“By our country’s woes and pains,
  By our sons in servile chains,
  We will drain our dearest veins,
  But they shall be free!”

He emphasized the word shall, and brought his clenched hand down upon the table so forcibly, that the shade over the gas-light shook.

In the midst of it, Mrs. Delano stole out of the room.  She had a great respect and liking for Mr. Bright, but he was sometimes rather too demonstrative to suit her taste.  He was too much carried away with enthusiasm to notice her noiseless retreat, and he went on to the conclusion of his song with unabated energy.  All earnestness is magnetic.  Mr. and Mrs. Blumenthal, and even the children, caught his spirit.  When the song ended, Mr. Blumenthal drew a long breath, and said:  “One needs strong lungs to accompany you, Mr. Bright.  You sang that like the tramp of a regiment.”

“And you blazed away like an explosion of artillery,” rejoined he.

“The fact is,” replied Blumenthal. “the war spirit pervades the air, and I’ve caught it.  I’m going to join the army.”

“Are you?” exclaimed Mr. Bright, seizing his hand with so tight a grip that it made him wince.  “I hope you’ll be my captain.”

Mr. Blumenthal rubbed his hand, and smiled as he said, “I pity the Rebel that you get hold of, Mr. Bright.”

“Ask your pardon.  Ask your pardon,” rejoined he.  “But speaking of the tramp of a regiment, here it goes!” And he struck up “John Brown’s Hallelujah.”  They put their souls into it in such a manner, that the spirit of the brave old martyr seemed marching all through it.

When it came to a conclusion, Mr. Bright remarked:  “Only to think how that incendiary song is sung in Boston streets, and in the parlors too, when only little more than a year ago a great mob was yelling after Wendell Phillips, for speaking on the anniversary of John Brown’s execution.  I said then the fools would get enough of slavery before they’d done with it; and I reckon they’re beginning to find it out, not only the rowdies, but the nabobs that set ’em on.  War ain’t a blessing, but it’s a mighty great teacher; that’s a fact.  No wonder the slavites hated Phillips.  He aims sure and hits hard.  No use in trying to pass off shams upon him.  If you bring him anything that ain’t real mahogany, his blows’ll be sure to make the veneering fly.  But I’m staying too long.  I only looked in to tell you I was going.”  He glanced round for Mrs. Delano, and added:  “I’m afraid I sung too loud for that quiet lady.  The fact is, I’m full of fight.”

“That’s what the times demand,” replied Mr. Blumenthal.

They bade him “Good night,” and smiled at each other to hear his strong voice, as it receded in the distance, still singing, “His soul is marching on.”

“Now I will go to Mamita,” said Flora.  “Her gentle spirit suffers in these days.  This morning, when she saw a company of soldiers marching by, and heard the boys hurrahing, she said to me so piteously, ’O Flora, these are wild times.’  Poor Mamita! she’s like a dove in a tornado.”