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Tho Hnng at Evening by the Htreatn ... 8 Kir Gnlahad 12 •r„ M — 14 (tigmnnlBm IS 'I'lio Love of Kewaydin 31 Vu Clyppe 96 I'oritetfulneBfl 28 Lo liel Cavalier W I'he New World 41 True Worship ......... 46 riio Sauimer Breeze 47 our Ideal 48 ovurtones 49 Lethe 62 From Heine 66 Evening 66 The Bridal Hymn of Catullus 67 An Ancient Bondeau 63 Wet Grass 64 llaldee 67 Dreaming 68 ISIidHummer Nights' Dreams .... 69 Jack's Bivals 70 ■B1 Vl CONTENTS. Paor. Bottom 72 Leaves From a Metaphysician's Note-Book . 76 'Tis Life for Me 84 Aladdin .86 Sultana 88 Livingstone River 88 An Ancient University 9i Nama-way-qua-donk 109 Arcady 113 Macintoshes 116 A Swedish Student Legend 11& Entrevues 198 Old Voices 128 A Poem in Wood 129 A Fragment 130 In a Mirror 131 The Violet 133 Beaute de Diable 134 Quebec 136 Orpheus 139 Old Gold 141 The Paradise of Voices 146 To William Morris 148 Memory 160 The Man in the Black Coat 161 On a Christmas Card 163 Verses 154 Separation . .'166 coK"^E^Ts. vil Paok. Spectacles . , , , IGfi To it Young Vlollnlflte 167 Tiidiiin Summer 163 Educntion and Incendiarlnm .... 169 At the Comer of the Street 171 Through the Leaves .172 Innocence 173 Night on the Plains 174 uost Love 176 Morning 177 The Moraiizer in Convocation Hall 184 Drifting 188 Forbidden to Know 187 The Death of the Year 188 " Rosy-Fingered Mom " 180 The Great North- Wet 191 Wl \ i 1 I 22 THE LOVE OF KEWAYDIN. Many long moons ago, Counted by winters of snow, White as the blossoms that blow Far in the forest; Where many a dark wood dreams, Where many a snow moon gleams. Far by those southward streams. Woke I from slumber. Woke as the storms that wake Far over breast of lake, Making the wild woods shake At their coming. Grew I as in his lair Grows up the grizzly bear — Oft by the camp lire's flare. In the midnight. Stretched on the forest heath. Heard I, with bated breath. Stories of fight and death Told by warriors. Often soft suns sank down. Often the leaves were brown, Often the ghost snows wound The naked forest. THE LOVE OF KEWAYDIN. Once in the moon of snows Up from our fires we rose, Wandered in search of foes Through the forest. Far to the north I led, Death followed in our tread. Many a one lay dead In the midnight. Wild as the autumn gale, Wild as the wind and hail. Faces that blushed were pale When we left them. Once as we slept at night, Close by the fire's red light, Swift on the left and right Rose up warriors. Soon in the fight we closed, Many a one reposed. Hushed on the driving snows, . There in the moruing. Far from the deadly fray. As snows in the morning gray, Went they the northward way, Bearing me prisoner. 23 ill ' lr--'4feAJ--rJatgT:yJJT'4™-j..-J 1].'! L-JL-.H.MH^'W'WWP Wk..---,IP I i l!!ll;i % in I M ! 'liii J I I ; 24 THE LOVE OF KEWAYDIN. Once, as I partly slept, Near me a soft foot crept. O'er me a maiden wept Tears of pity. Soft as thy dreamy rays Shine through a golden haze, Fell as a glorious blaze, Her love on my spirit. Soft was the maiden's eye. Soft as a sunset sky. Answered she sigh for sigh To my wooing. Where could the soft lake rest, But on the rude rock's breast? Over the snows to the west Fled we together. Wild was the cry that night When they knew of our flight; Tomahawks gleamed like light Bound the camp tires. Followed they thick and fast, Fled we swift as the blast ; But death must come at last — We were surrounded. .■.t.-^Lri^-jr-i/irf,--.::. i'-l rWj* It ((?■;.: v^k^.•■-■i'^it. THE LOVE OF KEWAYDlN. 25 Strongest was love in death; Leaped my blade in her breast, Giving the winds her breath, There in the fore-3t. Scowl gave I them for scowl. Torture! a dog might howl, Mine was a warrior's soul, Breath of the >yind-god. Gheezis, God of the sun. Thus is my story done. Gheezis, I come, I come — Back unto thee I come. Take me, almighty one, Gheezis, the mighty. W. W. Campbell. i i\ It ' ■ jiPi { : !' ''I I 1 ' ill ' f" i I I ' !P 'f i I I I ' : I Mill M ' ■! ! I III •■ I i I ■Iji I i ! 1 ! 2d YE CLYPPE. YE CLYPPE. 'her be in these now new-fangled dayes certaine maides whiche do not lack corage, nay, whiche do delight in show- ing to their compagnions such wytte as they do possesse. And certaine it is, that often- times their wytte be very brilliaunt. How to define the kynde of maiden, I knows not ; as sayeth Sainte Anselm, when I trie not to explaine, then I knowe, but endeavourynge to tellen what I do know, then I know not. Ye clyppe is filled with poesie, for to hire nothynge shalle be ever dulle or commonplace The melancholie humours she dothe contemn, for because she hireself is lighte and blythe Bom. Unto any deepe or useful knowledge she pre- tendeth not to aspire. Yet, altho' true it isf that she teacheth not such thynges as noui- isho or sustaine, yet ther shall alway mo be[ learnyd when that she is present than if the be only suche as in these daies men do callei| blue-hose. YE CLYPPE. 27 Ye clyppe is very like to the cruet-stand. How brilliaunt so ever be the rest of the per- sonnages, she is always the centre, and yet, not for any greate usefulnesse she hath, but con- Irarie, because she can to adde a relishe to such toughe and uncouth thynges as the other persounages do offer. Verily ther is moche spicy and peppery matter in hire nature, and if some shoulde saye ther is vinaigre also, me- thinks this be smalle in quantitie, and that contra-actyd upon by the smoothe and com- fortynge oile of salade. This maiden cruet-stand should not be too 1 moche usyd. For that yf it bin the case that vij or viij tymes runnyuge the relish be too imuche lauded, then it commeth to passen that [sober and lastynge thynges do pall ypon us. It hath been said, and that with truthe, that jbenoathe the brilliaunt exterieure there lyeth goulden rychesse. Very like ; yet sith that til is dothe not oft appeare, it shall be a piece )f worke interestynge and perchaunce profit- able to discover it. If any doubteth lette him brye. T . Arnold Haultain. w ■ t POROETFITLNESS. ii! llii !■';■■- Ii FORGETFULNESS. r~l OME truths, if they are not acceptable, ^r\ we can avoid ; others, again, seem to be ^eurance of bein^ esiM^cially beneficent in its action, and that is when by dulling the memory of injury it serves to mitigate hate. But evidently the benefit here is si)ecious; for elsewhere the inclination to forget works quite us effectively in counteracting the good it may here have accomplished. By obliterating remembrance of kindness received it aids in fostering ingratitude. So much indeed is this tlie case that a suspicion is excited whether the good effected may not be more than coun- terbalanced by the evil. To determine which way^the balance inclined was a problem which engaged the dialecticians of ancient Greece. The question was involved in the wider one, which of the two, pleasure or pain, is more potent to influence the heart of man ? And it is interesting to note that the suffrage of these old thinkers was given to the decision that pain is moro potent than pleasure, that injury ■i-'-^PT'TT^Trjtjf^t^rB'^ff':^^ 'I !i I' |:M = !• I \l ! : ! 34 FORGETFULNESS. makes a deeper, more lasting impression than kindness. We have thus an independent pagan confirmation of the familiar scriptural saying, ' ■ The heart of man is deceitful above all things;" and we further perceive how baneful is the influence of the simple disposi- tion of men to forget in adding to the total of the world's vice and misery. There is one phase of forgetfulness which is particularly affecting, as when ii, extreme old age an author turns to peruse the works of his prime, and finds there evidence of a power lost. It was thus with Swift. An anecdote relates of him that once in his later years when sitting reading " The Tale of a Tub," he closed the book hastily, exclaiming: "Good God! what a genius I had when I wrote that!" We have read also of an aged Frenchman who in similiar circumstances burst into passionate tears, for to him the books had become quite unintelligible. And, indeed, thus must it ever bo with purely intellectual labours. For a time will inevitably come when a man must bow before the heart-breaking discovery of failing faculties. At such a time the outlook is indeed a dark one, unless within him powers of a different kind have been born and been grow- :i I H.J FORGETFULNESS. 85 ing, such as may support the demands of another life. Only then can he be justified in declaring triumphantly with Waller, that " The soul's dark cottage, battered and de- cayed, Lets in new light through chinks which Time has made." While we have thus reviewed and lamented some of the eyils inseparably connected with forgetfulness, let us not be driven to the other extreme, to the deification of memory. Let us not suppose that the whole utility of our studies lies in the facts and theories remem- bered. It is the too general prevalence of this idea which has justified the quaint severity of the criticism : " College mostly makes men like bladders, jest good for nothin' but to hold the stuff as is poured into 'em." Facts, it cannot be denied, are excellent weapons ; yet too great accumulation of them only enfeebles —five smooth pebbles and a strip of leather were of more service to David than the elabo- rately ponderous armour of Saul. Knowledge alone is not power ; encyclopsedias, the store- houses of facts, do not constitute the " literature of power." Is it on account of a marvellous accuracy in the statement of facts that Dante, TMHii^sjffissK::^"^^^^^" . ■ U , i MM ii-vi im ; m\i I ) 86 FORGETFULNESS. Shakespeare, Goethe, and all genuine poets are reverenced and read ? Strange, is it not, that a few lines " On a Mountain Daisy," by a not over-instructed ploughman, should remain the perpetual delight of millions, while yenr by year the dust gathers and thickens on the learned tomes of Boyal Botanical Societies ! We are far from pretending to have b^en the first to discover the deleterious effo jt f f orgetf ulness. It comes too much within the personal experience of every one to have escaped observation. This we find to be the fact from the institutions everywhere and of all kinds, with the one object to counteract it. Was it not Darius, the Persian, who required an attendant to remind him every morning of the vengeance vowed on the Athenians ? What were the ancient hieroglyphics, and the vast, unwieldy pyramids but uncouth efforts in the same direction ? And have we not in our own day stage-prompters, encyclopoedias, memorial monuments, note-books, tombstones, temper- ance societies, and manifold other contrivances to accomplish tbo same end? And must we not, in all due reverence, add to these yet another, the pulpit, which once in seven days if! I Hi; ^;!,; i ,,r ■ '^1 !■ I ! i I * * PORQETFULNESS. »7 3 poets ; it not, Daisy," should IB, while thickens lotanical dve b'^en 3ffo.;t/ .'• ithin the to have to be the pe and of teract it. re(iuired ornin}? of 18? What the vast, »rts in the our own memorial temper- trivances must we these yet iven days raises a voice over the world to remind man of his high possibilities? And, moreover, is it not unfortunately true that he constantly needs this reminder? It is here that the inborn tendency of men to forget works its most disastrous results. Left to himself, there is an " ebb of the soul downwards," a yielding to petty desires and low ambitions, an increas- ing disinclination and incapacity for nobler activities, and finally, if unchecked, thd utter extinction cf better impulses, of the last spark of the divine fire to which alone belorgs immortality. And what casts over all the darkest hue of tragedy is the transient, recur- ring gleam, of a promise of better things. For " there is not a man that lives," saith the poet very truly, ** who hath not known his God-like hours," times when, communing with pure and holy thoughts, he is clothed on with a radiance that for a moment cows ignoble nature, when revelations, flashes of a keener insight, risings to a higher plane, and glimpses of unknown vorlds of thought, seem almost to give him jtrivilege of rank among the angels. These pledges of great possibilities, which it is allotted to every man to receive, should be dear to him as his heart's blood ; they are a i ; ": !| 38 FORGETFULNESS. bright shield before which the enemies of his manhood recoil, and if he forget not to keep firm hold, the battle of life \yill be easy, and he will rest at last in the supreme enjoyment of perfect manhood attained. R. Balmer. ii III LE BEL CAVALIER. 39 LE BEL CAVALIER. I. N the wide and fragrant garden Of the Prince, his lord and patron, Long ago, on one bright morning, Strolled the troubadour, Vaqueiras. 11. Heard he, mused in leafy pathway, {Suit of ^'clvet, cap and feather), Soft, a sound of woman's laughter. Tinkling through the balmy morning. in. Peered he through the fragrant hedgerow, la a broad and sunny court-yard, He espied a fiame of ladies. {Cherry silk and laivn like snoip-drift). IV. As at gaze a herd of deer stand In some still glade by the beech -trees, Stood those fair Venetian ladies Watching one, his Queen, his Chosen. ! ! ! :*! h Hi in !' J ..*f^jt'. iu ll i;"?' "j_ »% j.\ THE NEW WORLD. 41 THE NEW WORLD. I. 1 / AIR western world on which no white l"^ man gazed Till o'er the wide mysterious waste of waves Columbus sailed ; and on the shore stood friends Who gazed upon the barque and little crew Till all had faded in the golden west, And darkness settled oii the lonely sea. Then whispered they with voices low and sad, " Will they return to vine-clad Spain, their home. Or perish in some far-off clime alone?" Far o*er the sea the little vessel passed, Till all grew tired of the moaning waves ; And at the dismal creaking of the masts. The hollow beating of the sails, they turned Their longing eyes far o'er the dark blue sea, And thought of home, and friends, and vine- clad Spaih. In dreams the tender voice of Philomel inii ■■ H 48 THE NEW WORLD. ' i I ! I I I I Their souls did soothe ; and wandered 'neath the moon, With love-lii eyes, fair maids, whose silv'ry laugh Stole o'er their slumb'ring sense like music sweet. At last they said, " There is no land beyond. Our home is far away. There orange groves Shed perfume sweet, there roses bloom be- neath A smiling sun, and grapes are blushing fair Upon their emerald vines. We wiU return To those we love." Undaunted stiil thou stoodst, Columbus, on the prow, divinely born. Thy dreams are nobler, grander far than theirs ; Night's darkest shadows gather over thee Alone, with weary eye soon to behold Visions more grand than all thy wildest dreams. II. So God a torch doth wave; thy mighty heart Beats high, thy task is done; Aurora fair, From Love's soft couch in beauty rises up i I n i: THE NEW WORLD. 43 With Tithon's kisses blushing sweet, and over The restless sea stole silver smiles. Oh sea, Laugh on for ever ! 'Tis a glorious deed. O noble man ! thy name shall never die. All Pleasure's paths are far from Glory's gate, And many at the threshold fall away And are forgot; the wearer of the wreath Must watch and wait ; most weary is the way I Ere rests the head upon the lap of Fame. Sweet thought ; to live in death. Now myriads, Columbus, bless thee for this heritage. Our home, oh tender thought, the happy scene Of childhood's days; O, holy land where sleep Our dearest loyes, who toiled, and wept, and prayed , For us, they held enshrined within their hearts. How clings the soul to old familiar spots ! How sad the stranger's lot to roam alone. Far from his childhood home and native land ; ! I f Mill' I III 11 1 i i\i\ 44 THE NEW WORLD. Oh God, we bless Thee for oar glorions home, More fair than far-famed Tempe's greenest vale, Or garden of Hesperides, where dwelt The maids whose melody was borne on air, Perfumed with golden fruits and rarest flowers. But here no dragon tears the hungry soul, The fruit is ripe, the flower doth bloom for all. Here was a home for the oppressed who fled Far o'er the lonely sea for Freedom's sake. III. O noble sacrifice for truth and right! Here all may find a home. O stmgglini,' souls, Who live in poverty, and want, and woe From shadows dark come forth to light and hope. Across the boundless deep we stretch our hands To welcome you from the foul p^mtilence TTnto the land where all is bri^t and pure. Here yellow cornfields wave, and millions dwell IIP' J • J4L ;,.. .