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4F% -W -W 99 HUMORS OF HISTORY." A FAMOUS DUEL. A.D. 1013. "The money raised to buy off the Dines only served to bring them in greater swarms. Driven to desperation Edmnrd Ironsides, with commendable self-sacrifice, suggested to Canute, the Danish Ki-;g, that they should decide the matter by ,,mgle combat. Canute accepted, and the duel took place without much injury to cither party. They then divided the country, Edmund taking the south of the Thames, and Canute the north; but within a month Edmund died, -and Canute annexed the .whole."—"The New History of England." A political or social cartoon by A.M., the artist-author of the above series of "Humors of History," appears daily in the "Morning Leader," the pioneer half-penny morning paper in London.
RHYL COUNTY SCHOOL.
RHYL COUNTY SCHOOL. CENTRAL V/ELSH BOARD CERTIFICATES. Tho following pupiis of Rhyl County School weire tuooessfui at tho Central Welsh Board QZ-. an1irw.l,ion;- Honours: — T. H. Evans: Mathematics, chomisti-y, and at scnioT eteige, English lan- guage. Latin. C. T. Kirkland: Latin, iuonch; at senior stage, history, Greek. Senior: S II. Chadwic-k: Composition, Scripturo, English literature, English language, arithmetic. Latin. Lucy A. Evans: Compo- sition, English langnstgc, English Literature, arithmetic, mathematics, Latin,Fiench. Clarice M. Jones: Composition (with distinction), his- tory, arithmetic, mathematics, Latin, French, chemistry. John D. Jones: Composition, En- glish language history, arithmetic, mathematics (distinction), Latin, French, Welsh, chemistry. John M. Lewie: Composition, English language, history, arithmetic, Latin, French. Edward B. Mitfe-rd: Composition, English language, ,c'n arithmetic (distinction), mathematics, Welsh, chemistry. Harold Thomae: Composition, En- glish language, history, arithmetic (distinct-ion), mathematics (distinction), Latin (distinction), French, Welsh, Chemistry. Juniors: — John E. Baylies: Composition^ Scripture, English Dangtiage (distinction), English literature, airithmet-'c (distinction), Mathematics (distinction), French, chemistry, geography. •.Margaret Biylisii: Composition, Scripture, En- glish langa i'ge, English literature, history, arithmetic, mathematics, Latin, French, chenre- try. Mary Co.vper: Composition, Scripture, English language (distinction). English litera- ture, history, arithmetic, mathematics, French, chemistry geography, dtiiawing, cookery (dis- tinctions). "Elsie Davics: Composition, Scrip- ture, English hmguage, English literature, ar'thmctic, Latin, French, clraAving. *John C. Davics: Composition, English language, En- glish literature, history, arithmetic, mathe- maUcs, Latin, Wesh, chemistry. Oswald Jones: Composition, English language (distinc- t-ion), English literature, history, arithmetic (distinction), mathematics (distinction), Welsli distinction), Froneh, chemistry, g'cography, drawing (distinction), woodwork (distinction). Irene M. Lambert: Composition, Scripture, En- glish language (distinction), English literature history, withm-otic. n atiicmatics (distiroti-on), French, chemistry^ drawing, cookery. ^Gladys A. Low is: Composition, English language, English literature, history, arithmetic, mathe- matics, Latin. French, chemistry, drawing. Annie E. M'tford: Composition, English lan- guage (distinction), English literature, arithmetic (distinction), mathematics, Welsh, French, drawing (distinction), cookery (distinction) Ronald L. S. Maurice: Composition, Scripture, English language (distinction), English litera- tme, history, arithmetic, mathematics (distinc- tion), French, chemistry, geography, drawing (distinction), woodwork (distinction). Gwladys Roberts: Composition, Scripture (distinct-ion), English language (distinction), English litera- ture, history (distinction), arithmetic (ict-nc- tion), mathematics (distinction), French (w'th r). chemistry, cookery. *tferbert C. Rctert-s: Composition, Scripture. English lan- guage, English literature, arithmetic, French, drawing, woodwork. J. Harold Roberta: Com position, English language (distinction), arith- metic) (distinction), mathematics (distinction), French, geography, drawing (distinction), woodwork*. Thosa against whose names an asterisk appears were over age for distinctions. All holders of senior certificates are ac- cepted by the Board of Education as assistant cr and all holders of junior certificates are accepted by the Board of Education as pupil teachers. C. M. Jones, J. D. Jones, and Harold Thomas are excused the matricula- tion etxaro-ination of tlio University of Wales. C. M. Jones passed the matriculation exami- nation of tho Victoria University, Manchester. William 0. Jone^ passed tho matriculation ex- amination of ("lie University of London.
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The Wrexham Grocers' Association have unanimously deckled that owing to the great advance in the wholesale price Ü of provisions generally, especially butter and cheese, the trade be recommended to increase the price of these articles. An advance in the retail pnce of sugar also recommended. In ia shop-window in Wales may be observed the following printed notice :— Bibles at reduced prices. Cigarettes. — Latest Novels. This shopkeeper is a broau-muiUccI man 'tis evident.
