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School Reader


Registered at the General Post Office, Brisbane, for transmission through the post as a book.

Issued by

The Department of Public Instruction

Wholly set up and printed in Australia by Pavid Whyte, Queensland Government Printer^


The reclassification of pupils into seven grades instead of six classeá has made necessary the compilation of a new series of Readers to meet the changed conditions.    .

Much that was permanently valuable has been retained from the old Readers; much new material has been added; and the opportunity has been taken of re-arranging the order of the lessons.

The aims of the compilers are substantially those that were taken by the compilers of the previous series:—

1.    To instil into the minds of pupils such a love of literature as will last beyond school-days and be an unfailing source of profit and delight. Special attention has been given to the poetical pieces, many of which, if learned by heart, will prove a “joy for ever” to the diligent scholar.

2.    To impart useful information. It is hoped that each book will afford a compendium of useful knowledge as well as a treasury of beautiful thoughts.

3.    To provide matter of such variety and interest that the valuable art of reading aloud may be fostered. To this end lessons have been chosen from a very wide field.

4.    To teach pupils to speak and to write good English. The lessons in the upper grade books should furnish material from which senior pupils may learn to appreciate what is meant by an author’s style. Such appreciation, accompanied by the judicious imitation of good models, should lead to an improvement in the pupils’ own methods of composition.

5.    To secure a careful gradation of lessons so that each book may naturally follow its predecessor by a gradual but almost imperceptible increase in difficulty.

The books have been suitably illustrated, and coloured plates have been included with a view to making the books attractive to children by quickening interest through the eye. At the end of each book are placed lists of the most difficult words that occur in the lessons contained in that book.

The work of compiling, printing, and illustrating lias all been done within the State of Queensland.

For permission fo use selections and illustrations that are copyright, our thanks are expressed to: —

(a)    Thos. Nelson and Sons for ‘‘Mark Antony’s Oration” from Highroads of Literature VI.; and for the coloured illustrations of ‘‘The Doge’s Palace” and ‘‘The Arming of Christian.”

(b)    Messrs. Blackie and Son, Limited, for “Making a Newspaper” from New Systematic Reader VI.; and for the coloured illustration of “Horatius at the Bridge.”

(c)    Trustees of the National Art Gallery of New South Wales for the coloured illustrations of “The Valley of the Tweed” and “The Majesty and Beauty of the Australian Coast—Summer. ’ ’

(d)    Mr. Laurence Binyon and “The Times” for “To the Fallen. ’ ’

(e)    Mr. John Masefield for the extracts from “Gallipoli.”


The titles of poetical pieces are in italics.


The Nation Builders ..    ..    ..    .. yf"'    ..    1

Pasteur’s Great Discovery

Mark Antony’s Oration ..    .

An Ancient Chariot Race—Part I.

An Ancient Chariot Race—Part II.    .    . .    . .    . .

YoungmLochinvar    ..

The Destruction of Pompeii l The Ocean . .    . .

The Eve of Anzac ..

The Saxon and the Gael r Making a Newspaper Venice ..    ..    ..

The Escape from the Tower Ariel’s Song    ..    ..

The Fall of Wolsey ..

Landing of the Australians at Gallipoli To the Fallen ..    . .

The Founding of New England September in Australia Radium, the Magic Metal Bell-Birds    . .    . .

The Crusader and the Saracen Crossing the Bar    . .

Millet, the Peasant Painter The Bhine    . .    ..

Sir Isaac Newton    ..

The Women of the West ^

What is War? . .    . .

The Ancient Mariner—Fart I.

The Ancient Manner—Fart II.

The Ancient Mariner—Fart III,

The Ancient Manner—Fart IV.

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“How Sweet-the Moonlight' ’

The Dinner at the Inn—Part I.

The Dinner at the Inn—Part IT. . .

Horntins Defends the Bridge—Part I.

Horatius Defends the Bridge—Part II.

An Interview with Judge Jeffreys—Part I.

An Interview with Judge Jeffreys—Part IT. .ft L’Allegro    ..    ..    ..    ..

Emerson's Biography of Lincoln ..

To a Skylark    ..    .    .    .    .    .    .

The Castle of Giant Despair . .

The Cloud    ..    .    .    ..    .    .

The Story of John Brown . .    . .

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard Mercy . .    ..    .    .    .    .    .    .

On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer

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IT) 1 IS 122 120 132 138 140 145 149 .154 157 165 171 171

The Vision of Mirza . . . . . .


Pictures from the Deserted Village ..


The League of Nations . . ..

.. .. .. ..


Break, Break, Break . . .. ..


The Dignity of Labour .. . ^


A Song .. .. . . . .


The Day is Done . . .. . .


A Noble Sacrifice—Part I. .. . .


A Noble Sacrifice—Part II. ..

.. .. .. ..




"In the Early Days”    ..    ..    ..    ..    ..    2

Pioneering    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    3

Louis Pasteur . .    ..    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    5

The Death of Caesar ..    ..    ..    ..    . .    ..    ..    12

“ You All Do Know This Mantle”    ..    . .    . .    . .    . .    15

Passing the Roman . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    24

“They’ll Have Fleet Steeds That Follow” ..    ..    ..    27

Nydia . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    29

“The Wild Waves’ Play” ..    ..........35

Second Division Leaving Mudros Bay . .    . .    . .    . .    37

“Brought the Proud Chieftain to His Knee”    ..    ..    ..    43

A Linotype Operator at Work . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    48

A ‘ ‘ Paper ’ ’ Forest    .    .    . .    . .    ..    .    .    .    .    . .    49

Cardinal Wolsey Received at the Abbey    ..    . .    . .    . .    57

Anzac Cove, looking    North . .    . .    .    .    .    .    .    .    . .    61

Graves at Anzac    .    .    . .    . .    .    .    .    .    .    .    . .    65

The Pilgrim Fathers Leaving Delft Haven, in Holland    . .    . .    67

Madame Curie in Her Laboratory . .    . .    . .    .    .    .    .    73

‘ ‘ By Channels of Coolness ”    . .    . .    . .    .    .    .    .    73

The Gleaners . .    ..    . .    ..    .    .    .    .    .    .    . .    §6

Sir Isaac Newton ..    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    90

Isaac Newton Sees an Apple Fall . .    .    .    . .    . .    . .    92

Isaac Newton Studying Sunlight in a Darkened Room . .    . .    94

“And ice mast high came floating by ”    . .    ..    ..    ..    101

“The albatross about my neck was hung”    ..    ..    ..    103

“Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship” ..    ..    ..    ..    . .    107

“ I 'll drink it if you like ” . .    . .    . .    ..    ..    .    .    114

“All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry” ..    ..    ..    ..    124

“On the light fantastic toe”    . .    . .    . .    .    .    .    .    139

Statue of Abraham Lincoln . .    . .    . .    . .    .    .    .    .    141

Christian and Hopeful Escape from Doubting Castle    . .    . .    152

Stoke Poges Churchyard . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    . .    164

“The long-drawn aisle and fretted vault” ..    ..    ..    166

“There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech” ..    ..    ..    .169

“There stood before him, Sydney Carton” ..    ..    ..    190

“O, will you let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”    ,,    f.    197


Faithful Unto Death .. ..



The Chariot Race .. .,

.. .. 24

The Doge’s Palace, Venice ..

.. .. 57

The Valley of the Tweed ..

.. .. 88

Keeping the Bridge . . . .

.. .. 121

The Arming of Christian . .

.. .. 152

The Majesty and Beauty of the Australian Coast—Summer .. 185







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Queensland School Reader


The Nation Builders.

A handful of workers seeking the star of a strong intent—

A handful of heroes scattered to conquer a continent—

Thirst, and fever, and famine, drought,1"and ruin, and flood;

And the bones that bleach on the sandhill, and the spears that redden with blood;

And the pitilessmnight of the molten skies, at noon, on the sun-cracked plain,

And the walls of the northern jungles, shall front them ever in vain,

Till the land that lies like a giant asleep shall wake to the victory won,

And the hearts of the Nation Builders shall know that the work is done.

To North, on the seas of summer, where the pearl flotillas swim,

To East, where the axe is ringing in the heart of the ranges grim,

On the plains where the free wind bloweth bv never a tree or shrub,

On the pine-topped slopes where the settler carves a home in the tropic scrub,

On fields where the miner sleeps unstirred by the ceaseless monotone ^

And crash of the stampers night and day at work on the milk-white stone,

’Tis war and stress, with never a pause to mourn for a stout heart gone,

Till the souls of the Nation Builders shall know that the work is done.


On the deck of the lonely light-ship, in the sand of the new-found West,

Where strong men fall and die like sheep, in the thirst of the golden quest;

By the dry stock-routes, by the burnt-up creeks, where the cattle sink and fail;

By the coral reefs, where the beching boats swing on

- 'neath the sun-tanned sail;

In the wild raviiVe, where the searcher’s gold is bought with his own heart's blood;

In the dark of the drive, where the miner’s life goes out with the swirling flood,

’Tis war and stress, with never a pause to mourn for a stout heart gone,

Till the lives of the Nation Builders have paid for the victory won.


In the glare and stream of the cities, the thunder and clatter of wheel:

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By the teeming wharves, where the liners lie at rest on an even keel;

In the strife of a swelling comflierce, at the desk in the dull routine,    —^

Where the soul of a man is warped and sunk to the soul of a mere machine;

In the flash of the wire from west to north, in the hum of the restless street;

In the pulse of the toiling breast that beats all night in a fever heat;

Where the weary brain and the pen plod on ’neath the white electric light—

Tho’ we fail and fall still the fight goes on; and ever our sons shall fight,

Till the land that lies like a giant asleep shall wake to the victory won,

And the hearts of the Nation Builders shall know that the work is done.

We are but the hands of the Builder, who toileth and frameth afar;

System, and order, and sequence, sun, and planet, and star—    *

Faint sparks of a Mighty Genius, a breath of the Oversoul,

Who shapes the thought of the workers wherever His worlds may roll.

On! tho’ we grope and blunder, the trend of our aim is true!

On! there is death in dalliance, whilst yet there is work to do,    ' \

Till the land that lies like a giant asleep may wake to the victory won,

And the eyes of the Master Worker may see that the work is done.

George Essex Evans.

(From The Secret Key and other Verses, by permission of the publishers, Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Sydney.)

No good work is ever lost; many labourers must be content to sow; others will come to reap the harvest.

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Pasteur’s Great Discovery.

¿ouis Pasteur's father used’ to come home at night from his hard day’s work in the tanyard and take his little son on his knee and say: “ Olt; Louis, if you could only become a professor in the college of Arbois, how happy I should


be! Here I work all day with those evil-smelling skins, tanning them for leather. Many hard years I spent in camp as a soldier. I want you to have an easier life, my son. You must have education.”

Louis was only two years old; so he played with his father’s whiskers and laughed. And Louis’ mother smiled and said, “Yes, our boy must have education.” But in their most radiant dreams about the future of their son thev had no, vision of the great man he was to become.

If they could have looked forward sixty years they would have seen on the door of the very house where they were living a plate with gold letters, announcing:

Here was born Louis Pasteur December 27, 1822.

The family soon moved to Arbois, where Louis’ father had a tanyard of his own, and Louis played in the yard and thought little of the future. When he went to school his father kept watch over his lessons, urging him to study every night. But in the daytime Louis liked to play. He sometimes ran away from school to go fishing. He was fond of drawing, and instead of studying he made pictures of his teachers and his classmates. The likenesses of these were very good, so good that had Louis lived to-day and attended a modern school his teachers would have urged him to study art. Perhaps with his talent, and the hard work which he afterwards showed he was willing to do, he might have been a great artist instead of a great scientist. But then he was only thirteen and did not think much of

his future, nor was he very industrious. J


However, a few years later he began to realize how hard his father and mother were working in order to educate him, so he put away his fishing-rods and his drawing-pencils and began to study in earnest. As he forged ahead of the other students his teachers began to take note of him. They said: “ He is a wonderful thinker. He will go far.”

“You must think of the great University,” said one of his teachers. “ Some day you may teach there! ”

Louis became greatly interested in chemistry. He asked his professor many questions that the poor man could not answer. Louis heard of an apothecary who had written some remarkable articles on chemistry, and asked to be allowed to study with him on Saturdays. The lad performed



many experiments of bis own. He astonished his teachers by showing them how much phosphorus he had obtained from the bones of the meat he bought for his meals.

■ When he was ready to begin his studies at the University, and underwent the entrance examination, he stood fourteenth on the list. This did not satisfy him. So he studied hard another year, working in the meantime in order to support himself. This time he passed fourth on the list.

In the University he had two wonderful teachers. One was quiet and exact; the other was bubbling over with enthusiasm. With these men to encourage him Pasteur lived and breathed and dreamed chemistry. At twenty-five he had discovered some new laws and proved them to his teachers. One discovery was that two substances that chemists had always supposed to be different were one and the same. One of his professors made him come and perform the experiments in his own kitchen before being convinced.

Louis was now made an assistant professor of chemistry, at Strassburg. So engrossed was he in his science, it is said that on his wedding-day a friend had to go to his laboratory to remind him that it was time for the ceremony.

Now he began to make some of the wonderful discoveries that have saved thousands of lives all over the world. In the southern part of France the people made their living by breeding silkworms. Their homes were full of racks where they placed mulberry-leaves for the worms to eat. All at once the worms began to die. The malady grew worse. The eggs would not hatch, and when they did, the young worms would not eat, and there was a danger that there might be no more silk cocoons. The people sent to Spain and Italy for more worms, but in time these sickened and died. Every silk-producer feared he would lose his business. Finally, in 1865, the silkworm keepers sent a petition to the French Government praying for aid.

Some one said: “ Louis Pasteur is the one to do it. He is not afraid to break new ground.”

Pasteur came to Southern France. He examined the worms under his microscope and discovered small particles on their bodies. Then he took healthy worms and compared with them. He believed that these particles, or parasites, caused the disease from which the sick worms were suffering, but how did the healthy ones get it from those that were sick?

After many experiments he discovered that when a* healthy worm ate a leaf over which a sick one had crawled*, it too got the disease. The silkworms have a little hook underneath their bodies. When a sick worm crawled over a sound one he found that the little hook pricked the skin of the other and gave it the disease. He separated the well from the ill and destroyed the sick ones and all of their eggs. In time he controlled the disease and saved the silk industry of France.

In the meantime he had learned some wonderful truths that have been a great help in checking and curing other diseases. First of all, he had discovered that there are such things as disease microbes, which carry disease from one person to another.

By many successful experiments on animals he learned how to check disease in man. He practised with chickens that had cholera and with sheep sigk with fever, and used his results in treating mankind.

Jenner had discovered that vaccination with the virus from cowpox would prevent smallpox, but Pasteur went much farther. He was fearless in his experimenting. He proved to his own satisfaction that if the skin was unbroken, contagious disease microbes could not enter the body, and in his laboratory he handled all forms of diseases. To him were sent animals and samples of blood of persons who



had the most dangerous fevers. He inoculated white mice and rabbits and dogs and even cattle, first producing disease, then searching for a remedy.

Many dogs and rabbits lost thpr lives in the interest of science, but Pasteur was merciful. He used to say, “ I have never killed even a bird for sport; but when it is a question of saving human life I have no scruples about sacrificing animal life.” Plowever, when there was an operation that would cause suffering Pasteur always chloroformed the animal.

Some one tells of seeing him one day in his laboratory where a mad dog was tied to the table. The dog was foaming at Ahe mouth, while Pasteur drew some of the poison saliva into a tube in order that he might find a cure for hydrophobia.

Some owners of cattle and sheep ridiculed Pasteur and challenged him to a trial. Pasteur accepted. Sixty sheep were put at his disposal. He vaccinated twenty-five of them against anthrax. Some days later these and twenty-five others were given the anthrax germs.

Pasteur then said that the second lot of twenty-five sheep would all die, while the first lot that had been vaccinated would live. It was arranged that believers and unbelievers should meet on 2nd June, 1881, at the farmyard where the sheep had been placed to celebrate a victory or to announce a failure.

When Pasteur arrived at the farmyard at two o’clock in the afternoon he was received with much applause. There were present many distinguished men, some of whom had ridiculed his teachings. Twenty-two of the unvaccinated sheep were dead and lying side by side. Two others were breaking their last, while the remaining one was ill of anthrax. It died that night. All the vaccinated sheep were in perfect health. It was a wonderful proof and a great victory for Pasteur.

Shortly after he had completed his work in Southern France his left side became paralysed. He hastily codified all the knowledge concerning his discoveries so that some one else might go on with them. Though he was a cripple for the rest of his life, in two years he had regained his health to such an extent that he could continue his work.

Dr. von Behring of the Pasteur laboratory found the antitoxin for diphtheria; he discovered and bottled ,up the germs that cause the disease. In the Pasteur Institute, by many experiments on guinea-pigs ..and birds -and other animals, scientists found that by planting a weak microbe under the skin they could make the animal immune from the strong microbe. That is, by giving him the weak microbe they so changed his system that it could fight off the disease brought by strong microbes. In other words, Pasteur said he could fight poison or toxin with the same poison or toxin. To-day every doctor uses antitoxin for diphtheria. It is made from the blood of horses which have been made immune by giving them a little of the toxin at a time until they are proof against the poison.

Every new discovery in science has to fight for its place in the world. Pasteur had many battles to prove to other chemists that he was right. Over and over again he performed his experiments to prove his new laws.

The pasteurization of milk was discovered when Pasteur found that germs thrive better in some temperatures than in others. He taught the use of cold packs in reducing fever in typhoid. Upon the discovery of disease microbes is built the modern treatment of most illnesses.

From Men of Science and Their Discoveries (George G. Harrap and Co.).

Progress is


The law of life, man is not Man as yet.



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Mark Antony’s Oration.

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[This oration is from Shakespeare’s tragedy. Julius Caesar. A number of conspirators, among whom were Cassius, Casca, and Brutus, assassinated Caesar in the Senate-house (44 b.c.). Cassius was the ringleader. Casca struck the first blow. Caesar resisted.■" until Brutus also smote him, then, with the words, Et tu, Brute!” (“ Even thou, Brutus!”) he coveredjiis face and fell at the base of Pompey’s statue. Brutus addressed the mob in the Forum explaining the reasons for the death of Caesar and justifying it. As he was finishing his speech, Mark Antony, the fellow consul, chief supporter and friend of ^Caesar, entered tp.e Forum1 with the body of Caesar. Brutus concluded by requesting all present to remain and listen^o Antony’s eulogy. He”then' departed. Antony ascended the rostrum and made his famous speech which inflamed the people against the assassins.] .

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let_it_be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault, y v And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,—

For Brutus is an honourable man;

So are they all, all honourable men,— * ■

Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, ^ -Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus js an honourable man,



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You all did see that on the Lupercal |

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,¿esrvfco -Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And, sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, Fwb? ' ^ But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause:

What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,/ ,c And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;

My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

First Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. See. Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter,

Caesar has had great wrong.

Third Cit.    Has he, masters?

I fear there will a worse come in his place.

Fourth Cit. Mark’d ye his words? He would not take the crown;

Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious.

First Cit. If it be found so, some will dare abide it.

Sec. Cit. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with weeping. Third Cit. There’s not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. Fourth Cit. Now mark him, lie begins again to speak.

/AAnt. But yesterday the word of Caesar might

Have stood against the world: now lies he there,

And none so poor to do him reverence. i/ "    ,

0    masters, if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,

1    should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong,

Who, you all know, are honourable men :

I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,

Than I will wrong such honourable men. /'



But here’s a parchment with the Seal of Caesar;

I found it in his cfgset;' tis his will:

Let but the commons hear this testament—

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read—•

And they would go and kiss dead Qesar's wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,

And,, dying, mention it within their wills,

Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue.

Fourth Cit. We’ll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony. AIL The will, the will! we will hear Caesar’s will.

Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;

It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;

And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar,

It will inflame you, it will make you mad:

’Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;

For if you should, O, what would come of it!

Fourth Cit. Read the will; we’ll hear it, Antony;

You shall read us the will, Caesar’s will.

Ant. Will you be patient? will you stay awhile?

I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it:

I fear I wrong the honourable men Whose daggers have stabb’d Caesar; I do fear it. Fourth Cit. They were traitors: honourable men!

All. The will! the testament!

See. Cit. They were villains, murderers: the will! read the will.

Ant. You will compel me then to read the will?,

Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,

And let me show you him that made the will.

Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?

All. Come down.

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Sec. Cit. Descend.    [lie comes down from the pulpit.

Third Cit. You shall have leave.

Fourth Cit. A ring; stand round.

First Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. Sec. Cit. Room for Antony, most noble Antony.

Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.

All. Stand back. Room! Bear back.


[From the painting by J. D. Court.

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Gesar put it on;

’ Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent,

That day he overcame the Nervii:

Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;


And, as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,

Mark how the blood of Qesar follow'd it,

As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no:

For Brutus, as you know, was Csesar’s angel:

Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!

This was the most unkindest cut of all;

For ,when the noble Caesar saw him stab,

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,

Quite vanquish’d him; then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling uj> his face,

Even at the base of Pompey’s statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,

Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.

O, now you weep, and I perceive you feel The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.

Kind souls, what weep you when you but behold Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,

Here is himself, marr’d as you see, with traitors.

First Cit. O piteous spectacle!    ^

Sec. Cit. O noble Caesar!

Third Cit. O woful day!

Fourth Cit. O traitors, villains!

Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

They that have done this deed are honourable;

What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,

That made them do it: they are wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:

I am no orator, as Brutus is;

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,

That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him;

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For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,

To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on;

I tell you that which you yourselves do know;

Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

An Ancient Chariot Race.

[The following is an extract from Ben-Hur, a story which relates to events that took place in the time of Christ. The hero, a young Jew of noble birth, accidentally incurred the enmity of the Romans in Jerusalem, and was condemned to be a galley slave. In a fight at sea the galley was wrecked. Ben-Hur saved the life of the Roman tribune, and was given his freedom. The search for his mother and sister who had been made outcasts by the Romans now became the sole aim of his life. The most dramatic incident of the story is the great chariot race at Antioch, when Messala, the Roman, who was responsible for the tragedy in the life of Ben-Hur, was defeated. In the latter part of the book events are related which deal intimately with the life of Christ.]

Part I.

The race was on; the souls of the racers were in it; over them bent the myriads.

When the dash for position began, Ben-Hur was on the extreme left of the six contestants. At Messala, who was more than an antagonist to him, he gave one searching look. It may have been a jealous fancy, or the effect of the brassy shadow in which the features were at the moment cast, but the Israelite thought he saw the soul of the man as through a glass darkly—cruel, cunning, desperate; not $0 excited as determined.



At whatever cost, at all hazards, he would humble this enemy. Prize, friends, wagers, honour—everything that can be thought of as a possible interest in the race, was lost in the one deliberate purpose. Regard for life, even, should not hold him back.

When not half-way across the arena, he saw that Messala’s rush would, if there was no collision, and the rope fell, give him the wall; that the rope would fall, he ceased as soon to doubt; and further, it came to him—a sudden, flashlike insight—that Messala knew it was to be let drop at the last moment. It is one thing to see a necessity, and another to act upon it. Ben-Hur yielded the wall for the time.

The rope fell, and all the fours but his sprang into the course under urgency of voice and lash. He drew head to the right, and with all the speed of his arabs, darted across the trails of his opponents, the angle of movement being such as to lose the least time and gain the greatest possible advantage. Thus he took the course neck and neck with Messala, though on the outside. The marvellous skill shown in making the change from the extreme left across to the right without appreciable loss did not fail the sharp eyes upon the benches; the circus seemed to rock and rock again with pro’onged applause. Then Esther clasped her hands in glad surprise, and then the Romans began to doubt, thinking Messala might have found an equal, if not a master; and that in an Israelite! And now racing together side by side, a narrow interval between them, the two neared the second goal.

The pedestal of the three pillars there, viewed from the west, was a stone wall in the form of a half-circle, around which the course and opposite balcony were bent. Making this turn was considered in all respects the most telling test of a charioteer. As an in voluntary admission,of interest on the part of the spectators, a hush fell over all


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the circus, so that for the first time in the race the rattle and clang of the cars plunging after the tugging steeds was distinctly heard. Then it would seem, Messala observed Ben-Hur, and recognised him, and at once the audacity of the man flamed out in an astonishing manner. X

“Down, Eros; up, Mars!” he shouted, whirling his lash with practised hand. “ Down, Eros; up, Mars! ’ he repeated, and caught the .well-going arabs of Ben-Hur a cut the like of which they had never known.

The blow was seen in every quarter, and the amazement was universal. The silence deepened; up on the benches behind the consul the boldest held his breath, waiting for the outcome. Only a moment thus; then involuntarily, down from the balcony, as thunder falls, burst the indignant cry of the people.

The four sprang forward, affrighted. No hand had ever been laid upon them except in love; they had been nurtured ever so tenderly; and, as they grew, their confidence in man became a lesson to man beautiful to see. What should such dainty natures do under such indignity but leap as from death?

Forward they sprang as with one impulse, and forward leaped the car.

Ben-Hur kept his place, and gave the four free rein, and called to them in soothing voice, trying merely to guide them round the dangerous turn; and before the fever of the people began to abate he had back the mastery. Nor that only; on approaching the first goal, he was again side by side with Messala, bearing with him the sympathy and admiration of every one not a Roman. So clearly was the feeling shown, so vigorous its manifestation, that Messala, with all his boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle further.

As the cars whirled round the goal, Esther caught sight of Ben-Hur’s face—a little pale, a little higher raised, otherwise calm, even placid.

Immediately a man took down from the entablature at the west end of the division-wall one of the conical wooden balls.

