the very element of reason in man, the granite of the human conscience, this Right, is the rock upon which shall split and go to pieces the iniquities, the hypocrisies, the bad laws and bad governments, of the world. There is the obstacle, concealed, invisible,-lost to view in the soul's profoundest deep, but eternally present and abiding, against which you shall always strike, and which you shall never wear away, do what you will! I repeat it, your efforts are in vain. You cannot deracinate, you cannot shake it. You might sooner tear up the eternal Rock from the bottom of the sea, than the Right from the heart of the people.

Richard's Trust in Heaven.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, that lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen
In murders and in outrage, boldly here;
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons and detested sins,

The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes,
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day,
But self-affrighted tremble at his sin.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord:

For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel; then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.
-Richard II, iii., 2.

TONE OF HATRED.

(See Tone Drill No. 134.)

[The tone of Hatred indicates dislike in the most intense degree. It says to the listener, "Every inch of me detests this person or thing.'']

The Seminole's Defiance.

G. W. PATTEN.

Blaze, with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee: The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now is free! I've mailed it with the thunder, when the tempest muttered

low;

And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of its

blow.

I've scared you in the city, I've scalped you on the plain; Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my leaden

rain!

I scorn your proffered treaty; the pale-face I defy;

Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and "blood" my battlecry!

Some strike for hope of booty; some to defend their all-
I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall.

I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his groan.
You've trailed me through the forest; you've tracked me
o'er the stream;

And struggling through the everglade your bristling bayonets

gleam.

But I stand as should the warrior, with his rifle and his

spear;

The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you-"Come not here!"

Think ye to find my homestead?-I gave it to the fire.
My tawny household do you seek?-I am a childless sir

But, should you crave life's nourishment, enough I have, and

good;

I live on hate 'tis all my bread; yet light is not my food.
I loathe you with my bosom! I scorn you with mine eye!
And I'll taunt you with my latest breath, and fight you till
I die!

I ne'er will ask for quarter, and I ne'er will be your slave; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter till I sink beneath the wave!

Shylock's Hatred of Antorio.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

How like a fawning publican he looks!
I hate him for he is a Christian;
But more for that in low simplicity

He lends out money gratis and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip,
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him!

-Merchant of Venice, i., 3.

TONE OF HORROR.

(See Tone Drill No. 113.)

[The tone of Horror manifests an extreme fear or detestation.]

The Death Penalty.

VICTOR HUGO.

A man, a convict, a sentenced wretch, is dragged, on a certain morning, to one of our public squares. There he

finds the scaffold! He shudders, he struggles, he refuses to die. He is young yet-only twenty-nine. Ah! I know what you will say,-"He is a murderer!" But hear me. Two officers seize him. His hands, his feet, are tied. He throws off the two officers. A frightful struggle ensues. His feet, bound as they are, become entangled in the ladder. He uses the scaffold against the scaffold! The struggle is prolonged. Horror seizes on the crowd. The officers, sweat and shame on their brows,-pale, panting, terrified, despairing,-despairing with I know not what horrible despair,—shrinking under that public reprobation which ought to have visited the penalty, and spared the passive instrument, the executioner, the officers strive savagely.

The victim clings to the scaffold, and shrieks for pardon. His clothes are torn,-his shoulders bloody,-still he resists. At length, after three quarters of an hour of this monstrous effort, of this spectacle without a name, of this agony,agony for all, be it understood,-agony for the assembled spectators as well as for the condemned man,-after this age of anguish, Gentlemen of the Jury, they take back the poor wretch to his prison. The People breathe again.

The People, naturally merciful, hope that the man will be spared. But no,-the guillotine, though vanquished, remains standing. There it frowns all day, in the midst of a sickened population. And at night, the officers, reinforced, drag forth the wretch again, so bound that he is but an inert weight, they drag him forth, haggard, bloody, weeping, pleading, howling for life,-calling upon God, calling upon his father and mother, for like a very child had this man become in the prospect of death, they drag him forth to execution. He is hoisted on to the scaffold, and his head falls! And then through every conscience runs a shudder. Never had legal murder appeared with an aspect so indecent, so abominable.