And long to call you Chief. By painful journeys I led them, patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marches" to the Nile. "Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces, Their scarred cheeks, and chapped hands; there's virtue in them.

Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, To double my despair? They're mutinous ?

Ven. There's but one way shut up-how came I hither! Ant. I will not stir.

Ven.

A better reason.

Ant.

They would perhaps desire

I have never used

My soldiers to demand a reason of

My actions. Why did they refuse to march?

Ven. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.

Ant. What was't they said?

Ven. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer, And make you more a slave?

Ant.

You grow presumptuous. Ven. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Ant. Plain love! Plain arrogance, plain insolence! Thy men are cowards; thou an envious traitor;

Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented
The burden of thy rank, o'erflowing gall.
O, that thou wert my equal; great in arms
As the first Cæsar was, that I might kill thee,
Without stain to my honor!

You may kill me :

Ven.
You have done more already, called me traitor.

Ant. Art thou not one?

Ven.

For showing you yourself,

Which none else durst have done. But had I been,

That name, which I disdain to speak again,

I needed not have sought your abject fortunes,
Come to partake your fate, to die with you.
What hindered me to have led my conquering eagles,
To fill Octavius' bands? I could have been

A traitor then-a glorious, happy traitor!
And not have been so called.

Ant.

I've been too passionate.

Ven.

Forgive me, soldier;

You thought me false;

Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir;

Pray kill me; yet you need not

Has left your sword no work.

Ant.

your unkindness

I did not think so;

I said it in my rage: pr'ythee, forgive me.
Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery'

Of what I could not hear?

Ven.

No prince but you

Could merit that sincerity I used;

Nor durst another man have ventured it.

Ant. Thou shalt behold me once again in iron; And, at the head of our old troops, that beat

The Parthians, cry aloud, Come, follow me!

Ven. O, now I hear my Emperor! In that word Octavius fell. Methinks you breathe

Another soul; your looks are most divine;

You speak a hero.

Ant. O, thou hast fired me! my soul's up in arms,
And mans each part about me. Once again

The noble eagerness of fight has seized me.
Come on, my soldier;

Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long
Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I,
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops,
May taste fate to them; mow them out a passage,
And entering where the foremost squadrons yield,
Begin the noble harvest of the field.

.1 CỌN-TÃ'ĢION. The communication 4 DI-VORCED'. Separated by a legal of disease from one person to an

other by contact; communication
of a like quality or feeling.

process, as a husband and wife; separated or disunited, as things closely connected.

2 VINTAGE. The produce of the vine 5 MÄRCH'EŞ. Frontiers; borders.

for the season.

8 TRIUMPHS. Processions or ceremonies, at Rome, in honor of victori-7 ous generals.

6 AR'RO-GANCE. Conceited presumption; haughtiness.

DIS-COV'ER-Y. Act of finding out; here, disclosure.

LXXVIII.—THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE
SCHOLAR.

DICKENS.

[This piece is taken from Master Humphrey's Clock. A poor, feeble old man and his little grandchild, Nell, the stay and comfort of his life, are homeless wanderers. One evening, in their wanderings, they come to a village, and are offered shelter for the night by the schoolmaster.]

1. WITHOUT further preface, he conducted them into his little school-room, which was parlor and kitchen likewise, and told them they were welcome to remain under his roof till morning. The child looked round the room as she took her seat. The chief ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences, fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and multi

plication, evidently achieved' by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted around the room; for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.

2. "Yes," said the schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught by these specimens, "that's beautiful writing, my dear." "Very, sir," replied the child, modestly; "is it yours?" "Mine!" he returned, taking out his spectacles, and putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart; "I couldn't write like that nowadays. No: they are all done by one hand; a little hand it is; not so old as yours, but a very clever2 one."

3. As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown upon one of the copies; so he took a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall, carefully scratched it out. When he had finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might contemplate3 a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice and manner, which quite touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its cause.

4. "A little hand, indeed,” said the poor schoolmaster. "Far beyond all his companions, in his learning and his sports too. How did he ever come to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should love me And there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim. "I hope there is nothing the matter, sir," said Nell, anxiously.

5. "Not much, my dear," returned the schoolmaster; "I hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But he'll be there tomorrow." "Has he been ill?"

child's quick sympathy.

asked the child with a

6. "Not very. They said he was wandering in his

head yesterday, dear boy, and so they said the day before. But that's a part of that kind of disorder; it's not a bad sign-not at all a bad sign." The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were gathering, and all was still.

7. "If he could lean on somebody's arm, he would come to me, I know," he said, returning into the room. "He always came into the garden to say good night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favorable turn, and it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp, and there's a heavy dew. It's much better he shouldn't come to-night."

8. The next day, towards night, an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame West's directly, and had best run on before her. He and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk, and without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as she might.

9. They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They passed into an inner room, where his infant friend, half dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.

10. He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprang up, threw his wasted arms around his neck, crying out that he was his dear, kind friend.

11. "I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows," said the poor schoolmaster. "Who is that?" said the boy,