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‘Ah, yes,' said Miriam; and recovering herself with an effort, she told the man she would see Mr St Quentin presently, and dissuade him from attempting to cross, in his state of illness. Already the weather was unfavourable, and expected to be

worse.

harm him to be removed from the hotel to lodgings, or a house, as short a distance off as such accommodation could be procured? That, the doctor said, might be possible, if he had a tolerably good night. It was then agreed between Miriam and the doctor that the best arrangement possible of this kind should be made on the following day, to pacify the patient, though, the doctor thought it right to warn her, he did not anticipate that it would be advisable to allow Mr St Quentin to make even so much exertion.

Then, in her turn, Miriam employed the telegraph. She sent the following message to Walter: We are at the Grand Hotel at Dover. Mr St

She did see Mr St Quentin, and she attempted to dissuade him from his purpose, but in vain. He was coldly, sulkily, immovably determined. She left him, feeling uneasy, but yet persuaded that he could not be, in reality, so ill as he appeared, or he would not subject himself to the risk and suffering of so great an exertion. On the following day, though the weather was worse, and he did not appear to be any better, he persisted in his pur-Quentin is dangerously ill. Can you come to me? pose, and was taken on board the steamer with an I beg of you to come, if possible, by the first train amount of difficulty which Miriam expected to find to-morrow.' considerably increased when it should come to getting him on shore.

The steamer was alongside the pier; the wretched, draggled, dizzy, tired passengers had landed, and were dispersing, and Miriam's servants had ordered rooms at a hotel, and had the luggage carried thither. Mr and Mrs St Quentin were the last persons remaining on board. He still lay moaning on the narrow sofa, and she still knelt, holding a restorative to his nostrils. But he must be moved now, and with much difficulty he was carried on shore to the hotel; his face being completely covered, and his form merely a mass of wraps. There was a good deal of bustle on their arrival, and Miriam ordered the men to take him at once to his room. This was done, and the assistants dismissed, without any one present having seen the face of the sick man.

Presently he recovered a little strength, and the first use he made of it was to order his valet to despatch a telegram to Messrs Ross and Raby, directing them to send a confidential clerk to Dover on the following day-'a person competent to take instructions for the preparation of a will,' were the words of the message-as he was detained there by illness.

I feel I shall not be able to travel for some days,' said Mr St Quentin, in which the doctor, who was presently sent for to see him, so entirely coincided, that he told Miriam he was astonished Mr St Quentin had outlived the journey from Paris.

Miriam was inexperienced, and had never yet associated any serious idea with Mr St Quentin's illness. All old men had gout, she believed; and, of course, if he would persist in taking doses of powerful and dangerous medicines to check it, instead of staying quietly in his bed, and suffering decently like other people, she supposed he must expect to be much worse than other people; and that was all she had thought about it. But he had suffered such agonising pain at Calais, and had been ill after so different a fashion from anything she had seen before, that she was very much alarmed, and began to feel quite bewildered by her solitude. The doctor was decisive about the impossibility of moving his patient for several days, under the most favourable circumstances, and Miriam entreated him to tell Mr St Quentin this. The invalid was much disconcerted, and declared his abhorrence of being at a hotel. He detested such places; he was sure he should never get better in one of them. He was told plainly that even a short journey by rail might, and probably would, kill him. Could it

The closing in of the night around illness, suspense, and watching is always terrible, even in one's own home, with all the quiet, sympathy, and consideration which home implies. Miriam never forgot the closing in of the night in that strange place, and with all the discomfort of a hotel, of strange faces, unsympathising servants, and her own overwhelming fatigue. She was not old enough to do without sleep, or to endure broken rest, and she had never felt so tired in her life. The rolling of the steamer was in her head, she was sick and giddy, but her mind was clear enough, and busy with her position and its future probabilities. The disposition of their rooms, a sittingroom and two bedrooms, all three communicating with each other, was fortunate. Mr St Quentin had been placed in the inner room, and the next was for Miriam. It was not until every preparation had been made for carrying out the doctor's instructions during the night, that Miriam had even the relief of changing her dress. She was looking ill and wan, and her face bore an expression of concentrated care and anxiety. Mr St Quentin was in an alarming state of pain and exhaustion for several hours, but then became much easier, and Miriam yielded to the persuasion of her maid, an Englishwoman, who had replaced Bianca, and permitted her to take the post of watcher beside the sick man until the morning. Miriam was staggering with fatigue, and her fear of falling asleep and neglecting the patient decided her. She saw the valet before she left her husband's room, and instructed him to go out into the town on the following morning, and endeavour to procure apartments, or a furnished house, ready for immediate occupation. At length her aching head was laid upon her pillow, but it was long before she slept: her limbs twitched from fatigue; her restlessness was distressing, for she wanted to think, if she might not sleep.

