on another occasion he spared one man, with public show and ceremony; and so a poem is written entitled "On the Clemency of Augustus.' And so it is with the judgments of men, the voice of the majority, and the moral principle that underlies success in life. But of what concern are all these human follies to truth, to justice? There can be no majority against the voice of conscience. If between you and noble deeds there stands only death, brave death and be a hero! but if there be a teaching of the divine law, pause, and die obscure and honest! THE BREAD RIOT. BY DINAH MULOCK. (From "John Halifax, Gentleman.") [DINAH MARIA MULOCK (CRAIK), English novelist, was born at Stoke-uponTrent in 1826; and began to write as a means of support for her widowed mother and two younger brothers. She was married in 1865 to George Lillie Craik, nephew of the famous Scottish author and professor of the same name. She published many books, the more famous of which are: "The Ogilvies " (1849), her first; "Agatha's Husband" (1852); "John Halifax, Gentleman " (1857); "A Life for a Life" (1859); "Young Mrs. Jardine"; "Mistress and Maid" (1863); "A Noble Life" (1866); "A Brave Lady" (1870); "Hannah” (1872), a “purpose novel" on the deceased wife's sister question; "The Little Lame Prince" (1874); "My Mother and I" (1874); "Plain Speaking" (1882); "Miss Tommy" (1884); and "King Arthur" (1886). She died in 1887.] THE mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the machinery room, the sole flooring of which was the dark, dangerous stream. We stood there a good while it was the safest place, having no windows. Then we followed my father to the top story, where he kept his bags of grain. There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a large fortune by, a cursed fortune wrung out of human lives. "Oh! how could my father "Hush!" whispered John, "he has a son, you know." But while we stood, and with a meaning but rather grim smile Abel Fletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold, we heard a hammering at the door below. The rioters were come. Miserable rioters! A handful of weak, starved men, pelting us with stones and words! One pistol shot might have routed them all, but my father was a man of peace. Small as |