■•^' :•:... jAi-'. : THB NEW WORLD. gloriooB greenest relt le on air, id rarest »fy soul, bloom for d who fled 3m' a sake. In oities, emalons of happy homes. Afar the prairies blaze with summer's bloom ; Luxuriantly by noble rivers laved, Where sail the stately ships with treasure borne From the vast inland seas, the matchless lakes. Fountains of mighty rivers. Glorious land, Set in the westering sun for a new dawn Of hope, to mourning nations sunk in woe. The earthly paradise long sought in vain, A Land of Promise for the Olden World. T. B. P. Stewart. ght! Btmggling Lnd woe K) light and stretch our tAstilence it aad pnre. hnd millions ■ii! 40 TRITK WOHHIIIP. TRUE WORSHIP. in ■ A HONNKT. r^?iND down thine head, stoop down to r\ me, my love, (y y To me, thy loved one, knoelinfj at thy feet; Show me, by gracious outward symbol Hweet, That thou, my loved one, though so far above My utmost thought, art yet within my reach, Within my love. Alas! thou canst no' i How utterly beyond all thought to me Thou seem'st. But yet I ask thee thus to teach Thy loved one, for because my love for thee Exceeds all thought, thus do I dare to pray That thou would'st stoop to me, would'st take my part. That, by this precious sign, I so may be Emboldened to believe I may some day Be, through thine aid, made worthy of thine heart. T. Arnold Haultain. THE SITMMEll HRKKZK. 47 THE 81JMMKU BKE?:ZE. t I. I~^ LOW. numnior breeze, l--\ Wild fragrance bearing, C^J Take witli thee every Hweotertt thought toiler to-ni^ht; Blow softly, Wake her not, Her face is wearing A smile whose presence makes her chamber seem more bright. II. O, summer breeze, Thy soft caressing. And gentle whisperings will move her more than mine ; Go thou, and With thee take Heaven's choicest blessing, And waft it to her on those airy wings of thine. III. Go, summer breeze, For thy returning. ^im,i'7aig^".!ii';!ii\aiVit8 TIIK imiDAL HYMN OP CATlTI.UTfl. TIIK YOITTIIH. Not for an cany prize, O maidenB, to ub is tlie struggle. See how tlie maidens rise with songs well studied beforehand. Not in vain are their cares; they will sing what all will remember. Soon will their song begin, soon we respond, as is fitting. Hymen, of marriage tne god, be thou benign to us. Hymen! THE GIRLS. Hesper ! is there a star than thee more cruel in heaven? Who cans't a maiden tear from the fond em- brace of her mother. Who from her mother's arms a clinging maid cans't dissever, And the chaste maiden yield to the ardent arms of a lover. Hymen, of marriage the god, be thou benign to us, Hymen ! THE YOUTHS. Hesper ! is there a star than thee more bless- ed in heaven? la THE nniDAL HYMN OP CATULMTS. 59 I. Who by your firoH confirmest already plight- ed eHpousals, ' . Those which the pair have pled^'ed, the parents plighted beforehand, Nor can ratify yet till thy torch be lighted in heaven ! What better boon can the gods than that glad hour have accorded ? Hymen, of marriage the god, be thou beni^m to us, Hymen ! THE omiiS. One of our maiden band, O mates, is taken by Hesper, Well may the watch awake when Hesper rises 1 for always Thieves jirowl forth at night, whom thou that bringest the nightfall, Hesper, in thy pursuits and theirs, alike dost resemble. THE YOUTHS. How the unwedded choir with well-feigned grief are complaining, How if that which they scorn in secret spirit desire they; Hymen, of marriage the god, be thou benign to us. Hymen ! ' M ''ii!t:;r <" 'I I : 'I I' i:!'' ''l\ ! >»■, Ml IMi hi ! ill m THR RRIUAL HYMN OF CATULLUS. THE OIRLH. £ven as a flower that grows in a secret place in a garden, Hid from the herd an they gra/^e, and never hurt by the ploughshare, Boothed by the breeze, made strong by the sun, and fed by the shower. Many a youth has desired it oft, and many a maiden ; But when torn from its stem, deflowered by the gathering finger. Never more will the youths desire it now, nor the maidens ; So a girl in her bloom is dear to her home and her kindred, So when the flower is {ducked that blossoms but once in a lifetime, Never a joy to tl c youths is she, nor dear to the maidens, Hymen, of marriage the god, be thou benign to us. Hymen ! THE YOUTHS. Even as a vine that* grows in some void place in the vineyard. Never can climb on high, nor lift the load of its clusters, THK BRIDAL HYMN 0¥ CATULLUS. 61 But AB it bends on iho earth beneath its burdon of branches, Touches with topmost shoot its root, thus grovelling earthwards, Yet if that vine twine round some stalwart elm as a husband, Many the swains that then, and many the steers that shall tend it. THE 0IRL8. So is a maid when unwooed, in waning years when unwedded; But when for wedlock ripe she is joined in love to a husband. Dear is she to her lord, and at home is more of a solace. Therefore with such a mate, we pray thee maiden, contend not. Ill were it to contend with him, the choice of your father. Father or mother's choice, you well may bend to their bidding. Not your own is your maiden dower, it is part from your parents. One-third share is your father's, one-third share is your mother's, THE BRIDAL HYMN OF CATULLUS. One-third only your own; with two against thee dispute not, Who to your husband's hands their right, with the dower have conceded. Hymen, of marriage the god, be thou benign to us. Hymen I C. Pelham Mulvany. AN ANCIENT RONDEAU. 63 AN ANCIENT RONDEAU. ^ ^ ^ 00 ydle Eyes, I wis, O Emelye, Mote not y vie we this Booke, and certainely Sith here, in Greke ywrit,"— "But I wolde faine List to y® Frescheman rede and eke ex- playne Hys wondrous Booke ywrit in Greke," quoth she. "Certes," I sayd, and then right schollarly I rede, as fro y® Booke : *' It secmeth vie » No Synne y^ heavenly blue of thyn Eyne ticaine To idolyse. When, Ladye mine, thy starlyk Eyes I see, rd faine fall at thy Feet, thy captiv bee Alway — thilke Wordes ye Authour here hath sayn." "What sillye Greke ! " then quoth she with Disdeigne, And went; and thus I wasted uttrelye Two ydle Lyes. W. J, Healy. I r ;■ : i\ "liti! iir- ■pi!'! ' ' ii:i' I,. ■' M > K>"fB . -i i >-fiin^T>nnf( A>i 64 WET GRASS. WET GRASS. , 'hi I IKE Herr Diogenes Teufelsdrockh or the I ^ Roof Philosopher, I have a watch-tower overlooking a great city ; from its wind- ows I can see every hour of the day, if I choose to look, the waters of a mighty lake. I have looked so often'that I know it as a lover knows the face of his mistress, with its every flitting shadow, change of feature^ phase of expression. I never weary. " Age cannot change, nor passion stale Her infinite variety." The clouds that hung above thee all yester- day, heavily even and grey, making thee but a dull-coloured ribbor. on their skirts, have dropped down to-day and blotted out thy face in a mist of rain. Oftenest thou art a broad wall of deepest blue, rising against the last houses threateningly. All thy changes bring new delight. Once. I looked and saw thee seething in a white fire, all thy waves molten and glowing, marble snow moved by a welling life within. The next day thou wert all one v-i 1 WET GRASS. 65 steely glitter, like unto transparent glass ; the next, the wall was down, thrown flat, and thou looked the living troubled sea thou art, long lines of white-caps rolling to the low beach and breaking there so plainly in the bright sunlight. I could almost hear their thunderous roar. I could not stay apart from thee, and so in midwinter I made a pilgrimage to thee across long plains of snow, swept by fierce winds. Nothing but drifted snow underfoot, hard and white, moulded and carved in all manner of curious devices by the sculptor-wind that came driving his long snakes of snow along the glar- ing levels. Still I could not see thee. I came nearer and nearer till the snow rose in a huge drift before me. Crossing the rounded hillock I beheld thee ! crisping dark, green and mys- terious above the white snow. Thalassa ! Thalassa ! as the Grecian van- guard cried when from th summit of the lofty hill their ^ and-wearied eyes first caught the distant flash < f their beloved sea. I stood and feasted my yes on the beauty of thy winter waves, greei under the fateful sky, and thy mimic Greenland coast with its icebergs, its glaciers and wave -eaten cliffs. • ti ■ 1 i ; :'!'Mi: I' ' I , IN!; 1,^ ■ '!' \l iiij! isl!'""ii^ [ ( m: :l ; I ii 66 WET GRASS. Then I had to say farewell, and I turned from thee with a promise, a longing and a dream of the days of summer. Then, my Lake, I shall bathe me in thy waters ; in stormy afternoons heaving shorewp.rd on the back of some huge billow to the lonely beach of sand ; in the stillness of fresh mornings when the spirits of the air, as the old Greeks dreamed, caress the naked body; in breath- less noons when all things quiver in the heat, plunging from the granite step of some little island, down, down into the transparent cocl- nes«', and leaving the hot day and the fevered earth-life behind. A. MacMechan. HAIDEE. 67 HAIDfeE. ITRUSTFD that this perfect love of mine Had won like love from thee; and so my days Were filled with song of birds and sum- mer-shine, And roses bloomed for me on all the ways. But love comes not because we wish it so, 'Tis lawless as the cold, uncertain sea ; Some ships to peaceful shores its breezes blow, But some are wrecked on reefs of misery. And though thy love shall never come to me, I cannot love thee less that thus it is ; Nor charge I thee with my heart-agony. Constrained to love without a lover's bliss ; For thou has been to me but purely good, And still art so, with gracious womanhood. A. Stevenson. 1 1 ,; jlji \ -. '. ■-,- '■■.■--l^:^•.■».5^■-J^JJt,^v-J-;V.;>- 1 B 1 'i'' hi; ! liiV |i ^!i . i; ■:■' B j^mjil ji I 1 i!|i:!i 1, 1 ' 1 :| i : ' 1 ,■1 P'- i 1 ! • ', ,;:" r'l !ji. ' ll ^^ ^ ij 1 if! 1 ii i, : /I i lij ,'i *i ■ i, ; 1 1 i ! 1 i i ■ j ] j i ' ' 68 DREAMING. DREAMING. JLEEP, oh, sleep, thou maiden fair. Wrapped in thy golden hair; On thy lip a sweet smile beams From the sunlight of thy dreams, Whilst thy lover, o'er the sea. Calmly sleeps in thought of thee. Soon the rude awak'ning day Scatters all these dreams away. Till the kindly night once more Wafts each kiss to either shore. J. H. BURNHAM. MIDSUMMER NIOHTS' DHEAMS. MIDSUMMER NIGHTS' DREAMS. r~7 ROM the purple cells of the hyacinth Ms) bells, * We fly I we fly ! From the stately rose that sways and blows 'Neath a summer sky ; From the tulip's bowl, and the golden pole That props the tented lily; From violet-beds, — as their fragrance spreads. When the summer eve is stilly. And night seems blent with the dreamy scent Of roses breathed muskly. With the rich perfume of the daffodil bloom, And the larkspur nodding duskly, — From all the flowers, in their dreamy hours, When dove-eyed stars are above them. Showering light thro' the summer night On the dews that kiss and love them, — The gracious dews that kiss the hues On their petals interwreathed, — From all the flowers we're shed in showers. The souls from out them breathed. W. J. Healy. I ! ''liir*; rt iiig..r,T7a ,; h . 'I i I ' I ! ill I : I; iMi 1 i I ' ' ill ' , W ' iiiii ! ■) |i'-':;F' :i >i< ,1 Hi;, I ! t'i<;!i:i (;] ( !lj i I! ' ■■!''' ' ' I 'ill' ■ J i!''»i.i: I ■iliil!!!; ! Ii Mil ii i Mil : ' I 11 ii 70 jack's rivals. JACK'S RIVALS. I HAVE two fond lovers here, Jack, Down by the sea. Whene'er I go out I can see they are Waiting for me. Aren't you dying to find out their names, Jack? Here they are : S — and 13 — ! The one you may meet in town, dear. The other's with me. One of them kissed me to-day, Jack, Down on the beach ; He goes into town every day, but he's Out of your reach 1 His kisses brought blushes, I own, Jack, He ruffled my hair. But then they were, oh, so sweet, dear, . I didn't care! As I sat on the rocks by the shore, Jack, . The other one came. And spoke of his love in more serious words — 'Twas sweet, all the same ! And I felt I could hardly say " No," Jack, So I didn't speak jack's rivals. 71 How mad you'd Imve boon had you seen, dear, Salt tears on my cheek ! I suppose when you read this you'll be, Jack, As cross as a bear. And you'll say I can flirt as I please, for All that you carel But I'll tell you the names, if you're good, Jack, Although you're a tease; My lovers are- you, Jack, -and then, dear, The Sea, and The Breeze. Freukric B. Hodoins. I 'a !!-■ i i »— liiMlw ^"'^m ■;!. I 72 HOTTOM. r "if Kii ;i ii'M'P'; I I't 'M BOTTOM. " /Inrf / will jnirge thy mortal groMnesH go, 2 hat thoii ahalt like an airy ttpirit go!'' kONG before the full truth of the poet's meaning dawned Ufwn mo, my child, ish thought had been —How much he missed ! How could he have preferred existence aB Nick ^ ttom, the weaver, in the Roven Dials of Athuas, to being a dweller in that Elfin Land " Where the sun never shone, And the wind never blew A land of love and a land of light, Withouten sun, or moon or night." It seemed such a beautiful thing to be raised above the mean cares and the vulgar pains of this earthly life to a total exemption from the thousand ills of our common lot. But far more beautiful were the visions, vague but very sweet, of a promised freedom, a nimble- ness in goin , a lightness as of fancy itself, and an unembodied nameless purity. All these made his choice hard to understand' But is the reason far to seek 1 It was the m BOTTOM. TO preference of the ass's head. Ho thou<^ht Titania and Fairyland were a dream forsooth ! and went back with a proud consciousness of wisdom, no doubt, to the world of realities — to the horse-play, and the common jest of his follow-clowns. A dream! This is what he chose instead, to have many stories for his ^'randchildren of the famous doings on Duke Theseus' wedding-day, and bo be soothed to his coffin by the comforting belief that the most tragical comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe was never so well performed as when Nick JJottom played the lover's part. He never knew what he lost ; at the moment of choice he could not discern what turned upon his de- cision. In Fairyland, Bottom puts the very fays to clownish use ; that is all he gains by his sojourn there. The pity of it is he is con- tented it should be so. Once, and once only, in our life does our Titania offer us the choice — the clearer vision, the purer aims, the truer life. Her promise, too, is sure. With scrupulous exactness she will perform to the letter all that she has said. If we take her at her word she u-ill thoroughly cleanse this mortal grossness. ;ii!! ! li'!i I I I)i3' 'II 'I rii;il I'! Eli ii;-? I'l Mil! '1^;,-;' .&0 .;fi: iriM. Btte'ih ill : 74 BOTTOM. •'And teach hi^h faitli aiul ho7ionra])lo wordfl, And courtlinoHH and tlio deniro of fame, And lovo of truth — " Hlio comeH to all. In all lives thoro are on- chantod moon-lit moments, when wo stumble out of the society of our fellow-actors rehears- ing their pitiful farce — to be rewarded with derisive lau«,'hter — into a v/orld of wonder, into the presence of the Fairy Queen. Htrayed from the clamour of rou,s,'h voices and the fric- tion of common ways, we find ourselves sud- denly alone with velvet-clad silences and the pure floods of moonlight. '•And here beginneth the new life." Ill for us if our eyes are so holden that we cannot see the Queen of all the Fairies in her supernal loveliness, slight or misuse her choice gifts, and in our brute calm take for granted that pure idyll of tlie summer night. Like Bully Bottom we see nothing strange or unusual in it all ; like him we would send the nodding serviceable elvcF. on our vulgar errands, Moth for the hay and Cobweb for the red -tipped humble-bee. We make the choice of the ass's head. And it is our irredeemable mischance that we reject in our crass complacency the priceless offers of the Queen, and prefer nOTTOM. 