This was, she felt sure, a crisis in her life. Not so much because she might be about to lose her husband, but because, whether he lived or died, it was plain to her he was going to decide her fate. He was about to make a will, and on that will must depend the solution of the question whether her 'great speculation,' as she had bitterly called her marriage in her thoughts, was a failure or a success. If he did not secure to her by this will the continuance of the wealth she had enjoyed since her marriage, then she should have sacrificed her youth, her beauty, her conscience, incurred the degradation of a loveless marriage, and exposed herself to the malevolent ridicule of the world, for

a few years of luxury and pleasure, just enough to It was from the firm of Ross and Raby, and unfit her for humbler things and simpler enjoy-informed Mr St Quentin that a confidential clerk ments. She was sorry for Mr St Quentin. She did not like to see him suffer; but there was no stronger feeling than natural compassion in this no softening of the mistrustful anger with which she recalled his late conduct, and speculated on his present intentions. She had no reason to think that the sufferings he had undergone, or her assiduous attendance on him during these latter days, had had any influence on his feelings towards her. He was tranquil and easy, but not sleeping, when she left his room, and she had said a few kind words, and taken his hand. But he had only muttered something inarticulate in reply, and drawn his hand coldly away. This had not hurt her; she cared nothing for him; but it had kept up the alarm she had never ceased to feel.

For a long time Miriam lay awake, hearing, through the open door, the occasional murmurs, moans, or impatient questions of the sick man, and the soothing answers of the watcher, or her quiet movements in the adjoining room; but at length, when the wintry dawn was not far off, she fell asleep, and awoke, reluctantly, only at the appointed hour, when her maid, looking pale and weary, came to rouse her.

Mr St Quentin had been very ill towards morning, but the pain had again yielded to remedies, and he was quiet now. Miriam arose, put on a warm dressing-gown, and took her place beside him, dismissing her maid to rest.

'Do not come down until I send for you,' she said. If he refuses to have a nurse, I must get the doctor to speak to him, and persuade him.'

The doctor came early, and was not encouraging. Mr St Quentin was greatly reduced in strength, and there was such debility about the action of the heart, that the utmost care and quiet would be necessary. Miriam explained that Mr St Quentin was expecting a gentleman from London on business. Must he be refused admittance? The doctor looked embarrassed. It would certainly be better that he should have nothing to excite or agitate him; but still- Did Mrs St Quentin know whether the business in question was important? Very important. It was to give instructions for his will. The doctor looked exceedingly grave. He was very sorry to find that his patient had so anxious and imperative a duty on his mind, but he could not, considering the immense importance of such business, and the extreme uncertainty which, he felt himself bound to acknowledge, attended Mr St Quentin's present state, absolutely prohibit the lawyer's visit. He would see Mr St Quentin again, when this trying ordeal had been gone through. He then left Miriam, deeply impressed by his gravity of look and manner, and in great perplexity.

She knew nothing about what her position would be, what her legal rights, if Mr St Quentin should die without having made a will, and she had every reason to believe, if he did make a will, it would be most unfavourable to her. What should she do? Was it in her power to do anything?

Mr St Quentin's valet had come to attend on his master, and was in the room when she returned to it. He was going out soon on the business with which she had charged him. A servant came to the door with a telegram.

'Bring that to me, Bolton,' said Mr St Quentin.

would wait on him at noon on that day. Mr St Quentin then said he thought he could sleep for awhile, but gave orders, as emphatic as in his weak state he could make them, that the gentleman from Messrs Ross and Raby was to be brought to him, immediately on his arrival. He fell asleep very soon, and Miriam sat, hidden from him by the bed-curtains, listening now to his breathing, anon to the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, sometimes to the wind and rain. She wondered there had been no message from Walter. Perhaps he would arrive at the same time with this lawyer from London; but it did not matter. Then she read the telegram again. The confidential clerk of Messrs Ross and Raby was not coming direct from town-the message said 'from Deal.' No doubt he was already in the neighbourhood on business. She would look at the Railway Guide, to find out by what train Walter might arrive. The book was in the sitting-room, and she rose and passed through her own bedroom with a noiseless step, leaving the doors unclosed. She found the Railway Guide, and was looking over it, leaning on the table, when she heard steps in the corridor close to the door, and one of the hotel servants turned the handle gently, and looked in. Then he threw the door open, and said: 'Mrs St Quentin is here, sir.'

