that it was a proof of a man being a strong man, that he was often well beaten; such a fact would be evidence that a strong man was putting forth his strength on him, but of anything rather than that he himself was strong.

HUSBAND and WIFE, and other words there are, having reference to the family and the relations of family life, which are not less full of teaching, while each may serve to remind of some duty. For example, "husband" is properly "houseband," the band and bond of the house, who shall bind and hold it together. Thus old Tusser, in his Points of Husbandry :

The name of the husband, what is it to say?

Of wife and of household the band and the stay.

So that the very name may put him in mind of his authority, and of that which he ought to be to all the members of the house. And the name "wife" has its lesson too, although not so deep a one as the equivalent word in some other tongues. It belongs to the same family of words as "weave," "woof," "web," and the German "weber." It is a title given to her who is engaged at the web and woof, these having been the most ordinary branches of female industry, of wifely employment, when the language was forming. So that in the word itself is wrapped up a hint of earnest, indoor, stay-at-home occupations as being the fittest for her who bears this name.

To the foreigner, however, the use of most ordinary words is not so apparent. Blaine illustrates this difficulty in an amusing way in his "Wonders of the English Language," as follows:

"The construction of the English language must seem most formidable to foreigners. One of them, looking at

a picture of a number of vessels, said, 'See what a flock of ships!' He was told that a flock of ships is called a fleet, and that a fleet of sheep is called a flock. And it was added, for his guidance in mastering the intricacies of our language, that a flock of girls is called a bevy, that a bevy of wolves is called a pack, and a pack of thieves is called a gang, and a gang of angels is called a host, and a host of porpoises is called a shoal, and a shoal of buffaloes is called a herd, and a herd of children is called a troop, and a troop of partridges is called a covey, and a covey of beauties is called a galaxy, and a galaxy of ruffians is called a horde, and a horde of rubbish is called a heap, and a heap of oxen is called a drove, and a drove of blackguards is called a mob, and a mob of whales is called a school, and a school of worshippers is called a congregation, and a congregation of engineers is called a corps, and a corps of robbers is called a band, and a band of locusts is called a swarm, and a swarm of people is called a crowd."

COMPOSITION.

Take "Wonders of the English Language" as a model, and write something similar, starting with the expressions "a cluster of stars," "a bunch of flowers," etc.

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824), for many years wielded an unparalleled influence upon English poetry. Fortunately for the purity and health of our literature, that influence has been dissipated by the more beneficent spirit of Wordsworth and Tennyson. No

other poet has excelled Byron in intensity of feeling and in vividness of description; no other, alas, has shown a gloomier misanthropy, a more sarcastic contempt for religion and morality. And yet, in the midst of his most cynical and atheistical revilings will often be found passages of wondrous pathos, beauty, and majesty of sentiment, like flowers blooming in a charnel-house. But the reading of his poems by youth should be discouraged.

HERE was a sound of revelry by night,

THERE

And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;-

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined,

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet;
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat!

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is-it is the cannon's opening roar.

Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled, because he deemed it near-
His heart more truly knew that peal too well,
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell— He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise.

And there was mounting in hot haste, the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum,
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering with white lips, "the foe! they come-they

come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so filled the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden down like grass,

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,-the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe, -in one red burial blent!

Questions: What description is given in the first stanza? What was heard, as described in second? Who was Brunswick's "fated chieftain"? What scene followed the roar of cannon? How did the officers mount? Tell who were the various parties named in the sixth stanza. What is described in the last stanza? Write the last line in your own words.

THE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal-every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open-this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to