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channels and hindering the course onward. If my son had not forsaken me, deluded by debasing fanatical dreams, worthy only of an energumen whose dwelling is among tombs, I might have gone on and seen my path broadening to the end of my life ; for he was a youth of great promise.. But it has closed in now," the old man continued, after a short pause; "it has closed in now all but the narrow track he has left me to tread — alone, in my blindness."

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“Nay, Romola mia, if I have pronounced an anathema on degenerate and ungrateful son, I said not that I could wish thee other than the sweet daughter thou hast been to me. For what son could have tended me so gently in the frequent sickness I have had of late? And even in learning thou art not, according to thy measure, contemptible. Something perhaps were to be wished in thy capacity of attention and memory, not incompatible even with the feminine mind. But as Calcondila bore testimony when he aided me to teach thee, thou hast a ready apprehension, and even a wide-glancing intelligence. And thou hast a man's nobility of soul; thou hast never fretted me with thy petty desires as thy mother did. It is true, I have been careful to keep thee aloof from the debasing influence of thy own sex, with their sparrow-like frivolity and their enslaving superstition, except, indeed, from that of our cousin Brigida, who may well serve as a scarecrow and a warning. And though — since I agree with the divine Petrarca, when he declares, quoting the Aulularia of Plautus, who again was indebted for the truth to the supreme Greek intellect, ‘Optimam fæminam nullam esse, aliâ licet alia pejor sit '- I carfnot boast that thou art entirely lifted out of that lower category to which Nature assigned thee, nor even that in erudition thou art on a par with the more learned women of this age ; thou art nevertheless — yes, Romola mia," said the old man, his pedantry again melting into tenderness, “thou art my sweet daughter, and thy voice is as the lower notes of the flute, “sweet, firm, clear, pure, cutting the air, and resting in the ear,' according to the choice words of Quintilian ; and Bernardo tells me thou art fair, and thy hair is like the brightness of the morning, and indeed it seems to me that I discern some radiance from thee. Ah ! I know how all else looks in this room, but thy form I only guess at. Thou art no longer the little woman six years old, that faded for me into darkness : thou art tall, and thy arm is but little below mine. Let us walk together."

The old man's voice had become at once loud and tremulous, and a pink flush overspread his proud, delicately-cut features, while the habitually raised attitude of his head gave the idea that behind the curtain of his blindness he saw some imaginary high tribunal to which he was appealing against the injustice of Fame.


D'Arcy Wentworth Thompson is Professor of Greek in Queen's College, Galway, and was formerly Classical Master in the Edinburgh Academy. He has written a number of works, most of them relating to the ancient languages and their literature: Latin Grammar for elementary classes, 1859 ; Ancient Leaves, or Metrical Rendering of Poets (Greek and Roman), 1862; Nursery Rhymes, 1863; Fun and Earnest, 1864; Day Dreams of a Schoolmaster, 1864; Wayside Thoughts, 1865; Scalæ Nova, a Ladder to Latin, 1866; Sales Attici, 1867.


(From Day Dreams of a Schoolmaster.) A DEAD language: what a sad and solemn expression ! Trite enough, I own; but, to a reflective mind, none the less sad and solemn; for in the death of which it speaks are involved deaths untold, innumerable.

I can understand what is meant by “a Dead Sea ;” and should suppose it to be a sheet of water cut off from all intercourse with the main ocean ; never rising with its flow; never sinking with its ebb; never skimmed by the sail of commerce; never flapped by wing of wandering bird ; undisturbed by the bustle of the restless world; but slumbering in a desolate wilderness, far from the track of caravan, or railway, or steamship, in a stagnant, and tide-forgotten, and unheeded repose.

The chance-directed efforts of an enterprising traveller exhumed, but recently, the sculptured monuments of a dead civilization. We then learned that Nineveh and Babylon were not only the homes of conquering kings, but the seats of tranquil learning and treasured science, before ever a fleet had sailed from Aulis, or the eagles had promised empire to the watcher on the green Palatine.

The language of priestly and kingly Etruria is revealed to us only by dim marks upon vase or tablet, or by melancholy inscriptions on sepulchral stones. That is, indeed, a language unquestionably dead.

But can such a term be applied to that Hellenic speech that in the Iliad has rolled, like the great Father of Waters, its course unhin. dered down three thousand years ; that in Pindar still soars heavenwards, staring at the sun ; that rises and falls in Plato with the long, sequacious music of an Æolian lute; that moves, stately and blackstoled, in Æschylus ; that reverberates with laughter half Olympian in Aristophanes; that pierces with a trumpet-sound in Demosthenes; that smells of crocuses in Theocritus; that chirrups like a balm-cricket in Anacreon ? If it be dead, then what language is alive?

Or again, is that old Italian speech dead and gone, that murmurs in Lucretius a ceaseless, solemn monotone of sea-shell sound; that in Virgil flows, like the Eridanus, calmly but majestically through rich lowlands, fringed with tall poplars and rimmed with grassy banks; that quivers to wild strings of passion in Catullus; that wimples like

beck in Ovid ; that coos in Tibullus like the turtle; that sparkles in Horace like a well-cut diamond ?

