As the flag started its descent, the scene was characterized by a solemnity that seemed sacred in its intensity. From the regimental band there floated upon the stillness of the evening the strains of “The Star Spangled Banner." Instinctively and apparently unconsciously, the old man by the tree removed his hat from his head and held it in his hand in reverential recognition until the flag had been furled and the last strain of the national anthem had been lost in the resonant tramp of the troops as they left the field.

What a picture that was the man with his hat in his hand, as he stood uncovered during that impressive ceremony! I moved involuntarily toward him, and, impressed with his reverential attitude, I asked him where he was from. "I am," said he, "from Pickens County:" and in casual conversation it developed that this raw mountaineer had come to Atlanta to say farewell to an only son who stood in the line before him, and upon whom his tear-bedimmed eyes might then be resting for the last time. The silent exhibition of patriotism and loyalty had been prompted by a soul as rugged, but as placid as the great blue mountains which gave it birth.

There was the connecting link between the hearthstone and the capitol! There was the citizen who, representing the only real, substantial element of the nation's reserve strength-"the citizen standing in the doorway of his home, contented on his threshold" had answered his country's call-the man of whom Henry Grady so eloquently said; "He shall save the Republic when the drum tap is futile and the barracks are exhausted." In him was duty typified, and in him slumbered the germ of sacrifice.

There was that in the spontaneous action of the man that spoke of hardships to be endured and dangers to be dared for country's sake; there was that in his reverential attitude that said, even though the libation of his heart's blood should be required in far off lands, his life would be laid down as lightly as his hat was lifted to his country's call. Denied by age the privilege of sharing the hardships and the dangers of the comrades of his boy, no rule could regulate his patriotic ardor, no limitation could restrain the instincts of his homage.

A COURT LADY

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Her hair was tawny with gold; her eyes with purple were dark;
Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark.

Never was a lady of Milan nobler in name and in race;
Never was a lady of Italy fairer to see in the face.

Never was a lady on earth more true as woman and wife,
Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life.

She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, "Bring
That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king.

"Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote; Clasp me large at the waist, and clasp me small at the throat.

"Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves, Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves."

Gorgeous she entered the sunlight, which gathered her up in a flame, While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hospital came.

In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end, "Many and low are the pallets; but each is the place of a friend."

Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed: Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head.

"Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou!" she cried, And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed in her face-and died.

Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second:
He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned.

Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer, "Art thou a Romagnole?" Her eyes drove lightnings before her.

"Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord Able to bind thee, O strong one, free by the stroke of a sword.

"Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast

To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past."

Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's
Young, and pathetic with dying,—a deep black hole in the curls.

"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain, Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain?"

Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands: "Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she would weep as she stands."

On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: Kneeling, "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?

"Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line; But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine.

"Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossest;

But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest."

Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined
One with a face from Venitia, white with a hope out of mind.

Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name;
But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came.

Only a tear for Venice? She turned as in passion and loss,

And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross.

Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then to another,
Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suffer, my brother?"

Holding his hand in hers: “Out of the Piedmont lion
Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on."

Holding his cold rough hands: "Well, oh, well have ye done
In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone."

Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring, "That was a Piedmontese! and this is the court of the King."

SELF-ASSERTION IN SPEECH

From his AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

My list of virtues contained at first but twelve; but a Quaker friend of mine having kindly informed me that I was generally thought proud; that my pride showed itself frequently in conversation; that I was not content with being in the right when discussing any point, but was overbearing, and rather insolent, of which he convinced me by mentioning several instances; I determined endeavoring to cure myself, if I could, of this vice or folly among the rest, and I added Humility to my list, giving an extensive meaning to the word.

I cannot boast of much success in acquiring the reality of this virtue, but I had a good deal with regard to the appearance of it. I made it a rule to forbear all direct contradictions to the sentiments of others, and all positive assertions of my own. I even forbid myself, agreeably to the old laws of our Junto, the use of every word or expression in the language that imported a fixed opinion, such as certainly, undoubtedly, etc., and I adopted, instead of them, I conceive, I apprehend, or I imagine a thing to be so or so; or so it appears to me at present.

When another asserted something that I thought an error, I denied myself the pleasure of contradicting him abruptly, and of showing immediately some absurdity in his proposition; and in answering I began by observing that in certain cases or circumstances his opinion would be right, but in the present case there appeared or seemed to me some difference, etc.

I soon found the advantage of this change in my manner; the conversation I engaged in went on more pleasantly. The modest way in which I proposed my opinions procured them a readier reception and less contradiction; I had less mortification when I was found to be in the wrong, and I more easily prevailed with others to give up their mistakes and join with me when I happened to be in the right.

And this mode, which I at first put on with some violence to natural inclination, became at length so easy, and so habitual to me, that per

haps for these fifty years past no one has ever heard a dogmatic expression escape me. And to this habit (after my character of integrity) I think it principally owing that I had early so much weight with my fellow-citizens when I proposed new institutions, or alterations in the old, and so much influence in the public councils when I became a member; for I was but a bad speaker, never eloquent, subject to much hesitation in my choice of words, hardly correct in language, and yet I generally carried my points.

Just behind the first fiddle he bends

To his bow, as a slave to the rod;

All his soul to the music he lends,
All his eyes to the leader, his god.
His skill is not blaring, but sure;

Mark his bowing, the rhythmic accord
Of his motions, the sound, crystal-pure,
That he lures from the violin's board.

The crowd never look at his face;
He is one of the sixty who try
With wood-wind or brass to displace
The world by a dream from the sky.

Not his, like the master of strings,
To step forth superbly alone
And play a Cremona that sings

With heavenliest tone upon tone.

No soloist he, but a part

In the mighty ensemble that soars

In regions divine of an art

Where man but aspires and adores.

1 Reprinted by permission of the author and the publishers, Lothrop, Lee and Shepard.