A dolphin on the east entablature was taken down at the same time. In like manner, the second ball and second dolphin disappeared, and then the third ball and third dolphin.

Three rounds concluded; still Messala held the inside position, still Ben-Hur moved with him side by side, still the other competitors followed as before. The sixth round was entered upon without change of relative position.

Gradually the speed had been quickened; gradually the blood of the competitors warmed with the work. Men and beasts seemed to know alike that the final crisis was near, bringing the time for the winner to assert himself.

The interest which, from the beginning, had centred chiefly in the struggle between the Roman and the Jew, with an intense and general sympathy for the latter, was fast changing to anxiety on his account. On all the benches the spectators bent forward motionless, except as their faces turned following the contestants. Ilderim quitted combing his beard, and Esther forgot her fears.

“ Messala hath reached his utmost speed. See him lean over his chariot-rim, the reins loose as flying ribbons. Look, then, at the Jew.”

The first one looked. The dog throws all the weight on the bits,” he replied, his countenance falling. “ I see! I see! If the gods help not our friend, he will be run away with by the Israelite. No, not yet. Look! Jove with us! Jove with us ! ”

The cry, swelled by every Latin tongue, shook the awning over the consul’s head.

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An Ancient Chariot Race.

Part II.

If it were true that Messala had attained his utmost speed, the effort was with effect. Slowly but certainly he was beginning to forge ahead. His horses were running with their heads down; from the balcony their bodies appeared actually to skim the earth; their nostrils showed blood-red in expansion; their eyes seemed straining in their sockets. Certainly the good steeds were doing their best. How long could they keep the pace ? It was but the commencement of the sixth round. On they dashed with unchecked speed. As they neared the second goal, Ben-Idur turned in behind the Roman’s car.

The joy of the Messala faction reached its bounds: they screamed, and howled, and tossed their colours.

Malluch, in the lower gallery over the Gate of Triumph, found it hard to keep his cheer. He had cherished the vague hint dropped to him by Ben-Hur of something to happen in the turning of the western pillars. It was the fifth round, vet the something had not come; and he had said to himself, “ the sixth will bring it.” But, lo! Ben-Hur was hardly holding the tail of his enemy’s car.

Over in the east end the party of Simonides held their peace. The merchant’s head was bent low. Ilderim tugged at his beard, and dropped his brows till there was nothing of his eyes but an occasional sparkle of light. Esther scarcely breathed.

Thus along the home-stretch to the first goal, and round it. Messala, fearful of losing his place, hugged the stony wall with perilous clasp; a foot to the left, and he had been dashed to pieced yet, when the turn was finished, no man looking at the wheel tracks of the two cars, could have said, “ Here went Messala, there the Jew.” They left but one track behind them.

As they whirled by, Esther saw Ben-Hur’s face again, and it was whiter than before.

Simonides, shrewder than Esther, said to Tlderim, tfee moment the rivals turned in the course, “ I am no judge, good sheik, if Ben-Hur be not about to execute some design. Elis face hath that look.”

To which Ilderim answered, “ Saw you how clean they were and fresh? But now watch.”

One ball and one dolphin remained on the entablatures; and all the people drew a long breath, for the beginning of the end was at hand.

All the factions except the Romans joined hope in Ben-Hur, and openly indulged their feeling.

“ Ben-Hur! Ben-Blur! ” they shouted, and the blent voices of the many rolled overwhelmingly against the consular stand.

From the benches above him, as he passed, the favour descended in fierce injunction.

“ Speed thee, Jew ! ”

“ Take the wall now! ”

“ On ! Loose the arabs ! Give them rein and scourge! ”

“ Let him not have the turn on thee again. Now or never!”

Over the balustrade they stooped low, stretching their hands imploringly to him.

Either he did not hear, or could not do better, for half-way round the course, and he was still following; at the second goal even, still no change.

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And now, to make the turn, Messala began to draw in his left-hand steeds, an act which necessarily slackened their speed. His spirit was high; more than one altar was richer of his vows; the Roman genius was still president. On the three pillars only six hundred feet away were fame. increase of fortune, promotions, and a triumph ineffably sweetened by hate, all in store for him. That moment, Malluch in the gallery, saw Ben-Hur lean forward over his arabs, and give them the reins.

Out flew the many-folded lash in his hand; over the backs of the startled steeds it writhed and hissed, and hissed and writhed, again and again, and, though it fell not, there were both sting and menace in its quick report. And as the man passed thus from quiet to resistless, action, his face suffused, his eyes gleaming, along the reins he seemed to flash his will; and instantly not one, but the four as one, answered with a leap that landed them alongside the Roman’s car. Messala, on the perilous edge of the goal, heard, but dared not look to see what the awakening portended. From the people he received no sign.

Above the noises of the race there was but one voice, and that was Ben-Hur’s. In the old Aramaic, as the sheik

himself, he called to the arabs,—

“ On, Affair! On, Rigel! What, Antares! dost thou linger now-? Good horse,—oho, Aldebaran! I hear them singing in the tents. I hear the children singing, and the women,—singing of the stars, of Affair, Antares, Rigel, Aldebaran,—victory! And the song will never end. Well done! Home to-morrow, under the black tent,—home! On, Antares! The tribe is waiting for us, and the master is waiting! ’Tis done, ’tis done! Ha, ha! We have overthrown the proud. The hand that smote us is in the dust. Ours the glory! Ha, ha! steady! The work is done,—sohp! Rest 1



There had never been anything of the kind more simple, seldom anything so instantaneous.

At the moment chosen for the dash, Messala was moving in a circle round the goal. To pass him, Ben-Hur


had to cross the track, and good strategy required the movement to be in a forward direction; that is, on a like circle, limited to the least possible increase. The thousands on the benches understood it all. They saw the signal given,—the magnificent response,—the four close outside JVIessala’s outer wheel— Ben-IIur's inner wheel behind the

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other's car: all this they saw. Then they heard a crash loud enough to send a thrill through the circus, and, quicker than thought, out over the course a spray of shining white and yellow flinders flew. Down on its right side toppled the bed of the Roman’s chariot. There was a rebound, as of the axle hitting the hard earth; another, and another; then the car went to pieces, and Messala, entangled in the reins, pitched forward headlong.

To increase the horror of the sight by making death certain, the Sidonian, who had the wall next behind, could not stop or turn out. Into the wreck full speed he drove; then over the Roman, and into the latter’s four, all mad with fear. Presently, out of the turmoil, the fighting of horses, the resound of blows, the murky cloud of dust and sand, he crawled, in time to see the Corinthian and Byzantine go on down the course after Ben-Hur, who had not been an instant delayed.

The people arose and leaped upon the benches, and shouted and screamed. Those who looked that way caught glimpses of Messala, now under the trampling of the fours, now under the abandoned cars. He was still ; they thought him dead. But far the greater number followed Ben-Hur in his career. They had not seen the cunning touch of the reins, by which, turning a little to the left, he caught Messala’s wheel with the iron-shod point of his axle, and crushed it; but they had seen the transformation of the man, and themselves felt the glow of his spirit, the heroic resolution, the maddening energy of action with which, by look, word, and gesture, he so suddenly inspired his arabs. And such running! It was rather the long leaping of lions in the harness; but for the lumbering chariot, it seemed the four were flying. When the Byzantine and Corinthian were half-way down the course, Ben-Hur turned the first goal. And the race was won!

Lew Wallace.


Young Lochinvar.

O! young Lochinvar is come out of the west;

Through all the wide Border, his steed was the best;

And, save his good broad-sword, he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;

He swam the Esk River where ford there was none;

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented—the gallant came late;

For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)

O! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

“ I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denie 1;

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;

And, now, am I come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. V

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up;

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar;

“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace,

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

And the bridegroom' stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bride-maidens whispered, “ ’ Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

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One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup, the fair lady, he swung,

So light to the saddle, before her, he sprung!

“ She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur! They’ll have fleet steeds that follow! ” quoth young Lochinvar.

“ they'll have fleet steeds that follow.”

There was mounting ’ mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea;

But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Flave ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Sir Walter Scott.


Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

The Destruction of Pompeii.

[In 79 A-D-, Pompeii, ^ a seaport on the Bay of Naples, was overwhelmed by an eruption of Vesuvius which buriedthe town under a terrific shower of ashes. In the following^emction from The Last Days of Pompeii, Glaucus, the hero of the story, and lone, his betrothed, are saved from death by the devotion of Nydia, a blind flower-girl.]

The cloud which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day had now settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. It resembled less even the thickest gloom of a night in the open air than the_ close and blind darkness of some narrow room. But in proportion as the blackness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beauty confined to the usual hues of fire; no rainbow ever rivalled their varying and prodigal dyes^ Now brightly blue as the most azlifce depth of a southern sky—now of a livid and snakelike green, darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of an enormous serpent—now of a Lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke far and wide, and lighting up the whole city from arch to arch,—then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the ghost of their own life! ^

In the pauses of the showers you heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and by the lightning to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or of monster shapes, striding across the gloom, hurtling one upon the other, and vanishing swiftly into the turbulent abyss of shade; so that, to the eyes and fancies of the



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affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial vapours were as the bodily forms of gigantic foes,—the agents of terror and of death. /

The ashes in many places were already knee-deep; and the boiling showers which came from the steaming breath of the volcano forced their way into the houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating vapour. In some places immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, bore down along the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt,—the footing seemed to slide and creep,— nor could chariot or litter be kept steady even on the most level ground. T

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other

as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks

of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their

reach; and along the plains beyond the city the darkness

was now terribly relieved, for several houses and even

vineyards had been set in flames, and at various intervals

the fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid gloom.

To add to this partial relief of the darkness, the citizens

had, here and there, in the more public places, such as the

porticoes of the temples and the entrances to the forum,

endeavoured to place rows of torches; but these rarely

continued long; the showers and the winds extinguished

them.    „

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Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties of fugitives*encountered each other, some hurrying toward the sea, others flying from the sea back to the land. Wild—haggard—ghastly with supernatural fears, these groups encountered each other, but without the leisure to speak, to consult, to advise. Nothing in all the various and complicated machinery of social life was left save'the. primal law of self-preservation.    .






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Through this awful scene did Glaucus wend his way, accompanied by lone and the blind girl. Suddenly a rush of hundreds, in their path to the sea, swept by them. Nydia was torn from the side of Glaucus, who with lone was borne rapidly onward; and when the crowd (whose forms they saw not, so thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia was still separated from their side. Glaucus shouted her name. No answer cam^/' They retraced their steps,—in vain: they could not discover her,—it was pyidpm she had been swept along by the human current. Their friend, their preserver, was lost! And hitherto Nvdia had been their guide. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her alone. Accustomed, through a perpetual night, to tread the windings of the city, she had led them unerringly toward the seashore, by which they had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way could they wend ? All was rayless to them—a maze without a clue.

Advancing, as men grope for escape in a dungeon, they continued their uncertain way. At the moments when the volcanic lightnings lingered over the streets, they were enabled, by that awful light, to steer and guide their progress; yet little did the view it presented to them cheer or encourage their path. In parts where the ashes lay dry and uncommixed with the boiling torrents cast upward from the mountain at capricious intervals, the surface of the earth presented a ghastly white. In other places cinder and rock lay matted in heaps. And ever as the winds swept howling along the street, they bore sharp streams of burning dust, and such sickening and poisonous vapours as took away, for the instant, breath and consciousness.

Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from Glaucus and lone, had in vain endeavoured to regain them. In vain she raised that plaintive cry so peculiar to the blind; it was lost amidst a thousand shrieks of more selfish terror. Again and again she returned to the spot where they had

been divided, to be dashed aside in the impatience of distraction. Who in that hour spared one thought to his neighbour? At length it occurred to Nydia, that as it had been resolved to seek the seashore for escape, her most probable chance of rejoining her companions would be to persevere in that direction. Guiding her steps, then, by the staff which she always carried, she continued with incredible dexterity,- to avoid the masses of ruin that encumbered the path and to take the nearest direction to the seaside.

The sudden illumination, the bursts of the flood of lava, and the earthquake, which we have already described, chanced when she had just gained the direct path leading from the city to the port; and here she was arrested by an immense crowd, more than half the population of the city. They spread along the fields without the walls, thousands upon thousands, uncertain whither to fly. The sea had retired far from the shore; and they who had fled to it had been so terrified by the agitation and preternatural shrinking of the element, the gasping forms of the uncouth sea-things which the waves had left upon the sand, and by the sound of the huge stones cast from the mountain into the deep, that they had returned again to the land, as presenting the less frightful aspect of the two. Thus the two streams of human beings, the one seaward, the other from the sea, had met together, feeling a sad comfort in numbers, arrested in despair and doubt.

And now new fugitives arrived, from one of whom Nydia learned that Glaucus was still in the forum. Silently she glided through those behind her and retraced her steps to the city. She gained the forum—the arch; she stooped down—she felt around—she called on the name of Glaucus.

A weak voice answered, “Who calls on me?”

“Arise, follow me! Take my hand! Glaucus. thou shah be saved!”



In wonder and sudden hope Glaucus arose—“ Nydia still? Ah! thou, then, art safe!”

The tender joy of his voice pierced the heart of the poor Thessalian, and she blessed him for his thought of her.

Half leading, half carrying lone, Glaucus followed his guide. After many pauses and incredible perseverance they gained the sea, and joined a group, who, bolder than the rest, resolved to hazard, any peril rather than continue in such a scene. In darkness they put forth to sea; but, as they cleared the land and caught new aspects of the mountain, its channels of molten fire threw a partial redness over the waves. Meanwhile the showers of dust and ashes, still borne aloft, fell into the wave and scattered their snows over the deck. Far and wide, borne by the winds, those showers descended upon the remotest climes, startling even the swarthy African, and whirled along the antique soil of Syria and of Egypt.

Bulwer Lytton.

Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.

What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! and yet to me what is this quintessence of dust?

Hamlet (Shakespeare).

A good book is the precious life blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.


The Ocean.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;

Man marks the earth with ruin—his control Stops with the shore:—upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoflmed, and unknown.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quakf,

And m^uaxchs tremble in their capitals,

The oalxJeviatkans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war—

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,

They melt into thy yeast of waves, which ma*

Alike the Armada’s pride or spoils of Trafalgar. /

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters washed them power while they were free And many a t^rajjt since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage: their decay Has dried up realms to deserts;—not so thou, Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves’ play—■

\Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow— y Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now./

Thou glorious mirror, where the Alnlighty’s form Glasses itself-in tempests; in $11 time,—

Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm,

Iciug the polq. or M the torrid clime

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Dark heaving—boundless, endless, and sublime.

The image of eternity, the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

Lord Byron, from Childe Harold.

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The Eve of Anzac.

On Friday, the 23rd of April, the weather cleared so that the work could be begun. In fine weather in Mudros a haze of beauty comes upon the hills and water till their Loveliness is unearthly, it is so rare. Then the bay is like a blue jewel, and the hills lose their savagery, and glow, and are gentle, and the sun comes up from Troy, and the peaks of Samothrace change colour, and all the marvellous ships in the harbour are transfigured.

The land of Lemnos was Beautiful with flowers at that season, in the brief zEgean spring, and to seawards always, in the bay, were the ships, more ships, perhaps, than any port of modern times has known; they seemed like half the ships of the world. In this crowd of shipping strange beautiful Greek vessels passed, under rigs of old time, with sheep and goats and fish for sale, and the tugs of the Thames and Mersey met again the ships they had towed of old, bearing a new freight, of human courage. The transports (all painted black) lay in tiers., well within the -harbour, the men-of-war nearer Mudros and the entrance. Now in all that city of ships, so busy with passing picket-boats, and noisy with the labour of men, the getting of the anchors began. Ship after ship, crammed with soldiers, moved slowly out of harbour in the lovely day, and felt again the heave of the sea. No such gathering of fine ships


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has- ever been seen noon this earth, and the beauty and the exultation of the youth upon them made them like sacred things as they moved away. v.

All the thousands of men aboard them gathered on deck to see, till each rail was thronged. These men had come from all parts of the British world, from Africa, Australia, Canada, India, the Mother Country, New Zealand, and remote islands in the sea. They had said good-bye to home that they might offer their lives in the cause we stand for.

In a few hours at most, as they well knew, perhaps a tenth of them would have looked their last on the sun, and be a part of foreign earth or dumb things that the tides push. Many of them would have disappeared for ever from the knowledge of man, blotted from the book of life none would know how—by a fall or chance shot in the darkness, in the blast of a shell, or alone, like a hurt beast, in some scrub or gully, far from comrades and the English speech and the English singing. And perhaps a third of them would be mangled, blinded or broken, lamed, made imbecile or disfigured, with the colour and the taste of life taken from them, so that they would never more move with comrades nor „exult in the sun. And those not taken thus would be under the ground, sweating in the trench, carrying sandbags up the sap, dodging death and danger, without rest or food or drink, in the blazing sun or the frost of the Gallipoli night, till death seemed relaxation and a wound a luxury.

But as they moved out, these things were but the end they asked, the reward they had come for, the unseen cross upon the breast. All that they felt was a gladness of exultation that their young courage was to be used. They went like kings in a; pageant to the imminent death. As they passed from moorings to the man-of-war anchorage on their way to the sea, their feeling that they had done

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with life and were going out to something new welled up in those batallions; they cheered and cheered till the harbour rang with cheering. As each ship crammed with soldiers drew near the battleships, the men swung their caps and cheered again, and the sailors answered, and the noise of cheering swelled, and the men in the ships not yet moving joined in, and the men ashore, till all the life in the harbour was giving thanks that it could go to death rejoicing. All was beautiful in that gladness of men about to die, but the most moving thing was the greatness of their generous hearts. As they passed the French ships, the memory of old quarrels healed, and the sense of what sacred France has done and endured in this great war, and the pride of having such men as the French for comrades, rose up in their warm souls, and they cheered the French ships more, even, than their own.

They had left the harbour very, very slowly; this tumult of cheering lasted a long time; no one who heard it will ever forget it, or think of it unshaken. It broke the hearts of all there with pity and pride: it went beyond the guard of the English heart. Presently all were out, and the fleet stood across for Tenedos, and the sun went down with marvellous colour, lighting island after island and the Asian peaks, and those left behind in Mudros trimmed their lamps knowing that they had been for a little brought near to the heart of things.

From Gallipoli, by John Masefield.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;

There is a rapture on the lonely shore;

There is a society where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar;

I love not man the less, but nature more.


The Saxon and the Gael.

[The King of Scotland, James V., while hunting in the Highlands outstripped his comrades and lost his way among the hills. He met Ellen Douglas—the “ Lady of the Lake,” to whom he represented himself as the Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James. He was now in the territory of a Highland^chieftain, Roder:;k Dhu, who had been outlawed by the King. Fitz-James was conducted on his way by the clansman—Red Murdoch, who treacherously shot an arrow at him. The arrow missed the knight, but killed a half-crazed woman. Blanche of Devan. Fitz-James pursued him. He slew Murdoch and returned to tend the dying woman. He found on her breast a braid of her bridegroom’s hair. Twining this with a lock of her own, he dipt it in her blood, and placed it in his bonnet. Wandering onwards alone, now cautiously and watchfully, cold, tired, and hungry, he came, when darkness had set in, to a huge rock. Here, by the side of a watch-fire lay Roderick Dhu, whoJAhallenged Fitz-James. In the conversation that followed, Fitz-James, not knowing to whom he was speaking, declared his enmity to Roderick Dhu and his wish to fight him. The chief treated the knigh^'hospitably, and after supper they slept side by side wrapiped in the same cloak. In the morning Roderick Dhu guided Fitz-James to Coilantogle ford, at the eastern end of Lake Vennachar, a place beyond the chief’s district.]

The Chief in silence strode before,

And reached that torrent’s sounding shore,

Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,

From Vennachar in silver breaks,

Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines On Bochastle the mouldering lines,

Where Rome, the empress of the world,

Of yore her eagle-wings unfurled.

And here his course the Chieftain stayed,

Threw down his target and his plaid,

And to the Lowland warrior said:

“Bold Saxon! to his promise just,

Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.

^This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,

This head of a rebellious clan,

Hath led thee safe through watch and ward.

Far past Clan-Alpine’s outmost guard.

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Now, man to man, and ¿teel to steel,

A Chieftain’s vengeance! thou shall feel!

See here, all vantageless I stand,

Armed, like thyself, with single brand:

For this is Coilantogle ford,

And thou must keep thee with thy sword.”

The Saxon paused:—“ I ne’er delayed,

When foeman bade me draw my blade;

Nay, more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death ;

Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,

And my deep debt for life preserved,

A better meed have well deserved:

Can naught but blood our feud atone?

Are there no means—?” “No, Stranger, none! And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,—

The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;

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His party conquers in the strife.’ ”—

“ Then, by my word,” the Saxon said,

The riddle is already read.

Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,— There lies Red Murdoctp stark and stiff. Thus Fate has solved Jier prophecy: wn Then yield to Fate, and not to me. /

To James, at Stirling, let us go;

When, if thou wilt be still his foe,

Or if the King shall not agree To grant thee grace and favour free,

I plight mine honour, oath, and word, That, to thy native strengths restored, With each advantage shalt thou stand That aids thee now to guard thy land.”—

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick’s eye—■ “ Soars thy presumption, then, so high,

Because a wretched kern ye slew,

Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?

He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!

Thou add’st but fuel to my hate:—

My clansman’s blood demands revenge.—-Not yet prepared! Nay, then, I change My thought, and hold thy valour light As that of some vain carpet knight,

Who ill deserved my courteous care,

And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady’s hair.”—

“ I thank thee, Roderick, for the word !

It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;

For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein.

Now,- truce farewell! and ruth begone!—-Yet think not that by thee alone,

Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;

Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle clansmen stern,

Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast.

But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt—-We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.”

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Then each at once his falchion drew;

Each on the ground his scabbard threw;

Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,

As what he ne’er might see again;—

Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,

In dubious strife they darkly closed.—-111 fared it then with Roderick Dhu    v

That on the field his targe, he threw,

Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside;

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For, trained abroad his arms to wield, Fitz-James’s blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward,

To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;

While, less expert, though stronger far,

The Gael maintained unequal war.

Three times in closing strife they stood. And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; No stinted draught, no scanty tide—

The gushing flood the tartans dyed.

Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,

And showered his blows like wintry rain; And as firm rock, or castle-roof,

Against the winter shower is proof,

The foe, invulnerable still,

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;

Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick’s weapon from his hand, And backward borne upon the lea,

Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee!—■

“ Now yield thee, or by vows oft made Thy very heart’s blood dyes my blade!’ —-“ Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!

Let recreant yield, who fears to die.”— Like adder darting from his coil,

Like wolf that dashes through the toil,

Like mountain-cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz-James’s throat he sprung; Received, but recked not of a wound,

And locked his arms his foeman round !— Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!

No maiden's hand is round thee thrown! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel Through bars of brass and triple steel!— They tug, they strain!—down, down they go The Gael above, Fitz-James below 1



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The Chieftain’s gripe his throat compressed,

His knee was planted on his breast;

His clotted locks he backward threw,

Across his brow his hand he drew,

From blood and mist to clear his sight,

Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!—•

But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life’s exhausted tide,

And all too late the advantage came To turn the odds of deadly game;.

For, while the dagger gleamed on high,

Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye.

Down came the blow, but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath!

The struggling foe may now unclasp The fainting Chief’s relaxing grasp;—■

Unwounded from the dreadful close,

But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

From The Lady of the Lake, by Sir Walter Scott.

The author has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. . . . Fie would fain set it down forever; engrave it on a rock, if he could: saying, “ This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved and hated, like another; my life was as the vapour, and is not; but this I saw and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.” That is his “ writing ”; it is, in his small human way, and with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, his inscription, or scripture. That is a “Book.”


Making a Newspaper.

Every morning sees two miracles—the rising sun and the daily newspaper. Both are accepted as matters of course. One is the doing of nature, and reveals anew to our careless eyes the streets or the fields amid which our daily lot is cast; the other is the work of man, and displays on a few printed pages the most notable things that have been said and done within the previous twenty-four hours, the world over.

Few readers stop to consider, as they open their daily paper, how much thought, skill, and labour have gone to its making. The modern newspaper is the result of two hundred years of practice and experiment, which it would need a whole volume to describe. Here it will be enough if we say a little, a very little, of what goes on from day to day in the newspaper world.

In every corner of the globe—in great cities, on lonely frontiers, among savage people, on solitary islands, on mountain tops—men are stationed whose duty is to wire to London the news of the day. Under every ocean the cables are throbbing with news of things great and little: the deaths of kings, the price of apples, fires, earthquakes, cricket, speeches. Especially during the night, when the wires are free from other business, this strange medley of information flickers over the dreaming world.

Nearer home the newspaper man is everywhere, ferreting out news. Armed with his notebook, he is to be seen wherever things are happening. A great statesman is speaking, and you find the reporters close up to the platform, taking down the speech in shorthand so that it may be published next morning for all the world to read. If in the crowded hall the reporters are not to be seen, perhaps they are miles away in some comfortable room, busy with their pencils, as they listen to the speech over the telephone!

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Every newspaper likes to be ahead of its rivals; and endless stories are told of the tricks of the journalist. One of the problems of the reporter is how to get his message through before that of his rival. When King Edward, as a young man, was visiting the United States, the American papers vied with one another in describing every detail of the royal tour. One smart reporter, to keep the way clear for his message when ready, engaged the wire hours beforehand, and kept it busy meanwhile by telegraphing to his office long chapters out of the Bible.

The reporter with his notebook has now a new rival, the man with the camera. No longer is the public content to read the news of the day; it must have pictures, too. And so ahNthe critical point of every ceremony you may hear the click of the camera, and next morning a snapshot appears in the papers.