75 to Fiiirylaiul the contracted Hta^je and mockinf^ audience; to Titania, Hnug the joinur and Snout the tinker. •' For the choice {^oes by forever." Forever ! Our eycH are not always dark- ened. Wo awake somotimeH to what wo have lost. What was that pitiful comedy wo were pleased with once, to what nii^'ht have been ours? But the one golden time of choice, first youth, is irrevocably past, and there is no cure for remorse and vain regret. But for the few, the clear-eyed souls that choose aright, what of them ? They bought the power to discern at the supreme moment by years of struggle with manifold falsity, by hardness well endured ; theij knew there was pure gold in the world and could not stoop to treasure the common gilt that any man might win. And so they find in the fulfilment of the Queen's gracious promise their life, their growth, and their exceeding great reward. A. MacMechax. I ; piii'Hi ■, 70 A metaphysician's note- book. M m I el iv V Hi LEAVES FROM A METAPHYSICIAN'S NOTE-BOOK. IT lias always been granted that the metaphy- sical course as laid down in the University ciirricuium, and more especially as taught by the able Professor in University College, is one of the very best for developing the mind. Never have I seen it intimated that a possible result could be the disturbance of mental equilibrium. I have lately, however, come into possession of several note-books, some of the contents of which have given rise to grave doubts. For instance, there is a constant re- ference to some mystical ribbon, which would appear to be conclusive evidence of the serious aberration of the compiler's mind. This ribbon seems to have gradually grown into exclusive possession of his mental faculties till it embraced the entire range of thought. Altogether the thing is so phenomenal, I have deemed it pro- per to give it briefly to the public. I do this the more freely since the identity of the author is lost beyond hope of discovery, and he can never object to the publication '^f a few short ill I ili; I • A METAPHYSICIANS NOTE HOOK. // extracts, showinf^ the growth of the " fixed idea" which ultimately held such undivided sway over his whole being. At the back of the book containing notes on [)sychology there are thirty closely written folio pages — a sort of daily record oi thoughts suggested by this ribbon. I quote entirely from them. " 'Tis now two years since first I met it, but I remember it well.. A bright October morn- ing, with a sky so clear, and an atmosphere so subtle that the babble of brooks and the carol of birds came floating from meadow and woodland, a harmony of nature. A spirit of gladness pervaded all things, and with all things I was delighted, especially with this thing which I call myself. " At such an hour and in such a mood I, a self-important sophomore, entered the meta- physical lecture-room to await ' the grand old man ' who was to open for us the door to the treasury of thought. He came, in appearance like the wise men of old, and as he uttered something about ' conjunction' and ' synthesis,' and ' apperception ' — a magic sentence whose potency I have since learned — the door flew open. But, alas ! how dark were the depths ! li 7H A METAPHYSICIANS NOTE BOOK. f: beyond ! I tried to pierce the impenetrable blackneHS and could not. I shuddered lest, perchance, unconscious movement mi^ht drive me on. The very darkness seemed to flow out upon me, and I would have turned and fled, had not my eye caught the presence of the ribbon,, red at one end and blue at the other. There upon that blank fleld of vision, clear and bold againsr, the uninviting background, it lay. " Like the toi'ch that lighted Columbus to a new world, it was an earnest that all was not an empty nothing b jfore n^e, for in those days of ignorance a seeming something was to be pre- ferred to a seeming nothing. Hence from the first I felt a 8yr;ph,tlietic tenderness towards tills ribbo 1, red at one end and blue at the other, and gratitude for the favour done would assuredly have perpetuated the sentiment had the silken cord never presented itself again. But it did present itself again and again, until its occurrence and pcrbistent recurrence estab- lished the most delinite and indissoluble sys- tem of relations between my mind and it." In anotlier place I find a paragraph, evi- dently written just previous to examination, which displays a vein of hnmour in our author A metaphyhician\s note book. 79 as well as his perfect unconsciousness of the fate he is temptinj^. It is as one spoitin}^ in the outer currents of the Maelstrom. " I have often remarked the almost complete idiutity of colours in our British flag and the metaphysical ribbon, and felt assured that it ,vas more than accidental. Hitherto I have not succeeded in establishing any clear causal con- nection, but my attempts were entirely mis- directed in that I took it for granted that the irliite must be eliminated from the flag. I now clearly discern its presence in the ribbon — it comes with the ichite-w&Bhing, otherwise termed plucking, in May. Then, hurrah ! for ' the red, white, and blue.' " Yet the gradual development of the idea was not unnoticed by him, though it appears never to have suggested the question of its limit. Accordingly, instead of making an effort to throw it off, he seeks to justify his submission. While we admire the candour of his investi- gating genius, and the frankness with which he accepts the inevitable, we can but commiserate the delusion his logic induces. " The hobby horse," he writes, " on which my metaphysical lore in its infancy was wont to sport has become my ' old man of the sea.' 80 A METAPHYSICIANS NOTE BOOK. i^^i K »■'; It Ih with me daily, hourly ; 1 find it in every rcHearch ; it is present in every thouj^ht ; even external objects, if they are not all ribbons to me, are at least red at one end and, blue at the other. " I aak myself in what does its virtues con- sist ? I analyze it, tracing it through its pro- cess of manufacture into the earth whence it came. I submit it to the physicist, and he talks learnedly of complementary colours. But the answer is no nearer than before. '* I see ribbons everywhere. They bind the maiden's hair, lay softly on her bosom, or en- circle her slender waist. Each man and boy wears one upon his hat, and the fine lady ties one about the neck of her poodle. The shop win- dow is hung with them till it looks like an ex- ploded rainbow." Then, proceeding on a direct line of induc- tive reasoning, he reaches the conclusion, which he puts interrogatively : *' Can it be, then, that the virtue lies in the particular con- junction of spatial relations qualitatively de- termined, by which .1 apprehend the red as here and the blue as there, and these embraced within the unity of my consciousness give me the perception of a ribbon red at one end and A metaphysk;ian s notk mook. HI every ; even ons to at the 3B con- ts pro- ence it and he •8. But incl the or en- uid boy ties one op win- e an ex- ' indue - elusion, [1 it be, liar con- vely de- red as mbraced give me end and l)hie at the other ? 1 beUeve it is ! Ah ! now there is lij^ht dawning. Now I begin to per- ceive that the first requisite to the production of a coiinition is SYNTHESIS." Having thus, after great effort, arrived at a conclusion apparently satisfactory, he pro- ceeds to show why a ribbon of any other colours than red and blue could never have performed the same high functions. The examination is too exhaustive to reward perusal, and we will only remark of it that it is so minutely critical as to render it very doubtful whether a mere re- version of colours, viz. , blue at the one end and r"/'' '(■• 82 A MKTAPIIYSICIAN S NOTE BOOK. I'J 'i Vifi .1= ft' ■! p : I'': . , f ■ nected, incoherent, unrelated units of the Horiea in whiclil,in common witli humanity at large, waH hopeleBHly lost. "Trees and windows, lamp and tables, keys, watches, round red discs, Inive all been brought forth in their season, but these would have been marshalled in vain had it not been for our con- fidence in the reserve force which lay close at hand in the ribbon, red at one end and blue at the other." But I have already cpioted beyond rny in- tention. On the last page there is a touchinj^ apostrophe, which is all the more interesting that it gives a slight indication of a returning sense of individuality probably aroused by " the trump and drum and roaring culveriu " of Commencement and the magic transformation wrought by the Chancellor's " Et tu." " Adieu, old friend. Whither I go it is con- tamination for thee to follow. We must part : I to mingle amidst the indiscriminate shades and colours of the world, thou unto the tender mercies of a new generation. May they learn early %at their course must inevitably be red at one end and blue at the other. Yet never will I forget thee, thou clear expositor of the external ; simple illustrator of the manifold. A MKTAIMIYSICIAN S N'OTK HOOK. X^ ries ceys, been coii- )se at I lie at ly iu- icbin^ esting urniug kr " the a" of nation is con- it part : Bliades tender jy learn ' be red et never r of tlie anifold. 1^ Thou hast each day Hince first wo met ilhun- ined my course upon the ocean of undis- coverablo truth. Love for tliese dear old halls, deepest reverence for the Professor whom all deli<^ht to honour, and loyalty undaunted for my Alma Mater, do I carry away bound up with memories of thee. Wlieresoever my patli may lead, whatever may be each day the line of action or of thouf^ht, while I pause at one end be thou at the other to remind mo of the t,'lorious truth that ' primitive conjunction is the foundation of the identity of the apjx^r- ception itself which antecedes a priori all de- terminate thought.' " Whether lie succeeded in cutting himself free from the ribbon then or at any subse(j[uent period cannot be ascertained. H. E. Ikwin. 84 TIS LIKK Foil MK. t.:. 1;:: W. TIS LIFE FOR MK. 'HREE-SCORE and ten, a wise man Said, were our years to be. Three-score and six I give liim back, Four are enough for me. Four in tliese corridors, Four in these walls of ours. These give nie. Heavenly Powers, 'Tis life for me !" h. f "■■■ Mm' :.ti mv^. AT.AnniN. 85 ALADDIN. ^ive 'IIOU Htandcflt reflectively upon thy one lonj? \q(> and round, flat foot, like a meditative crane, my Lamp, On my study table, in the midst of scattered and heaped sheets of MS., open books and their gnarled dark thoughts, thou standest and slieddest thy beni{j{nant light, lilluming what is dark. \ Thy luminous head lightest my page. Thy soft steady rays make thee a grateful and re- freshing Presence. Indeed a P'riend. I raise my eyes from these dreary books and contemplate thy shining familiar face. (Com- panion ! Friend ! Let others praise Nature, her delights and the wonders of her design. Thou art both Poetry and Nature and Science to nie. I look into the manifest relationship and the subtle harmony of thy parts, and praise the cunning hands that made thee. Thou art a Teacher as well — of Systematic Theology. I see desigr\in the wise little recep- -il m ALADDIN. .I'll '.' .! I' «■'!'? 'I'i -'I '" '!ii'''; tticlo for i/lio uliHorption of Hni)t!rrtuouH oil, and the quaint device by which thy cohimnar wick iH fed. Midway thy Hhade of Porcelain and the par- allel bri<^htneH9 of thy cylindrical rcHervoir, midway also between thy Top and thy ]iottom, is a ^lobo of metal. There my eyes rest. It glistens blackly like the drop of ink in the palm of an Egyptian diviner. It becomes clearer ! It is opaque no longer ; it is growing luminous, expanding more and more — it is the mystical crystal of the astrolo- ger, whereby the Dark Future is foretold. And I see — A little dreary Studiostube walled, ceiling high, with brown dusty books, an n.rm-chair by a table, littered with papers and books, upon which lliou, the kindly genius of Bachelor's Hall, radiates light, the one bright spot in all the Desolation. There is a figure in the chair ; those old fea- tures certainly resemble mine — It is — myself. But stop — Did I say books in a narrow study ? I was mistaken — I ' 1 '; II in I ill ATwvnniN. 87 the • It in a wide, clioorf iil room, hri^lit coloured paper on the wuHh, pieturoH, — thou art Htill tlio centre, caHtinj^ tliy li^'ht on all — WaH I nioiit' there ? Why, there are cliihlron, cherub-clieeked and joyoua- rovolvin*? Hatel- lites of a littU? round matronly fij^ure, over busied in matronly wavH, their nun. Thy lij^ht falls upon the happy j^roup-she turns her face, and I see — But what nonscuHC this is 1 ITow absurd to talk to a Lamp as if it could understand ! A. MacMeciian. jlor's in Id fea- ; I !:>i»iilL ma ni. y:, ^. rS^A IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) 1.0 I.I ■i< lii 112.2 £ Itt i2.0 u L25 iu III 1.8 1.6 *^ |-^\^"-^ & ^¥1'^ o^ Photographic Sciences Corporation ^ V \ % ^ [V ^\ ^\ 23 WEST MAIN STREi£T WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716) 872-4503 '<^T^"<<^.1a '^ o '9> ^"^tf % m iil NTv 88 SULTANA. 1'^ 1 SULTANA. p*NlS Serenity, the Sultan, I y When he would remove a pasha, (JS) Sends a bowstring and a letter, By a slave, to end the edict. While the pasha reverent kisses. He divines, unread, the letter; Kneels and tenders to the strangler His bared throat, and murmurs "Kismet." Mistress mine hath sent a letter. Letter, mute, and strangling bowstring All in one. And shall I struggle? Hope is over; life is ended. But the One Faith still remaineth, I am still a true believer; What can J but kiss the firman, Kiss it, kiss it, though it strangle. A. MacMechan. Vf ; 'I LIVINGSTONE RIVER, LIVINGSTONE RIVER. OH, dreamy, silent river, deep and strong ! Oh, river rich in life, and gleaming light! Along thy sloping shores and watch- ing hills, No legendary past, in glory rich, Has left its many-towered battlements To moulder, crumble, and too soon decay ; To weave around each falling turret's base The thrilling tales of mythic warrior days. Thy richly rounded hills, in endless throng. Glance back no faint, far distant shock of arms. That, sounding still, rolls on from year lo year. No sabre stroke on heavy-plated mail The peaceful flow of thy dark flood disturbs. No thunder peal of war's artillery Along the winding passages of time Reverberating still, doth wildly start The wary fowl upon thy breast asleep, A mist impenetrable hides thy past, A brooding silence stills historic tones ; m 90 LIVINGSTOXE RIVER. m^ ' We see no visions of the days fjone by ; To us no wrecks float down the stream of . time ; No weird and mellow tones float on the wind ; And so we say thou hast no memories. Ah, well I we know not ; it is dark to us, For we are but the children of to-day. Our knowledge reaches only back to morn. Perchance to thee are known the great events Of histories full of wondrous deeds. Per- chance As much good blood hath mingled with thy stream As ever tinged the waves of fabled flood In mythic song. Perchance, could we but catch The rythmic undertones of thy deep roll. We might then hear a fragmentary thrill Of songs, whose grandly swelling tones, whose sweet Wild music, grander, sweeter is than all The songs thy European fellows know. Perchance by thee have wandered, deep in thought, As mighty men,' and minds as great, as e'er By Roman Tiber, German Rhine, or e'en By English Avon, LIVINGSTONE RIVER. 01 I of ind; B, rn. vents Per- h thy )d re but 1, rill whose all eep in as e'er e'en But now a tropic cahn, A tropic haze, hangs over thee, Each trembling murmur into speedy rest. With Htful sob the sighing winds sink down To sleep, and twilight shade in softness falls, And weaves a subtle tint with filmy light That gleams like strained mist athwart the leaves. Along thy marge the tall and slender reeds In accents hushed, and nodding, half asleep, Their strange, weird tales upon thy waters pour. The lofty trees bend over thee, and droop Their pendant branches, swaying softly down To kiss thy smiling face; and trailing vines. In clusters rich, creep down to sip thy breath. Along thy reedy shores no sound of bells, No rich, full majesty of organ tones. No human voiras, 'chanting praise divine On holy days, in dreamy accents float; But in the reeds thy rippling waters break, And through the trees the winds do softly sigh. And touch in every leaf a chord of song. And myriad hymns of praise, and wild delight, i;;.jWl ).