Miriam turned her head, and saw Walter.

It was a strange meeting. They spoke hurriedly, cautiously, lest they should disturb the sleeper. Miriam could not close the doors, lest he should call for anything, for he was alone. They looked long in each other's face, and they both sighed. Miriam led her brother to the farthest extremity of the room, and seated herself beside him, encircled by his arms. How handsome he was looking, she thought, but so much older; and how strangely gray his hair was, almost as gray as Mr St Quentin's. Eager question, and answer as eager, soon placed Walter Clint in possession of the circumstances under which his sister had summoned him, and confirmed him in his general impression of Miriam's married life. Then she acknowledged what her purpose had been, until Mr St Quentin's illness had prevented its accomplishment, and received from Walter a hasty assurance that she should come to him and Florence when she pleased. Miriam had so much to say to him, the immediate circumstances were so pressing, that she lost all sense of his long absence, and made no allusion to his adventures. Beyond the surprise of the first moment, and the sense of the alteration in the faces, present to the minds of both, there was no strangeness after a little while. Miriam told him that Mr St Quentin had as yet made no will, and that a lawyer was to arrive in little more than an hour's time to make one, and that she had reason to believe she should be left with only a bare pittance.

'How do you know?' asked Walter. horrible treachery and injustice!'

'What

'I will tell you. I have seen some memoranda of his-they are there, in that desk-on the floor -at this moment, by which it is evident he means Hush! what's that? Did he call?' She arose, went to the open folding-door, and stood listening. Mr St Quentin did not call, did

not speak. After a minute of deep silence, she was moving back towards Walter again, when they both heard a distinct and peculiar sound. It was not articulate-it was like the noise, half-clicking, half-grating, which a clock makes an instant before it strikes. She stopped, and again stood perfectly still, then said: 'It certainly comes from his room. I shall just look at him, and be back in a moment.' She went quickly, but quite noiselessly, Walter's eyes following her through the intervening bedroom, but, as she passed into her husband's room, she partially closed the folding-doors, and Walter lost sight of her.

There was no repetition of the sound. Miriam looked about. All was precisely as she had left it. The sick man was lying huddled up, and with his head bent downwards, turned towards the wall. The rain splashed upon the windows, and the wind rumbled in the chimney. Miriam passed round the head of the bed with a light step, kneeled down on its other side, between the bed and the wall, to look closely at her husband, and found herself gazing into the fixed, senseless eyes, wide open, and upon the fallen ashy features of a dead face.

THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.

READERS of the Month cannot fail to be aware that for some years past attempts have been made to apply machinery for excavation in mines. These attempts appear now to be brought to a successful issue, so far as the 'getting' of coal is concerned. In a mine near Barnsley, a machine has been set to work, which, in about two and a half hours, cut a bank of coal fifty-eight yards long and four feet eight inches thick, to a depth of three feet one inch. This, even to persons inexperienced in coalmining, will appear remarkable; and when we add that a new coal-breaking machine has been introduced which breaks off the coal in huge blocks, it will be understood that the great waste in dust and small-coal involved in the present system of coal-mining will be avoided.

A German has made experiments to ascertain the amount of loss that coal undergoes when exposed to the weather. It will perhaps surprise many readers to hear that the loss is considerable. Anthracite and cannel-coal, as might be anticipated from their compactness, suffer least; but ordinary bituminous coal loses nearly one-third in weight, and nearly one-half in gas-making quality. From this it will be understood that coal should be kept dry and under cover; and that to expose it to rain or damp is to lessen its quantity and weaken its quality. Here, too, we have an explanation of the inferiority of the great heaps of small-coal which encumber the ground in the mining districts.