The camera man will risk his life for a good photograph ; and woe betide him if he arrive too late! A photograph more than twenty-four hours old is waste paper; for to a journalist the day before yesterday is ancient history.    ✓

Within the office itself the same speed prevails. Before one day’s paper is out, the next is well in hand. The same care must be given to every part of the newspaper. The advertisements, to which most readers give only a hurried glance, are the mainstay of a newspaper, for without them it could not pay its way. The interests of every class of reader must be kept in mind, so that no one may throw down the paper with the weary verdict— No news!    Politics, finance, trade, art, sport, fashion,

literature, and a score of other subjects must be discussed. Space must be kept for all; and then perhaps at the last moment, when everything is in order, some important news comes in and the whole is upset!

The machinery by which a newspaper is produced is among the marvels of human skill. Formerly, every letter of every word was a piece of type, and the word had to be set up by hand; but now a machine is used, and much time


saved. The operator plays upon a keyboard like that of a typewriter, the ting of a bell telling him when a line is full; and then by touching a lever he pours molten metal into a little mould, and in a moment his line of type is cast in one piece. The lines are set in columns, and these in turn are made up into pages of newspaper size.

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A soft mould is then made of the page of type, and from this, when it has hardened, a cast is taken. Instead of a page of type, fitted together like a puzzle out of perhaps i,800 separate lines, you have now a single metal plate, curved and ready for fitting on to the cylinder of a printing machine. Six plates of the same page can be made in one minute, and so several machines can be printing the same matter at once.


Down below in the basement the huge printing presses are soon purring. From floor to ceiling these monsters seem to fill all the space. Peer into their depths, and you will see everywhere whirling rollers and cylinders, and, threading its way among them, an endless web of paper. One of these wonderful machines can print off 120,000 copies of a twelve-page newspaper in an hour, and deliver them cut, folded, and done up in bundles.

The paper deserves a chapter to itself. One of our great dailies uses every morning from fifty to sixty miles of double-width paper. As the paper is made from wood pulp, you may guess what it means to maintain this supply of paper! For one clay’s issue of a great newspaper, acres of forest land must be laid bare. And so as mile after mile of paper is fed into the hungry printing press, far away across the ocean the monarchs of the forest come crashing to the ground.

Outside in the street, meanwhile, carts and motor-cars are standing ready to carry the bundles of papers to every part of the city; while at the station the train is waiting with steam up to carry them to other towns. In a few minutes the newsboys with their bundles are shouting at the street corners, and you can buy for a copper the news of the day, which it has cost so much skill and labour to bring together.

Hugh Laurence.


There is a glorious city in the sea:

The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,

Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed Clings to the marble of her palaces!

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,

Lead to her gates: the path lies o’er the sea, Invisible; and from the land we went As to a floating city,—steering in And gliding up her streets as in a dream,

So smoothly—silently—by many a dome, . Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,.

The statues ranged along an azure sky,—

By many a pile in more than Eastern pride,

Of old the residenceAof merchant-kings;

The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them, Still glowing with the richest hues of art,

As though the wealth within them had run o er.


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The Escape from the Tower.

[The Cloister and the Hearth is regarded as one of the finest historical novels in,the English language. It is a story of life and adventure In the fifteenth century. A young man, Gerard, the son of a tailor at Tergou, a town in Holland, is in love with Margaret, a maiden living at the neighbouring town of Sevenbergen. Gerard’s parents were opposed to the mar page, and the burgomaster, who also wished To prevent it, had Gerard imprisoned in the highest room in the tower of the Stadthouse, ioo feet above the ground. Martin Wittenhaagen, an archer, and the friend of Margaret, assisted him to escape.]

As the sun declined, Gerard’s heart, too, sank and sank; with the waning light even the embers of hope went out. He was faint, too, with hunger; for he was afraid to eat the food Ghysbrecht had brought him; and hunger alone cows men. He sat upon the chest, his arms and his head drooping before him, a picture of despondency. Suddenly something struck the wall beyond him very sharply, and then rattled on the floor at his feet. It was an arrow; he saw the white feather. A chill ran through him—they meant then to assassinate him from the outside. He crouched. No more missiles came. He crawled on all fours and took up the arrow; there was no head to it. He uttered a cry of hope: had a friendly hand shot it? He took it up, and felt it all over: he found a soft substance attached to it. Then one of his eccentricities was of grand use to him. His tinder-box enabled him to strike a light: it showed him two things that made his heart bound with delight, none the less thrilling for being somewhat vague. Attached to the arrow was a skein of silk, and on the arrow itself were words written.

How his eyes devoured them, his heart panting the while!

“ Well beloved, make fast the silk to thy knife and lower it to us: but hold thine end fast: then count an hundred and draw up.”

Gerard seized the oak chest, and with almost superhuman energy dragged it to the window: a moment ago he could not have moved it. Standing on the chest and looking

down, he saw figures at the tower foot. They were so indistinct, they looked like one huge form. He waved his bonnet to them with trembling hand: then he undid the silk rapidly but carefully, and made one end fast to his knife and lowered it till it ceased to draw. Then he counted a hundred. Then pulled the silk carefully up; it came up a little heavier. At last he came to a large knot, and by that knot a stout whipcord was attached to the silk. What could this mean? While he was puzzling himself Margaret’s voice came up to him, low but clear: “Draw up, Gerard, till you see liberty.’/ At the word Gerard drew the whipcord line up, and drew and drew until he came to another knot, and found a cord of some thickness take the place of the whipcord. He had no sooner begun to draw this up, than he found he had now a heavy weight to deal with. Then the truth suddenly flashed on him, and he went to work and pulled and pulled till the perspiration^ rolled down him; the weight got heavier and heavier, and at last he was well-nigh exhausted; looking down he saw in the moonlight a sight that revived him; it was as it were a great snake coming up to him out of the deep shadow cast by the tower. He gave a shout of joy, and a score more wild pulls, and lo! a stout new rope touched his hand; he hauled and hauled, and dragged the end into his prison, and instantly passed it through both handles of the chest in succession, and knotted it firmly; then sat for a moment to recover his breath and collect his courage. The first thing was to make sure that the chest was sound, and capable of resisting his weight poised in mid-air. He jumped with all his force upon it. At the third jump the whole side burst open, and out scuttled the contents, a host of parchments.

After the first start and misgiving this gave him, Gerard comprehended that the chest had not burst, but opened; he had doubtless jumped upon some secret spring. Still it shook in some degree his confidence in the chest s


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power of resistance; so he gave it an ally; he took the iron bar and fastened it with the small rope across the large rope, and across the window. He now mounted the chest, and from the chest put his foot through the window, and' sat half in and half out, with one hand on that part of the rope which was inside. In the silent night he heard his own heart beat. ^    ,

The free air breathed on his face, and gave him the courage to risk what we must all lose one day—for liberty. Many dangers awaited him, but the greatest was the first getting on to the rope outside. Gerard reflected. Finally, he put himself in the attitude of a swimmer, his body to the waist being in the prison, his legs outside. Then holding the inside rope with both hands, he felt anxiously with his feet for the outside rope, and when he had got it, he worked it in between the palms of his feet and kept it there tight; then he uttered a short prayer, and, all the calmer for it, put his left hand on the sill and gradually wriggled out. Then he seized the iron bar, and for one fearful moment hung outside from it by his right hand, while his left hand felt for the rope down at his knees; it was too tight against the wall for his fingers to get round it higher up. The moment he had fairly grasped it, he left the bar, and swiftly seized the rope with the right hand too; but in this manoeuvre his body necessarily fell about a yard. A stifled cry came up from below. Gerard hung in mid-air. He clenched his teeth, and nipped the rope tight with his feet and gripped it with his hands, and went down slowly hand below hand. He passed by one huge rough stone after another. He saw there was green moss on one. He looked up and he looked down. The moon shone into his prison window; it seemed very near. The fluttering figures below seemed an awful distance. It made him dizzy to look down; so he fixed his eyes steadily on the wall close to him, and went slowly down, down, down.

He passed a rusty, slimy streak on the wall; it was some ten feet long. The rope made his hands very hot. He stole another look up.

The prison window was a good way off now.


The rope made his hands sore.

He looked up. The window was so distant, he ventured now to turn his eyes downward again; and there, not more than thirty feet below him, were Margaret and Martin, their faithful hands upstretched to catch him should he fall. He could see their eyes and their teeth shine in the moonlight. For their mouths were open, and they were breathing hard.

“ Take care, Gerard ! oh, take care! Look not down.”

“ Fear me not,” cried Gerard joyfully, and eyed the wall, but came down faster.

In another minute his feet were at their hands. They seized him ere he touched the ground, and all three clung together in one embrace.

Charles Reade, The Cloister and the Hearth.

Ariel’s Song.

Where the bee sucks there suck I:

In a cowslip’s bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry:

On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

The Tempest (Shakespeare).

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The Fall of Wolsey.

Wolsey. Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, ,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;

And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening,-*—nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladder^,

This many summers in a sea of glory;

But far beyond my depth^Any high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me,

Weary, and old with service, to the mercypW Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched*/"'

Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours.

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have ;

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.—-    [Enter Cromiuell, amazedly.

Croni. How does your grace?

Wol.    Why, well;

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities,

A still and quiet conscience The king has cured me.

I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders—• These ruined pilla^s^—out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy—too much honour.

O, ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden,

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of Wol. I hope I have; I am able now, methinks (Out of a fortitude of soul I feel),

To endure more miseries and greater far,

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell,

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seek the king;

That sun I pray may never set! I have told him What and how true thou art: he will advance thee. Some little memory of me will stir him (I know his noble nature) not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, Neglect him not; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety.

Crom.    O, my Lord,

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego So good, so noble, and so true a master?

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,

With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.

The king shall have my service; but my prayers,

For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

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

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say I taught thee;

Say, Wolsey,—'that once trod the ways of glory,

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,— Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;

A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.

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“ O father abbot,

An old man, broken zvith the storms of state,

Is come to lay his weary bones among ye.”

Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.—-

I Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;

By that sin fell the angels, how can man then,

The image of his Maker, hope to win by ’ t ?

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

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not:

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

Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;

And,—pr’ythee, lead me in.

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny: ’tis the king’s my robe,

And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O, Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in my age Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Henry VIII.—Shakespeare (1564-1616).

The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight,

But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night.


The avaricious man is like the barren, sandy ground of the desert, which sucks in all the rain and dews with greediness, but yields no fruitful herbs or plants for the benefit of others.

Revenge, at first though sweet,

Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.


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Landing of the Australians at Gallipoli.


The story of the heroic but awful landing of the Anzacs on the shelterless shores at Gaba Tepe can never grow old. On each anniversary. 25th April, we are called upon solemnly to remember the terrific ordeal through which our newly-trained Australian forces passed, the indescribable </ sufferings which they endured, and to sympathize with those whose hearts and homes were suddenly darkened by the sacrifice of those who fell. And let us honour those who, still remaining, bear the laurels and the scars of victory.

Read the stirring story as it was told by John Masefield, in his famous book “ Gallipoli ” :—

“No army in history ever made a more heroic attack; no army in history was ever set such a task. No other body of men had ever been called upon to land over mined and wired waters under the crossfire of machine guns.....

“The men s£l££±£d for the landing; were the 3rd Brigade of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, followed and Supported by ¿h&jrist and 2nd Brigades. The^place selected for the landing was the southern beach, the nearer of the two to Gaba Tepe. This, like the other landing-places near Cape Helles, was strongly defended, and most difficult of approach. Large forces of Turks were entrenched there, well prepared. But in the darkness of the early morning-after the moon had set, the tows stood a little farther to the north than they should have done. They headed in towards the northern beach between the two little headlands, where the Turks were not expecting them. However, they were soon seen, and very heavy ^dependent rifle fire wasyConLenimfied on them.

“ As they neared the beach, ‘ about one battalion of Turks ’ doubled along the land to/fntercept them. These men came from nearer Gaba Tepe, firing, as they ran, into

the mass of the boats at short range. A great many men were killed in the boats, but the dead men's oars were taken by survivors, and the boats forced into the shingle. The men jumped out, waded ashore, charged the enemy with the bayonet, and broke the Turk attack to pieces. The Turks scattered and were pursued, and now the steep scrub-covered cliffs became the scene of the most^desperate fighting. ^

“ The scattered Turks dropped into the scrub and disappeared. Hidden all over the rough cliffs, under every kind of cover, they sniped the beach or ambushed the little parties of the 3rd Brigade who had rushed the landing. All over the broken hills there were isolated fights to the death, men falling into gullies and being bayoneted; sudden duels,, point blank, where men crawling through the scrub met each other, and life went to the quicker finger—heroic deaths, where some half-section which had lost touch were caught by ten times their strength and charged and died. No man of our side knew that cracked and fissured jungle. Men broke through it on to machine guns, or showed up on a crest and were blown to pieces, or leaped down from it into some sap or trench, to catch the bombs flung at them and hurl them at the thrower. Going as they did, up cliffs, through scrub over broken ground, they passed many hidden Turks who were thus left to shoot them in the back or to fire down at the boats, from perhaps only fifty yards a^yay.

“It was only just light. Theirs was the first British survey of that wild country; only now, as it showed up clear, could they realize its difficulty. They pressed on up the hill; they dropped and fired and died; they drove the Turks back; they flung their packs away, wormgd through the bush, and stalked the snipers from the flash. As they $vent, the words of their song supported them, the proud "chorus of ‘ Australia will be there/

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(The first' Turkish trench taken on 25th April was on the knoll at the north end of the beach.)


“ Presently, as it grew lighter, the Turks’ big howitzers began shelling the beach, and their field guns, well hidden, opened on the transports, now busy disembarking the ist and 2nd Brigades. They forced the transports to stand farther out to sea, and shelled the tows as they came in, with shrapnel and high explosive. As the boats drew near the shore, every gun on Gaba Tepe took them in flank, and the snipers concentrated on them from the shore.

“ More and more Turks were coming up at the double to stop the attack up the hill. The fighting in the scrub grew fiercer; shells burst continually upon the beach, boats were sunk, men were killed in the water. The boatmen and beach working-parties were the unsung heroes of that landing. The boatmen came in with the tows under fire, waited with them under intense jmfl concentrated fire of every kind until they were unloaded, and then shoved off, and put slowly back for more, and then came back again.

“ The beach parties were wading to and from that shell-smitten beach all day, unloading, carrying ashore, and sorting the(/nunitions and necessaries for many thousands of men. They worked in a strip of beach and sea some five hundred yards long by forty broad, and the fire directed on that strip was such that every box brought ashore had one or more shells and not less than fifty bullets directed at it before it was flung upon the sand.

“ More men came in and went on up the hill in support; but as yet there were no guns ashore, and the Turks’ fire became intenser. By ten o’clock the Turks had had time to bring up enough men from their prepared positions to hold up the advance. Scattered parties of our men who had gone too far in the scrub were cut off and killed, for there was no thought of surrender in those »marvellous young men. They were the flower of this world’s manhood, and died as they had lived, owning no master on this earth.


“ More and more Turks came up with big and field artillery, and now our attack had to hold on to what it had won, against more than twice its numbers. We had won a rough bow of ground, in which the beach represented the bowstring, the beach near Gaba Tepe the south end, and the hovel known as Fisherman’s Hut the north. Against this position, held by at most 8,000 of our men, who had had no rest and had fought hard since dawn under every kind of fire in a savage rough country unknown to them, came an overwhelming army of Turks to drive them into the sea.

“ For four hours the Turks attacked and again attacked, with a terrific fire of artillery and waves of men in^uccession. They came fresh from •Superior positions, with many guns, to break a disorganized line of breathless men not yet dug in. The guns of the ships opened on them, and the scattered units in the scrub rolled them back again and again by rifle and machine-gun fire, and by charge after counter-charge.

“ More of the Army Corps landed to meet the Turks, the fire upon the beach never slackened, and they came ashore across" corpses and wrecked boats and a path like a road in hell with ruin and blasts and burning. They went up the cliff to their fellows under an ever-growing fire that lit the scrub and burned the wounded and the dead.

“ Darkness came, but there was no rest nor lull. Wave after wave of Turks came out of the night, crying the proclamation of tlieit^faith: others stole up in the dark through the scrub and shot or stabbed and crept back, or were seen and stalked and killed. Flares went up, to light with their blue and ghastly glare the wild glens peopled by the enemy. Men worked at the digging in till they dropped asleep upon the soil, and as more Turks charged, they woke and fired and again dug.

“ It was cruelly cold after the sun had gone, but there was no chance of warmth or proper food; to dig in and beat back the Turk or die were all that our men could think

of. In the darkness, among the blasts of the shells, men scrambled up and down the pathless cliffs bringing up tins of water and boxes of cartridges, hauling up guns and shells, and bringing down the wounded. The beach was heaped with wounded, placed as close under the cliff as might be, in such yard or so of dead ground as the cliffs gave.

“ The doctors worked among them and shells fell among them, and doctors and wounded were blown to pieces, and the survivors still sang their song of ‘ Australia will be there,’ and cheered the newcomers still landing on the beach. Sometimes our fire seemed to cease, and then the Turk shells filled the night with their scream and blast and the pattering of their 'fragments. With all the fury and the crying of the shells, and the shouts and cries and cursing on the beach, the rattle of the small arms and the cheers and defiance up the hill, and the roar of the great guns far away, at sea, or in the olive-groves, the night seemed in travail of a new age.”

Such was the morning and the evening of the First Landing of the Anzacs.

To the Fallen.

They went with songsffo tlr|_ battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, stead# ami agldw, They were .‘ffannc.h to the end against odds uncounted. They fell with their faces to the foe. '

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, ' We will remember them.


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They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

'They have no lot in our labour of the daytime f) . They sleep beyond the foam. r .


But where our desires are and our hopes profound.-(J-Tlt as a well-spring that is hidden from sighty To the innermost heart of their land, they are known As the stars are known to the night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, o the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Binyon.

The Founding of New England.

On a sunny morning in July, 1620, the Pilgrims kneel upon the seashore, while the pastor prays for the success of their journey. Out upon the gleaming sea,' a little ship lies waiting. Money has not been found to transplant the whole colony, and scarcely one hundred have been sent. The remainder will follow when they can. These hundred depart amid tears and prayers and fond farewells. The pastor dismissed them with counsels which breathed a pure and high-toned wisdom, urging them to keep their minds ever open for the recepti^p of new truths.

Their little ship, the Speedwell, brought them to Southampton, where they found the Mayflower (a ship hired for the voyage) and a small band of Pilgrims from London. At Plymouth, the Speedzvell was pronounced unseaworthy and was abandoned; and the Mayflower, crowded with the whole party (one hundred and two souls), set sail alone.

The Mayflozver was a ship of one hundred and sixty tons. The, weather proved stormy and cold; the voyage, unexpectedly ^long. It was the middle of September when they sailed. It was not till the nth of November that the Mayflozver dropped her anchor in the waters of Cape Cod Bay. A bleak-looking and discouraging coast lay before them. Nothing met the eye but low sand-hills covered with ill-grown wood down to the margin of the sea. The Pilgrims had now to choose a place for their settlement. About this they hesitated so long that the captain threatened to put them all on shore and leave them.

Little jex^editiog^ were sent to explore. At first, no suitable locality cc/uld be found. The men had great hardships to endure. The cold was so excessive that the spray froze upon their clothes, and they resembled men cased

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' a spot was fixed upon.

in armour. At length.

The soil

appeared to be good, and abounded in “ delicate springs -of water. On the 23rd of December, the Pilgrims landed—• stepping^ashore upon^ huge boulder of granite, which is still rrvtM-entdff presetted by their ddsc.cndants*. Tlere they resolved to found their settlement, which they agreed to call New Plymouth.

The winter was severe, and the infant colony was brought very near to extinction. They had been badly fed on board the Mayflower, and for some time after going on shore, there was very imperfect shelter from the weather. Sickness fell heavily on the worn-out Pilgrims. Every second day, a grave had to be dug in the frozen ground By the time spring came in, there were only fifty survivors, and these were sadly enfeebled and dispirited.

But, all through this dismal winter, the Pilgrims laboured at their heavy task. The care of the sick, the burying of the dead, sadly hindered their work. But the building of the little town went on. They found that nineteen houses would contain their diminished numbers. These they built. Then they surrounded them with a palisade.

Upon an eminence beside their town, they erected a structure which served a double purpose. Above, it was a fort, on which they mounted six cannons; below, it was their church. Hitherto the Indians had been a cause of anxiety, but had done them no harm; now they felt safe. Indeed there had never been much risk. A recent epidemic had swept off nine-tenths of the Indians who inhabited that region, and the discouraged survivors could ill afford to incur the hostility of their formidable visitors.

The Pilgrims had been careful to provide for themselves a government. They had drawn up and signed, in the cabin of the Mayflower, a document forming themselves into a body politic., and promising Obedience to all laws


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framed for the general good. Under the constitution, they appointed John Carver to be their governor. They dutifully acknowledged King James, but they left no very large place for his authority. They were essentially a self-governing people. They knew what despotism was, and they were very sure that democracy could, by no possibility, be so bad.

The welcome spring came at length, and “the birds sang in the woods most pleasantly.” The health of the colony began somewhat to improve; but there was still much suffering to endure. The summer passed not unprosperously. They had taken possession of the deserted clearings of the Indians, and had no difficulty in providing themselves with food. In the autumn came a ship with a new company of Pilgrims. This was very encouraging; but, unhappily, the ship brought no provisions, and the supplies of the colonists were not sufficient for this unexpected addition. For six months, there was only half-allowance to each.

Such straits recurred frequently during the first two or three yeajg. The colonists suffered much, but their cheerful trust in Providence and in their own final triumph never wavered. Slowly, but surely, the little settlement struck its roots and began to grow.

Robert Shelton Mackenzie.

Sweet are the thoughts that savour (^^ntentT~* * The cjuiet mind is richer than a crown;

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;

The poor estate scorns Fortune’s angry frown.

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

Robert Greene.

September in Australia.

Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest,

And, behold, for repayment,

September comes in with the wind of the West And the Spring in her raiment!

The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers, While the forest discovers

Wild wings, with the hqjtg of hyaline hours,

And the music of lovers.

September, the maid with the swift silver feet!

She glides, and she graces

The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat,

With her blossomy traces;

Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose, She lightens and lingers

In spots where the harp of the evening glows,

Attuned by her fingers.

The stream of its home in the hollow hill slips In a darling old fashion;

And the day goeth down with a song on its lips Whose key-note is passion;

Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea I stand, and remember

Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee, Resplendent September.

The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon And beats on the beaches, lied with a tender and tremulous tune That touches and teaches; stories of Youth, of the burden of Time,

And the death of devotion,

le back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme In the waves of the ocean.


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We, having a secret to others unknown,

In the cool mountain-mosses,

May whisper together, September, alone Of our loves and our losses.

One word for her beauty, and one for the grace She gave to the hours;

And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face To sleep with the flowers.

High places that knew of the gold and the white On the forehead of Morning,

Now darken and quake, and the steps of the Night Are heavy with warning.

Her voice in the distance is lofty and loud Through the echoing gorges;

She hath hidden her eyes in a mountain of cloud,

And her feet in the surges.

On the top of the hills, on the turreted cones—-Chief temples^ of thunder—

The gale, like a ghost, in the middle watch moans, Gliding over and under.

The sea, flying white through the rack and the rain, Leapeth wild at the forelands ;

And the plover, whose cry is like passion with pain, Complains in the moorlands.

Oh, season of changes—shadows and shine— September the splendid!

My song hath no music to mingle with thine,

And its burden is ended;

But thou, being born of the winds and the sun,

By mountain, by river,

May’st lighten and listen, and loiter and run,

With thy voices for everl

Henry Kendall.

Radium, the Magic Metal.

Radium is a white powder that looks like table salt. Radium is very costly because it is so scarce. A mere pinch of it is worth a small fortune. There are only a few spoonfuls in all the world.

But radium is so powerful that too much of it would be dangerous. If a pound or two could be gathered at one spot it would kill people who came near. You might approach and even handle the powder without feeling any pain, but in a week or two your skin would peel off, your eyes would become blind, and death would soon follow.

Even the tiny quantities that we possess have caused harm to those who have experimented with them. One man carried^ his waistcoat pocket a small tube of it to use in a lecture, and about three weeks afterward the skin under the pocket turned red and began to fall away: a deep and painful sore formed that took weeks to heal. Radium is so scarce, so costly, and so powerful that only men of science dare experiment with it.

When seen in the dark radium glows like living fire.

The marvel pf.it is that while it gives off light and heat continuously, it does not seem to lose any weight.

ionti/iuously, it does not seem to lose any weight. Think of a piece of coal burning day and night for many years, always giving off light and heat but losing no weight that you could measure, and not turning to ashes. A pound of radium will melt nd of jce e^ry hour, and continue to do so almost. jmdefinitely. That is much like the “perpetual motion” that men have longed to discove^ for, centuries. If you could put enough radium in a * you would never again have to feed or clean it.

A certain scientist kept his radium tubes in a pasteboard box for a time. When the box was broken he removed the tubes and threw the box aside. Several days later,


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________ _________ one night Mo turn off. the lights in his


laboratory, he found the .discarded box glowing m the dark. It had a^sorTpecT sdme of the rays of the radium. Nearly

every object that comes in contact w-ith radium becomes “radio-active.”'*“"»?'**    zW/rW~C~’

This means that other substances get some new power from the radium, especially the power to shine or glow in the dark. Wherever darkness is a cause of danger radium may be used to point the way to safety. A kind of radium paint is used on power-line switches where a fumble might cause electrocution. It is also used on watch and clock dial?/ on labels for poison bottles, on keyholes, and on the eyes of children’s dolls.

