distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the Poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever, those divine and rapturous joys of which through the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses. The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness-this struggle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted—has given to the world all that which it has ever been enabled at once to understand and to feel as poetic.

PAUSE AND IMPRESSIVENESS.

[Frequently a speaker wishes an idea not only to be understood but to be deeply felt. In such cases the pause must be long enough to permit of the necessary emotional association. Ex. (Henry Ward Beecher): "His (Lincoln's) life now is grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful as no earthly life can be."]

Death of Garfield.

JAMES G. BLAINE.

Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, that quiet July morning James A.

Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully before him; the next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave.

Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interests, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death, and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which stunned and dazed he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes whose lips may tell! What brilliant broken plans! What baffled high ambitions! What sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships. What bitter rending of sweet household ties!

Behind him, a proud expectant nation; a great host of sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's days of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demands. Before him, desolation and darkness, and his soul was not shaken.

His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound and universal sympathy. Though masterful in his mortal weakness, enshrined in the prayers of a world, all the love and all

the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the winepress alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With supple resignation he bowed to the Divine Decree.

PAUSE AND THE GATHERING AND CONTROL OF EMOTION.

[Some sentiments, to be effectively expressed, require time for the gathering of the emotion. The following requires an increased pause preceding "before" to enable the speaker to gather the awe, destiny and inspiration that must be exhibited in every word: "Sir, before God I believe the hour is come. 99 Sometimes there is a tendency for an emotion to master the speaker and overwhelm his utterance, as in the lines "I said all well," and, "Ah, Hal, I'll try," in the selection under this head. In such cases increased pause is required in which to control the feeling.]

Our Folks.

ETHEL LYNN.

"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt,—and tell
A fellow just a thing or two;
You've had a furlough, been to see
How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there,—
I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks.
When you were home,-old comrade, say,
Did you see any of our folks?

You did? Shake hands,-Oh, ain't I glad;
For if I do look grim and rough,
I've got some feelin'-People think
A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,

And hot saltpetre flames and smokes, While whole battalions lie afield,

One's apt to think about his folks.

And so you saw them-when? and where?
The old man-is he hearty yet?
And mother-does she fade at all?

Or does she seem to pine and fret
For me? And Sis?-has she grown tall?
And did you see her friend-you know
That Annie Moss-(How this pipe chokes!)
Where did you see her?-tell me, Hal,
A lot of news about our folks.

You saw them in the church, you say;
It's likely, for they're always there.
Not Sunday? no? A funeral? Who?
Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!
All well, you say, and all were out.

What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?
Why don't you tell me like a man
What is the matter with our folks?"

"I said all well, old comrade, true;
I say all well, for He knows best
Who takes the young ones in His arms
Before the sun goes to the west.
The axe-man Death deals right and left,
And flowers fall as well as oaks;
And so fair Annie blooms no more!
And that's the matter with your folks.

See, this long curl was kept for you;

And this white blossom from her breast.

And here your sister Bessie wrote
A letter, telling all the rest.
Bear up, old friend." Nobody speaks;
Only the old camp-raven croaks,
And soldiers whisper: "Boys, be still;

There's some bad news from Grainger's folks."

He turns his back-the only foe

That ever saw it—on this grief,

And, as men will, keeps down the tears.

Kind Nature sends to Woe's relief.
Then answers he, "Ah! Hal, I'll try,

But in my throat there's something chokes,
Because, you see, I've thought so long
To count her in among our folks.

I s'pose she must be happy now,
But still I will keep thinking too,
I could have kept all trouble off

By being tender, kind, and true.
But maybe not. She's safe up there,

And when His hand deals other strokes, She'll stand by heaven's gate, I know, And wait to welcome in our folks."

Break! Break! Break!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

Oh, well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!