A THOUGHT.

Suggested by the death of Fanny Kemble, January 15, 1893.

The soul of Man, evolving more and

more

Life's deeper meaning, slights the outer round

Of mere display. The thrill that tells the ground

Spring is above and Winter's bondage o'er,

The melodies that ripple on the shore,— Awake emotions stormy and profound As in the savage breast the thunderous sound

Of avalanches or the earthquake's roar. Thus she in whom men's memories rejoice

Forsook the mimic stage nor could endure

The noisy mockeries that so arouse

The raptures of the mob.-In that one voice

More sweetly sang the birds on Arden's boughs,

More fiercely raged the madness of the Moor. -John Hall Ingham.

January 16.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

A British general in the Peninsular War. Deserted by his Spanish Allies he was ob liged to retreat to Corunna where the English troops were attacked by the French as they were embarking and Sir John Moore was killed January 16, 1809. He was buried in the citadel at night. It is rather a remarkable fact that the author of this poem, one of the gems of the English language, and known wherever that language is spoken, should never have written anything else of importance.

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sod with our bayonets turning,

Jan. 17, 1885, at Abu Klea by a spear wound while rallying his men.

Thou that on every field of earth and sky Didst hunt for Death-that seemed to flee and fear

How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie

Slain in the Desert by some wandering spear!

"Not here," alas! may England say"not here

Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die, But in that dreadful battle drawing nigh, To shake the Afghan passes strait and sheer."

Like Aias by the Ships shouldst thou have stood,

And in some glen have stayed the stream of flight,

The pillar of thy people and their shield, Till Helmund or till Indus ran with blood,

And back, towards the Northlands and the Night

The stricken Eagles scattered from the field.

-Andrew Lang.

ST. ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE

FISHES.

St. Anthony at church
Was left in the lurch,

So he went to the ditches
And preached to the fishes;
They wriggled their tails,

In the sun glanced their scales.

The carps, with their spawn,
Are all hither drawn;
Have opened their jaws,
Eager for each clause.
No sermon beside
Had the carps so edified.

Sharp-snouted pikes,

Who keep fighting like tikes,
Now swam harmonious
To hear St. Antonious.
No sermon beside

Had the pikes so edified.

And that very odd fish,

Who loves fast days, the cod-fish-
The stock-fish, I mean-
At the sermon was seen.

No sermon beside
Had the cods so edified.

Good eels and sturgeon,
Which aldermen gorge on,
Went out of their way
To hear preaching that day.
No sermon beside

Had the eels so edified.

Crabs and turtles also,
Who always move slow,
Made haste from the bottom,
As if the devil had got 'em.
No sermon beside

Had the crabs so edified.

Fish great and fish small,
Lords, lackeys, and all,
Each looked at the preacher,
Like a reasonable creature:
At God's word,
They Anthony heard.

The sermon now ended,
Each turned and descended;
The pikes went on stealing,
The eels went on eeling;

Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.

The crabs are backsliders,
The stock-fish thick-siders,
The carps are sharp-set,
All the sermon forget:

Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.

-Anonymous.

January 21.

EXECUTION OF LOUIS XVI.

(Beheaded Jan. 2, 1793.)

"You all know the Place de la Concorde? 'Tis hard by the Tuileries wall. Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, There rises an obelisk tall. There rises an obelisk tall,

All garnish'd and gilded the base is: 'Tis surely the gayest of all

Our beautiful city's gay places.

"Around it are gardens and flowers, And the cities of France on their thrones

Each crown'd with his circlet of flowers, Sits watching this biggest of stones! I love to go sit in the sun there,

The flowers and fountains to see, And to think of the deeds that were done there

In the glorious year ninety-three. ""Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom;

And though neither marble nor gilding Was used in those days to adorn

Our simple republican building, Corbleu! but the Mère Guillotine Cared little for splendour or show, So you gave her an axe and a beam, And a plank and a basket or so. "Awful, and proud, and erect,

Here sat our republican goddess. Each morning her table we deck'd With dainty aristocrats' bodies. The people each day flocked around

As she sat at her meat and her wine: 'Twas always the use of our nation

To witness the sovereign dine.

"Young virgins with fair golden tresses, Old silver-hair'd prelates and priests, Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses,

Were splendidly served at her feasts. Ventrebleu! but we pampered our ogress With the best that our nation could bring,

And dainty she grew in her progress,
And called for the head of a King!

"She called for the blood of our King, And straight from his prison we drew him;