'You are not the only one,' sez he, 'they've laid upon the shelf.

'I've tried ten years without success to git in there myself.""

"Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Faith here's an equivocator that could swear in both the scales against either scale; who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to Heaven. O, come in, equivocator.

Shakespeare.

"He will come straight. Look you lay home to him:
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,
And that your grace hath screened and stood between
Much heat and him. I'll sconce me even here.
Pray you, be round with him.

Shakespeare.

"Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master.

The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me, 'Gobbo,

Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,' or 'good Gobbo,' or good Launcelot

Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away."

Shakespeare.

"I couldn't help a-methinkin' to myself several times. It duz seem to me that there hain't a question a-comin' up before that Conference that is harder to tackle than this plasterin' and the conundrum that is up before us Jonesville wimmen how to raise 300 dollars out of nuthin', and to make peace in a meetin' house where anarky is now rainin' down.

But I only thought these thoughts to myself, fur I knew every woman there wuz peacible and law abidin' and there wazn't one of 'em but what would rather fall offen her barell then go agin the rules of the Methodist Meetin' House. The second night of my arjuous labors on the meetin' ouse, Josiah began wild and eloquent about wimmen be

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in' on Conferences, and mountin' rostrums. And sez he, "That is suthin' that we Methodist men can't stand.” Marietta Holley.

II. Pitch

Pitch is the melodic response of voice to mind from one central thought word or key to another central thought word or key; that is, every idea awakens a peculiar feeling of its own and the voice naturally will respond in different keys; as, for instance, in a degree of sorrow or melancholy, the voice will have a minor key; while in love, it will have a major key; also, in joy. In other words, every idea, if truthfully enjoyed and lived, will have a key of its own and the voice will respond in these various keys, thus revealing the grasp of the mind on each successive idea.

Pitch occurs between ideas, and it shows change of thought. Therefore, one cannot have inflection without change of pitch, but may have change of pitch with little or no inflection.

In Robert Louis Stevenson's "Where Go the Boats?" the reader will observe if he concentrates his thought definitely upon the first idea, "Dark brown is the river," that the voice will be concentrated in one definite place, according to the degree of understanding of what is meant by "Dark brown is the river." Then when the next idea presents itself, "Golden is the sand," the voice naturally becomes illuminated by this idea of brilliancy and the result is a change of key, and on in the next idea where it "Flows along forever," there is a sort of suspension of suggested continuity, and again the voice takes another key, and so on throughout the entire poem, which is quoted in full below, you will find this very apparent. As many students have found comfort in its interpretation, I take pleasure in submitting it for the general public.

"Dark brown is the river" of experience. "Golden sands" of comfort are thrown in, as we go along, and it "flows along forever" that is, the stream of experience, that seems to start to-day for us, has been going on from the beginning of time, and as time never had a beginning and will never have an end, so this stream "flows along forever." "With trees on either hand," these trees lending their protection for resting places from the heat of the sun during the day's labor. "Green leaves a-floating,' these green leaves are the individual aspirations of every young man and woman in the world, and though they are green or new leaves, still, to each one they are "castles of the foam.' "Boats of mine a-boating;" they are indeed the great boats to us who are started out on this river of experience, and in the language of Robert Browning in his reference to youth, he says, "Mine be some transfigured flame which transcends them all." Each feels that he or she in launching this boat upon this river of time will send it in climes and regions where no one else has dared to venture. In the last line of this verse comes the great question which so perplexes the youth:-"Where will all come home?" that is, where shall this great dream, "boats of mine," come home; when shall I realize this great undertaking?

"On goes the river, and out past the mill;" this river continually goes on, and on, and on, until it comes to, and goes out past this mill of grinding. These many days and years which are spent in toil in the burning of the midnight oil and concentration upon the plans, have been steps which lead toward the realization of his dream or idea. Yet, each must do so much grinding in this world of experience; and unless those grindings come, the preparation for the launching and sending forward of their boats will be at fault, and only discouragement and sorrow will result.

"Away down the valley;" and many times in our struggle to accomplish these great ideals, each one goes down into the valley of discouragement. "Away down the hill;" of despair and then there comes the consolation in these few lines, "Away down the river a hundred miles or more," "Other little children shall bring my boat ashore." How wonderful it is to know that we are the other little children bringing to shore the boats that were launched by some loved one or dear friend, perhaps a hundred years before; and what a great satisfaction to know that we have a part in launching a boat which must be of use to bear a rich store of precious gems of knowledge, information and inspiration for those other little children who will bring the boat ashore.

UP HILL

Christina G. Rossetti.

Does the road wind up hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

RIENZI TO THE ROMANS

Mary Russell Mitford.

Mary Russell Mitford, the author, was born in 1786 in England; died 1855. The following is taken from the play of "Rienzi," (Cola di Rienzi, a Roman tribune, was born at Rome in 1313, and died in 1354,) and is founded upon a speech made by Rienzi in 1347, when he proposed, after the assassination of his brother by a Roman noble, a set of laws for the better government and protection of the common people of Rome.

"I come not here to talk. You know too well
The story of our thralldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beams
Fall on a slave; not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led
To crimson glory and undying fame,-
But base, ignoble slaves; slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,
Rich in some dozen paltry villages;

Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great
In that strange spell, a name!

Each hour dark fraud,

Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cries out against them. But this very day,

An honest man, my neighbor, there he stands,-
Was struck-struck like a dog, by one who wore
The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,

He tossed not high his ready cap in air,

Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,

At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,

And suffer such dishonor? Men, and wash not

The stain away in blood? Such shames are common.
I had a brother once a gracious boy,

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple.