SCENE I.

HUBERT _and_ ARTHUR.

HUB. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras; when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, And bind the boy, which you will find with me, Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

1. ATTEND. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

HUB. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to't.--

_Exeunt_ Attendants.

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

_Enter Arthur._

ARTH. Good morrow, Hubert.

HUB. Good morrow, little prince.

ARTH. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince), as may be.--You are sad.

HUB. Indeed, I have been merrier.

ARTH. Mercy on me! Methinks, nobody should be sad but I: Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my christendom, So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me: He is afraid of me, and I of him: Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son? No, indeed, is 't not; And I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

HUB. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead: Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [_Aside._

ARTH. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day: In sooth, I would you were a little sick; That I might sit all night, and watch with you; I warrant I love you more than you do me.

HUB. His words do take possession of my bosom.-- Read here, young Arthur [_Shewing a paper._

How now, foolish rheum. [_Aside._ Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief; lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears. Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

ARTH. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

HUB. Young boy, I must. ARTH. And will you?

HUB. And I will.

ARTH. Have you the heart? When your head did but ake, I knit my hand-kercher about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me), And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time; Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief? Or, What good love may I perform for you? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And call it cunning; do, an if you will; If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill, Why, then you must.--Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you?

HUB. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out.

ARTH. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, And quench his fiery indignation, Even in the matter of mine innocence; Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron? And if an angel should have come to me, And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believ'd him. No tongue but Hubert's--

HUB. Come forth. [_Stamps.

Re-enter_ Attendants, _with Cords, Irons, etc._

Do as I bid you do.

ARTH. O, save me, Hubert, save me? my eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

HUB. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

ARTH. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 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.

HUB. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

IST. ATTEND. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.

[_Exeunt_ Attendants.

ARTH. Alas! I then have chid away my friend; He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:-- Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours.

HUB. Come, boy, prepare yourself.

ARTH. Is there no remedy?

HUB. None, but to lose your eyes.

ARTH. O heaven!--that there were 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 boist'rous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

HUB. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.

ARTH. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes; 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.

HUB. I can heat it, boy.

ARTH. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us'd In undeserv'd extremes: See else yourself; There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.

HUB. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

ARTH. And if you do, you will but make it blush, And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert: Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes; And, like a dog that is compelled to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office; only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

HUB. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes For all the treasure that thine uncle owes; Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out.

ARTH. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised.

HUB. Peace: no more. Adieu; Your uncle must not know but you are dead; I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports. And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure, That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee.

ARTH. O heaven!--I thank you, Hubert.

HUB Silence; no more: Go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for thee. [_Exeunt_

* * * * *

ROMEO AND JULIET.

BALCONY SCENE.

ROMEO. He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

[JULIET _appears on the Balcony, and sits down._

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid, art far more fair than she. "It is my lady; Oh! it is my love: Oh, that she knew she were!" She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses: I will answer it. I am too bold. Oh, were those eyes in heaven, They would through the airy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!

JULIET. Ah, me!

ROMEO. She speaks, she speaks! Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven To the upturned wond'ring eyes of mortals, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air.

JULIET. Oh, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name: Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

ROMEO. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JULIET. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy! What's in a name? that which we call a rose, By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title! Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.

ROMEO. I take thee at thy word! Call me but love, I will forswear my name And never more be Romeo.

JULIET. What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night So stumblest on my counsel?

ROMEO. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am! My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee.

JULIET. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound! Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

ROMEO. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.

JULIET. How cam'st thou hither?--tell me--and for what? The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb; And the place, death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

ROMEO. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out; And what love can do, that dares love attempt; Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.

JULIET. If they do see thee here, they'll murder thee.

ROMEO. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye, Than twenty of their swords! look thou but sweet, And I, am proof against their enmity.

JULIET. I would not, for the world, they saw thee here. By whose direction found'st thou out this place?

ROMEO. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire; He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far As that vast shore washed by the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.

JULIET. Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night! Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny What I have spoke! But farewell compliment! Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say--Ay; And I will take thy word! yet, if thou swear'st, Thou may'st prove false; at lover's perjuries, They say, Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully! Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo! but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond: And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light! But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard'st ere I was ware, My true love's passion; therefore, pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night has so discovered.

ROMEO. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear--

JULIET. Oh! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon That monthly changes in her circled orb; Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. ROMEO. What shall I swear by?

JULIET. Do not swear at all; Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee.

ROMEO. If my true heart's love--

JULIET. Well, do not swear! Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night; It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, Ere one can say--'It lightens.' Sweet, good-night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good-night, good-night!--as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart, as that within my breast!

ROMEO. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

ROMEO. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.

JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again.

ROMEO. Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?

JULIET. But to be frank, and give it thee again. My bounty is as boundless as the sea; My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have; for both are infinite. I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!

NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!

JULIET. Anon, good Nurse! Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [_Exit from balcony_.

ROMEO. Oh! blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

_Re-enter Juliet, above_.

JULIET. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee, Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay; And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.

NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!

JULIET. I come anon! But, if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee--

NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!

JULIET. By and by, I come!-- To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief. To-morrow will I send.

ROMEO. So thrive my soul--

JULIET. A thousand times good-night! [_Exit_.]

ROMEO. A thousand times the worse to want thy light.

_Re-enter Juliet_

JULIET. Hist! Romeo, hist! Oh, for a falconer's voice, To lure this tassel-gentle back again! Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, With repetition of my Romeo's name.

ROMEO. It is my love that calls upon my name! How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears!

JULIET. Romeo!

ROMEO. My dear!

JULIET. At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee?

ROMEO. At the hour of nine.

JULIET. I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back.

ROMEO. Let me stand here till thou remember it.

JULIET. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there Remembering how I love thy company.

ROMEO. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

JULIET. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone, And yet no further than a wanton's bird; Who lets it hop a little from her hand, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of its liberty.

ROMEO. I would I were thy bird.

JULIET. Sweet, so would I! Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing Good-night, good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say--Good-night, till it be morrow.

[_Exit from balcony_]

ROMEO. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell; His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

_Shakespeare_

* * * * *

THE POTION SCENE.

(_Romeo and Juliet_.)

JULIET'S CHAMBER.

_Enter Juliet and Nurse_.

JULIET. Ay, those attires are best;--but gentle nurse. I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin.

_Enter Lady Capulet_.

LADY C. What are you busy? Do you need my help?

JULIET. No, madam; we have culled such necessaries. As are behoveful for our state to-morrow: So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you; For, I am sure, you have your hands full all, In this so sudden business.

LADY C. Then, good-night! Get thee to bed, and rest! for thou hast need.

[_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse_.

JULIET. Farewell!--Heaven knows when we shall meet again-- I have a faint cold fear, thrills through my veins, That almost freezes up the heat of life: I'll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse!--What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. [_Takes out the phial_. Come, phial-- What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I of force be married to the Count? No, no;--this shall forbid it!--[_Draws a dagger_.]--Lie thou there.-- What, if it be a poison which the friar Subtly hath ministered to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonoured, Because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is; and yet, methinks it should not; For he hath still been tried a holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought.-- How, if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death and night Together with the terror of the place,-- As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where, for these many hundred years, the bones Of all my buried ancestors are packed, Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort;-- Oh, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environéd with all these hideous fears, And madly play with my forefathers' joints,-- And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?-- Oh, look! methinks, I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo:--Stay, Tybalt, stay!-- Romeo, I come; this do I drink to thee.-- _[Drinks the contents of the phial._ Oh, potent draught, thou hast chilled me to the heart!-- My head turns round;--my senses fail me.-- Oh, Romeo! Romeo!-- _[Throws herself on the bed._

* * * * *

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

Oh, is it a phantom? a dream of the night? A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight? The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain, To and fro, up and down. But it is not the wind That is lifting it now; and it is not the mind That hath moulded that vision. A pale woman enters, As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer, There, all in a slumb'rous and shadowy glimmer, The sufferer sees that still form floating on, And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. She is flitting before him. She pauses She stands By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing Softly, softly, the sore wounds: the hot blood-stained dressing Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals Thro' the racked weary frame; and throughout it, he feels The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood. Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before him, It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping! A soft voice says--'Sleep!' And he sleeps: he is sleeping. He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there: Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering The aspect of all things around him. Revering Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd In silence the sense of salvation. And rest Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly Sigh'd--'Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly 'And minist'ring spirit! A whisper serene Slid softer than silence--'The Soeur Seraphine, 'A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire 'Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, 'For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. 'Thou didst not shun death: shun not life. 'Tis more brave To live than to die. Sleep!' He sleeps: he is sleeping. He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping The skies with chill splendour. And there, never flitting, Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning, Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. He said: 'If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, 'Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 'Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing 'Thy mission of mercy! whence art thou? 'O son 'Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One 'Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead; 'To thee, and to others, alive yet'--she said-- 'So long as there liveth the poor gift in me 'Of this ministration; to them, and to thee, 'Dead in all things beside. A French nun, whose vocation 'Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. 'Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe, 'There her land! there her kindred!' She bent down to smooth The hot pillow, and added--'Yet more than another 'Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, 'I know them--I know them.' 'Oh can it be? you! 'My dearest, dear father! my mother! you knew, 'You know them?' She bow'd, half averting her head In silence. He brokenly, timidly said, 'Do they know I am thus?' 'Hush!'--she smiled as she drew From her bosom two letters; and--can it be true? That beloved and familiar writing! He burst Into tears--'My poor mother,--my father! the worst 'Will have reached them!' 'No, no!' she exclaimed with a smile, 'They know you are living; they know that meanwhile 'I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!' But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd. There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest; And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, The calm voice say--'Sleep!' And he sleeps, he is sleeping'

* * * * *

SIM'S LITTLE GIRL.

Come out here, George Burks. Put that glass down--can't wait a minute. Business particular--concerns the Company.

I don't often meddle in other folks' business, do I? When a tough old fellow like me sets out to warn a body, you may know its because he sees sore need of it. _Just takin' drinks for good fellowship?_ Yes, I know all 'bout that. Been there myself. Sit down on the edge of the platform here.

Of all the men in the world, I take it, engineers ought to be the last to touch the bottle. We have life and property trusted to our hands. Ours is a grand business--I don't think folks looks at it as they ought to. Remember when I was a young fellow, like you, just set up with an engine, I used to feel like a strong angel, or somethin', rushin' over the country, makin' that iron beast do just as I wanted him to. The power sort of made me think fast.

I was doin' well when I married, and I did well long afterwards. We had a nice home, the little woman and me: our hearts were set on each other, and she was a little proud of her engineer--she used to say so, anyhow. She was sort of mild and tender with her tongue. Not one of your loud ones. And pretty, too. But you know what it is to love a woman, George Burks--I saw you walking with a blue-eyed little thing last Sunday.

After a while we had the little girl. We talked a good deal about what we should call her, my wife and I. We went clean through the Bible, and set down all the fine story names we heard of. But nothin' seemed to suit. I used to puzzle the whole length of my route to find a name for that little girl. My wife wanted to call her Endora Isabel. But that sounded like folderol. Then we had up Rebeccar, and Maud, and Amanda Ann, and what not. Finally, whenever I looked at her, I seemed to see "Katie." She looked Katie. I took to calling her Katie, and she learned it--so Katie she was.

I tell you, George, that was a child to be noticed. She was rounder and prettier made'n a wax figger; her eyes was bigger and blacker'n any grown woman's you ever saw, set like stars under her forehead, and her hair was that light kind that all runs to curls and glitter.

Soon's she could toddle, she used to come dancin' to meet me. I've soiled a-many of her white pinafores buryin' my face in them before I was washed, and sort of prayin' soft like under the roof of my heart, "God bless my baby! God bless my little lamb!"

As she grew older, I used to talk to her about engin'--even took her into my cab, and showed the 'tachments of the engin', and learned her signals and such things. She tuk such an interest, and was the smartest little thing! Seemed as if she had always knowed 'em. She loved the road. Remember once hearing her say to a playmate: "There's my papa. He's an engineer. Don't you wish he was your papa?"

My home was close by the track. Often and often the little girl stood in our green yard, waving her mite of a hand as we rushed by.

Well, one day I started on my home trip, full of that good fellowship you was imbibin' awhile ago. Made the engine whizz! We was awful jolly, the fireman and me. Never was drunk when I got on my engine before, or the Company would have shipped me. Warn't no such time made on that road before nor since. I had just sense enough to know what I was about, but not enough to handle an emergency. We fairly roared down on the trestle that stood at the entrance of our town.

I had a tipsy eye out, and, George, as we was flyin' through the suburbs, I see my little girl on the track ahead, wavin' a red flag and standin' stock still!

The air seemed full of Katies. I could have stopped the engine if I'd only had sense enough to know what to take hold of to reverse her! But I was too drunk! And that grand little angel stood up to it, trying to warn us in time, and we just swept right along into a pile of ties some wretch had placed on the track!--right over my baby! Oh, my baby! Go away, George.

There! And do you want me to tell you how that mangled little mass killed her mother? And do you want me to tell you I walked alive a murderer of my own child, who stood up to save me? And do you want me to tell you the good fellowship you were drinkin' awhile ago brought all this on me?

You'll let this pass by, makin' up your mind to be moderate. Hope you will. I was a moderate un.

(Oh, God! Oh, my baby!)

_Mary Hartwell._

* * * * *

PRAYER.

More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day: For what are men better than sheep or goats, That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friends? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

_Tennyson._

* * * * *

EXPERIENCE WITH EUROPEAN GUIDES.

European guides know about enough English to tangle everything up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart,-- the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would,--and if you interrupt and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration.

It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what prompts children to say "smart" things and do absurd ones, and in other ways "show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect ecstacies of admiration! He gets so that he could not by any possibility live in a soberer atmosphere.

After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more,--we never admired anything,--we never showed anything but impassable faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of those people savage at times, but we never lost our serenity.

The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes natural to him.

The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation,--full of impatience. He said:--

"Come wis me, genteelmen!--come! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo!--write it himself!--write it wis his own hand!--come!"

He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger:--

"What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher Colombo!--write it himself!"

We looked indifferent,--unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of interest,--

"Ah,--Ferguson,--what--what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?"

"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"

Another deliberate examination.

"Ah,--did he write it himself, or,--or, how?"

"He write it himself!--Christopher Colombo! he's own handwriting, write by himself!"

Then the doctor laid the document down and said,--

"Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that."

"But zis is ze great Christo--"

"I don't care who it is! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!--and if you haven't, drive on!"

We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said,--

"Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us! I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo!--splendid, grand, magnificent!"

He brought us before the beautiful bust,--for it was beautiful,--and sprang back and struck an attitude,--

"Ah, look, genteelmen!--beautiful, grand,--bust Christopher Columbo!-- beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!"

The doctor put up his eye-glass,--procured for such occasions:--

"Ah,--what did you say this gentleman's name was?"

"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"

"Christopher Colombo,--the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he do?"

"Discover America!--discover America--oh, ze diable!"

"Discover America? No,--that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. Christopher Colombo,--pleasant name,--is--is he dead?"

"Oh, corpo di Bacco!--three hundred year!"

"What did he die of?"

"I do not know. I cannot tell."

"Small-pox, think?"

"I do not know, genteelmen,--I do not know what he die of!"

"Measles, likely?"

"Maybe,--maybe. I do not know,--I think he die of something."

"Parents living?"

"Im-posseeble"

"Ah,--which is the bust and which is the pedestal?"

"Santa Maria!--zis ze bust!--zis ze pedestal!"

"Ah, I see, I see,--happy combination,--very happy combination, indeed. Is --is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust."

That joke was lost on the foreigner,--guides cannot master the subtleties of the American joke.

We have made it interesting for this Roman guide.

Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last,--a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure this time that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him:--

"See, genteelmen!--Mummy! Mummy!"

The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.

"Ah,--Ferguson,--what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name was?"

"Name?--he got no name!--Mummy!--'Gyptian mummy!"

"Yes, yes. Born here?"

"No. 'Gyptian mummy!"

"Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?"

"No! Not Frenchman, not Roman! Born in Egypta!"

"Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy,--mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed! Is--ah!--is he dead?"

"Oh, sacré bleu! been dead three thousan' year!"

The doctor turned on him savagely:--

"Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing us for Chinamen, because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose your vile secondhand carcasses on us! Thunder and lightning! I've a notion to--to--if you've got a nice, fresh corpse fetch him out!--or we'll brain you!"

However, he has paid us back partly, and without knowing it. He came to the hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavoured, as well as he could, to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. He finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The observation was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a guide to say.

Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering subject we have had yet. We shall be sorry to part with him. We have enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are harassed with doubts.

_Mark Twain._

* * * * *

FIRST EXPERIENCE.

A very intelligent Irishman tells the following incident of his experience in America: I came to this country several years ago, and, as soon as I arrived, hired out to a gentleman who farmed a few acres. He showed me over the premises, the stables, the cow, and where the corn, hay, oats, etc., were kept, and then sent me in to my supper. After supper, he said to me, "James, you may feed the cow, and give her corn in the ear." I went out and walked about, thinking, "what could he mean? Had I understood him?" I scratched my head, then resolved I would enquire again; so I went into the library where my master was writing very busily and he answered me without looking up: "I thought I told you to give the cow some corn in the ear."

I went out more puzzled than ever. What sort of an animal must this Yankee cow be? I examined her mouth and ears. The teeth were good, and the ears like those of kine in the old country. Dripping with sweat, I entered my master's presence once more "Please, sir, you bid me give the cow some corn _in the ear_, but didn't you mean the _mouth?_" He looked at me a moment, and then burst into such a convulsion of laughter, that I made for the stable as fast as my feet could take me, thinking I was in the service of a crazy man.

* * * * *

POOR LITTLE JOE.

Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey, Fur I've brought you sumpin great. Apples? No, a deal sight better! Don't you take no interest, wait' Flowers, Joe,--I know'd you'd like 'em-- Ain't them scrumptious, ain't them high Tears, my boy, what's them fur, Joey? There--poor little Joe--don't cry.

I was skippin' past a winder, Where a bang-up lady sot, All amongst a lot of bushes-- Each one climbin' from a pot. Every bush had flowers on it; Pretty! Mebbe' not! Oh no' Wish you could a-seen'm growin', It was such a stunnin show.

Well, I thought of you, poor feller, Lyin' here so sick and weak, Never knowin' any comfort, And I puts on lots o' cheek; "Missus," says I, "if yo please, mum, Could I ax you for a rose? For my little brother, missus, Never seed one, I suppose."

Then I told her all about you-- How I bringed you up,--poor Joe! (Lackin' women-folks to do it) Sich a imp you was, you know-- Till yer got that awful tumble, Jist as I had broke yer in (Hard work, too), to earn yer livin' Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you-- So's you couldn't hyper much-- Joe, it hurted when I see you For the first time with your crutch. "But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum, 'Pears to weaken every day." Joe, she up and went to cuttin'-- That's the how of this bokay.

Say! it seems to me, ole feller, You is quite yourself to-night; Kind o' chirk, it's been a fortnight Sence your eyes have been so bright. Better! well, I'm glad to hear it! Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe, Smellin' of them's made you happy? Well, I thought it would, you know.

Never see the country did you? Flowers growin' everywhere! Sometime when you're better, Joey, Mebbe I kin take you there. Flowers in heaven! 'M--I spose so; Dunno much about it though; Ain't as fly as wot I might be On them topics, little Joe.

But I've heerd it hinted somewheres, That in heaven's golden gates, Things is everlastin' cheerful, B'lieve that's wot the Bible states. Likewise, there folks don't get hungry; So good people when they dies, Finds themselves well-fixed for ever-- Joe, my boy, wot ails your eyes?

Thought they looked a Jittle singler. Oh no! don't you have no fear; Heaven was made for such as you is-- Joe, what makes you look so queer? Here--wake up! Oh, don't look that way! Joe, my boy, hold up your head! Here's your flowers you dropped 'em, Joey. Oh, my Joe! can he be dead?

_Peleg Arkwright._

* * * * *

NIAGARA.

The thoughts are strange that crowd upon my brain As I look upward to thee! It would seem As if God poured thee from His hollow hand, And hung His bow upon thine awful front, And spake in that loud voice that seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, The sound of many waters; and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His centuries in the eternal rock!

Deep calleth unto deep, and what are we That hear the questions of that voice sublime? O what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side? Yea, what is all the riot man can make, In his short life, to thine unceasing roar? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave That runs and whispers of thy Maker's might!

_John G. C. Brainard._

* * * * *

WOUNDED.

Let me lie down, Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree, Here low on the trampled grass, where I may see, The surge of the combat, and where I may hear, The glad cry of Victory, cheer upon cheer, Let me lie down.

Oh! it was grand! Like the tempest we charged in the triumph to share, The tempest, its fury and thunder were there, On! on! o'er entrenchments, o'er living, o'er dead, With the foe under our feet, and our flag overhead, Oh! it was grand!

Weary and faint, Prone on the soldier's couch, ah! how can I rest, With this shot-shattered head, and sabre-pierced breast? Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought, Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,-- Wounded and faint.

Dying at last! My Mother, dear Mother, with meek tearful eye. Farewell! and God bless you, forever and aye! Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast, To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest: Dying at last!

I am no saint! But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,-- "Our Father;" and then says, "Forgive us our sins,"-- Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say, Amen! Ah, I'm no saint!

Hark! there's a shout! Raise me up, comrades, we've conquered, I know, Up, up, on my feet, with my face to the foe. Ah! there flies our flag with its star-spangles bright, The promise of victory, the symbol of might, Well! may we shout.

I'm mustered out! Oh! God of our Fathers, our freedom prolong, And tread down oppression, rebellion, and wrong. Oh! land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened sod, I die for the Nation, the Union, and God. I'm mustered out!

_Anon._

* * * * *

THE WHISTLER.

"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood While he sat on a corn sheaf, at daylight's decline,-- "You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood: I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine."

"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, While an arch smile played over her beautiful face, "I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side and would there take her place."

"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours Without any magic!" the fair maiden cried: A favour so slight one's good-nature secures;" And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm Would work so that not even modesty's check Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm." She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck.

"Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,-- You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine; And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss."

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,-- "What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make! For only consider how silly 'twould be To sit there and whistle for what you might take."

_Robert Story_.

* * * * *

TOM.

Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew. Just listen to this:-- When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through, And I with it, helpless there, full in my view What do you think my eyes saw through the fire That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher? But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see The shining. He must have come there after me, Toddled alone from the cottage without

Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout-- Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men, Save little Robin!" Again and again They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall. I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call, "Never mind, baby, sit still like a man! We're coming to get you as fast as we can." They could not see him but I could. He sat Still on a beam, his little straw hat Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise, Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept, The roar of the fire up above must have kept The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came Again and again. O God, what a cry! The axes went faster. I saw the sparks fly Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat That scorched them,--when, suddenly, there at their feet

The great beams leaned in--they saw him--then, crash, Down came the wall! The men made a dash,-- Jumped to get out of the way,--and I thought, "All's up with poor little Robin!" and brought Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide The sight of the child there,--when swift, at my side, Some one rushed by and went right through the flame, Straight as a dart--caught the child--and then came Back with him, choking and crying, but--saved! Saved safe and sound!