- 'Hi #. 92 LIVINGSTONE RIVER. Through all the long bright tropic day, From feathered songsters rise to pierce the skies, And float through azure domes with star- dust strewn. Until they reach the very throne of God. Oh, silent river, lying still and lone. Thou hast unnumbered visions all day long. Of gleaming golden sun, and fleeting cloud, Of distant mountains — overhanging trees. Of birds, that sweeping down a moment, seek To peer within the hidden depths beneath. And then on fleet and flashing wing, are gone. At night thou art a richly jewelled sky. Where southern stars in trembling down- ward sink. And dost thou, silent river, nowhere keep A record of the beauty thou hast seen ? Hast thou no secret chambers filled with song. Where vanished melodies are lingering yet? No hidden corridors with canvas hung. Whereon the faded scenes still brightly glow ? Eternal monument of lofty fame ! A fame that fades not with the fleeting years ; I Mm LIVINGSTONE RIVER. 08 But, like thy waters, full, and pure, and deep. Grows ever richer as it onward flows. A fitting semblance of a noble life. That calmly still flowed on 'neath darkening skies. Through desert drear, and gloomy forest wilds. With rarely, here and there, a sunlit vale Knchanted deep in song, and odours sweet. A life that left its blessing all along. On every shore and people that it passed ; And flowing on, still deeper, broader grew, Until its gleaming waters reached at last The boundless sea of immortality. J. M. Lyi>oate. with 111! yet? glow? aeeting >■■] ':.i'i: I: ! H ■ ",!' I 04 AN ANCIENT UNIVERSITY. |'i5^=f ! AN ANCIENT UNIVERSITY. Introductory Note. WE are glad to be privileged to announce to the world a discovery. Among the Canadian boatmen on the Nile is one who was formerly a responsible functionary of University College ; we believe, indeed, that he was under-porter of the Resi- dence. This gentleman — to quote from a letter with which he has honoured us — "con- ceived in the discharge of my official duties such an enthusiasm for classical literature, that on reaching Egypt — the scholar's El Dorado — I determined to prosecute a course of independent research, such as is prescribed for the new fellows of University College. While exploring the ruins of a temple of the goddess Neith in the city of Sais, I had the good fortune to discover in the stomach of an embalmed cat several well-preserved rolls of Egyptian papyrijs. These on perusal turn out to be a fragment of the tenth book of Herodotus, describing a visit of the historian it: AN ANCIENT UNIVERSITY. 05 to the island of Atlantis. I should have liked to publish my discovery in the original lan- guage, but as I am anxious to bring it within the range of the resident students of my alma mater, I append a translation, and hold over the original for the present. I have only to add that I have shown the papyrus to a classical B.A. of Toronto University, who has kindly written a preface and appended short critical and historical notes. He has promised me also an excursus on Atlantis. A disserta- tion after the manner of Valckenar on the embalmed cat will be presented shortly to the Senate as his thesis for the degree of A.M. Finally, he has pointed out a few errors in my translation, arising from my imperfect acquaintance with Hellenic idiom." Preface. It is one of the vexed questions of classical antiquity, where was the island of Atlantis. One school of critics has pronounced in favour of America. Space forbids the discussion of that problem here ; suffice it to say, that the manuscript here translated affords strong internal evidence of the correctness of that hypothecs. 00 AN ANCIENT tTNlVKUSITY. PoHT-HCRirTUM. The discovery of this MS. at BaiH in not really surprising ; rather it is 8urpri8in{» that it has l>een so lonj^ delayed. We know that Herodotus visited Rais (bk. ii., chap. 28) ; wo know (chap. 175) that he visited the temple of Athena — that is, Neith (vide Larchor's note on chap. 50) ; we know that ho talked to its bursar (ii., 28). What more is wanted to prove the genuineness of the newly-discovered MS. is amply suiiplied by the naive simplicity, by the truly Herodotean spirit of the document itself. With respect to the depositary of this precious heirloom, the cat, we must remember that tJie Egyptian entertained for this animal a religious veneration. What more likely, then, than that the bursar of Sais on some supreme crisis offered this manuscript — his most priceless treasure — to appease the dis- pleasure or, it may be, the hunger of a feline god ? Or perhaps the cat helped herself. Re- ligious awe would protect her from interference during the meal and afterwards, and finally from a post-mortem. On such accidents does the history of literature hinge 1 Compare Sir Isaac Newton and his dog. The only conjec- ture involved in this theory — viz., that the AN ANCIKNT rNIVKUHITY. 07 H iH not inti that lOW that . 28) ; wo ,emple of or's note ed to itfl anted to Liscovered impUcity, document ,ry of this remember lis animal )re likely, B on some script — his e the dis- of a feline irself. Re- nterference md finally idents doea ompare Sir )nly conjec- that the bursar had a cat or that Imh iMoniiHcs wore on one occasion at least temporarily visited by a cat, is surely perniissiblo ; nay plausible : I had almost said certain. Without further explanation I be^' to lay before the universe the translation too literal, but correct in the main - of this choice monument of Hellenic civilization. I J. A. Chapter 1. Tho declaration made by Herodotus of Halicarnassus as follows : Having travelled in many lands and having heard and reported many and otlier marvellous stories, not the least marvellous appeared to him to be the story of the bursar of Sais about the river Nile, how it rises from between Mount Crophy and Mount Mophy. To this bursar, tlierefore, he delivers the most marvellous of hia own stories, that about Atlantis, both as to one more learned than liimself in relatinj? divine marvels, and especially (to see) if by any chance I could so borrow from tlie bursar five obols to purchase a bottle of Ej^yptian barley- beer, for I chanced to thirst, it is heavenly how much (1). W' l.li' /;■ r !Jii! 06 AN ANCIKNT UNFVKIIMITY '• [There is a lacuna lioro in the MH., Beveral chapters having been too thoroughly digested by the cat.] ClIAl'TEll 34. And among other institutions in Atlantis I visited the Lyceum where the young men attend upon the instructions of the there sopliists. Now, these youths differ in this respect from the youths of the Britanni, of whom Atlantis is a colony. For among the Britanni the young men who study wisdom call themselves " men," as being then men more than at any otheF time ; but here, '• boys," as being then boys more than at any other time. As indeed was clear to mo at least being so ; and here is a sign ; for they applaud their sophists with great clamour and uproar of their feet and mouths, so that I seemed to myself to have escaped my own notice being again in the Athenian law-courts. Moreover, in this respect also their customs are different to those of the rest of the world, for in Hellas at least we praise those indeed who arrive early to their work, but those who are late we chastise. But in Atlantis the hearers applaud those of their feilow-learners who AN ANCIKNT IJNIVKHHITY. \n) come too luto to hoar nil tho wiHdnin of the Hophist from time to time (6 d^t (Topovi(rTi]s) and priest of the residers, and is present twice a day at an appointed time in the ^uffffiTiov for a holy reason. Whether there is also a holy reason why some of the other learners andipophists are not always present, I 11^ . 1. ■! 1 : ' 1^' 'im iir ■" -^ SRH 104 AN ANCIENT UNTVERSITY. 1 I I ■ )v?, li li am not able to say. For some say that they are too late and are absent unwillingly ; which- ever seems to anyone the true account let him lake that, according to the Attic proverb (11) bpa'xp.yjv Sairavqis Supeaiv iroieTs, Whether the sophisfs are very learned I am not able to say ; but I conjecture some of them at least are ; for they are bald, as is Socrates and the Scythian priests, who are the most wise of men as I have said before (12). I conjecture, therefore, that baldness is a peculiar property or insepar- able accident (Idiov ti eari ^ /cat ax(»)pi^, " a great beast of a pig," and our own commercial idiom " a sweet thing in ties," " a new thing in trousers." Maurice Hutton. NAMA-WAY-QUA-DONK. 1()9 NAMA-WAY-QUA-DONK— THE BAY OF STURGEONS. COLD in the autumn night — Sleeping with its waters bright, Silvered by the moon's pale light, Stretching to the northward white — Rests the Bay of Sturgeons. Huddled round it, sleeping soft, Looming their great forms aloft In the moonlight; Bearded grey, the great rocks stand. Silent, hushed on either hand. As if some dusky warrior band, To-night, hushed from the spirit land, Came back once more. Gliding here on either shore, Lingering near the haunts of yore, But to hear the waves once more As in nights long, long before, Whisper "Medwayosh." Towering stern each blanket round Have the silent ages wound. no NAMA-WAY-QtTA-DONK. 1 i L 5 1 rs h ' As they watched above each mound O'er the grave or battle ground, Where each warrior sleeps. Year by year their watch they keep Above the dead, who softly sleep Beneath their forest -battled steep, Where far below the waters weep, And whisper " Medwayosh." Once by these shores these warriors played. Here maiden and bronzed lover strayed. And parting, still they coyly stayed To plight their troth. And oft when summer moons were young, When swaying branches murmuring hung, Whispered their loves in unknown tongue. Oft in the autumn harvest feast Through purple mists from out the east. They watched old Gheezis golden-fleeced. Rise o'er the forest. Here many a warrior sleeps below, His place of rest full well they know. Marked where the midday's glorious glow Turns to the west. NAMA-WAY-QITA-DONK. Ill The restless world of men may burn, But in these dreamy walls of fern, Swathed in deep rest, they never turn. Through the dim a^^es soft they sleep, Wrapt in calm slumber, long and deep. While Lethean dews their eyelids steep. O, sunsets old, long wandered down ; O,' anoient Indian shore and town. Time's strange dark roll hath wrapt around Thy dreamless sleep. O saddest picture of a race — A wild and passionate broken race — That melting nightward leaves no trace, No camp fire on the sweet, loved face Of their own land; As shades that wander to their rest. Towards those dim regions of the west And setting sun. No wonder that in sternest close. The last wild war-cry weirdly rose. To break the settler's short repose In midnight hour. '.■'.f 112 NAMA-WAV-QrA-T^OHi:. NO softer, weaker voices wean Thee from thy rest. S,eep,s>eoP>y^--^r;U:':ilamoon, Weep on *'""«Vvoarrof modern men. Through the maa year, " ^^^ While only Aroo.mo of cave Fill each wiia breast. . A tv,Bae watchers ever there The Boft waves still their d^ \ A ^hxBver "Medwayosh. And whisper ^ ^ Campbell. . the Georgian Bay, ^""CSt of^aSibo "in the conrsc of time ^n^ „„thlnK now^sJ,«\^ ^ ARCADY. 113 AUCADY. moon, n, ^1*. d by lofty of a tnbo ndlana. ons nortn- ia left of iiemory w bay it 18 ftor whlcU ome scat- 'orlgln, ro ig or wasn- N a valo in Arcady — When the conturien were youn^j, Wlicn the lon^ yearH Jinj»orinj4 hnnj,', lioth to paHH from A ready, (Now, alas ! the years are fleeter, Loth to stay and quick to pass, Men and times so chan^'ed, alas ! Even chanj^ed in Arcady) — Sweet tlie shepherdesses wandered All along those holy aisles; To gods and heroes holy, whiles The yeara were young in Arcady. And the tall Greeks there to woo them. Came with songs and tales of love — Songs and love in every grove — (All now is changed in Arcady). Oh, Arcady ! sweet Arcady ! That used to stay the fleeting years, That loved all joys and knew not tears — Where art thou now, sweet Arcady ? i 1 : % \i r f: \ I 114 ARCADY. Through the halls and flowery sideways- While the muBic rose and fell, Sweet to see and sweet to tell, (Were thoy come from Arcady?) Greeks and shepherdesses wandered Looking, whispering love, aa lo! Once, a thousand years ago, Once they did in Arcady ! Ah I my Arcady returned Love 'twas made thee what thou wast ! And the human forms that past With the years from Arcady. This night I have lived to wander With thy dwellers, O, most fair ! What Time brings me — do I care ? I have lived in Arcady 1 H. St. Q. Cayley, MACINTOSHES. 116 MACINTOSHES. I WONDER if the man who IJrst propounded the theory that the origin of all dress was adornment, had ever been brought face to face with a lady in a macintosh ! I fear not. Compared to such a garment, the costume of Bolivar's Cavalry, described by Herr Teufelsdrockh — a square blanket, twelve feet in diagonal, with, in the centre, a slit — would be absolutely delicious. But perhaps, my more stalwart reader, you have never considered the garment to which I refer; or perhaps, and with more likelihood, it has been brought to your notice only on a wearer whose graceful figure you so knew by heart that the lustreless, external covering was by you completely ignored, and the eye of memory was so satisfied, that the eye of sense was willingly temporarily blind. If so, happy are you. For a moment, however, rid yourself of these sweet impressions ; consider the article — the waterproof, or by what other title you may know it— per ««, in the absolute: this dull, black thing; huge at its base, tapering 116 MACINTOSHES. Ii ! ! I foldless to the apex, reflecting no colour, betokening no personal trait, utterly devoid of individuality, isomorphous, homogeneous, hideous ; consider thus such a garment, then, mentally, place yourself in the great Par- thenon, in the time of its perfection, and imagine the chrys-olephantine image of the majestic goddess arrayed in — a waterproof. Athena forgive me the thought ! This is a statue, you say, of course it is incongruous. Nay then, fancy Penthesilea and her Amazons uniformed in such rain-warding-off equipment, or Atlanta disrobing herself for her race of such gutta-perchaed raiment. But, truly, it does sin against all right principles of art, this attire. Egyptian archi- tecture, I know, will perhaps give it a sem- blance of support, but it is illusory. The Propyla with their broad foundations ; the Sphynxes on their massive seats ; and, above all, the Pyramids seem to countenance a divergence from the tall, graceful Greek style. But here, what is aimed at is sublimity, by inducing the thought of endurance through massiveness. It is the same as the Pagodas of Burmah, the Kyoungs of China, the Gopuras of India. But then, besides the fact MACINTOSHES. 117 • that a woman's costume is intended, amongst other things chiefly, to reveal and enhance a " tender grace " — the very antithesis of mass- ive force — and these buildings only attempt to pourtray the power and lastingness of their tutelary deities ; every one of the structures I have mentioned is richly decorated : the Pro- pyla vith magnificent frescoes; the Kyoungs with carvings and sculpture ; the Pagodas sometimes actually gilded from the foundation to the graceful Tee ; and all ornamented with statues and bright tints. So that we may, I think, dismiss any idea of an analogy favour- ing this unadorned, waistless conoid cloak. Would ornamentation, then, counteract its ungainly contours? Hardly. Northern nations, unaccustomed to the brilliancy of a tropical sun, cannot rise to that pitch of gay colouring which would be necessary to redeem so un- sightly a costume. And ingenious decoration indeed it would have to be, to please, on a dull and mud-bespattering day, the ruffled temper of a hasty passer-by. Have I maligned too much so necessary an article of dress ? It has some merits, I do not deny. Fair cheeks, glowing from the rainy gusts, never, perhaps, look brighter than with .1 1- 'I- 118 MAGINTOSHBS. this BO sombre a background. Daintiest boots might escape observation but for some un- comely robe. And then, ah ! eyen you, stal- wart reader, discerning by memory, hidden beauties, will hail with pleasure the time, when, the sun reappearing, you assist in removing the doleful investment, and will even with delight carry on your arm the hated thing ! T. Arnold Haultain. A SWEDISU STUDENT LECJEND. 