A description has been published of the Patent Diamond Drill, from which we give a few particulars which may be interesting to readers generally. This Drill may be likened to a piece of iron gas-pipe of which one end is faced with small diamonds; this is the cutting end, and may be used either in the vertical or horizontal position. The drill being made to rotate rapidly by steam, cuts into the rock a ring-shaped hole, with a core in the centre; and overheating is prevented by water forced into the hole. In small holes, the

core breaks off, and comes up with the drill; but in large holes, the separation is effected by a blast. An important recommendation of this drill is the speed at which it works. It will bore a twoinch hole four feet into hard rock in an hour. We are informed that the diamonds last for many months or years, and sharpen themselves; which means probably that they do not get blunt. From this it will be understood that blasting operations can now be carried on at a much quicker rate than with the ordinary steel drill; and though the cost of diamonds is large, it is soon paid for by the increased quantity of work.

The puddling of iron has long been regarded as among the most laborious of human work, and at the same time inevitable, for puddling by machinery was held to be an impossibility. But a rotary puddling-machine has been invented in America; a few practical Englishmen have crossed the sea to examine it, and their report is so favourable that, as is stated, four hundred and fifty new furnaces to work the new machine are to be built within the next two or three years. Of course the inventor will get a handsome royalty; but, as the cost of manufacture will be from ten to fifteen shillings a ton less than at present, and the quality of the iron will be superior, the gain to the manufacturers will be great. It is said that when the new furnaces come into operation, they will add three hundred thousand tons to the annual production of iron. For the benefit of uninitiated readers, we may explain that puddling is the process by which melted cast-iron is stirred about in a roaring furnace until, by exposure to heat and air, it becomes converted into wrought-iron. The new machine will puddle more than a thousand pounds' weight at once, and finish by rolling the molten mass into a single ball ready for hammering.

In America, dynamite has been used at ironworks to break up large masses of metal in readiness for melting. Holes are drilled into the metal; the charge of dynamite is inserted, and fired by electricity, and the mass is at once blown to fragments.

A German metallurgist recommends a cement for joining pieces of iron, or stopping cracks or leaky joints, to be composed of sixteen parts of clean wrought iron-filings, three of powdered salammoniac, and two of flowers of sulphur. This mixture is to be worked into a stiff paste by adding water containing a very small quantity of sulphuric acid, and the paste must be used at once or it will become too hard.

The use of the sand-blast (to which we have more than once called attention) for engraving and ornamenting stone and glass, is now fully recog nised in the United States. The Franklin Institute have conferred a medal on the inventor; and they say of the process, that glass ornamented thereby can only be compared with that etched by powerful acids, yet the entire absence of all undercutting renders it superior; and that some of the effects produced would be hard to imitate by any other known mechanical process, and yet the sand-blast produces them with an ease and precision truly remarkable.

Clean plates are essential in photography, and Dr Anthony has read a paper to the Photographic Society in which he reviews different ways of platecleaning for photographic purposes, and pronounces on what he considers as the best, or least trouble

some. There is nothing more vexatious, he says, than attempting to wipe wet plates dry with a towel supposed to be clean; for he has never found any cloth, towel, or leather, however free it was presumed to be from the article soap, but it seemed capable of leaving smears of some kind on the surface of the glass; and in his experience these smears cannot be got rid of. All this trouble and imperfection may be avoided by rinsing the plates in a bath of cyanide of potassium, which being very soluble, leaves nothing of itself upon the plates, and they come out chemically clean,' which, as the initiated know, is the very perfection of cleanliness. While recommending the cyanide for this purpose, Dr Anthony is careful to add that, by proper precautions, its poisonous effects may be entirely obviated.

variable for 2 months. In 1863, S.W. for 8 months, N.E. 1 month, W. 1 month, and variable. In 1864, S.W. for 5 months, N. 1 month, S.E. month, and variable. In 1865, S.W. for 7 months, N. 2 months, W. 1 month, and variable. In 1866, S.W. for 6 months, W. 2 months, E. & month, N.E. month, and variable. In 1867, S.W. for 8 months, N.E. 1 month, E. month, N. 1 month, and variable. In 1868, S.W. for 8 months, N. 1 month, W. 1 month, N.E. 1 month. In 1869, S.W. for 5 months, N.E. 2 months, W. and N. each 1 month, S. & month, and variable. In 1870, S.W. 6 months, N.E. 3 months, S. and N. each month, W. 1 month, and variable. A record such as this is not only interesting in itself, but is valuable for purposes of meteorology. The Society above mentioned have now published continuous tables with detailed explanations for a period of thirty years, and it is greatly to be desired that they will continue the series decade by decade until the laws of the wind are fully discovered. To those who are always grumbling at our climate, it must be a great satisfaction to see how largely the S. W. wind, which brings us pleasant weather, predominates.

