THE SCRIPTORIUM.*

e-van-gel-ist,, there were
four; the word means a
writer of the Gospel.
a-poc-a-lypse, name of the
last book of the New Testa-
ment-Revelation.
e-clipse, when the sun is hid-
den by some other celestial
body passing before it.
fo-lio, a book (literally, a leaf).

the palm, the prize.
in-i-tial, the letter beginning

a name.

wrap-ped in a nap-kin, not made good use of; in allusion to the parable of the "Talents.'

par-ley, to speak, to confer. cor-ri-dor, a passage-way.

1. It is growing dark! Yet one line more,
And then my work for to-day is o'er.
I come again to the name of the Lord!
Ere I that awful name record,

That is spoken so lightly among men,
Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen ;
Pure from blemish and blot must it be
When it writes that word of mystery!

2. Thus have I laboured on and on,
Nearly through the Gospel of John.
Can it be that from the lips

Of this same gentle Evangelist,
That Christ Himself perhaps hath kissed,
Came the dread Apocalypse!

It has a very awful look,

As it stands there at the end of the book,
Like the sun in an eclipse.

Ah me when I think of that vision divine,
Think of writing it, line by line,

I stand in awe of the terrible curse,

Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse.

* Scriptorium, a place set apart for transcribing, illuminating, and writing books.

God forgive me! if ever I

Take aught from the book of that Prophecy,
Lest my part too should be taken away
From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day.

3. This is well written, though I say it!
I should not be afraid to display it,
In open day, on the selfsame shelf,
With the writings of St. Thecla herself,
Or of Theodosius, who of old

Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold!
That goodly folio standing yonder,
Without a single blot or blunder,
Would not bear away the palm from mine,
If we should compare them line for line.

4. There, now, is an initial letter!

Saint Ulric himself never made a better!
Finished down to the leaf on the snail,
Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail!
And now, as I turn the volume over,
And see what lies between cover and cover.
What treasures of heart these pages hold,
All ablaze with crimson and gold.
God forgive me! I seem to feel

A certain satisfaction steal

Into my heart, and into my brain,
As if my talent had not lain.
Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain.
Yes, I might almost say to the Lord,
Here is a copy of Thy Word,

Written out with much toil and pain;

Take it, O Lord, and let it be

As something I have done for Thee!

5. How sweet the air is! How fair the scene! I wish I had as lovely a green

To paint my landscapes and my leaves! How the swallows twitter under the eaves! There, now, there is one in her nest;

I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast,

And will sketch her thus in her quiet nook For the margin of my Gospel book.

6. I can see no more! Through the valley yonder

A shower is passing; I hear the thunder
Mutter its curses in the air,

The Devil's own and only prayer!
The dusty road is brown with rain,
And, speeding on with might and main,
Hitherward rides a gallant train.
They do not parley, they cannot wait,
But hurry in at the convent-gate.
What a fair lady! and beside her
What a handsome, graceful, noble rider!
Now she gives him her hand to alight;
They will beg shelter for the night.
I will go down to the corridor,

And try to see that face once more;

It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint,

Or for one of the Maries I shall paint.

SUNRISE IN LONDON.

Earth has not anything to show more fair!
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
The city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie
Open to the fields and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep,
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will;
Dear God the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

THE GREAT PLAGUE OF LONDON.

The Great Plague, in the reign of Charles II., caused by bad drainage; it is said that 100,000 persons died of it.

ca-la-mi-ty, heavy trouble. re-frain, keep back.

Bow, Brom-ley, Black-wall,

and Pop-lar, now part of London, but at that time villages outside it. e-ja-cu-la-tion, a short exclamation.

1. Much about the same time, I walked out into the fields towards Bow; and as I had some concern in shipping, I had a notion that it had been one of the best ways of securing one's self from the infection, to have retired into a ship; and musing how to satisfy my curiosity in that point, I turned away over the fields from Bow to Bromley, and down