You may wonder how radium, which is so costly, can be used on a half-guinea watch-dial. The secret is that it is not the radium that is glowing, but the zinc sulphate that has only a tiny trace of radium. A mere pinch as big as a pin head will make the zinc shine on hundreds of thousands of watches.

If you should examine such a dial through a powerful magnifying-glass you would see the tiny explosions of the adorn spyRadium. These atoms explode at the rate of two hundred thousand a second. Thus the radium bombards the zinc till it glows. While the radium will last almost for ever, the zinc wears out after being bombarded for a few years. The better the zinc the longer it will glow.

It is as a cure for disease that radium is most helpfi|k to man. It is used to treat thousands of cases of cancel^ each year. Many cases are cured, and in others the suffering is relieved. It is also used as a cure foi tumours. In nearly every large city there is a hospital that is supplied with a small amount of radium. The surgeon uses only a tiny bit, perhaps the size of a pin head, but even that may cost many hundreds of pounds. .

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How radium was discovered is a fascinating story. In 1896 M. Becquerel, a Frenchman, was making some experiments with certain things that shine or glow without seeming to be hot. They are said to be phosphorescent. Becquerel exposed a metal called pitchblende, an impure uranium oxide, to the sunlight unHl it became phosphorescent, and he then tried its effect on a photographic plate. It was a rainy day, so he put the plate away for several days in a drawer. When he developed the plate he was surprised to find on it a better image than sunlight would have made. Thus, by a sort of accident, he discovered that pitchblende will yield a substance, uranium, that is radioactive.

Two years later Professor Curie and Madame Curie, of Paris, found that some of the pitchblende with which they were experimenting was much more powerful than any uranium that they had used. They began to wonder if there was something in pitchblende more powerful than uranium.

Madame Curie was born in Poland and educated in Warsaw. She chose science as her field of study and went to Paris to complete her training. There she married the French scientist, M. Pierre Curie, and together they began to study radio-active bodies. Finding that some pitchblendes were^much more radio-active than uranium, they wisely concMded' that there must be some other substance in the pitchblende besides uranium, and Madame Curie set to work to find it and separate it from the other ements. the Curies kept boiling down ” the waste rock left at the uranium mines until they found a strange, new element something like uranium, but different, which Madame Curie called polonium, after her native land, Poland.

The Curies did some more “ boiling down,” and finally obtained the entirely new substance “radium,” which is the most radio-active of anything we know about.

To obtain radium is a very difficult and expensive process. In the first place pitchblende, from which we first got radium, is not plentiful. It is found in Norway, Egypt, North Carolina, Colorado, and Utah. It is also obtained in small lumps in veins of gold, silver, and mica. From pitchblende it is easy to get uranium. But to get radium from the refuse left over is a difficult task. Professor Curie says you would have to refine about five thousand tons in order to get about two pounds of radium. Someone has said there is more gold in sea-water than radium in the earth.

In order to obtain one thimbleful of radium the machinery must reduce a trainload of ore. It must go through five thousand different stages which take six months to complete. /

Experiments have been made to find out the effect of radium on mice, guinea-pigs, and other animals. If they are exposed to the light of radium long enough, they all lose their fur, then become blind, and finally die.

The great thing about radium, besides its tremendous power, is that every ounce that is added to what we already have is pure gain, for the metal will last almost for ever. It will continue to give oft light and heat for sixteen hundred years, and even then it will be one-half as powerful as at the start. After a second period of sixteen hundred years we should still have a quarter of the amount we started with. It will go on like this for twenty thousand years, when it will at last change into common lead.

Scientists believe that this mysterious metal will be a key to the unknown in science. Through radium they hope to learn how to change one element into another. It would be interesting and profitable to change metals into gold. But it would be worth more to man to learn how to get all the power from the atoms to do man’s work. If we can only unlock this secret of nature we shall have a new world.

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The investigation of the properties of radium has led to wonderful discoveries about the nature of the atom— discoveries which prove that each individual atom is, as it were, a solar system, rotating round a “pole” or nucleus, and possessed of indestructible vitality. Thence we have learnt that in the realm of natural law there is no such thing as death, but only infinite capacities for change. It is by following this line of research that scientists hope to unlock many of the still-baffling secrets, not only of this world, but of the universe.


By channels of coolness the ec 'floes are calling,

And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;

It lives in the mountain, where moss and the sedges^ ' Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges; Through breaks of the cedeir and sydimore bowers ** Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;

And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,

The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.

The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time, Thev sing in September their songs of the-May-time.

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When shadows strong, and the thunderbolts hurtle, They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle: When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together, They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;

And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.

October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,

LojtersTor love in these cool wildernesses;^

Loiters knee-deep in the grasses to listen,

Where dripping rocks gleam, and the leafy pools glisten.


[Photo, by Hilda Geissinann.

Then is the time when the water-moons splendid Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the morning.

Welcome, as waters unkissed by the summers,

Are the voices of bell-birds to thirsty far-comers When fiery Decertiber sets foot in the forest,

And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest.

Pent in the ridges for ever and ever,

The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,

With ring and with ripple, like runnels whose torrents Are toned by the pebbles and leaves in the curi*ents.

Often I sit, looking back to a childhood Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood, Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of passion; Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters Borrowed from bell-birds in fay forest-rafters:

So I keep in the city and alleys

The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys, Charming to slumber the pain of my losses With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.

Henry Kendall

Without care and method, the largest fortune will not, and with them almost the smallest will, supply all necessary expenses.

There is a tide in the affairs of men Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries.



The Crusader and the Saracen.

As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to fix his eyes attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm-trees, it seemed to him as if some object were moving among them. The distant form separated itself from the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced towards the knight with a speed which soon showed a mounted horseman, whom his turban, long spear, and green caftan floating on the wind, on his nearer approach, showed to be a Saracen cavalier. “In the desert,” saith an Eastern proverb, “ no man meets a friend.” The Crusader was totally indifferent whether the infidel, who now approached on his gallant barb, as if borne on the wings of an eagle, came as friend or foe—perhaps, as a vowed champion of the Cross, he might rather have preferred the latter. He disengaged his lance from his saddle, seized it with the right hand, placed it in rest with its point half elevated, gathered up the reins in the left, waked his horse’s mettle with the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with the calm self-confidence belonging to the victor in many contests.

The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab horseman, managing his steed more by his limbs and the inflection of his body than by any use of the reins, which hung loose in his left hand; so that he was enabled to wield thetlight round buckler of the skin of the rhinoceros, ornamented with silver loops, which he wore on his arm, swinging it as if he meant to oppose its slender circle to the formidable thrust of the Western lance. His own long spear was not couched or levelled like that of his antagonist, but grasped by the middle with his right hand, and brandished at arm’s length above his head. As the cavalier approached his enemy at full career, he seemed to expect that the Knight of the Leopard should put his horse

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to the gallop to encounter bmi../But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the custom? of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his good horse by any unnecessary exertion; and, on the contrary, made a dead halt, confident that, if the enemy advanced to the actual shock, his own weight, and that of his powerful charger, would give him sufficient advantage, without the additional momentum of rapid jnotion. Equally sensible and apprehensive of such a probable result, the Saracen cavalier, when he had approached towards the Christian within twice the length of his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with ininjitable dexterity, and rode twice round his antagonist, who, turning without quitting his ground, and presenting his front constantly to his enemy frustrated his attempts to attack him on an unguarded pointy so that the Saracen, wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of a hundred yard^x^A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the heathen renewed the charge, and a second time was fain to retreat without coming to a close struggle. A third time he approached in the same manner, when the Christian knight, desirous to terminate this elusory warfare, in which he might at length have been worn out by the activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the mace which hung at his saddle-bow, and, with a strong hand and unerring aim, hurled it against the head of the Emir, for such and not less his enemy appeared.

The Saracen was just aware of the formidable missile in time to interppse his light buckler betwixt the mace and his head; but the violence of the blow forced the buckler down on his turban, and though that defence also contributed to deaden its. violence, the Saracen was beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian could avail him^eff of this mishap, his nun life foeman sprung from the ground, and calling on his steed, which instantly returned to his side, he leapt into his seat without touching the stirrup, and regained all the advantage of which the Knight of the

QUEENSLAND READERS VII. d to cl ,im/ But the latter had i

Leopard hoped to d A

in the

meanwhile recovered his mace, and the Eastern cavalier, who remembered the strength and dexterity with which his antagonist had aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of reach of that weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force, while he showed his purpose of waging a distant warfare with missile weapons of his own. Planting his long spear in the sand at a distance from the scene of combat, he strung, with great address, a short bow which he carried at his back, and, putting his horse to the gallop, once more described two or three circles of a wider extent than formerly, in the course of which he discharged six arrows at the Christian with such unerring skill that the goodness of his harness alone saved him from being wounded in as many places. The seventh shaft apparently found a less perfect part of the armour, and the Christian dropped heavily from his horse. But what was the surprise of the Saracen, when dismounting to examine the condition of his prostrate enemy, he found himself suddenly within the grasp of the European, who had had recourse to this artifice to bring his enemy within his reach Even in this deadly grapple the Saracen was saved by his agility and presence of. mind. He unloosed the sword-belt, in which the Knight of the Leopard had fixed his hold, and, thus eluding his fatal grasp, mounted his horse, which seemed to watch his motions with the intelligence of a human being, and again rode off. But in the last encounter the Saracen had lost his sword and his quiver of arrows, both of which were attached to the girdle which he was obliged to abandon. Lie had also lost his turban in the struggle. These disadvantages seemed to incline the Moslem to a t^ice: he approached the Christian with his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing_attitude.

“ There is truce betwixt our nations,” he said, in the lingua franca commonly used for the purpose _of commu*

nication with the Crusaders; “wherefore should there be war ^Betwixt thee and me? Let there be peace betwixt us.”

“I am well contented,” answered he of the Couchant Leopard; “but what security dost thou offer that thou wilt observe the truce? ”

“ The word of a follower of the Prophet was never broken,” answered the Emir. “ It is thou, brave Nazarene, from whom I should demand security, did I not know that treason seldom dwells with courage.”

The Crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem made him ashamed of his own doubts.

“ By the cross of my sword,” he said, laying his hand on the weapon as he spoke, “ I will be true companion to thee, Saracen, while our fortune wills that we remain in company together.”

“ By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the Prophet,” replied his late foeman, “ there“js not treachery in my heart towards thee. And now wendH&e to yonder fountain, for the hour of rest is at hand, and the stream had hardly touched my lips when I was called to battle by thy approach.”

The Knight of thp Couchant Leopard yielded a ready and courteous Assent; and the late foes, without an angry look, or gesture of d&ubt, rode side by side to the little cluster of palm-trees.

From The Talisman, by Sir Walter Scott.

A brave sky and a glad wind blowing by,

A clear trail, and an hour for mediation,

A long day and the joy to make it fly,

A hard task and the muscle to achieve it,

A fierce noon and a well contented gloam,

A good strife, and no regret to leave it,

A still night and the far red lights of home.


Crossing the Bar.

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

} Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I ^embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.

Lord Tennyson.

The first requisite of a good citizen is that he shall be willing and . able to “ pull his weight that he shall not,be a mere passenger, but shall do his share in the work that each generation finds ready to hand.

Theodore Roosevelt.

Beneath the rule of men entirely great The pen is mightier than the sword.


Take away the sword—• States can be saved without it.


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Millet, the Peasant Painter.

The soul of the landscape painter is impressed by the spectacles of nature in a measure denied to the ordinary observer, and .by vi^^e^Hf^^^^nniffs' he becomes their lnferpretVgf^ ancl his art preserves for us lovely visions which otherwise might pass unnoticed. He helps us to understand Nature

One of the greatest modern landscape painters was Jean Francois Millet, who was born in France in the year 1814. y The son of a peasant, he was reared among just such scenes of rural France as he afterwards loved to paint. His early years were spent on a farm, and here he tried to draw the homely scenes about him, moved by that mysterious genius which marked him out from his fellow peasant boys. Llere and there it often happens that some member of a family, perhaps cradled under the humble roof of a poor labourer, is picked out for distinction, and thenceforth his mission is to accomplish some great work in the service of humanity and for the improvement of the world. So, instead of becoming a farm labourer, Millet became a great painter. Early in life he went to Paris and began serious study. Delighting as he did in scenes full of the utmost peace he was forced on two occasions to fly from war, disturbed once by the Revolution of 1848, and moved on again, years after by the guns of the Prussians. His work was not immediately successful, and when he returned from Paris to his native Normandy, he supported himself by painting sign-boards; but on his second visit to Paris, after many

disappointments, a measure of success came to him.

A .    .    . .

Millet knew his sphere ana devoted himself to painting scenes of rustic life. It was his habit to walk the country side, alone, or with some chosen friend, noting effects of light and colour, shape and shadow. His pictures are not



remarkable for brilliant colouring, but the treatment of ligh^ and atmosphere is very successful. This “ Norman peasant,” ‘ as he liked to call himself, never became wealthy, and sold for a modest sum pictures which afterwards grew enormously in value. The Angelus ” is his most famous picture. It shows two peasants stopping their work in the field for a moment of prayer in obedience to the sound of a bell from the church whose spire is seen in the distance. This picture was sold by Millet for something like forty pounds. It changed hands a few years ago for thirty thousand pounds. “The Gleaners ” is another famous painting by Millet, illustrating a phase of field life in France where poor peasants, after the harvesters have passed, search the stubble for the grain that has been missed. The scene is full of pathos, ’and when the picture was exhibited""'it provoked a stormy' discussion upon the condition of the French peasantry. It was such scenes in the life of his own people that Millet best loved to depict. His habits were solitary, ^and visitors to the artist’s bungalow at Barbizon were few. His poverty and struggles did not sour him, but they left him indifferent to all but his family circle and the art he so passionately loved. Fie died in 1875, n°t knowing the value his paintings were destined to assume in the estimation of the world.

To err is human; to forgive, divine.

Alexander Pope.

I hold it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones,

That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.


The Rhine.

The castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine; And hills all rich with blossomed trees,

And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me.

And peasant girls, with deep bine eyes,

And hands which offer early flowers,

Walk smiling o’er this paradise; -Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of grey, And many a rock which steeply lowers,

And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o’er this vale of vintage-bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine,—■ Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me;

Though long before thy hand they touch I know that they must withered be,

But yet reject them not as such;

For I have cherished them as dear,

Because they yet may meet thine eye,

And guide thy soul to mine even here,

When thou behold’st them drooping nigh: And know’st them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine 1


[Elioth Grimer


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The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground,

And all its thousand turns disclose^

Some fresher beauty varying round:

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here;

Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear,

Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

From Childe HaroldByron.

Sir Isaac Newton.

On Christmas Day, in the year 1642, Isaac Newton was born at the small village of Woolsthorpe, in the county of Lincoln. Little did his mother think, when she beheld her new-born babe, that he was destined to explain many matters which had been a mystery ever since the creation of the world.

After the death of Isaac’s father, Mrs. Newton married a clergyman, and went to reside at North Witham. Her son was left to the care of his good old grandmother, who was very kind to him, and sent him to school. In his early years Isaac did not appear to be a very bright scholar, but was chiefly remarkable for his ingenuity in all mechanical occupations. He had a set of little tools and saws manufactured by himself. With the aid of these Isaac contrived to make many curious articles, at which he worked with so much skill, that he seemed to have been born with a saw or chisel in his hand.

The neighbours looked with vast admiration at the things which Isaac manufactured. And his old grand-piother, I suppose, was never weary of talking about him, YIL—Q



“ He’ll make a capital workman one of these clays,” she would probably say. “ No fear but what Isaac will do well in the world, and be a rich man before he dies.”


It is amusing to conjecture what were the anticipations of his grandmother and the neighbours about Isaac s future life. Some of them, perhaps, fancied that he would make beautiful furniture of mahogany, rosewood, or polished oak, inlaid with ivory and ebony, and magnificently gilded. And then, doubtless, all the rich people would purchase these fine things to adorn their drawing-rooms. Others probably thought that little Isaac was destined to



be an architect, and would build splendid mansions for the nobility and gentry, and churches too, with the tallest Steeples that had ever been seen in England.

Some of his friends, no doubt, advised Isaac’s grandmother to apprentice him to a clockmaker; for, besides his mechanical skill, the boy seemed to have a taste for mathematics, which would be very useful to him in that profession. And then, in due time, Isaac would set up for himself, and would manufacture curious clocks, like those that contain sets of dancipg figures, which issue from the dial-plate when the hour is struck; or like those where a ship sails across the face of the clock, and is seen tossing up and down on the waves as often as the pendulum vibrates.

Indeed, there was some ground for supposing that Isaac would devote himself to the manufacture of clocks; since he had already made one of a kind which nobody had ever heard of before. It was set agoing, not by wheels and weights, like other clocks, but by the dropping of water. This was an object of great wonderment to all the people round about, and it must be confessed that there are few boys, or men either, who could contrive to tell what o’clock it is, by means of a bowl of water.

Besides the water-clock, Isaac made a sundial. Thus his grandmother was never at a loss to know the hour, for the water-clock would tell it in the shade, and the dial in the sunshine. The sundial is said to be still in existence at Woolsthorpe, on the corner of the house where Isaac dwelt. If so, it must have marked the passage of every sunny hour that has elapsed since Isaac Newton was a boy. It marked all the famous moments of his life; it marked the hour of his death; and still the sunshine creeps slowly over it, as regularly as when Isaac first set it up.



Yet we must not say that the sundial has lasted longer than its maker, for Isaac Newton will exist long after the dial, shall have crumbled to decay.


Isaac possessed a wonderful faculty of acquiring knowledge by the simplest means. For instance, what method do you suppose he took to find out the strength of the wind? You will never guess how the boy could compel that unseen, inconstant, and ungovernable wanderer, the wind, to tell him the measure of its strength. Yet nothing



can be more simple. He jumped against the wind; and by the length of his jump he could calculate the force of a gentle breeze, a brisk gale, or a tempest. Thus, even in his boyish sports, he was continually searching out the secrets of philosophy.

Not far from his grandmother’s residence there was a windmill which operated on a new plan. Isaac was in the habit of going thither frequently, and would spend whole hours in examining its various parts. While the mill was at rest, he pried into its internal machinery. When its broad sails were set in motion by the wind, he watched the process by which the mill-stones were made to revolve and crush the grain that was put into the hopper. After gaining a thorough knowledge of its construction, he was observed to be unusually busy with his tools.

It was not long before his grandmother and all the neighbourhood knew what Isaac had been about. He had ' constructed a model of the windmill. Though not so large,

I suppose, as one of the box-traps which boys set to catch squirrels, yet every part of the mill and its machinery was complete. Its little sails were neatly made of linen, and whirled round very swiftly when the mill was placed in a draught of air. Even a puff of wind from Isaac’s mouth or from a pair of bellows was sufficient to set the sails in motion. And what was most curious, if a handful of grains of wheat were put into the little hopper, they would soon be converted into snow-white flour.

Isaac’s playmates were enchanted with his new windmill. They thought that nothing so pretty and so wonderful had ever been seen in the whole world.

“ But, Isaac,” said one of them, “ you have forgotten one thing that belongs to a mill.”

“What is that?” asked Isaac; for he supposed that, from the roof of the mill to its foundation, he had forgotten nothing.

“Why, where is the miller?” said his friend.

“That is true. I must look out for one,” said Isaac; and he set himself to consider how the deficiency should be supplied.


He might easily have made the miniature figure of a man; but, then, it would not have been able to move about and perform the duties of a miller. As Captain Lemuel Gulliver had not yet discovered the island of Lilliput, Isaac did not know that there were little men in the world whose



size was just suited to his windmill. It so happened, however, that a mouse had just been caught in the trap, and as no other miller could be found, Mr. Mouse was appointed to that important office. The new miller made a very-respectable appearance in his dark grey coat. To be sure, he had not a very good character for honesty, and was suspected of sometimes stealing a portion of the grain which was given him to grind. But perhaps some two-legged millers are quite as dishonest as this small quadruped.

As Isaac grew older, it was found that he had far more important matters in his mind than the manufacture of toys like the little windmill. All day long, if left to himself, he was either absorbed in thought or engaged in some book of mathematics or natural philosophy. At night, I think it probable, he looked up with reverential curiosity to the stars, and wondered whether they were worlds like our own—and how great was their distance from the earth— and what was the power that kept them in their courses. Perhaps, even so early in Mfe, Isaac Newton felt a presentiment that he should be able hereafter to answer all these questions.

When Isaac was fourteen years old, his mother’s second husband being now dead, she wished her son to leave school and assist her in managing the farm at Woolsthorpe. For a year or two, therefore, he tried to turn his attention to farming. But his mind was so bent on becoming a scholar that his mother sent him to the University of Cambridge.

I have now finished my anecdotes of Isaac Newton’s boyhood. My story would be far too long were I to mention all the splendid discoveries which he made after he came to be a man. He was the first that found out the nature of Light; for before his day nobody could tell what the sunshine was composed of. You remember, I suppose, the story of an apple’s falling on his head, and thus leading him to discover the force of gravitation, which

keeps the heavenly bodies in their courses. When he had once got hold of this idea, he never permitted his mind to rest until he had searched out all the laws by which the planets are guided through the sky. This he did as thoroughly as if he had gone up among the stars and tracked them in their orbits. The boy had found out the mechanism of a windmill; the man explained to his fellow-men the mechanism of the universe.

While making these researches, he was accustomed to spend night after night in a lofty tower, gazing at the heavenly bodies through a telescope. His mind was lifted far above the things of this world. He may be said, indeed, to have spent the greater part of his life in worlds that lie thousands and millions of miles away; for where the thoughts and the heart are, there is our true existence.

Did you ever hear the story of Newton and his little dog, Diamond? One day, when he was fifty years old, and had been hard at work more than twenty years studying the theory of Light, he went out of his chamber, leaving his little dog asleep before the fire. On the table lay a heap of manuscript papers, containing all the discoveries which Newton had made during those twenty years. When his master was gone, up rose little Diamond, jumped upon the table, and overthrew the lighted candle. The papers immediately caught fire.

Just as the destruction was completed, Newton opened the chamber door, and perceived that the labours of twenty years were reduced to a heap of ashes. Ehere stood little Diamond, the author of all the mischief. Almost any other man would have sentenced the dog to immediate death. But Newton patted him on the head with his usual kindness, although grief was at his heart.

“ Oh, Diamond, Diamond! ” he exclaimed, “ thou little Jcpowest the mischief thou hast doner’

This incident affected his health and spirits for some time afterwards; but from his conduct towards the little dog, you may judge what was the sweetness of his temper.

Newton lived to be a very old man, and acquired great renown, and was made a member of Parliament, and received the honour of knighthood from the King. But he cared little for earthly fame and honours, and felt no pride in the vastness of his knowledge. All that he had learned only made him feel how little he knew in comparison to what remained to be known.

I seem to myself like a child,” observed he, playing on the seashore, and picking up here and there a curious shell or a pretty pebble, while the boundless ocean of Truth lies undiscovered before me.”

At last, in 1727, when he was fourscore and five years old, Sir Isaac Newton died—or, rather, he ceased to live on earth. We may be permitted to believe that he is still searching out the infinite wisdom and goodness of the Creator as earnestly, and with even more success, than while his spirit animated a mortal body.

Nathaniel Hawthorne.

The Women of the West.

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,

The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,

The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best:

For love they faced the wilderness—the women of the W est.

The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away,

And the old-time joys and faces—they were gone for many a day;

In their place, the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock-chains,

O’er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run,

In the tent beside the^bankment of a railway just begun,

In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man’s unrest,

On the frontiers of the nation live the women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain,

The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;

And there are hours men,, cannot soothe, and words men cannot say—

The nearest woman’s face may be a hundred miles away.

The wide bush holds the secrets of their longings and desires

When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires,

And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast—

Perchance He hears and understands the women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts—

They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts;

But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above—

The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our fathers’ creed. No call has passed us by.

We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.

And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o’er all the rest,

The hearts that made the nation were the women of the West*

George Essex Evans, in The Secret Key and other Verses ] (Angus and Robertson).

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What is War ?

What is war? In a short sentence, it may be summed up to be the combination and concentration of all the horrors, atrocities, crimes, and sufferings of which human nature on this globe is capable.

You profess to be a Christian nation. You make it your boast even—though boasting is somewhat out of place in such questions—you make it your boast that you are a Christian people, and that you draw your rule of doctrine and practice, as from a well pure and undefiled, from the lively oracles of God, and from the direct revelation of the Omnipotent. You have even conceived the magnificent project of illuminating the whole earth, even to its remotest and darkest recesses, by the dissemination of the volume of the New Testament, in whose every page are written for ever the words of peace. Within the limits of this island alone, on every Sabbath Day twenty thousand, yes, far more than twenty thousand, temples are thrown open, in which devout men and women assemble to worship Him who is the “ Prince of Peace.”

Is this a reality? Or is your Christianity a romance, and your profession a dream? No, I am sure that your Christianity is not a romance, and I am equally sure that your profession is not a dream. It is because I believe this that I appeal to you with confidence, and that I have hope and faith in the future. I believe that we shall see. and at no very distant time, sound economic principles spreading much more widely amongst the people; a sense of justice growing up in a soil which hitherto has been deemed unfruitful; and—which will be better than all—the churches of the United Kingdom, the churches of



Britain, awaking as it were from their slumbers, and girding up their loins to more glorious work, when they shall not only accept and believe in the prophecy, but labour earnestly for its fulfilment, that there shall come a time—a blessed time—a time which shall last for ever— when “ nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”

John Bright.

