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existence would be a blank, unless shared with the object of his adoration, and, gracefully kneeling, tremblingly implored to hear the little "yes," for which he sighed. He made love Like a gentleman and an orator, and in the spirit and with the voice of an orator. Mrs. (name of person's wife,) answered "Yes!" Didn't she, Mr. ? (Appealing to

the person.)

Will. Well, it may be very well to study the art of oratory for an occasion like that; but over there, in District No. they never make any such fusses.

John. No, they never show their hands in that district. I expect they are afraid. But, William, there are many occasions when a man may be called on to express his views, and he should be prepared, as far as study can prepare, tỏ do himself and his cause honor. Few are so gifted but they can borrow advantages from education.

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Will. You can talk better than I can, John; but there is no use in your standing there and trying to convince the ple that I am in earnest in opposing school exhibitions. John. Not in earnest? of a question just for fun? Mr.

You espouse the unpopular side You are more self-sacrificing than (name of some town officer,) was, when he run for

office the last time.

Will. I did it in order to give you an opportunity to talk. Unless you have an opponent, how are you to dispute?

John. I don't know what to think about your being in fun. You said you were not in earnest when Mr. (teacher,) caught you burning his willow wand. You thought he intended to use it for your benefit, and not as a pointer for the black-board. Were you in fun that time, eh? Will. I acknowledge that I-- we have all been guilty — of little deviations from the strict line of duty.

John. I hope that none of us have been guilty of doing wrong, and that as often as exhibition day comes, we may be

recognized as having been attentive to our teacher and our duties. Good-by, William.

Will. Good-by, John. Remember how Miss

you the mitten, and don't try it again.

John. I won't-good-by.

gave

NOTE. To make it amusing, the names to be used in this dialogue should not be made known previous to the exhibition. The names of persons present should be fixed upon, if possible.

CATILINE TO HIS FRIENDS,

AFTER FAILING IN HIS ELECTION TO THE CONSULSHIP.

REV. GEORGE CROLY.

Are there not times, Patricians, when great States
Rush to their ruin? Rome is no more like Rome,

Than a foul dungeon's like the glorious sky.
What is she now? Degenerate, gross, defiled;
The tainted haunt, the gorged receptacle
Of every slave and vagabond of earth:
A mighty grave that luxury has dug,

To rid the other realms of pestilence!

Ye wait to hail me Consul?

Consul! Look on me- on this brow― these hands;
Look on this bosom, black with early wounds;
Have I not served the state from boyhood up,
Scattered my blood for her, labored for, loved her?

I had no chance; wherefore should I be Consul?
No, Cicero still is master of the crowd.

Why not? He's made for them, and they for him;

They want a sycophant, and he wants slaves.
Well, let him have them!

Patricians! they have pushed me to the gulf;
I have worn down my heart, wasted my means,
Humbled my birth, bartered my ancient name
For the rank favor of the senseless mass,
That frets and festers in your Commonwealth,—
And now

The very men with whom I walked through life,
Nay, till within this hour, in all the bonds
Of courtesy, and high companionship,

This day, as if the heavens had stamped me black,
Turned on their heel, just at the point of fate,
Left me a mockery in the rabble's midst,
And followed their plebeian consul, Cicero!
This was the day to which I looked through life,
And it has failed me,― vanished from my grasp,
Like air!

Roman no more! The rabble of the streets

Have seen me humbled; slaves may gibe at me!
For all the ills

That chance or nature lays upon our heads

In chance or nature, there is found a cure!

But self-abasement is beyond all cure!

The brand is here, burned in the living flesh,

That bears its mark to the grave; that dagger's plunged

Into the central pulses of the heart;

The act is the mind's suicide, for which

There is no after-health, no hope, no pardon!

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

REV. GEORGE CROLY.

Banished from Rome!

What's banished, but set free

my head?

It breaks my chain! this hour;

From daily contact of the things I loathe?
“Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril on
Banished? I thank you for 't.
I held some slack allegiance till
But now my sword's my own.
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocation, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.

Smile on, my lords;

But here I stand and scoff you! here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face!
Your Consul's merciful. For this all thanks:
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline!

"Traitor!" I go; but I return.

This

trial!

Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs

To stir a fever in the blood of age,

Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.

This day's the birth of sorrow! This hour's work

Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my lords!
For there, henceforth, shall sit for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus!--all shames and crimes;
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion poisoning his brother's up;

Naked Rebellion, with the torch and ax,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones:
Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night,

And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.
I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.

I

go; but when I come, 't will be the burst Of ocean in the earthquake, -- rolling back In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well! You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood Shall quench its flame!

REMORSE.

SHAKSPEARE.

O, my offense is rank, it smells to Heaven;
It hath the primal, eldest curse upon 't,
A brother's murder! Pray, can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will;
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And, both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens,
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy,
But to confront the visage of offense?

And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,-
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall,

Or pardoned, being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder?
That can not be; since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder,-

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