119 A SWEDISH STUDENT LEGEND. ^''NEAR the altar, in death, a youn« student I ) lay sleeping, * ^ And the incense of flowers rose faint on the air. As the gloaming of evening came silently creeping, And enswathed in its shadows the dead, lying there. Ah ! ineffably sweet was the lip of that sleeper, Though unknown to us all but one short year ago, How we lov'd him — dear exile from shores whera the reaper Blends his song with the echoes from San Angelo. In the chancel we laid him, our custom in Sweden, And bedecked him with flow'rs, more exquisite far Than the roses which bloom in that garden of Eden, From whose thousand-fold fragrance springs India's attar. 120 A SWEDISH STUDENT LEGEND. i , In the bowl and the wine-cup we pledged our deep sorrow, As we gathered at night in Carl Weisselgren's room, « And we lovingly spake of the one, whom the morrow Would behold as he passed from the church to the tomb. But the saddest of all was a pale-featured student, On whose shoulders, in curls, fell the long flaxen hair ; Aye impulsive was Lundfren and ofttimes, imprudent. Yet the soul of affection and honour dwelt there. As in accents all broken by passionate weep- ing, Whilst the pathos of sorrow bedew'd his young face, " Oh, Da Conti," he murmured, " I would I were sleeping In the Valley of Shadows, in thine honoured place. In the solemn death-watch, of the love that I bear thee, A SWEDISH STUDENT LEGEND. 121 that Ah ! how earnest, indeed, was my heart- stricken prayer, I entreated of Heaven, in mercy, to spare thee. E'en though I, even I, should be sacrificed there." " 'Ach in Himmel,' he cries like a weak- minded maiden," Spake the harsh voice of one, as he entered the room, *• Not a heart ever beat, sirs, howe'er friend- ship laden. Would surrender one throb for the sepul- chre's gloom." With a frown each one turned to confront the intruder, Fellow student, was he, yet not one of our band, 'Twas Von Bartel, a German, in bearing far ruder Than the boar of the woods in his own native land. " Is there one of you all, through this sighing and moaning. Who, to prove that affection is stronger than dread. f- 'Mr t 'I I !• 122 A SWEDISH STUDENT J^EOBND. i>r. Ere the echoes of midnight have ceased their intoning, Dare imprint but one kiss on the lips of the dead?" " Is there one ? Aye, there's Lundfren, thou cynical scoffer. On his forehead would mantle the hot blush of shame, Was there one, save thyself, but would will- ingly proffer The oblation of self, in affection's sweet name. " When the dark dews of midnight are soft- ly descending. Ere the blush of the Orient each mountain crest tips, By the corpse of Da Conti my form will be bending As I kiss the cold features of death, with my lips." Hark, the midnight booms out. On the face of him sleeping At the Altar of Death; is a dim halo shed By the candle thai stands, like a sentinel, keeping i» ; ii M» i '^htnin«. lUit, aluH ! it iH for a moinuiit, and for a nuiment only, that they last ; in one case and in the other wo feel our huidequatenexit to express them ; baffled, in- articulate, helpless, we sink back to our old level of impotence, and the mists close around us once more. A. MacMkciian. 128 OLD VOICES. (f.l i^ m !•'•* M( m II w ,.:.;> ■^■^|ii| OLD VOICES. "The past never comes back ; what we fancy arc but the ideal ghosts of things chat were." Professor Young. 1 STAND on the confines of the past to- night — The world that is gone before ; And in the soft flicker of the fire's dim light Old shadows steal before my sight From its strange and misty shore. And bygone murmurs are in my ears, And sweet lips touch my cheeks; And old, old tunes, that no one hears, That steal to me from the sad old years, And sweet words that no one speaks. But only the rhythm of an old-time tune. That steals down the halls of time ; And comes so soft^ like the far-off rune Of a stream that sleeps through the after- noon, Or a distant evening chime. "fpipiiii!!! A POEM IN WOOD. 12J) 'ancy arc fOUNG. 3ast to- And in the silence that intervenes, Sad voices whisper low : Come back once more to the loved old scenes — To the dim old region of boyhood's dreams — The sweet world you used to know. W. W. Campbell. re's dim re. •s, i; rs, yrears, )eak8. I tune, me ; •une le after - A POEM IN WOOD. HE canoe is a tiny poem in wood, sweet as the music of Orpheus and pure as the fancies of Shelley. Its metre is its motion — light and airy. The dappled wavelets playing around its bows in the soft moonlight gently whisper its meaning in the language of Fairyland. Its well of inspiration is buried deep in the vales of the past, where roam the spirits of dark-hued braves and Indian maidens amid groves of sighing piL.es and bright-leaved maples. J. McDoUGALL. ;[i ■'• i ^1 i .: I ■• :t '■■■ 130 A FRAGMENT. li ar If I A FRAGMENT. OME gentle spirit must beget The dew-bead on the gossamer -net, The perfume of the violet. Oh ! hear ye not the nimble tread Of sea -nymphs when the green waves spread The crisp foam on the shingle-bed? Well may we mourn the reverent dream That made the velvet wind to teem With gods, that breathed in Academe ; Heard voices in the rustling pine, Saw heavenly light in sparkling wine And felt in love a fire divine ! W. A. Shortt, J ■; i MM IN A MIRROR. 131 IN A MIRBOB. /^ see. OT my lady herself I Only her image in yonder glass, None so fair in my eyes as she, Maidens all she doth far surpass. And a picture rare and sweet she makes, In the clear cold light of the wintry day; As she watches the first few feathery flakes Of the whirling snow in its noiseless play. Lightly she stands in the full grey light That shimmers on robes of misty sheen : Backed by the curtains' filmy white, The queenly figure is dimly seen. Only the small and shapely head. With its treasure of dark, smooth-knotted hair, :. ' li the olive face with the lips so red, *-' iow clearly and plain in the mirror there. Nothing her sweet, cold peace may break, Steadfast and calm are her eyes alway. i ^k I i m 132 IN A MIRROR. As the morning hush of an inland lake; And her thoughts are worlds away. I gaze, the wild hope within me dies, But, oh ! she is very fair to see. The doom in those calm and steadfast eyes Is — they ne'er can lighten with love for me. A. MacMechan. THE VIOLET. IIVA THE VIOLET. {Goethe.) ^ ^ PON the mead a violet blue, (i Unknown, in lowly guise, there grew; A modest lovely flower. There came a shepherdess so fair, With lightsome step and golden hair; Across, across. Across the mead, and sang. "Ahl" thinks the violet, "would I were The fairest flower among the fair. Ah ! but a little while. Until my love had pluck'd and press'd Me fondly to her snowy breast ; Oh ! grant me, pray, This boon before I die I" But onward did the maiden speed. She to the violet paid no heed, But crushed it with her foot, It sank, it died, and yet it joy'd. "What tho' I die, still do I die Thro' her, thro' her; 'Tis at her feet I die!" W. H. VanderSmissen. I i^ll ■ ! '-h ! 'ill J34 BEAUTE DE DIAULE. BEAUTfi DE DiABLE. WHAT is our soul worth? Much? If so, how much ? Let us be honest, — half content we rest Not to have faced the pro and con and f?uessed, Blindly or no, the issue — The soul, or such We call soul, what is't worth? A kiss? A touch Of woman's hand or of her sweet, sweet breast ? Fool 1 fool 1 you cry. Yet there the sun- beams rest . On her beauty and brown richness. Is't too much? Sweet face, wild-eyed and wan, with its eclipse Of hair wind-tossed, eyes and mouth the lair Of tremulous passion, crimson-coloured lips; Sweet, O my soul, how sweet a death it were To drift upon the coral of those lips. Or tangle in the meshes of that hair 1 F. H. Sykes. I P .11 I QUEBEC. 13S QUEBEC. 'HOU sittest on thy rocky throne, a queen, And we bow down before thy ram- parts, where, As piercing the blue sky, thy mount is seen ; Up to the clouds it soars, to purer air. And at thy feet the river sweeps along; lio tiny stream, with flowers and rushes lined. But mighty, deep, impetuous and strong; Stern e'en when winds are low — in storms unkind. its Nor nature's beauty falls alone to thee. To thee another beauty doth belong ; With thee hath dwelt the muse of history; Thy past is present by the right of song. Though blue thy skies, and though thy grass is green, With blood of noble men erstwhile be- stained, I fjiJ i .it m^ m i. ill' 136 QUEBEC. When in fierce battle man with man was seen Contending for fit prize, so nobly gained. There fought our Wolfe, the noblest of them all, Duty his watchword — word through which he won; As faithful still to duty did he fall, And falling, heard the cry, " They run, they run." Who run? And eager lips make haste to tell: The foe is conquered — England wins the day. The foe is conquered ! Ah 1 then all is well ! The last words ere his spirit fled away. And yet not altogether; for it seems To haunt the spot, and not alone in name We think of him, as morn's first sunshine gleams Along the peaceful plains of Abraham. • We think of him when Britain's flag is spread To the free winds from tower and citadel. QUEBEC. 137 And when the stately warder's martial tread Stops while he gives the pass-word — All is well! He saved us for his England — patriot! And thou, O sovereign city of the west, By thee his name shall never be forgot, But thou shalt guard his grave— his bed of rest. Fiance's imperial eagle would have flown O'er thy proud cliffs, and growing wild and free, A tiny flower in our cold northern zone, Emblem of "La belle France," the fleur- de-lis. Not so, it proves. Yet France and England meet With clasped hands — in peace and not in war; In citadel, in church, and field and street. In peace forgetting what has gone before. And here, on an auspicious April day, There passed before our eyes a pleasant scene. I i 111 \m mi m iiVKKKC. Wolcomed beneath the olden Kentish way, One whom we love — the daughter of onr Queen. Imperial city — not in rank nor power, But throned in j^lory, hi^jh above the rest, Thy wa'»>i of granite, like a mighty tower, Thy very feet by mighty streams careas'd. Lovely when dawn first blushes on the scene, And paints the waters in her liquid light; Still lovely in the sunset's farewell beam, When all is still, and nature sleeps in night. A flag waves from thy lofty battle-crag, The flag of England — floating o'er the free. The day may come when floats another flag- Flag of the nation that is yet to be. J. H. Bowes. -yt- OHFHKUH. 180 k ORPHEUS. ONG ajjo a sweet muBician On the Thracian plain at noon, In the golden drowBc of Bumnier Played so heavenly a tune That the very hills and forests To its cliords their audience leant, And the streams were hushed to listen To his wondrous instrument. And gone was all the murmur Of sweetest winds at noon, And babbling brooks of summer Hushed their melodious tune. The gales that from the ocean came To kiss the summer lands, Fell dying at the harmony That floated from his hands; And youth forgot its passions, And age forgot its woe, And life forgot that there was death Before such music's flow ; i 11^ ...-!4.:: TlPP'Wr- H 140 OIlfHFUIS. And there was hush of laughter, Where sported youth and maid, And those who wept forgot their tears When Buoh sweet notes were played. For Time was stayed a season On that glorious Thracian day. When the very gods from heaven Came charmed by his lay. W. W. Campbell. OIJ) OOLI). 141 OLD GOLD. 'HIR litiH boon one of thoHo bright cold uftoniooiiH which make u Cantuliiin winter ho onjoyublo. In the forenoon cIoiuIh at tiincH hid the (Am— hu^e, cohl, ^roy maHSoa drifting Hilently through the heavenly luther, in vexed and troubled motion, as if burdened with the unrest of a weary human soul. The far-stretching lake, in < hoer- less sympathy witli the clouds and sky, made unceasingly mournful music, as its leaden water beat, wave upon wave, against the frozen sliore. There was a light downfall of snow yesterday, and this morning it was blown hither and thither at the changeful will of blustering December. But in a few hours the wind fell, the discon- solate wail of the lake had sunk to a pacified murmur, the clouds with their sorrowful bur- den had passed away, and the blue arch above was filled only with the cold splendour of the winter sun. During the afternoon the snow on the soutli side of the roof melted a little and dripped slowly from the eaves. It melted away, too. 142 OLD GOLD. on the sunny side at the foot of the stately elms in the College grounds, uncovering a little patch of the grass and a few of the brown, fallen leaves of a bygone summer. With the slow sinking of the Eiun the thawing ceased, the grass and the leaves gradually stiffened, and here and therefat the eaves the last drops were frozen into icicles before they could fall. The evening shades are drawing on, and I sit down by my window, as is my wont, to spend a quiet hour with memory ; although at first, perchance, with desultory eye, I watch Nature painting her last picture ere she lays by her brush for the night. Beautiful, ever beautiful ! The rich amber haze gradually deepens and reddens into a glowing roseate flush which earth's painters might wear out their lives in striving to imi- tate. One by one, and here and there, as flowers come in spring, the stars appear — violets in the meadows of heaven. . . . There are other violets, gathered from terres- trial meadows, between the leaves of my jour- nal. My only journal ! I remember I began > to write it when so much happiness had come upon me that I wished to treasure it some- where, dimly fearing the future and the sorrows m OLD GOLD. 143 Irre.s- jour- ^egan jome lome- rrows that it might bring. But the journal is still unfinished ; the last writing there is just under the violets. It is an old book, and to vulgar eyes the flowers would seem dry and faded. To me their beauty is a memory that cannot grow old. Fresh, as at first, their colour and delicate grace come down with me through the weary years since that quiet summer afternoon when they were plucked by the gentle hand that gave them to me. We were walking in a beautiful little valley (" Arcady " I called it then), a green pasture land, with here a fra- grant cedar and there a graceful elm or a sombre birch. A little brook rippled and gurgled as it hastened past cattle peacefully browsing, down to the pond at the lower end of the valley. Here, by the brook we sat down together on a grassy bank. There was much ot which we mig^u have spoken, yet few words were ours, since there is a converse sweeter than that which can find utterance. It was enough for me to be in that presence and to look in silence on that face of dreams. Neither the sorrow of the past nor a hope of the future broke in on the tranquil delight of that all-possessing present. The afternoon hours went by all unheeded, for in seasons 144 OLD GOLD. m fl !'■; ■ 1 I I like these the soul recks not of time nor of things in time. Then, in a thicket across the brook, a thrush began singing to his mate his evensong, earnest with an ecstsay sweetly divine, and tremulous from a tenderness he could not sing. As the shades began to deei)en in the valley and the faint glimmer of the evening star rose above the western hill, we returned. There came no dull foreboding at parting to mar the happiness of that fair day, and soon we were to meet again, so ever to be, though death himself should seek to part us ... . . . . . Ah, no ! Now gone forever, unless to fond memory, are those joys, and the halcyon years in which such days could come. There was a shock of heart-quake, short and fear- ful, and the fair palace which my soul had built for herself to dwell in was rent and utterly fallen. But the tremor and the rum- bling ceased long ago, and over that once happy site there is now the stillness and silence of desolation. Here, among the ruins of her fair possessions, she wanders often, filled with the care of living, and refreshes herself with the faint odour of the few violets blooming there, and the memory of what might have been. A. Stevenson. THE PAUADISK OF VOICES. 