recollects himself, but too late; a hostile sentry has seen him and fired;

he falls, breathing the names of his loved ones.

Tell some of the suf

THE UNKNOWN PAINTER.

MURILLO, the celebrated artist of Seville, often found on the canvas of his pupils unfinished sketches bearing marks of rare genius. They were executed during the night, and he was utterly unable to conjecture the author.

One morning the pupils had arrived at the studio before him, and were grouped before an easel, uttering exclamations of surprise, when Murillo entered. His astonishment was equal to theirs on finding an unfinished head of the Blessed Virgin, of exquisite outline, with many touches of surpassing beauty. He appealed first to one and then to another of the young gentlemen, to see if any one of them would lay claim to it; but each returned a sorrowful negative. "He who has left this tracery will one day be master of us all," cried they.

"Sebastian," said Murillo to a youthful slave that stood trembling by, "who occupies this studio at night?" "No one but myself, senior." "Well, take your station here to-night; and if you do not inform me of the mysterious visitant to this room, thirty lashes shall be your reward on the morrow." The slave bowed in quiet submission, and retired.

That night he threw his mattress before the easel, and

slept soundly until the clock struck three. He then sprang from his couch and exclaimed: "Three hours are my own, the rest are my master's!" He seized a palette and took his seat at the frame, to erase the work of the preceding night. With brush in hand he paused before making the fatal stroke. "I cannot, oh, I cannot, erase it!" said he; "rather let me finish it!"

He went to work: a little coloring here, a touch there, a soft shade there; and thus three hours rolled unheeded by. A slight noise caused him to look up. Murillo with his pupils stood around! The sunshine was peering brightly through the casement, while yet the taper burned.

Again he was a slave. His eyes fell beneath the students' eager gaze.

"Who is your master, Sebastian?" "You, senior.""Your drawing-master, I mean!" "You, senior.”—“I have never given you lessons." "No, but you gave them to these young gentlemen, and I heard them.”—“Yes, you have done better; you have profited by them.Does this boy deserve punishment, or reward, my dear pupils?" "Reward, senior," was the quick response.--"What shall it be?"

One suggested a suit of clothes, another a sum of money; but no chord was touched in the captive's bosom. One said, "The master feels kindly to-day; ask your freedom, Sebastian." He sank on his knees, and lifting his eyes to his master's face, said: "The freedom of my father!"

Murillo was touched, and said: "Your pencil shows that you have talent; your request, that you have heart. You are no longer a slave; your father is a free man. Happy Murillo! I have not only painted- I have made a painter."

There may still be seen in classic Italy, in its convents and its churches, many beautiful specimens from the pencils of Murillo and Sebastian.

COMPOSITION.

Give all the questions and answers found in this lesson. Describe the scene between the son and father when young Murillo announced freedom to his beloved parent.

What Church is the true patroness of painting?

Do you know of any painters the Church has encouraged?

THE KNIGHT'S TOAST.

THE feast is o'er! Now brimming wine
In lordly cup is seen to shine

Before each eager guest;

And silence fills the crowded hall,
As deep as when the herald's call
Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host,

And smiling cried: "A toast! a toast!

To all our ladies fair!

Here, before all, I pledge the name

Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame.-
The Lady Gundamere!”

Then to his feet each gallant sprang,
And joyous was the shout that rang,

As Stanley gave the word;

And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry,

Till Stanley's voice was heard.

"Enough, enough," he smiling said, And lowly bent his haughty head;

"That all may have their due, Now each, in turn, must play his part, And pledge the lady of his heart,

Like gallant knight and true!"

Then, one by one, each guest sprang up,
Each drained in turn the brimming cup,
And named the loved one's name;
And each, as hand on high he raised,
His lady's grace or beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise;
On him are fixed those countless eyes;
A gallant knight is he;

Envied by some, admired by all,

Far famed in lady's bower and hall, —
The flower of chivalry.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
Lifted the sparkling cup on high ;
"I drink to one," he said,

"Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead;

"To one whose love for me shall last When lighter passions long have passed, So holy 'tis and true;

To one whose love hath longer dwelt,
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,
Than any pledged by you."

Each guest up started at the word,
And laid a hand upon his sword,

With fury flashing eye;

And Stanley said: “We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,
Whose love you count so high."

St. Leon paused, as if he would

Not breathe her name in careless mood,
Thus lightly to another;

Then bent his noble head, as though

To give that word the reverence due,
And gently said-"My Mother!".

A large, spacious hall. Tables beautifully decorated. Silver goblets with flashing wine before each guest. The host proposes “to the health of the fair ladies." Each knight in turn speaks the praises of his love, without hurting his neighbors' feelings. At length the finest looking of the knights stands to propose a toast. He says so many grand things of the lady he loves that the other knights become jealous. "Who can deserve such praise?" say they all. The noble knight continues his praises, and finally says:

"For you brave knights, go, love another;

My fondest, truest love's for 'Mother.""

THE RISING TIDE.

OPE and Cross remained some time quite absorbed in examining the form of the rock and the creatures within it. Hope was in the act of breaking off some small bits to carry home with him, when Cross suddenly gave a loud shout, calling out: "The Lord have mercy on us! I forgot the tide, and here it comes!"

Hope turned towards the sea, and saw a stream of