Oh, how the men raved, Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall Where I was lying, away from the fire, Should fall in and bury me.

Oh! you'd admire, To see Robin now: he's as bright as a dime, Deep in some mischief too, most of the time. Tom, it was saved him. Now, isn't it true Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew? There's Robin now! See he's strong as a log! And there comes Tom too-- Yes, Tom is our dog.

_Constance Fenimore Woolsen_

* * * * *

TEMPERANCE.

The need of the hour is a grand tidal wave of total abstinence sweeping over the land. The strongest protest possible must be made against intemperance. Total abstinence is the protest. Will it be made with sufficient force to save the people? This is the vital question for the future of America, and I might add for the future of religion. What is to be done? I speak to those who by position, influence, talent, or office ought to take an interest in the people. In the name of humanity, of country, of religion, by all the most sacred ties that bind us to our fellow-men for the love of Him who died for souls, I beseech you, declare war against intemperance! Arrest its onward march! If total abstinence does not appear to you the remedy, adopt some other. If you differ from me in the means you propose, I will not complain. But I will complain in the bitterness of my soul if you stand by, arms folded, while this dreadful torrent is sweeping over the land, carrying with it ruin and misery. The brightest minds and the noblest hearts are numbered among the victims. Human wrecks whose fortune it has dissipated, whose intellect it has stifled, are strewn over the land as thick as autumnal leaves in the forest. Alcohol directly inflames the passions; it is oil poured on the burning fire. It turns man into an animal; it makes him the demon incarnate. One week's perusal of the daily paper fills the mind with horror at the shocking accidents, the suicides, the murders, the ruin of innocence, and the crimes of all kinds caused by intemperance.

_Rt. Rev. John Ireland._

* * * * *

THE BALD-HEADED MAN.

The other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small boy, boarded a train at Little Rock. The woman had a careworn expression hanging over her face like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid questions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious sighs.

"Ma," said the boy, "that man's like a baby, ain't he?" pointing to a bald- headed man sitting just in front of them.

"Hush!"

"Why must I hush?"

After a few moments' silence: "Ma, what's the matter with that man's head?

"Hush, I tell you. He's bald."

"What's bald?"

"His head hasn't got any hair on it."

"Did it come off?"

"I guess so."

"Will mine come off?"

"Some time, may be."

"Then I'll be bald, won't I?"

"Yes."

"Will you care?"

"Don't ask so many questions."

After another silence, the boy exclaimed: "Ma, look at that fly on that man's head."

"If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home."

"Look! There's another fly. Look at 'em fight; look at 'em!"

"Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and looking around, "what's the matter with that young hyena?"

The woman blushed, stammered out something, and attempted to smooth back the boy's hair.

"One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy, innocently, following with his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a newsboy.

"Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed man, "if you don't hush, I'll have the conductor put you off the train."

The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to keep him from crying.

"Ma, have I got red marks on my head?"

"I'll whip you again, if you don't hush."

"Mister," said the boy, after a short silence, "does it hurt to be bald- headed?"

"Youngster," said the man, "if you'll keep quiet, I'll give you a quarter."

The boy promised, and the money was paid over.

The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading.

"This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. "When I get bald-headed, I'm goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money?"

The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed: "Madam, hereafter when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to kill the children for making sport of his head, but now I am forced to believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd, he would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, I'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here."

"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and as the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped from her lips.

* * * * *

A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.

She had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. How beautiful I Must be the work of nature to a child In its first fresh impression! Laura stood By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That look'd so still and delicate above, Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the first golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively,-- "Father, dear father, God has made a star."

_Willis_.

* * * * *

EVE'S REGRETS ON QUITTING PARADISE.

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to spend, Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both! O flowers, That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation and my last At even, which I bred up with tender hand From the first opening bud, and gave ye names! Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount? Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorn'd With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee How shall I part, and whither wander down Into a lower world, to this obscure And wild? how shall we breathe in other air Less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits?

_Milton_.

* * * * *

READING THE LIST.

"Is there any news of the war?" she said, "Only a list of the wounded and dead," Was the man's reply, Without lifting his eye To the face of the woman standing by. "Tis the very thing I want," she said; "Read me a list of the wounded and dead."

He read her the list--'twas a sad array Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray: In the very midst was a pause to tell Of a gallant youth, who had fought so well That his comrades asked, "Who is he, pray?" "The only son of the widow Gray," Was the proud reply Of his captain nigh. What ails the woman standing near? Her face has the ashen hue of fear.

"Well, well, read on: is he wounded? be quick O God! but my heart is sorrow sick!" "Is he wounded? no! he fell, they say, Killed outright on that fatal day!" But see! the woman has swooned away.

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light; Slowly recalled the event of the fight; Faintly she murmured, "Killed outright; It has caused the death of my only son; But the battle is fought and the victory won; The will of the Lord, let it be done!" God pity the cheerless widow Gray, And send from the halls of eternal day The light of His peace to illumine her way!

* * * * *

LITTLE MARY'S WISH.

"I have seen the first robin of spring, mother dear, And have heard the brown darling sing; You said, 'Hear it and wish, and 'twill surely come true; So I've wished such a beautiful thing!

"I thought I would like to ask something for _you_, But I couldn't think what there could be That you'd want while you had all those beautiful things; Besides, you have papa and me.

"So I wished for a ladder, so long that 'twould stand One end by our own cottage door, And the other go up past the moon and the stars And lean against heaven's white floor.

"Then I'd get you to put on my pretty white dress, With my sash and my darling new shoes; Then I'd find some white roses to take up to God-- The most beautiful ones I could choose.

"And you and dear papa would sit on the ground And kiss me, and tell me 'Good-bye!' Then I'd go up the ladder far out of your sight, Till I came to the door in the sky.

"I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight? If but _one_ little crack I could see, I would whisper, 'Please, God, let this little, girl in, She's as tired as she can be!

"She came all alone from the earth to the sky, For she's always been wanting to see The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers, 'Please, God, is there room there for me?'

"And then, when the angels had opened the door, God would say, 'Bring the little child here,' But he'd speak it so softly I'd not be afraid, And he'd smile just like you, mother dear

"He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl, And I'd ask Him to send down for you, And papa, and cousin, and all that I love-- Oh, dear' don't you wish 'twould come true?"

The next spring time, when the robins came home, They sang over grasses and flowers That grew where the foot of the ladder stood, Whose top reached the heavenly bowers.

And the parents had dressed the pale, still child, For her flight to the summer land, In a fair white robe, with one snow white rose Folded tight in her pulseless hand.

And now at the foot of the ladder they sit, Looking upward with quiet tears, Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe Of the child at the top appears.

_Mrs. L. M. Blinn._

* * * * *

"GOOD-BYE."

Did you ever hear two married women take leave of each other at the gate on a mild evening? This is how they do it:--"Good-bye!" "Good-bye! Come down and see us soon." "I will. Good-bye." "Good-bye! Don't forget to come soon." "No, I won't. Don't you forget to come up." "I won't. Be sure and bring Sarah Jane with you the next time." "I will. I'd have brought her this time, but she wasn't very well. She wanted to come awfully." "Did she now? That was too bad! Be sure and bring her next time." "I will; and you be sure and bring baby." "I will; I forgot to tell you that he's cut another tooth." "You don't say so! How many has he now?" "Five. It makes him awfully cross." "I dare say it does this hot weather. Well, good-bye! Don't forget to come down." "No, I won't. Don't you forget to come up. Goodbye!" And they separate.

* * * * *

THE WEDDING FEE.

One morning, fifty years ago,-- When apple trees were white with snow Of fragrant blossoms, and the air Was spell-bound with the perfume rare-- Upon a farm horse, large and lean, And lazy with its double load, A sun-browned youth, and maid were seen Jogging along the winding road.

Blue were the arches of the skies; But bluer were that maiden's eyes. The dew-drops on the grass were bright; But brighter was the loving light That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid, Where those bright eyes of blue were hid; Adown the shoulders brown and bare Rolled the soft waves of golden hair, Where, almost strangled with the spray, The sun, a willing sufferer lay. It was the fairest sight, I ween, That the young man had ever seen; And with his features all aglow, The happy fellow told her so! And she without the least surprise Looked on him with those heavenly eyes; Saw underneath that shade of tan The handsome features of a man; And with a joy but rarely known She drew that dear face to her own, And by her bridal bonnet hid-- I shall not tell you what she did!

So, on they ride until among The new-born leaves with dew-drops hung, The parsonage, arrayed in white, Peers out,--a more than welcome sight. Then, with a cloud upon his face. "What shall we do," he turned to say, "Should he refuse to take his pay From what is in the pillow-case?" And glancing down his eyes surveyed The pillow-case before him laid, Whose contents reaching to its hem, Might purchase endless joy for them. The maiden answers, "Let us wait; To borrow trouble where's the need?" Then, at the parson's squeaking gate Halted the more than willing steed.

Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung; The latchless gate behind him swung; The knocker of that startled door, Struck as it never was before, Brought the whole household pale with fright; And there, with blushes on his cheek, So bashful he could hardly speak, The farmer met their wondering sight. The groom goes in, his errand tells, And, as the parson nods, he leans Far o'er the window-sill and yells, "Come in! He says he'll take the beans!" Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound She and the bean-bag reached the ground. Then, clasping with each dimpled arm The precious product of the farm, She bears it through the open door; And, down upon the parlour floor, Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.

Ah! happy were their songs that day, When man and wife they rode away. But happier this chorus still Which echoed through those woodland scenes: "God bless the priest of Whitinsville! God bless the man who took the beans!"

_R. M. Streeter_.

* * * * *

THE FIREMAN.

'Tis a cold bleak night! with angry roar The north winds beat and clamour at the door; The drifted snow lies heaped along the street, Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet; The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend, But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown, Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.

In lofty hails, where fortune takes its ease, Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; In happy homes where warmth and comfort meet. The weary traveller with their smiles to greet; In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm, Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light-- "Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"

But hark! above the beating of the storm Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm! Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light, And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright; From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call, The ready friend no danger can appal; Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, He hurries forth to battle and to save.

From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out, Devouring all they coil themselves about, The flaming furies, mounting high and higher, Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe In vain attempts their power to overthrow; With mocking glee they revel with their prey, Defying human skill to check their way.

And see! far up above the flames hot breath, Something that's human waits a horrid death; A little child, with waving golden hair, Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare, Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, While sobs of terror shake her tender breast. And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, A mother screams, "O, God! my child! my child!"

Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng A hardy fireman swiftly moves along; Mounts sure and fast along the slender way, Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path, Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; But up, still up he goes! the goal is won! His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!

Gone to his death. The wily flames surround And burn and beat his ladder to the ground, In flaming columns move with quickened beat To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore; Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live, Crowned with all honours nobleness can give.

Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears; Behold! he quickly on the roof appears, Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm. Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance! Behold how fast the roaring flames advance! Quick! quick! brave spirits to his rescue fly; Up! up! by heavens! this hero must not die!

Silence! he comes along the burning road, Bearing, with tender care, his living load; Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save The good, true heart that can so nobly brave. He's up again! and now he's coming fast! One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed! And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain! A happy mother clasps her child again!

_George M. Baker._

* * * * *

THE LAUNCH OF THE SHIP.

"Build me straight, O worthy Master! Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!" The merchant's word Delighted the Master heard; For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every art. And with a voice that was full of glee, He answered, "Ere long we will launch A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch As ever weathered a wintry sea!"

All is finished! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched; And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendours dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight.

The ocean old Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest; And far and wide, With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast.

He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honour of her marriage-day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray old sea.

Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs, And see! she stirs! She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms!

And lo! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say,-- "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth, and all her charms!"

How beautiful she is! how fair She lies within those arms that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care! Sail forth into the sea, O ship! Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity, with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast and sail and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge, and what a heat, Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!

Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea; Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee: Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,--are all with thee!

_Longfellow._

* * * * *

ROCK OF AGES.

_"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!"_

Sang the lady, soft and low, And her voice's gentle flow Rose upon the evening air With the sweet and solemn prayer: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Yet she sang, as oft she had When her heart was gay and glad, Sang because she felt alone, Sang because her soul had grown Weary with the tedious day, Sang to while the hours away: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Where the fitful gaslight falls On her father's massive walls. On the chill and silent street Where the lights and shadows meet, There the lady's voice was heard, As the breath of night was stirred With her tones so sweet and clear, Wafting up to God that prayer: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Wandering, homeless thro' the night, Praying for the morning light, Pale and haggard, wan and weak, With sunken eye and hollow cheek Went a woman, one whose life Had been wrecked in sin and strife; One, a lost and only child, One by sin and shame defiled; And her heart with sorrow wrung, Heard the lady when she sung: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Pausing, low her head she bent, And the music as it went Pierced her blackened soul, and brought Back to her (as lost in thought Tremblingly she stood) the past, And the burning tears fell fast, As she called to mind the days When she walked in virtue's ways. When she sang that very song With no sense of sin or wrong: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!"

On the marble steps she knelt, And her soul that moment felt More than she could speak, as there Quivering, moved her lips in prayer, And the God she had forgot Smiled upon her lonely lot; Heard her as she murmured oft, With an accent sweet and soft: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Little knew the lady fair, As she sung in silence there, That her voice had pierced a soul That had lived 'neath sin's control! Little knew, when she had done, That a lost and erring one Heard her--as she breathed that strain-- And returned to God again!

_F. L. Stanton._

* * * * *

BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA.

It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called on Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward to sup with me. In passing through some dark narrow street he paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said, "what sound is that? It is from my symphony in F," he said eagerly. "Hark, how well it is played!"

It was a little, mean dwelling; and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice sobbing: "I can not play any more--it is so beautiful, it is so utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh! what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!"

"Ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."

"You are right; and yet I wish, for once in my life, to hear some really good music. But it is of no use."

Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.

"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"

"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feeling-- genius--understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it!" And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door.

A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned towards us as we entered.

"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician."

The girl blushed and the young man looked grave--somewhat annoyed.

"I--I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear--that is, you would like--that is--shall I play for you?"

There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily.

"Thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music."

"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the fraulein--"

He paused and coloured up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind.

"I--I entreat your pardon," he stammered; "but I had not perceived before. Then you play from ear?"

"Entirely."

"And where do you hear the music; since you frequent no concerts?"

"I used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her."

She seemed shy, so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow--how grand he would be that night! And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.

The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands, pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange dream, and only feared to wake.

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sunk, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.

At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet reverently--"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are you?"

The composer smiled as he only could smile, benevolently, indulgently, kingly. "Listen," he said, and he played the opening bars of the symphony in F.

A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, "Then, you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.

He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties, "Play to us once more --only once more!"

He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious rugged head and massive figure. "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars--then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time--a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift _agitato finale_--a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all emotion and wonder.

"Farewell to you," said Beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning towards the door; "farewell to you."

"You will come again?" asked they, in one breath.

He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. "Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly, "I will come again, and give the fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again'"

They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing.

"Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, "that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it!" We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted.

* * * * *

OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR-HOUSE.

I, who was always counted, they say, Rather a bad stick any way, Splintered all over with dodges and tricks, Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;" I, the truant, saucy and bold, The one black sheep in my father's fold, "Once on a time," as the stories say, Went over the hill on a winter's day-- _Over the hill to the poor-house._

Tom could save what twenty could earn; But _givin'_ was somethin' he ne'er would learn; Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak-- Committed a hundred verses a week; Never forgot, an' never slipped; But "Honour thy father and mother" he skipped; So _over the hill to the poor-house!_

As for Susan, her heart was kind An' good--what there was of it, mind; Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice For one she loved; an' that 'ere one, Was herself, when all was said an' done; An' Charley, an' Becca meant well, no doubt, But any one could pull 'em about;

An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, Save one poor fellow, and that was me; An' when, one dark an' rainy night, A neighbour's horse went out o' sight, They hitched on me, as the guilty chap That carried one end o' the halter-strap. An' I think, myself, that view of the case Wasn't altogether out o' place; My mother denied it, as mothers do, But I'm inclined to believe 'twas true. Though for me one thing might be said-- That I, as well as the horse, was led; And the worst of whiskey spurred me on, Or else the deed would have never been done. But the keenest grief I ever felt Was when my mother beside me knelt, An' cried and prayed, till I melted down, As I wouldn't for half the horses in town. I kissed her fondly, then an' there, An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.

I served my sentence--a bitter pill Some fellows should take who never will; And then I decided to go "out West," Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best; Where, how I prospered, I never could tell, But Fortune seemed to like me well, An' somehow every vein I struck Was always bubbling over with luck. An' better than that, I was steady an' true, An' put my good resolutions through. But I wrote to a trusty old neighbour, an' said, "You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead, An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more, Than if I had lived the same as before."

But when this neighbour he wrote to me, "Your mother's in the poor house," says he, I had a resurrection straightway, An' started for her that very day. And when I arrived where I was grown, I took good care that I shouldn't be known; But I bought the old cottage, through and through, Off some one Charley had sold it to; And held back neither work nor gold, To fix it up as it was of old. The same big fire-place, wide and high, Flung up its cinders toward the sky; The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf-- I wound it an' set it agoin' myself; And if everything wasn't just the same, Neither I nor money was to blame; Then--_over the hill to the poor-house!_

One blowin', blusterin', winter's day, With a team an' cutter I started away; My fiery nags was as black as coal; (They some'at resembled the horse I stole); I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door-- A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor; She rose to her feet in great surprise, And looked, quite startled, into my eyes; I saw the whole of her trouble's trace In the lines that marred her dear old face; "Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done! You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son, Come _over the hill from the poor-house!_"

She didn't faint; she knelt by my side, An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried. An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day; An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright, An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me; An' maybe we didn't live happy for years, In spite of my brothers and sisters' sneers, Who often said, as I have heard, That they wouldn't own a prison-bird; (Though they're gettin' over that, I guess, For all of them owe me more or less;) But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man In always a-doin' the best he can; That whether on the big book, a blot Gets over a fellow's name or not, Whenever he does a deed that's white, It's credited to him fair and right. An' when you hear the great bugle's notes, An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats; However they may settle my case, Wherever they may fix my place, My good old Christian mother, you'll see, Will be sure to stand right up for me, With _over the hill from the poor-house_.

_Will Carleton_.

* * * * *

THE WORLD FROM THE SIDEWALK.

Did you ever stand in the crowded street, In the glare of a city lamp, And list to the tread of the millions feet In their quaintly musical tramp? As the surging crowd go to and fro, 'Tis a pleasant sight, I ween, To mark the figures that come and go In the ever-changing scene.

Here the publican walks with the sinner proud, And the priest in his gloomy cowl, And Dives walks in the motley crowd With Lazarus, cheek by jowl; And the daughter of toil with her fresh young heart As pure as her spotless fame, Keeps step with the woman who makes her mart In the haunts of sin and shame.

How lightly trips the country lass In the midst of the city's ills, As freshly pure as the daisied grass That grows on her native hills; And the beggar, too, with his hungry eye, And his lean, wan face and crutch, Gives a blessing the same to the passer-by As they give him little or much.

Ah me! when the hours go joyfully by, How little we stop to heed Our brothers' and sisters' despairing cry In their woe and their bitter need! Yet such a world as the angels sought This world of ours we'd call, If the brotherly love that the Father taught; Was felt by each for all.

Yet a few short years and this motley throng Will all have passed away, And the rich and the poor and the old and the young Will be undistinguished clay. And lips that laugh and lips that moan, Shall in silence alike be sealed, And some will lie under stately stone, And some in the Potter's Field.

But the sun will be shining just as bright, And so will the silver moon, And just such a crowd will be here at night, And just such a crowd at noon; And men will be wicked and women will sin, As ever since Adam's fall, With the same old world to labour in, And the same God over all.

* * * * *

HIGHLAND MARY.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry! For there I took the last farewell O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! How rich the hawthorn's blossom! As, underneath their fragrant shade, I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow, and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender'; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore ourselves asunder; But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now, in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still, within my bosom's core, Shall live my Highland Mary.

_Robert Burns._

* * * * *

CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING.

Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of "_pastimes_," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys. And yet the mother _seems_ to go at it in the right way. She opens the stair door and insinuatingly observes, "Johnny.", There is no response. "Johnn_y_." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp, "_John_," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "John Henry." A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made; and the mother is encouraged to add, "You'd better be getting down here to your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something you'll feel." This so startles the young man that he immediately goes to sleep again; and the operation has to be repeated several times. A father knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-water bottle ejects its cork, and the "JOHN HENRY" that cleaves the air of that stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature, and he pops out of that bed, and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness.

* * * * *

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.

O good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw? Aye? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields a little brown,-- The picture must not be over bright,-- Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud when the summer sun is down.

Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing room Under their tassels,--cattle near, Biting shorter the short green grass, And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, With bluebirds twittering all around,-- Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!

These and the little house where I was born, Low, and little, and black, and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide,-- Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush; Perhaps you may have seen, some day, Roses crowding the self-same way, Out of a wilding, way-side bush.

Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds; A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon, you must paint for me; Oh, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul and the angel's face That are beaming on me all the while! I need not speak these foolish words; Yet one word tells you all I would say,-- She is my mother: you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir; one like me,-- The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes Flashing with boldest enterprise; At ten years old he went to sea,-- God knoweth if he be living now,-- He sailed in the good ship "Commodore," Nobody ever crossed her track To bring us news, and she never came back. Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more Since that old ship went out of the bay With my great-hearted brother on her deck; I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown, The time we stood at our mother's knee; That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid, Of the corn leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-- Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door, And, over the hay-stack's pointed top, All of a tremble and ready to drop The first half hour the great yellow star That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watched to see Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree, Which close in the edge of our flax field grew, Dead at the top,--just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its handbreath of shadow, day after day,-- Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,-- The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat: The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee. Do you think, sir, if you try, You can paint the look of a lie? If you can, pray have the grace To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me; I think 'twas solely mine indeed; But that's no matter,--paint it so; The eyes of our mother--(take good heed)-- Looking not on the nest-full of eggs, Nor the fluttering bird held so fast by the legs, But straight through our faces, down to our lies. And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise, I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though A sharp blade struck through it. You, sir, know That you on the canvas are to repeat Things that are fairest, things most sweet,-- Woods, and cornfields, and mulberry tree,-- The mother,--the lads with their birds at her knee; But, oh, the look of reproachful woe! High as the heavens your name I'll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

_Alice Cary._

* * * * *

"CHRIST TURNED AND LOOKED UPON PETER."

I think that look of Christ might seem to say-- "Thou, Peter! art thou then a common stone, Which I at last must break my heart upon, For all God's charge to His high angels may Guard my foot better? Did I yesterday Wash thy feet, my beloved, that they should run Quick to deny me, 'neath the morning sun? And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray? The cock crows coldly. Go and manifest A late contrition, but no bootless fear! For when thy deadly need is bitterest, Thou shall not be denied as I am here; My voice, to God and angels, shall attest-- _Because I knew this man let him be clear!_"

_Elizabeth B. Browning._

* * * * *

THE JESTER'S CHOICE.