To make wine from malt has often been a question among chemists and scientific brewers, and now the question has been answered by the manufacture of red beer,' or malt wine, at a brewery in North Germany. The beer thus produced is described as of a character something between Rhine wine and Burgundy, with a port-wine flavour, very lively and agreeable; and that when looked at in a glass it behaves like good wine, clings to the The Astronomical Society have given their gold inside of the glass, and there exhibits what the medal to Signor Schiaparelli, Director of the ObserGermans call church-windows.' This, however, vatory at Milan, to mark the high value they set is an effect which crafty wine-merchants know on the researches by which, after years of study, how to produce by the addition of a small quantity he has discovered the law of identity of comets of glycerine to their liquor. The red beer, as may and meteors. His principal propositions are, that be supposed, is made without hops; but so far celestial matter may be classed as fixed starsas yet tried it keeps well in bottle. agglomerations of small stars, or resolvable nebulæ In connection herewith we may appropriately-comets, which are invisible except when apmention that it has been found that paraffine mixed with benzole or Canada balsam makes an excellent glazing for frescoes; and that pure paraffine poured hot into a cask and allowed to coat the whole of the inside, will prevent evaporation through the wood, and deterioration of the wine with which the cask may be filled.

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proaching the sun, and fourth, small particles composing a cosmical cloud. When these clouds enter our system, they become drawn out, so to speak, into long strips, which gradually change to a stream of particles, and of these streams the number is very great, whereby the particles appear as showers of falling stars.

Thus, says Mr Lassell, President of the Astronomical Society, 'meteors and other celestial phenomena of like nature, which a century ago were regarded as atmospheric phenomena, are now proved to belong to the stellar regions, and to be in truth-falling stars. They have the same relation to comets as the asteroids have to the planets;' in both cases their prodigious numbers make up for their small size. We may presume,' continues Mr Lassell, that it is certain that falling stars, meteors and aërolites, differ in size only, and not in composition; and that they are an example of what the universe is composed of. As in them we find no elements foreign to those of the earth, we may infer the similarity of composition of all the universe: a fact already suggested by the revelations of the spectroscope.'

Mr Wildman Whitehouse has invented what he calls a differential micro-barograph, which indicates changes in the pressure of the atmosphere even if not more than a thousandth of an inch. It registers these changes by a very simple process and in a form which can be kept for permanent reference. The instrument is not easy to describe without a diagram; but it combines glass vessels partly filled with water, and connected by tubes, in which the requisite vacuum is produced, and is connected with an air-chamber of large capacity. It is so sensitive that even the slamming of a door will produce a mark on the register, and it records with great fidelity all the atmospheric waves, large or small, which pass over it. Another merit is that it gives very early indications of perturbations at a distance, and thus may render important service in the hands of competent meteorologists. It is hardly possible for an astronomer to think In the Quarterly Journal of the Meteorological of the researches here briefly described without a Society, Mr Glaisher, of Greenwich Observatory, glow of admiration. has given an elaborate statement of the direction of the wind for ten years, 1861-1870. The tables contained in this statement are very instructive, and as all persons are more or less interested, we present a few particulars. The small amount comparatively of easterly winds seems somewhat surprising. In 1861, the wind blew from the S.W. for 7 months, N.E. 2 months, W. 1 month, and E. and N. for month each. In 1862, S. W. for 7 months, W. for 2 months, N.E. for month, and

From

In our last Month, mention was made of the grand display of aurora of February 4. information since received, we now know that it was seen in the southern hemisphere, as well as here in the north; and some meteorologists are of opinion that 'in all probability a visible electromagnetic zone enveloped the whole earth.'

The little kingdom of Saxony has for some years ranked among the best taught of the states of Germany. But it was found that youths of the

lower classes during their years of apprenticeship forgot great part of what they had learned at school, for although there were Sunday schools and evening schools established by the government and local authorities, attendance thereat was not compulsory. Now, however, a law has been passed to compel attendance at an evening school during three years of the apprenticeship, and by this, it is thought, the young people who are learning trades will be enabled to retain the knowledge This already acquired, if not to increase it. measure on the part of the Saxon government is deserving of all praise; and it will be interesting to watch the progress of education in that section of the German empire, and compare it with that of neighbouring powers.

GOETHE'S HOUSE.

