116

STEPPING STONES TO LITERATURE.

And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfills himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul.
soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest if indeed I go

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion ;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows, crowned with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan,
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

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With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull

Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away.

XX. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

R

BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

ING out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow;
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind

For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,

And sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring in the valiant and the free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land;
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

From In Memoriam.

XXI. MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE.

BY DOUGLAS WILLIAM JERrold.

men

DOUGLAS JERROLD (1803–1857) belonged to that large class of literary men who have been developed since Addison wrote his Spectator,· who were known as magazine writers, and who wrote short stories, essays, and sketches, which were published in the weekly or monthly periodicals, and then were mostly forgotten.

Douglas Jerrold was one of the brighter writers of his class, and many of the things that he wrote are still read with interest and pleasure. "The Caudle Lectures," of which one is given here, are perhaps the best known of all the writings of Jerrold.

BAW

AH! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold? Indeed! He does n't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd better have taken cold than taken our umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, DO YOU HEAR THE RAIN? And, as I'm alive, if it is n't Saint Swithin's Day!

Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense, you don't impose on me. You can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you do hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring out of the house all the time. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the umbrella! Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella!

Cats and dogs,

There, do you hear it? Worse and worse! and for six weeks, always six weeks, always six weeks, and no umbrella! I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They sha'n't go through such weather; I'm determined. No! they shall stay at home and never learn anything-the blessed creatures! sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder whom they'll have to thank for knowing nothing—who, indeed, but their father? People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.

But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh yes! I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's tomorrow, you knew that, and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate to have me go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir; if it comes down in bucketsful, I'll go all the more.

No! and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteenpence at least

sixteen-pence?-two-and-eight-pence, for there's back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who is to pay for them? I can't pay for them; and I'm sure you can't if you go on as you do; throwing away your property and beggaring your children, buying umbrellas.

Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, DO YOU HEAR IT? But I don't care-I'll go to mother's to-morrow, I will; and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman; it's you that's the foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold — it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall

and a pretty doctor's bill