STORIES OF POPULAE SONGS.
Oil, 1tIÐ1ft! BE8EHYHD. ] STORIES OF POPULAE SONGS. BY J. CUTHBERT HAD D ENo v.—"THE MARSEILLAISE." I doubt if there ha.s ever been a song that has had more power over a people than the "Marseillaise." Carlyle says that the sound of it will make the blood tingle in men's veins, and whole armies and assemblages will Bing it "with eyes weeping and burning, with hearts defiant of death, despot, and devil." That, of course, would hardly be the case in these quieter times of the new empire. But it was very different when an impetuous and excitable people were wrought up to fever heat amid wild scenes of bloodshed and warfare in their own streets—when women were "fighting with the ferocity of wild beasts, and the heavy-laden tumbrils were rolling on day after day towards the scaffold." The power of the song during the frightful days of the first French Revolution waa indeed almost incredible. Klopstock, the poet, declared that it had caused the death of 60,000 Germans. It could win the victory of Jemmapes for the forces of Dumouriez, 40,000 men shouting themselves hoarse as they marched on the enemy. It was supposed by one Republican general to be as good as an addition of 1,000 to his ranks. Another reported of it: II I have won the battle, but the Marseillaise' commanded with me." During the march of Ducrot's division after Froeschwilier, M. Ludovic Halevy, making his way with other fugitives to Phalabourg, relates how the company, battered by the elements and disheartened by disaster, suddenly took heart and hope when the tall Tambour-Major Berne, striding in front, lifted his gilt staff as a signal and led off the "Afarseillaise," the soldiers striking in one by one and becoming new men under the intoxicating influence. There has seldom been a season of disorder in which the strains of the famous song have not excited the passions of the French people and thus it is that it has been kept in constant thraldom—"always feared, always watched, like a lion ready to break forth. from its den and spread a second time desola- tion and carnage over half the nations of Europe." The Government forbade its being played or sung for many years and curiously enough it is not many years since the Russian Government issued a decree to the same effect. Now what of the history of this epoch- making song ? The authorship and composi- tion was the result of a single inspiration; for, as the story goes, both words and musio were written in one night without any previous sketching out or subsequent elabora- tion. The author and composer was Rouget de Lisle, an engineer captain, who had at one time been a teacher of music. As the son of Royalist parents, and himself belonging to the Constitutional party, De Lisle declined to take the oath to the Constitution abolish- ing the Crown; he was therefore deprived of his military rank, denounced, and imprisoned, only to escape after the fall of Robespierre. His most intimate friend was one Baron Dietrich, the Mayor of Strasburg. One evening in the early part of 1792 De Lisle was a guest at the table of this family. The Baron's resources, we read, had been so much reduced by the necessities and calamities of war that nothing better than garrison bread and a few slices of ham could bo provided for dinner. Dietrich smiled sadly at his friend; and, lamenting the scantiness of his fare, declared that ho would bring forth the last remaining bottle of Rhine wine in his cellar if he thought it would help to inspire De Lisle in the composition of a patriotic song. The ladies signified their approval, and sent for the last bottle of wine the house could boast of. After dinner De Lisle, in a fit of enthusiasm, composed the words and music of the song which has immortalised his name: Ye sons of France, awake to glory! Ilark hark what myriads hid you rige: Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, Behold their tears and hear their cries Shall lawless tyrants, mischief breeding, With hireling hosts, a ruffian band. Affright and desolate the land, While peace and liberty lie bleeding ? To arms, to arms, ye brave! The patriot sword unsheathe March on, march on, all hearts resolved On liberty or death." The next morning he hurried with it to the house of his friend Dietrich, where it was sung for the first time amid intense enthusiasm. A few days later it was publicly sung in Strasburg, and it was subsequently performed at Marseilles with so much effort that it was at once printed and distributed to the troops starting for Paris. It was the incident of this latter performance that secured the present title for the song, De Lisle- himself having first called it a "Chant du C--j.T.bat de l'Arm^e du Rhin." The entered the capital on July 30th, 1792, sieving the inspiriting melody, and to its strains they marched to the attack on the Tuileries on August 10th. From that day the" Chnnt du Com bat" was called "Chanson des Marseillaise," and finally "La Mar- seillaise "—a name which has often led to confusion in regard to the scene of its birth. As originally printed, the "Marseillaise" consisted of six couplets only; the seventh was added when the song was dramatised for the FSte of the Federation, in order to complete