The King's.

They pay whose is the generosity?

The King's.

Then the people love him for being so rich.

The King receives a crown from the poor, and returns them a farthing.

How generous he is!

The colossus which is the pedestal contemplates the pygmy which is the statue. How great is this myrmidon! he is on my back. A dwarf has an excellent way of being taller than a giant: it is to perch himself on his shoulders. But that the giant should allow it, there is the wonder; and that he should admire the height of the dwarf, there is the folly.

Simplicity of mankind! The equestrian statue reserved for kings alone is an excellent figure of royalty: the horse is the people; only that the horse becomes transfigured by degrees. It begins in an ass; it ends. in a lion.

Then it throws its rider, and you have 1642 in England and 1789 in France. Sometimes it devours him, and then you have England in 1649 and France in 1792!

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.

ROBERT BROWNING.

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ;

"Good speed! cried the watch, as the gate-bolts

66

undrew,

Speed!" echoed the wall to us, galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other: we kept the great pace Neck and neck, stride by stride, never changing our place.

I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
Re-buckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit;
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting, but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear.
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see,
At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be:

And from Mechelm church-steeple we heard the halfchime,

So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time."

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the Sun,
And against him the cattle stood back every one
To stare through the mist at us, galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last,
With resolute shoulders each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;

And one eye's black intelligence, -ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, its own master, askance ! And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and, cried Joris, "Stay spur!

Your Roos galloped bravely; the fault's not in her : We'll remember at Aix";- for one heard the quick wheeze

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering

knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;
And under our feet broke the stubble like chaff ;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris; "for Aix is in sight.

"How they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone,
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which, alone, could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits, full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-socket's rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

Stood up

in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or

good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round

As I sate, with his head 'twixt my knees, on the ground.
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat the last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

CAROLINE NORTON.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while the life-blood

ebbed away,

And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's

hand,

And he said: "I never more shall see my own my native land!

Take a message and a token to some distant friends of

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear the mournful story in the pleasant vineyard

ground,

That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting

sun;

And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in

wars,

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars!

But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,

And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her

old age,

For I was still a truant bird that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even when a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword!

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen - calm Bingen on the