a decided taste in all kinds of fancy ornaments.

And then in my dancing and waltzing, our master himself owned that he could take me no further! Since I have just the figure for it, certainly it would be unpardonable if I did not excel.

"As to common things-geography, history, philosophy, and all that-thank my stars I'm through them all! There's nothing more to be learned in that direction; and I may now consider myself not only perfectly accomplished, but also thoroughly wellinformed! Well, to be sure, how much I have fagged through! The only wonder is that one head can contain it all.”

"Ah!" exclaimed a silver-haired sage, "how narrow is the utmost extent of human science! I have spent my life in acquiring knowledge, but how little do I know! The more deeply I attempt to penetrate the secrets of nature, the more I am bewildered. Beyond a certain limit all is but conjecture or confusion, so that the advantage of the learned over the ignorant is, greatly, in having ascertained how little can be known.

"It is true that I can measure the sun and compute the distances of the planets; I can calculate their periodical movements, and even comprehend the laws by which they perform their sublime revolutions; but with regard to their construction and the beings which inhabit them, what do I know more than the clown?

"I remark that all bodies, unsupported, fall to the ground, and I am taught to account for this by the law of gravitation. But what have I gained here more than a term, a word? Does it convey to my mind any idea of the nature of that mysterious and invisible chain which draws all things to a common centre? I observe the effect, I give a name to the cause; but can I explain or comprehend it?

"Pursuing the track of the naturalist, I have learned to distinguish the animal, vegetable and mineral kingdoms, but can I tell, after all this toil, whence a single blade of grass derives its vitality? Could the most minute researches enable me to discover the exquisite pencil that paints and fringes the flower of the field? Have I ever detected the secret that gives their brilliant color to the ruby and the emerald, or the art that enamels the delicate shell?

"Leaving the material creation, my thoughts have often ascended to loftier subjects and indulged in metaphysical speculation. And here, while I perceive in myself the two distinct qualities of matter and mind, I am baffled in every attempt to comprehend their mutual dependence and mysterious connec

tion. When my hand moves in obedience to my will, have I the most distant conception of the manner in which the volition is either communicated or understood?

"Ever has man been struggling with his own impotence, and vainly endeavoring to overleap the bounds which limit his anxious inquiries. What have I gained by my laborious researches but a humbling conviction of my weakness and ignor ance? How little has man, at his best estate, of which to boast! What folly in him to glory in his contracted powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions !"

"

175.-THE FATE OF VIRGINIA.

T. B. MACAULAY.

"Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Rome?" Claimed as a slave, a free-born maid is dragged here from her home.

On fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of blight;

The tyrant's creature, Marcus, asserts an owner's right.

O, shame on Roman manhood! Was ever plot more clear? But look! the maiden's father comes! Behold Virginius here!"

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide. Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down,— Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.

And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child, farewell!

Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so. Who could be so to thee?
And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear
My footstep on the threshold when I came back last year!
And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic gown!
And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my crown.
Now, all those things are over-yes, all thy pretty ways,
Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays;
And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return,
Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn.
The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,-
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,
Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.
The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way;
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey;
With all his wit he little deems that, spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left;

He little deems that, in this hand, I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave
Yea, and from nameless evil that passeth taunt and blow,—
Foul outrage, which thou knowest not,-which thou shalt never
know.

Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss;

And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!"
With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,
And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.

Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath;
And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death;
And in another moment brake forth from one and all

A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall;

Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high:
"O, dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;
And e'en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine,
Deal ye by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!"
So spake the slayer of his child; then, where the body lay,
Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way
Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead!
Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!'
He looked upon his clients,-but none would work his will;
He looked upon his lictors,-but they trembled and stood still.
And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left;
And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,

And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in
Rome.

176.-METAMORPHOSIS.

LLOYD MIFFLIN.

She spake so kindly unto all,

So tenderly and true,

She seemed the sweetest soul, I thought,

That ever met my view.

Her form and features, grace and mien,

Were lovely past compare;

To me, a halo seemed to rest

Above her yellow hair;

When lo! a scornful lip she curled,
One venomed word she spake,
And like a robe her beauty dropped,
And left the naked snake.

I shuddered, though I could have wept
To see those locks so fair

Take serpent shapes, and squirm and writhe
In gnarls of Gorgon hair.

Ah, they who keep their angel shapes

Bear still an angel mind;

And they are ever loveliest,

Who deepest love their kind.

For beauty dwells not in a form,
In tint of cheek or hair,

But they who bear the sweetest souls
Are fairest of the fair.

177.-IF WE KNEW.
ANONYMOUS.

If we knew the woe and heart-ache
Waiting for us down the road,
If our lips could taste the wormwood,
If our backs could feel the load;
Would we waste the day in wishing
For a time that ne'er can be?
Would we wait with such impatience
For our ships to come from sea?
If we knew the baby fingers,

Pressed against the window pane,
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow,—
Never trouble us again;

Would the bright eyes of our darling
Catch the frown upon our brow?
Would the print of rosy fingers
Vex us then as they do now?

Ah, those little ice-cold fingers!
How they point our memory back
To the hasty words and actions
Strewn along our backward track!
How those little hands remind us,
As in snowy grace they lie,
Not to scatter thorns, but roses,
For our reaping by and by.

Strange we never prize the music

Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one-half so fair

As when winter's snowy pinions
Shake their white down in the air.

Lips from which the seal of silence
None but God can roll away,
Never blossomed in such beauty
As adorns the mouth to-day;
And sweet words that freight our memory
With their beautiful perfume,
Come to us in sweeter accents
Through the portals of the tomb.
Let us gather up the sunbeams,
Lying all about our path;
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff;
Let us find our sweetest comfort
In the blessings of to-day;
With a patient hand removing
All the briars from our way.

178.-OUR OWN.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

If I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day,
The words unkind

Would trouble my mind,

That I said when you went away,
I had been more careful, darling!
Nor given you needless pain;

But we vex "our own

With look and tone

We might never take back again.

For though, in the quiet evening,

You may give me the kiss of peace,
Yet it might be,

That never for me,

The pain of the heart should cease.
How many go forth in the morning

That never come home at night;
And hearts have broken,
For harsh words spoken,

That sorrow can never make right.

We have careful thoughts for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest;

But oft for " our own"

The bitter tone,