and respect), ordered away his boat with first-officer Gourley to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, O that some good angel had called to the brave commander, in the words of Paul on a like occasion, “Except these abide in the ship, ye can not be saved!"1

They departed, and with them the hope of the ship; for now the waters, gaining upon the hold, and rising up upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. O, had now that stern, brave mate Gourley been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to obey, had he stood to execute efficiently the commander's will, - we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy2 of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters, and crew rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men to the mercy of the deep. Four hours there were from the catastrophe of the collision to the catastrophe of SINKING!

O, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and the flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial place. No spade prepared the grave,

nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank; and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as placid as before.

1 except. xxvii. 31.)

saved. (See Acts

2 recreancy, unfaithfulness, disobedience.

87. True Eloquence.

When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness are the qualities which produce conviction.

True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It can not be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but they can not compass1 it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion.

Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire to it: they can not reach it. It comes, if it comes at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain. from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their coun try, hang on the decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible.

Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is eloquent then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear concep

1 compass, accomplish, attain to.

tion, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing1 every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward, to his object, this, this is eloquence; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence: it is action,noble, sublime, godlike action.

WEBSTER.

88.- Mrs. Caudle's Views on Masonry.

Mrs. Margaret Caudle was the feigned author of a series of “Curtain Lectures," addressed to her husband through a period of many years. These humorous sketches were originally contributed to the London "Punch" by Douglas Jerrold.

Note that the author does not record the replies of Mr. Caudle, the character of these replies being clearly indicated by Mrs. Caudle's own remarks. The piece should be so read as to plainly express this fact.

Now, Mr. Caudle, Mr. Caudle, I say,-O, you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: There's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle, I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no. There's an end of the married state, I think,— an end of all confidence between man and wife,—if a husband's to have secrets, and keep 'em all to himself.

Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm

1 informing, giving shape to, animating.

sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul. Tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still, -—not that I care much about it, still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? O, don't tell me there's nothing in it: I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle: I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?

And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion. Not that I care about the secret itself: no, I wouldn't give a button to know it; for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about it's the slight,' Mr. Caudle, it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know.

Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a Mason,-when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves: otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a Mason, — when he's got a sort of corner cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.

Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute! yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a Mason: not at all, Caudle. I dare say it's

1 slight, intentional disregard.

you'll

a very good thing: I dare say it is. It's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me, tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

89.-Speech against the American War.

This speech was delivered in Parliament by Lord Chatham in November, 1777.

I can not, my lords, I will not, join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. This, my lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment. It is not a time for adulation: the smoothness of flattery can not save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must, if possible, dispel the delusion and darkness which envelop it, and display, in its full danger and genuine colors, the ruin which is brought to our doors.

Can ministers still presume to expect support in their infatuation? Can parliament be so dead to its dignity and duty, as to give their support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon them?-measures, my lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and contempt. But yesterday, and Britain might have stood against the world: now, none so poor to do her reverence.1

1 But. . reverence. A paraphrase of Mark Antony's words used in the funeral oration over the body of Julius Cæsar, as given in Shakespeare's tragedy of that

name:

"But yesterday the word of Cæsar might

Have stood against the world:

now lies he there,

And none so poor to do him reverence."