One of the kings of Scanderoon, A royal jester, Had in his train, a gross buffoon, Who used to pester The Court with tricks inopportune, Venting on the highest of folks his Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes. It needs some sense to play the fool, Which wholesome rule Occurred not to our jackanapes, Who consequently found his freaks Lead to innumerable scrapes, And quite as many kicks and tweaks, Which only seemed to make him faster Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure, Incurred the desperate displeasure Of his serene and raging highness: Whether he twitched his most revered And sacred beard, Or had intruded on the shyness Of the seraglio, or let fly An epigram at royalty, None knows: his sin was an occult one, But records tell us that the Sultan, Meaning to terrify he knave, Exclaimed, "'Tis time to stop that breath: Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave! Thou stand'st condemned to certain death: Silence, base rebel! no replying! But such is my indulgence still, That, of my own free grace and will, I leave to thee the mode of dying." "Thy royal will be done--'tis just," Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust; "Since my last moments to assuage, Your majesty's humane decree Has deigned to leave the choice to me, I'll die, so please you, of old age!"

_Horace Smith_

* * * * *

THE OPENING OF THE PIANO.

In the little southern parlour of the house you may have seen With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green, At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right, Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night.

Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came! What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame, When the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas, With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys!

Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy, For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy, Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way, But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, play."

For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm; She had sprinkled it over sorrow and seen its brow grow calm, In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic trills.

So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please, Sat down to the new "Clementi," and struck the glittering keys. Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim, As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper Hymn."

--Catherine, child of a neighbour, curly and rosy-red, (Wedded since, and a widow,--something like ten years dead,) Hearing a gush of music such as none before, Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door.

Just as the "Jubilate" in threaded whisper dies, --"Open it, open it, lady!" the little maiden cries, (For she thought 'twas a singing creature caged in a box she heard,) "Open it, open it, lady! and let me see the _bird_!"

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

* * * * *

THE HIRED SQUIRREL.

(A RUSSIAN FABLE.)

A Lion to the Squirrel said: "Work faithfully for me, And when your task is done, my friend, Rewarded you shall be With barrel-full of finest nuts, Fresh from my own nut-tree." "My Lion King," the Squirrel said, "To this I do agree."

The Squirrel toiled both day and night, Quite faithful to his hire; So hungry and so faint sometimes He thought he should expire. But still he kept his courage up, And tugged with might and main. "How nice the nuts will taste," he thought, "When I my barrel gain."

At last, when he was nearly dead, And thin and old and grey, Quoth Lion: "There's no more hard work You're fit to do. I'll pay." A barrel-full of nuts he gave-- Ripe, rich, and big; but oh! The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks. He'd _lost his teeth_, you know!

_Laura Sanford._

* * * * *

THE DEATH-BED.

We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied-- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours.

_Thomas Hood._

* * * * *

LANDING OF COLUMBUS.

The sails were furl'd; with many a melting close, Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose,-- Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day When setting suns o'er summer seas display A path of glory, opening in the west To golden climes and islands of the blest; And human voices on the silent air Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there! Chosen of men! 'Twas thine at noon of night First from the prow to hail the glimmering light? (Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray Enters the soul and makes the darkness day!) "Pedro! Rodrigo! there methought it shone! There--in the west! and now, alas, 'tis gone!-- 'Twas all a dream! we gaze and gaze in vain! But mark and speak not, there it comes again! It moves!--what form unseen, what being there With torch-like lustre fires the murky air? His instincts, passions, say, how like our own! Oh, when will day reveal a world unknown?" Long on the deep the mists of morning lay; Then rose, revealing as they rolled away Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods: And say, when all, to holy transport given, Embraced and wept as at the gates of heaven,-- When one and all of us, repentant, ran, And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man,-- Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies? "Glory to God!" unnumber'd voices sung,-- "Glory to God!" the vales and mountains rung, Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn, And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore The sacred cross, and kneeling kiss'd the shore.

_Rogers._

* * * * *

THREE WORDS OF STRENGTH.

There are three lessons I would write-- Three words as with a burning pen, In tracings of eternal light Upon the hearts of men.

Have Hope. Though clouds environ round And gladness hides her face in scorn, Put off the shadow from thy brow-- No night but hath its morn.

Have Faith. Where'er thy bark is driven-- The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth-- Know this; God rules the hosts of heaven-- The inhabitants of the earth.

Have Love. Not love alone for one, But man, as man, thy brother call; And scatter like the circling sun, Thy charities on all.

Thus grave these lessons on thy soul-- Hope, Faith, and Love--and thou shalt find Strength, when life's surges rudest roll, Light, when thou else wert blind.

_Schiller._

* * * * *

BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CÆSAR.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly--any dear friend of Cæsar's--to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer:--Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honour, for his valour; and death for his ambition! Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.

None? Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth: as which of you shall not? With this I depart:--that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

_Shakespeare._

* * * * *

THE SERENADE.

A youth went out to serenade The lady whom he loved the best, And passed beneath the mansion's shade, Where erst his charmer used to rest.

He warbled till the morning light Came dancing o'er the hill-tops' rim, But no fair maiden blessed his sight, And all seemed dark and drear to him.

With heart aglow and eyes ablaze, He drew much nearer than before, When, to his horror and amaze, He saw "To Let" upon the door.

* * * * *

GINEVRA.

If thou shouldst ever come, by choice or chance, To Modena, where still religiously Among her ancient trophies is preserved Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate. Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, Its sparkling fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain thee; through their arched walks, Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, And lovers, such as in heroic song, Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, Venturing together on a tale of love, Read only part that day. A summer sun Sets ere one-half is seen; but, ere thou go, Enter the house--prithee, forget it not-- And look awhile upon a picture there. 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The very last of that illustrious race, Done by Zampieri--but by whom I care not. He who observes it--ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up, when far away. She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said, "Beware!" Her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart-- It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody! Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ, A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old ancestor. That by the way--it may be true or false-- But don't forget the picture: and thou wilt not, When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire. Her mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life, Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety; Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast, When all sat down, the bride was wanting there, Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, "'Tis but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back and flying still, Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger, But now, alas! she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, But that she was not! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find--he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless--then went to strangers. Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking place?" 'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perished--save a nuptial ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "GINEVRA."

There, then, had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy; When a spring lock that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!

_Samuel Rogers._

* * * * *

THE LAST STATION.

He had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the boys on the road had dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to learn if they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was a good fellow, and one and all encouraged him in the hope that he would pull through. The doctor didn't regard the case as dangerous; but the other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that he could not live the night out. A dozen of his friends sat in the room when night came, but his mind wandered and he did not recognize them.

It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the yard- engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for half an hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes and shouted:

"Kal-a-ma-zoo!"

One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the brakeman closed his eyes and was quiet for a time. Then the wind whirled around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he lifted his hand and cried out:

"Jack-son! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Road change cars!"

The men understood. The brakeman thought he was coming east on the Michigan Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for his pulse to see if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his eyes and called out:

"Ann Arbor!"

He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last trip. Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was brakeman, engineer, and conductor.

One of the yard-engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril, and the brakeman called out:

"Yp-silanti! Change cars here for the Eel River Road!"

"He's coming in fast," whispered one of the men.

"And the end of his 'run' will be the end of his life," said a second.

The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and there was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The slamming of a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his head and faintly said:

"Grand Trunk Junction! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk change cars!"

He was so quiet after that, that all the men gathered around the bed, believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his hand, moved his head, and whispered:

"De--"

Not "Detroit," but Death! He died with the half-uttered whisper on his lips. And the headlight on death's engine shone full in his face, and covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring.

_Detroit Free Press._

* * * * *

ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

St. Philip Neri, as old readings say, Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day; And being ever courteously inclined To give young folks a sober turn of mind, He fell into discourse with him; and thus The dialogue they held comes down to us.

ST. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome? Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come. ST. And when you are one, what do you intend? Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end ST. Suppose it so,--what have you next in view? Y. That I may get to be a canon, too. ST. Well; and how then? Y. Why, then, for aught I know I may be made a bishop. ST. Be it so-- What then? Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree-- And yet my lot it possibly may be. ST. Suppose it was, what then? Y. Why, who can say But I've a chance of being pope one day? ST. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat, And triple crown, what follows after that? Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure, Upon this earth that wishing can procure; When I've enjoyed a dignity so high, As long as God shall please, then I must die. ST. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the best But wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest! Take my advice--whatever may betide, For that which must be, first of all provide; Then think of that which may be, and indeed, When well prepared, who knows what may succeed? But you may be, as you are pleased to hope, Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.

_Dr. Byrom_.

* * * * *

NO KISS.

"Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite, To a pretty little tune, Holding up her dainty mouth, Sweet as roses born in June. Will was ten years old that day, And he pulled her golden curls Teasingly, and answer made-- "I'm too old--I don't kiss girls."

Ten years pass, and Marguerite Smiles as Will kneels at her feet, Gazing fondly in her eyes, Praying, "Won't you kiss me, sweet?" 'Rite is seventeen to-day, With her birthday ring she toys For a moment, then replies: "I'm too old--I don't kiss boys."

* * * * *

KEYS.

Long ago in the old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee, Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.

Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they Should return from their long exile to those homes so far away.

But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of time.

Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be, And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.

Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth, For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name is Youth.

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then, Some old heartstring stirs within us and we feel our youth again.

"We are young," we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee, Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key!

_Bessie Chandler_.

* * * * *

DRIFTING.

My soul to-day is far away Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, a bird afloat, Skims round the purple peaks remote.

Round purple peaks it sails and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, the gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles, And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if my rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: With dreamful eyes my spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals, At peace I lie, blown softly by A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day so mild is heaven's own child, With earth and ocean reconciled: The airs I feel around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail my hand I trail, Within the shadow of the sail; A joy intense, the cooling sense, Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes my spirit flies Where summer sings and never dies-- O'erveiled with vines, she glows and shines Among her future oils and wines.

Her children, hid the cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls, with tipsy calls, Laugh on the rock like waterfalls.

The fisher's child, with tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; This happier one its course has run, From lands of snow to lands of sun.

Oh! happy ship, to rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip! Oh! happy crew, my heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more the worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar! With dreamful eyes my spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise!

_T. Buchanan Read_.

* * * * *

ELIZABETH.

Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Red-breast Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting, Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building. With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Hadden Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless. Thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and music, Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims, Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting In the neighbouring town; and with them came riding, John Estaugh. At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden, Then re-mounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey, And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid. But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh: "Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee, Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others; Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth." And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together. It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest; It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded: "I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh." And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken: "Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit; Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness, Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning, But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labour completed He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for His guidance."

Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, "So is it best, John Estaugh, we will not speak of it further, It hath been laid on me to tell thee this, for to-morrow Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it, Thou wilt return again to seek me here, and to find me." And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.

_Longfellow_.

"ASK MAMMA."

A bachelor squire of no great possession, long come to what should have been years of discretion, determined to change his old habits of life, and comfort his days by taking a wife. He had long been the sport of the girls in the place,--they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face; and whenever he went to a tea-drinking party, the flirts were in raptures--our friend was so hearty! They'd fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and bring down the jolly old chap on the floor; they'd pull off his wig while he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he hunted it out; they would tie his coat-tails to the back of his seat, and scream with delight when he rose to his feet; they would send him at Christmas a box full of bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. One evening they pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew in his eyes a rare scatter of soot! He took it so calmly, and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged him to pardon their nasty "black joke." One really appeared so sincere in her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would ASK her tomorrow,--and not one of the girls but would envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's offer she got; for they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubtless they would not have treated him so. However, next day to fair Fanny's amazement, she saw him approach as she stood at the casement; and he very soon gave her to know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of the squire. "La! now, Mr. Friendly, what would they all say?" but she thought that not one of them all would say nay: she was flustered with pleasure, and coyness, and pride to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride. She did not refuse him, but yet did not like, to say "Yes," all at once-- the hot iron to strike; so to give the proposal the greater _eclat_, she said, "Dear Mr. Friendly,--you'd best, ask mamma!" Good morning, then, Fanny, I'll do what you say; as she's out, I shall call in the course of the day. Fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for good-bye, and she did not know which to do first--laugh or cry; to wed such a dear darling man, nothing loth; for variety's sake in her joy, she did both! "O, what will mamma say, and all the young girls?" she thought as she played with her beautiful curls. "I wish I had said Yes at once,--'twas too bad--not to ease his dear mind--O, I wish that I had! I wish he had asked me to give him a kiss,--but he can't be in doubt of my feeling--that's bliss! O, I wish that mamma would come for the news; such a good dear kind soul, she will never refuse! There's the bell--here she is.... O, mamma!"--"Child, preserve us! What ails you dear Fanny? What makes you so nervous?" "I really can't tell you just now,--bye and bye Mr. Friendly will call--and he'll tell you--not I." "Mr. Friendly, my child what about him, pray?" "O, mamma,--he's to call--in the course of the day. He was here just this minute,--and shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made me. I declare he has seen you come home--that's his ring; I will leave you and him, now to settle the thing" Fanny left in a flutter: her mother--the gipsy--she'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy! Mr. Friendly came in, and the widow and he, were soon as delighted as Fanny could be; he asked the dear _widow_ to change her estate;--she consented at once, and a kiss sealed her fate. Fanny came trembling in--overloaded with pleasure--but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. "Dear Fanny," said Friendly, "I've done what you said," but what he had done, never entered her head--"I've asked your mamma, and she's given her consent;" Fanny flew to his arms to express her content. He kissed her and said,--as he kissed her mamma,--"I'm so glad, my dear Fan, that you like your papa!" Poor Fanny now found out the state of the case, and she blubbered outright with a pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, to preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint! She determined, next time she'd a chance, you may guess, not to say, "Ask mamma," but at once to say "Yes!"

_A. M. Bell._

* * * * *

GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY.

She stood at the bar of justice, A creature wan and wild, In form too small for a woman, In features too old for a child, For a look so worn and pathetic Was stamped on her pale young face, It seemed long years of suffering Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her With kindly look yet keen, "Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir," "And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen." "Well, Mary," and then from a paper He slowly and gravely read, "You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it-- With stealing three loaves of bread."

"You look not like an offender, And I hope that you can show The charge to be false. Now, tell me, Are you guilty of this, or no?" A passionate burst of weeping Was at first her sole reply, But she dried her tears in a moment, And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir, My father and mother are dead, And my little brother and sisters Were hungry and asked me for bread. At first I earned it for them By working hard all day, But somehow times were bad, sir, And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment; The weather was bitter cold, The young ones cried and shivered-- (Little Johnny's but four years old;)-- So, what was I to do, sir? I am guilty, but do not condemn, I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?-- The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room-- Grey-beard and thoughtless youth-- Knew, as he looked upon her, That the prisoner spoke the truth, Out from their pockets came kerchiefs. Out from their eyes sprung tears, And out from old faded wallets Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study-- The strangest you ever saw, As he cleared his throat and murmured _Something_ about the _law_. For one so learned in such matters, So wise in dealing with men, He seemed, on a simple question, Sorely puzzled just then.

But no one blamed him or wondered When at last these words they heard, "The sentence of this young prisoner Is, for the present, deferred." And no one blamed him or wondered When he went to her and smiled, And tenderly led from the court-room, Himself the "guilty" child.

* * * * *

MEMORY'S PICTURES.

Among the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest; Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips, It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep; Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And one of the autumn eves I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep, by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.

_Alice Cary._

* * * * *

PAPA CAN'T FIND ME.

No little step do I hear in the hall, Only a sweet little laugh, that is all. No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight, I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright, Two little hands a wee face try to screen, Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen. "Where is my precious I've missed So all day'" "Papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say.

"Dear me, I wonder where baby can be!" Then I go by, and pretend not to see. "Not in the parlour, and not on the stairs' Then I must peep under sofas and chairs." The dear little rogue is now laughing outright, Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight. Home will indeed be sad, weary and lone, When papa can't find you, my darling, my own.

* * * * *

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630:

'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamed The early sunlight in one chamber there; Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where Murillo, the famed painter, came to share With young aspirants his long-cherished art, To prove how vain must be the teacher's care, Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.

The pupils came and glancing round, Mendez upon his canvas found, Not his own work of yesterday, But glowing in the morning ray, A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright, It almost seemed that there were given To glow before his dazzled sight, Tints and expression warm from heaven.

'Twas but a sketch--the Virgin's head-- Yet was unearthly beauty shed Upon the mildly beaming face; The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, Had separate, yet blended grace-- A poet's brightest dream was there!!

Murillo entered, and amazed, On the mysterious painting gazed; "Whose work is this?--speak, tell me!--he Who to his aid such power can call," Exclaimed the teacher eagerly, "Will yet be master of us all; Would I had done it!--Ferdinand! Isturitz! Mendez!--say, whose hand Among ye all?"--With half-breathed sigh, Each pupil answered,--"'Twas not I!"

"How came it then?" impatiently Murillo cried; "but we shall see, Ere long into this mystery. Sebastian!" At the summons came A bright-eyed slave, Who trembled at the stern rebuke His master gave. For ordered in that room to sleep, And faithful guard o'er all to keep, Murillo bade him now declare What rash intruder had been there, And threatened--if he did not tell The truth at once--the dungeon-cell. "Thou answerest not," Murillo said; (The boy had stood in speechless fear.) "Speak on!"--At last he raised his head And murmured, "No one has been here." "'Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee, And clasped his hands imploringly, And said. "I swear it, none but me!"

"List!" said his master. "I would know Who enters here--there have been found Before, rough sketches strewn around, By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show; Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep. If on to-morrow morn you fail To answer what I ask, The lash shall force you--do you hear? Hence! to your daily task."

* * * * *

'Twas midnight in Seville, and faintly shone From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray Within Murillo's study--all were gone Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, One bright eyed boy was there--Murillo's little slave.

Almost a child--that boy had seen Not thrice five summers yet, But genius marked the lotty brow, O'er which his locks of jet Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, To Africa and Spain allied.

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said "The lash, if I refuse to tell Who sketched those figures--if I do, Perhaps e'en more--the dungeon-cell!" He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid; It came--for soon in slumber laid, He slept, until the dawning day Shed on his humble couch its ray.

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now Three hours of freedom I may gain, Before my master comes, for then I shall be but a slave again. Three blessed hours of freedom! how Shall I employ them?--ah! e'en now The figure on that canvas traced Must be--yes, it must be effaced."

He seized a brush--the morning light Gave to the head a softened glow; Gazing enraptured on the sight, He cried, "Shall I efface it?--No! That breathing lip! that beaming eye Efface them?--I would rather die!"

The terror of the humble slave Gave place to the o'erpowering flow Of the high feelings Nature gave- Which only gifted spirits know.

He touched the brow--the lip--it seemed His pencil had some magic power; The eye with deeper feeling beamed-- Sebastian then forgot the hour! Forgot his master, and the threat Of punishment still hanging o'er him; For, with each touch, new beauties met And mingled in the face before him.

At length 'twas finished; rapturously He gazed--could aught more beauteous be' Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood, Then started--horror chilled his blood! His master and the pupils all Were there e'en at his side! The terror-stricken slave was mute-- Mercy would be denied, E'en could he ask it--so he deemed, And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. Speechless, bewildered--for a space They gazed upon that perfect face, Each with an artist's joy; At length Murillo silence broke, And with affected sternness spoke-- "Who is your master, boy?" "You, Senor," said the trembling slave. "Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, Before that Virgin's head you drew?" Again he answered, "Only you." "I gave you none," Murillo cried! "But I have heard," the boy replied, "What you to others said." "And more than heard," in kinder tone, The painter said; "'tis plainly shown That you have profited."

"What (to his pupils) is his meed? Reward or punishment?" "Reward, reward!" they warmly cried, (Sebastian's ear was bent To catch the sounds he scarce believed, But with imploring look received.) "What shall it be?" They spoke of gold And of a splendid dress; But still unmoved Sebastian stood, Silent and motionless. "Speak!" said Murillo kindly; "choose Your own reward--what shall it be? Name what you wish, I'll not refuse: Then speak at once and fearlessly." "Oh! if I dared!"--Sebastian knelt And feelings he could not control, (But feared to utter even then) With strong emotion, shook his soul.

"Courage!" his master said, and each Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, To soothe his overpow'ring dread. He scarcely heard, till some one said, "Sebastian--ask--you have your choice, Ask for your _freedom_!"--At the word, The suppliant strove to raise his voice: At first but stifled sobs were heard, And then his prayer--breathed fervently-- "Oh! master, make my _father_ free!" "Him and thyself, my noble boy!" Warmly the painter cried; Raising Sebastian from his feet, He pressed him to his side. "Thy talents rare, and filial love, E'en more have fairly won; Still be thou mine by other bonds-- My pupil and my son."

Murillo knew, e'en when the words Of generous feeling passed his lips, Sebastian's talents soon must lead To fame that would his own eclipse; And, constant to his purpose still, He joyed to see his pupil gain, As made his name the pride of Spain.

_Susan Wilson._

* * * * *

ONLY SIXTEEN.

Only sixteen, so the papers say, Yet there, on the cold, stony ground he lay; 'Tis the same sad story, we hear every day-- He came to his death in the public highway. Full of promise, talent and pride; Yet the rum fiend conquered him--so he died. Did not the angels weep over the scene? For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen,-- Only sixteen.

Oh! it were sad he must die all alone; That of all his friends, not even one Was there to list to his last faint moan, Or point the suffering soul to the throne Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son Would say, "Whosoever will may come--" But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene, With his God we leave him--only sixteen,-- Only sixteen.

Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought!! Witness the suffering and pain you have brought To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well, And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell That beclouded his brain, did his reason dethrone, And left him to die out there all alone. What, if 'twere _your_ son, instead of another? What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,-- And he only sixteen?

Ye freeholders, who signed the petition to grant The license to sell, do you think you will want That record to meet in that last great day, When heaven and earth shall have passed away. When the elements, melting with fervent heat, Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete? Will you wish to have his blood on your hand. When before the great throne you each shall stand,-- And he only sixteen?

Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right, To action and duty; into the light Come with your banners, inscribed, "Death to rum!" Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come; Strike killing blows; hew to the line; Make it a felony even to sign A petition to license, you would do it, I ween, If that were your son, and he only sixteen, Only sixteen.

* * * * *

THE RETORT.

Old Birch, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was stubborn as a mule, And she was playful as a rabbit. Poor Kate had scarce become a wife Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country polished life, And prim and formal--as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Katie sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him. The husband's anger rose, and red And white his face alternate grew: "Less freedom, ma'am!" Kate sighed and said "O, dear, I didn't know 'twas you."

* * * * *

"LITTLE BENNIE."

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

I had told him, Christmas morning, As he sat upon my knee, Holding fast his little stockings, Stuffed as full as full can be, And attentive listening to me With a face demure and mild, That old Santa Claus, who filled them, Did not love a naughty child.

"But we'll be good, won't we, moder," And from off my lap he slid, Digging deep among the goodies In his crimson stockings hid. While I turned me to my table, Where a tempting goblet stood Brimming high with dainty custard Sent me by a neighbour good.

But the kitten, there before me, With his white paw, nothing both, Sat, by way of entertainment, Lapping off the shining froth; And, in not the gentlest humour At the loss of such a treat, I confess, I rather rudely Thrust him out into the street.