The Ancient Mariner.

Part I.

[Three young men were walking together to a wedding feast. They had almost reached the house of their host, and could hear the merry voices of the assembled guests, when an old mariner stepped forward and, laying his skinny hand on the arm of one of them, he began, “ There was a ship.”

The young man, impatient and annoyed, shook him off roughly, and was passing on, but the old sailor fixed upon him a look so piercing and uncanny that the young man felt compelled to listen.

He was the nearest relative of the bridegroom, time was passing quickly, and he knew he must be late, but he' sat down on a stone, and listened to what the strange old man had to say.

Without more ado the Mariner began his story.]

The ship was cheer’d, the harbour clear’d,

Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the lighthouse top.

The sun came up upon the left,

Out of the sea came he;

And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.

And now the storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong:

He struck with his o’ertaking wings,

And chased us south along.



With sloping masts and dipping prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roar’d the blast, And southward, aye, we fled.


And now there came both mist and snow And it grew wondrous cold:

And ice, mast-high, came floating by,

As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between.



The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around:

It crack’d and growl’d, and roar’d and howl’d, Like noises in a swound.

At length did cross an Albatross,

Through the fog it came;

As if it had been a Christian soul,

We hail’d it in God’s name.

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the mariners’ hollo.

God save thee, ancient Mariner,

From the fiends that plague thee thus!

Why look’st thou so?”—“With my crossbow I shot the Albatross.”

And the good south wind still blew behind,

But no sweet bird did follow,

Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners’ hollo.

And I had done a wicked thing,

And it would work ’em woe:

For all averr’d I had kill’d the bird That made the breeze to blow.

“ Ah, wretch! ” said they, “ the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow.”

Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity! I say, let your affairs be two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; instead of a million count half a dozen and keep your accounts on your thumb-nail.




The Ancient Mariner;

Part II.

[But when the fog cleared off they said that I had done right to kill the bird and thus they made themselves partners in my cruel deed.]

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,

The furrow follow'd free;

We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

’Twas sad as sad could be;

And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea.

All in a hot and copper sky,    ;

The bloody sun, at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand,    .

No bigger than the moon.

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.

Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.


There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parch’d, and glazed each eye.

A weary time! a weary time!

How glazed each weary eye!

When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky.

At first it seem’d a little speck,

And then it seem’d a mist;

It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, -I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!

And still it near’d and near’d:

As if it dodged a water-sprite,

It plung’d, and tack’d, and veer’d.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could not laugh nor wail;

Through utter drought all dumb we stood!

I bit my arm, I suck’d the blood,

And cried, “ A sail! a sail! ”

The western wave was all aflame,

The day was wellnigh done!

Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad, bright sun;

When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun.

Alas! thought I, and my heart beat loud, How fast she nears and nears!

Are those her sails that glance in the sun, Like restless gossameres?

The Ancient Mariner.

Part III.

[As it came nearer, we saw two spectral figures on the deck; they were playing a game of dice for the lives of the sailors on our ship.

One Spectre was Death; the other was Life-in-Death.

The sun disappeared beneath the horizon, night fell suddenly, and the moon arose. I saw that Death had won all my companions, but that Life-in-Death had won me. And at that moment my mates dropped dead upon the deck without a sound, and I heard their souls fly past me, each like the whizz of my crossbow.]

Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide, wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;

But or ever a prayer had gushed,

A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,

And the balls like pulses beat;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky,

Lay like a load on my weary eye,

And the dead were at my feet.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,

I watched the water-snakes:

They moved in tracks of shining white,

And when they reared the elfish light,

Fell off in hoary flakes.



Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire:

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,

They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.


O, happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare:

A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware:

Sure, my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.



The selfsame moment I could pray;

And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.

[Then I fell asleep and dreamt that the buckets on deck were filled with dew. I awoke to find myself cold and wet through.]

I moved, and could not feel my limbs:

I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep,

And was a blessed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:

It did not come anear;

But with its sound it shook the sails,

That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life,

And a hundred fire-flags’ sheen;

To and fro they were hurried about,

And to and fro, and in and out,

The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,

And the sails did sigh like sedge;

And the rain pour’d down from one black cloud;

The moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The moon was at its side;

Like waters shot from some high crag,

The lightning fell with never a jag,

A river steep and wide.



The Ancient Mariner.

Part IV.

[Suddenly all the dead men groaned, stood up, and began to work the ropes. They had not returned to life, but a blessed spirit had taken its abode in each one of them. At dawn they gathered round the mast and sang the most glorious song I had ever heard.]

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,

Then darted to the sun ;

Slowly the sounds came back again,

Now mix’d, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing ;

Sometimes all little birds that are,

How they seem’d to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!

And now ’ twas like all instruments,

Now like a lonely flute;

And now it is an angel’s song,

That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

[The Lonesome Spirit from the South Pole moved the ship as far as the Equator, when I was cast into a trance, and the ship was driven northward again. I awoke, and gazing round me recognised the land I was approaching. I knew that lighthouse, that hill, and that church. Presently I heard the splash of oars and the shout of the pilot. He rowed quickly towards me, and, as he neared thè ship, I heard a rumbling sound which seemed to penetrate the bay.]

Under the water it rumbled on Still louder and more dread:

It reached the ship, it split the bay,

The ship went down like lead.

Stunn’d by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote,

Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat;

But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the pilot’s boat.

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench’d With a woful agony,

Which forced me to begin my tale;

And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,

That agony returns:

And till my ghastly tale is told,

This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;

I have strange power of speech;

That moment that his face I see;

I know the man that must hear me:

To him my tale I teach.

O, Wedding Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea:

So lonely ’twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

Farewell! farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding Guest!

He prayeth well who loveth well Both man, and bird, and beast.



He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small;

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,

Whose beard with age is hoar,

Is gone: and now the Wedding Guest Turn’d from the bridegroom’s door.

He went like one that hath been stunn’d,

And is of sense forlorn:

A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.



“How Sweet the Moonlight.”

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;

There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Shakespeare, in The Merchant of Venice.

The Dinner at the Inn.

[David Copperfield was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk. He was an orphan, and lived happily with his mother and their old servant, Peggotty. When he was eight years old his mother married a Mr. Murdstone, who treated him with harshness and cruelty. He was sent to a boarding school at Blackheath, a suburb of London. This was early in the nineteenth century, when railroads were unknown. He travelled in the carrier’s cart to Yarmouth. While he waited at the inn for the stage-coach to take him tp London, a forlorn, timid child, going to his unknown destination, the following incident occurred.]

Part I.

At length we drove into the inn-yard at Yarmouth, and as I alighted from the coach a lady looked out of a bow-window where some fowls and joints of meat were hanging-up, and said, “ Is that the little gentleman from Blunder-stone ?”    .

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“ What name ? ” inquired the lady.

“ Copperfield, ma’am,” I said.

“ That won’t do,” returned the lady. “ Nobody’s dinner is paid for here in that name.”

“Is it Murdstone, ma’am?” I said.

“If you’re Master Murdstone,” said the lady, “why do you go and give another name first? ”

I explained to the lady how it was, who then rang a bell, and called out, “William! show the coffee-room!” upon which a waiter came running out of a kitchen on the opposite side of the yard to show it, and seemed a good deal surprised when he was only to show it to me.

It was a long room with some large maps in it. I doubt if I could have felt much stranger if the maps had been real foreign countries and I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was taking a liberty to sit down, with my

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cap in my hand, on the corner of the chair nearest the door; and when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set of castors on it, I think I must have turned red all over with modesty.

He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the covers off in such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at the table, and saying very affably, “ Now, six-foot! come on! ”

I thanked him, and took my seat at the board; but found it extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second chop he said, “There’s half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now ? ”

I thanked him and said “ Yes.” Upon which he poured it out of a jug into a large tumbler, and held it up against the light, and made it look beautiful.

“My!” he said. “It seems a good deal, doesn’t it?”

“ It does seem a good deal,” I answered with a smile, for it was quite delightful to me to find him so pleasant. He was a twinkling-eyed, pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head; and as he stood with one arm akimbo, holding up the glass to the light with the other hand, he looked quite friendly.

“ There was a gentleman here yesterday,” he said-^ “ a stout gentleman, by the name of Topsawyer—perhaps you know him?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think”-

“ In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, grey goat, speckled choker,” saicj the waiter?

“ No,” I said bashfully, “ I haven’t the pleasure.”

“He came in here,” said the waiter, looking at the light through the tumbler, “ordered a glass of this ale— would order it—I told him not—drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn’t to be drawn; that’s the fact.”

i’ll drink it if you like.”

I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and said I thought I’d better have some water.

“ Why, you see,” said the waiter, still looking at the light through the tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, “ our people don’t like things being ordered and left. It offends them. But I’ll drink it if you like. I’m used to it, and use is everything. I don’t think it’ll hurt me if throw my head back and take it off quick. Shall 11. ”



I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it if he thought he could do it safely, but by no means otherwise. When he did throw his head back and “ take it off quick” I had a horrible fear, I confess, of seeing him meet the fate of the lamented Mr. Topsawyer and fall lifeless on the carpet. But it didn't hurt him. On the contrary, I thought he seemed the fresher for it.

The Dinner at the Inn.

Part II.

“ What have we got here?” he said, putting a fork into my dish. “ Not chops?”

“ Chops,” I said.

“ Lord bless my soul!” he exclaimed, “ I didn't know they were chops. Why, a chop’s the very thing to take off the bad effects of that beer! Ain’t it lucky? ”

So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other, and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extrenfe satisfaction. Pie afterwards took another chop and another potato, and after that another chop and another potato. When he had done he brought me a pudding, and having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become absent in his mind for some moments.

“ How’s the pie? ” he said, rousing himself.

“ It’s a pudding,” I made answer.

“ Pudding! ” he exclaimed. “ Why, bless me, so it is! What! ” looking at it nearer. “You don’t mean to say it’s a batter-pudding?”

“Yes, it is indeed.”

“ Why, a batter-pudding,” he said, taking up a tablespoon, “is my favourite pudding. Isn’t that lucky? Come on, little ’un, and let’s see who'll get most.”

The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to come in and win, but what with his tablespoon to my teaspoon, his dispatch to my dispatch, and his appetite to my appetite, I was left far behind at the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I never saw anyone enjoy a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed, when it was all gone, as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.

Finding him so friendly and companionable, I asked for the pen and ink and paper, to write to Peggotty. He not only brought it immediately, but was good enough to look over me while I wrote the letter. When I had finished it he asked me where I was going to school.

I said, “ Near London,” which was all I knew.

“ Oh! ” he said, looking very low-spirited, “ I am sorry for that.”

“ Why?” I asked him.

“ Oh, Lord! ” he said, shaking his head, “ that’s the school where they broke the boy’s ribs—two ribs—a little boy he was. I should say he was—let me see—how old are you, about ?”

I told him, between eight and nine.

“ That’s just his age,” he said. “ He was eight years and six months old when they broke his first rib; eight years and eight months old when they broke his second, and did for him.”

I could not disguise from myself, or from the waiter, that this was an uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how it was done. His answer was not cheering to my spirits, for it consisted of two dismal words, “ With whopping.”

The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable diversion, which made me get up and hesitatingly inquire, in the mingled pride and diffidence of having a purse (which I took out of my pocket), if there was anything to pay.



“ There’s a sheet of letter-paper,” he returned. “ Did you ever buy a sheet of letter-paper?”

I could not remember that I ever had.

“ It’s dear,” he said, “ on account of the duty. Three* pence. That’s the way we’re taxed in this country. There’s nothing else except the waiter. Never mind the ink. I lose by that.”

“ What should you—what should I—how much ought I to—what would it be right to pay the waiter, if you please?” I stammered, blushing.

“If I hadn’t a family, and that family hadn’t the cowpock,” said the waiter, “ I wouldn’t take a sixpence. If I didn’t support an aged parent, and a lovely sister ”— here the waiter was greatly agitated—“ I wouldn’t take a farthing. If I had a good place, and was treated well here, I should beg acceptance of a trifle, instead of taking it. But I live on broken victuals—and I sleep on the coals ”—here the waiter burst into tears.

I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt*that any recognition short of ninepence would be mere brutality and hardness of heart. Therefore I gave him one of my three bright shillings, which he received with much humility and veneration, and spun up with his thumb, directly afterwards, to try the goodness of.

. . ^

It was a little disconcerting to me to find, when I was being helped up behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eaten all the dinner without any assistance. I discovered this from overhearing the lady in the bow-window say to the guard, “ Take care of that child, George, or he’ll burst!” and from observing that the women servants who were about the place came out to look and giggle at me. My unfortunate friend the waiter, who had quite recovered his spirits, did not appear to be disturbed by this, but joined in the general admiration without being at all confused.

If I had any doubt of him I suppose this half awakened it; but I am inclined to believe that with the simple confidence of a child, and the    natural    reliance of a    child upon

superior years, I had no    serious    mistrust of    him on    the

whole, even then.

Throughout the rest of the journey I was made the subject of continual jokes between the coachman and the guard, but everything has an end, and so, eventually, I arrived at my new destination, and a fresh leaf of my life was begun.

From David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens.

Horatius Defends the Bridge,

Part I.

[Tarquín the proud, the    last king    of Rome, was    with his    son

Sextus expelled because of    their evil    deeds. . They    obtained    the

aid of Lars Porsena, a king in ancient Tuscany, who came against Rome with a mighty army. But to attack Rome they had to cross a wooden bridge over the river Tiber. The Romans resolved to cut this bridge down; and that they might have time to do so, three valiant champions, Horatius, Lartius, and Herminius, defended the end of the bridge against the whole Tuscan army.]

N03V the consul’s brow was sad,

And the consul’s speech was low,

And darkly looked he at the wall,

And darkly at the foe.

“ Their van will be upon us-Before the bridge goes down ;

And if they once may win the bridge,

What hope to save the town?”

Then out spake brave Horatius,

The captain of the gate :

“ To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late.

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And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?

“ Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may;

I, with two more to help me,

Will hold the foe in play.

In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three;

Now who will stand on either hand And keep the bridge with me?”

Then out spake Spurius Lartius,

A Ramnian proud was he,

“ Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.” And out spake strong Herminius,

Of Titian blood was he,

“ I will abide, on thy left side,

And keep the bridge with thee.”

“ Horatius,” quoth the consul,

“ As thou sayest, so let it be.”

And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless three.

For Romans in Rome’s quarrel Spared neither land nor gold,

Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life, In the brave days of old.

Now, while the three were tightening Their harness on their backs,

The consul was the foremost man To take in hand an axe,

And Fathers mixed with commons,

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,

And smote upon the planks above,

And loosed the props below.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army,

Right glorious to behold,

Came flashing back the noonday light,

Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold.

Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee,

As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head, Where stood the dauntless three.

The three stood calm and silent,

And looked upon the foes,

And a great shout of laughter

From all the vanguard rose.

And forth three chiefs came spurring

Before that mighty mass.

To earth they sprang, their swords they drew

And lifted high their shields, and flew ■ , °

To wm the narrow pass.

Stout Lartius hurled down Annus Into the stream beneath ;

Herminius struck at Seius,

And clove him to the teeth.

At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust,

And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust

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But, hark, the cry is Asti®!

And, lo! the ranks divide;

And the great Lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride.

Upon his ample shoulders

Clangs loud the fourfold shield,

And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield.

He smiled on those bold Romans,

A smile serene and high;

He eyed the flinching Tuscans,

And scorn was in his eye.

Quoth he, “ The she-wolf’s litter Stand savagely at bay;

But will ye dare to follow If Astur clears the way?”

Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height,

He rushed against IToratius And smote with all his might.

With shield and blade, IToratius Right deftly turned the blow;

The blow, though turned, tame yet too nigh ;

It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh;

The Tuscans raised a joyful cry,

To see the red blood flow.

He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing space;

Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur’s face.

Through teeth, and skull, and helmet,

So fierce a thrust he sped,

The good sword stood a hand-breadth out Behind the Tuscan’s head.




And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke,

As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder-smitten oak.

Far o’er the crushing forest The giant arms lie spread;

And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head.

Horatius Defends the Bridge,

Part II.

But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied;

And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide.

“ Come back, come back, Horatius! ” Loud cried the Fathers all.

“ Back, Lartius ! Back, Henninius 1 Back, ere the ruin fall! ”

Back darted Spurius Lartius;

Herminius darted back;

And as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack.

But when they turned their faces,

And on the farther shore

Saw brave Horatius stand alone,

They would have crossed once more.

But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam,

And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream;


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And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome,

As to the highest turret-tops Was splashed the yellow foam.

Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind,

Thrice thirty thousand foes before,

And the broad flood behind.

“ Down with him! ” cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face.

“ Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena—• “ Now yield thee to our grace.”

Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see;

Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,

To Sextus naught spake he;

But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home;

And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome:

“ O Tiber, Father Tiber,

To whom the Romans pray,

A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,

Take thou in charge this day! ”

So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed The good sword by his side,

And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank;

But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank;



And when above the surges They saw his crest appear,

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.



But fiercely ran the current,

Swollen high by months of rain; And fast his blood was flowing.

And he was sore in pain,

And heavy with his armour,

And spent with changing blows;

And oft they thought him sinking,

But still again he rose.



“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus; “Will not the villain drown?

But for this stay, ere close the day We should have sacked the town!”

“ Heaven help him! ” quoth Lars Porsena, “And bring him safe to shore;

For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before.”

And now he feels the bottom;

Now on dry earth he stands;

Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands;

And now, with shouts and clapping,

And noise of weeping loud,

He enters through the river-gate,

Borne by the joyous crowd.

And in the nights of winter,

When the cold north winds blow,

And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amidst the snow;

When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest’s din,

And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within;

When the oldest cask is opened,

And the largest lamp is lit;

When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit;

When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close;

When the girls are weaving baskets,

And the lads are shaping bows;

When the goodman mends his armour,

And trims his helmet’s plume;

When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom—>

With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old.

Lord Macaulay.

An Interview with Judge Jeffreys.

[Lorna Doone is a fine story for all—boys, girls, adults. It is interesting throughout', and often exciting. The hero, John Ridd, is famous throughout the countryside for his size and strength. Tha> heroine is Lorna Doone. The time of the story is near the end of the seventeenth century; the scene in Somerset and Devonshire. The Doones were a band of outlaws and robbers living in the hidden Doone Valley, in Exmoor. The story opens with the return home from school of John Ridd, who learns that his father has been killed by the Doones of Bagworthy. Some years later he is summoned to London. The reason for this is shown in the • following extract.]

Part I.

The crier of the Court (as they told me) came out, and wanted to know who I was. I told him, as shortly as I could, that my business lay with his Majesty’s bench, and was very confidential; upon which he took me inside with warning, and showed me to an under-clerk, who showed me to a higher one, and the higher clerk to the head one.    •

When this gentleman understood all about my business (which I told him without complaint) he frowned at me very heavily, as if I had done him an injury.

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“ John Ridd,” he asked me with a stern glance, “ is it your deliberate desire to be brought into the presence of the Lord Chief Justice?”

“ Surely, sir, it has been my desire for the last two months and more.”

“ Then, John, thou shalt be. But mind one thing, not a word of thy long detention, or thou mayest get into trouble.”

“ How, sir? For being detained against my own wish? ” I asked him; but he turned away as if that matter were not worth his arguing, as, indeed, I suppose it was not, and led me through a little passage to a door with a curtain across it.

“ Now, if my Lord cross-question you,” the gentleman whispered to me, “ answer him straight out truth at once, for he will have it out of thee. And mind, he loves not to be contradicted, neither can he bear a hang-dog look. Take little heed of the other two; but note every word of the middle one; and never make him speak twice.”

I thanked him for his good advice, as he moved the curtain and thrust me in, but instead of entering withdrew, and left me to bear the brunt of it.

The chamber was not very large, though lofty to my eyes, and dark, with wooden panels round it. At the further end were some raised seats, such as I have seen in churches, lined with velvet, and having broad elbows, and a canopy over the middle seat. There were only three men sitting here, one in the centre, and one on each side; and all three were done up wonderfully with fur, and robes of state, and curls of thick grey horse-hair, crimped and gathered, and plaited down to their shoulders. Each man had an oak desk before him, set at a little distance, and spread with pens and papers. Instead of writing, however, they seemed to be laughing and talking, or rather the one in the middle seemed to be telling some good story, which the others received with approval. By reason of their great perukes it was hard to tell how old they were; but the one who was speaking seemed the youngest, although he was the chief of them. A thick-set, burly, and bulky man, with a blotchy broad face, and great square jaws, and fierce eyes full of blazes; he was one to be dreaded by gentle souls, and to be abhorred by the noble.

Between me and the three lord judges, some few lawyers were gathering up bags and papers and pens and so forth, from a narrow table in the middle of the room; as if a case had been disposed of, and no other were called on. But before I had time to look round twice, the stout fierce man espied me, and shouted out with a flashing stare:    -

Blow now, countryman, who art thou ? ”

“ May it please your worship,” I answered him loudly, u I am John Ridd, of Oare parish, in the shire of Somerset, brought to this London, some two months back by a special messenger, whose name is Jeremy Stickles; and then bound over to be at hand and ready, when called upon to give evidence, in a matter unknown to me, but touching the peace of our lord the King, and the well-being of his subjects. Three times I have met our lord the King, but he hath said nothing about his peace, and only held it towards me; and every day, save Sunday, I have walked up and down the great hall of Westminster, all the business part of the day, expecting to be called upon; yet no one hath called upon me. And now I desire to ask your worship, whether I may go home again?”

“ Well done, John,” replied his lordship, while I was panting with all this speech; " I will go bail for thee, John, thou hast never made such a long speech, before; and thou art a sturdy Briton, or thou couldst not have made it now. I remember the matter well; and I myself will

attend to it, although it arose before my time ”—he was but newly Chief Justice—‘‘but I cannot take it now, John. There is no fear of losing thee, John, any more than the Tower of London. I grieve for his Majesty’s exchequer, after keeping thee two months or more.'’

“ Nay, my lord, I crave your pardon. My mother hath been keeping me. Not a groat have I received.”

“Spank, is it so?” his lordship cried, in a voice that shook the cobwebs, and the frown on his brow shook the hearts of men, and mine as much as the rest of them, “Spank, is his Majesty come to this, that he starves his own approvers ? ”

“ My lord, my lord,” whispered Mr. Spank, the chief-officer of evidence, “ the thing hath been overlooked, my lord, among such grave matters of treason.”

“ I will overlook thy head, foul Spank, on a spiker from Temple Bar, if ever I hear of the like again. Vile varlet, what art thou paid for? Thou hast swindled the money thyself, foul Spank; I know thee, though thou art new to me. Bitter is the day for thee that ever I came across thee. Answer me not—one word more and I will have thee on a hurdle.” And he swung himself to and fro on his bench, with both hands on his knees; and every man waited to let it pass, knowing better than to speak to him.

“ John Ridd,” said the Lord Chief Justice, at last, recovering a sort of dignity, yet daring Spank from the corners of his eyes to do so much as look at him, “ thou hast been shamefully used, John Ridd. Answer me not, boy; not a word; but go to Master Spank, and let me know how he behaves to thee ”; here he made a glance at Spank, which was worth at least ten pounds to me; “ be thou here again to-morrow; and before any other case is taken, I will see justice done to thee. Now be off, boy; thy name is Ridd, and we are well rid of thee.”

I was only too glad to go, after all this tempest; as you may well suppose. For if ever I saw a man’s eyes become two holes for the devil to glare from, I saw it that day; and the eyes were those of the Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys.

Mr. Spank was in the lobby before me, and before I had recovered myself—for I was vexed with my own terror —he came sidling and fawning to me, with a heavy bag of yellow leather.

“ Good Master Ridd, take it all, take it all; and say a good word for me to his lordship. Lie hath taken a strange fancy to thee; and thou must make the most of it. We never saw man meet him eye to eye so, and yet not contradict him; and that is just what he loveth. Abide in London, Master Ridd, and he will make thy fortune. His joke upon thy name proves that. And I pray you remember, Master Ridd, that the Spanks are sixteen in family.”

But I would not take the bag from him, regarding it as a sort of bribe to pay me such a lump of money, without so much as asking how great had been my expenses. Therefore I only told him that if he would kindly keep the cash for me until the morrow, I would spend the rest of the day in counting (which always is sore work with me) how much it had stood me in board and lodging, since Master Stickles had rendered me up; for until that time he had borne my expenses. In the morning I would give Mr. Spank a memorandum, duly signed, and attested by my landlord, including the breakfast of that day, and in exchange for this I would take the exact amount from the yellow bag, and be very thankful for it.

“If that is thy way of using opportunity,” said Spank, looking at me with some contempt, “ thou wilt never thrive in these times, my lad. Even the Lord Chief Justice can be little help to thee, unless thou knowest better than that how to help thyself.”

It mattered not to me. The word “ approver ” stuck in my gorge, as used by the Lord Chief Justice; for we looked upon an approver as a very low thing indeed. I would rather pay for every breakfast, and even every dinner, eaten by me since here I came, than take money as an approver. And indeed I was much disappointed at being taken in that light, having understood that I was sent for as a trusty subject, and humble friend of his Majesty.

In the morning I met Mr. Spank waiting for me at the entrance, and very desirous to see me. I showed him my bill, made out in fair copy, and he laughed at it, and said, “Take it twice over, Master Ridel; once for thine own sake and once for his Majesty’s; as all his loyal tradesmen do, when they can get any. His Majesty knows and is proud of it, for it shows their love of his countenance; and he says ‘ he gives twice who gives quickly, then how can I grumble at giving twice, when I give so slowly?’ ” 0.

