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it does not wait for beauty - it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it.

All honor and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and children — in our gardens and in our houses. But let us love 5 that other beauty, too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face paled by the celestial light; paint us yet oftener a Madonna, turning her mild face upward and opening her arms to 10 welcome the divine glory; but do not impose on us any æsthetic rules which shall banish from the region of Art those old women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pothouse — those rounded backs and stupid, weather-beaten 15 faces that have bent over the spade and done the rough work of the world those homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers, their rough curs, and their onions.

In this world there are so many of these common, coarse people, who have no picturesque, sentimental wretchedness! 20 It is so needful we should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out of our religion and philosophy, and frame lofty theories which only fit a world of extremes. Therefore let Art always remind us of them; therefore let us always have men ready to give 25 the loving pains of a life to the faithful representing of commonplace things — men who see beauty in these

commonplace things — and delight in showing how kindly the light of heaven falls on them.

There are few prophets in the world; few sublimely beautiful women; few heroes. I can't afford to give all 5 my love and reverence to such rarities; I want a great deal of those feelings for my everyday fellow-men, especially for the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I touch, for whom

I have to make way with kindly courtesy. Neither are 10 picturesque lazzaroni or romantic criminals half so fre

quent as your common laborer, who gets his own bread, and eats it vulgarly but creditably with his own pocketknife.

It is more needful that my heart should swell with 15 loving admiration at some trait of gentle goodness in the

faulty people who sit at the same hearth with me, or in the clergyman of my own parish, who is, perhaps, rather too corpulent, and in other respects is not an Oberlin or

a Tillotson, than at the deeds of heroes whom I shall 29 never know except by hearsay, or at the sublimest abstract

of all clerical graces that was ever conceived by an able novelist.

sibyl: a prophetess. — Apollo's curl: Apollo, who represented the Greek ideal of beauty, had curling locks. Dian'a: the twin sister of Apollo ; she was the ideal of grace and girlish vigor. — lazzaro'ni : beggars, so called from the hospital of St. Lazarus at Naples; this was a place of refuge for the destitute. - Oʻberlin: a famous German reformer who was born in 1740. — Tilslotson: an English preacher of the seventeenth century.

THE MARCH OF THE MARSEILLAIS

FÉLIX GRAS

[Translated by Catharine A. Janvier]

Félix GRAS (fá-lix grä) was a French poet and story-writer, greatly beloved and honored by his countrymen of southern France. He died in 1901.

CATHARINE A. JANVIER is the wife of Thomas A. Janvier, an American story-writer.

Note. .“ The Reds of the Midi,” 1 from which this selection is adapted, 5 is the story of a peasant boy and his march to Paris with the famous battalion who first sang the “ Marseillaise.” The French Revolution, that terrible conflict between the people of France and the nobility, was just beginning. Pascal is a simple, honest lad who longs to do away with the wrongs he sees about him. He is not wise enough to foresee or to under- 10 stand the horrors of the coming conflict; to him it is all an exciting play, in which he is going to rid his country of a tyrant and bring liberty and prosperity to downtrodden France. For other stories of the time see " In the Lion's Mouth,” by Eleanor Price, and “ The Prince and the Peasant,” by Harriet Martineau.

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What an uproar! The whole square, blazing with sunlight, was crammed full of people, all talking and shouting and gesticulating at once, while the National Guard was getting into line. No one seemed to know what had happened.

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“What is it all about?” I asked.

“What is it all about?” repeated one of the soldiers. “The king of France is a traitor. We are betrayed by our king. The Marseille battalion is on its way to Paris.

1 Copyright, 1896, by D. Appleton & Co.

It will pass through Avignon. We are going to welcome these brave patriots.”

Scarcely were we in line when a number of children came running toward us, screaming, “Here they are ! 5 here they are !”

And then, around the turn of the road, brave in their red-plumed cocked hats, appeared the leaders of the Marseille battalion, while all the men together burst forth with

Forward, forward, countrymen !
The glorious day has come!

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It was the “ Marseillaise that they were singing; and that famous hymn, heard then for the first time, stirred us down to the very marrow of our bones!

On they came — a big fellow carrying at their head a banner on which was painted in red letters, “ The Rights of Man.” On they came; we presented arms, and they passed between our files, still singing the “ Marseillaise.”

Oh, what a sight it was, — five hundred men, sunburnt 20 as locust beans, with black eyes blazing like live coals

under bushy eyebrows all white with the dust of the road! They wore green cloth coats turned back with red, like mine. Some wore cocked hats with waving feathers;

some, red liberty caps with the strings flying back over 25 their shoulders and the tricolor cockade perched over one

Each man had stuck in the barrel of his gun a willow or a poplar branch to shelter him from the sun,

ear.

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