the characters—an old man, a soldier, a wife, and a ehild—smong whom the verses were distributed. Dc Lisle had been cashiered for having expressed disap- proval of the events of August 10th, and was thfen in prison, from which he was only released after the fail of Robespierre, on July 28th, 1794. In these circumstances Dubois, editor of the Journal de Littiralw-e, was asked to supply a stanza for the child, and a fine verse, beginning "Nous entrenoua dans la carnere," came from his pen. Oddly enough, poor Dietrich, the Mayor of Strasburg, walked to the scaffold accom- panied by the strains of tho song b0 had indirectly helped into being. As for De Lisle, escaping, as we have seen, after the fall of Robespierre, he entered the army again; made the campaign of La Vendiio under General Hoche; was wounded, and at length went into privacy at Montaign (his birthplace), where he remained a poor, lonely, broken-hearted man until the second restoration. His family had some little property among them, but a brother seems to have taken advantage of the composer, and De Lisle was forced to go to Paris, where only a smnll pension, granted by Louis XVIII. and continued by Louis Philippe, prevented him from starving. He passed away in a friend's house at Choisy-Ie-Roi on June 27th, 1836, being then in his fcevcnty-iixlh year. At that place a statue was erected to his memory in 1892, the ccntenary of the birth of "La Marseillaise." Those who know the Marseillaise know how thoroughly it accords with the spirit of the country wliieh claims it m a national air. It may not be str tly true, as an English writer has contend i, that "none but a French patriot could ca ily hold of the melody." But certain yi. is quite un- likely that anyone but Il Fr neh patriot would have written it. And yet, ttranga Lo say, it was once seriously asseite.d thai fio tune had been taken from a Genua, hVl; As soon might wo look for evidenco oS ii-uii having borrowed from a French <%>i;iposcr to help out his settings of the i>as. "il as look to the Fatherland for the origin of such K liery, sparkling piece of patiiotis 1 in music as the French Republican song. is tee absurd to tell us, as they do, th .fc ar* German national songs in which *owal musical phrases of tho "Marseillaise are found. Of course there are But we no more on that account to conclude hat Rouget de Lisle was guilty of plagiarism than we are to charge our poets with stealing from one another because, they have said praetioally the game things about nature, and man, and woman, and wine. That Rouget de Lisle was the author cud the composer of the Mar- seillaise there is no doubt whatever—unless, perhaps, with the class of persons who doubt whether Shakespsaro wrote the plays that Btand to his name.
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Who nr& the The English who attend Eisteddfod an.
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THE INTERVENING SEA
THE INTERVENING SEA By DAVID LYALL. Chapter XXX (Continued) WHO DID IT? Evan stood by silently, praying mutely .:at some balm ir.i Jit be found for his sore hurt. It was i>iirst time 1*3 bad seen a hfitman soul in its extremity, and it moved him mightilv. Onoo more he knelt by a folknv-creatures side, and triod to lead his thought, his stricken heart, to One would could help and heal. It was a strange, a moving sight, but Holt was quite unoonsciõus of it; his whole mind and heart were occupied with tbp man at his side wihom lite was trying to befriend. After a time some calmness returned to Howorth, and lie rose to his feet. 'I've made a ba.by of myself, sir; but once mors, though perhaps you don't know it, you've saved me. I'll be able to bear it through another day.' 'YGu. have eaten nothing to-day, Howcrth; you are weak and spent for lack of food.' Tvo had none since yesterday, sir.' Eva.n hesitated a moment, thinking of the plenty within a etone's throw; the great Louse wiiere he had so little libsrty. 'Will you stay here till I come back, Howorth ?' 'If you bid me, sir.' 'I'll lock you in,' said Evan, with a half- gmrle, 'if it is nooessarv 'It isn't. I'll stay till you come back." Evan hastened to the house, and tapping iat the kitdhen door, asked for Gil13r,t who pame in much surprise. ql-us cook gone to bod, Gillett?' 'Yos, sir; they're all upstairs but Dobbs and me.' 'Could you get mo some food; a bit or cold meat from the larder, some bread anything a hungry man can eat.) 'A bit o' cold pie, sir, left from the kitchen supper-will tha.t do?-It's stand- ing on the dresser. I'm afraid oook's got the larder key in his pocket.' 'That'll do; put it in a basket or on a plate, it doesn't matter. It's for a hungry toan.J 'Yes, sir,' said Gillrtt, as if it were an everyday occurrence and in the shortest possible time he had a basket filled, 'Let me carry it for you, sir.' 'No, thank you. Say nothing, Gillett, until I give you leave.' 'All right, sir,' said Gillett; and after Bis young master had disappeared, shut the door. A few seconds and Evan was once more at the boathouse door, and had the swJs- faction of seeing Howorth e-at a gcod meal. cNOïY we've got to face the other thing, the damaged loom,' said Evan quiteJy. 