145 THE PARADISE OF VOICES. IT was in one of those stranj^e moments when deep inward thouj^ht makes men as sleep- walkers, and outward things become " a painted show . . . the shadow of a dream," or when the soul leaves the body to wander in the far shadow-lands of sleep, that the Paradise of Voices was revealed. In none of the spheres through which the passionate Florentine and his beloved lady wandered, not in the upper world nor in the nether, is the cloudy perfumed smoke Paradise of Voices. It is but for those souls that loved their kind supremely and who in life heard, of all sounds most willingly, those from the lips of men. It was not the sound of singing, in choral unison, triumph or praise and of the mysterious music of heaven, but murmurs many, varied, multi- tudinous as the voice of the sea. At first they were faint, confused, and far away. Then, coming nearer, one ciuld knov/ they were voices speaking ; the words no man could hear, but what was said touched the other life. Wafted gently up and down in the heavy in- ■siifr 7 143 THE PARADISE OF VOICES. cense air, the dreamer learned to know by degrees the diverse tones that went to make that strange unearthly sweet harmony. Though nothing could be seen, by listening could he felt the presence and the music of Human Lives. The sound first learnt was the faintest of all. It was the contented cooings of young babes and the hushes of the mothers rocking them asleep upon their breasts. Clearer came the fresh voices of young girls mingled with happy laughter, theirs to enjoy till " sorrow comes with years" to still it all. Ah ! well-a-day. More softly rose as a withered sound the voices of the Peaceful Aged as they sit and talk together of the children that have gone " into the next . . . room " before they were grown too tall to be snatched up and kissed, and of the other children " we thought would close our eyes." Stranger came the earnest voices of men, friends, when they speak of those deepent things to the woman, lost but still loved, and the heartache since. There, too, was the sound of prayer when the bitterness for the first-born is awed to reverence before the in- scrutable cruelties of 'a father ; the voices of young lovers whispering no time too long ; the strong swell of triumph when a great work is ■■ THE PARADISE OF VOICES. 147 done, and no tear falls for the hero, so worthy has been his life. The welcome that is sighed not spoken after many years was there, and the tender words of the consoler heard through tears, single words of love dropped by chance to strangers, pet- names, and the names of home. All these and many more, infinitely varied as the leaves on a summer tree, blended from above, below, around, into such a harmony as is not in Earth nor yet in Heaven, and drew the dreamer, bore him, along, aloft, gently, softly, in the dark and heavy air. A. MacMechan. ■f. I" 'V 111 ; 148 TO WILLIAM MORHIS. w TO WILLIAM MORRIS. HEREFORE, Morris, paint for us The gloriouB gods, the fairness of fair maids and godlike men, And aii the hues of regions meet for these ? — There are beauties dim the eye that looks on them ; There are deeds that wither all the strength Craves opportunity of doing ; There are thoughts that pale Who strive to conquer their unutterableness ; And there are those Who, in their grasp of all these things, Soar, ah ! so far beyond the hope of those That faintly try to grasp the light Which floods the sun-lit dome of Beauty's sphere. 1 sometimes wish the king of birds Were merely mythical ; that we might never see The eye that gazes on the ancient sun. Not as here, where all the race Of ordinary mortals has beclouded it, TO WILLIAM MORRIS. 149 But clear, and as when men did worship, Surely, surely such a singer sweet, That can so utterly entrance himself And us, can pour such opiate calm On all Life's questioning restlessness. Has drained — ere childhood's mirth had died From Hebe's ever-youthful hand a cup. Such, perhaps, as that in which the laughter- loving Queen* Would pledge the grave Apollo. T. Arnold Haultain. (piXofifieiS'^i A(f>podlTr]. — Homer. 160 A MEMORY. A MEMORY. HE leans at the window watching Where the sky and the sea embrace, The wind with soft fingers tangling Her hair over neck and face. She heeds not the wind, nor listens To the sound of songs from the bay ; For a white-winged ship in the distance Flutters and flees away. •' Where are thy secret sepulchres, With their funeral icinds, O sea ? The ships sail in, the ships sail otit, But he never can come to wi^." F. H. Sykes. ii'i THR MAN IN THK BLACK COAT. 151 THE MAN IN THE BLACK COAT. K^E was not a mysterious personage at all. I J About him was none of the awe that \Q shrouds black dominoes, black masks, black gondolas, black art. No delicious thrill is felt in his name as in that of gliding moon- lighted Women in White. He was not at all like that other man in black whose pungent remarks find cross - grained benevolence so charmed the citizen of the world. He had not even the slight disguise of an incognito. He was only an Irish carter that I had often to do business with in the office. In person he was stumpy, red-faced, and red-haired, but remark- able for a certain apologetic politeness that never failed. Civility was not common in the office, but Dennis was different from all the other men. And — I saw him last Sunday on his vay to church, with a book in his hand, and the black coat whereof I speak on his back. At first the shock of surprise at seeing him clothed otherwise than in the ragged, worn Vds 'Ure of every day made me think myself mistaken. But the red, rugged face, the fiery [T 162 THE MAN IN THE HLAOK COAT. hair, the short, toil-stiffened frame could belong to none but my friend. A.s to the coat itself, though new and of good material, it was the most marvellously ill-fitting covering it was ever my fortune to behold. It would have given Poole a nightmare, but it was worn with such an air of decent becoming pride. Why should ore's eyes fill up and an involuntary "Poor fellov; !" escape my lips? What can there be in the sight of an Irish carter in hideous broadcloth to cry over ? Perhaps it was because the wearer was so utterly, so sublimely unconscious of incon- gruity or ugliness. Or was that coat the proof of a long pathetic struggle towards respecta- bility, towards betterment, towards a position in life? It was the owner's protest against stagnation. The token of a laudable ambition to rise in the world. We honour the manful- ness of it, but, Dennis ! did you ever think of the utter futility of the struggle, after all ? Will it ever satisfy you? Or was it futile? Perhaps the end of Dennis' existence was reached when he achieved that black coat, that outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. Poor fellow I poor fellow 1 A. MacMechan. :i:i!i ON A CIIIIIHTMAS CAHI). 1.'53 ON A CHRISTMAS CARD. I~^ENEATH the sheen of her chestnut ^ I A lily face, ao purely fair, In silence dreameth ; The smile on parted lips doth seem Half sadly to echo her maiden dream, Whate'er it meaneth, Thinks she of childhood's hours gone by, Glad days of sweet simplicity. Unknown to woo? Dreams she of love with its joy and pain. Measures she idly the loss or gain. She does not know ? To kindle love's light in those dark blue eyes. To teach her the worth of a lover's sighs, The task is hard ; For her dream of love is not for me. And the face I worship I only see On a Christmas card W. H. Blakk. M •i; IM VKUHEH. VERSES. MURMUR, murmur, littlo stream, Drink, drink your draught to time and me; Laugh, laugh, and lull to sleep the beam That wanders with you to the sea. O ripple, ripple as you flow. And wander by the dreamless dead; Arms ever folded as you go. They never, never turn the head. O little stream, laugh, laugh along. Leave no flower thirsting on the plain ; For suns may die avf* years are long. But you can never oome again. O murmur, murmur little stream. Drink, drink your draught to time and me ; Laugh, laugh, and lull to sleep the beam That wanders with you to the sea. W. W. Campbell. SEPARATION. 155 SEPARATION. 11 E sky is one cloud, ash-grey and vast, High-domed and wide; After the long bleak day at last Comes eventide. I stand and bear on wishful lips, One sweetest name. And vain the cold horizon scan For sunset flame. Low down in the distant west, At last I see A narrow and crimson flush, imprest 'Twixt sky and lea. Both Gloom and Night that love-tint threat In hateful strife. Ah ! what am I, if that flame should fade From out my life! A. MacMechan. 3IiL. 156 SPECTACLES. SPECTACLES. IT is only of those mental spectacles through which we look at persons and things, and view passing events, that I wish to speak. These spectacles are of a variety of colours and powers. We all use at least one pair; some of us, perhaps, have half-a-dozen. Here in our little college world we have our different glasses. The higher years have green goggles through which they see the first year, and accordingly the first year seems green to them. The lower yerirs have magnifying glasses through which they see the upper years, and the upp 3r years seem big to them. For these notions there is but little foundation in reality ; it is all on account of the spectacles. There are also other sets of glasses through which we students are accustomed to look. The Honour courses put on their gold-rimmed glasses, and calmly try to stare the unblushing Pass course out of countenance. When they are not doing this they are glowering at each other. The classical man cannot see how cul- ture can be got out of precise mathematics, uncertain metaphysics, parvenu moderns, or mmmm SPECTACLES. 157 those vulgarly- presumptuous sciences. The science man may admit the worth of mathe- matics, he may recognize the value of moderns as an instrument ; metaphysics are not so bad when purified by science ; but as for classics, even admitting that culture may be got from them and from them alone, what is culture as compared with science. The mathematician puts on his precisely constructed glasses and surveys the rest. Moderns are very well if you confine yourself to a study of French and German mathematical books ; classics and mathematics have gone hand in hand so long that we can endure them — do we not aid the sciences — therefore, let them be, only let them have a care not to build too much on hypotheses. But as for metaphysics, and here, bending his piercing glasses on her quivering form, he stops, words will not fill up the measure of his con- tempt. Thus we continue our one-sided views, notwithstanding that it has come to us from the gods that " there is a soul of good in all things evil if men will but diligently seek it out." Has not Professor Clifford predicted that the time shall come when " Latin prose and biology will lie down together, and mathe- matics and metaphysics kiss each other?" tidy 158 SPECTACLES. Again there is the old quarrel between the specialists and the generalists. The specialist thinks that education should be deep ; the generalist thinks it should be broad. The specialist says, cultivate thoroughly one facul- ty ; the generalist says, exercise and develop your whole being. Both may be right. It is said of a certain German specialist that, after having devoted hie whole life to the study of the Latin, Dative and Accusative cases, he on his death-bed regretted that he had not con- fined himself to the Dative case alone. Even this specialist of specialists would have been ashamed of the general ignorance of many so- called specialists. Can you understa,nd the function of the arm without knowing some- thing, if but in a general way, about the whole body ? Can there be a good oculist who doesn't understand the general physiology of the body, and that too pretty thoroughly ? Hasn't comparative physiology thrown much light on special physiology ? Will not human psycho- logy become plainer in the light of comparative psychology ? Division of labour is undoubtedly necessary — some must be generalists and some must be specialists. The specialist should, to be of use, know the place which the object of spectac;les. 159 his studies fills in the general scheme of the universe; while the generalist must acknow- ledge that he depends on the deep scrutiny of the specialist for the facts on which he bases his generalizations. Are not such men as Spencer and Darwin equally necessary with our friend the German? Does not the one supplement the other ? Why then should they waste their energies in wondering at the stupidity of each other. On the borderland between the university and the world we are very apt to put on our spectacles with the letters B.A. written large upon them, and wonder how the uncultured crowd can endure their uncultured existence. Be not so hasty, friend Is it such a great difference after all that separates us from the stupidest amongst men? In an infinity of ignorance finite differences make little count. Do you think that the infinite universe knows which one of us has a B.A. vnd which one has not? Havn't Shakespeare's fools taught the world wisdom ? Didn't Dogberry persist in being written dow i an ass. From every man and woman in thi world we can learn some- thing, and it is the worse both for us and them if all that they can teach us is that there are 160 SPECTACLES. such men and women. The prayer of Ajax waH for lif^ht ; hy all means let the world have lij^ht. Light is, however, not necessarily spelt B.A. There are some men in the world who look at everything through an essentially-practical and business-like medium, while some look at it through a theoretical, and others through the "dim religious light " of a poetical medium. The practical man who prides himself on being practical is shunned b)' the others. Tlieory is to him not worth much, and poetry is all moonshine; neither will get a man along in the world. And what is the use of being in the world unless you get along in it ? To the theoretical man the sphere of the practical man's vision seems to be but a narrow one, of which he himself is the centre. To the poetical soul he is a contaminating vulgarity. Was not Polonius, the worldly-wise, a practical man? And did not Hamlet, the poet, slay him? Shakespeare, who saw the value of both, created both. Has not sacred Art her different schools? Do they not often look at each other through a distorting medium ? Fancy a pre- Eaffael lite saying that the production of a Raffaellite was of the highest ! To him the figures in " The SPECTACLES. 101 »f Ajax was have li^ht. pelt B.A. i who look ly-practical ime look at rs throuf*h lal medium, elf on being Theory is »etry is all kn along in of being in it? To the le practical rrow one, of the poetical irity. Was practical poet, slay e value of it schools? r through a Eaffaellite Taellite was es in "The a Transfiguration " are but " kicking graceful- nesses." Do not the Romantic, and the Classic, and the Realistic novelists quarrel amongst each other ? Is a Zola just to a Hugo, or even a Hugo unbiased in his judgment of a Zola ? The war between Realism and Ideal- ism seems likely to continue for some time. Happily the contention is, for tlie most part, confined to the workers in the different schools. Are we not the better for Burns and Keats, Hogarth and Raffaelle ? Religion also has her many spectacles. Not religion, but the creeds, which are generally called religion. They look at each other, and they see plenty of errors — in creed. They all look at him who dares to deny them, and he is condemned already. They quarrel over which has done most good to humanity, and forget that it is not they that have done the good, but what of true religion they have not cori- ccaled under their forms. If asked for England's most religious man, whom shall we say ? Shakespeare. Hear Carlyle : " Nature seemed to this man also divine; ?