(See Tone Drill No. 134.) [The tone of Hatred indicates dislike in the most intense degree. It says to the listener, “Every inch of me detests this person or thing.'']

The Seminole's Defiance.


Blaze, with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee: The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now is free! I've mailed it with the thunder, when the tempest muttered


And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of its

blow. I've scared you in the city, I've scalped you on the plain; Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my leaden

rain! I scorn your proffered treaty; the pale-lace I defy; Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and "blood” my battle


Some strike for hope of booty; some to defend their all-
I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall.
I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his groan.
You've trailed me through the forest; you've tracked me

o'er the stream; And struggling through the everglade your bristling bayonets

gleam. But I stand as should the warrior, with liis rifle and his

spear; The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you—“Come

not here!"

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Think ye to find my homestead ?-I gave it to the fire.
My tawny household do you seek?-I am a childless sir

But, should you crave life's nourishment, enough I have, and


I live on hate—’tis all my bread; yet light is not my food.
I loathe you with my bosom! I scorn you with mine eye!
And I'll të int you with my latest breath, and fight you till

I die in
I ne'er will & for quarter, and I ne'er will be your slave;
But I'll swin he sea of slaughter till I sink beneath the


Shylock's Hatred of Antorio.


How like a fawning publican he looks !
I hate him for he is a Christian;
But more for that in low simplicity
He lends out money gratis and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip,
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him !

---Merchant of Venice, i., 3.


(See Tone Drill No. 113.) [The tone of Horror manifests an extreme fear or detestation.]

The Death Penalty.


A man, a convict, a sentenced wretch, is dragged, on a certain morning, to one of our public squares. There he

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finds the scaffold! He shudders, he struggles, he refuses to die. He is young yet-only twenty-nine. Ah! I know what you will say,-"He is a murderer!" But hear me. Two officers seize him. His hands, his feet, are tied. He throws off the two officers. A frightful struggle ensues. His feet, bound as they are, become entangled in the lad the scaffold against the scaffold! The strugg prolonged. Horror seizes on the crowd. The officers,-S it and shame on their brows,-pale, panting, terrified, despairing,—despairing with I know not what horrible despair,—shrinking under that public reprobation which ought to have visited the penalty, and spared the passive instrument, the executioner,—the officers strive savagely.

The victim clings to the scaffold, and shrieks for pardon. His clothes are torn,-his shoulders bloody,-still he resists. At length, after three quarters of an hour of this monstrous effort, of this spectacle without a name, of this agony,agony for all, be it understood,—agony for the assembled spectators as well as for the condemned man,-after this age of anguish, Gentlemen of the Jury, they take back the poor wretch to his prison. The People breathe again.

The People, naturally merciful, hope that the man will be spared. But no,—the guillotine, though vanquished, remains standing. There it frowns all day, in the midst of a sickened population. And at night, the officers, reinforced, drag forth the wretch again, so bound that he is but an inert weight,—they drag him forth, haggard, bloody, weeping, pleading, howling for life,-calling upon God, calling upon his father and mother,—for like a very child had this man become in the prospect of death,—they drag him forth to execution. He is hoisted on to the scaffold, and his head falls !—And then through every conscience runs a shudder. Never had legal murder appeared with an aspect so indecent, so abominable.

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Clarence's Dream.


O! I have pass'd a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 't were to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time.
Methought, that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy;
And, in my company, my brother Gloster,
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches: thence we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befall’n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought, that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,
Struck me (that thought to stay him) over-board,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
O Lord ! methought what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes !
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea :
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in the holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 't were in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
My dream was lengthen'd after life.

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0! then began the tempest to my soul !
I pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that sour ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,
Who cried aloud,—“What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?"
And so he vanish'd. Then, came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud,
“Clarence is come,-false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,-
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury ;-
Seize on him, furies ! take him unto torment!"
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise,
I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell;
Such terrible impression made my dream.

-Richard III, i., 4.


(See Tone Drill No. 29.) [The tone of Belittling indicates a mild form of Contempt. It says to the listener, “I set little value on this.'']

The Lake School of Poetry.


The Lake school of poetry had its origin in the French Revolution, or rather in those sentiments and opinions which produced that revolution. According to the prevailing notions, all was to be natural and new. Nothing that was established was to be tolerated. All the commonplace figures

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