'Of course you know what a serious matter it is. involving the loss of several hundred pounds.' 'Yes, sir/ said Howorth, with a dull flush of shame. 'I was mad; I can only pay the price.' 'You will promise to remain in Bartley, fend not run away, Howortli.1 'Sir, I've passed my word. I've done a tricked act, and I'm willing to pay the price.' 'It never pavs to take the law into one s own hands. Itou have made matters diffi- cult for a good many others besides YOiUr- self. We forget that so often. We cannot live to ourselves; and unfortunately one mian's act can barm a great many • innocent persons.' 'Yes, sir, I was mad,' repeated Howorth. 'Well, whatever tha future may hold— .'jCv'O'a the prison-cell, Howorth—you'll be a a-nd not pla^ the coward's part a Second time.' 'I'll do mv best, sir, for your sake. If fcfcore were more like you the world wouldn't be the desert it is.' 'Hush! not for my sako, but for Florrie's, if you will. Now wilT you go home and go to bed? rll walk with you to the gate, and I'll see yoiu to-morrow.' It was touching to soo the tall, strong man's dependence on his younger and weaker friend as they passed in silence through the dark shadow of the trees to the iodg-o gates. 'Good-night, Howorth. God be- with you. I may not be able to avert your punish- mont, but I can help you to bear it like a man.' He held out his hand. Howorth looked et it incredulously, and finailly grasped it convulsively between his own. 'You've talron me out of the pit a second time, sir, when I was deeper than at first. 1 can't say no more, but if I lii,e Evan noclded, pointed upward, and left him without another word. tHo shall not go to prison if I can help 'it; he said under his breath. CHAPTER XXXI. THE SILENT WATCHES. IL.. That night upon his bed William Holt ftreaiaed a dream. f It was night, and he was warning in a lonely p1a.ee by a wind-swept marsh, wlhere there. was no living thing, save the crying Wild bird on the wing, and the croaking frog hidden in the slush and slime of the ditches where the osiers bent to the diapering breeze. The loneliness of the Place, its seaming remoteness from the W&IYB and haunts of men, laid a subtle terror upon him, B-o that lie could have Cried out. But there w*as none, he thought, to hoed his cry. He had no memory of the place, and al- tnost no hope, for be know not where lie W'as nor for what purpose lie had come. It >m1.s very dark, ancl be turned his «5yes hither and tliitlior restlessly, soeking Soiao finger post, or other sign to guide Jutn, he found none. And his terror grev. lie imagined he saw the gleam of water oábo-ut him everywhere, and as them was no 'Path, at. any moment lie might stumble and fall into unknown depths. Suddenly there gleamed in the fa,r distance aeros3 the level waste a steady then his heart began to uplift its-?If, and be turned his face towards it. And as he did so he wa-s conscious that ono walked :with him, turning as he turned, but speak- ing no word. It was a tall ifgure, and there seemed to be some brightness in his garments, for their was light immediately here the-v were, so that he could plainly See the stranger's face. It was beautiful, t marked with ineffable sadness, and bo now though no one had told him, and his ioiil bad a smalil commerce with Heaven, that this was one who had crossed Otio in- {Qrveiiing sea, and for some purpose visited nn. Thero was no terror for hnn now in tele darkness, only a deep wonder, and Sorrue haste to learn what tho stranger wc) uld with him. And for tha.t reason ho |pr>ke; and tihe voice wus not tbe voice of William Holt, it had lost its harsh note, tud was gentle as tbe voice of one who t,aiild learn. r "Vha.t is it? Who are you, and do fctti wish me to do ?' 'You have far to travel to-night, and it fcs time we went forward,' the stranger SJUTrered, and almost immediately the ^-lr kerned to grow alive about them, and tncy began to ascend. rI?he seft> wind ianned thoern, and soon they were far above the R-aste niardi, and could look down upon it it stretched across to tho fu rtliest Verizon. 'What m this place, I havo never seen it, before ?' said William Holt. 'It is part of the sea of life the stranger Answered. The place whore evil deeds are buried, and where good ones ana stifled. is the Waste of men's selfishness.' \.nd the light?' he said feverishly. 'We :no to some town, surely? Is it I.eeds?' 'It is called by no particular name. For tui- purpose all cities are the same. Life *s tho air,3 in thesn all, and always we fiJiail meet the waste of men's selfishness.' lie s'lid no more, for presently the city ^ius beneath them, and it was a wonderful sight to look down upon it from above, to (}h the gleam of its countless lights, its uplifting themselves proudly, its Sreat buildings, monuments to men's Patjenee or ambition, or ha-f&e to be rich, faking dark masses against the clear tlcnuo ? the sky. It seemed night there also, when they descended into b'Vo el eels, was little traffic in tliein and a great ^en-ce. Occasionally some night bird would
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From the "Star:" — "Mr Ellis Griffith I said he would not accept the vacant county court judgeship if 11- w: -e offered to JllIn. But Mr John Shiress Will."
LITERARY PORTRAITS.
