Another soul; your looks are most divine; You speak a hero. Ant. O, thou hast fired me! And mans each part about me. my soul's up in arms, The noble eagerness of fight has seized me. Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I, 1 CỌN-TA'ĢION. The communication 4 DI-VŌRCED'. Separated by a legal of disease from one person to an other by contact; communication of a like quality or feeling. process, as a husband and wife; separated or disunited, as things closely connected. 2 VINTAGE. The produce of the vine 5 MÄRCH'EŞ. Frontiers; borders. for the season. 8 TRIUMPHS. Processions or ceremo 6 AR'RO-GANCE. Conceited presump tion; haughtiness. here, disclosure. nies, at Rome, in honor of victori- 7 DIS-COVER-Y. Act of finding out; ous generals. LXXVIII.—THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR. DICKENS. [This piece is taken from Master Humphrey's Clock. A poor, feeble old man and his little grandchild, Nell, the stay and comfort of his life, are homeless wanderers. One evening, in their wanderings, they come to a village, and are offered shelter for the night by the schoolmaster.] 1. WITHOUT further preface, he conducted them into his little school-room, which was parlor and kitchen likewise, and told them they were welcome to remain under his roof till morning. The child looked round the room as she took her seat. The chief ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences, fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and multi plication, evidently achieved' by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted around the room; for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars. 2 2. "Yes," said the schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught by these specimens, "that's beautiful writing, my dear." "Very, sir," replied the child, modestly; "is it yours?" "Mine!" he returned, taking out his spectacles, and putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart; "I couldn't write like that nowadays. No: they are all done by one hand; a little hand it is; not so old as yours, but a very clever one." 3. As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown upon one of the copies; so he took a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall, carefully scratched it out. When he had finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might contemplate a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice and manner, which quite touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its cause. 4. "A little hand, indeed," said the poor schoolmaster. "Far beyond all his companions, in his learning and his sports too. How did he ever come to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should love me And there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim. "I hope there is nothing the matter, sir," said Nell, anxiously. 5. "Not much, my dear," returned the schoolmaster; "I hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But he'll be there tomorrow." "Has he been ill?" child's quick sympathy. asked the child with a 6. "Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy, and so they said the day before. But that's a part of that kind of disorder; it's not a bad sign—not at all a bad sign." The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were gathering, and all was still. 7. "If he could lean on somebody's arm, he would come to me, I know," he said, returning into the room. "He always came into the garden to say good night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favorable turn, and it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp, and there's a heavy dew. It's much better he shouldn't come to-night." 8. The next day, towards night, an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame West's directly, and had best run on before her. He and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk, and without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as she might. 9. They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They passed into an inner room, where his infant friend, half dressed, lay stretched upon a bed. 10. He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprang up, threw his wasted arms around his neck, crying out that he was his dear, kind friend. 11. "I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows," said the poor schoolmaster. "Who is that?" said the boy, seeing Nell. "I am afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me." 12. The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down. 13. "You remember the garden, Harry," whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, "and how pleasant it used to be in the evening? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, won't you?" 14. The boy smiled faintly,-so very, very faintly,and put his hand upon his friend's gray head. He moved his lips, too, but no voice came from them, no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices, borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window. 15. "What's that?" said the sick child, opening his eyes. "The boys at play upon the green." He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. "Shall I do it?" said the schoolmaster. 16. "Please wave it at the window," was the faint reply. "Tie it to the lattice1. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of me, and look this way." 17. He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate and book, and other boyish property, upon a table in the room. And then he laid him down softly once more, and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her. 18. She stepped forward and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and companions for such they were, though they were man and child-held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep. 19. The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down. [Alfred Tennyson, a living poet of England, was born in 1810. He is a man of fine genius, whose poetry is addressed to refined and cultivated minds. The music of his verse, and his skill in the use of language, are alike excellent. He has an uncommon power of presenting pictures to the eye, and often in a very few words.] 1. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter 2. O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! 3. And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But, O, for the touch of the vanished hand, |