Nay, I will take it but once,” I said; “ if His Majesty loves to be robbed, he need not lack of his desire, while the Spanks are sixteen in family.”

The clerk smiled cheerfully at this, being proud of his children’s ability; and then having paid my account, he whispered:

“ He is all alone this morning, John, and in rare good humour. He hath been promised the handling of poor Master Algernon Sidney, and he says he will soon make republic of him; for his state shall shortly be headless. He is chuckling over his joke, like a pig with a nut; and that always makes him pleasant. John Ridd, my lord!” With that he swung up the curtain bravely; and according to special orders, I stood, face to face, and alone with Judge Jeffreys.



An Interview with Judge Jeffreys.

Part II.

His lordship was busy with some letters, and did not look up for a minute or two, although he knew that I was there. Meanwhile I stood waiting to make my bow; afraid to begin upon him, and wondering at his great bull-head. Then he closed his letters, well pleased with their import, and fixed his bold broad stare on me, as if I were an oyster opened, and he would know how fresh I was.

“ May it please your worship,” I said, “ here I am according to order, awaiting your good pleasure.”

“ Thou art made to weight, John, more than order. How much dost thou tip the scales to ? ”

“ Only twelvescore pounds, my lord, when I be in wrestling trim. And sure I must have lost weight here, fretting so long in London.”

“Ha, ha! Much fret is there in thee! Hath his

Majesty seen thee?”

“Yes, my lord, twice or even thrice; and he made some jest concerning me.”

“ A very bad one, I doubt not. His humpur is not so dainty as mine, but apt to be coarse and unmannerly. Now John, or Jack, by the look of thee, thou art more used to be called.”

“ Yes, your worship, when I am with old Molly and Betty Muxworthy.”

“ Peace, thou forward varlet! There is a deal too much of thee. We shall have to try short commons with thee, and thou art a very long common. Ha, ha! Where is that rogue Spank? Spank must hear that by and by. It is beyond thy great thick head, Jack,”

“Not so, my lord; I have been at school, and had very bad jokes made upon me.”

“ Ha, ha! It hath hit thee hard. And faith, it would be hard to miss thee, even with harpoon. And thou lookest like to blubber, now. Capital, in faith! I have thee on every side, Jack, and thy sides are manifold; many-folded at any rate. Thou shalt have double expenses, Jack, for the wit thou hast provoked in me.”

“ Heavy goods lack heavy payment, is a proverb down our way, my lord.”

“ Ah, I hurt thee, I hurt thee, Jack. The harpoon hath no tickle for thee. Now, Jack Whale, having hauled thee hard, we will proceed to examine thee.” Here all his manner was changed, and he looked with his heavy brows bent upon me, as if he had never laughed in his life, and would allow none else to do so.

“ I am ready to answer my lord,” I replied, “ if he asks me naught beyond my knowledge, or beyond my honour.”

“ Hadst better answer me everything, lump. What hast thou to do with honour? Now, is there in thy neighbourhood a certain nest of robbers, miscreants, and outlaws whom all men fear to handle? ”

“Yres, my lord. At least, I believe some of them be robbers; and all of them are outlaws.”

“ And what is your high sheriff about, that he doth not hang them all? Or send them up for me to hang, without more to-do about them ? ”

“I reckon that he is afraid, my lord; it is not safe to meddle with them. They are of good birth, and reckless; and their place is very strong.”

“ Good birth! What was Lord Russell of, Lord Essex, and this Sidney? ’Tis the surest heirship to the block to be the chip of a good one. What is the name of this pestilent race, and how many of them are there? ”

“ They are the Doones of Bagworthy forest, may it please your worship. And we reckon there be about forty of them, beside the women and children.”

‘‘Forty Doones, all forty thieves! and women and children! Thunder of God! How long have they been there then ? ”

“They may have been there thirty years, my lord; and indeed they may have been forty. Before the great war broke out they came, longer back than I can remember.”

“ Ay, long before thou wast born, John. Good, thou speakest plainly. Woe betide a liar, whenso I get hold of him. Ye want me on the Western Circuit; and ye shall have me, when London traitors are spun and swung. There is a family called De Whichehalse living very nigh thee, John?”

This he said in a sudden manner, as if to take me off my guard, and fixed his great thick eyes on me. And in truth I was much astonished.

“ Yes, my lord, there is. At least, not so very far from us. Baron de Whichehalse, of Ley Manor.”

“Baron, ha! of the Exchequer—eh, lad? And taketh dues instead of his Majesty. Somewhat which halts there ought to come a little further, I trow. It shall be seen to, as well as the witch which makes it so to halt. Riotous knaves in West England, drunken outlaws, you shall dance, if ever I play pipe for you.”

“ Although your worship is so learned,” I answered, seeing that now he was beginning to make things uneasy; “ your worship, though being Chief Justice, does little justice to us. We are downright good and loyal folk; and 1 have not seen, since here I came to this great town of London, any who may better us, or even come anigh us, in honesty, and goodness, and duty to our neighbours. For we are very quiet folk, not prating our own virtues-

“ Enough, good John, enough ! Knowest thou not that modesty is the maidenhood of virtue, lost even by her own approval? Now hast thou ever heard or thought that De Whichehalse is in league with the Doones of Bagworthy? ”

Saying these words rather slowly, he skewered his great eyes into mine, so that I could not think at all, neither look at him, nor yet away. The idea was so new to me, that it set my wits all wandering; and looking into me, he saw that T was groping for the truth.

“ John Ridd, thine eyes are enough for me. I see thou hast never dreamed of it. Now hast thou ever seen a man whose name is Thomas Faggus? ”

“ Yes, sir, many and many a time. He is my own

worthy cousin; and I fear that he hath intentions-

here I stopped, having no right there to speak about our Annie.

“Tom Faggus is a good man,” he said; and his great square face had a smile which showed me he had met my cousin; “Master Faggus hath made mistakes as to the title to property, as lawyers oftentimes may do; but take him all for all, he is a thoroughly straightforward man; presents his bill, and has it paid and makes no charge for drawing it. Nevertheless, we must tax his costs, as of any other solicitor.”

“ To be sure, to be sure, my lord! ” was all that I could say, not understanding what all this meant.

“ I fear he will come to the gallows,” said the Lord Chief Justice, sinking his voice below the echoes; “tell him this from me, Jack. He shall never be condemned before me; but I cannot be everywhere; and some of our Justices may keep short memory of his dinners. Tell him to change his name, turn parson, or do something else, to make it wrong to hang him. Parson is the best thing; he hath such command of features, and he might take his tithes on horseback. Now a few more things, John Ridd; and for the present I have done with thee.”

All my heart leaped up at this, to get away from London so: and yet I could hardly trust to it.

“ Is there any sound round your way of disaffection to his Majesty, his most gracious Majesty? ”

“ No, my lord: no sign whatever. We pray for him in church perhaps; and we talk about him afterwards, hoping it may do him good, as it is intended. But after that we have naught to say, not knowing much about him—at least till I get home again.”

“ That is as it should be, John. And the less you say the better. But I have heard of things in Taunton, and even nearer to you in Dulverton, and even nigher still upon Exmoor; things which are of the pillory kind, and even more of the gallows. I see that you know naught of them. Nevertheless, it will not be long before all England hears of them. Now, John, I have taken a liking to thee; for never man told me the truth, without fear or favour, more thoroughly and truly than thou hast done. Keep thou clear of this, my son. It will come to nothing; yet many shall swing high for it. Even I could not save thee, John Ridd, if thou wert mixed in this affair. Keep from the Doones, keep from De Whichehalse, keep from everything which leads beyond the sight of thy knowledge. I meant to use thee as my tool; but I see thou art too honest and

simple. I will send a sharper clown; but never let me find thee, John, either a tool for the other side, or a tube for my words to pass through.’’

Here the Lord Justice gave me such a glare, that I wished myself well rid of him, though thankful for his warnings; and seeing how he had made upon me a long abiding mark of fear, he smiled again in a jocular manner, and said:

‘‘Now, get thee gone, Jack. I shall remember thee; and I trow, thou wilt’st not for many a day forget me.”

“ My lord, I was never so glad to go; for the hay must be in, and the ricks unthatched, and none of them can make spars like me, and two men to twist every hay-rope, and mother thinking it all right, and listening right and left to lies, and cheated at every pig she kills, and even the skins of the sheep to go-”

“John Ridd, I thought none could come nigh your folk, in honesty, and goodness, and duty to their neighbours !”

“ Sure enough, my lord; but by our folk, I mean ourselves, not the men nor women neither-”

“ That will do, John. Go thy way. Not men, nor women neither, are better than they need be.”

I wished to set this matter right; but his worship would not hear me; and only drove me out of court, saying that men were thieves and liars, no more in one place than another, but all alike all over the world, and women not far behind them. It was not for me to dispute this point (though I was not yet persuaded of it), both because my lord was a Judge, and must know more about it, and also that being a man myself I might seem to be defending myself in an unbecoming manner. Therefore I made a low bow, and went; in doubt as to which had the right of it.

R. D. Blackmore, Lornci Doonc.



[These lines describe in a mood of light cheerfulness a summer’s morning. It begins at dawn. The first, sound is the song of the lark; the first sights seen round the rustic cottage or in the walk from it are those of new-waked nature, and of labpur fresh afield.]    .

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, ^

Quipsf and cranks, and wanton wiles,

Nods, and becks', and wreathed smiles Such as hang on Het}e s cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleeldf Sport that wrinkled Care derides,"' .

And Laughter holding both his sides:—-Come, and trip it asyou go On the light fantasuc toe<^

And in thy fight hand lead with thee The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;

And if I give thee honour due,

Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee In unreproved pleasures free;

To hear the lark begin his flight And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies,

Till the dappled dawn doth rise; y Then to come, in spite of sorrow,

And at my window bid good-morrow Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,

Or the twisted eglantine:

While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin,

And to the stack, or the barn-door.

Stoutly struts his dames before:


L’ALLEGRO.    139

Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,

From the side of some hoar hill,

Through the high wood echoing shrill:

Sometime walking, not unseen,

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,

Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state Robed in flames and amber light,

The clouds in thousand liveries dight;

While the ploughman, near at hand,

Whistles o'er the furrow’d land,

And the milkmaid singeth blithe,

And the mower whets his scythe.

And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.

These delights if thou canst give,

Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

John Milton.

Emerson’s Biography of Lincoln.

[The following is an essay on Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865). He was the sixteenth President of the United States; lawyer and statesmany was leader of the North in the great Civil W ar and emancipated the Southern slaves;- was re-elected President and assassinated; a man of the highest character and statesmanship. Emerson’s address was delivered at the exercises held in memory of Lincoln at Concord, Mass., 19th April, 1865.]

The President: *tood before us as a man of the people. He was thoroughly American, had nev^r crossed the sea, had never been spoiled by English insularity or French dissipation; a quite native, aboriginal "man, as an acprn from the oak; no aping of foreigners, no frivolous accomplishments, Kentuckian born, working cm, a farm, a flat-boatman, a captain in the Black Hawk war, a


[Augustus St. Gaudens.

country lawyer, a representative in the rntfaj legislature of Illinois;—on such nfodest foundations the broad structure of his fame was laid. How slowly, and yet by happily prepared steps, he came to his place! •

A plain man of the people, an extraordinary fortune attended him. He offered no shining qualities at the first encounter; he did not offend by superiority. He had a face and manner which disarmed suspicion, which inspired confidence, which confirmed good will. He was a man without vices. He had a strong sense of duty, which it was very easy for him to obey. T hen he had what farmers call a long head; was excellent in working out the sum for himself; in arguing his case and convincing you fairly and firmly.

Then it turned out that he was a great worker; had prodigious faculty of performance; worked easily. In a host of young men that start together and promise so many brilliant leaders for the next age, each fails on trial; one by bad health, one by conceit, or by love of pleasure, or lethargy, or an ugly temper—each has some disqualifving fault that throws him out of the career. But this man was sound to the core, cheerful, persistent, all right for labour, and liked nothing so well.

Then his broad good humour, running easily into jocular talk, in which he delighted and in which he excelled, was a rich gift to this wise man. It enabled him to keep his secret; to meet every kind of man and every rank in society; to take off the edge of the severest decisions; to mask his own purpose and sound his companion ; and to patch with true instinct the temper of every company he addressed. And, more than all, it is to a man of severe labour in anxious and exhausting crises, the natural restorative, good as sleep, and is the protection of the overdriven brain against rancour and insanity.

He is the author of a multitude of good sayings, so disguised as pleasantries that it is certain they had no reputation at first but as jests; and only later, by the very acceptance and adoption they find in the mouths of millions, turn out to be the wisdom of the hour. I am sure if this man had ruled in a period of less facility in printing he would have become mythological in a very few years, like PEsop or Pilpay, or one of the Seven Wise Masters, by his fables and proverbs.

What pregnant definitions; what unerring common-sense; what foresight; and, on great occasion, what lofty, and, more than national, what humane tone! His brief speech at Gettysburg will not easily be surpassed by words on any recorded occasion.

“ Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here

dedicated to the great task remaining before us,— that from these honoured dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion,—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

His occupying the chair of state was a triumph of the good sense of mankind and of the public conscience. This middle-class country had got a middle-class President at last. Yes, in manners and sympathies, but not in powers, for his powers were superior. This man grew according to the need. His mind mastered the problem of the day; and as the problem grew, so did his comprehension of it. Rarely was man so fitted to the event.

In the midst of fears and jealousies, in the Babel of counsels and parties, this man wrought incessantly with all his might and all his honesty, labouring to find what the people wanted and how to obtain that.

It cannot be said there is any exaggeration of his worth. If ever a man was fairly tested, he was. There was no lack of resistance, nor of slander, nor of ridicule. The times have allowed no state secrets; the nation has been in such ferment, such multitudes had to be trusted, that no secret could be kept. Every door was ajar, and we know all that befell.

Then, what an occasion was the whirlwind of the war. Plere was place for no holiday magistrate, no fair-weather sailor; the new pilot was hurried to the helm in a tornado. In four years—four years of battle days—his endurance, his fertility of resource, his magnanimity,

was sorely tried and never found wanting. There, by his courage, his justice, his even temper, his fertile counsel, his humanity, he stood an heroic figure in the centre of an heroic epoch. He is the true history of the American people in his time. Step by step he walked before them; slow with their slowness, quickening his march by theirs, the true representative of this continent; an entirely public man; father of his country, the pulse of twenty millions throbbing in his heart, the thought of their minds articulated by his tongue.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

To a Skylark.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert,

That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher,

From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O’er which clouds are bright’ning,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun.



The pale purple even Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere,

Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, _

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is here.

All the earth and air With thy voice is loud,

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rain§ out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,

Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower,

Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew,

Scattering unbeholden Its aerial line

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view :

Like a rose embower’d In its own green leaves,

By warm winds deflowered,

Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.

Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass,

Rain-awaken’d flowers,

All that ever was

Joyous and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine:

I have never heard Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt

Match’d with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt—

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?



With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be:

Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee:

Tliou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.

Waking or asleep

Thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear;

If we were things born Not to shed a tear,

I know not-how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow

The world would listen then, as I am listening now!

P. B. Shelley.

The Castle of Giant

rPilgrim’s Progress is an allegory. It describes a journey from the City of Destruction to the New Jerusalem, and in this way shows the life of man. The chief character is Christian, who sets out with Hopeful and other pilgrims for the Heavenly City. They pass through many dangers on their journey. Some of the pilgrims turn back, while others lose their way or are caught in the snares and pitfalls of life.]

Neither could Christian and Hopeful, with all the skill they had, get again to the stile that night. Wherefore, at last, lighting under a little shelter, they sat down there until the daybreak; but, being weary, they fell asleep.

Now there was, not far from the place where they lay, a castle called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair; and it was in his grounds they now were sleeping, wherefore he getting up in the morning early, and walking up and down in Inis fields, caught Christian and Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then with a grim and surly voice he bid them awake; and asked them whence they were, and what they did in his grounds. They told him they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their way. “ Then,” said the Giant, “ you have this night trespassed on me, by trampling in, and lying on, my grounds, and therefore you must go along with me.”

So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they. They also had but little to say, for they knew themselves in a fault. The Giant, therefore, drove them before him, and put them into his castle, into a very dark dungeon, nasty and stinking to the spirits of these two men. Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday night, without one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask how they did: they were, therefore, here in evil case, and were far from friends.

Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence. So when he was gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done; to wit, that he had taken a couple of prisoners and cast them into his dungeon, for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked her what he had best to do further to them. She asked him what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound; and he told her. Then she counselled him that when he arose in the morning he should beat them without mercy.

So when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel, and goes down into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if they were dogs, although they never gave him a word of distaste. Then he falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort, that they were not able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor.

This done, he withdraws and leaves them, there to condole their misery, and to mourn under their distress. So all that day they spent the time in nothing but sighs and bitter lamentations. The next night, she, talking with her husband about them further, and understanding they were yet alive, did advise him to counsel them to make away with themselves.

So when morning was come, he goes to them in a surly manner as before, and perceiving them to be very sore with the stripes that he had given them the day before, he told them, that since they were never like to come out of that place, their only way would be forthwith to make an end of themselves, either with knife, halter, or poison. “ For why,” said he, “should you choose life, seeing it is attended with so much bitterness?”

But they desired him to let them go. With that he looked ugly upon them, and rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them himself, but that he fell into one of

his fits (for he sometimes, in sunshiny weather, fell into fits), and lost for a time the use of his hands. Wherefore he withdrew, and left them as before to consider what to do; so they continued, in the dark, that day in their sad and doleful condition.

Well, towards evening, the Giant goes down into the dungeon again to see if his prisoners had taken his counsel; but when he came there he found them alive; and truly alive was all. For now, what for want of bread and water, and by reason of the wounds they received when he beat them, they could do little but breathe. But, I say, he found them alive; at which he fell into a grievous rage, and told them that, seeing they had disobeyed his counsel, it should be worse with them than if they had never been born. At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell into a swoon.

Now, night being come again, and the Giant and his wife being in bed, she asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his counsel. To which he replied, “ They are sturdy rogues, they choose rather to bear all hardships than to make away with themselves.”

Then said she, “Take them into the castle-yard to-morrow, and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou hast already despatched, and make them believe, ere a week comes to an end, thou also wilt tear them in pieces, as thou hast done their fellows before them.”

So when morning was come the Giant goes to them again, and takes them into the castle-yard, and shows them, as his wife had bidden him. “ These,” said he, “ were pilgrims, as you are, once, and they trespassed in my grounds, as you have done; and when I thought fit I tore them in pieces, and so, within ten days, I will do you. Go, get you down to your den again ”; and with that he beat them all the way thither. They lay, therefore, all day on Saturday in a lamentable case, as before.





Now, when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffidence and her husband the Giant were got to bed, they began to renew their discourse of their prisoners; and withal the old Giant wondered that he could neither by his blows nor his counsel bring them to an end. And with that his wife replied unto him, “ I fear that they live in hope that someone will come to relieve them, or that they have picklocks about them, by the means of which they hope to escape.” “And sayest thou so, my dear?” said the Giant; ‘ I will, therefore, search them in the morning.”

Well, on Saturday, about midnight, the two pilgrims began to pray, and continued in prayer till almost break Df day.

Now, a little before it was day, good Christian, as me half amazed, brake out in this passionate speech:

‘ What a fool,” quoth he, “ am I, thus to lie in a stinking iungeon, when I may as well walk at liberty! I have a key in my bosom, called Promise, that wiil, I am persuaded, bpen any lock in Doubting Castle.” Then said Hopeful, ‘That is good news, good brother; pluck it out of thy losom, and try.”

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began :o try at the dungeon door, whose bolt (as he turned the cey) gave back, and the door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then they came :o the outward door that leads into the castle-yard, and vith his key Christian opened it also. After, he went to .he iron gate, for that must be opened too; but that lock went hard, yet the key did open it.

Then they thrust open the gate to make their escape with speed, but that gate, as it opened, made such a creaking, that it waked Giant Despair, who, hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail, for his fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. Then they went on, and came to the King’s highway, and so were safe.

From Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan.


The Cloud.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; i bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken s The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their Mother’s breast,

As she dances about the Sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;

And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;

And all the night ’tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers Lightning my pilot sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder—-It struggles and howls at fits:

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the Genii that move In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.




The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning-star shines dead,—•

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings.

And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above,—

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the Moon,

Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,—-Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone,

And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof;

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-coloured bow;

The Sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove,

While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,

And the nursling of the Sky:

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain—when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air—

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.

P. B. Shelley.

To begin, then, with Shakespeare. He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient, poets had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of Nature were still present to him, and he drew them, not laboriously, but happily; when he describes anything, you more than see it, you feel it too.


Beauty is truth, truth beauty—that is all Ye know on earth and all ye need to know.




The Story of John Brown.

John Brown’s body lies a-mouldemng in the grave,

But his soul is marching on.”

The simple words which stand at the head of this lesson were the battle-chant of the armies of the North during the American Civil War. They were the slogan of men who were prepared to give their lives that the reproach of slavery might be wiped away from their land. Thousands of them perished on the stricken field, sustained in their dying hours by the knowledge that out of their sufferings would spring the fair flower of freedom for all their fellow-countrymen, no matter what their race, condition, or colour.

Who was John Brown? How came his body to lie in the grave, and why did his soul go marching on after his life had left him? Before I answer these questions I must tell you something about the history of the United States of America.

If you look at a map of the North American continent, you will see the land between the Great Lakes and the Gulf of Mexico marked out into many large divisions. Each of these divisions, or “ states,” has full control over its own internal affairs, but all are united for national purposes. In the year 1854 some of the states permitted slave-holding; others forbade it. The slave-holding states lay mostly in the South, and were chiefly engaged in growing cotton. This work was done by negro slaves. The “ free ” states were mainly in the North.

When new territories were admitted as states into the Union, there was often a great struggle to decide whether they should be “slave” or “free.” Men took sides, and strong feeling was aroused. North and South were embittered against each other, and many lawless and cruel deeds



were clone both by those who wished slavery to be abolished and by those who believed that their livelihood would be gone if the slaves were freed.

When the question arose of giving state rights to the Territory of Kansas, it was decided that the slave question should be put to the vote of the people of Kansas, and that they should say whether the new state was to be “ free ” or “ slave.” This decision destroyed all hope of a peaceful settlement. Partisans from North and South hurried to the new state to take up holdings and occupy the land so as to be able to vote either for freedom or for slavery, as the case might be.

Armed men from the South poured across the border and terrorized the people into casting their votes for slavery. In this way all the pro-slavery candidates were elected but one. Not content with this victory,'the party in favour of slave-holding began raiding the “ free ” settlements. Outrages, burnings, shootings, were so frequent that the new state became known as “ Bleeding Kansas.”

John Brown now appears on the scene. He was descended from one of the Mayflower pilgrims, and was a man of strongly religious mind. Early in his life he became a bitter enemy of slavery, and resolved to devote himself heart and soul to the freeing of the slaves. By the law of the United States a man who assisted a slave to leave a “ slave ” state was subject to heavy punishment. John Brown knew the law; but as he believed the law to be wicked, he determined to break it. He set up what was known as the “ Underground Railway ”—that is, he established a chain of lonely dwellings stretching right through the States, so that a slave who escaped from his master might find shelter in them and be helped on, stage by stage, until he reached Canada and liberty.



In the year 1855, when Kansas was in a terribly lawless condition, he sent five of his sons to settle in that state and strengthen the party of freedom. When their farms were raided and their lives were threatened, they begged their father to collect arms and come to their aid. Fie did so, and soon gathered around him a force of stalwart men determined to resist the upholders of slavery by every means in their power.

Nevertheless, raid followed raid, and affairs went from bad to worse. The pro-slavery rulers of Kansas outlawed him, and set a price upon his head. By this time he was convinced that nothing would right the wrongs of the slaves but an appeal to armed force. Fie therefore made up his mind to enter the slave-holding states, proclaim a rising of the slaves, and fight out the quarrel on the actual soil of slavery.

To ensure the success of this enterprise a large supply of arms and ammunition was necessary. For some years he devoted himself to the work of preparation, but found great difficulty in procuring arms. While he was casting about for a means of securing weapons and gunpowder, his thoughts turned to Harper’s Ferry, the arsenal of the United States.    .

Harper’s Ferry stands on a bluff at the meeting-place of the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers, in the state of Virginia. In its arsenal there were usually kept about two hundred thousand muskets.

To this place, in July, 1859, came John Brown with two of his sons. They spent a few days examining the country round about, and pretended that they were looking out for a sheep farm. Finally, they rented a farmhouse about six miles from the arsenal. Their next business was to convey to this farm the arms which they had collected. This was done secretly and by night.


You have already guessed that Brown’s intention was to raid the arsenal, and thus provide himself with sufficient weapons to arm the slaves of Virginia. On Sunday night, 16th October, 1859, he mustered his followers and said, “ Men, get your arms; we will proceed to the Ferry.” The party numbered nineteen all told, including Brown and two of his sons.

The night was cold and dark, and before long the rain fell. Shortly after ten o’clock they reached the bridge crossing the Potomac. Seizing the sentry and turning out the lights, they rushed towards the armoury, captured the three watchmen who guarded it, and forced open the door with a crowbar. One of the watchmen asked Brown by what authority he did these things. He replied, “ By the authority of Almighty God.” He then posted two men at the bridgehead in order to waylay the relief watchman, who was due to arrive at midnight. Passing on, he then took possession of the other buildings of the arsenal, and of the bridge over the Shenandoah.

