the line, and in this very war they were destined to encounter the hardest trials of soldiers, and to go on fighting and enduring until the glory of past achievements, the strange ascendancy which those achievements had won, and a few score of wan men with hardly the garb of soldiers, should be all that remained of 'the Guards.' Still it is certain that the household battalions were more or less regarded as a cherished body of troops, and that the loss of the brigade of Guards would be looked upon as a loss more signal, and in that sense more disastrous, than the loss of three other battalions of equal strength.—A. W. Kinglake (Invasion of the Crimea).

92. THE BROWNS.

The Browns have become illustrious by the pen of Thackeray and the pencil of Doyle, within the memory of the young gentlemen who are now matriculating at the universities. Notwithstanding the well-merited but late fame which has now fallen upon them, any one at all acquainted with the family must feel that much has yet to be written and said before the British nation will be properly sensible of how much of its greatness it owes to the Browns. For centuries, in their quiet, dogged, home-spun way, they have been subduing the earth in most English counties, and leaving their mark in American forests and Australian uplands. Wherever the fleets and armies of England have won renown, there stalwart sons of the Browns have done yeomen's work. With the yew-bow and cloth-yard shaft at Cressy and Agincourt-with the brown bill and pike under the brave Lord Willoughby-with culverin and demiculverin against Spaniards and Dutchmen-with hand-grenade and sabre, and musket and bayonet under Rodney and St. Vincent, Wolfe and Moore, Nelson and Wellington, they have carried their lives in their hands, getting hard knocks and hard work in plenty, which was, on the whole, what they looked for, and the best thing for them, and little praise or pudding, which indeed they, and most of us, are better without. Talbots and Stanleys, St. Maurs and such-like folk, have led armies and made laws time out of mind; but those noble families would be somewhat astounded-if the accounts ever came to be fairly

taken-to find how small their work for England has been by the side of that of the Browns.-Thomas Hughes.

93. ON SLAVERY.

If we consider the domestic influences of slavery, we must look for a dark picture indeed. Slavery virtually dissolves the domestic relations. It ruptures the most sacred ties on earth. It violates home. It lacerates the best affections. The domestic relations precede, and, in our present existence, are worth more than all our other social ties. They give the first throb to the heart, and unseal the deep fountains of its love. Home is the chief school of human virtue. Its responsibilities, joys, sorrows, smiles, tears, hopes, and solicitudes, form the chief interests of human life. Go where a man may, home is the centre to which his heart turns. The thought of home nerves his arm, and lightens his toil. For that his heart yearns when he is far off. There he garners up his best treasures. God has ordained for all men alike the highest earthly happiness, in providing for all the sanctuary of home. But the slave's home does not merit the name. To him it is no sanctuary. It is open to violation, insult, outrage. His children belong to another, are provided for by another, are disposed of by another. The most precious burden with which the heart can be charged, the happiness of his child, he must not bear. He lives not for his family, but for a stranger. He cannot improve their lot. His wife and daughter he cannot shield from insult. They may be torn from him at another's pleasure, sold as beasts of burden, sent he knows not whither, sent where he cannot reach them, or even interchange inquiries and messages of love. To the slave marriage has no sanctity. It may be dissolved in a moment at another's will. His wife, son, and daughter may be lashed before his eyes, and not a finger must be lifted in their defence. He sees the scar of the lash on his wife and child. Thus the slave's home is desecrated. Thus the tenderest relations, intended by God equally for all, and intended to be the chief springs of happiness and virtue, are sported with wantonly and cruelly. What outrage so great as to enter a man's house, and tear from his side the beings whom God has bound

to him by the holiest ties? Every man can make the case his own. Every mother can bring it home to her own heart.

And let it not be said that the slave has not the sensibilities of other men. Nature is too strong even for slavery to conquer. Even the brute has the yearnings of parental love. But suppose that the conjugal and parental ties of the slave may be severed without a pang. What a curse must slavery be, if it can so blight the heart with more than brutal insensibility, if it can sink the human mother below the Polar she-bear, which 'howls and dies for her sundered cub.'-Channing.

94. THE LAST OF THE INCAS.

He waved a white

Pizarro saw that the hour had come. scarf in the air, the appointed signal. The fatal gun was fired from the fortress; then, springing into the squares, the Spanish captain and his followers shouted the old war cry of St. Iago, and at them!' It was answered by the battle-cry of every Spaniard in the city, as, rushing from the avenues of the great walls in which they were concealed, they threw themselves into the midst of the Indian crowd. The latter, taken by surprise, stunned by the report of artillery and muskets, the echoes of which reverberated like thunder from the surrounding buildings, and blinded by the smoke, were seized with a panic; they knew not whither to fly. All were trampled down under the fierce charge of the cavalry, who dealt their blows right and left without sparing, while their swords carried dismay into the hearts of the wretched natives, who now for the first time saw the horse and his rider in all their terrors.