Then, how Bennie's blue eyes kindled; Gathering up the precious store He had busily been pouring In his tiny pinafore, With a generous look that shamed me Sprang he from the carpet bright, Showing by his mien indignant, All a baby's sense of right.

"Come back, Harney," called he loudly, As he held his apron white, "You shall have my candy wabbit," But the door was fastened tight, So he stood abashed and silent, In the centre of the floor, With defeated look alternate Bent on me and on the door.

Then, as by some sudden impulse, Quickly ran he to the fire, And while eagerly his bright eyes Watched the flames grow higher and higher, In a brave, clear key, he shouted, Like some lordly little elf, "Santa Kaus, come down the chimney, Make my Mudder 'have herself."

"I will be a good girl, Bennie," Said I, feeling the reproof; And straightway recalled poor Harney, Mewing on the gallery roof. Soon the anger was forgotten, Laughter chased away the frown, And they gamboled round the fireside, Till the dusky night came down.

In my dim, fire-lighted chamber, Harney purred beneath my chair, And my playworn boy beside me Knelt to say his evening prayer; "God bess Fader, God bess Moder, God bess Sister," then a pause, And the sweet young lips devoutly Murmured, "God bess Santa Kaus."

He is sleeping; brown and silken Lie the lashes, long and meek, Like caressing, clinging shadows, On his plump and peachy cheek, And I bend above him, weeping Thankful tears, O defiled! For a woman's crown of glory, For the blessing of a child.

_Annie C. Ketchum._

* * * * *

SLANDER.

'Twas but a breath-- And yet a woman's fair fame wilted, And friends once fond, grew cold and stilted; And life was worse than death.

One venomed word, That struck its coward, poisoned blow, In craven whispers, hushed and low,-- And yet the wide world heard.

Twas but one whisper--one-- That muttered low, for very shame, That thing the slanderer dare not name,-- And yet its work was done.

A hint so slight, And yet so mighty in its power,-- A human soul in one short hour, Lies crushed beneath its blight.

* * * * *

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I have had the worst kind of a narvous head- ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived.

Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. _(Coughs.)_ Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?

Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. _(Coughs.)_

Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good. _(Coughs.)_

Oh, this cough--it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion.

What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out ploughing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept backing and backing on, till she back'd me right up agin the coulter, and knocked a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. _(Coughs.)_

But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day--and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood--you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself.

I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out--as it was a raining at the time--but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by--the women folks. _(Coughs.)_ Oh, dear! but that aint all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes--and I'm feared I'm going to have the "yallar janders." _(Coughs.)_

* * * * *

YOUR MISSION

If you cannot on the ocean Sail among the swiftest fleet, Rocking on the highest billows, Laughing at the storms you meet. You can stand among the sailors, Anchor'd yet within the bay, You can lend a hand to help them, As they launch their boats away

If you are too weak to journey, Up the mountain steep and high, You can stand within the valley, While the multitudes go by You can chant in happy measure, As they slowly pass along; Though they may forget the singer, They will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver Ever ready to command, If you cannot towards the needy Reach an ever open hand, You can visit the afflicted, O'er the erring you can weep, You can be a true disciple, Sitting at the Saviour's feet

If you cannot in the conflict, Prove yourself a soldier true If where fire and smoke are thickest There's no work for you to do, When the battle-field is silent, You can go with careful tread. You can bear away the wounded, You can cover up the dead.

Do not, then, stand idly waiting For some greater work to do, Fortune is a lazy goddess, She will never come to you. Go and toil in any vineyard, Do not fear to do or dare, If you want a field of labour, You can find it anywhere.

* * * * *

SATISFACTION.

They sent him round the circle fair, To bow before the prettiest there; I'm bound to say the choice he made A creditable taste displayed; Although I can't see what it meant, The little maid looked ill-content.

His task was then anew begun, To kneel before the wittiest one. Once more the little maid sought he And bent him down upon his knee; She turned her eyes upon the floor; I think she thought the game a bore

He circled then his sweet behest To kiss the one he loved the best; For all she frowned, for all she chid, He kissed that little maid--he did. And then--though why I can't decide-- The little maid looked satisfied.

* * * * *

MY TRUNDLE BED.

As I rummaged through the attic, List'ning to the falling rain, As it pattered on the shingles And against the window pane, Peeping over chests and boxes, Which with dust were thickly spread, Saw I in the farthest corner What was once my trundle bed.

So I drew it from the recess, Where it had remained so long, Hearing all the while the music Of my mother's voice in song, As she sung in sweetest accents, What I since have often read-- "Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed"

As I listened, recollections, That I thought had been forgot, Came with all the gush of memory, Rushing, thronging to the spot; And I wandered back to childhood, To those merry days of yore, When I knelt beside my mother, By this bed upon the floor.

Then it was with hands so gently Placed upon my infant head, That she taught my lips to utter Carefully the words she said; Never can they be forgotten, Deep are they in mem'ry riven-- "Hallowed be thy name, O Father! Father! thou who art in heaven."

Years have passed, and that dear mother Long has mouldered 'neath the sod, And I trust her sainted spirit Rests within the home of God: But that scene at summer twilight Never has from memory fled, And it comes in all its freshness When I see my trundle bed.

This she taught me, then she told me Of its import great and deep-- After which I learned to utter "Now I lay me down to sleep." Then it was with hands uplifted, And in accents soft and mild, That my mother asked--"Our Father! Father! do thou bless my child!"

* * * * *

THE RIFT OF THE ROCK.

In the rift of the rock He has covered my head, When the tempest was wild in the desolate land Through a pathway uncertain my steps He has led, And I felt in the darkness the touch of His hand Leading on, leading over the slippery steep, Where came but the echoing sound of the shock, And, clear through the sorrowful moan of the deep, The singing of birds in the rift of the rock.

In the rift of the rock He has sheltered my soul When at noonday the toilers grew faint in the heat, Where the desert rolled far like a limitless scroll Cool waters leaped up at the touch of His feet And the flowers that lay with pale lips to the sod Bloom softly and fair from a holier stock; Winged home by the winds to the mountains of God, They bloom evermore in the rift of the rock.

In the rift of the rock Thou wilt cover me still, When the glow of the sunset is low in the sky, When the forms of the reapers are dim on the hill, And the song dies away, and the end draweth nigh; It will be but a dream of the ladder of light, And heaven drawing near without terror or shock, For the angels, descending by day and by night, Will open a door through the rift of the rock.

_Annie Herbert._

* * * * *

THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER

Two gray hawks ride the rising blast; Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro By peaks pre-eminent in snow; A sounding river rushes past, So wild, so vortex-like, and vast.

A lone lodge tops the windy hill; A tawny maiden, mute and still, Stands waiting at the river's brink, As weird and wild as you can think.

A mighty chief is at her feet; She does not heed him wooing so-- She hears the dark, wild waters flow; She waits her lover, tall and fleet, From far gold fields of Idaho, Beyond the beaming hills of snow.

He comes! The grim chief springs in air-- His brawny arm, his blade is bare. She turns; she lifts her round, dark hand; She looks him fairly in the face; She moves her foot a little pace And says, with coldness and command, "There's blood enough in this lorn land. But see! a test of strength and skill, Of courage and fierce fortitude, To breast and wrestle with the rude And storm-born waters, now I will Bestow you both.... Stand either side! Take you my left, tall Idaho; And you, my burly chief, I know Would choose my right. Now peer you low Across the waters wild and wide. See! leaning so this morn, I spied Red berries dip yon farther side. See, dipping, dripping in the stream, Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam!

"Now this, brave men, shall be the test. Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth To cut yon bough for bridal wreath. Plunge in! and he who bears him best, And brings yon ruddy fruit to land The first, shall have both heart and hand."

Then one threw robes with sullen air, And wound red fox tails in his hair. But one with face of proud delight Entwined a crest of snowy white.

She sudden gave The sign, and each impatient brave Shot sudden in the sounding wave; The startled waters gurgled round, Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound.

O then awoke the love that slept! O then her heart beat loud and strong! O then the proud love pent up long Broke forth in wail upon the air; And leaning there she sobbed and wept, With dark face mantled in her hair.

Now side by side the rivals plied, Yet no man wasted word or breath; All was as still as stream of death. Now side by side their strength was tried, And now they breathless paused and lay Like brawny wrestlers well at bay.

And now they dived, dived long, and now The black heads lifted from the foam, And shook aback the dripping brow, Then shouldered sudden glances home. And then with burly front the brow And bull-like neck shot sharp and blind, And left a track of foam behind.... They near the shore at last; and now The foam flies spouting from a face That laughing lifts from out the race.

The race is won, the work is done! She sees the climbing crest of snow; She knows her tall, brown Idaho.

She cries aloud, she laughing cries, And tears are streaming from her eyes: "O splendid, kingly Idaho, I kiss his lifted crest of snow; I see him clutch the bended bough! 'Tis cleft--he turns! is coming now!

"My tall and tawny king, come back! Come swift, O sweet; why falter so? Come! Come! What thing has crossed your track I kneel to all the gods I know. O come, my manly Idaho! Great Spirit, what is this I dread? Why there is blood! the wave is red! That wrinkled Chief, outstripped in race, Dives down, and hiding from my face, Strikes underneath!... He rises now! Now plucks my hero's berry bough, And lifts aloft his red fox head, And signals he has won for me.... Hist softly! Let him come and see.

"O come! my white-crowned hero, come! O come! and I will be your bride, Despite yon chieftain's craft and might. Come back to me! my lips are dumb, My hands are helpless with despair; The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair, Is reaching to the ruddy tide, That you may clutch it when you come.

"How slow he buffets back the wave! O God, he sinks! O heaven! save My brave, brave boy. He rises! See! Hold fast, my boy! Strike! strike for me. Strike straight this way! Strike firm and strong! Hold fast your strength. It is not long-- O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is gone! His face has perished from my sight.

"And did I dream, and do I wake? Or did I wake and now but dream? And what is this crawls from the stream? O here is some mad, mad, mistake! What you! The red fox at my feet? You first and failing from a race? What! you have brought me berries red? What! You have brought your bride a wreath? You sly red fox with wrinkled face-- That blade has blood, between your teeth!

"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'er And clutch your red blade to the shore.... Ha! Ha! Take that! and that! and that! Ha! Ha! So through your coward throat The full day shines!... Two fox tails float And drift and drive adown the stream.

"But what is this? What snowy crest Climbs out the willows of the west, All weary, wounded, bent, and slow, And dripping from his streaming hair? It is! it is my Idaho! His feet are on the land, and fair His face is lifting to my face, For who shall now dispute the race?

"The gray hawks pass, O love! two doves O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves. My love shall heal your wounded breast, And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."

_Joaquin Miller_.

* * * * *

I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES.

'Twas in the flow'ry month of June, The sun was in the west, When a merry, blithesome company Met at a public feast.

Around the room rich banners spread, And garlands fresh and gay; Friend greeted friend right joyously Upon that festal day.

The board was filled with choicest fare; The guests sat down to dine; Some called for "bitter," some for "stout," And some for rosy wine.

Among this joyful company, A modest youth appeared; Scarce sixteen summers had he seen, No specious snare he feared.

An empty glass before the youth Soon drew the waiter near; "What will you take, sir?" he inquired, "Stout, bitter, mild, or clear?

"We've rich supplies of foreign port, We've first-class wine and cakes." The youth with guileless look replied, "_I'll take what father takes_."

Swift as an arrow went the words Into his father's ears, And soon a conflict deep and strong Awoke terrific fears.

The father looked upon his son, Then gazed upon the wine, Oh, God! he thought, were he to taste, Who could the end divine?

Have I not seen the strongest fall, The fairest led astray? And shall I on my only son Bestow a curse this day?

No; heaven forbid! "Here, waiter, bring Bright water unto me; My son will take what father takes, My drink shall water be."

_W. Hoyle._

* * * * *

THE LITTLE HERO.

From Liverpool 'cross the Atlantic, The good ship floating o'er the deep, The skies bright with sunshine above us, The waters beneath us asleep; Not a bad-temper'd mariner 'mongst us, A jollier crew never sail'd, 'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage, But good seaman as ever was hail'd. One day he comes up from below deck, A-graspin' a lad by the arm, A poor little ragged young urchin, As ought to bin home with his marm. An' the mate asks the boy pretty roughly How he dared for to be stow'd away? A-cheating the owners and captain, Sailin', eatin', and all without pay.

The lad had a face bright and sunny, An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's, An' looks up at the scowling first mate, boys, An' shakes back his long shining curls. An' says he in a voice clear and pretty, "My stepfather brought me a-board, And hid me away down the stairs there, For to keep me he could not afford. And he told me the big ship would take me To Halifax town, oh, so far; An' he said, 'Now the Lord is your Father, Who lives where the good angels are!'" "It's a lie," says the mate,--"Not your father, But some o' these big skulkers here, Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor, Speak up! tell the truth! d'ye hear?"

Then that pair o' blue eyes bright and winn'n', Clear and shining with innocent youth, Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows, An' says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth!" Then the mate pull'd his watch from his pocket, Just as if he'd bin drawing his knife, "If in ten minutes more you don't tell, lad, There's the rope! and good-bye to dear life!" Eight minutes went by all in silence, Says the mate then, "Speak, lad, say your say!" His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops, He falteringly says, "May I pray?" An' the little chap kneels on the deck there, An' his hands he clasps o'er his breast, As he must ha' done often at home, lads, At night time when going to rest.

And soft came the first words, "Our Father," Low and clear from that dear baby-lip, But low as they were, heard like trumpet By each true man aboard o' the ship. Every bit o' that pray'r then he goes through, To "for ever and ever. A-men!" An' for all the bright gold in the Indies, I wouldn't ha' heard him agen! Off his feet was the lad sudden lifted, And clasp'd to the mate's rugged breast, An' his husky voice muttered, "God bless you," As his lips to his forehead he press'd. "You believe me now?" then said the youngster, "Believe you!" he kissed him once more, "You'd have laid down your life for the truth, lad; I believe you! from now, ever-more."

* * * * *

WANTED.

The world wants men--light-hearted, manly men-- Men who shall join its chorus and prolong The psalm of labour and the song of love.

The times wants scholars--scholars who shall shape The doubtful destinies of dubious years, And land the ark that bears our country's good, Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.

The age wants heroes--heroes who shall dare To struggle in the solid ranks of truth; To clutch the monster error by the throat; To bear opinion to a loftier seat; To blot the era of oppression out, And lead a universal freedom in.

And heaven wants souls--fresh and capacious souls, To taste its raptures, and expand like flowers Beneath the glory of its central sun. It wants fresh souls--not lean and shrivelled ones; It wants fresh souls, my brother--give it thine!

If thou, indeed, wilt act as man should act; If thou, indeed, wilt be what scholars should; If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive To help thy fellow and exalt thyself, Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors, Thy heart at last shall seem a thousand hearts, Each single heart with myriad raptures filled-- While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings, Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.

* * * * *

GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.

O Thou, who driest the mourner's tear, How dark the world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee! The friends who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone. But Thou wilt heal the broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And e'en the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, Is dimmed and vanished, too! Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not Thy wing of love Come brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above! Then, sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray, As darkness shews us worlds of light, We never saw by day.

_Moore._

* * * * *

SANTA CLAUS IN THE MINES.

In a small cabin in a Californian mining town, away up amid the snow-clad, rock-bound peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, sat a woman, in widow's weeds, holding upon her knee a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little girl, about five years old, while a little cherub of a boy lay upon a bear-skin before the open fireplace. It was Christmas Eve, and the woman sat gazing abstractedly into the fireplace. She was yet young, and as the glowing flames lit up her sad face they invested it with a wierd beauty.

Mary Stewart was the widow of Aleck Stewart, and but two years before they had lived comfortably and happy, in a camp on the American River. Aleck was a brawny miner; but the premature explosion of a blast in an exploring tunnel had blotted out his life in an instant, leaving his family without a protector, and in straitened circumstances. His daily wages had been their sole support, and now that he was gone, what could they do?

With her little family Mrs. Stewart had emigrated to the camp in which we find them, and there she earned a precarious livelihood by washing clothes for the miners. Hers was a hard lot; but the brave little woman toiled on, cheered by the thought that her daily labours stood between her darling little ones and the gaunt wolf of starvation.

Jack Dawson, a strong, honest miner, was passing the cabin this Christmas Eve, when the voice of the little girl within attracted his attention. Jack possessed an inordinate love for children, and although his manly spirit would abhor the sneaking practice of eavesdropping, he could not resist the temptation to steal up to the window just a moment to listen to the sweet, prattling voice. The first words he caught were:

"Before papa died we always had Christmas, didn't we, mamma?"

"Yes, Totty, darling; but papa earned money enough to afford to make his little pets happy at least once a year. You must remember, Totty, that we are very poor, and although mamma works very, very hard, she can scarcely earn enough to supply us with food and clothes."

Jack Dawson still lingered upon the outside. He could not leave, although he felt ashamed of himself for listening.

"We hung up our stockings last Christmas, didn't we, mamma?" continued the little girl.

"Yes, Totty; but we were poor then, and Santa Claus never notices real poor people. He gave you a little candy then, just because you were such good children."

"Is we any poorer now, mamma?"

"Oh! yes, much poorer. He would never notice us at all now."

Jack Dawson detected a tremor of sadness in the widow's voice as she uttered the last words, and he wiped a suspicious dampness from his eyes.

"Where's our clean stockings, mamma? I'm going to hang mine up anyhow; maybe he will come like he did before, just because we try to be good children," said Totty.

"It will be no use, my darling, I am sure he will not come," and tears gathered in the mother's eyes as she thought of her empty purse.

"I don't care, I'm going to try, anyhow. Please get one of my stockings, mamma."

Jack Dawson's generous heart swelled until it seemed bursting from his bosom. He heard the patter of little bare feet upon the cabin floor as Totty ran about hunting hers and Benny's stockings, and after she had hung them up, heard her sweet voice again as she wondered over and over if Santa really would forget them. He heard the mother, in a choking voice; tell her treasures to get ready for bed; heard them lisp their childish prayers, the little girl concluding: "And, O, Lord! please tell good Santa Claus that we are very poor; but that we love him as much as rich children do, for dear Jesus' sake--Amen!"

After they were in bed, through a small rent in the plain white curtain he saw the widow sitting before the fire, her face buried in her hands, and weeping bitterly.

On a peg, just over the fire-place, hung two little patched and faded stockings, and then he could stand it no longer. He softly moved away from the window to the rear of the cabin, where some objects fluttering in the wind met his eye. Among these he searched until he found a little blue stocking which he removed from the line, folded tenderly, and placed in his overcoat pocket, and then set out for the main street of the camp. He entered Harry Hawk's gambling hall, the largest in the place, where a host of miners and gamblers were at play. Jack was well known in the camp, and when he got up on a chair and called for attention, the hum of voices and clicking of ivory checks suddenly ceased. Then in an earnest voice he told what he had seen and heard, repeating every word of the conversation between the mother and her children. In conclusion he said:

"Boys, I think I know you, every one of you, an' I know jist what kind o' metal yer made of. I've an idee that Santy Claus knows jist whar thet cabin's sitiwated, an' I've an idee he'll find it afore mornin'. Hyar's one of the little gal's stock'n's thet I hooked off'n the line. The daddy o' them little ones was a good, hard-working miner, an' he crossed the range in the line o' duty, jist as any one of us is liable to do in our dangerous business. Hyar goes a twenty-dollar piece right down in the toe, and hyar I lay the stockin' on this card table--now chip in much or little, as ye kin afford."

Brocky Clark, a gambler, left the table, picked the little stocking up carefully, looked at it tenderly, and when he laid it down another twenty had gone into the toe to keep company with the one placed there by Dawson.

Another and another came up until the foot of the stocking was well filled, and then came the cry from the gambling table:

"Pass her around, Jack."

At the word he lifted it from the table and started around the hall. Before he had circulated it at half a dozen tables it showed signs of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver coin, and a strong coin bag, such as is used for sending treasure by express, was procured, and the stocking placed inside of it. The round of the large hall was made, and in the meantime the story had spread all over the camp. From the various saloons came messages saying:

"Send the stockin' 'round the camp; boys are a-waitin' for it!"

With a party at his heels, Jack went from saloon to saloon. Games ceased and tipplers left the bars as they entered each place, and miners, gamblers, speculators, everybody, crowded up to tender their Christmas gift to the miner's widow and orphans. Any one who has lived in the far Western camps and is acquainted with the generosity of Western men, will feel no surprise or doubt my truthfulness, when I say that after the round had been made, the little blue stocking and the heavy canvas bag contained over eight thousand dollars in gold and silver coin.

Horses were procured, and a party despatched to the larger town down on the Consumnes, from which they returned near daybreak with toys, clothing, provisions, etc., in almost endless variety. Arranging their gifts in proper shape, and securely tying the mouth of the bag of coin, the party noiselessly repaired to the widow's humble cabin. The bag was first laid on the steps, and other articles piled up in a heap over it. On the top was laid the lid of a large pasteboard box, on which was written with a piece of charcoal:

"Santy Clause doesn't allways Giv poor Folks The Cold Shoulder in This camp."

Christmas day dawned bright and beautiful.

Mrs. Stewart arose, and a shade of pain crossed her handsome face as the empty little stockings caught her maternal eye. She cast a hurried glance toward the bed where her darlings lay sleeping, and whispered:

"O God! how dreadful is poverty!"

She built a glowing fire, set about preparing the frugal breakfast, and when it was almost ready she approached the bed, kissed the little ones until they were wide awake, and lifted them to the floor. With eager haste Totty ran to the stockings, only to turn away sobbing as though her heart would break. Tears blinded the mother, and clasping her little girl to her heart, she said in a choking voice:

"Never mind, my darling; next Christmas I am sure mamma will be richer, and then Santa Claus will bring us lots of nice things."

"O mamma!"

The exclamation came from little Benny, who had opened the door and was standing gazing in amazement upon the wealth of gifts there displayed.

Mrs. Stewart sprang to his side and looked in speechless astonishment. She read the card, and then, causing her little ones to kneel down with her in the open doorway, she poured out her soul in a torrent of praise and thanksgiving to God.

Jack Dawson's burly form moved from behind a tree a short distance away, and sneaked off up the gulch, great crystal tears chasing each other down his face.

The family arose from their knees, and began to move the stores into the room. There were several sacks of flour, hams, canned fruit, pounds and pounds of coffee, tea and sugar, new dress goods, and a handsome, warm woollen shawl for the widow, shoes, stockings, hats, mittens, and clothing for the children, a great big wax doll that could cry and move its eyes for Totty, and a beautiful red sled for Benny. All were carried inside amidst alternate laughs and tears.

"Bring in the sack of salt, Totty, and that is all," said the mother. "Is not God good to us?"

"I can't lift it, mamma, it's frozen to the step!"

The mother stooped and took hold of it, and lifted harder and harder, until she raised it from the step. Her cheek blanched as she noted its great weight, and breathlessly she carried it in and laid it upon the breakfast table. With trembling fingers she loosened the string and emptied the contents upon the table. Gold and silver--more than she had ever thought of in her wildest dreams of comfort, and almost buried in the pile of treasure lay Totty's little blue stocking.