/wspeakable, deep as Tophet, high as Heaven : ' We are such stuff as dreams are made of ! ' That scroll in Westminster Abbey, mt 102 SPECTACLES. m I ti which few read with understancling, is of the depth of any seer. But the man sang, did not preach, except musically. We called Dante the melodious Priest of Middle-Age Catholi- cism. May we not call Shakespeare the still more melodious Priest of a true Catholicism, tlie ' Universal Church ' of the Future and of all times ? No narrow superstition, harsh asceticism, intolerance, fanatical fierceness, or perversion : a revelation, so far as it goes, that such a thousand-fold hidden beauty and divineness dwells in all nature ; which let all men worship as they can ! . . . . I cannot call this Shakespeare a * sceptic ' as some do ; his indifference to the creeds and theological quarrels of his time misleading them. No : neither unpatriotic, though he says little about his Patriotism ; nor sceptic, though he says little about his Faith. Such ' indifference ' was the fruit of his greatness withal ; his whole heart was in his own grand sphere of worship (we may call it such) ; these other controversies, vitally important to other men, were xiot vital to him." Through what dark spectacles does the pessimist see the world ! To him there seems little hope for humanity after all. Alas! SPKCTACLES. im i of the did not I Dante Datholi- ihe still olicism, e and of 1, harsh jness, or aes, that ity and 1 let all I cannot ome do; 3ological n. No: le about he says ference ' hal ; his )here of 36 other er men, oes the e seems Alas! there is in him something of the nature of Mephistopheies — ^he can see the bad and the evil in man's lot, but he seems utterly incapable of seeing the good in it. He will refer you back to the •' Golden Age," and point out where we have degenerated. There is no hope in your telephones and your howling, screech- ing locomotives. You have arrived at the triumph of ugliness with your perambulating bill-stickers defacing God's beautiful world. You have arrived at the triumph of nastiness in your '• new philosophy of dirt." The smoke from a thousand chimneys obscures his vision, and the din from a thousand workshops deafens him to all else — there is for him nothing but ugliness, and smoke and din. The good old times were the best. Now he sees nothing but machine- waged wars which generate cowardice, improvements which effeminate men, and demagogues bidding for the votes of the hydra-headed mob. And thus we come to the bias of Conser- vatism, with its opposite, that of Radicalism. Is the man whose deepest interests are involved in maintaining things as they are very apt to think that change can in any way benefit humanity? The Irish landlord is as 164 SPECTACLES. incapable of soein«^ any hope for Ireland in the eHtahlishmont of poaaant-proprietorship as the tenant is incapable of seeing that even if peasant.proprietorship were established it would not at once make him prudent and thrifty. Is the man who is always lookinj? back able to see lij^ht ahead ? Is the man who is always looking* ahead capable of knowing* the value of dra^'j^ing " at each remove a lenf^theninji chain." It is only by the conjoint action of Conservatism and Radicalism that the world moves safely on. If one preponder- ates stafjnation is the result ; if the other, revolution. The Radical is scarcely capable of appreciating the good that has resulted from squirearchy, while the Conservative sees nothing in Democracy but vulgarity. The spectacles of patriotism may be equally dis- torting. An Englishman is very apt to think slight- ingly of a Frenchman, and there is a lingering notion in many parts of England that an ordinary Englishman can beat as many Frenchmen as you like to mention. Biased by this prejudice, the petty writers of those so- called histories which dwell on battles and on the number of heroes slain, are very apt to SPECTACLES. 165 attribute all the honour and all the bravery to their countrymen, feven Victor Hugo, in his description of the Battle of Waterloo, has not been uninfluenced by this biasing feeling. Many of us know how unpleasant it is to meet an Englishman who compares everything here with what they have " at home," and whose universal verdict is that it is nothing like what they have in England. Attributing every good thing to " the glorious climate of Cali- fornia " is bat litle ruder than regarding the only institutions and customs that are of any value in the world as those to which we are accustomed, and those only. We may often speak of the foolish customs of other nations, at the same time ignoring the fact that we may have customs equally foolish. The " Letters from a Citizen of the World " have not, as yet, lost all their significance. Cosmopolitanism is gradually becoming com- moner. Increased facilities for intercourse between peoples is gradually teaching men that there is some good in other nations. Thus the view which, to primitive men, was confined to the limits of their tribes is gradually stretching out and embracing the whole of humanity. The greatest amongst men have KJO SPECTACLES. been cosmopolitans ; and what the greatest have been the whole of humanity may be. We owe it to sacred truth to try and see as clearly as we can into things, not on one side or on the other side, but on all sides, if not to the heart. May it at length be said of every man, as Carlyle has said of Shakespeare, that he was " Great as the world ? No twisted, poor convex-concave mirror, reflecting all ob- jects with its own convexities and concavities ; a perfectly level mirror ; that is to say, if we will understand it, a an justly related to all things and men, a good man." It is the duty of every one with whatsoever of strength and whatsoever of talent he may possess to strive to reach this just relation to all things and men, and be good men. T. C. MiLLIGAN. TO A YOUNG VIOLINISTK 167 TO A YOUNG VIOLINISTE. KA AIDEN, didet thou know the power, I \ 'Neath thy liquid notes tluit throbH; / ■ Didst thou know our trembling When thy music sighs and sobs ; Didst thou know the spirit soaring When thy heart is fast outpouring All its music and its madness, All its depth of joy and sadness, With the sweetness of thy face passing into the sweet sound ; Thy careless flitting smiles would flee, A sad-eyed priestess thou wouldst be Self-consecrated to the beauty of the world around. F. H. Sykes. ^iii 168 INDIAN HUMMER. ^ INDIAN SUMMER. LONG the lino of smoky hilln The crimson forest staiidH, And till the day the blue-jay calls Throughout the autumn lands. Now by the brook the maple leans With all his glory spread, And all the sumachs on the hills Have turned their green to red. Now by great marshes wrapt in mist Or past some river's mouth, Throughout the long, still autumn day Wild birds are flying south. W. W. Campkell. iili i EDUCATION AND INCENDIAUIHM. 100 EDUCATION AND TNCENDIARIBM. '/I GREAT conflagration does certainly V / -I onhanco the pleaHure of gazing at / beautiful faces of a certain kind. ^ There are the same deep eyes that in garish daylight one was almost afraid to fathom — so cold, so mysterious were they. The same soft cheek, of late so immobile, so staidly colourless, but now varying and flushed as much by the delight of the escapade, as the reflection of the glorious flames. Undoubt- edly it is to these phenomena that we are to trace the late holocausts. It is then our duty to point out to the perpetrators how entirely mistaken they are to imagine thdt style of beauty to be truly precious which can be en- hanced by so utterly unartistic an affair as a house on tire. If we can educate them up to perceive that it is only a lower grade of beauty that can delight us in such cases, we shall be able easily to prevent such terrible occurrences in the future. The ideal, ineffable face — " Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head, . . . Perfect coloured, without white or red," 170 EDUCATION AND INCENDIARISM. is, or ought to be, absolute. Action of any kind does not suit tlie " lily-maid." Rest, perfect rest, in herself and her surroundings, it is, that suits her best ; best, because we be- lieve all things of her and need not to see her beauty added to. We long rather to see her in that repose which, we are told, is " the sign of that supreme knowledge which is incapable of surprise, the supreme power which is incap- able of labour." But then, alas ! some of us are not always in a mood to adore the ideal. The Philistine will sacrifice the august to the frivolous, grace to wit, permanent culture to ephemeral efferves- cence; and not until we can prove to them the higher blessedness of adoring supreme beauty shall we be enabled to point out the folly of burning down a house to see the effects of its glare on a favourite face. T. Arnold Haultain. AT THE CORNER OF THE STREET. 171 AT THE CORNER OF THE STREET. •VI T the corner of the street, (^/ I Where the wind etrikes rough / * and rude, ^ ■ I'm afraid she's had to meet Fates she scarce hath understood. For her infant eyes from under Steals a mute surprise and wonder. As if in her gentle mind She was busy reasoning why Mankind should be thus unkind, And so rudely thrust her by. Has she then done wrong ? Why, let her Know ; she would do so much better. Then she lifts a timid eye; Then she raised her baby face, — So timidly, so falt'ringly — Yet with such a gentle grace. Is it this way you would have ? "Sir, my papers will you buy?" But they roughly said her, nay ; And they rudely held their way. 172 THROUGH THE LEAVES. For they knew not, little maid, As they heeded not your prayer, Nor the bitter tears you shed. That the woe of Christ was there. Christ with you, they utterly Forgot, that day they thrust you by. H. St. Q. Caylky. W THROUGH THE LEAVES. HERE the water lilies iae, Lithe-stemmed, from the silver sand, White-robed birches bend to see Maidens sporting by tlie strand. Careless bree/ep waft their songs. Mingled with the wild-flowers' scent, Through the solemn aisles of pine, And the cedars gnarled and bent. Laughter ripples through the air (Merry maids are at their play), -Answering wavelet^ on the lake. Kiss the shore and haste away. W. H. Blake. INNOCENCK. 173 INNOCENCE. A SONNET. JlOT on the crowded plain she ^'rew, this I / flower, This lily-stem, as yet not burst in bloom. Where hot and heavy-scented vapours fume, And crush ot many toiling feet o'erpower. And all too ruthlessly besmirch the few. The fairest; but this lily-stem in peace, In deepest, quiet glade of forest trees Sheltered, bloomed. Of love, of hate, 'tis true She heard; but the polluting breeze tha brought To her so innocent ear these sounds was reft In that pure forest glade of all that sought To mar her thoughtless purit}, and left No sight, no sound, no slightest tainting air, No speck to strike her fleck-less sepals there.' T. Aenoli) Haultain. 171 NIGHT ON THE PLAINS. NIGHT ON THE PLAINS. 'HE dying day is bathed in sunset smiles ; Bright jewelled night fast follows in his train With floods of light, illuming far the plains, That fade where eye no farther can discern. The heavens high to dewy earth bend low. The silver sun and all the starry host ! The evening wind brings the rose-blossom breath. And on the wild flowers and the living green Gather and glisten the dew-drops beautiful. But when the moon her full-orV-ed beauty hides. Or with shy glance soon seeks the shadowy west. Electric showers, the plains of heaven o'er- spread In clouds of mellow light, that ever changing From tho earth do spring, and hastening, roll 1^^* NIGHT ON THE PLAINS. 175 mnset iws in [)lain8, Lscern. L low, .! lossom living tiful. jeauty ladowy 11 o'cr- Iii endless rounds, conccnt'ring in the dome. Or shooting forth long training bands of lire. Like falling stars a trackless pathway leave; As veil on lovely maiden's brow but dims The lustre of her eyes, so through tlie running Rays aglow, the eyes of night peep out. All glistening as with tears bedewed. How beautiful is night ! glad visaged niglit. That writes in smiles the angels' thoughts, Or woos the weary wanderer to rest. In radiant streams my fancy bathes her wings, And flies beyond the reach of mortal siglit : There seeks the shadows that we see, to find Both whence they come, and whither waning go. Now has the blush of rainbow light grown dim. And night in softest slumber, silence holds. M. S. Mkucku. mging itening, 176 I-OST LOVE. LOST LOVE. k ONG ago one day when sitting In the sunlight's mellow glow, Soft across my heart came flitting Your dear voice so sweet and low. Ah ! my heart stood still for gladness As the music reached my ears ; Little d.eamrl I then of sadness Looming in the future years. All the world lay bright heiore me, Sweet the birds sang out their lay ; Joy, with your dear voice, fell o'er me On that happy summer day. But before the shadows falling Changed the golden light to grey, Death in earthly form appalling. Came and stole my love away ! Brightly still the sun is shining, Sweet the birds sing out their lay ; But my weary heart repining, Witherv^d on that summer day. A. D. SxEWAliT. MORNFN(J. 177 MORNING. IN THE CITY. IT is a cheerless morning as we step out upon the damp pavement. The air is sharp and piercing, and the uncertain light tliat begins to glimmer seems rather to increase the gloom of the scene. The houses are grotesquely large, the sidewalks are bare, and look half expectant of the great liuman tide that will flow back over them with the return of day. The streets are noiseless and empty. Even the darkness, as if reluctant to leave, lingers yet in shady corners, and down dark alleys. Out on the broad streets the perspective of the long lines of houses is harder than ever. The street corners never seemed so mathematical, the church spires n^^ver so fantastic. As \so pass t long and look up at the windows, here and there a drawn blind betrays the sleeper within, while down below, articles exposed for sale, and left over night, look odd and out of place. Next, we reach a cross street, and glancing along expect fl^ "ii f 1 178 MORNINCJ. to HOC Hoiiio liviiij^ beiiif^. Not a soul in Htirriu^, and the lon^' Htrect endb only in a dim iiiiBt that su^^'CHta, miles and miles away, the country — the home of the j^reen fields and the summer clover, where nature rules alone, and all is innocence, and purity and hope. Dream- inj^, however, of them, brings the fields no nearer ; as we wander on we see for miles around us acres and acres of the roofs and chimney-tops of the f^reat city. You would almost fancy that the whole population had fled during the night, till a stray beam of light falling on the pavement attracts our attention, and looking up we see that the dim ray of a lamj) has struggled out through a closed shutter only to die in the first light of day. Perhaps, too, with that dim ray, struggles out the muttered, long-f«jrgotten prayer of a dying man. For within, the rays of the low-burning lamp fall across the feverish face of the sufferer, who welcomes the morn- ing but to wish it gone, and only sees the day decline to long for it back again. As the first light steals in on him, his thoughts wander away back to the old home and the little room where, long ago, he used to lie and watch the same bright sunbeams glisten and glance on MOUNlNfJ. 