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A ship lost at sea for many days suddenly sighted a friendly vessel. From the mast of the unfortunate vessel was seen a signal: "Water, water; we die of thirst!" The answer from the friendly vessel at once came back: "Cast down your bucket where you are." A second time the signal, "Water, water; send us water!" ran up from the distressed vessel, and was answered: "Cast down your bucket where you are." And a third and fourth signal for water was answered: "Cast down your bucket where you are." The captain of the distressed vessel, at last heeding the injunction, cast down his bucket, and it came up full of fresh, sparkling water from the mouth of the Amazon River. To those of my race who depend on bettering their condition in a foreign land, or who underestimate the importance of cultivating friendly relations with the Southern white man, who is their next-door neighbor, I would say: "Cast down your bucket where you are - cast it down in making friends in every manly way of the people of all races by whom we are surrounded.

Booker T. Washington: Up From Slavery.1

It is done!

Clang of bell and roar of gun
Send the tidings up and down.
How the belfries rock and reel!
How the great guns, peal on peal,
Fling the joy from town to town!

Ring, O bells!

Every stroke exulting tells

Of the burial hour of crime.

Loud and long, that all may hear,

Ring for every listening ear

Of Eternity and Time!

How they pale,

Ancient myth and song and tale,

1 Used with the kind permission of the publishers, Doubleday, Page and Company.

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Macbeth. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They come!" Our castle's strength

Will laugh a siege to scorn; here let them lie

Till famine and the ague eat them up.

Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours,

We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,

And beat them backward home. (A cry of women within.)
What is that noise?

Seyton. It is the cry of women, my good lord. (Exit.)
Macbeth. I have almost forgot the taste of fears.

The time has been, my senses would have cool'd

To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair

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Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir

As life were in 't. I have supp'd full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,

Cannot once start me.

Re-enter Seyton

Wherefore was that cry?

Seyton. The queen, my lord, is dead.

Macbeth. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Shakespeare: Macbeth, v, v.

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim.

The unwearied Sun, from day to day,

Does his Creator's power display;

And publishes to every land

The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,

The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly to the listening Earth

Repeats the story of her birth:

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine,
"The Hand that made us is divine."

8.

Wolsey.

At

Addison: Hymn.

Enter Cromwell, amazedly

Why, how now, Cromwell!

What! amaz'd

Cromwell. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wolsey.

my

misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,

I am fallen indeed.

Cromwell.

Wolsey.

How does your Grace?

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now; and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities,

Why, well;

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his Grace; and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour.
O, 't is a burden, Cromwell, 't is a burden.

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!

Cromwell. I am glad your Grace has made that right use
of it.
Wolsey.

I hope I have: I am able now, methinks,
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,

To endure more miseries, and greater far
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master. Seek the king;
That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him

What and how true thou art; he will advance thee;
Some little memory of me will stir him

I know his noble nature- - not to let

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Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Cromwell.
0 my lord!
Must I then leave you? must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
The king shall have my service, but my prayers
For ever and for ever shall be yours.

Wolsey.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?

Love thyself last cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell!

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;

And, prithee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 't is the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all

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