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venture, nothing have," said his mother. "You can but try."-" And I will try, mother dear," said William. "I have a historical subject in my head, out of which I think I can make a picture." "What is it, William ?"

5. "The death of Wat Tyler. You have heard of him? He led a mob in the time of Richard the Second. Having behaved insolently before the king, at Smithfield, Tyler was struck down by Walworth. Mayor of London, and then killed by the king's at tendants."

6. "It is a bold subject, William; but I will say nothing to deter you from trying it."—"If I fail, mother, where will be the harm? I can try again." "To be sure you can, William. So we will not be disappointed should you not succeed in winning the silver pallet offered by the society for the best historical painting."

7. Without more ado, little William went to work. He first acquainted himself with the various costumes of the year 1381. He learnt how the king and the noblemen used to dress, and what sort of clothes were worn by the poor people and laborers, to which class Wat Tyler belonged. He also learnt what sort of weapons were carried in those days.

8. After having given some time to the study of these things, he acquainted himself thoroughly with the historical incidents attending the death of the bold rioter. He grouped, in imagination, the persons who were present at the scene, -the king and his attendants, Walworth, the mayor, Wat Tyler himself, and, in the background, some of his ruffianly companions.

9. The difficulty now was to select that period of the action best fitted for a picture, and to group the figures in attitudes the most natural and expressive. Many times did little William make a sketch of the

scene on paper, and then obliterate it, dissatisfied with his work. At times he almost despaired of accomplishing any thing that should do justice to the conception in his mind. But, after many trials and many failures, he completed a sketch which he decided to transfer to canvas.

10. He now labored diligently at his task, and took every opportunity to improve himself in a knowledge of colors and their effects. At length the day for handing in his picture arrived. He then had to wait a month before there was any decision as to its merits. On the day appointed for the announcement of the decision many persons of distinction were present, including ladies. The meeting was presided over by the Duke of Norfolk.

11. William's mother was present, of course. She sat waiting the result, with a beating heart. What a proud mother she was when, after the transaction of some uninteresting business, it was announced that the prize of a silver pallet, for the best historical picture, was awarded to the painter of the piece entitled "The Death of Wat Tyler"! Poor Mrs. Ross could not refrain from weeping, she was so very glad.

12. When it was found by the audience that little William Ross was the successful artist, their applause broke forth with enthusiasm. To see such a little fellow gain a prize over competitors of mature age, was a novelty and a surprise. William was summoned with his picture to the duke's chair, and there he received such counsel and encouragement as were of great service to him in his future career. He afterward became Sir William Ross, miniature painter to Queen Victoria; having risen to fortune and rank by carrying out, with determination and perseverance, his simple promise to his mother of "I will try."

XL.QUARREL OF THE AUTHORS.

DICTION, n., language; style.

SON'NET, n., a poem of fourteen lines.
PEDANT, n., one who makes a vain
parade of his knowledge.
FOOLS'CAP, n., a kind of writing pa-
per.

BALLAD, n., a short narrative song.
PLA'GI-A-RIST (-je), n., one who passes
off another's writings as his own.
METER OF ME'TRE, n., measure as ap-
plied to verse.
MAIN-TAIN', v. t., to uphold.

Do not say Latn for Lat'in ; statoo for stat'ue. Pronounce often, öf'n.

Enter BAVIUS and MEVIUS, meeting.

Bavius. Sir, I'm proud to have met you. Long have I known

Your productions, and often I've wished them my own. Your verses have beauties in none other found.

Mevius. In yours all the graces of diction abound.
Ba. Your phrases are neat, your style charmingly light.
Me. We find the pathetic in all that you write.
Ba. Your odes, how delightful! how tender and true!
Who now will compare Pope or Dryden with you?
Me. Your songs have a noble and elegant vein,
That even old Horace could never attain.

Ba. Can any thing equal your love-ditties rare ?
Me. Can aught with your wonderful sonnets compare?
Ba. If the public could estimate half of your worth
Me. If merit now met its due honors on earth

Ba. You'd roll through the streets in a carriage of gold. Me. Every square in the city your statue would hold. Hem! this ballad of mine--your opinion upon it.

I should like to

Ba. Pray, sir, have you met with a sonnet On the flag of our country?

Me. A sonnet? Just so.

'T was read at a party, a few nights ago.
Ba. Do you know who's the author?
Me. I know not - nor care;

For 't is an exceedingly trifling affair.
Ba. Yet many admire it-

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or so they tell me.

Me. No matter for that; it's as bad as can be.

And if you had but seen it, sir, you'd think so too.

Ba. Dear sir, I am sorry to differ from you; But I hold that its merit must every one strike.

Me. May the Muses preserve me from making the like. Ba. I maintain that a better the world can not show; For I am the author—yes, I, you must know.

Me. You?

Ba. I.

Me. Well, I wonder how that came to pass.

Ba. I had the bad luck not to please you, alas !

Me. Perhaps there was something distracted my head; Or else the man spoiled it, so badly he read.

But here is my ballad, concerning which I ——
Ba. The days of the ballad methinks are gone by ;
'Tis very old-fashioned, and out of date quite.
Me. Yet, even now, many in ballads delight.
Ba. No matter; I think them decidedly flat.

Me. You think them! Perhaps they 're no worse, sir,

for that.

Ba. For pedants, indeed, they have charms beyond

measure.

Me. And yet we perceive they afford you no pleasure.
Ba. You give others qualities found but in you.
Me. You call others names that are justly your due.
Go, blotter of foolscap! contemptible creature!

Ba. Go, scribbler of sonnets, and butcher of meter!
Me. Go, impudent plagiarist! Pedant, get out!
Ba Go, rascal! Be careful! mind what you're about!
Me. Go, go! strip your writings of each borrowed

plume;

Let the Greeks and the Latins their beauties resume.
Ba Go, you, and ask pardon of Venus and Bacchus,
For your lame imitations of jolly old Flaccus.*
Me. Remember your book's insignificant sale.
Ba. Remember your bookseller driven to jail,

* Quintus Horatius Flaccus, or Horace, a famous Roman poet, born 65 B. C. Venus was the goddess of love, and Bacchus the god of wine, in the ancient mythology.

Me. My pen shall avenge me
Ba. And mine shall let you

master.

to your great disaster. know, sir, who is your

Me. I defy you in verse, prose, Latin, and Greek!

Ba. You shall hear from me, sir, in the course of the

week.

Imitated from MOLIERE.

XLI. THE TWO HOMES.

HEARTH (the ea like a in far), n., | TEN'DRIL, n., a spiral shoot of a climb. place on which a fire is made.

YON (yon), a., within view.

ing plant.

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Do not say hawnt for haunt (the au is like a in far).

Give ou in fount and oi in

rejoic'ing their pure sounds. Do not say acrost for a-cross'. Do not slight the artic ulation of ask'st.

Practice it well.

SEEST thou my home?

FIRST SPEAKER.

-'tis where yon woods are waving,

In their dark richness, to the summer air;

Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving, Leads down the hill a vein of light, 't is there!

'Mid those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming,
Fringed with the violet, colored with the skies!
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming,
Under young leaves that shook with melodies.

My home! the spirit of its love is breathing
In every wind that plays across my track;
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back.

There am I loved, there prayed for; there my mother
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye;
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother;
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly.

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending,
All the home-voices meet at day's decline;

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