No, no! The music of Homer will die with the choral chants of the Messiah, and the strains of Pindar with the symphonies of Beethoven ; una dies dabit exitio' Aristophanes and Cervantes and Molière ; the Mantuan will go hand in hand to oblivion with the Florentine, divinus Magister cum Discipulo diviniore;* the Metamorphoses of Ovid will decay with the fantastic tale of Ariosto and the music of Don Giovanni; Horace will fade out of ken linked arm in arm with that sweet fellow-epicure, Montaigne ; Antigone will be forgotten maybe a short century before Cordelia ; and Plato and Aristotle will be entombed beneath the mausoleum that covers forever the thoughts of Bacon, Kepler, Newton, and Laplace.

1 The same day will consign to oblivion Aristophanes, &c.
2 The divine Master with his diviner Disciple.


Thomas Hughes was born in 1823 near Newbury. He was educated at Rugby, under the celebrated Dr. Arnold, and at Oxford. He read law at Lincoln's Inn, and was called to the bar in 1848. He published School Days at Rugby in 1856, and the sequel, Tom Brown at Oxford, in 1861. He was chosen a member of Parliament in 1865, and is still in public service. He is universally esteemed for the nobleness of his nature, for his robust intellect, and his liberal culture. His own manly traits are fully evident in the tone of his delightful books. No student will need any formal introduction to Tom Brown.


[From School Days at Rugby.)

He was lying on the very spot where the fights came off; where he himself had fought six years ago his first and last battle. He conjured up the scene till he could almost hear the shouts of the ring, and East's whisper in his ear; and looking across the close to the Doctor's private door, half expected to see it open, and the tall figure in cap and gown come striding under the elm trees towards him.

No, no! that sight could never be seen again. There was no flag flying on the round tower ; the school-house windows were all shuttered up; and when the flag went up again, and the shutters came down, it would be to welcome a stranger. All that was left on earth of him whom he had honored, was lying cold and still under the chapel floor. He would go in and see the place once more, and then leave it once for all. New men and new methods might do for other people ; let those who would worship the rising star, he at least would be faithful to the sun which had set. And so he got up, and walked to the chapel door and unlocked it, fancying himself the only mourner in all the broad land, and feeding on his own selfish sorrow.

He passed through the vestibule, and then paused for a moment to glance over the empty benches. His heart was still proud and high, and he walked up to the seat which he had last occupied as a sixth-form boy, and sat himself down there to collect his thoughts.

And, truth to tell, they needed collecting and setting in order not a little. The memories of eight years were all dancing through his brain, and carrying him about whither they would; while beneath them all, his heart was throbbing with the dull sense of a loss that could never be made up to him. The rays of the evening sun came solemnly through the painted windows above his head and fell in gorgeous colors on the opposite wall, and the perfect stillness

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soothed his spirit by little and little. And he turned to the pulpit, and looked at it, and then leaning forward, with his head on his hands, groaned aloud — “If he could only have seen the Doctor again for one five minutes, to have told him all that was in his heart, what he owed to how he loved and reverenced him, and would, by God's help, follow his steps in life and death, he could have borne it all without a murmur. But that he should have gone away forever without knowing it all, was too much to bear.” But am I sure that he does not know it all ?” - the thought made him start — “ May he not even now be near me, in this very chapel? If he be, am I sorrowing as he would have me sorrow as I shall wish to have sorrowed when I shall meet him again ?”

He raised himself up and looked round; and after a minute rose and walked humbly down to the lowest bench, and sat down on the very seat which he had occupied on his first Sunday at Rugby. And then the old memories rushed back again, but softened and subdued, and soothing him as he let himself be carried away by them. And he looked up at the great painted window above the altar, and remembered how, when a little boy, he used to try not to look through it at the elm trees and the rooks, before the painted glass came — and the subscription for the painted glass, and the letter he wrote home for money to give to it. And there, down below, was the name of the boy who sat on his right hand on that first day, scratched rudely in the oak panelling.

And then came the thought of all his old school-fellows; and form after form of boys, nobler, and braver, and purer than he, rose up and seemed to rebuke him. Could he not think of them, and what they had felt and were feeling; they who had honored and loved from the first, the man whom he had taken years to know and love? Could he not think of those yet dearer to him who was gone, who bore his name and shared his blood, and were now without a husband or a father? Then the grief which he began to share with others became gentle and holy, and he rose up once more, and walked up the steps to the altar; and while the tears flowed freely down his cheeks, knelt down humbly and hopefully, to lay down there his share of a burden which had proved itself too heavy for him to bear in his own strength.

Here let us leave him — where better could we leave him, than at the altar, before which he had first caught a glimpse of the glory of his birthright, and felt the drawing of the bond which links all living souls together in one brotherhood -- at the grave beneath the

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