[iix SIGHTS BESERVHB,] LITERARY PORTRAITS. By HALDANE MACFALL, Author of "The Masterfolk," "The Wooingi of Jezebel Pettyfer," &0. v.— RUDYARD KIPLING. When your ordinary citizen goes to bed of a night he takes his comfort and his smooth pillow for granted—he does not realise that he is cn^nng his ease, even as ho exercises his placid daily calling, because he is fenced about afar, at the edges of the nation, out there away at the frontiers, by men who guard hie sleep and keep his peace—men who wear a sword at their side, men who live with rifle in hand, men with stern mouths and alert eyes. He has grown so used to his habit of being protected that he does not realise within how very few generations ago each high-road in this fertile England of ours was dominated by a castle, where rough nobles made war at whim upon their neigh- bours—nay, he does not realise that the stately homes of England were filled with men-at-arms, nor how very recently every man wore choleric sword on hip, and drew it in street brawl or personal quarrel at most trivial excuse. The sword and war are to-day pushed cut of our lives to distant places, away from the centre of everyday doings—and the armed men, who a hundred years ago lived in our midst, now ring the nation round about at her furthermost outposts, and we sleep o' nights by consequence, fenced in with their distant courage. To the man in the street the soldier is but the paid servant—indeed, your comfortable citizen scarce knows how underpaid is this servant, this fellow that earns not even a living wage, to whom the citizen transfers his virile responsibilities. He is most often the grown-up man bred from the irresponsible youngster of the village and the town, drifting to the outposts of the race out of very irresponsibility—going he knows not why, but vaguely, as by an instinct. The adventure blood in him sends him packing; the down of manhood is on his lip; the pulsing, keen, energetic life is out there at the front. And the man who has known and assayed that frontier worth, of the soldier and the sailor and othor adventurous blood, is Rudyard Kipling. Ho is poet of it all, at no man has been poet yet. Of a scheme of life he has no logical sense—and it is perhaps his chiefest claim to popular favour. He follows by impulse the frontier instinct—the imperial instinct. When the men of the frontier push to war, Kipling's loose legio serves him well—he thumps the Old Testa- ment end of his Bible, and taps the drum, and riots in the bugle-call. When the adventuring men suffer defeat Kipling does not blame them, but he turns his eyes home- wards, where manhood has set up false ideals of strength, and he writes a Recessional, and Bcolds the dunces and blames the thin of blood. When there is peace amongst such as are of the adventure blood, and exhaustion, he opens the other end of his Bible, and reminds the people that there is a New Testament to the Book of Life, and a Prince of Peace. Being of the frontier blood, it is when he voices the soul and spirit of the frontiers that he reaches to greatness. They that guard with calm eyes the welfare of the commonwealth, the tale of these gives majesty to his genius. When he comes home to England, little England, be falters in his speech; but his instinct saves him, and he runs down to where the fence of the bar- barianism of the frontiers comes within a stone's throw of our ftes. There he finds Badalia Herodsfoot in the slums, and the "curick who gives his life to the state. The soldier who gives the citizen his sleep, and by the citizen is rewarded with contempt, neglect, and a beggar's wage-nay, does not your fine Cockney refuse even to drink with him or sit beside him at the play ?—this man has Kipling set up in his true heroic place,! lashing the complacent smugness of the protected stay-at-homes the while. He has sung Courage and Work, and set them up in their proper proportions in the balance of life. His imperialism, when ho takes the strut as politician, is ridiculous enough; but the ren.1 instinctive imperialism, glory in the honour of the race, has been breathed into his very bones. A full imperialism he will never know, for he has small knowledge of women—to the great movement amongst women, to better the race, be is profoundly blind. We come from his "Soldiers Three" bedraggled in heart as to womanhood. At best the melodramatic iade, whom he takes for true woman, can but. kick through a crude dance that is scarcely in keeping with the high measure of music. Rudyard Kipling has the broad bullet-head, the square jaw, of the rude, rough man of the camp. It is often complained that he is vulgar. Perhaps he is—a little vulgar-*— just as Cecil Rhodes, laughing, grim, reckless, fearless, answering through a mouth full of ham sandwich as he eat arraigned for a national crime before the nation's tribunal, was vulgar—as men that do the rough hewing of the race are vulgar —as Pepin and Charlemagne were probahlv vulgar. But he is a clean-hearted maker of laughter, and that stands well to his honour. He is a true poet, and that mitigates what vulgarity he has. The man who reads his novel in his armchair in the evening to make a pleasant relaxation from a dandified living, or as leisure after a sordid day of grey toil, has found Kipling good company; but I some- times think that it is the man who sat brooding before the bivouac fire that sends its upward streak of scented smoke into the stilly night on the outermost threshold of the race who feels the most deeply the rude splendour of Kipling's poetic artistry, and tlie vigour of his genius. You who sit at home are too