The fight, or rather massacre, continued hot around the Inca, whose person was the great object of the assault. His faithful nobles, rallying about him, threw themselves in the way of the assailants, and strove, by tearing them from their saddles, or, at least, by offering their own bosoms, to shield their beloved The Indian monarch, stunned and bewildered, saw his faithful subjects falling round him, without hardly comprehending his situation.

master.

The struggle now became fiercer than ever round the royal litter. It reeled more and more, and at length, several of the nobles who supported it having been slain, it was over

turned, and the unhappy monarch, strongly secured, was removed to a neighbouring building, where he was carefully guarded.

All attempts at resistance now ceased. Every man thought only of his own safety.-Prescot's Conquest of Peru.

95. DEATH OF GOETHE.

The following morning-it was March 22, 1832-he tried to walk a little up and down the room, but, after a turn, he found himself too feeble to continue. Reseating himself in the casychair, he chatted cheerfully with Ottilie (his daughter-in-law) on the approaching spring, which would be sure to restore him. He had no idea of his end being so near. The name of Ottilie was frequently on his lips. She sat beside him, holding his hand in hers. It was now observed that his thoughts began to wander incoherently. See,' he exclaimed, ‘the lovely woman's head, with black curls, in splendid colours--a dark background.' Presently he saw a piece of paper on the floor, and asked them how they could leave Schiller's letters so carelessly lying about. Then he slept softly, and, on awakening, asked for the sketches he had just seen—the sketches of his dream. In silent anguish they awaited the close now so surely approaching. His speech was becoming less and less distinct. The last words audible were, More light! The final darkness grew apace, and Lc, whose eternal longings had been for more light, gave a parting cry for it as he was passing under the shadow of death. He continued to express himself by signs, drawing letters with his forefinger in the air while he had strength, and finally, as life ebbed, drawing figures slowly on the shawl which covered his legs. At half-past twelve he composed himself in the corner of the chair. The watcher placed a finger on her lip to intimate that he was asleep. If sleep it was, it was a sleep in which a life glided from the world. He woke no more.—G. H. Lowes.

96. SYDNEY SMITH BUILDS HIS House.

I was suddenly caught up by the Archbishop of York, and transported to my living in Yorkshire, where there had not been a resident clergyman for a hundred and fifty years. Fresh

from London, not knowing a turnip from a carrot, I was compelled to farm three hundred acres, and without capital to build a parsonage-house.

I asked and obtained three years' leave from the Archbishop, in order to effect an exchange, if possible, and fixed myself meantime at a small village two miles from York, in which was a fine old house of the time of Queen Elizabeth, where resided the last of the squires, with his lady, who looked as if she had walked straight out of the ark, or had been the wife of Enoch. He was a perfect specimen of old! he smoked, hunted, drank beer at his door with his grooms and dogs, and spelt over the county paper on Sundays.

At first he heard I was a Jacobin, and a dangerous personage, and turned aside as I passed; bui at length, when he found the peace of the village undisturbed, harvests as usual, he first bowed, then called, and at last reached such a pitch of confidence, that he used to bring the papers, that I might explain the difficult words to him; actually discovered that I had made a joke, laughed till I thought he would have died of convulsions, and ended by inviting me to see his dogs.

All my efforts for an exchange having failed, I asked and obtained from my friend the Archbishop another year to build in. And I then set my shoulder to the wheel in good earnest; sent for an architect-he produced plans which would have ruined me. I made him my bow: 'You build for glory, sir ; I for use.' I returned him his plans, with five-and-twenty pounds, and sat down in my thinking-chair, and in a few hours Mrs. Sydney and I concocted a plan which has produced what I call the model of parsonage-houses.

I then took to horse, to provide bricks and timber; was advised to make my own bricks of my own clay; of course, when the kiln was opened, all bad; mounted my horse again, and in twenty-four hours had bought thousands of bricks and tons of timber. Was advised by neighbouring gentlemen to employ oxen; bought four, Tug and Lug, Haul and Crawl; but Tug and Lug took to fainting, and required buckets of sal volatile, and Haul and Crawl to lie down in the mud. So I did as I ought to have done at first-took the advice of the farmer instead of the gentleman; sold my oxen, bought a team of horses, and at last, in spite of a frost which delayed me six