While he was thus occupied the relief watchman arrived at the Potomac bridge. Before he could be seized, he turned and ran back to the village, where he raised an alarm. Nothing came of it, however, for a considerable time. The inhabitants were afraid to leave their houses, for they imagined that the attack on the arsenal must have been made by a large force. They had no idea that the place had been seized and every point of vantage occupied by a party of nineteen men. Before midnight the village was quietly patrolled by Brown’s followers. They had overawed it without firing a gun.

The night express to Washington, the seat of Government, was due to cross the railway bridge soon after midnight, and Brown sent four of his men to stop it. This they did, though not without some resistance from the



passengers. To those who asked him why he had held up the train he replied, “ To free the slaves.” The train was detained for several hours, and when it was allowed to proceed the passengers scribbled accounts of what was going on at Harper's Ferry, and threw them out of the windows as the train sped on. Thus they aroused the countryside.

Brown had now plenty of rifles, and his next step was to incite the slaves to join him. Fie sent off six of his men to scour the neighbourhood and bring in the negroes to receive arms. Meanwhile day dawned, and the inhabitants of the town now knew that the arsenal had been captured. Many of them were seized as they came out of their houses, and were imprisoned in the armoury.

Some of the bolder spirits were not content to stand by and let the raiders work their will. They occupied a room in a house overlooking the armoury gate, and began firing on the men who were guarding it. One of the sentries was killed, and Brown’s son, Watson, was wounded. Nevertheless, Brown remained master of the town all that Monday forenoon, and he might have made good his escape to the mountains. Why he lingered we do not know, but it is supposed that he thought the negroes of the surrounding country would speedily flock to him.

Only a few slaves came in; the expected rising came to nothing. Meanwhile a hundred militiamen arrived from Charlestown. They captured the Shenandoah bridge, entered the village, and, collecting volunteers, proceeded to attack all the points held by Brown’s followers.

Shots were now exchanged with the militiamen, and several of the raiders were hit, while others were made prisoners. Attacked on all sides, Brown fell back from the arsenal to the armoury, and finally into an engine house which was loopholed and barricaded.



In this stronghold he defended himself all the afternoon ; but his situation was now desperate. The slaves had failed to join him, and most of his best men had been taken or slain. His son Oliver fell by his side, but the old father gave no sign of faltering. He felt the pulse of his dying son with one hand, while he gripped his rifle with the other hand and encouraged his men to stand firm. He would not permit his comrades to aim at passers-by, and when one of them was about to do so he stopped him with the remark, “ Don’t shoot; that man is unarmed.”

That evening Colonel Robert E. Lee, afterwards well known in American history, arrived with a company of marines, and at seven o’clock on Tuesday morning fifteen hundred soldiers marched into the village. Brown was still holding out, though his force had been reduced to six men. Thousands of bullets had been fired at them, but most of these had found a billet in the walls.

By this time Brown had been recognised by a man who had known him in Kansas. He was called upon to surrender, but refused to do so. Finally, the door was battered in with a ladder, and there was a fierce struggle in the engine house. At length, when his two sons were dead and he himself was wounded, he threw down his rifle and yielded.

Despite his surrender a too eager lieutenant cut him down, and another soldier twice thrust his bayonet into him. He was unconscious when he was carried out of the engine house and laid on the grass by the side of his dead and wounded comrades. He was supposed to be dying.

Soon, however, he gave signs of life, and was able to speak. He was then taken into the guardhouse, where he was safe from the mob, who were now yelling for his blood. “I have failed,” he said. “You may dispose of me very

easily. I am nearly disposed of now. But this question has yet to be settled—the negro question, I mean. The end of it is not yet.”

The old man was tried by a Virginia court; but his trial was a mere mockery, and before the end of it he had to be carried to and from the court in a camp-bed. There was some talk of rescue, but he sternly forbade any such attempt. Finally, he was sentenced to death by hanging.

On the morning of Friday, 2nd December, John Brown left his prison and looked up to the sky for the last time. As he saw the lines of soldiers lining the road, he lifted his head proudly, and stepped as though he were a conqueror into the cart that was to carry him to the scaffold. He met his death without a tremor.

On the day of his execution he handed to one of his guards a paper on which he had written: “I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but by blood. I had, as I now think, vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed it might be done.”

Within eighteen months his prophecy was fulfilled. War began between the North and the South, and for four years the land was given over to bloodshed and slaughter. As I told you at the outset, many of the Northern regiments marched to the battlefields singing as their war-song—

“ John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave,

But his soul is marching on.”

The soul of this devoted man marched on and on until'5'-the day of victory, and when it dawned slavery was for ever banished from American soil. Some men declared that he was crazy, while others denounced him as a lawbreaker; but when every slave in America was free, it was clearly seen that his death had completed the work of his life, and that his name was worthy of everlasting renown as that of a pure patriot and a lover of his fellow-men.



[After the painting by John Constable, R.A.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke j



Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.



The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await alike th’ inevitable hour—

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.


Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame,

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,

To teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e’er resigned,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,


Haply some hoary-beaded swain may say,

“ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.


“ There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

“ One morn I missed him on the ’customed hill,

Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“ The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

The Epitaph.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown;

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Misery all he had—a tear;

He gained from Heaven (’twas all he wished) a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose),

The bosom of his Father and his God.

Thomas Gray.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge.


A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone.



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 hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice.

Shakespeare (1564-1616).

On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer.

Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow’d Homer ruled in his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men Look’d at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

John Keats.

The Vision of Mirza.

On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, “ Surely,” said I, “ man is but a shadow, and life a dream.” Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he applied it to his lips and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius, and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it;(but) never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by these transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to approach the place where he sat/ I drew near with that reverence which is duetto a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely snbchied by the captivating strains I had

heard, I fell down at his feet and weptv The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarised him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, “ Mirza,” said he, “ I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.”

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it, “ Cast thine eyes eastward,” said he, “ and tell me what thou se&st.”

“ I see,” said I, “ a huge valley and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.”

“ The valley that thou seest,” said he, “ is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of eternity.”

“ What is the reason,” said I, “ that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other? ”

“What thou seest,” said he, “is that portion of eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now,” said he, “ this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.”

“ I see a bridge,” said I, “ standing in the midst of the tide.”

“ The bridge thou seest,” said he, “ is Human Life; consider it attentively.”

Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number to about a hundred. As I was counting the arches the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that a great flood had swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it.

“ But tell me further,” said he, “ what thou discoverest on it.”

“ I see multitudes of people passing over it,” said I, “ and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.” As I looked more attentively I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. ^

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. 'My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of a speculation, stumbled, and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and danced before them; but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I

observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others who ran to and fro upon the bridge thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them.

The genius, seeing me indulge myself on this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. “Take thine eyes off the bridge,” said he, “and tell me if thou yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend.”

Upon looking up, “ What mean,” said I, “ those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.”

“ These,” said the genius, “ are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Tdespair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest Human Life.”

I here fetched a deep sigh. “ Alas,” said I, “man was made in vain!—how is he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death! ”

The genius being moved with compassion towards me, bade me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. “ Look no more,” said he, “on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity, but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it.”

I directed my sight as I was ordered, and I saw the valley opening at the further end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vastxocean planted with innumerable islands that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little, shining seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers, and could hear a confused harmony of singing-birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle that I might fly away to those happy seats, but the genius told me there was no passage to them except through the Gates of Death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge.

“ The islands,” said he, “ that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands on the seashore; there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them. Every island is a paradise accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza! habitations worth contending for? Does life appear miserable, that' gives the opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him.”

I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy, happy islands. At length, said I: “ Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant.”

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The genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating, but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it.

From The Spectator, by Joseph Addison.

Pictures from the Deserted Village.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train,

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o’er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e’en his failings leaned to virtue’s side;

But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,

The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorned the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man,

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;

E’en children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile. His ready smile a parent’s warmth exprest;

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,

There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,

The village master taught his little school:

A man severe he was, and stern to view,

I knew him well, and every truant knew;

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper, circling round,

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned:

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault;

The village all declared how much he knew,

’Twas certain he could write and cipher too;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And e’en the story ran—that he could gauge:

In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,

For e’en though vanquished he could argue still;

While words of learned length, and thund’ring sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,

That one small head could carry all he knew.

But past is all his fame—that very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.

O. Goldsmith.

The farther off we place our aim, and the less we desire to be ourselves the witnesses of what we have laboured for, the more wide and rich will be the measure of our success.


Every little makes a mickle.

The League of Nations.

For years, wise men have dreamt of a time when the nations would cease to fight each other, when in the words of a famous English poet:—


“ The war drum throbbed no longer, and the battle flags were furled

In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.”

And this vision of a federated world, this dream of poets and philosophers, has at last had concrete embodiment in our own time in the League of Nations, a solemn international treaty to which over fifty nations have set their seal.

What a memorable scene it must have been when, a minute or two after 10.30 on the 16th. January, 1920, six days after the League came into force, M. Léon Burgeois, President of the French Senate, rose from his seat at the head of an oval table underneath the famous clock in the Salle de l’Horloge, and pronounced a dozen French words, which translated read: “ Gentlemen, the meeting of the Council of the League of Nations is open”! Very simple words, yet they will stand on record for all time, for they signified that international anarchy had ended and they implied the confident hope and belief that world government had begun.

The adoption by the nations of this treaty of peace, or the Covenant of the League of Nations, as it is called, was, therefore, a very big step forward in human progress. In fact, we may regard it as one of the great single acts in the history of mankind. For it was the first time in history that the nations of the world pledged themselves to act together for the peace, security, and happiness of the world as a whole. There had been, of course, many cases of joint action before—the nineteenth century is strewn with

attempts towards world peace—but they had always been of a sectional interest, or serving the selfish aims of a nation, or a group of nations; but never before the signing of the Covenant had there been a general realization that the claims of mankind must come first, that the interests of humanity transcend the interests of the individual nation, be it ever so strong.

And this principle of corporate responsibility, this new idea of working for mankind, rather than for the selfish interests of ambitious nations, is embodied in the twenty-six articles of the Covenant. They are very important and everybody should know something about them. Primarily they are congemed with the prevention of war, for war is futile and destructive, and no human progress is possible unless war and the threat of war are abolished from the world. In brief, they bind the nations not to employ force for the settlement of a dispute, until they have first submitted it to the League (or to arbitrators, or to judges), and then waited at least another three months after the award or decision has been given. This allows an interval of nearly a year for passions to cool, and enables the public opinion of the world to decide the rights and wrongs of the case. The moral force of public opinion is a mighty weapon; time and again, disputes have been peacefully settled through no other means than this. Another section of the Covenant deals with the nation which goes to war in violation of its Covenant. Such a nation is regarded as acting in opposition to all other members of the League, and provision exists whereby these nations may break off relations with the offending member.

They are certainly a very comprehensive set of articles for preventing war, and a few minutes’ study of them will show that if they were honourably kept, war between nations would be nearly impossible. Furthermore, the position of the League has been strengthened by all kinds of agreements



entered into by the nations since 1920. Perhaps the most important of these is the Pact of Paris. This treaty, by the end of 1930, was signed by sixty-one members, including the United States of America, which until then had remained outside the bond of Nations pledged to work for peace. In its two principal articles, the Nations solemnly declare “ to renounce war as an instrument of national policy,” and agree that the issue “ of all disputes of whatever nature or of whatever origin shall never be sought except by pacific means.” This agreement marks one of the greatest moments in the history of peace, for practically all the nations have agreed to use war only for the needs of defending themselves if they are attacked.

Even this short summary should convince you that the League of Nations is as good a piece of machinery for bringing peace into the world as the ingenuity of man can devise. If war and the threat of war still loom large on our horizon, then we must seek for the fault elsewhere. Man through the ages of developing civilisation has learnt the necessity for and the value of peace and order to the happiness of himself and the small community about him; but he is slower to learn that he is part, also, of a larger community—the community of nations.

Consider what would happen in your town if its business men one day began to break their contracts, their solemn pledges or promises to do a certain thing; or if a large number of men and women suddenly went mad and started giving vent to the evil things in their nature. Your answer, of course, is that people would not do these things because they would be too afraid of being punished by the government. But is that altogether true? At school, for example, is it only the fear of your teachers that makes you behave yourself and “ play the game ” with the rest of the members of your little community? Yet this imaginary town, turned topsy turvy, is not an unfair picture of what sometimes

happens in the international world. Nations break their promises and flout the laws that they themselves have made. Large masses of people, kindly, considerate, and just in their private life, suddenly lose control and turn to Suspicion, Envy, Greed, and Hate. It is all very hard to understand, but the explanation might be that in our relations with other nations we give rather fine names to very evil things.

One thing, however, is clear. Wars do not just happen. They are made. They are made by us, by our indifiference, our intolerance, our hatreds, and our greeds. If we tried to understand the point of view of other people, regarded them as our brothers rather than as our possible enemies, there need never be another war. In the League we have the necessary machinery for peace. It is the result of centuries of thought and effort, our heritage, the gift of those splendid men who died in the Great War to bring peace to our distracted world. Let us, then, cherish it as such and use it rightly. For it can live and be effective only if we support it. We have the alternatives before us: world anarchy, or world government leading to world peace and all that makes peace worth while. Which are we going to choose ?

Men’s hearts ought not to be set against one another, but set with one another, and all against the evil thing only.


Five great enemies of peace inhabit with us—avarice, ambition, envy, anger, and pride; if these were to be banished, we should infallibly enjoy perpetual peace.


Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.

Break, Break, Break.

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.


O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play 1

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bayl

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me!


The Dignity of Labour.

Labour ! Consider its achievements ! Dismayed by no difficulty, shrinking from no exertion, exhausted by no struggle, ever eager for renewed efforts in its preserving promotion of human happiness, “ clamorous Labour knocks with its hundred hands at the golden gate of the morning,” obtaining each day, through succeeding centuries, fresh benefactions for the world. Labour clears the forest, and drains the morass, and makes “ the wilderness rejoice and blossom as the rose.” Labour drives the plough, and scatters the seeds, and. reaps the harvest. Labour, tending the pastures and sweeping the waters, provides with daily sustenance the nine hundred millions of the family of man. Labour gathers the gossamer web of the caterpillar, the cotton from the field, and the fleece from the flock, and weaves it into the purple robe of the prince and the gray gown of the peasant. Labour quarries the stone, and shapes the column, and rears not only the humble cottage, but the gorgeous palace and the tapering spire and the stately dome, Labour smelts the iron, and moulds it into a thousand shapes vii.—G for use and ornament, from the massive pillar to the tiniest needle. Labour hews down the gnarled oak, and shapes the timber, and builds the ship, and guides it over the deep, bearing to our shores the produce of every clime. Labour, laughing at difficulties, spans majestic rivers, bridges deep ravines, and pierces the solid mountain with its dark tunnel. Labour draws forth its delicate iron thread and stretches it from city to city, over mountains and under the sea, by which speech may outstrip the wind and compete with the lightning itself.

Labour, a mighty magician, walks forth into a region uninhabited and waste; he looks earnestly at the scene, so quiet in its desolation; then, waving his wonder-working wand, those dreary valleys smile with golden harvests; those barren mountain-slopes are clothed with foliage; the furnace blazes; the anvil rings; the busy wheel whirls round; the town appears; the mart of commerce, the hall of science, the temple of religion rear high their lofty fronts; a forest of masts, gay with varied pennons, rises from the harbour; Science enlists the elements of earth and heaven in its service; Art, awakening, clothes its strength with beauty; Civilization smiles; Liberty is glad; Humanity rejoices; Piety exults—for the voice of industry and-gladness is heard on every side.

Newman Hall.

A Song.

Hark ! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings And Phoebus ’gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes:

With everything that pretty is,

My lady sweet, arise!


Arise, arise!

The Day is Done.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of night As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in its flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow/ only As the mist resembles the rain.

/ Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heart-felt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day;

% Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps/ echo Through the corridors of time

For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life’s endless toil and endeavour, And to-night I long for rest. \s

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;,.

Who, through long days of labour, And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. ^

Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And silently steal away.


A Noble Sacrifice.

[This tragic incident is the conclusion of A Tale of Two Cities, a story of the French Revolution. The two cities are Paris and London.

A young French nobleman named Evremonde, but calling himself Charles Darnay, had settled in England and married Lucie, the daughter of Doctor Manette, a Frenchman, who at the outset of the Revolution had been rescued from the Bastille after an imprisonment of many years.

Among the visitors to Charles Darnay’s house was Sydney Carton, a lawyer. Carton had wrecked his own life, but, in the end, his shortcomings were atoned for by an act of the most generous and heroic self-sacrifice.

When the Terror in Paris was at its height, Darnay received a letter begging him, for the love of heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of his noble name, to succour and release an old servant of the family who had been cast into prison. Unable to resist this piteous appeal, he crossed the Channel, but was arrested as an aristocrat and condemned to death. ; Lucie and her father, distracted by grief, hastened there also; but all their efforts to save the doomed man were fruitless—it became evident that he must die.

Then Sydney Carton appeared. His heart was sore for Lncie and her child, and he determined to rescue Darnay at the sacrifice of his own life. His resolution transformed him. Every particle of dross and clay that had obscured his better nature vanished, leaving behind only the purest gold.]

Part I.

Charles Darnay had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he wotdd be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.

Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very different man from the prisoner who had walked to and fro at La Force, he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his recovered self-possession, he thought, “ There is but another now,” and turned to walk again.

Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.

The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or as it opened, a man said in low voice, in English: “ He has never seen me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose no time ! ”

The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.

There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner’s hand, and it was his real grasp.






“ Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me ? ” he said.

“ I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You are not”—the apprehension came suddenly into his mind—“a prisoner?”

“ No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her—your wife, dear Darnay.”

The prisoner wrung his hand.

“ I bring you a request from her.”

“ What is it?”

“ A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you will remember.”

The prisoner turned his face partly aside.

“ You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have no time to tell you. You must comply with it—take off those boots you wear, and draw on these of mine.”

There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner. Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.

“ Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to them. Quick!

“ Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You will only die with me. It is madness.”

“ It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like this of mine! ”    •



With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.

“ Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”

“ Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand steady enough to write? ”

“ It was when you came in.”

“ Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”

Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table. Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.

“ Write exactly as I speak.”

“ To whom do I address it?”

“ To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.

“ Do I date it ? ”

“ No.”

The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with his hand in his breast, looked down.

“‘If you remember,’” said Carton, dictating, “‘the words that passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it. You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.’ ”

Pie was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon something.

“ Have you written ‘ forget them’?” Carton asked.

“ 1 have. Is that a weapon in your hand? ”



“ No. I am not armed.”

“ What is it in your hand ? ”

“You shall know'directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He dictated again. “ ‘ I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove them, lhat I do so is no subject for regret or grief.’” As he said these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hands slowly moved down close to the writer’s face.

The pen dropped from Darnay’s fingers on the table, and he looked about him vacantly.

“ What vapour is that?” he asked.


“ Something that crossed me?”

“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry! ”

As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the prisoner made no effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton—his hand again in his breast—looked steadily at him.

“ Hurry, hurry ! ”

The prisoner bent over the paper once more.

“‘If it had been otherwise;’” Carton’s hand was again watchfully and softly stealing down; “ ‘ I never should have used the longer opportunity. If it had been otherwise;”’ the hand was at the prisoner’s face; “‘I should but have had so much the more to answer for. If

it had been otherwise-’ ” Carton looked at the pen

and saw it was trailing off into unintelligible signs.

O it is excellent


To have a giant’s strength, but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.



A Noble Sacrifice.

Part II.

Carton’s hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up with a reproachful look, but Carton’s hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and Carton’s left arm caught him round the waist. For a few seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on the ground.

Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he softly called “ Enter there! Come in! ” and the Spy presented himself.

“ You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very great?”

“ Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “ my hazard is not that, in the thick of business here, if you are true to the whole of your bargain.”

“ Don’t fear me. I will be true to the death.”

“ You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”

“ Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and take me to the coach.”

“You?” said the Spy nervously.

“ Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out of the gate by which you brought me in?”

“Of course.”



“ I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands. Quick! Call assistance ! ”

“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a last moment.

“ Man, man! ” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “ have I sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious moments now? Take him yourself to the court-yard you know of, place him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away! ”

The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.

“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “ So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of Sainte Guillotine?”

“ A good patriot,” said the other, “ could hardly have been more afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”

They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.

“ The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.

“ I know it well,” answered Carton. “ Be careful of my friend, I entreat you, and leave me.”

“ Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “ Lift him, and come away!”

The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages; no cry was raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.

Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely saying, “ Follow me, Evremonde! ” and he followed into a large dark room, at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion ; but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking fixedly at the ground.

As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, »while some of the’ fifty-two were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him, as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.

“ Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “ I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”

He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of? ”

“ Plots. Though the just Pleaven knows I am innocent of any. Is it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me?”

The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears started from his eyes.



? ”


“ I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us poor will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature! ”

As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.

“ I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true.”

“ It was. But I was again taken and condemned.”

“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage.”

As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young fingers and touched his lips.

“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.

“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”

“ O, will you let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”

“ Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”

Darnay escapes with his wife and family to England. Sydney Carton dies on the scaffold, suffering next after the little seamstress.

From A Tale of Two Cities, by Chas. Dickens.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Lord Tennysoni


The Nation Builders. beching sequence flotilla

Pasteur’s Great Discovery. scientist chemistry-apothecary enthusiasm experiments engrossed laboratory ceremony malady parasites cholera contagious * chloroformed hydrophobia ridiculed anthrax paralysed codified diphtheria pasteurization typhoid

Mark Antony’s Oration ambitious -grievously testament bequeathing

An Ancient Chariot Race.

Part I. myriads contestants antagonist collision -opponents appreciable pedestal





competitors -


An Ancient Chariot Race.

Part II. consular injunction ineffably menace strategy Corinthian Byzantine

Young Lochinvar. quaffed galliard croup scaur

The Destruction

of Pompeii. prodigal chasms mimicries abyss


suffocating •.









The Ocean. unknelled armaments leviathans • arbiter invisible

The Eve of













The Saxon and the Gael. ceaseless^ plaid prophecy kern falchion dubious feint recreant

Making a Newspaper. ferreting literature monarchs telephone » camera photograph finance cylinder

The Escape from the Tower. despondency missiles eccentricities vague . indistinct

The Fall of W olsey. conscience corruption

, martyr

Landing of the Australians at Gallipoli.

, anniversary

•    laurels howitzers artillery travail explosive

The Founding of New England.

. counsels expeditions constitution

•    essentially despotism

•    democracy

September in Australia.

   hyaline resplendent themes attuned

Radium, the Magic Metal.

•    perpetual electrocution guinea sulphate explosions cancer

•    tumours disease

i phosphorescent pitchblende madame uranium Utah



Bell-Birds. sycamore myrtle lyrics tS"

The Crusader and the Saracen. Couchant Saracen inflection rhinoceros inimitable frustrated elusory stirrup Emir

Millet, the Peasant Painter. brilliant atmosphere peasants

Sir Isaac Nczvton. Lincoln ingenuity mechanical chisel conjecture anticipations mahogany architect mathematics squirrels deficiency miniature reverential Cambridge anecdotes

What is War? concentration atrocities oracles revelation omnipotent recesses dissemination economic

The Ancient Mariner.









The Dinner at the Inn. Part I. foreign dexterity akimbo

The Dinner at the Inn.

Part II. appetite ruminate dispatch coincidence diversion diffidence humility veneration disconcerting destination

An Interview.' with Judge Jeffreys.

Part I.











An Interview with Judge Jeffreys.

Part II. miscreant sheriff circuit traitors skewered solicitor unthatched

L’Allegro. nymph jollity unreproved eglantine liveries . scythe

Emerson’s Biography of














To a Skylark. unpremeditated aerial satiety hymeneal chaunt langour

The Cloud. skiey sanguine ardours cenotaph

The Story of John Brown. civil decision terrorized raiding stalwart militiamen barricaded

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. knell






On First Looking into Chapman's Homer. realms fealty demesne

The Vision of Mir za.





Pictures from the Deserted Village. allured accents counterfeited cipher vanquished

The League of Nations.



















The Dignity of Labour.





A Noble Sacrifice.

Part I. succour Bastille cautionary apparition pathetic faculties

A Noble Sacrifice. Partii, seamstress guillotine audible


The Nation Builders.

George Essex Evans (1863-1909), Queensland poet; born in London; educated in Guernsey; arrived in Queensland in 1881; became surveyor and farmer, and later entered the Public Service; from 1882 onwards he contributed verse to Australian newspapers; was editor of the Antipodean; founded (1903) the Austral Association at Toowoomba; wrrote several prize odes; published several volumes of poems, including The Repentance of Magdalene Despar (1891), Loraine (1898), and 1'he Secret Key (1906).

beching: Employed in the beche-de-mer (or trepang) industry, which is carried on in the East Indies and at certain places on the northern shores of Australia.

Pasteur’s Great Discovery.

Artois: A town in the east of France, noted for its sawmills and tanneries.

microbes : Minute plants or animals, especially those that cause disease or ferment.

antitoxin : A toxin is a poison produced in the blood by microbes which cause some particular disease. An antitoxin destroys the effect of a toxin.

pasteurization of milk : Heating the milk to a temperature a little below boiling-point in order to destroy the germs that turn the milk sour.

Mark Antony’s Oration.

William Sharespeare (1564-1616) was the greatest of all dramatists, lie was born at S'ratford-on-Avon in 1564. When a young man he went to London and became first an actor, and later a writer of plays. The oration is taken from the tragedy of Julius Caesar.

on the Lupercal ”: It was on the festival of the Lupercalia (15th January, 44 B.o.) that Antony set the crown on the head of Julius Csesar, and he rejected the offer only half-heartedly on account of the groans of the people.

the Nervii: The Nervii were the most warlike of the Belgae. The speaker refers to Caesar’s brilliant victory over them.