rushed with little things. The streets shut in your view. It is out there under the blue sky for roof, and with the vasty world at your feet for hearthstone, that the long bouts of enforced rest at the twilights of heavy days set the mind atune to the grandeur of man's strength is out there that what the Cockney calls melodrama is but the common ecnt-it ie out there that they judge life in crudely curt epigram and humorous saw, sabre-cuts of rich-coloured observation and Kipling has the whole trick. For be it remembered that on the frontiers life is seen crudely. Its philosophy is a raw philosophy, unafraid of self contradiction, elemental. To take Kipling's philosophy as the basis of life must land a "man in queer places, for it is irre- sponsible. a thing cooked from day to day, whatever the bill-of-farc yesterday. But as an artist he is of the most original and vigorous in our land. "When he puts aside philosophy and politics—the laws of life and its mysteries—and is content to get into the souls" of men and beasts, to transfer through the craft of the written word tbe emotion and moods and charfctor v> itiiin, he is a very ill"- His sheer artistry is prodigious. j.ho com- plicated upper type of man he cannot reach, for he is wholly deficient in the philosophic gnnius. But the elemental human he knows and understands—and he can place himself within their ecu's and shew us those souls with a vivid, sti-ango, and c027summate genius that is positively startling. The British officer has baffled him, but tho soldier he has revealed as he has never before been revealed in literature; the animal of tho jungle has discovered to Kipling his innermost secrets— he has discovered their manner of thinking, their speech, their habits, their essential entity. Where before we Lave had the leopard in his skin, Kipling has given us the stealthy being that walks on cat-like feet and gazes upon us out of fearless eyes. His understanding is profound as it is astounding. His grip or emotion ranges wide over the human gamut. Laughter and tears are at his command tragedy and comedy rise and play their drama at his tall. His bouncing conception of life is consent to find justihea-
THE INTERVENING SEA
flit across their path glancing fearfully r about as if momentarily expecting to be laid hold of; then the stranger's face seamed to become sadder, and to take on a touch of divine pity. But he spoke no word. The silence was terrible to Wflliaan Holt, who was burning to ask a thousand questions. 'Patience, friend,' said the stranger quietly. 'Soon there will be occasion to speak; here ther6 is none.' They left the wider thoroughfares and plunged into a narrow labyrinth of streets which spread away from the river banks, and where the known haunts of every human care and crime. Here there was more life, for they were in that part of a great citv where the denizens thrive and live by night; their deeds being evil, they have no commerce with day. And presently the stranger, with Holt following closely, entere.d a dark narrow doorway and began to climb a stair. It seemed a long way up, but at last they came upon a rickety landing where there were many doors. And as they stood a moment thev heard the low moaning of a child. Then the door opened to them, and they were within the house. Yet house it could scarcely be called. It was but an attic twelve foot square, and it held no furni- ture, save a bed in the corner whereon lay the wasted figure of a man. A woman with a moaning child in her arms sat by tho fireplace, where there was no fire. And there W,<1S no light in the plaoc, save that which came from the stranger's garments. It sufficed to show the deadly and hopeless misery of tlS3 woman's loofe. The woman Holt did not recognise, but as lie looked at the man's faoa a light broke upon him and he started forward. 'It is Benjamin Waiuwright, that was a loom at hand at Bartloy for many a d.iy. Poor chap I13 is far through. H >\v has I e come to this?' 'He has come to it through you; that is, when he fell on ill-health in ycur service, and the doctor said it was consumption, you paid him off without remond and the rinn had no placo to go to.' 'I cannot keep a hospital at Bartloy Mills,' said Holt; but his face wore a shamed look. 'And no man will pay me for work I cannot do.' 'That is as it may be, but here he is. They arc decent people and tihey have done their best. He is dying, and there is not bite in the house. Ebe her fingers, worn almost to the bone with the needle, and that has failed her too. Nobody will pay as vou say, for work badly done. 'I'll help them. There's plenty of empty houses in Bart ley now, let me givo tl 53111 money to go back, and I'll allow them a pound a week; I'll never miss it. My wife la always kind to the poor. Shdll get them clothes and furniture for the house.' HLs hand was in his pocket, where tho golden sovereigns lay snugly, and his face WOPS an eager look; but the stranger slicok his head. 'You minted, your opportunity, the op- portunity which comes at least once or twice to most men, then is gone for ever. You must remember that lie pled with you not once, but many times, to let him stay on. Some one else will relieve them soon.' 'But I have so much. I'll never miss it. Let me give it.' 