_Tell._ I know you do! And think you, when you kneel, To whom you kneel?

_Alb._ To Him who made me, father.

_Tell._ And in whose name?

_Alb._ The name of Him who died For me and all men, that all men and I Should live

_Tell._ That's right. Remember that my son: Forget all things but that--remember that!

'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food; All things on earth; yea, life itself!--It is To live, when these are gone, when they are naught-- With G.o.d! My son remember that!

_Alb._ I will.

_Tell._ I'm glad you value what you're taught.

That is the lesson of content, my son; He who finds which has all--who misses, nothing.

_Alb._ Content is a good thing.

_Tell._ A thing, the good Alone can profit by. But go, Albert, Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff.

Don't keep me waiting. [_Exit_ ALBERT.

TELL. _paces the stage in thought. Re-enter_ ALBERT.

_Alb._ I am ready, father.

_Tell._ (_taking_ ALBERT _by the hand_). Now mark me, Albert Dost thou fear the snow, The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou for The mountain mist that settles on the peak, When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble at The torrent roaring from the deep ravine, Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie?

Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when on The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud, And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel All night.

_Alb._ I'm ready; say all night again.

_Tell._ The mountains are to cross, for thou must reach Mount Faigel by the dawn.

_Alb._ Not sooner shall The dawn be there than I.

_Tell._ Heaven speeding thee.

_Alb._ Heaven speeding me.

_Tell._ Show me thy staff. Art sure Of the point? I think 'tis loose. No--stay! 'Twill do.

Caution is speed when danger's to be pa.s.sed.

Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow!

'Tis well there is a moon to-night.

You're sure of the track?

_Alb._ Quite sure.

_Tell._ The buskin of That leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it.

You know the point where you must round the cliff?

_Alb._ I do.

_Tell._ Thy belt is slack--draw it tight.

Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this dagger And give it him! you know its caverns well.

In one of them you will find him. Farewell.

A VENTRILOQUIST ON A STAGE-COACH.

HENRY c.o.c.kTON.

"Now then, look alive there!" shouted the coachman from the booking-office door, as Valentine and his Uncle John approached. "Have yow got that are mare's shoe made comfor'ble, Simon!"

"All right, sir," said Simon, and he went round to see if it were so, while the luggage was being secured.

"Jimp up, genelmen!" cried the coachman, as he waddled from the office with his whip in one hand and his huge way-bill in the other; and the pa.s.sengers accordingly proceeded to arrange themselves on the various parts of the coach,--Valentine, by the particular desire of Uncle John, having deposited himself immediately behind the seat of the coachman.

"If you please," said an old lady, who had been standing in the gateway upwards of an hour, "will you be good enow, please, to take care of my darter?"

"All safe," said the coachman, untwisting the reins. "She shaunt take no harm. Is she going all the way?"

"Yes, sir," replied the old lady; "G.o.d bless her! She's got a place in Lunnun, an' I'm told--"

"Hook on them ere two sacks o' whoats there behind," cried the coachman; "I marn't go without 'em this time.--Now, all right there?"

"Good by, my dear," sobbed the old lady, "do write to me soon, be sure you do,--I only want to hear from you often. Take care of yourself."

"Hold hard!" cried the coachman, as the horses were dancing, on the cloths being drawn from their loins. "Whit, whit!" and away they pranced, as merrily as if they had known that _their_ load was nothing when compared with the load they left behind them. Even old Uncle John, as he cried "Good by, my dear boy," and waved his hand for the last time, felt the tears trickling down his cheeks.

The salute was returned, and the coach pa.s.sed on.

The fulness of Valentine's heart caused him for the first hour to be silent; but after that, the constant change of scene and the pure bracing air had the effect of restoring his spirits, and he felt a powerful inclination to sing. Just, however, as he was about to commence for his own amus.e.m.e.nt, the coach stopped to change horses. In less than two minutes they started again, and Valentine, who then felt ready for anything, began to think seriously of the exercise of his power as a ventriloquist.

"Whit, whit!" said Tooler, the coachman, between a whisper and a whistle, as the fresh horses galloped up the hill.

"Stop! hoa!" cried Valentine, a.s.suming a voice, the sound of which appeared to have travelled some distance.

"You have left some one behind," observed a gentleman in black, who had secured the box seat.

"Oh, let un run a bit!" said Tooler. "Whit! I'll give un a winder up this little hill, and teach un to be up in time in future. If we was to wait for every pa.s.senger as chooses to lag behind, we shouldn't git over the ground in a fortnit."

"Hoa! stop! stop! stop!" reiterated Valentine, in the voice of a man pretty well out of breath.

Tooler, without deigning to look behind, retickled the haunches of his leaders, and gleefully chuckled at the idea of _how_ he was making a pa.s.senger sweat.

The voice was heard no more, and Tooler, on reaching the top of the hill, pulled up and looked round, but could see no man running.

"Where is he?" inquired Tooler.