We will not intrude longer upon such happiness; but leave the joyful family sounding praises to Heaven and Santa Claus.

_Anon._

* * * * *

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.

Girt round with rugged mountains The fair Lake Constance lies; In her blue heart reflected Shine back the starry skies; And, watching each white cloudlet Float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven Lies on our earth below!

Midnight is there: and Silence, Enthroned in Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, Upon a sleeping town: For Bregenz, that quaint city Upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance A thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers, From off their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadow For ages on the deep: Mountain, and lake, and valley, A sacred legend know, Of how the town was saved, one night, Three hundred years ago.

Far from her home and kindred, A Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, And toil for daily bread; And every year that fleeted So silently and fast, Seemed to bear farther from her The memory of the Past.

She served kind, gentle masters, Nor asked for rest or change; Her friends seemed no more new ones, Their speech seemed no more strange And when she led her cattle To pasture every day, She ceased to look and wonder On which side Bregenz lay.

She spoke no more of Bregenz, While longing and with tears; Her Tyrol home seemed faded In a deep mist of years; She heeded not the rumours Of Austrian war and strife; Each day she rose, contented, To the calm toils of life.

Yet, when her master's children Would clustering round her stand, She sang them ancient ballads Of her own native land; And when at morn and evening She knelt before God's throne, The accents of her childhood Rose to her lips alone.

And so she dwelt: the valley More peaceful year by year; When suddenly strange portents Of some great deed seemed near. The golden corn was bending Upon its fragile stalk, While farmers, heedless of their fields, Paced up and down in talk.

The men seemed stern and altered-- With looks cast on the ground; With anxious faces, one by one, The women gathered round; All talk of flax, or spinning, Or work, was put away; The very children seemed afraid To go alone to play.

One day, out in the meadow With strangers from the town, Some secret plan discussing, The men walked up and down. Yet now and then seemed watching A strange uncertain gleam, That looked like lances 'mid the trees That stood below the stream.

At eve they all assembled, Then care and doubt were fled; With jovial laugh they feasted; The board was nobly spread. The elder of the village Rose up, his glass in hand, And cried, "We drink the downfall Of an accursed land!

"The night is growing darker, Ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foemens' stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own!" The women shrank in terror (Yet Pride, too, had her part), But one poor Tyrol maiden Felt death within her heart.

Before her stood fair Bregenz; Once more her towers arose; What were the friends beside her? Only her country's foes! The faces of her kinsfolk, The days of childhood flown, The echoes of her mountains, Reclaimed her as their own.

Nothing she heard around her (Though shouts rang forth again), Gone were the green Swiss valleys, The pasture, and the plain; Before her eyes one vision, And in her heart one cry, That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, And then, if need be, die!"

With trembling haste, and breathless, With noiseless step, she sped; Horses and weary cattle Were standing in the shed; She loosed the strong, white charger, That fed from out her hand, She mounted, and she turned his head Toward her native land.

Out--out into the darkness-- Faster, and still more fast; The smooth grass flies behind her, The chestnut wood is past; She looks up; clouds are heavy; Why is her steed so slow? Scarcely the wind beside them Can pass them as they go.

"Faster!" she cries, "O faster!" Eleven the church-bells chime: "O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, And bring me there in time!" But louder than bells' ringing, Or lowing of the kine, Grows nearer in the midnight The rushing of the Rhine.

Shall not the roaring waters Their headlong gallop check? The steed draws back in terror-- She leans upon his neck To watch the flowing darkness; The bank is high and steep; One pause--he staggers forward, And plunges in the deep.

She strives to pierce the blackness, And looser throws the rein; Her steed must breast the waters That dash above his mane. How gallantly, how nobly, He struggles through the foam, And see--in the far distance Shine out the lights of home!

Up the steep bank he bears her, And now, they rush again Towards the heights of Bregenz, That tower above the plain. They reach the gate of Bregenz Just as the midnight rings, And out come serf and soldier To meet the news she brings.

Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight Her battlements are manned; Defiance greets the army That marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic Should endless fame be paid, Bregenz does well to honour That noble Tyrol maid.

Three hundred years are vanished, And yet upon the hill An old stone gateway rises. To do her honour still. And there, when Bregenz women Sit spinning in the shade, They see in quaint old carving The Charger and the Maid.

And when, to guard old Bregenz, By gateway, street, and tower, The warder paces all night long And calls each passing hour: "Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, And then (O crown of Fame!) When midnight pauses in the skies, He calls the maiden's name!

_Adelaide A. Procter._

* * * * *

A TARRYTOWN ROMANCE.

'Twas in ye pleasant olden time, Oh! many years ago, When husking bees and singing-schools Were all the fun, you know.

The singing-school in Tarrytown, A quaint old town in Maine-- Was wisely taught and grandly led By a young man named Paine.

A gallant gentleman was Paine, Who liked the lasses well; But best he liked Miss Patience White, As all his school could tell.

One night the singing-school had met; Young Paine, all carelessly, Had turned the leaves and said: "We'll sing On page one-seventy."

"'See gentle patience smile on pain.'" On Paine they all then smiled, But not so gently as they might; And he, confused and wild.

Searched quickly for another place, As quickly gave it out; The merriment, suppressed before, Rose now into a shout.

These were the words that met his eyes (He sank down with a groan); "Oh! give me grief for others' woes, And patience for my own!"

_Good Cheer._

* * * * *

THE BISHOPS VISIT.

Tell you about it? Of course, I will! I thought 'twould be dreadful to have him come, For Mamma said I must be quiet and still, And she put away my whistle and drum--

And made me unharness the parlour chairs, And packed my cannon and all the rest Of my noisiest playthings off up stairs, On account of this very distinguished guest.

Then every room was turned upside down, And all the carpets hung out to blow; For when the Bishop is coming to town, The house must be in order you know.

So out in the kitchen I made my lair, And started a game of hide-and-seek; But Bridget refused to have me there, For the Bishop was coming--to stay a week--

And she must make cookies and cakes and pies, And fill every closet and platter and pan, Till I thought this Bishop so great and wise, Must be an awfully hungry man.

Well, at last he came; and I do declare, Dear grandpapa, he looked just like you, With his gentle voice and his silvery hair, And eyes with a smile a-shining through.

And whenever he read, or talked, or prayed, I understood every single word; And I wasn't the leastest bit afraid, Though I never once spoke or stirred;

Till, all of a sudden, he laughed right out To see me sit quietly listening so; And began to tell us stories about Some queer little fellows in Mexico.

All about Egypt and Spain--and then He wasn't disturbed by a little noise, But said that the greatest and best of men Once were rollicking, healthy boys.

And he thinks it no great matter at all If a little boy runs and jumps and climbs; And Mamma should be willing to let me crawl Through the bannister-rails, in the hall, sometimes.

And Bridget, she made a great mistake, In stirring up such a bother, you see, For the Bishop--he didn't care for cake, And really liked to play games with me.

But though he's so honoured in words and act-- (Stoop down, for this is a secret now)-- He couldn't spell Boston! That's a fact! But whispered to me to tell him how.

_Emily Huntington Miller_.

* * * * *

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

Poor lone Hannah, Sitting at the window, binding shoes! Faded, wrinkled, Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. Bright-eyed beauty once was she, When the bloom was on the tree;-- Spring and winter, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Not a neighbour Passing, nod or answer will refuse To her whisper, "Is there from the fishers any news?" Oh, her heart's adrift with one On an endless voyage gone;-- Night and morning, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah, Ben the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos; Hale and clever, For a willing heart and hand he sues May-day skies are all aglow, And the waves are laughing so! For her wedding Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing; 'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos; Hannah shudders, For the wild south-wester mischief brews. Round the rocks of Marblehead, Outward bound a schooner sped; Silent, lonesome, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

'Tis November: Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, From Newfoundland Not a sail returning will she lose, Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen, Have you, have you heard of Ben?" Old with watching, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty winters Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views, Twenty seasons! Never one has brought her any news. Still her dim eyes silently Chase the white sails o'er the sea;-- Hopeless, faithful, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

_Lucy Larcom._

* * * * *

BELLS ACROSS THE SNOW.

O Christmas, merry Christmas! Is it really come again? With its memories and greetings, With its joy and with its pain There's a minor in the carol, And a shadow in the light, And a spray of cypress twining With the holly wreath to-night. And the hush is never broken, By the laughter light and low, As we listen in the starlight To the bells across the snow!

O Christmas, merry Christmas! 'Tis not so very long Since other voices blended With the carol and the song! If we could but hear them singing, As they are singing now, If we could but see the radiance Of the crown on each dear brow; There would be no sigh to smother, No hidden tear to flow, As we listen in the starlight To the bells across the snow!

O Christmas, merry Christmas! This never more can be; We cannot bring again the days Of our unshadowed glee. But Christmas, happy Christmas! Sweet herald of good-will, With holy songs of glory Brings holy gladness still. For peace and hope may brighten, And patient love may glow, As we listen in the starlight To the bells across the snow!

_Frances Ridley Havergal._

* * * * *

A MODEST WIT.

A supercilious nabob of the East-- Haughty, being great--purse-proud, being rich-- A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which-- Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron's suite, An unassuming boy, and in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit; But yet, with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His honour, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary.

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?" "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckon'd good."

"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?"

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade!"

"My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low-- He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

"Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?"

* * * * *

"NAY, I'LL STAY WITH THE LAD."

Six hundred souls one summer's day, Worked in the deep, dark Hutton seams; Men were hewing the coal away, Boys were guiding the loaded teams. Horror of darkness was everywhere; It was coal above, and coal below, Only the miner's guarded lamp Made in the gloom a passing glow.

Down in the deep, black Hutton seams There came a flowery, balmy breath; Men dropped their tools, and left their teams, They knew the balmy air meant death, And fled before the earthquake shock, The cruel fire-damp's fatal course, That tore apart the roof and walls, And buried by fifties, man and horse.

"The shaft! the shaft!" they wildly cried; And as they ran they passed a cave, Where stood a father by his son-- The child had found a living grave, And lay among the shattered coal, His little life had almost sped. "Fly! fly! For there may yet be time!" The father calmly, firmly said: "Nay; I'll stay with the lad."

He had no hurt; he yet might reach The blessed sun and light again. But at his feet his child lay bound, And every hope of help was vain. He let deliverance pass him by; He stooped and kissed the little face; "I will not leave thee by thyself, Ah! lad; this is thy father's place."

So Self before sweet Love lay slain. In the deep mine again was told The story of a father's love. Older than mortal man is old; For though they urged him o'er and o'er, To every prayer he only had The answer he had found at first, "Nay; I'll stay with the lad."

And when some weary days had passed, And men durst venture near the place, They lay where Death had found them both, But hand in hand, and face to face. And men were better for that sight, And told the tale with tearful breath; There was not one but only felt, The man had died a noble death, And left this thought for all to keep-- If earthly fathers can so love, Ah, surely, we may safely lean Upon the Fatherhood above!

_Lillie E. Barr._

* * * * *

MARY MALONEY'S PHILOSOPHY.

"What are you singing for?" said I to Mary Maloney.

"Oh, I don't know, ma'am, without it's because my heart feels happy."

"Happy are you, Mary Maloney? Let me see; you don't own a foot of land in the world?"

"Foot of land, is it?" she cried, with a hearty Irish laugh; "oh, what a hand ye be after joking; why I haven't a penny, let alone the land."

"Your mother is dead!"

"God rest her soul, yes," replied Mary Maloney, with a touch of genuine pathos; "may the angels make her bed in heaven."

"Your brother is still a hard case, I suppose."

"Ah, you may well say that. It's nothing but drink, drink, drink, and beating his poor wife, that she is, the creature."

You have to pay your little sister's board."

"Sure, the bit creature, and she's a good little girl, is Hinny, willing to do whatever I axes her. I don't grudge the money what goes for that."

"You haven't many fashionable dresses, either, Mary Maloney."

"Fashionable, is it? Oh, yes, I put a piece of whalebone in my skirt, and me calico gown looks as big as the great ladies. But then ye says true, I hasn't but two gowns to me back, two shoes, to me feet, and one bonnet to me head, barring the old hood you gave me."

"You haven't any lover, Mary Maloney."

"Oh, be off wid ye--ketch Mary Maloney getting a lover these days, when the hard times is come. No, no, thank Heaven I haven't got that to trouble me yet, nor I don't want it."

"What on earth, then, have you got to make you happy? A drunken brother, a poor helpless sister, no mother, no father, no lover; why, where do you get all your happiness from?"

"The Lord be praised, Miss, it growed up in me. Give me a bit of sunshine, a clean flure, plenty of work, and a sup at the right time, and I'm made. That makes me laugh and sing, and then if deep trouble comes, why, God helpin' me, I'll try to keep my heart up. Sure, it would be a sad thing if Patrick McGrue should take it into his head to come an ax me, but, the Lord willin', I'd try to bear up under it."

_Philadelphia Bulletin._

* * * * *

THE POLISH BOY.

Whence came those shrieks, so wild and shrill, That like an arrow cleave the air, Causing the blood to creep and thrill With such sharp cadence of despair? Once more they come! as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe!

Whence came they? From yon temple, where An altar raised for private prayer Now forms the warrior's marble bed, Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. The dim funereal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress-- No thrilling fingers seek its clasp? It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly late upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye, Outstretched upon the altar there.

Now with white lips and broken moan She sinks beside the altar stone; But hark! the heavy tramp of feet Is heard along the gloomy street; Nearer and nearer yet they come, With clanking arms and noiseless drum. They leave the pavement. Flowers that spread Their beauties by the path they tread Are crushed and broken. Crimson hands Rend brutally their blooming bands. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep.

The gate is burst. A ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom snatched the child; Then with pale cheek and flashing eye, Shouted with fearful energy,-- "Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead! Nor touch the living boy--I stand Between him and your lawless band! No traitor he--but listen! I Have cursed your master's tyranny. I cheered my lord to join the band Of those who swore to free our land, Or fighting, die; and when he pressed Me for the last time to his breast, I knew that soon his form would be Low as it is, or Poland free. He went and grappled with the foe, Laid many a haughty Russian low; But he is dead--the good--the brave-- And I, his wife, am worse--a slave! Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child!"

"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side; And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door.

"One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one; Can land or gold redeem my son? If so, I bend my Polish knee, And, Russia, ask a boon of thee. Take palaces, take lands, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall. Take these," and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like star-light there; Unclasped the brilliant coronal And carcanet of orient pearl; Her cross of blazing rubies last Down to the Russian's feet she cast.

He stooped to seize the glittering store; Upspringing from the marble floor; The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy! But no--the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mother's agony.

But the brave child is roused at length, And breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.

Proudly he towers, his flashing eye, So blue and fiercely bright, Seems lighted from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light. His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks. With a full voice of proud command He turns upon the wondering band.

"Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can; This hour has made the boy a man. The world shall witness that one soul Fears not to prove itself a Pole.

"I knelt beside my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire; I wept upon his marble brow-- Yes, wept--I was a child; but now My noble mother on her knee, Has done the work of years for me. Although in this small tenement My soul is cramped--unbowed, unbent I've still within me ample power To free myself this very hour. This dagger in my heart! and then, Where is your boasted power, base men?"

He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jewelled haft of a poinard bright, Glittered a moment on the sight. "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! Think ye my noble father's glaive, Could drink the life blood of a slave? The pearls that on the handle flame, Would blush to rubies in their shame. The blade would quiver in thy breast, Ashamed of such ignoble rest! No; thus I rend thy tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain!"

A moment, and the funeral light Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor a crimson flood. Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang-- "Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! The choice was death or slavery: Up! mother, up! look on my face, I only wait for thy embrace. One last, last word--a blessing, one, To prove thou knowest what I have done, No look! No word! Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? Speak, mother, speak--lift up thy head. What, silent still? Then thou art dead! Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee, and thus to die." Slowly he falls. The clustering hair Rolls back and leaves that forehead bare. One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom, dead.

_Mrs. Ann S. Stephens._

* * * * *

THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR.

Sweetheart, good-bye! the flutt'ring sail Is spread to waft me far from thee, And soon before the favouring gale My ship shall bound upon the sea. Perchance, all desolate and forlorn, These eyes shall miss thee many a year; But unforgotten every charm-- Though lost to sight, to memory dear.

Sweetheart, good-bye! one last embrace; O, cruel fate, two souls to sever! Yet in this heart's most sacred place Thou, thou alone shalt dwell forever; And still shall recollection trace In fancy's mirror, ever near, Each smile, each tear--that form, that face-- Though lost to sight, to memory dear.

_Ruthven Jenkyns._

* * * * *

THE AGUE.

Once upon an evening bleary, While I sat me dreaming, dreary, In the parlour thinking o'er Things that passed in days of yore, While I nodded, nearly sleeping, Gently came something creeping, Creeping upward from the floor. "'Tis a cooling breeze," I muttered, "From the regions 'neath the floor: Only this and nothing more."

Ah! distinctly I remember-- It was in that wet September, When the earth and every member Of creation that it bore, Had for weeks and months been soaking In the meanest, most provoking, Foggy rain, that without joking, We had ever seen before. So I knew it must be very Cold and damp beneath the floor, Very cold beneath the floor.

So I sat me, nearly napping, In the sunshine, stretching, gaping, With a feeling quite delighted With the breezes 'neath the floor, Till I felt me growing colder, And the stretching waxing bolder, And myself now feeling older, Older than I felt before; Feeling that my joints were stiffer Than they were in days of yore, Stiffer than they'd been before.

All along my back, the creeping Soon gave place to rustling, leaping, As if countless frozen demons Had concluded to explore All the cavities--the varmints!-- 'Twixt me and my nether garments, Through my boots into the floor: Then I found myself a shaking, Gently shaking more and more, Every moment more and more.

'Twas the ague; and it shook me Into heavy clothes, and took me Shaking to the kitchen, every Place where there was warmth in store, Shaking till the china rattled, Shaking till the morals battled; Shaking, and with all my warming, Feeling colder than before; Shaking till it had exhausted All its powers to shake me more. Till it could not shake me more.

Then it rested till the morrow, When it came with all the horror That it had the face to borrow, Shaking, shaking as before, And from that day in September-- Day which I shall long remember-- It has made diurnal visits, Shaking, shaking, oh! so sore, Shaking off my boots, and shaking Me to bed if nothing more, Fully this if nothing more.

And to-day the swallows flitting Bound my cottage see me sitting Moodily within the sunshine Just inside my silent door, Waiting for the ague, seeming Like a man forever dreaming, And the sunlight on me streaming, Casts no shadow on the floor, For I am too thin and sallow To make shadows on the floor, Never a shadow any more.

* * * * *

THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH.

Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshipped there to-day! It made me think of good old times before my hairs were gray; The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago, But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.

The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.

I wish you'd heard the singin'; it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!" The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall; Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all."

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form, And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm.

The prech'en? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.

The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple gospel truth; It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed; 'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed.

How swift the golden moments fled, within that holy place; How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face; Again I longed for that sweet time, when friend shall meet with friend, "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no end."

I hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too-- In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day.

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought--the victory soon be won; The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.

_John H. Yates_.

* * * * *

THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.

I'm thinking that to-night, if not before, There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar. It's brewing up, down westward; and look there! One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on As threats, the water will be out anon. That path by the ford is a nasty bit of way, Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.

The children join in this request; but the mother resolves that they shall set out--the two girls, Lizzie and Jenny, the one five, the other seven. As the dame's will was law, so--

One last fond kiss-- "God bless my little maids," the father said, And cheerily went his way to win their bread.

Prepared for their journey they depart, with the mother's admonition to the elder--

"Now mind and bring Jenny safe home," the mother said. "Don't stay To pull a bough or berry by the way; And when you come to cross the ford hold fast Your little sister's hand till you're quite past, That plank is so crazy, and so slippery If not overflowed the stepping stones will be; But you're good children--steady as old folk, I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzie's cloak (A good gray duffle) lovingly she tied, And amply little Jenny's lack supplied With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, "To wrap it round, and knot it carefully, (Like this) when you come home--just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away-- Good will to school, and then good right to play."

The mother watches them with foreboding, though she knows not why. In a little while the threatened storm sets in. Night comes, and with it comes the father from his daily toil--There's a treasure hidden in his hat--

A plaything for the young ones he has found-- A dormouse nest; the living ball coil'd round For its long winter sleep; all his thought As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, And graver Lizzie's quieter surprise, When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.

No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and to his hurried question--

"Are they come?"--t'was, "No," To throw his tools down, hastily unhook The old crack'd lantern from its dusky nook And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,-- Was but a moment's act, and he was gone To where a fearful foresight led him on.

A neighbour goes with him, and the faithful dog follows the children's tracks. "Hold the light Low down, he's making for the water. Hark! I know that whine; the old dog's found them, Mark;" So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot bridge. It was gone! And all his dull contracted light could show Was the black void, and dark swollen stream below; "Yet there's life somewhere--more than Tinker's whine-- That's sure," said Mark, "So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog and--hark!" "O dear!" And a low sob came faintly on the ear, Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he caught Fast hold of something--a dark huddled heap-- Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee deep For a tall man: and half above it propped By some old ragged side piles that had stop't Endways the broken plank when it gave way With the two little ones, that luckless day! "My babes! my lambkins!" was the father's cry, _One little voice_ made answer, "Here am I;" 'Twas Lizzie's. There she crouched with face as white, More ghastly, by the flickering lantern light, Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight, Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, And eyes on some dark object underneath, Washed by the turbid waters, fix'd like stone-- One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown, Grasping, as in the death-grip, Jenny's frock. There she lay, drown'd. They lifted her from out her watery bed-- Its covering gone, the lovely little head Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside, And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied Leaving that free about the child's small form, As was her last injunction--"fast and warm," Too well obeyed--too fast! A fatal hold, Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold That caught and pinned her to the river's bed. While through the reckless water overhead, Her life breath bubbled up. "She might have lived, Struggling like Lizzie," was the thought that rived The wretched mother's heart when she heard all, "But for my foolishness about that shawl." "Who says I forgot? Mother! indeed, indeed I kept fast hold, And tied the shawl quite close--she Can't be cold-- But she won't move--we slept--I don't know how-- But I held on, and I'm so weary now-- And its so dark and cold! Oh, dear! oh, dear! And she won't move--if father were but here!" All night long from side to side she turn'd, Piteously plaining like a wounded dove. With now and then the murmur, "She won't move," And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright Shone on that pillow--passing strange the sight, The young head's raven hair was streaked with white!

_Mrs. Southey._

* * * * *

SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS.