'The man who will never miss it need not give. His giving is witnout meaning or graoe, it costs him nothing,' said the stranger, and the house with its melonriboh' inmates faded away, and once more they were in the street. They continued to move quickly, but many scenes of misery passed them by; and alwavs William Holt, thinking of his gold, would have scatterssd it. but was not per- mitted. Then a great anger and terror grew up within him, because he felt that his money was a curse, that no man would touch it, that its only use was to corrode his own soul. Then they entered a house for tho sec- ond time. It was on the outskirts of ti-4, citv. whore a handful of tumbledown cot- tages. huddled on the edge of the dreary marsh, damp unwholesome dwellings where only those lived who had to count their oenco and could net pay for better lodg- ing. 1;1* Here in a solitary room, neglected, un- k>ampt, wretched, an old mail, sat alone. 'Why!' said Holt with a stupendous surprise. 'That is old Ezra March: how's he here ?' 'Because, being old and past work, there was no place found for him anywhere uiuler you. And he will net go to the workhouse. He has been self-respecting, and self-sup- porting aJl hLs li £ and he will die hero hrst. Yet a pittance would lia- -o saved him.' 'He shall havo it. I have plenty. Here it is., Again the gold chinked in his pocket, and agaiu he was prevented. 'Your time is past. It is even now in the heart of a woman who is a, servant of the Lord, to succour this poor derelict on the sea of life. To-morrow he shall have enough to eat, elothes to wear, a com- fortable homo to live in, and his last clays shall be better than his first.' 'But he was in my service, boy and man, for twentv years, and I would like to help him.' cannot. Let us go.y Still keeping by the edge of the gloomy marsh, they came to a great gloomy pile of buildings which looked like a prison, and was one. And they took up their position by the gate- As they stood the grey dawn began to creep over the marshes; a long yeilow line, heard of the sunrise, eLjtt the distant east, and thore crept about them the strange stir and life of t,be new day. As they stood in the silence the great gates swung back a.nd some prisoners were let1 out. Tll,v crept out misorably, blink- ing their eyes as if unaccustomed to tho light. and space. Just then Holt do.scried another figure motionless bv the gate; a woman's figure, wearing the dress of some sisterhood; lt3r sweet face under the close- fitting bonnet wearing a look of tenderness tmd yearning hope. 'Who is she?' 'One of the Sisters of the Prison Gate mission; she seeks the lost,' answered the stranger. '&o! sh-e takes them by the arm. She has given up a'il to devote herself to her work.' 'That one is a very young lad; but, wl-ty, it is Ted Garret, ona of Bartloy lads! I had to pay him off for stealing.' 'First offence, and it was to help them at home. Unleas the Sister gets hold of him now will join the (peat army of the criminal class, whidl is a constant menace to the public good. The prison mark is on him, and the world has no mercy, no place for a prison bird; nor does it make any distinction between the fledgling and the old bird.' # 'But I'll take him. I was angry at tlio time, and I had to make an example of him before the others. He stole iron from the engine sheds, and sold it in the town. But I'll take him on again, and keep an eye on him.' 'He pled with you, he will not do so again. Si?e, the Sdator has not been able to koop him; he is gone; and there is bitterness in his heart.' 'Let me go after him; I'll bring him back. I know his people, I tell you: he was born in Bartloy; lie's ono of our own But an invisible liand seemed to hold him. and he had no power to move. Tho opportunity was yours,, you have lost it,' he said. 'It is the new day, and time we were Again they moved on, and this time dasconded upon a expanse of ground, ono of the burying places of a great city. In the still morning light tombs gleamed whitolv, and the spirit of peace and of hope seemed to brood over the sacred spot. 'Here,' said tlie stranger, 'is the place which some call the grave of human hope, but which is the gate of 'life. Which will it be for you when you are borm thither!' 'I know not. I am not an old man; I have twenty good years' life in me yet,' said William Holt; but he shivered as ho spoke. "At an hour when ye think not the Son of Man shall come, and I say unto ye, Watch." But who is that bending over a new-made grave? One for whom the bitterness of deotli is not yet past; who cannot follow what he has lost within thie veil.' They drew near a new-made grave upon whidh the flowers of yesterday had scarcely whidh the flowers of yesterday had scarcely drooped. No stork3 marked it. but the soli- tary watcher mourner had needed none to guide him to it. It was the figure cf a man kneeling on the wet turf with his feice hidden. In a broken voice he prayed— 'It is another of my people, Howorth. Let me go to- him. Tlie woman ho loved was buried tlt--re yesterday. Let me sp-2nk to him, trv to comfort his loneliness,' cried William Holt, struggling with tho innsiWo force which held him. 'The opportunity is thine still/ ssid the stranger ,in a low. earnest voio). 'See that thou pass it not by, for Christ's s,,t The vision faded. Williaea Holt fcti 1 rod in his sleep and opened his eyes. CHAPTER XXXII. THOU ART THEr MAN. The morning sunshine upon the room in a golden flood. Some one was moving in the room. Mr Holt raised himself on his elbow and looked round dazedly; the sound of the blinds being drawn confused him. 'Your tea, sir. hall I pour it oatf" said Gillett's voice at his elbow. 'My tea, oh, yes; pour it out. Is your mistress up?' 'Yes, sir, some time age. I think break- fast has begun; and Mr Kay has ridden to business on his bicycle. lie was away by half-past six.' 'What time is it now.' 