taking part in their organization. Middle-class men could find no admittance into their ranks, nor would their pecuniary help in the union be accepted. The new organizations, however, are led by an academic middle class, who are not content with advising, but seek to participate in the functions of the "new unions." How little these people know of unionism can be easily seen by a glance at their speeches at meetings, conferences, and demonstrations, and their failures in their own circle of society will scarcely warrant their being accepted as the trusted leaders of the masses of the people.

The power of trade unionism depends upon organization, upon funds, upon the capacity and honesty of its leaders, and upon the loyalty and unselfish action of the mass of its members. Which of the two sections, if sections they can be called, will eventually rule, is a matter of speculation and prophecy. Mr. John Burns has prophesied, the writer will not. The public and the unionists must judge as to which is the most worthy, and the most worthy will survive. It is a question of the survival of the fittest, but who the fittest are, and will be, can only be proved by the test of experience, shown by proximate and ultimate results. Another five years will tell the tale, and possibly indicate which party shall rule the unions, if indeed there shall be unions to rule. For the present it is sufficient if we record the facts and deprecate misrepresentation, abuse, calumny, and detraction. The Unions have in them elements of permanency, efficiency, influence, and material power. These, if wisely directed, will carry them through many a storm. Persecution could not kill them; they have fought and won great battles; financial difficulties have been grappled with and overcome; it remains to be seen whether prosperity will be their death-blow and schism the active agent in their ruin.

GEORGE SHIPTON.

A Welcome to Stanley.

How shall we bring the weary traveller home?
Not with the roll of drum and trumpet's blare
Nor pomp of indefatigable bells,

For he has said so many sad farewells;

He comes not flushed from war but worn with care,
He went not forth to conquer but to save;

And though from half a world he hath removed
The cloud of death and darkness, those he loved
Lie far in some unvisitable grave ;

Wherefore let England now go forth to meet him

With hands outstretched, and silent-eye to eye,
Because the heart is full and tears are by,
So let our England greet him

And bring the long lost weary wanderer home.

But let the harp in tender accent ring,

For he was nursed among the woods and vales
That never have forgot the bardic days.
Since Kentigern, the exile, to God's praise
Poured out the psalm upon the hills of Wales.
And hap'ly, he-the little shepherd, strolled

*

By Elgy's stream that nourished Asa's care
-His hall of learning and his home of prayer;
Who knows how much of those stout hearts of old
Breathed from the ground, and made the child the man
Fearless, unflinching, feeling Heaven could bend
Its purpose to th' inalienable end

Of resolution's plan,

Wherefore the harp in tender tone shall ring.

*The river of Elgy, or Elwy, a tributary of the Clwyd, flows by the ruined monastery of St. Asaph, founded by St. Kentigern circa 560 A.D. Born near Denbigh, Mr. Stanley was educated at a school in St. Asaph.

Bid East and West go meet him at the shore!
Morn, noon, or night! for he hath mighty friends!
The sun his mate in tropic lands was made,
And for the woe of that weird forest's shade
On him the daystar lovingly attends;
Or, if he come at midnight's silver noon,

His hair as white as Dian's, she will throw
Upon his head the glory of her snow,
The magic of the Mountains of the Moon:
But should he homeward steer when for his rest
The dark falls down above the sunset bars,

Behold for him wide Heaven shall light her stars A welcome from the West,

So let the nations meet him at the shore.

Lo spirit guests the wanderer homewards bring
Unnumbered, known and visible to God;
Friends dark of skin, with large pathetic eyes,
And faith to follow still to Paradise,
Who died but never disobeyed his nod;
He,* too, the daring soldier left alone

To eat his heart out in enforced delay

Till the Manyuema's hand was stretched to slay, And his adventurous spirit journeyed on; Nor least the gentle Exile, pale with pain,

For whom Abdullah's son the Mahdi yearned, Led by a daughter's hand and safe returned, These come across the Main

Their hero home with gratitude to bring.

And with them stand the mighty travellers dead,
Whether with hope undaunted they set forth

O'er pathless seas or roamed a trackless shore,
Faced the Equator, heard the icebergs roar
And plunge in the inhospitable North;

With high congratulation lo they move

And greet him, they who reached a brother's hand
To those who wandered lost by sea or land,

And brought them solace of their nation's love,

* Major Barttelot.

There too with Afric writ upon his heart

The breaker of the yoke from off the slave Comes from long rest in yonder Abbey nave To bear a welcoming part,

And stands great ghost among the mighty dead.

Shall they not greet those comrades tried and true,
Whose hearts were swift as arrows in their will
And bold as lions for the desperate fray?
Witness the rout of that momentous day
When Mazamboni's drums, from hill to hill,
Sounded for war?-One † wan, and maimed of foot
Who watched the sick and famished pine and die
In Ugarrowa's toils and treachery,

And One who sought in vain the manioc root
To save the ten he strove for: One § whose eye

So nearly saw the Mahdi's spears of flame

Close round: One|| skilled and brave fierce Death to tame : One wounded like to die

These England greets, his comrades-tried and true.

Then while the proud harp sounds, let voices praise.
The wonder of a heart whose cords are steel,

Within whose adamantine casket stored

'Bides the sure oath that keeps the solemn word, A heart of flint that still like man can feel, But holds such secret fires within enshrined

That danger doth but make its darkness light
With dazzling courage, woe and want's despite
Scem but the natural fuel of its mind,

A heart whose judgment like a strong man armed
Leaps to the gate when others quail and fear,
Whose eyes thro' all perplexity see clear,

Whose life is trebly charmed.

So the heart's wonder let the proud harp praise.

Next may the harper tell in changing tone

Of all those seven long wanderings in the land,
Dread night avowed where light shall one day be,
The fierce Equator known from sea to sea,

Peoples and tongues unnumbered as the sand
That war and waste for ever, slay and burn,

Huge rivers rolling east and rolling west

Vast inland oceans, that white mountain's breast
Whence Nilus gathers strength into his urn,
And those mysterious woods whose teeming womb
Breeds dark perpetual mist of rain, and pours
Atlantic clouds by Aruwimi's shores

Above their weltering tomb

These let the harp tell forth in changing tone.

Sing sweetly so the wanderer may forget
The weary heartache of the thousand miles,
The thrice re-travelled length of bitter road,
Famine and loss and disappointment's load,
The dwarf's dread arrow-flights, the wild men's wiles,
That river of six nations and seven names

Roaring in twilight underneath its wood,
The cone-shaped huts, the fierce confederate brood
Of savage harpies that no glutting tames,
The foodless interspace of dearth and death,
The maddening fever, ulcerous limbs and feet,
The stupor of despair no hope could cheat
And then the last long breath-

These must the singer make him quite forget.

But most the forest memories all must fade,
The fearsome, fretful, forest, dank and deep,

Whence venomous vapours rise, where rains down-plash,
And scarce the elephant's head avail to crash
Its way thro' coils of tangle, where foes creep
Or stand like ruddy tree-stems, poise the spear

In silence, flash and vanish; where the ground
Reeks fever, and sharp pitfall barbs abound
If ever for the nonce the track show clear.

Ah who shall tell that forest's pitiless spite,

The mournful booming of the foeman's drum,

The deathlike drowse of morn, the noontide's hum,

The whispers of the night

Yea let the singer bid such memories fade.

But ring the harp and let it bring to mind,

How war-drums down the river ceased to boom

VOL. VII.-NO. XLII.

3 B