It is summer. A party of visitors are just crossing the iron bridge that extends from the American shore to Goat's Island, about a quarter of a mile above the Falls. Just as they are about to leave, while watching the stream as it plunges and dashes among the rocks below, the eye of one fastens on something clinging to a rock, caught on the very verge of the Falls. Scarcely willing to believe his own vision, he directs the attention of his companions. The terrible news spreads like lightning, and in a few minutes the bridge and the surrounding shore are covered with thousands of spectators. "Who is he?" "How did he get there?" are questions every person proposed, but answered by none. No voice is heard above the awful flood, but a spy-glass shows frequent efforts to speak to the gathering multitude. Such silent appeals exceed the eloquence of words; they are irresistible, and something must be done. A small boat is soon upon the bridge, and with a rope attached sets out upon its fearless voyage, but is instantly sunk. Another and another are tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry waters. A large one might possibly survive; but none is at hand. Away to Buffalo a car is despatched, and never did the iron horse thunder along its steel-bound track on such a godlike mission. Soon the most competent life- boat is upon the spot. All eyes are fixed upon the object, as trembling and tossing amid the boiling white waves it survives the roughest waters. One breaker past and it will have reached the object of its mission. But being partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that next wave sends it hurling to the bottom. An involuntary groan passes through the dense multitude, and hope scarcely nestles in a single bosom. The sun goes down in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins to scatter, methinks the angels looking over the battlements on high drop a tear of pity on the scene. The silvery stars shine dimly through their curtain of blue. The multitude are gone, and the sufferer is left with his God. Long before morning he must be swept over that dreadful abyss; he clings to that rock with all the tenacity of despair, and as he surveys the horrors of his position strange visions in the air come looming up before him. He sees his home, his wife and children there; he sees the home of his childhood; he sees that mother as she used to soothe his childish fears upon her breast; he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears. In imagination he hears the hideous yells of demons, and mingled prayers and curses die upon his lips.

No sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again rush to the scene of horror, Soon a shout is heard: he is there; he is still alive. Just now a carriage arrives upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it and rushes to the most favourable point of observation. She had driven from Chippewa, three miles above the Falls; her husband had crossed the river night before last, and had not returned, and she fears he may be clinging to that rock. All eyes are turned for a moment toward the anxious woman, and no sooner is a glass handed to her fixed upon the object than she shrieks, "Oh, my husband!" and sinks senseless to the earth. The excitement, before intense, seems now almost unendurable, and something must again be tried. A small raft is constructed, and, to the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock to which the sufferer had clung for the last forty-eight hours. He instantly throws himself full length upon it. Thousands are pulling at the end of the rope, and with skillful management a few rods are gained toward the nearest shore. What tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety with which that little bark is watched as, trembling and tossing amid the roughest waters, it nears that rock-bound coast? Save Niagara's eternal roar, all is silent as the grave. His wife sees it and is only restrained by force from rushing into the river. Hope instantly springs into every bosom, but it is only to sink into deeper gloom. The angel of death has spread his wings over that little bark; the poor man's strength is almost gone; each wave lessens his grasp more and more, but all will be safe if that nearest wave is past. But that next surging billow breaks his hold upon the pitching timbers, the next moment hurling him to the awful verge, where, with body, erect, hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their last look of earth, he shrieks, above Niagara's eternal roar, "Lost!" and sinks forever from the gaze of man.

_Charles Tarson._

* * * * *

"CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT."

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,-- He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white, Struggled to keep back the murmur,-- "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold, "I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, At the ringing of the curfew--and no earthly help is nigh; Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white As she breathed the husky whisper,-- "Curfew must not ring to-night"

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton, every word pierced her young heart Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly, poisoned dart. "Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, Now I'm old I still must do it, Curfew it must ring to-night."

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, And within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright-- In an undertone she murmured,-- "Curfew must not ring to-night."

She with quick steps bounded forward, sprung within the old church door, Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow, Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro; And she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light, Up and up--her white lips saying-- "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell; Awful is the gloom beneath her, like a pathway down to hell. Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of curfew now And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden light, And she springs and grasps it firmly-- "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a speck of light below, 'Twixt heaven and earth her form suspended, as the bell swung to and fro, And the sexton at the bell rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil's funeral knell. Still the maiden clung most firmly, and with trembling lips and white, Said to hush her heart's wild beating,-- "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years before, Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun Should illume the sky with beauty; aged sires with heads of white, Long should tell the little children, Curfew did not ring that night.

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him and her brow, Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eye with misty light: "Go, your lover lives," said Cromwell, "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

* * * * *

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

Here were not mingled, in the city's pomp, Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom; Judgment awoke not here her dismal trump, Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature's doom; Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb. One venerable man, beloved of all, Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, To sway the strife, that seldom might befall; And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.

How reverend was the look, serenely aged, He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged, Undimmed by weakness' shade, or turbid ire! And though, amidst the calm of thought, entire, Some high and haughty features might betray A soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire That fled composure's intellectual ray, As Aetna's fires grow dim before the rising day.

I boast no song in magic wonders rife; But yet, O Nature! is there naught to prize, Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life? And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies No form with which the soul may sympathize?-- Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild The parted ringlet shone in sweetest guise, An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, Or blessed his noonday walk;--she was his only child.

The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's cheek:-- What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire A Briton's independence taught to seek Far western worlds; and there his household fire The light of social love did long inspire; And many a halcyon day he lived to see, Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, When fate had reft his mutual heart--but she Was gone;--and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's knee.

A loved bequest;--and I may half impart To them that feel the strong paternal tie, How like a new existence to his heart That living flower uprose beneath his eye, Dear as she was from cherub infancy, From hours when she would round his garden play, To time when, as the ripening years went by, Her lovely mind could culture well repay, And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day.

I may not paint those thousand infant charms; (Unconscious fascination, undesigned!) The orison repeated in his arms, For God to bless her sire and all mankind; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined; Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind!) All uncompanioned else her heart had gone, Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.

_Campbell._

* * * * *

AN AUTUMN DAY.

But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens, and wraps the ground,-- The blessing of supreme repose. Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care; Away! from desk and dust, away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meaning of the heart,-- One day amid the woods with thee, From men and all their cares apart;-- And where, upon the meadow's breast, The shadow of the thicket lies, The blue wild flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. Come,--and when 'mid the calm profound, I turn those gentle eyes to seek, They, like the lovely landscape round, Of innocence and peace shall speak. Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade; And on the silent valleys gaze, Winding and widening, till they fade In yon soft ring of summer haze. The village trees their summits rear Still as its spire; and yonder flock, At rest in those calm fields, appear As chiselled from the lifeless rock. One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks, Where the hushed winds their Sabbath keep, While a near hum from bees and brooks, Comes faintly like the breath of sleep.-- Well might the gazer deem, that when, Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the sons of men, The good forsake the scenes of life,-- Like the deep quiet, that awhile Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, Shall be the peace whose holy smile Welcomes them to a happier shore!

_Bryant._

* * * * *

SONNET.

Our love is not a fading earthly flower: Its wingèd seed dropped down from Paradise, And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower Doth momently to fresher beauty rise. To us the leafless autumn is not bare, Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green: Our summer hearts make summer's fullness where No leaf or bud or blossom may be seen: For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie, Love,--whose forgetfulness is beauty's death, Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I Into the infinite freedom openeth, And makes the body's dark and narrow grate The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's palace-gate.

_James Russell Lowell._

* * * * *

BABY'S VISITOR.

My baby boy sat on the floor; His big blue eyes were full of wonder For he had never seen before That baby in the mirror door-- What kept the two, so near, asunder? He leaned toward the golden head The mirror border framed within, Until twin cheeks, like roses red, Lay side by side; then softly said, "I can't get out; can you come in?"

_Atlanta Constitution._

* * * * *

A PRAYER.

God! do not let my loved one die, But rather wait until the time That I am grown in purity Enough to enter Thy pure clime Then take me, I will gladly go, So that my love remain below!

Oh, let her stay! She is by birth What I through death must learn to be, We need her more on our poor earth Than Thou canst need in heaven with Thee; She hath her wings already: I Must burst this earth-shell ere I fly.

Then, God, take me! we shall be near, More near than ever, each to each: Her angel ears will find more clear My earthly than my heavenly speech; And still, as I draw nigh to Thee, Her soul and mine shall closer be.

_James Russell Lowell._

* * * * *

THERE'S NOTHING TRUE BUT HEAVEN.

This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-- There's nothing _true_ but Heaven.

And false the light on glory's plume, As fading hues of even; And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gathered for the tomb-- There's nothing _bright_ but Heaven.

Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven; And fancy's flash, and reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way-- There's nothing _calm_ but Heaven.

_Moore._

* * * * *

HOME SONG.

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, and they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; The bird is safest in its nest; O'er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky; To stay at home is best.

_H. W. Longfellow._

* * * * *

SAVED.

Crouching in the twilight-gray, Like a hunted thing at bay, In his brain one thought is rife: Why not end the bootless strife?

Who in God's wide world would weep, Should he brave death's dreamless sleep? Hark! a child's voice, soft and clear, Pulsing through the gloaming drear;

And the word the singer brings Like a new evangel rings; "Jesus loves me! this I know," Swift his thoughts to childhood go.

Memories of a mother's face Bending to her boy's embrace, And the boy at eventide Kneeling by the mother's side,

Like "sweet visions of the night" Fill the lonesome place with light, While the singer's tender trill-- "Jesus loves me! loves me still"--

Hovers in the dreamlit air Like an answer to the prayer. Offered in those happy days When he walked in sinless ways.

"Jesus loves me!" Can it be His, this _benedicite_? Is there One who knows and cares? One who all his sorrow shares?

"Jesus loves me!" While the song Guileless lips with joy prolong, Lo! a soul has ceased its strife, Reconciled to God and life.

_Mary B. Sleight._

* * * * *

SONG OF BIRDS.

Did you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? Did you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought? Whose household word are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught; Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven!

Think, every morning, when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the, grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old melodious madrigals of love! And, when you think of this, remember, too, 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore!

_Longfellow._

* * * * *

JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL.

'Twas in the summer of '46 that I landed at Hamilton, fresh as a new pratie just dug from the "old sod," and wid a light heart and a heavy bundle I sot off for the township of Buford, tiding a taste of a song, as merry a young fellow as iver took the road. Well, I trudged on and on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the thought that some day I might have a place of my own, wid a world of chickens and ducks and pigs and childer about the door; and along in the afternoon of the sicond day I got to Buford village. A cousin of me mother's, one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about sivin miles from there, and I wanted to make his place that night, so I enquired the way at the tavern, and was lucky to find a man, who was goin' part of the way an' would show me the way to find Dennis. Sure, he was very kind indade, and when I got out of his wagon, he pointed me through the wood and told me to go straight south a mile an' a half, and the first house would be Dennis's.

"An' you have no time to lose now," said he, "for the sun is low, and mind you don't get lost in the woods."

"Is it lost now," said I, "that I'd be gittin, an' me uncle as great a navigator at iver steered a ship across the thrackless say! Not a bit of it, though I'm obleeged to ye for your kind advice, an thank yez for the ride."

An' wid that he drove off an' left me alone. I shouldered my bundle bravely, an' whistling a bit of tune for company like, I pushed into the bush. Well, I went a long way over bogs, and turnin' round among the bush and trees till I began to think I must be well nigh to Dennis's. But, bad cess to it! all of a sudden, I came out of the woods at the very identical spot where I started in, which I knew by an ould crotched tree that seemed to be standin' on its head an' kicking up its heels to make divarsion of me. By this time it was growing dark, and as there was no time to lose, I started in a second time, determined to keep straight south this time and no mistake. I got on bravely for awhile, but och hone! och hone! it got so dark I couldn't see the trees, and I bumped me nose and barked me shins, while the miskaties bit me hands and face to a blister; and after tumblin' and stumblin' around till I was fairly bamfoozled, I sat down on a log, all of a trimble, to think that was lost intirely, and that maybe a lion or some other wild craythur would devour me before morning.

Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, "Whip poor Will!" "Bedad!" sez I, "I'm glad it isn't Jamie that's got to take it, though it seems its more in sorrow than in anger they're doin' it, or why should they say, 'poor Will?' and sure they can't be Injin, haythen, or naygur, for its plain English they're afther spakin?"

Maybe they might help me out o' this, so I shouted at the top of my voice, "A lost man!" Thin I listened. Prisintly an answer came.

"Who: Whoo! Whooo!"

"Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I, as loud as I could roar, an' snatchin' up me bundle an' stick, I started in the direction of the voice. Whin I thought I had got near the place I stopped and shouted again, "A lost man!"

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" said a voice right over my head.

"Sure," thinks I, "it's a quare place for a man to be at this time of night; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar bush for the childher's breakfast in the mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of them?" All this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I answered his enquiry.

"Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I; "and if it wouldn't inconvanience your honour, would yez be kind enough to step down and show me the way to the house of Dennis O'Dowd?"

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" sez he.

"Dennis O'Dowd!" sez I, civil enough, "and a dacent man he is, and first cousin to me own mother."

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" sez he again.

"Me mother!" sez I, "and as fine a woman as ever peeled a biled pratie wid her thumb nail, and her maiden name was Molly McFiggin."

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!"

"Paddy McFiggin! bad luck to your deaf ould head, Paddy McFiggin, I say--do you hear that? And he was the tallest man in all the county Tipperary, excipt Jim Doyle, the blacksmith."

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!"

"Jim Doyle the blacksmith," sez I, "ye good for nothin' naygur, and if yez don't come down and show me the way this min't I'll climb up there and break ivery bone in your own skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name is Jimmy Butler!"

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" sez he, as impident as iver.

I said niver a word, but layin' down me bundle, and takin' me stick in me teeth, I began to climb the tree. Whin I got among the branches I looked quietly round till I saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me.

"Whist," sez I, "and I let him have a taste of an Irish stick," an' wid that I let drive an' lost me balance an' came tumblin' to the ground, nearly breaking me neck wid the fall. Whin I came to me sinsis I had a very sore head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, and half me Sunday coat-tail tore off intirely. I spoke to the chap in the tree, but could get niver an answer at all, at all.

Sure, thinks I, he must have gone home to rowl up his head, for I don't throw me stick for nothin'.

Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a little, and I detarmined to make one more effort to reach Dennis's.

I went on cautiously for awhile, an' thin I heard a bell. "Sure," sez I, "I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I hear the church bell." I kept on toward the sound till I came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started to run, but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and hung on, thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. On we wint, like an ould country steeple chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin' and a house in sight wid a light in it. So leavin' the ould cow puffin and blowin' in a shed, I wint to the house, and as luck would have it, whose should it be but Dennis's?

He gave me a raal Irish, welcome, and introduced me to his two daughters-- as purty a pair of girls as iver ye clapped an eye on. But whin I tould him me adventure in the woods, and about the fellow who made fun of me, they all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an owl.

"An ould what," sez I.

"Why, an owl, a bird," sez he.

"Do you tell me now!" sez I. "Sure it's a quare country and a quare bird."

And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed myself, that hearty like, and dropped right into a chair between the two purty girls, and the ould chap winked at me and roared again.

Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights to tell our children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl.

* * * * *

THE QUAKER WIDOW.

Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah,--come in! 'Tis kind of thee To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to comfort me. The still and quiet company a peace may give indeed, But blessed is the single heart that comes to us in need.

Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit: He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees.

I think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flowers: most men Think such things foolishness,--but we were first acquainted then, One spring: the next he spoke his mind: the third I was his wife, And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life.

He was but seventy-five! I did not think to lay him yet In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met. The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better I should be Picked out to bear the heavy cross--alone in age--than he.

We've lived together fifty years. It seems but one long day, One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away; And as we bring from meeting-time a sweet contentment home, So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come.

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go; For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day, But mother spoke for Benjamin,--she knew what best to say.

Then she was still; they sat awhile: at last she spoke again, "The Lord incline thee to the right!" and "Thou shalt have him, Jane!" My father said. I cried. Indeed it was not the least of shocks, For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox.

I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost; Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her crossed. She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest! Ah, dear! the cross was ours; her life's a happy one, at least.

Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I,-- Would thee believe it, Hannah? once _I_ felt temptation nigh! My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste: I wanted lace around the neck, and ribbon at the waist.

How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's side! I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more fear than pride; Till, "in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there came A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same.

I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no sign; With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine. It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I was his for life; Thee knows the feeling, Hannah,--thee, too, hast been a wife.

As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours; The woods were coming to leaf, the meadows full of flowers; The neighbours met us in the lane, and every face was kind,-- 'Tis strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind.

I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread; At our own table we were guests, with father at the head, And Dinah Passmore helped us both,--'twas she stood up with me, And Abner Jones with Benjamin,--and now they're gone, all three!

It is not right to wish for death, the Lord disposes, best. His spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest; And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see: For Benjamin has two in heaven and two are left with me.

Eusebius never cared to farm,--'twas not his call, in truth, And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Ruth. Thee'll say her ways are not like mine,--young people now-a-days Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways.

But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps the simple tongue, The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young; And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of late, That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight.

I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a "spirit clothed with grace, And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face. And dress may be of less account; the Lord will look within: The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin."

Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she's anxious I should go, And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know. 'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resigned; The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind.

_Bayard Taylor_.

* * * * *

CUDDLE DOON.

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' mickle faucht an' din; "Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rougues, Your faither's comin' in." They never heed a word I speak; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

Wee Jamie wi' the curly head-- He aye sleeps next the wa', Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece"-- The rascal starts them a'. I rin' an' fetch them pieces, drinks; They stop awee the soun', Then draw the blankets up an' cry, "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries out frae' neatn the claes, "Mither, mak' Tarn gie ower at ance, He's kittlin wi' his taes.", The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon, But aye I hap them up an' cry, "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

At length they hear their faither's fit, An' as he steeks the door They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks As he pits off his shoon, "The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddle doon."

An' just afore we bed oursel's, We look at oor wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An' as I straik each croon I whisper, till my heart fills up, "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht. Wi' mirth that's dear to me; But sune the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet come what will to ilka ane May He who sits aboon, Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

_Alexander Anderson._

* * * * *

PER PACEM AD LUCEM. I do not ask, O Lord! that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load: I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet. For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord! I plead: Lead me aright-- Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed-- Through Peace to Light. I do not ask, O Lord! that Thou shouldst shed Full radiance here; Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread Without a fear. I do not ask my cross to understand, My way to see,-- Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand, And follow Thee. Joy is like restless day, but peace divine Like quiet night. Lead me, O Lord! till perfect day shall shine, Through Peace to Light.

_Adelaide Anne Procter._

* * * * *

THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT.

Only last year, at Christmas time, while pacing down the city street, I saw a tiny, ill clad boy--one of the many that we meet-- As ragged as a boy could be, with half a cap, with one good shoe, Just patches to keep out the wind--I know the wind blew keenly too:

A newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs, a square Scotch face, an honest brow, And eyes that liked to smile so well, they had not yet forgotten how: A newsboy, hawking his last sheets with loud persistence; now and then Stopping to beat his stiffened hands, and trudging bravely on again.

Dodging about among the crowd, shouting his "Extras" o'er and o'er; Pausing by whiles to cheat the wind within some alley, by some door. At last he stopped--six papers left, tucked hopelessly beneath his arm-- To eye a fruiterer's outspread store; here, products from some country farm;

And there, confections, all adorned with wreathed and clustered leaves and flowers, While little founts, like frosted spires, tossed up and down their mimic showers. He stood and gazed with wistful face, all a child's longing in his eyes; Then started as I touched his arm, and turned in quick, mechanic wise,

Raised his torn cape with purple hands, said, "Papers, sir? _The Evening News!"_ He brushed away a freezing tear, and shivered, "Oh, sir don't refuse!" "How many have you? Never mind--don't stop to count--I'll take them all; And when you pass my office here, with stock on hand, give me a call."

He thanked me with a broad Scotch smile, a look half wondering and half glad. I fumbled for the proper "change," and said, "You seem a little lad To rough it in the streets like this." "I'm ten years old on Christmas-day!" "Your name?" "Jim Hanley." "Here's a crown, you'll get change there across the way.

"Five shillings. When you get it changed come to my office--that's the place. Now wait a bit, there's time enough: you need not run a headlong race. Where do you live?" "Most anywhere. We hired a stable-loft to day. Me and two others." "And you thought, the fruiterer's window pretty, hey?"

"Or were you hungry?" "Just a bit," he answered bravely as he might. "I couldn't buy a breakfast, sir, and had no money left last night." "And you are cold?" "Ay, just a bit; I don't mind cold." "Why, that is strange!" He smiled and pulled his ragged cap, and darted off to get the "change."

So, with a half unconscious sigh, I sought my office desk again; An hour or more my busy wits found work enough with book and pen. But when the mantel clock struck six I started with a sudden thought, For there beside my hat and cloak lay those six papers I had bought.

Why where's the boy? and where's the 'change' he should have brought an hour ago? Ah, well! ah, well! they're all alike! I was a fool to tempt him so, Dishonest! Well, I might have known; and yet his face seemed candid too. He would have earned the difference if he had brought me what was due.

"But caution often comes too late." And so I took my homeward way. Deeming distrust of human kind the only lesson of the day. Just two days later, as I sat, half dozing, in my office chair, I heard a timid knock, and called in my brusque fashion, "Who is there?"

An urchin entered, barely seven--the same Scotch face, the same blue eyes-- And stood, half doubtful, at the door, abashed at my forbidding guise. "Sir, if you please, my brother Jim--the one you give the crown, you know-- He couldn't bring the money, sir, because his back was hurted so.

"He didn't mean to keep the 'change.' He got runned over, up the street; One wheel went right across his back, and t'other forewheel mashed his feet. They stopped the horses just in time, and then they took him up for dead, And all that day and yesterday he wasn't rightly in his head.

"They took him to the hospital--one of the newsboys knew 'twas Jim-- And I went, too, because, you see, we two are brothers, I and him. He had that money in his hand, and never saw it any more. Indeed, he didn't mean to steal! He never stole a pin before.

"He was afraid that you might think, he meant to keep it, anyway; This morning when they brought him to, he cried because he couldn't pay. He made me fetch his jacket here; it's torn and dirtied pretty bad; It's only fit to sell for rags, but then, you know, it's all he had.

"When he gets well--it won't be long--if you will call the money lent. He says he'll work his fingers off but what he'll pay you every cent." And then he cast a rueful glance at the soiled jacket where it lay, "No, no, my boy! take back the coat. Your brother's badly hurt you say?

"Where did they take him? Just run out and hail a cab, then wait for me. Why, I would give a thousand coats, and pounds, for such a boy as he!" A half-hour after this we stood together in the crowded wards, And the nurse checked the hasty steps that fell too loudly on the boards.

I thought him smiling in his sleep, and scarce believed her when she said, Smoothing away the tangled hair from brow and cheek, "The boy is dead." Dead? dead so soon? How fair he looked! One streak of sunshine on his hair. Poor lad! Well it is warm in Heaven: no need of "change" and jackets there.

And something rising in my throat made it so hard for me to speak, I turned away, and left a tear lying upon his sunburned cheek.

_Anon._

* * * * *

SANDALPHON.

Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told, Of the limitless realms of the air,-- Have you read it,--the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express.

But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below;--

From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore; In the fervour and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red, And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal, Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is but a legend I know,-- A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediaeval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing, Sandalphon, the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars.

And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain.

