The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas
The blackbird's note comes mellow from the dale,
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals

The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dovelike wings peace o'er yon village broods;
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.

TONE OF APPEAL.

(See Tone Drill No. 16.)

[The tone of Appeal is objective and personal. Its characteristic is a desire to persuade or dissuade. It does not demand. It asks and hopes.]

An Appeal for the Cause of Liberty.

JOHN HARRINGTON.

I do not say, elect this candidate or that candidate. I am not canvassing for any candidate. I am canvassing for the cause of liberty against slavery, I am defending the reputation of Union against the slanderous attack of Disunion, against the fearful peril of secession. I appeal to you, as you are men, to act as men in this great crisis; to put your strong hands together and avert the overwhelming disaster that threatens us; to stand side by side, as brothers.

I appeal from license to law, from division to harmony, from the raging turmoil of angry and devouring passion without, to the calm serenity which reigns within these walls. As we turn in horror and loathing from the unbridled fury

of human beings, changed almost to beasts, so let us turn in hope and security to those things we can honor and respect, to the dignity of truth, to the unbending strength of unquestioned right.

I appeal to you to make this day the greatest in your lives, the most memorable in our history as a nation. Lay aside this day the memories of the past, and look forward to the brightness of the future. Throw down the weapons of petty and murderous strife, and join together in perfect harmony of mutual trust. Be neither Republicans, nor Democrats, nor Independents. Be what it is your greatest privilege to be -American citizens. Cast parties to the winds and uphold the State. Trample under your freeborn feet the badges of party bondage, the ignoble chains of party slavery, the wretched hopes of preferment;

"Yes, by the blood our fathers shed,

O Union, in thy sacred cause,

Whilst streaming from the gallant dead,

It sealed and sanctified thy laws."

Choose, then, of your own heart and will, a man, to be our President and our leader. Elect him with one accord, and, as you give your voices in his choice, stand here together, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, hand to hand, and let the mighty oath go thundering up to Heaven, "This Union shall not be broken."

Patriotic Appeal.

J. M'DOWELL.

Give us but a part of that devotion which glowed in the heart of the younger Pitt, and of our own elder Adams, who, in the midst of their agonies, forgot not the countries they had lived for, but mingled with the spasms of their dying hour a last and imploring appeal to the Parent of all Mercies

that he would remember, in eternal blessings, the land of their birth: give us their devotion, give us that of the young enthusiast of Paris, who listening to Mirabeau in one of his surpassing vindications of human right, and seeing him fall from his stand, dying, as a physician proclaimed, for the want of blood, rushed to the spot, and as he bent over the expiring man, bared his arm for the lancet, and cried again, and again, with impassioned voice-"Here, take it—take it -oh! take it from me, let me die, so that Mirabeau and the liberties of my country may not perish!" Give us something only of such a spirit as this-something only of such a love of country, and we are safe, forever safe: the troubles which shadow over and oppress us now, will pass away as a summer cloud. No measure of unalienable wrong, no measure of unconquerable disagreement, will be pressed upon us here. The fatal element of all our discord will be taken from amongst us.

Let gentlemen be entreated to remove it as the one only and solitary obstacle to our perfect peace. Let them be adjured by the weal of this and coming ages-by our own and our children's good-by all that we love or that we look for in the progress and the glories of our land, to leave the entire subject of slavery, with every accountability it may impose, every remedy it may require, every accumulation of difficulty or pressure it may reach; to leave it all to the interest, to the wisdom, and to the conscience of those upon whom the providence of God and the Constitution of their country have cast it. Leave it to them now and forever, and stop, whilst it is yet possible to stop, the furious and blind headway of that wild and mad philanthropy, which is lighting up for the nation itself the fires of the stake, and which is rushing on, stride after stride, to an intestine struggle that may bring us all under a harder, and wickeder and more incurable slavery, than any it would extinguish.

Arthur's Appeal.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

O, save me Hubert, save me! my eyes are out
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly:

Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Is there no remedy?

O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense!

Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert;
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes,
Though to no use but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold
And would not harm me.

King John iv., 1.

Katherine's Appeal.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Sir, I desire you do me right and justice,
And to bestow your pity on me; for

I am a most poor woman, and a stranger,
Born out of your dominions; having here
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance

Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir,
In what have I offended you? what cause
Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure,
That thus you should proceed to put me off,

And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness,
I have been to you a true and humble wife,
At all times to your will conformable,

Ever in fear to kindle your dislike,

Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry
As I saw it inclined: when was the hour

I ever contradicted your desire,

Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends
Have I not strove to love, although I knew
He were mine enemy? what friend of mine
That had to him derived your anger, did I
Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice
He was from thence discharged? Sir, call to mind
That I have been your wife, in this obedience,
Upward of twenty years, and have been blest
With many children by you: if in the course
And process of this time you can report,
And prove it too, against mine honour aught,
My bond to wedlock or my love and duty,
Against your sacred person, in God's name,
Turn me away, and let the foul'st contempt
Shut door upon me, and so give me up
To the sharp'st kind of justice.

I humbly

Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may

Be by my friends in Spain advised, whose counsel

I will implore: if not, i' the name of God,

Your pleasure be fulfill'd!

Henry VIII ii., 4.