« 이전계속 »
gentleness of a woman and humility of a child. "Out of the strong came forth sweetness." "How is the strong staff broken, and the beautiful rod!"
But not before this assembly only does the venerable image of the departed statesman this day distinctly stand. For more than a thousand miles—east, west, north, and south— it is known and remembered, that at this place and hour, a nation's representatives assemble to do honor to him whose fame is now a nation's heritage. A nation's mighty heart throbs against this capitol, and beats through you. In many cities, banners droop, bells toll, cannons boom, funeral draperies wave.
In crowded streets and on surrounding wharves, upon steamboats, and upon cars, in fields, in workshops, in homes, in schools, millions of men women and children, have their thoughts fixed upon this scene, and say mournfully to each other, " This is the hour in which, at the capital, the nation's representatives are burying Henry Clay." Burying Henry Clay? Bury the record of your country's history—bury the hearts of living millions—bury the mountains, the rivers, the lakes, and the spreading lands from sea to sea, with which his name is inseparably associated, and even then you would not bury Henry Clay—for he is in other lands and speaks in other tongues, and to other times than ours.
A great mind, a great heart, a great orator, a great career, have been consigned to history, She will record his rare gifts of deep insight, keen discrimination, clear statement, rapid combination, plain, direct, and convincing logic. She will love to dwell on that large, generous, magnanimous, open, forgiving heart. She will linger with fond delight on the recorded or traditional stories of an eloquence that was so masterful and stirring, because it was but himself struggling to come forth on the living words—because, though the words were brave and strong, and beautiful, and melodious, it was felt that behind them there was a soul, braver, stronger, more beautiful, and more melodious than language could express.
She will point to a career of statesmanship which has, to a remarkable degree, stamped itself on the public policy of the country, and reached in beneficent practical results the fields, the looms, the commercial marts, and the quiet homes of all the land where his name was with the departed father and is with the living children, and will be with successive generations, the honored household word.
SHE WOULD BE A MASON.
The funniest story I ever heard,
Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true,
She followed him round, this inquisitive wife,
He consented at last to admit her.
And miraculously did they fit her.
The Lodge was at work on the Master's Degree;
Oh, horrible sounds! oh. horrible sight!
Can it be that Masons take delight
In spending thus the hours of night?
Ah! could their wives and daughters know
The unutterable things they say and do.
Their feminine hearts would hurst with woe;
But this is not all my story,
The candidate howling like everything,
(The candidate's name was Morey;)
And make him all grim and gory."
Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,
Of human bones! on grinning skulls
The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame,
And tearful melancholy.
The tune is Hunkey Dorey— "Blood to drink," etc., etc.
Then came a pause—a pair of paws
And drown the yells of mercy! "Blood to drink," etc., etc.
The ridiculous woman could stand no more—
THAT BABY IX TUSCALOO.—Bartley T. Camprell.
So! you're all the way from Kansas,
And knew my Jennie there;
Just take that vacant chair.
Though never here before;
And hang it on the door.
What! five whole days on the journey,
Good gracious! who'd have thought Jennie
Could ever live so far
The farm, and mountain blue—
And that's 'twixt me and you.
You say she's not very lonely;
Then she don't feel the worst.
Why didn't you say that first?
I can't believe my ear;
Pshaw, now, what's this?—a tear?
Here, Jack, run oft' to the kitchen—
Tell mother to come right quick!
She must not strike a lick
Twill make her young again.
Here, let us shake again.
Perhaps you may think me foolish
For makin' such a row,
Mind, I'm a grand-pa now.
Silent and swift and sly,
Drifting along the sky.
ABRIDGED FOR RECITATION.
But only in this they differ—
We're coin' with the years Into the harbor of old age,
Up to the silent piers, Where each may discharge his burden,
And furl his wrinkled sail, And thank his heavenly Master
Who saved him through the gale.
But what's the use in talking,
I'm fairly bustin' with joy,
You tell me it's a boy?
You see she don't forget
And play " peep" with his "pet."
There's no use keeping a secret,
She married 'gainst our will,
Whose father kept the mill.
Though he was big and strong,
He'd never get along.
I'll not soon forget her answer,
Twas spoken like a queen.
Whatever comes between."
My anger did the rest,
Left for the distant West.
No one can know what I suffered—
I walked about all day.
And tried, but could not pray.
With heart so full of scorn Against an honest fellow man,
Who for some good was born.
You ask did T forgive Jennie?
My precious little kid!
Forgive! of conn e I aid.