_Longfellow._

* * * * *

HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS

The morning broke.--Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty.--Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow; and the light And loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odours from its spicy pores; And the young birds were singing as if life Were a new thing to them: but oh! it came Upon her heart like discord; and she felt How cruelly it tries a broken heart, To see a mirth in any thing it loves. The morning passed; and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. The cattle of the hills were in the shade, And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms, in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest!--But Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness; and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips For water; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky;-- For it was better than the close, hot breath Of the thick pines,--and tried to comfort him; But he was sore athirst; and his blue eyes Were dim and bloodshot; and he could not know Why God denied him water in the wild.-- She sat a little longer; and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. It was too much for her. She lifted him, And bore him farther on, and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub; And, shrouding up her face, she went away, And sat to watch, where he could see her not, Till he should die; and watching him, she mourned:--

"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy! I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye And could I see thee die?

"I did not dream of this, when thou wast straying Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers, Or wiling the soft hours, By the rich gush of water-sources playing, Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, So beautiful and deep.

"Oh no! and when I watched by thee, the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, How prayed I that my fathers' land might be A heritage for thee!

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, And thy white delicate limbs the earth will press; And oh! my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee-- How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there Upon his clustering hair"

* * * * *

She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laughed In his reviving happiness, and lisped His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

_N. P. Willis_

* * * * *

THE MODEL WIFE

His house she enters there to be a light, Shining within when all around is night, A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing: Winning him back when mingling with the throng Of this vain world we love, alas, too long, To fireside's happiness and hours of ease, Blest with that charm, the certainty to please; How oft her eyes read his! Her gentle mind To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined; Still subject--ever on the watch to borrow Mirth of his mirth and sorrow of his sorrow.

_Ruskin_

* * * * *

"GOODBYE."

Falling leaf and fading tree, Lines of white in a sullen sea, Shadows rising on you and me-- The swallows are making them ready to fly. Goodbye, Summer! Goodbye! Goodbye!

Hush! A voice from the far away!-- "Listen and learn," it seems to say, "All the to-morrows shall be as to-day." The cord is frayed and the cruse is dry. The ink must break and the lamp must die. Goodbye, Hope! Goodbye! Goodbye!

What are we waiting for? Oh! my heart, Kiss me straight on the brows and part! Again! again! My heart! my heart! What are we waiting for, you and I? A pleading look--a stifled cry-- Goodbye forever! Goodbye! Goodbye!

_Whyte Melville_.

MAKIN' AN EDITOR OUTEN 0' HIM.

"Good morning, sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body today? I'm glad you're to home, for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away. But layin' aside pleasure for business, I've brought you my little boy, Jim; And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor outen o' him. He aint no great shakes for to labour, though I've laboured with him a good deal, And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he couldn't help but to feel; But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is big, Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig. I keep him a carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs, And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs; And then there is things to be doin' a helpin' the women indoors; There's churnin' and washin' o' dishes, and other descriptions of chores; But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, I'm afraid. So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade. His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim, But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him! It aint much to get up a paper, it wouldn't take him long for to learn; He could feed the machine, I am thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow to turn. And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do; Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements right through. I used for to wonder at readin', and where it was got up, and how; But 'tis most of it made by machinery, I can see it all plain enough now. And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs, Each one with a gauge and a chopper, to see to the length of the lines; An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, I've a whim, If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen o' Jim!"

The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye, Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made a reply: "Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both? Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath? Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek? Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week? Can he courteously talk to an equal, and brow-beat an impudent dunce? Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half-a-dozen at once? Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch? And be sure that he knows how much to know, and knows how not to know too much? Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride? Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros hide? Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage, and vim? If so, we, perhaps, can be makin' an editor outen o' him.'"

The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread, And he said: "Jim, I guess we'll be goin', he's probably out of his head."

_Will M. Carleton._

* * * * *

THE ARMADA.

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; Her crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile, At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall _Pinta_, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing bark put out to pry along the coast; And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.

With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums; The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace; And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield: So glared he when at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! Ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! Ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! Ho, gallants! draw your blades! Thou, sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious _semper eadem_, the banner of our pride. The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold-- The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford bay, That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; For swift to east, and swift to west the warning radiance spread-- High on St Michael's Mount it shone--it shone on Beachy Head; Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves; O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge--the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town; And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.

The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood-red light; Then bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer; And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags dashed down each roaring street:

And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went; And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent: Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang, they sprang from hill to hill; Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's rocky dales; Till like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; Till streamed in crimson on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light; Till broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain;

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent: Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

_Lord Macaulay._

* * * * *

TRIAL SCENE FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

DUKE. You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes; And here, I take it, is the doctor come.--

_Enter_ PORTIA, _dressed like a doctor of laws._

Give me your hand: Came you from old Bellario?

POR. I did, my lord.

DUKE. You are welcome: take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court?

POR. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

DUKE. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

POR. Is your name Shylock?

SHYLOCK. Shylock is my name.

POR. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow; Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed.-- You stand within his danger, do you not? [_To_ ANT.

ANTONIO. Ay, so he says.

POR. Do you confess the bond?

ANT. I do.

POR. Then must the Jew be merciful.

SHY. On what compulsion must I? tell me that.

POR. The quality of mercy is not strain'd; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, It is enthroned in the heart of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this-- That in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much, To mitigate the justice of thy plea; Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

SHY. My deeds upon my head: I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

POR. Is he not able to discharge the money?

BASSANIO. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart: If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right do a little wrong: And curb this cruel devil of his will.

POR. It must not be; there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established: 'Twill be recorded for a precedent; And many an error, by the same example, Will rush into the state: it cannot be.

SHY. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel O wise young judge, how do I honour thee!

POR. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

SHY. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.

POR. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.

SHY. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven: Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice.

POR. Why, this bond is forfeit; And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant's heart:--be merciful; Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

SHY. When it is paid according to the tenour. It doth appear you are a worthy judge; You know the law, your exposition Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me: I stay here on my bond.

ANT. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment.

POR. Why then, thus it is: You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

SHY. O noble judge! O excellent young man!

POR. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond.

SHY. 'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge! How much more elder art thou than thy looks.

POR. Therefore, lay bare your bosom.

SHY. Ay, his breast. So says the bond;--Doth it not, noble judge? Nearest his heart, those are the very words.

POR. It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh The flesh?

SHY. I have them ready.

POR. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge To stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death.

SHY. Is it so nominated in the bond?

POR. It is not so express'd; but what of that? 'Twere good you do so much for charity.

SHY. I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.

POR. Come, merchant, have you anything to say?

ANT. But little; I am arm'd, and well prepar'd,-- Give you your hand, Bassanio; fare you well! Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you; For herein fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom: it is still her use, To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow, An age of poverty; from which lingering penance Of such a misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honourable wife; Tell her the process of Antonio's end, Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death; And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, And he repents not that he pays your debt; For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I'll pay it instantly with all my heart.

BASS. Antonio, I am married to a wife, Which is as dear to me as life itself; But life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteem'd above thy life; I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you.

POR. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, If she were by, to hear you make the offer.

GRATIANO. I have a wife, whom I protest I love; I would she were in heaven, so she could Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.

NER. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back; The wish would make else an unquiet house.

SHY. These be the Christian husbands: I have a daughter; Would any of the stock of Barrabas Had been her husband, rather than a Christian! [_Aside_. We trifle time: I pray thee pursue sentence.

POR. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine; The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

SHY. Most rightful judge.

FOR. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast; The law allows it, and the court awards it.

SHY. Most learned judge!--A sentence; come, prepare.

POR. Tarry a little;--there is something else.-- This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; The words expressly are a pound of flesh: Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice.

GRA. O upright judge!--Mark, Jew!--O learned judge!

SHY. Is that the law?

POR. Thyself shall see the act: For as thou urgest justice, be assur'd Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.

GRA. O learned judge!--mark, Jew; a learned judge!

SHY. I take this offer then,--pay the bond thrice, And let the Christian go.

BASS. Here is the money.

POR. Soft. The Jew shall have all justice;--soft;--no haste;-- He shall have nothing but the penalty.

GRA. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!

POR. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor more, But just a pound of flesh; if thou tak'st more, Or less, than just a pound,--be it so much As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple,--nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair,-- Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.

GRA. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.

POR. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.

SHY. Give me my principal, and let me go.

BASS. I have it ready for thee; here it is.

POR. He hath refus'd it in the open court; He shall have merely justice, and his bond.

GRA. A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!-- I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

SHY. Shall I not have barely my principal?

POR. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.

SHY. Why then the devil give him good of it! I'll stay no longer question.

POR. Tarry, Jew; The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice,-- If it be proved against an alien, That by direct or indirect attempts He seeks the life of any citizen, The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods: the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state; And the offender's life lies in the mercy Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st: For it appears by manifest proceeding, That, indirectly, and directly too, Thou hast contriv'd against the very life Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd The danger formerly by me rehears'd. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.

GRA. Beg that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself: And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord; Therefore, thou must be hanged at the state's charge.

DUKE. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's; The other half comes to the general state, Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.

POR. Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.

SHY. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that: You take my house, when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house; you take my life, When you do take the means whereby I live.

POR. What mercy can you render him, Antonio?

GRA. A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.

ANT. So please my lord the duke, and all the court, To quit the fine for one half of his goods; I am content, so he will let me have The other half in use, to render it, Upon his death, unto the gentleman That lately stole his daughter; Two things provided more,--That for this favour, He presently become a Christian; The other, that he do record a gift Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.

DUKE. He shall do this; or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here.

POR. Art thou contented, Jew; what dost thou say?

SHY. I am content.

POR. Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

SHY. I pray you give me leave to go from hence: I am not well; send the deed after me, And I will sign it.

DUKE. Get thee gone, but do it.

GRA. In christening, thou shalt have two godfathers; Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more, To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.

[Exit SHYLOCK.

_Shakespeare._

* * * * *

THE FAITHFUL HOUSEWIFE.

I see her in her home content, The faithful housewife, day by day, Her duties seem like pleasures sent, And joy attends her on her way.

She cares not for the loud acclaim That goes with rank and social strife. Her wayside home is more than fame; She is its queen--the faithful wife.

When summer days are soft and fair, And bird-songs fill the cottage trees, She reaps a benison as rare, As her own gentle ministries.

Peace shrines itself upon her face, And happiness in every look; Her voice is full of charm and grace, Like music of the summer brook.

In winter when the days are cold, And all the landscape dead and bare, How well she keeps her little fold, How shines the fire beside her chair!

The children go with pride to school, The father's toil half turns to play; So faithful is her frugal rule, So tenderly she moulds the day.

Let higher stations vaunt their claim, Let others sing of rank and birth; The faithful housewife's honest fame Is linked to the best joy on earth.

* * * * *

SCENE FROM RICHELIEU. Enter JULIE DE MORTEMAR

RICHELIEU. That's my sweet Julie! why, upon this face Blushes such daybreak, one might swear the morning Were come to visit Tithon.

JULIE (_placing herself at his feet_). Are you gracious? May I say "Father?"

RICH. Now and ever!

JULIE. Father! A sweet word to an orphan.

RICH. No; not orphan While Richelieu lives; thy father loved me well; My friend, ere I had flatterers (now I'm great, In other phrase, I'm friendless)--he died young In years, not service, and bequeathed thee to me; And thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to buy Thy mate amid the mightiest. Drooping?--sighs?-- Art thou not happy at the court?

JULIE. Not often.

RICH, (_aside_). Can she love Baradas? Ah! at thy heart There's what can smile and sigh, blush and grow pale, All in a breath! Thou art admired--art young; Does not his Majesty commend thy beauty-- Ask thee to sing to him?--and swear such sounds Had smoothed the brow of Saul?

JULIE. He's very tiresome, Our worthy King.

RICH. Fie! Kings are never tiresome Save to their ministers. What courtly gallants Charm ladies most?--De Sourdioc' Longueville, or The favorite Baradas?

JULIE. A smileless man-- I fear and shun him.

RICH. Yet he courts thee!

JULIE. Then He is more tiresome than his Majesty.

RICH. Right, girl, shun Baradas. Yet of these flowers Of France, not one, in whose more honeyed breath Thy heart hears Summer whisper?

_Enter_ HUGUET.

HUGUET. The Chevalier De Mauprat waits below.

JULIE. (_starting up_). De Mauprat!

RICH. Hem! He has been tiresome too!--Anon. [_Exit_ HUGUET.

JULIE: What doth he? I mean--I--Does your Eminence--that is-- Know you Messire de Mauprat?

RICH. Well!--and you-- Has he addressed you often?

JULIE. Often? No-- Nine times: nay, ten;--the last time by the lattice Of the great staircase.(_In a melancholy tone_.) The Court sees him rarely.

RICH. A bold and forward royster!

JULIE. _He_? nay, modest, Gentle and sad, methinks,

RICH. Wears gold and azure?

JULIE. No; sable.

RICH. So you note his colours, Julie? Shame on you, child, look loftier. By the mass, I have business with this modest gentleman.

JULIE. You're angry with poor Julie. There's no cause.

RICH. No cause--you hate my foes?

JULIE. I do!

RICH. Hate Mauprat?

JULIE. Not Mauprat. No, not Adrien, father.

RICH. Adrien! Familiar!--Go, child; no,--not _that_ way;--wait In the tapestry chamber; I will join you,--go.

JULIE. His brows are knit; I dare not call him father! But I _must_ speak. Your Eminence--

RICH. (_sternly_). Well, girl!

JULIE. Nay, Smile on me--one smile more; there, now I'm happy. Do not rank Mauprat with your foes; he is not, I know he is not; he loves France too well.

RICH. Not rank De Mauprat with my foes? So be it. I'll blot him from that list.

JULIE. That's my own father. [_Exit_ JULIE.

_Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer._

* * * * *

"DIOS TE GUARDE."

FROM THE SPANISH. God keep thee safe, my dear, From every harm, Close in the shelter of His mighty arm! So, when thou must look out Over earth's noise and rout May thy calm soul be free From all alarm.

Or if He shall ordain, He, the Most Wise, That woe shall come, that tears Shall dim thine eyes, May He still hold thee near, Dispelling doubt and fear, Giving thy prostrate heart Strength to arise.

And when His night comes, love, And thou must go, May He still call to thee, Tenderly, low, Cradled upon His breast Sinking to sweetest rest, God have thee safe, my dear, And keep thee so.

* * * * *

TO HER HUSBAND;

_Written in the prospect of death_, 1640.

How soon, my dear, death may my steps attend, How soon't may be thy lot to lose thy friend, We both are ignorant. Yet love bids me These farewell lines to recommend to thee, That, when that knot's untied that made us one, I may seem thine, who in effect am none. And, if I see not half my days that's due, What Nature would God grant to yours and you. The many faults that well you know I have Let be interred in my oblivious grave; If any worth or virtue is in me; Let that live freshly in my memory. And when thou feel'st no grief, as I no harms, Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms; And, when thy loss shall be repaid with gains, Look to my little babes, my dear remains, And, if thou lov'st thyself or lovest me, These oh, protect from stepdame's injury! And, if chance to thine eyes doth bring this verse, With some sad sighs honour my absent hearse, And kiss this paper, for thy love's dear sake, Who with salt tears this last farewell doth take.

_Anne Bradstreet_

* * * * *

PASSING AWAY

Was it the chime of a tiny bell, That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell, That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light, And he his notes as silvery quite, While the boatman listens and ships his oar, To catch the music that comes from the shore?-- Hark! the notes on my ear that play, Are set to words! as they float, they say, "Passing away! passing away!"

But, no; it was not a fairy's shell, Blown on the beach so mellow and clear: Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell Striking the hours that fell on my ear, As I lay in my dream: yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of Time, For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, And a plump little girl for a pendulum, swung, (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring That hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing) And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, "Passing away! passing away!"

Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow! And the hands as they swept o'er the dial of gold Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo! she had changed;--in a few short hours, Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fullness of grace and womanly pride, That told me she soon was to be a bride; Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, In the same sweet voice I heard her say, "Passing away! passing away!"

While I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade Of thought, or care, stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush Had something lost of its brilliant blush; And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimmed--as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face:--yet one couldn't but love her; For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed in the same silver' tone to say, "Passing away! passing away!"

While yet I looked, what a change there came! Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan; Stooping and staffed was her withered frame, Yet just as busily swung she on: The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; The wheels above her were eaten with rust; The hands, that over the dial swept, Grew crook'd and tarnished, but on they kept; And still there came that silver tone From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone, (Let me never forget, to my dying day, The tone or the burden of that lay)-- "PASSING AWAY! PASSING AWAY!"

_Pierpont_.

FROM THE FIRST ORATION AGAINST CATILINE.

How far wilt thou, O Catiline, abuse our patience? How long shall thy madness outbrave our justice? To what extremities art thou resolved to push thy unbridled insolence of guilt! Canst thou behold the nocturnal arms that watch the palatium, the guards of the city, the consternation of the citizens; all the wise and worthy clustering into consultation; this impregnable situation of the seat of the senate, and the reproachful looks of the fathers of Rome? Canst thou, I say, behold all this, and yet remain undaunted and unabashed? Art thou sensible that thy measures are detected?

Art thou sensible that this senate, now thoroughly informed, comprehend the full extent of thy guilt? Point me out the senator ignorant of thy practices, during the last and the proceeding night: of the place where you met, the company you summoned, and the crime you concerted. The senate is conscious, the consul is witness to this: yet mean and degenerate--the traitor lives! Lives! did I say? He mixes with the senate; he shares in our counsels; with a steady eye he surveys us; he anticipates his guilt; he enjoys his murderous thoughts, and coolly marks us out for bloodshed. Yet we, boldly passive in our country's cause, think we act like Romans if we can escape his frantic rage.

Long since, O Catiline! ought the consul to have doomed thy life a forfeit to thy country; and to have directed upon thy own head the mischief thou hast long been meditating for ours. Could the noble Scipio, when sovereign pontiff, as a private Roman kill Tiberius Gracchus for a slight encroachment upon the rights of this country; and shall we, her consuls, with persevering patience endure Catiline, whose ambition is to desolate a devoted world with fire and sword?

There was--there was a time, when such was the spirit of Rome, that the resentment of her magnanimous sons more sternly crushed the Roman traitor, than the most inveterate enemy. Strong and weighty, O Catiline! is the decree of the senate we can now produce against you; neither wisdom is wanting in this state, nor authority in this assembly; but we, the consuls, we are defective in our duty.

_Cicero._

* * * * *

THE INEXPERIENCED SPEAKER.

The awkward, untried speaker rises now, And to the audience makes a jerking bow. He staggers--almost falls--stares--strokes his chin-- Clears out his throat, and.. ventures to begin. "Sir, I am.. sensible"--(some titter near him)-- "I am, sir, sensible"--"Hear! hear!" (they cheer him). Now bolder grown--for praise mistaking pother-- He pumps first one arm up, and then the other. "I am, sir, sensible--I am indeed-- That,.. though--I should--want--words--I must proceed And.. for the first time in my life, I think-- I think--that--no great--orator--should--shrink-- And therefore,--Mr. Speaker,--I, for one-- Will.. speak out freely.--Sir, I've not yet done. Sir, in the name of those enlightened men Who sent me here to.. speak for them--why, then.. To do my duty--as I said before-- To my constituency--I'll ... say no more."

* * * * *

SKETCHES OF AUTHORS.

ADDISON, JOSEPH, born May 1st, 1672, at Milston, Wiltshire, son of the Rev. Lancelot Addison, was educated at the Charterhouse and at Magdalen College, Oxford. He was destined for the church, but turned his attention to political life, and became eventually a member of parliament, and in 1717, one of the principal Secretaries of State. He first rose into public notice, through his poem on the battle of Blenheim, written in 1704, and entitled, _The Campaign_. He was chief contributor to _The Spectator_. His tragedy of _Cato_, produced in 1713, achieved a great popularity, which, however, has not been permanent. He died on June 17th, 1719. As an observer of life, of manners, of all shades of human character, he stands in the first class.

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY, an American poet, born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 1836. He has been an industrious worker on the newspaper press, and is the author of Baby Bell, a beautiful poem of child-death. He has published his collected poems under the title of _Cloth of Gold_, and of _Flower and Thorn_. He is also a prose writer of considerable note, having an exquisite humour. His published novels are _Prudence Palfrey_, _The Queen of Sheba_, _The Still-water Tragedy_, etc.

AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE, an eminent critic and poet, born in Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1813. He studied law, and was appointed Professor of Rhetoric in Edinburgh University in 1845, and was closely connected with _Blackwood's Magazine_ for many years. He was a poet of the highest order, and his _Execution of Montrose_, and the _Burial March of Dundee_, are two noble historical ballads. He was author of the celebrated _Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers_, _Bon Gaultier Ballads_, _Firmilian_, _a Spasmodic Tragedy_, _Bothwell_, _Poland, and other Poems_, _The Life and Times of Richard Coeur de Lion_, etc. Died August 4th, 1865.

BEECHER, HENRY WARD, a celebrated author and divine, born at Litchfield, Connecticut, on the 24th of January, 1813. He studied at Amherst College, where he graduated in 1834. In 1847, he became pastor of Plymouth Church (Congregational), Brooklyn. He is one of the most popular writers, and most successful lecturers of the day in the United States. He has published, _Lectures to Young Men, Life Thoughts_, a novel entitled _Norwood_, etc.

BRONTE, CHARLOTTE (Currer Bell). A popular English novelist, born at Thornton, Yorkshire, April 21st, 1816, was a daughter of the Rev. Patrick Bronté. In 1846, in conjunction with her sisters--Anne and Emily-- published a small volume of poems. It was as a writer of fiction, however, that Charlotte achieved her great success, and in 1848, her novel of _Jane Eyre_, obtained great popularity, and brought the talented author well merited fame. She afterwards published _Shirley_ and _Villette_, both very successful works. In June, 1854, she married the Rev. Arthur B. Nicholls, but after a brief taste of domestic happiness, she died at Haworth, March 31st, 1855. _The Professor_, her first production (written in 1846), was published in 1856, after her death.

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT, one of the most gifted female poets that have ever lived, the daughter of Mr. Barrett, an opulent London merchant, born near Ledbury, Herefordshire, about 1807. She began to write verse when only ten years of age, and gave early proofs of great poetical genius. At the age of seventeen, she published _An Essay on Mind, with other Poems_, and her reputation was widely extended by _The Seraphim and other Poems_, published in 1838. In 1846, she was married to Robert Browning, the poet, and they lived for many years in Italy. In 1851, she published _Casa Guidi Windows_, the impressions of the writer upon events in Tuscany, and in 1856, appeared _Aurora Leigh_, a poem, or novel in verse, which is greatly admired. "The poetical reputation of Mrs. Browning," says the _North British Review_ (February, 1857), "has been growing slowly, until it has reached a height which has never before been attained by any modern poetess." She died at Florence, June 29th, 1861.

BROWNING, ROBERT, a distinguished English poet, born at Camberwell, London, in 1812. He was educated at the University of London, and in 1836 published his first poem, _Paracelsus_, which attracted much attention by its originality. He has been a voluminous writer, and of all his works, _Pippa Passes_, and _The Blot in the Scutcheon_, are perhaps the best. The _Ring and the Book_ appeared in 1868. He is considered by some critics as one of the greatest English poets of his time, but is not very popular.