An Ancient Chariot Race.

Part I.

An Ancient Chariot Race.

Part II.

Lewis Wallace (1827-1905) was an American soldier. At one time he was the Governor of New Mexico, and later the United States Minister at Constantinople. He is best known as the author of Ben Hur, a novel from which this story is taken.



“ A man took down from the entablature at the west end one of the wooden balls. ... A dolphin on the east entablature was taken down at the same time ” : As the cars whirled round the finishing-post at the end of the first round, a conical wooden ball was taken down from the entablature (i.ethe part of the building just above the columns) at the west end, and a dolphin was removed from the east end. Six balls and dolphins were so removed, and when only one remained it signified that the last round had come.

more than one altar was richer of his vows: Messala had promised to lay gifts on the altars of various gods if he were successful.

old Aramaic : The language of Palestine in the day of Christ—a dialect that has now almost entirely died out.

Young Lochinvar.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) was one of the greatest and most beloved of the poets of Scotland. (See note on The Saxon and the Gael.)

measure: A slow and stately dance, galliard: An old French dance with lively movements, the Border: The district on each side of the boundary between England and Scotland.

the Solway: The tide in the Solway rises very quickly.

The Destruction of Pompeii.

Lord Lytton, better known as Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton (18031873), was a novelist and statesman. The Last of the Barons and The Last Days of Pom'peii are his best-known novels.

an intolerable crimson: The red colour was so glaring that one could not bear to look at it.

audible but to the watch of intensest fear: Could be heard only by the terror-stricken.

sensibly felt: Felt by the senses.

forum : An open space surrounded by the chief public buildings and the usual place of assembly for the people.

Thessalian: Nydia was a native of Thessaly, the largest division of ancient Greece.

The Ocean.

Lord George Noel Gordon Byron (1788-1824) was born in London and educated at Harrow and Cambridge. He was erratic in mind and impetuous in spirit. Cliilde Harold, from which The Ocean is an extract, is, perhaps, his finest poem. He wandered on the Continent, and fought at Missolonghi with the Greeks to throw off the Turkish yoke. Pie contracted a fever there from which he died.

spoils of Trafalgar: After the battle of Trafalgar a storm arose, and most of the ships captured by the British were destroyed.



leviathan: A huge ship.

arbiter of war: One who controls the issue of war.

Assyria: A great empire of ancient times on the banks of the Euphrates and the Tigris. It was most powerful about 700 B.c. Carthage: One of the most famous cities of antiquity on the north-east coast of Africa. In the sixth century before Christ Carthage became the mistress of the Mediterranean.

The Eve of Anzac.

John Masefield (1874) is a writer of poems, plays, and novels. He became Poet Laureate in 1930.

picket-boat: Small boats in the navy engaged in light duties, carrying messages, &c.

Lemnos, Samothrace, and Tenedos: Islands in the Aegean Sea, near the Dardanelles.

Troy: On the Asiatic coast at the western entrance to the Dardanelles, celebrated by the poems of Homer and Virgil.

Mudros: A harbour on the south side of Lemnos.

The Saxon and the Gael.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832), the great romancer; famous as a writer of ballads and lays, and world-famous as the author of 7 he Waverley Novels', born in Edinburgh; studied for the law. His chief poems are The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Marmion, and The Lady of the Lake; his novels include Waverley, Guy Mannering, The Antiquary, Itob ltoy, The Heart of Midlothian, Old Mortality, Quentin Durward, The Bride of Lammermoor, Ivanhoe, W oodstoclc, and others. He lived many years in the Border Country and died at Abbotsford. “ He was,’ says Ruskin, “ beyond comparison the greatest intellectual force manifested in Europe since Shakespeare.”

The Saxon: Fitz James—King James V.

The Gael: The Highland chief—Rhoderick Dhu.

Three mighty lakes: Lochs Katrine, Achray, and Vennachar.

Bochastle: A plain where there are some intrenchments supposed to have been made by the Romans.

Vich Alpine: The son of Alpine.

kern : A boor, properly an Irish foot soldier of the lowest rank. The reference is to Murdoch.

targe: A shield made of bull hide and covered with brass and bosses, start at my whistle: On their "way Roderick had whistled, and the glen had been in a moment garrisoned by armed men who had concealed themselves under the bracken and bushes.

The Escape from the Tower.

Charles Reade (1814-1884) was educated at Oxford, and on leaving it spent most of his life in London. He made his name as a novelist when he wrote It’s Never Too Late to Mend. Ilis masterpiece is The Cloister and the Hearth, a story of adventure in the Middle Ages, parchments : Documents. In former times thp prepared skins of sheep or goats were used for writing upon.



The Fall of Wolsey.

blushing : New—that make him blush.

wanton: Sportive.

that hangs on princes’ favours: That depends for his happiness on the goodwill of princes.

Lucifer: Satan.

falls like Lucifer: Like the fall of Lucifer from Heaven to Hell.

noble troops: Wolsey’s retinue consisted of about 500 persons.

by that sin fell the angels: According to tradition Satan originally was an angel in Heaven. He became ambitious, rebelled against God, and with his following was cast out of Heaven.

naked: Helpless, unprotected.

Landing of Australians at Gallipoli.

Gaba Tepe: A headland not far south of Anzac Cove, on the west of the Gallipoli Peninsula.

Cape Helles: The cape at the western end of the Gallipoli Peninsula, at the entrance to the Dardanelles.

to snipe: To shoot from cover at individuals. A sniper was a picked marksman who fired from a concealed position at one of the enemy.

crying the proclamation of their faith: The Turkish war-cry includes the word “ Allah ! ”, the name of the Supreme Being.

To the Fallen.

Laurence Binyon was born at Lancaster in 1869. He was educated at St. Paul’s School, London, and at Oxford. He is a poet and art critic.

The Founding of New England.

In the reign of James I. the Puritans were denied freedom of worship. In order to escape persecution a number of them sailed to America.

Cape Cod Bay : A bay in the south-east of Massachusetts, on the northeast coast of the United States of America, pilgrim: A wanderer from afar; one who visits a sacred place. The term is here applied because their journey was undertaken from religious motives.

a body politic : The whole body of the people as constituting a State, constitution: A system of fundamental principles or laws embodied in written documents for the government of a State or Nation.

September in Australia, hyaline: Crystal-clear, transparent, middle watch: From midnight to 4 a.m.

Radium, the Magic Metal.

power line switch: Lever for connecting and disconnecting electric current.

electrocution: Death by electricity.

uranium : A heavy white metallic element found in pitchblende, &c. atom: The smallest particle of matter.


Henry Kendall (1841-1882) was born in New South Wales. He first entered a lawyer’s office, and afterwards became a clerk in the Lands Department, Sydney. His feeling for nature as embodied in Australian landscape and bush-life was very true and full of charm.

when shadows wax strong: When the landscape is darkened with shadows of storm clouds.

water moons: The reflections of the moon in lakes and creeks, unkissed by the summers: Not warmed by the summer’s sun.

The Crusader and the Saracen.

Couchant Leopard: Sir Kenneth is the Knight of the Crouching Leopard (so called from the device on his shield). His adventures and deeds form the main part of the story. At the close he turns out to be David, Earl of Huntingdon, brother and heir of the King of Scotland.

caftan: A long gown with sleeves reaching below the hands, generally fastened by a belt or sash.

Saracen: A name given to the Mohammedans of the East, and afterwards applied to any Mohammedan enemy of the Christians of the Middle Ages, such as the Turks and Arabs, infidel: Unbeliever. Christians regard Mohammedans as unbelievers, and these in turn so regard Christians, barb: A horse of Barbary (Morocco) breed, mettle: Spirit.

momentum : Force due to a moving body.

mace : A club with a heavy head and a short handle.

Emir: Ruling prince; Eastern chieftain.

Moslem : A believer in the religion of Mohammed.

lingua franca: A mixed language of Italian and Arabic, &c., used by the Crusaders in their intercourse with Eastern peoples, prophet: Mohammed, or Mohamet (570-632 a.d.), born at Mecca, died at Medina, in Arabia, the founder of the Moslem religion, and the creator of a great empire in the East.

Nazarene: A follower of Jesus of Nazareth; a Christian.

Crossing the Bar.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) was born in Lincolnshire. He was a keen observer of Nature. He was one of England's greatest poets of the nineteenth century. Among his finest poems are In Memoriavi



and The Idylls of the King. He was a man of deep religious feeling, and in none of his poems does his faith shine out more brightly than in Crossing the Bar. This poem has an especial pathos because it was written shortly before his death.

the bar: The sand and mud deposited by a river at its mouth, moaning of the bar: The moaning sound of the vraves breaking on the bar.

when I embark: That is to pass from the River of Life to the Ocean of Eternity.

bourne: Boundary, limit.

Millet, the Peasant Painter.

The Revolution of 1848: In 1848, Louis Philippe, the King of the French, abdicated, and a Republic was proclaimed, the guns of the Prussians: The German army, of which the Prussians formed the most important part, invaded France and besieged Paris, which surrendered on 29th January, 1871, when the Third Republic was founded.

the angelus : The angelus is a prayer recited at morn, noon, and sunset, when a bell called the angelus bell is tolled.

Barbison : A village near Paris, where Millet died.

Sir Isaac Newton.

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) was born at Salem, in Massachusetts. He was an officer of the Customs at Boston, and for some time lived in Liverpool, England, where he was the American Consul. He wrote The Scarlet Letter, Tanglewood Tales, &c.

natural philosophy: The study of the forces and properties of matter;

originally meant the study of Nature in general, mechanism: The structure and manner of working, researches: The discovery of facts by scientific study.

The Women of the West.

fever: Nervous excitement.

zinc roofed: Roofed with iron which has been coated with zinc by dipping it in a bath of molten metal, grace: Charm, attractiveness.

What is War ?

John Bright (1811-1889) w’as born at Rochdale, in Lancashire. He was a Quaker and a prominent nonconformist. He was one of the great orators of the nineteenth century. Cobden and Bright were the leaders of the Anti-Corn Law League and the Free Trade movement.

oracles of God: Books of the Bible, economic principles: Business truths.

girding up their loins: To tuck up loose clothes and bind them round the waist, therefore to prepare for action.



The Ancient Mariner.

Parts I.—IV.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), an English poet and philosopher, was born at Devonshire. He received his early education at Christ’s Hospital, London, where he was a schoolfellow cf Charles Lamb. Thence he went to Cambridge. While here he got into money difficulties and enlisted in the Dragoons, but being bought out returned to Cambridge. He made the acquaintance of Wordsworth, and the two poet friends produced the Lyrical Ballads, to which Coleridge contributed The Ancient Mariner. For a short time after this he lived in the Lake District. In his later years he lived at Highgate, in the north of London.

tyrannous: Violent, cruel.

copper sky: Copper-coloured—cf., “leaden sky,” “golden sunset.”

bloody: Blood-red. Compare the “sanguine sunrise” (Shelley, The Cloud).

the cross : A small cross, as the symbol of the Christian religion, unslaked : Dry, wanting water, elfish: Fairy-like.

ghost : Spirit. Compare the scriptural phrase “to give up the ghost.” How Sweet the Moonlight.

patine : The tray or plate bearing the consecrated bread in the service of the Mass or Holy Communion.

chérubins or cherubim : Angels of love, as the seraphim are angels of wisdom.

quiring : Singing.

muddy vesture of decay: In the flesh; body.

The Dinner at the Inn.

Part I.

The Dinner at the Inn.

Part II.

Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was born at Portsea (England). The story of the childhood of Dickens is incorporated in the earlier chapters of David Copperfield, and his very early fortunes inspired the first and best portions of that book. He was one of the greatest of English novelists. The stories that he wrote were mostly of poor and humble people such as are often overlooked by writers. But Dickens’s sympathies were broad, and no Englishman since Shakespeare has supplied the world with so many notable parallels to every circumstance of life. David Copper field, from which the Dinner at the Inn is taken, is one of the best known and best loved of the works of this author, and with Pickwick Papers is the most classical, the coffee-room : The public dining-room of an inn. castors : Cruet stand.

akimbo : With hands on hips and elbows tim ed out. choker: A high stand-up collar.



Horatius Defends the Bridge.

Part I.

Thomas Babington Macaulay (Lord Macaulay) (1800-1859) was the son of Zachary Macaulay, a West Indian merchant. From infancy he showed a great thirst for knowledge and a talent for making verses. After leaving Cambridge University he practised for a short time as a barrister. In 1832 he was appointed legal adviser to the Supreme Council of India at a salary of £10,000 a year. Six years later he returned to England determined to give up his life to literary work. His most famous works are the Lays of Ancient Home and Lhe History of England from the Accession of James 11. He was buried in Westminster Abbey.

consul: One of the two highest officers of the ancient Roman republio He was elected each year, van: Front of an army when advancing, strait: Narrow.

ashes . . . Gods: For things he holds sacred.

Ramnians: One of the three tribes of Rome that claimed descent from Romulus. The Titians were another tribe.

harness: Armour.

Tuscan army : From Tusoany, a central division of Italy, brand: Sword.

she-wolf’s litter: Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, were said to have been saved from death through being suckled by a she-wolf.

augurs: Those who foretold events by observing certain signs, such as the flight and the cries of birds, blasted : Destroyed as if struck by lightning.

Horatius Defends the Bridge.

Part II.

fathers: Senators.

Palatinus: One of the seven hills on which Rome was built, sacked : Plundered.

Algidus: A hill near Rome.

An Interview with Judge Jeffreys.

Part I.

Richard D. Blackmore (1825-1900), the son of a clergyman, was born in Berkshire, but it was in Somerset and Devonshire where most of his boyhood was spent. He went to Blundell’s School at Tiverton, mentioned in the opening pages of Lorna Doone. On leaving Oxford he became a barrister, then a schoolmaster, but spent most of his life on his small estate on the Thames. Here his days passed happily writing poems, a story or two every year, and attending to his gardens and orchards. He is known to us chiefly as the author of Lorna Doone.



the crier of the Court: The official who makes public announcements in a law court.

bench: Law court

An I nterview with Judge Jeffreys.

Part II.

cross-question : Question on details of evidence that has been given.

hang-dog look : Snealcing, shamefaced aspect.

curls of thick grey horse-hair; The peruke or wig worn by a judge.

his own approvers: His own witnesses; but an approver means a guilty person who, to save himself, tells the truth which will convict those who are guilty with him.

spiker from Temple Bar: The heads of executed persons were sometimes put on spikes over Temple Bar, a gateway that marked the limit of the City of London on the western side; it was removed in 1879.

hurdle: A sledge or frame on which criminals were formerly drawn to the place of execution.

Algernon Sidney: Was tried for “conspiring and compassing the death of the King ” by Judge Jeffreys. He was beheaded on 7th December, 1683.

\Y estern Circuit: The district of England west of Winchester, in which the same judge or judges hold courts at different towns and cities.

Exchequer: Jhe department that has charge of all matters relating to public revenue.

tax his costs : To fix the lawful amount that the solicitor should be paid.

H is Majesty: Charles II.

disaffection to His Majesty: This disloyalty culminated in the next reign in Monmouth’s Rebellion.


John Milton (1608-1674) is, next to Shakespeare, England’s greatest poet. He was born in London. During the Commonwealth he held the office of Latin Secretary to the Council of State. At the Restoration he was arrested, but afterwards released. For the last twenty-two years of his life he was blind, and during this time he wrote his greatest poem, Paradise Lost.

L’Allegro: The cheerful man. wanton wiles: Sportive tricks.

Hebe: The goddess of youth.

mountain-nymph: The name mountain-nymph was probably suggested by the fact that mountainous countries like Wales and Switzer- land have always been strong in defence of freedom.



derides: Scoffs at.

dight: Clad ; adorned ; arrayed.

in spite of sorrow : In order to spite or defy sorrow.

begins his state: Begins his stately march from East to West.

tells his tale: Counts his sheep.

Emerson’s Biography of Lincoln.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), an American writer of essays and poetry, and a philosopher, was born in Boston, United States of America. He was the friend of Carlyle, and the companion of Longfellow and Hawthorne. He published Essays which were commended by all thoughtful men, and delivered many distinguished addresses and lectures.

never crossed the sea: i.e., the Atlantic.

insularity: Narrowness of mind such as is supposed to come to islanders from not meeting people of other countries.

flat-boatman: A man working on a flat-boat—i.e., a boat used for freight in the shallow rivers.

Black Hawk war: An uprising of Indians under the chief, Black Hawk. Aesop: The celebrated Greek fable-writer of the sixth century, B.c. Pilpay: A Hindu writer of fables.

Seven Wise Masters: The title of a famous series of tales which centre round the story of a wise young prince.

pregnant definitions: Clear statements full of wisdom.

Gettysburg: A town in Pennsylvania, United States of America.

During the American Civil War it was the scene of the decisive victory of the Northern army under General Lee over the Confederates on 3rd July, 1863. This was the turning point of the struggle. It was here that Lincoln delivered his famous speech at the dedication of the National Cemetery on 19th November, 1863.

babel of counsels: Confusion caused by the multitude of different opinions.

articulated: Given utterance to; expressed.

To a Skylark.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1821) was educated at Eton and Oxford. He was impatient of control and led a restless life. He lived in Great Britain and later in Italy. He was drowned in the Mediterranean by the capsizing of a boat in which he was returning to his home at



Spezia. Among his most beautiful poems are his Ode to the Skylark end The Cloud; his poems form “the most imaginative, the most musical lyrical poetry we possess.”

unpremeditated: Not thought out beforehand; spontaneous, like a cloud of fire: Quickly as a flame leaps upwards, blue deep: The sky.

golden lightning : The shooting sunbeams of the “ sunken sun ” below the horizon.

unbodied joy: Sheer gladness; a spirit of delight not dwelling in any material body.

thou art unseen : It is so high in the sky and so small that it cannot be seen.

arrows of that silver sphere: The moonbeams, intense : Burning brightly.

deflowered: Robbed of its beautiful and fragrant petals.

sprite: Elf or fairy.

hymeneal: Belonging to a wedding.

joyance: Pleasure; joy.

what objects .    .    . strain: i.e., What is the origin of this light

hearted song.

The Castle of Giant Despair.

John Bunyan (1628-1688) was born near Bedford and died near London. He was the son of a tinker, and he himself followed the same trade till he reached manhood. At school he learned only how to read and write. He "was almost entirely self-taught. Five months after Charles II. came to the throne Bunyan was sent to prison for holding an unlawful religious meeting and was confined in Bedford for nearly twelve years. During a second imprisonment he wrote The Pilgrim's Progress. No English book has been so often printed or so frequently translated into foreign languages, and many of its words and phrases have been woven into our every-day speech.

allegory: A story with a hidden meaning, intended to describe something far beyond that which it seems to speak about.

The Cloud.

Genii: Spirits, supernatural beings.

sanguine: Blood-red.

rack: Thin or broken clouds drifting across the sky.

daughter of earth and water: A poetical description of the physical origin of clouds, which are condensed vapours drawn from the surface of the land and the sea by the heat of the sun.

cenotaph: A memorial built to one who is buried elsewhere;—literally, an empty tomb.



The Story of John Brown.

bridgehead : Post held on far side of a frontier river giving one access to the enemy’s territory, vantage : Advantage ; favourable position.

militiamen : Members of the militia,—a force consisting not of regular or pi-ofessional soldiers, but of citizens called out at need.

marines: Soldiers serving on board ship.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771) was born in London and educated at Eton and Cambridge. After travelling through Europe with Horace Walpole, a famous letter writer, he returned to Cambridge, where he spent the rest of his life. He was buried in Stoke Poges churchyard, which he has immortalized in his Elegy, one of the most famous poems in the English language.

elegy : A funeral song; a plaintive poem.

curfew: All evening bell; originally rung at 8 p.m. by order of William the Conqueror as a signal for all fires and lights; to be put out. Still rung in some villages of England.

all the air . . . holds: Stillness holds the air. folds : Enclosures for sheep, moping : Dull, gloomy.

ancient solitary reign: The quiet neighbourhood wdiere she has lived so long.

rude : Rustic, simple.

incense-breathing morn: The sweet scents given forth from gardens and fields in the early morning.

glebe: Ploughland; earth, jocund : Merry ; cheerful.

boast of heraldry: Pride of descent, as shown in coats of arms which are prepared by heralds.

trophies: Things taken from the enemy and kept as memorial spoils of victory.

storied urn: The Greeks and Romans burned their dead and then placed the ashes in urns, on wThich were placed inscriptions telling briefly the story of the deceased.

animated bust: Life-like figure or sculpture of the deceased, pregnant with: Full of. provoke: Recall.

Hands . .    . lyre: A great statesman, or a great musician,

rage: Genius; inspiration.



Hampden: One who stood up for the rights of the villagers against “ the little tyrant ” of the place in the same way that John Hampden stood up for the rights of the people of the whole country against Charles I.

some . .    . Milton: i.c., some man who wrote no poetry (“mute”)

and was unknown to fame (“ inglorious ”) end yet one who might have been as great a poet as Milton had circumstances only been favourable.

senates: Parliaments.

circumscribed : Confined within a narrow circle.

the Muse: The goddess of poetry. Muses were supposed to be goddesses who aided poets, musicians, speakers, and others. To “ heap the shrine,” &c., refers to poets who flattered the powerful and the rich in order to receive patronage and gifts.

uncouth rhymes: Rough verses, such as are found on village tombstones.

fantastic : Twisted ; irregular. Many of the roots of the very old trees at Burnham Beeches, near Stoke Poges, are above the ground.

dirges due: Suitable funeral hymns.


mercy is not strained: Mercy is not forced, twice blest: Given a double blessing, shows: The emblem of.

temporal power: Earthly power for a time only as contrasted with God’s power which is eternal.

seasons: Moderates, and so makes more pleasant.

On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer.

John Keats (1795-1821), one of the sweetest singers of English poetry. His best works include Hyperion, Ode to a Grecian Urn, Ode to a Nightingale, La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and some of the finest sonnets in our language.

Apollo: Greek god of song.

Homer: The great epic poet of Greece, demesne: domain; the region under his power.

Chapman: A translator of Homer.

Cortez: Spanish conqueror of Mexico. The real discoverer of the Pacific was Balboa.

Darien: In the isthmus between Central and Southern America.



The Vision of Mirza.

Joseph Addison (1672-1719), one of the greatest English essayists, was born in Wiltshire. He was educated at Charterhouse School and Oxford. He was the chief prose writer of the age of Queen Anne. His best writings appeared in the Spectator, a weekly journal founded by him and his friend, Sir Richard Steele. His style is remarkable for clearness, ease, and elegance.

genius: A protecting spirit; a supernatural being, transporting airs: Music which filled him with ecstasy, consider it: Gaze fixedly or thoughtfully at it.

harpies: Rapacious monsters with a woman’s face and a bird’s wings and claws.

cormorant: Voracious sea-birds.

adamant: An impenetrably hard substance.

relishes: Inclinations; tastes; desires.

Pictures from the Deserted Village.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774) was born at Pallas in Longford, Ireland, w’here his father was a clergyman. He attended the University of Dublin; afterwards he studied medicine for two years at Edinburgh. Later he travelled on foot in Europe earning his food and lodging by playing the flute. On his return to London he became famous as an essayist, dramatist, and poet. He also wrote The Vicar sof Wakefield, a novel of great merit.

copse: A wood of small trees, mansion: A dwelling.

passing: Very; exceedingly; as we use “surpassing.” vagrant train : Succession of wandering beggars.

broken: Unfit for further military work on account of his injuries received in war.

unprofitably gay: The gay appearance was to no purpose; as the village was now “ deserted ” there was no one to “ profit ” from it or to be pleased with it.

counterfeited: Pretended, boding: Expecting trouble, cipher: Do sums.

if severe . . . was in fault, i.e., if he was hard upon his pupils, he was not so owing to bad temper, but because he was desirous that they should learn.

terms and tides: Terms were the sessions in colleges and courts of law. Tides were the movable feasts of the year, such as Easter.

presage: Forecast.

gauge: Measure the contents of casks.



The League of Nations.

famous English poet: Alfred, Loxd-Ten-nyson (1809-1892). English poet laureate in succession to Wordsworth. The lines are taken from his poem Locksley Hall and form one verse of a set of six, which may be regarded as a poem within a poem. The following

are the verses:—

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,

Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonders that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew From the nation’s airy navies grappling in the central blue ;

Far along the world wide whisper of the south wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder storm ; Till the war drum throbbed no longer, and the battle flags were furled

In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

What do you suygest for a title?

Salle de l’Horloge: Hall of the clock. An historic room in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs in Paris.

anarchy: State of extreme confusion; the absence of all rule and ordei. The Dignity of Labour.

Newman Hall (1774-1860), a clergyman, was born at Maidstone in Kent. He was educated at University College, London. He had a wide reputation as an eloquent speaker, the gossamer web of the caterpillar: Silk.

purple robe : Formerly the distinguishing colour in the dress of princes, kings, and emperors.

The Day is Done.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) is the best known and most popular of American poets. Among his longer poems are 1 he Courtship of Miles Standish, Hiawatha, and Evangeline,, but he is known to all probably by his short poems, such as A Psalm of Life, 1 he 1 Mage Blacksmith, and The Wreck of the Hesperus.

A Noble Sacrifice.

tumbrils : Wagons used to convey the victims of the French Revolution to the guillotine.    .

La Force: A place where Darnay had previously been mlpnsoned. cravat: A neckcloth worn during the 18th century, tale of fifty-two: The full number of fifty-two.

Mr. Lorry: A kind-hearted old gentleman who had already conferred great benefits on Darnay s family

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