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. BALLAD, n., a short narrative song. 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. Can any thing equal your love-ditties rare ? 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. For 't is an exceedingly trifling affair. 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 —— 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. Go, scribbler of sonnets, and butcher of meter! plume; Let the Greeks and the Latins their beauties resume. * 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 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. 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, My home! the spirit of its love is breathing There am I loved, there prayed for; there my mother There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending, |