170 irrinji, I miHt y, the .11(1 the le, and )roam- j1(1h no r iniloH ofH ami L would ion liad joani of ,ct8 our hat the throuf^h ■st li^^ht im ray, [orgotten the rays feverish e morn- thb day the tirst wander ,tle room atch the [lance on the little square window-panes, while outside hijili overhead, tlio hirds were praisin^j; Him who sends the sunli^'ht. Life was very fair then, hut now repentance seems a mockery, and hope comea too late. Loavin«^' the li^ht and the reilections it awakens, we pass on. A stealthy hreeze comes up the street hehind us, making the shop si^ns swin<4 and creak till they look ashamed of their own faces, and sending a rahblo of last year's leaves with their bad city aciiuaintances — scraps of dirty paper—scampering across the roadway. A little farther on, down at the end of a lane shines a j,'as lamp, looking dismal in the in- creasing light. Led hy curiosity, we pass in and disturb what seems a bundle of rags, but what is in reality a human being that want has forced into the streets, and Christian charity and the police have left there. Alas, that brick and stone should be less hard-hearted than llesh and blood 1 Some are asleep — only to wake again perhaps on many another morning of misery like this. But they are far away now from their troubles, far away in the lields, in the woods where they once used to stroll. Some are in gorgeous palaces attended by smiling courtiers. Some in golden climes 180 MOKNINti. raiHiiif^ tho i)recioiiH Hand in their handn. All aru for^oifiil of what iH paHHin^ around litem. Thank Ciod ! tlio poor are im happy in their dreaniH aa tho rich, and often more ho ! Retracing our HtepH wo pawn out under the archway on up the Htreet. Tlioro Ih more li^ht, and thin^H look more natural. Round tho corner in front of us comes the first cart with a sliarp turn, and ^oos rattliiif^ away up tho street. Tho sun is cominj^ up fast now ; it tips the cathedral's spire and pinnacles with a da/zlin^ ed^o of ^old ; a minute more it peeps over tho ^'ables and looks you full in tho face. The broad day has come at last. And down through palace dome and rotten roof, through costly coloured glass and shattered window, it sheds its equal ray. IN THE COUNTRY. There is no wind. Even nature herself is in suspense as we step out through the little wicket gate and go on up the pathway over tho hill. The air is fresh, and with the first faint signs of the coming day grows colder. The few remaining stars neVer looked so far away. Far in front the first dull hue — the death of night rather than the birth of day — glimmers faintly :;';, !!i!' MOUNINO. 181 ^. All theiu. I their ro HO ! lor the 3 more Kouiul rat cart -way up now ; it 8 with a it peopH he face, [id down through ndow, it jorself is ^ho little over the ^rBt faint The few [ay. Far of night :8 faintly in the sky. Soon tliis inditttinct li^'ht ^ives way to brighter colotirs that foretell the advent of day. Higher and higher it Hhoots into tho paio vault, till the :)ini - the bright sun that bringH back, not light alone, but new life and hope and gladness to man — burwts forth over tho exiMictant earth in clear and radiant glory. God made the country. No one could doubt it» as in the green grass on every hand sparkle thousands of gems. The daisies turn their lovely dew-dipped faces to greet the light. Objects which looked grim and terrible in the darkness grow more and more defined, and gradually resolve themselves into familiar shapes. The haystacks, even the barna, look picturesque as the first sunbeams, leaping from one tree-top to another, fall aslant their moss- grown gables and down their weather-beaten sides. Over on the hill yonder the little country church that nestles among the pine trees has not been forgotten, for these first beams look in at the odd, old-fa8hionf*d windows, and throw great golden bars of light into the pews below. Still, though these sunbeams love the little, old, steady-going church, with its ivy-covered walls and simple worahippers, they love far better to peep in through the churchyard gate, with its V] ^. '% ^. ^w /A '/ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I ■SO """ HH^B 1.25 IB 1.4 i 1.6 6" Photographic Sdences Corporation // 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. M580 (716) 872-4503 ^^ ■"^^ ^4i. fe Is 182 MORNING. if^:/ ^ %n % Hill 1 1 illiilil unsteady hinges, and look at the graves which lie thick in the shadow of its walls. These early beams never trouble the old hinges, for they come in right over the top of the gate, and stoop ever so gently to kiss the grass that is green on every mossy grave. They remember the one that has lain there forgotten for a cen- tury, and they have done so every morning during all these long years. They stoop in pity over the mound that was not there yester- day, and lift the drooping flowers that were placed there last night. Soon, however, the new grave will be as green as the rest, soon it will miss the gathered flowers and the daily visit, but the gentle sunlight will come back again every morning just the same. Through the weather-beaten palings of the old fence the great heads of clover look in awe at their more patrician neighbours, the roses. But the roses too must die with the clover. On, down the road we pass, till in the meadow we cross the bridge with its noisy stream. The well- worn planks show that many have passed be- fore us on up, perhaps to the churchyard on the hill, or to the wicked city many a long mile past it. As we stand gazing into the stream the maples glance over our shoulder at :^■^:^«4■i ' . l_^.'''!i ::k:^-.-^^>i^i:^^^ MORNING. 183 their images reflected in the water, and their leaves tremble as they fancy that perhaps some day they may stoop too far and fall headlong into the water. Out on the meadow the sheep are grazing as if the sun had been up for hours. Bight down in front, a little bird, rising from his nest amid the long grass, flies straight up — up as if he would reach the very sky. His song is so glad, so pure, so joyous, that you cannot help envying him the voice that sends forth such a hymn of praise. Farther on, from the top of the hill we see fields on fields of waving grain, backed in the distance by the green woods that look so mysterious with their cold blue mist. Here and there a pine out- stripping his fellows tosses up to heaven his sturdy arms. The sky is now full of its morning glory and radiant in gold. We can hardly fancy, as we look round on the smiling earth, that lust and vice and wickedness could ever come to mar such loveliness as this. D. J. MacMurchy. •«-t: y / -J : ■^'V'; ■i^.f" ; liillii '*-■■,; 'f- i-'IW- 184 MORALIZER IN CONVOCATION HALL. t^^.'o jr::;-'*^" - .«tii j-j iV-».'» 1&:? :*^'^^;*y; ?ION '.'Mf: > - e laid; Bed my I goose- ainutes, le. « i0|iient8 med file )w win- MOHALIZEll IN CONVOCATION HALL. 185 Are mingled sweat and ink — which make a show That well may make a kind examiner groan, Or petrify the same, or turn him into stone. He knows it all, but heeds not, for his thought ;, Is flying through the misspent past away Among the hours of morning, when he sought , The sleep that merry nights must snatch from day. He tugs his lanky hair; and I daresay If time return'd, he'd spend it differently. Or, who knows, p'raps he'd be again as ^ay. And let the giddy bour^ in mirth pass by. It matters not; he will not get the chance to try. o-^;;'V- . . :;, V. - .■ wi sigh; ig brow iy» low ; id sadly thrown '^ Our days misspent may never more return ; J Time never rolls again his backward wheel ; The gods are not so kind that we should learn To undo error thus, and wisdom steal. The hours, with their weight of woe and weal, ■ ."'-^.i^f'^.:', iv:'^'"' / 'P u 1 III ■vjimm:frn > i i m -7. I'll! 180 DRIFl'lNO. Are gone forever, though we wish them back. But now to wandering thoughts adieu! I feel 'Tis time to do my papers, for alack ! By moralizing much e'en I may get the sack. H. St. Q. Cayley. DRIFTING. UT in the gloom on the sea, Drifting so fast. Only the sail flapping drearily Against the mast. Out to the wide world-sea We drift without rest. Only the heart beats wearily Against the breast. We know not the eyes filled with longing, That watch you and me. As we drift away in the darkness On the world and the sea. F. H. Sykes. ■■'if ": ■■(■ 'I', FORBIDDEN TO KNOW. 187 FORBIDDEN TO KNOW. |~7 AR in the purple air r~V9 Among the mountains proud; * Like a child's low, whispered prayer "When angry dangers crowd, Innocently fair, Floated a fairy cloud. Reflecting the colours gay Thrown by the sun above, Blue and silver and grey. Like a fearless, trusting dove ; A messenger sent to say There lived an all-seeing Love. " Love's messenger," cried I, "Canst thou really teach That there is tranquillity For me, for thee, for each '> Nothing will I not try That will help me Love to reach." Silently sank the sun ; Vanished that cloud in gloom. " Is there no answer ? None ? " All was silent as the tomb. Silently sank the sun; "Ah! Qod, what a hopeless doom." T. Abnold Havltain. 'mmmtmmn 188 TlIK DEATH OF THE YEAR. THE DEATH OF THE YEAR. ',!!' ONE trembling streak of light — as cold and pale As that from gems on one who lies in death — Has fluttered from the sky, and now the gale Is moaning, as one lone and wearied, Grieving; for night is whispering with chill breath, " The last day of the dying year is dead, Is dead." Across the cheerless waste of sky Dark clouds are hurrying; and overhead The wild night winds are calling with a cry As of a soul's despair, — the voices coming nigh : "Now day is dead. O dying year, Bow down thy head, thy snow-white head, For day hath fled. Thy life is sped ; the hours — thy last — Are waning fast; Death dooms thee dead. Hark ! 'Tis his tread ! With wintry blast, THE DEATH OP THE YEAR. 18D He oometh fast — his shadow, cast Upon the head, hath doomed thee dead. Thy life is sped." the head, Jt— blast, The quiet starlight sleeps, the clouds have passed Like ships, across the blue to a shadow^' coast. . . . Now brazen throats of midnig>.t bells loud shout A new year's advent, and the sound rolls out Upon the night, — and now the dead year's ghost Is groping through the darkness, in the vast And crumbling catacombs of the buried past. The sound of bells is floating to the west; From out the west a floating murmur seems To swell in answer, — but to whom addrest, Who knows? Like one who lies in troubled dreams. It murmurs brokenly, and sinks to rest: ** Ah ! to many a one he brought A friend, — and was there none that sought To ease his death I He died alone, Alone, alone; the snow is blown ■ _.■ ■i:i?Jife^_4s':^-4r;f-.-«-3-.'V:;"i '■^):^l:^...:\j^-.i-i^t^A^-j:^^ ■'■'■ .'i.,'-\i ■..^:^2.:^rU^ ■■■ 190 t< ROSY-riNnERED MORN. In the beard that's tangled on his breast . . Gently thro' the purple deep Of heaven, while the night-winds sleep, Bear him gently to his rest, I' the haunted west." W. J. Healy. it,'' I'M '11 •ROSY-FINGERED MORN." HE night blows outward In a mist. And all the world The sun hath kissed. Along the golden Rim of sky, A thousand snow-piled Vapours lie. And by the wood And mist-clad stream. The Maiden 'Morn Stands still to dream. W. W. Campbell. THE OREAT NOUTH-WEST. 101 THE GREAT NORTH-WEST. QO fabled land of joy and song is thib That lieth in the glow of eventide; Not Bung by bards of old in minstrel strain, Yet, he who reads its history shall learn Of doughty deeds well worth all knightly fame. It is a land of rivers flowing free. Lake-mirrored mountains, rising proud and stern, A land of spreading prairies ocean wide, Where harsh sounds slumber in the hush of gloom, And peace hath brooded with outstretched wings. Upon the western shore soft breaks the waves, Rolling with measured pace upon the sands. Far to the north the ocean washes cold. Where reigneth icy solitude supreme. Here every season hath its varied charm. Stern winter shrouds in snow the mountain side, if^itibt. *4i)^r»:„: iS, \-'. V.VJ ' ijl 102 TIIK (JRKAT N0RTII-WK8T. h ' Irh I ''i '( ' '■* iii. Till spring sets froo the captive bud and shoot, And wood and j?rove break out in joyous Bon« ; Then summer suns brin^; forth a fuller bloom, Then autumn gilds the green with flaming red. And reapers gather in the golden grain. Shouting in merriment the harvest homo. But ever mindful history repeats The tale of sons heroic of old France, Who came, and with brave hearts no labour shunned ; They pierced the tangled brake, they plied the axe, Encountering danger, but victorious, While lofty bulwarks and far distant forts, Mark their endeavour and enshrine their name ! Here dwelt the Indian when the years were young. There lingers many a legend of his race, Near reed-fringed lake, or deep and dark ra- vine ; But he has fallen As the autumn leaf, Yet not before the herald of great joy Bore to the farthest homes the cross of hope. iiiil; I TIIK (JRKAT NOUTir-WKHT. \m [ and joyous sloonit aminff n, )mo. labour y plied forts, their Irs were kce, irk ra- hope, And in the shade profaned by pa^an rites The red man bowed his knee and worsliij i)od God. Such was the past of this ^eat northern land, A past of stilhiess and of nature's rei^n. But, lol a change— from far across the sea Behold there comes a mighty multitude, From Britain's isle, from Erin's verdant strand, From misty Scotland, and from sunny France — They come, they come, their native soil for- sake, Pursuing fortune in another clime, A younger, sunnier land, where life >" "eathes hope. While nature freely gives of her rich store; Here little children come from haunts of crime. From cities pestilent, and fevered streets, Where skies are dull and hearts weighed down with care. With wonder gaze they at the limpid streams. The lakes, and flower-strewn plains of Can- ada. And here a mighty people shall arise. id4 THE GREAT NORTH-WEST. 'ffl A people nurtured in full liberty, Free as the wind that blows from sea to sea, Strong as the eagle soaring to the sun; And they shall love their land with patriots' love, And guard her borders as the men of old Their country guarded in the hour of need ; Tet, not forgetful of the mother land, Who scans with kindly eye her child's ca- reer. Wafting a blessing o'er the mighty sea. And smiling homes shall blossom near and far, And down the river glide the flying craft. The palpitating engine crosi^ the plain. The busy murmur of a toiling world Shall violate the stillness of the woods, Where roamed the deer in full 3ecuri^d overhead. E.G. n?J BALLADE OF COMMENCEMENT DAY. 10-DAY the maiden Spring doth smile again After her tears; to-day the roses blow All glistening from a sun-lit fall of rain, As eke the crocuses in flaming row. And violets and lilies white as snow, And all the sweet spring flowers of beauty rare; But there be other flowers of grace, I trow*, The sweet girl graduates with their golden hair. Now to the Hall their way they all have ta'eu ; And cap and gown in due procession go, And chant a mystic chant, with weird re- frain, And blare of trumpets. Ceremonies slow There are, with pomp and solemn state enow ; Thereafter doth McEim, with gentle care, ■-SB 200 BALLADK OF COMMENCEMENT DAY. Bestow the '* swansdown" tenderly, — and lo I The sweet girl graduates with their golden hair. A day in leafy June, and one is fain To watch the sunbeams playing to and fro, Thro' the tall elms 1 from which, as his domain Ancestral, undisturbed, the aged crow Peers sagely down upon the folk below. The murmuring lawns, and all the gladness there, — The happy faces, and the voices low. The sweet girl graduates with their golden . hair. ENVOY. Prince, take heed of the blinded boy, with bow And fluttering darts to smite thee! Prince, beware ; . His darts are glances from their eyes, I ' :} • trow: The sweet girl graduates with their golden hair ! - * • ;» . W. J. Healy. %', . i ' i. ''¥ **li^- ji ! I- ;t " >■•■( H^d- ■m, .i: -r ■<' I f -^ ' 'fK -Jf,",- \ "*>•. ",. ». ' ■■■:- <*.'4;', .■■■' <', 'I '< * • I * «' ■' 1 Ul^J''^ •■■;•,• " ■ :► t» ::v^^T'^ ri>•^^j' 1 •. **■ ^f-'.. *•■' ,l:".'f ,"-. ..^'l/-if^^. ' ». a.r/ • ' • . 1* • . * f* > i't ■ '. ■•v^;v f ■ ^•;> ,* , _ .,-'V' ■i •i-:v. ' V ->.A • ■.♦^. v; • . >•!■ *; ''-*.■ ' . ■ W* J-. ■ , « ' "■,K .^•*-'t> ■ *> ■■mi: i ■•" .''''■■ ■ '.< >' ■ ■ f "V * ■ , • ' * \ , ■ .*■ "". ^ - ' ,> ., I'.i "'^''"■-■,/ ■•• ..yi^. >^V•^^■•'•^ ^.>< 'v. ^''''< '.■■< ^'l- >, I,:.'-?, i'lfj- •■,»3'J;• , ■ ■ A ' ' ■•'i^