'Eight o'clock, sir/ IAU right, you may go. I shan't want any help this morning.' The man withdrew. Mr Holt feverishly drank a. cup of tea, hoping it would clear his brain. He realised now tl at he had only droamed, but so sharp was the im- pression left on his mind that he was start- led. bewildered, almost awe-striken. His hand trembled as lie tried to s?t&ady cup: hoe felt as if he had been in seme strange manner in touch with the Unseen. It was so new an experience for the hard- headed, practical man of business ard of tho world that lie ffclt himself entirely at a loss. The world cf imagination, of spirit, had no place on t,h.e iM-rison of his life, which had been spent in 'dealing with material things. He was neither happy nor at his ease. Once or twice as he dressed lie rega-rded his own face anxiously in tho kioking-glass, t»s it half expecting bo detect there some sign of physical wmkness; but there was none. Physically he had never felt more fit in his lite. Ho had heard of dreams and warnings, perhaps his extraordinary experience of the night had come to prepare him for his ap- proaching end. His face wore a troubled, anxious loo1", and v.hen his wife entered afterwards when he was nearly dressed die was at once struck by it. 'Why, William, what a. sleepy head you're getting to be BUrG!' &ho said cheerily. ISeconu time in a week to be late for break- fast.' 'I've had a night, Mary Ann. I tell you. Didn't I make, any noise, talk out loud or anything?' 1 didn't hear you; I slept sound myself. 3 was dead tired. The boys are both pone. I've just being giving Evsn his breakfast. 113 lias-nlt slept much, poor dliap. worryin' to death over this machine that's been destroy,I. I'm sorry you've had aiil this worry, William.1 'It wasn't that that troubled me,' he re- plied eV2I.s"Íplyv. 'I say ,Mary Ann, do you believe in dreams?' 'I shouldn't like to say, William. I've heard some queer things, and see.n '0111 too, in my time.' "Do you think dre;uas are ever sent as ,warnings 'Yes, I do. I've known foilks to be warned of their own death by them as well as of other folks' death.' 'But then the dream wouid be about death, wouldn't it?' 'Yes, it would likely. Had you a dream last night?' 'I had. I'm not sure yet whether it was a dream or not. Do you believe that they ever ooano from the other world to tell us our duty?' 'I think we're not so far off as we think. Sometimes our little Mary seems 80 near that I could almost say she's, in the room wi' me. God makes mo feel like that when I'm needing special comfort.' 'It doesn't hurt or frighten you, then? To rne it's a creepy sort of idea.' 'Hurt me? our little Mary!' said Mrs Holt, and her eyes filled with yearning for the child of her love; whom God, in her sweet infancy, had taken to Himself, 'I don't mean that specially, but the thought that we're near the other world. I've always trhd to keop the thought of it as far away as possible. This world was enough for me up to now.' 'But the other one will come, William- nothing surer.' 'I suppose so. Well, Mary Ann, about this dream of mine. Somebody came and fetched me away from hero, and showed me a great many folks I haven't seen for long. I don't know for why, unless to show me that I haven't done my duty.' 'Who were they?' asked Mrs Holt, her eyes wide with interest. She liad come irp- stairs in fc?-r a.nc\ trembling after the storm of tlie pluvious niglit, expecting nothiiig but gloom and irritability. She perceived that in the night something had hapne-ned to her husband she believed and hoped that God had spoken to him. To be continued.
LITERARY PORTRAITS.
--4 tion in the crudity of living according tI one's primitive instincts—and his work hat been a healthy counterpoise to the decadecc# and pessimistic conception cf being that haJ begun to lay their trail over English art and leiteis. Above all, he has an essential faittt in the dignity of man. His daring in that splendid dedicatory poem to his dead brotherv in-law, wherein he makes God pass by thí eompany where they sit at the tables ig lieaven, the clean of heart and soul if sublime comradeship of clean mirth. wh4 rise to their feet to do Him reverence as H< passes, unafraid to look Him in the fac- all this is amply rewarded by the achieved dignity and the majesty of the simple event6 His hands pluck the scents and the odourt and the colour out of nature, out of citieKç out of sensate things—the thunder out of tha firmament, the sapphire stillness out of th* night, the parching, feverish breath out of the sun. He seizes the emotions and sensa-, tions out of nature as out of man, and yieldo them into our vision. Kipling has an uncanny gift of catchiag the whole essence of a dramatie episode, its action, its sounds, its odours, its colours, itf rhythm—and his mastery of prose and vers4 gives him a splendid instrument for his orchestration. His life holds the romane4 of genius-the old, old romance. A hack- journalist sent out to India to be the drudge of a Colonial paper, he snatched out of whal should have been his rest from long hours of labour, from the weary days of the moal ghastly form of literary servitude, the materials of a splendid art; and he moulded these materials with consummate workmanship into a series of masterpieces in the heat ei a climate which makes idleness almost de* fensible, sluggardy nearly a virtue, and energy to do the allotted ta?k a boast. And he found his material in things that had lain waste for generations, trodden under the foot of contempt and of ignoring; and he took these things and fashioned them with the oervous skill of the creator and he breathed life into them, and they took wing and carried the fame of him across the face 01 the wide world.