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN, an American poet, born at Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3rd, 1794. At the age of ten years he made very creditable translations from the Latin poets, which were printed, and at thirteen he wrote _The Embargo_, a political satire which was never surpassed by any poet of that age. He wrote _Thanatopsis_ when but little more than eighteen, and it is by many considered as his finest poem. In 1826 he became one of the editors of the _Evening Post_, which he continued to edit until his death. He published a complete collection of his poems in 1832, and in 1864. Among his prose works are, _Letters of a Traveller_, and in 1869 he published a translation of Homer's _Iliad_, which is an excellent work. Washington Irving says of Bryant: "That his close observation of the phenomena of nature, and the graphic felicity of his details, prevent his descriptions from becoming commonplace." He died June 12th, 1878.

BURNS, ROBERT, the national poet of Scotland, was the son of a small farmer, and was born near the town of Ayr, on January, 25th, 1759. His early life was spent in farming, but he was about emigrating to the West Indies, when the publication of a volume of his poems, in 1786, which were very favourably received, determined him on remaining in his native land, and he proceeded to Edinburgh, where he made the acquaintance of the distinguished men of letters of that famous city. His reception was triumphant, and a new edition of his poems was issued, by which he realised more than £500. In 1788 he was married to Miss Jean Armour (Bonnie Jean), and soon after obtained a place in the excise, and in 1791 he removed to Dumfries, where he spent the remainder of his life. He died on July 21st, 1796. Nature had made Burns the greatest among lyric poets; the most striking characteristics of his poetry are simplicity and intensity, in which qualities he is scarcely, if at all, inferior to any of the greatest poets that have ever lived. "No poet except Shakespeare," says Sir Walter Scott, "ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions."

BYROM, DR. JOHN, an English poet, born at Kersal, near Manchester, in 1691. He contributed several pieces to the _Spectator_, of which the beautiful pastoral of _Colin and Phoebe_, in No. 603, is the most noted. He invented a system of shorthand, which is still known by his name. Died at Manchester in 1763.

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON NOEL (Lord), an English poet and dramatist of rare genius, was born in London, January 22nd, 1788. He was educated partly at Harrow, and in 1805 proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge. While at College he published, in 1807, his _Hours of Idleness_, a volume of juvenile poems, which was severely criticised in the _Edinburgh Review_. Two years later he published his reply, _English Bards_ and _Scotch Reviewers_, a satire which obtained immediate celebrity. In 1812 he gave the world the fruits of his travels on the continent, in the first two Cantos of _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_. The success of this was so extraordinary that, as he tells us, "he awoke one morning and found himself famous." He then took his seat in the House of Lords, but soon lost his interest in politics. In 1813 he published _The Giaour_, and _The Bride of Abydos_, and in 1814, _The Corsair_. In January, 1815, he married Anne Isabella Milbank, only daughter of Sir Ralph Milbank, but the marriage was an unhappy one, and she returned to her father's in the January of 1816. In April, 1816, Byron left his country with the avowed intention of never seeing it again, and during his absence he published, in rapid succession, the remaining cantos of _Childe Harold_, _Mazeppa_, _Manfred_, _Cain_, _Sardanapalus_, _Marino Faliero_, _The Two Foscari_, _Werner_, and _Don Juan_, besides many other smaller poems. During his residence on the Continent, his sympathies for Grecian liberty became strongly excited, and he resolved to devote all his energies to the cause, and left Italy in the summer of 1823. He arrived in Missolonghi on January 10th, 1824. On February 15th he was seized with a convulsive fit, which rendered him senseless for some time. On April 9th he got wet, took cold and a fever, on the 11th he grew worse, and on the 19th he died, inflammation of the brain having set in. Among the most remarkable characteristics of Byron's poetry, two are deserving of particular notice. The first is his power of expressing intense emotion, especially when it is associated with the darker passions of the soul. "Never had any writer," says Macaulay, "so vast a command of the whole eloquence of scorn, misanthropy and despair.... From maniac laughter to piercing lamentation, there is not a single note of human anguish of which he was not master."

CAMPBELL, THOMAS, an eminent British poet, born at Glasgow in 1777. In 1799 he published _The Pleasures of Hope_, of which the success has perhaps had no parallel in English literature. He visited the continent in 1800 and witnessed the battle of Hohen-linden, which furnished the subject of one of his most exquisite lyrics. _Gertrude of Wyoming_, published in 1809, is one of his finest poems. He wrote several spirited odes, etc., and other literary work, has placed his fame on an enduring basis. He died at Boulogne, in 1844, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

CARY, ALICE, an American author, born near Cincinnati, Ohio, about 1822. She first attracted attention by her contributions to the _National Era_, under the name of Patty Lee; she afterwards published several volumes of poems and other works, including _Hagar_, _Hollywood_, etc. Her sketches of Western Life, entitled _Clovernook_, have obtained extensive popularity. She died, February 12th, 1871.

CARY, PHOEBE, a sister of Alice, has also contributed to periodical literature and in 1854 published a volume entitled _Poems and Parodies_. She died July 31st, 1871.

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR, an eminent English poet and critic, born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, October 21st, 1772. In 1796, he published a small volume of poems and in 1797, in conjunction with Mr. Wordsworth, he formed the plan of the Lyrical Ballads, for which he wrote the _Ancient Mariner_. In 1800 he removed to Keswick, where he resided in company with Wordsworth and Southey, the three friends receiving the appellation of the Lake Poets. He wrote several excellent works, of which _Christabel_ is the best. He led a somewhat wandering life and died on July 25th, 1834. As a poet, he was one of the most imaginative of modern times, and as a critic his merits were of the highest order.

COLLINS, WILLIAM, an eminent English lyric poet, born at Chichester, in 1720. He was a friend of Dr. Johnson, who speaks well of him. His best known work is his excellent ode on, _The Passions_, which did not receive the fame its merits deserve. Before his death, which occurred in 1756, he was for some time an inmate of a lunatic asylum.

COWPER, WILLIAM, a celebrated English poet, originally intended for a lawyer, and appointed as Clerk of the Journals in the House of Lords at the age of 31 years, but his constitutional timidity prevented him from accepting it. He had to be placed in a lunatic asylum for some time. He was born at Berkhampstead in 1731. In 1767 he took up his abode at Olney, in Buckinghamshire, where he devoted himself to poetry, and in 1782 published a volume of poems, which did not excite much attention, but a second volume, published in 1785, stamped his reputation as a true poet. His _Task, Sofa, John Gilpin_, are works of enduring excellence. In 1794 his intellect again gave way, from which he never recovered, and he died at Dereham, in Norfolk, April 25th, 1800.

CROLY, REV. GEORGE, a popular poet, born in Dublin in 1780. He was for many years rector of St. Stephen's, Wallbrook, London, and was eminent as a pulpit orator. His principal works are: _The Angel of the World_; a tragedy, entitled _Cataline_, _Salathiel,_ etc. He died November 24th, 1860.

DICKENS, CHARLES, one of the most successful of modern novelists, was born at Landport, Portsmouth, February 7th, 1812. Intended for the law, he became a most successful reporter for the newspapers, and was employed on the _Morning Chronicle_, in which paper first appeared the famous _Sketches by Boz_, his first work. The _Pickwick Papers_ which followed, placed him at once in the foremost rank of popular writers of fiction. His novels are so well known that any list of their titles is superfluous. In 1850 he commenced the publication of _Household Words_, which he carried on until 1859 when he established _All the Year Round_, with which he was connected until his death, which occurred very suddenly at his residence. Gad's Hill, Kent, on June 9th, 1870. He left his latest work, _The Mystery of Edwid Drood_, unfinished, and it remains a fragment. It was not merely as a humorist, though that was his great distinguishing characteristic, that Dickens obtained such unexampled popularity. Be was a public instructor, a reformer and moralist. Whatever was good and amiable, bright and joyous in our nature, he loved, supported and augmented by his writings; whatever was false, hypocritical and vicious, he held up to ridicule, scorn and contempt.

DRYDEN, JOHN, a celebrated English poet, born at Aldwinckle, Northamptonshire, August 9th, 1631. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he received his degree of M.A. He removed to London in 1657, and wrote many plays, and on the death of Sir William Davenport he was made poet laureate. On the accession of James II. Dryden became a Roman Catholic and endeavoured to defend his new faith at the expense of the old one, in a poem entitled The Hind and the Panther. At the Revolution he lost his post, and in 1697 his translation of _Virgil_ appeared, which, of itself alone is sufficient to immortalize his name. His ode, _Alexander's Feast_, is esteemed by some critics as the finest in the English language. He died May 1st, 1700.

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER, one of the most distinguished ornaments of English literature, born at Pallas, Ireland, in 1728. He studied at Trinity College, Dublin and afterward at Edinburgh. He traveled over Europe, on foot, and returned to England in 1756, and settled in London. It was not until 1764 that he emerged from obscurity by the publication of his poem entitled _The Traveller_. In the following year appeared his beautiful novel of the _Vicar of Wakefield_. In 1770 he published _The Deserted Village_, a poem, which in point of description and pathos, is beyond all praise. As a dramatist he was very successful and he produced many prose works. He died in London on the 4th of April, 1774.

GRAY, THOMAS, an English poet of great merit, born in London in 1716. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge and in 1738 entered the Inner Temple, but never engaged much in the study of the law. In 1742 he took up his residence in Cambridge, where, in 1768, he became professor of modern history. The odes of Gray are of uncommon merit, and his _Elegy in a Country Churchyard_ has long been considered as one of the finest poems in the English language. He died in July, 1771. He occupied a very high rank in English literature, not only as a poet, but as an accomplished prose writer.

HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE, an American poet, born at Guildford, Conn., July 8th, 1790. He became a clerk in the office of J. J. Astor, and employed his leisure moments in the service of the Muses. In 1819, in conjunction with his friend, Joseph R. Drake, he wrote the celebrated _Croaker Papers_, a series of satirical poems which brought him into public notice. On his martial poem, _Marco Bozzaris_, published in 1827, his fame principally rests, although he has written other pieces of great merit. He died November 19th, 1867.

HARTE, FRANCIS BRET, a native of Albany, N.Y., has written short stories and sketches of Californian life, and several poems in dialect, of which _The Heathen Chinee_, is the most celebrated. He possesses great wit and pathos, and has been very successful in novel writing, and also in writing for the stage.

HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA, an excellent English poet, born at Liverpool, September 25th, 1794, was the daughter of a merchant named Browne. Her first volume of poems was published in 1808. In 1812 she married Capt. Hemans, but the marriage was a very unhappy one and they separated in 1818. She is the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verse that our literature has yet to boast of. "Religious truth, moral purity and intellectual beauty, ever meet together in her poetry." She died in Dublin, in 1835.

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL, M.D., a distinguished American poet, author and wit, was born at Cambridge, Mass., August 29th, 1809. He studied law, but soon left it for medicine, and took his degree of M.D. in 1836. In 1847, he was appointed Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in Harvard University. He early began writing poetry, publishing a collected edition of his poems in 1836. He is a genuine poet, and as a song writer, has few if any superiors in America, excelling in the playful vein. He is best known by his series of excellent papers, contributed to the _Atlantic Monthly_, under the title of _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_, published in 1857-8; _The Professor at the Breakfast Table_ and the _Poet at the Breakfast Table_. He has also written some successful novels, one of which, _The Guardian Angel_, is one of the best American novels yet produced. He has also written able works on subjects connected with his profession.

HOOD, THOMAS, a famous poet, humorist and popular author, born in London in 1798. He was the son of a bookseller, served an apprenticeship as an engraver, but soon betook himself to literature. In 1821 he was sub-editor of the _London Magazine_. His novels and tales were less successful than his humorous works. Among his most popular poems are:--_The Song of the Shirt, The Bridge of Sighs_ and the _Dream of Eugene Aram_. In the latter years of his life--which was one of prolonged suffering--he was editor of _The New Monthly Magazine_. As a punster he is unrivalled, and some of his serious poems are exquisitely tender and pathetic. In all his works a rich current of genial humour runs, and his pleasant wit, ripe observation and sound sense have made him an ornament to English literature. He died March 3rd, 1845.

HUNT, J. H. LEIGH, a popular English poet, born at Southgate, near London October 19th, 1784. He early turned his attention to literature, and obtained a clerkship in the War Office, which he resigned in 1808, to occupy the joint editorship (along with his brother John) of the _Examiner_. Their boldness in conducting this paper led to their being imprisoned for two years and fined £500 each, for some strictures on the Prince Regent which appeared in its columns. He was a copious writer and his productions occupy a wide range. _Rimini_, written while in prison, is one of his best poems. Prof. Wilson styles Hunt "as the most vivid of poets and the most cordial of critics." He died August 28th, 1859.

INGELOW, JEAN, a native of Ipswich, Suffolk, born about 1826, is the author of several volumes of poems, the first of which ran through 14 editions in five years. She wrote _A Story of Doom_ and other poems, published in 1867, _Mopsa the Fairy_ in 1869, and several prose stories, etc.

IRVING, WASHINGTON, a distinguished American author and humorist, born in New York City, April 3rd, 1783. He studied law and was admitted to the bar, but soon abandoned the legal profession for literature. In 1809 he published his Knickerbockers History of New York, a humorous work which was very successful. His works, are very numerous, including the famous _Sketch Book, The Alhambra, Conquest of Granada, Life of Columbus, Life of Washington_, etc., etc. For easy elegance of style, Irving has no superior, perhaps no equal, among the prose writers of America. If Hawthorne excels him in variety, in earnestness and in force, he is, perhaps, inferior to Irving in facility and grace, while he can make no claim to that genial, lambent humour which beams in almost every page of Geoffrey Cravon. He died November 28th, 1859.

LAMB, CHARLES, a distinguished essayist and humorist, born in London, Feby. 18th, 1775, and educated at Christ's Hospital. In 1792 he became a clerk in the India House, a post he retained for 33 years. He was a genial and captivating essayist and his fame mainly rests on his delightful _Essays of Elia_, which were first printed in the _London Magazine_. His complete works include two volumes of verse, the _Essays of Elia, Specimens of the English Dramatic Poets_, etc., etc. For quaint, genial and unconventional humour, Lamb has, perhaps, never been excelled. He died December 27th, 1834.

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH, the most popular and artistic of all American poets, was born in Portland, Maine, Feby. 27th, 1807. He graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825, and one year afterwards was offered the professorship of Modern Languages at that Institution, which he occupied until 1835, when he accepted that of professor of Modern Languages at Harvard, which he continued to hold until 1854, when he resigned the chair. His poetical works are well known and are very numerous, the most noted of his longer pieces being _Evangeline, The Golden Legend, Hiawatha, Courtship of Miles Standish_, etc. All his poetical works are distinguished by grace and beauty, warmed by a greater human sympathy than is displayed in the writings of the majority of eminent poets. He relies chiefly for his success on a simple and direct appeal to those sentiments which are common to all mankind, to persons of every rank and of every clime. He wrote only three prose works, _Outre-Mer, Hyperion and Kavanagh_, and a few dramas, all of which deserve to rank with the best American productions. _Evangeline_ is considered "to be the most perfect specimen of the rhythm and melody of the English hexameter." He died at Cambridge, Mass., March 24th 1882.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL, a distinguished American poet, critic and scholar, born in Cambridge, Mass., February 22nd, 1819. He graduated from Harvard, in 1838, and was admitted to the bar, but soon abandoned law as a profession and devoted himself to literature. His _Biglow Papers_ first made him popular, in 1848. In 1857, on the establishment of the _Atlantic Monthly_, he was made editor of that popular magazine. His prose works consisting chiefly of critical and miscellaneous essays, "show their author to be the leading American critic, are a very agreeable union of wit and wisdom, and are the result of extensive reading, illuminated by excellent critical insight." His humour is rich and unrivalled and he seems equally at home in the playful, the pathetic, or the meditative realms of poetry. In 1880, he was appointed Envoy Extraordinary to Great Britain, which office he held until 1885.

LYTTON, LORD, Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer Lytton, a distinguished novelist, poet, dramatist and politician, was born May, 1805. He was the son of William Earle Bulwer, and owes his chief fame to his novels, some of which are among the best in the English language, notably _The Caxtons, My Novel, What will He do with It?_ and _A Strange Story_. As a playwright he was equally successful; he was the author of The Lady of Lyons--the most popular play of modern days;--_Richelieu, Not so Bad as we Seem_, the admirable comedy of _Money_, etc. A man of prodigious industry he showed himself equal to the highest efforts of literature; fiction, poetry, the drama, all were enriched by his labours. As a politician he was not quite so successful. In 1866 he was raised to the peerage as Baron Lytton. He assumed the name of Lytton, his mother's maiden name, in 1844, on succeeding to the Knebworth estates. He died January 18th, 1873, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, The son of the preceding author, better known perhaps by his _nom de plume_, Owen Meredith, born November 8th, 1831. He entered the diplomatic service in 1849. and has represented the British Government with great distinction. His chief works are _Clytemestra, Lucile, The Wanderer, Fables in Song, The Ring of Amasis_, a prose romance, etc.

MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON, a celebrated historian, orator, essayist and poet, was born at Rothley Temple, Lincolnshire, October 26th, 1800. From his earliest years he exhibited signs of superiority and genius, and earned a great reputation for his verses and oratory. He studied law and was called to the Bar, commencing his political career in 1830, and in 1834 he went to India, as a member of the Supreme Council, returning in 1838 to England, where for a few years he pursued politics and letters, representing Edinburgh in the House of Commons, but being rejected, on appearing for re-election, he devoted himself to literature. During the last twelve years of his life his time was almost wholly occupied with his _History of England_, four volumes of which he had completed and published, and a fifth left partly ready for the press when he died. Besides the _History_ and _Essays_, he wrote a collection of beautiful ballads, including the well-known _Lays of Ancient Rome_. In 1849 he was elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, and in 1857, his honours culminated in his elevation to the peerage as Baron Macaulay. He died on the 28th of December, 1869.

MILTON, JOHN, An immortal poet, and with the exception of Shakespeare, the most illustrious name in English Literature, was born in Bread Street, London, on December 9th, 1608. He graduated at Cambridge, and was intended for the law or the Church, but did not enter either calling. He settled at Horton in Buckinghamshire, where he wrote his _Comus, L'Allegro, Il Penuroso_, and _Lycidas_. He took the side of the Parliament in the dispute with King Charles I. and rendered his party efficient service with his pen. About 1654 he became totally blind, and after serving the Protector as Latin Secretary for four or five years, he retired from public life in 1657. In 1665, the time of the Great Plague, he first showed the finished manuscript of his great poem, _Paradise Lost_, which was first printed in 1667, this immortal work being sold to a bookseller for £5! He afterwards wrote _Paradise Regained_, but it is, in all respects, quite inferior to _Paradise Lost_. He died in London, on the 8th of November, 1674.

MOORE, THOMAS, a celebrated poet, born in Dublin, May 28th, 1779, and was educated at Trinity College in that city. He studied law but never practised. He published two volumes of poems previous to the production of _Lalla Rookh_, his masterpiece, which was highly successful and was published in 1817. His works are very numerous and some of them are extremely popular, the best being _Lalla Rookh_ and _Irish Melodies_. As a poet he displays grace, pathos, tenderness and imagination, but is deficient in power and naturalness. He died February 26th, 1852.

POE, EDGAR ALLAN, a distinguished American poet and prose writer, born in Baltimore in 1809. He was an entirely original figure in American literature, his temperament was melancholy, he hated restraint of every kind and he gave way to dissipation, and his life is a wretched record of poverty and suffering. But the _Bells, The Raven_ and _Annabel Lee_, his principal poetical works, are wonderfully melodious, constructed with great ingenuity, and finished with consummate art. He wrote several weird prose tales and some critical essays. He died at Baltimore, under circumstances of great wretchedness, October 7th, 1849.

POPE, ALEXANDER, a popular English poet and critic, born in London, May 22nd, 1688. During his childhood he displayed great ability and resolved to be a poet. His _Pastorals_ were written at the age of sixteen. He wrote a large number of poems, the most celebrated being; the _Essay on Criticism, The Rape of the Lock_ and the _Essay on Man_. He also published translations of Homer's _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_. His talent for satire is conspicuous in the _Duncaid_. He possessed little originality or creative imagination, but he had a vivid sense of the beautiful, and an exquisite taste. He owed much of his popularity to the easy harmony of his verse, the keenness of his satire, and the brilliancy of his antithesis. He has, with the exception of Shakespeare, added more phrases to the English language than any other poet. He died on the 30th of May, 1744.

PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE, an English poet, born in London, October 30th, 1825. She was a daughter of Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). She was a contributor to _Household Words_ and _All the Year Round_, and published in 1858, a volume of poetry, _Legends and Lyrics_. A second volume was issued in 1861. She died February 3rd, 1864.

READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN, a distinguished American artist and poet, born in Pennsylvania, March 12th, 1822. He visited England and also spent several years in Florence and Rome. He wrote several good poems, but his _Sheridan's Ride_, brought him more popularity than any of his previous works. He died May 11th, 1872.

ROGERS, SAMUEL, an eminent English poet, born in London, July 30th, 1763. He was a rich banker and enabled to devote much leisure time to literature, of which he was a magnificent patron. His best works are _Pleasures of Memory, Human Life_, and _Italy_, the last appeared in a magnificent form, having cost £10,000 in illustrations alone. Died December 18th, 1855.

SAXE, JOHN GODFREY, a humorous American poet, born in Vermont, in 1816. He has been most successful in classical travesties and witty turns of language, and he has won a good place as a sonneteer. A complete edition of his poems (the 42nd) was published in 1881.

SCOTT, SIR WALTER. An illustrious Scotch author, novelist and poet, born in Edinburgh, August 15th, 1771. He was called to the bar in 1792, and being in circumstances favourable for the pursuit of literature, he commenced his poetical career, by translating several poems from the German. In 1805, he published the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_, and became at once one of the most distinguished poets of the age. It was speedily followed by _Marmion_ and the _Lady of the Lake_ (1810), and many other poems, all of which added to his fame. In August, 1813, he was offered the position of poet-laureate, which he declined. But he was destined to add to his already great reputation as a poet, by a success equally as great in the realms of prose fiction. In 1814 appeared _Waverley_, published anonymously, and its success was enormous. It was quickly followed by the other volumes of the "Great Unknown," as Scott was now designated, amounting in all to twenty-seven volumes. In 1820 he was created a baronet and his degree of success had been unparalleled and had raised him to apparent affluence, but, in 1826, by the failure of two publishing houses with which he was connected, he was reduced to bankruptcy. He set himself resolutely to redeem himself from the load of debt (£147,000) but, although successful, his faculties gave way before the enormous mental toil to which they were subjected. He died at Abbotsford, Sept. 21st, 1832. In addition to the poetical works and the Waverley Novels, Scott was the author of many other popular works, too well known to need mentioning here.

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM.--The greatest poet of England, born at Stratford-on- Avon, Warwickshire, April 23rd, 1564. Unfortunately the materials for a biography of the poet are very meagre, and are principally derived from tradition. He appears to have been well educated, married very early, when about nineteen years of age, his wife, Anne Hathaway, being then twenty- six. Shortly after this he left Stratford for London, where he became an actor and eventually a writer of plays. His first printed drama (Henry VI.,