HIRSCHGRABEN 23, FRANKFORT. QUAINT Frankfort nestles by the Main. The broad flood rolls below the town With many a foaming warp and strain, Past vineyards, mills, and bridges brown. The streets are thick with press of trade; Gilt tabards flout the tavern door;

Stout burghers in the market prate; Housed in the grim cathedral's shade, The red-capped country merchants roar ; The sharp-spurred Prussian stalks elate.

We left the dusky gallery,

Where, high above dark maple floors,
Gleamed from the panels, three and three,
The gold ghosts of the Emperors.
From backgrounds mailed Byzantine-wise,
The gorgeous shadows glimmered through—
Procession vast of son and sire !
There one robe counted fifty dyes,

Here this one streamed, a world of blue;
But, rounding all, a flare of fire.

Who mourns, we asked, for dynasties,

To whom men's hearts paid bloody toll? Through simpler forms, one hears, one sees, The mightier Dynasties of Soul. Your Charles looms down a phantom fine; Your Robert is of regal mould;

How bravely Julian wears his scars! For us, we love a fairer line,

Who, if their faults were manifold,

Did sweeter work below the stars.

He smiled on us, the wrinkled man

Who led us through the echoing town,
Relit his pipe of porcelain,

And turned the spectral staircase down.
We followed close through twenty ways,
On whose rough pave his slippers dropped
Soft as in daylight moves the mouse;
At last, emerging from the maze,
Before an open door we stopped :

'And this,' said he, 'is Goethe's House.'

That picture! We had crossed the square,
As one goes swiftly through a dream;
All round, the houses tall and fair

Turned to us fronts of myriad gleam.
O'er many a grotesque window top,

Winged steeds on clouds and lightnings stamped,
Perk faces leered from vines and scrolls;

Lean dragons sprawled on stall and shop,
Maned lions amid roses ramped-

Lutes, lyres, lamps, torches, aureoles!

Hirschgraben they have named the street:

Its gables, sheer, triangular,
Blotched by recurrent frost and heat,
Give issue thin to moon or star;
Sly dormer casements twinkle high,
Deep doors below keep wind and gloom,
Long halls show gleams of garden green;
Huge chimneys slant against the sky,
Odd shadows brood in every room,

And cobwebs droop from wall and screen. And this, indeed, was once his home!

(Triumphant Number Twenty-three!) These tiles he trod-these stairs he clomb, Up high as eye can strain to see. Perhaps he leaned across this sill,

And watched, above the court-yard wall,

That deep-aisled chestnut gather leaf, What time the swallow's cry is shrill, When winds and showers are musical,

And clouds are low, and light is brief.
We pitied him whose starved critique
Would mar the quiet of the place,
Preferring the austere Antique

To our full-blooded, riper grace.
Fool! leave to us this precious hour,
The glass case and its treasured freight-
The blotted leaf, the fretted glove,
The rusted quill that bore such flower!
The mildewed seal, the faded date,

The page that tells of Werther's love.
A time-old music haunts the place;
(Outside the Strass for tumult roars),
Strange lights across the ceiling race,
Strange shadows lurk about the doors.
Here all his ribboned letters lie;
A violet, five cones of pine-
Gathered in what forgotten woods!
A pencilled sketch from Italy-
Three peaks above a land of wine,

White with the rush of torrent floods.

'I knew him,' quoth our wrinkled guide,
'When I was young, and he grown old;
His great, broad temples, either side,

Were touched with hard and grizzled gold.
His dreams were vast, his words were few,
Yet sown with tangled germ and seed.
He was our clear apocalypse,
Who plumbed our better future true,
Rousing the world from thought to deed
With trumpet-blasts of fifty lips.
'He died-we bragged about his fame,
The thing least precious which he gave;
Came after-years, and spikes of flame

Made fiery garlands for his grave-
Sharp flames that stung our dullish sense,
Too tame to face the Difficult,

And sloughing strength in dose and tranceFierce fires whose spikes meant no Pretence. You smiling ask: The great result?—

Look up to us-look down on France!'

So babbled he, abstracted-lost

In the weird measures of his strain,
Till we had gained the street, and crossed
The market leaning on the Main.
His voice pursued us through the night,
Long after Frankfort's heaped-up eaves
Grew black against a heaven of wine-
Till Mayence blossomed into light,

And one saw through the vineyards' leaves,
The moon-white levels of the Rhine.

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. Also sold by all Booksellers.

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