which a lad receives by being thrown into a little world of superiors, equals, and inferiors, where his good points are encouraged by the consideration which they bring him, and ridicule teaches him to suppress or conceal his weak ones. But how is he to be broken of meanness, physical timidity, uncleanliness, untruthfulness, and a host of small vices which, unchecked, will render him an odious man—if he does not mind being jeered at?
The man who can stand upon a seat on a public promenade, as one did yesterday, and say, apropos of nothing, "Let us sing a nim," do so without a second voice chiming in from amongst the astonished crowd, never missing a shake, and then proceed to pray and preach, must have a very nigh degree of moral courage. I think I would rather have the cholera than do it myself—would not you? Do you wish that you were able to do it? I do not impugn the man's motives, which were doubtless excellent. God forbid that I should dare to call him hypocrite, or try to silence him. But still I don't admire him much. Neither him nor the man who held a banner inscribed with a Holy Mystery, on the Epsom-road, last Derby Day. That I would stop if I could, and it would be easily done if the well-meaning promoters of such exhibitions could only be made to see their demoralising effect; if they knew how often they surprise into blasphemy men who have no habitual disrespect for sacred things, but are out for a holiday, and in high spirits, inclined to see everything in a comic light. There stood the standard bearer, calm, fat-faced, smiling in conscious superiority, careless of chaff, utterly free from shame, though one would imagine that if anything would arouse a man's modesty it would be the finding himself advertised as the one good man amongst three converging multitudes—he had selected a four-cross road—of reprobates. Well, I cannot help regarding it as exceptionally fortunate that this standard bearer should have found a religious method of employing his moral courage. Had he been a director, now, with a tendency to peculation, no wholesome dread of exposure would have intervened to keep him straight.
The Legend of the Prince's Plume.
A Story of the Battle of Crecy, From Froissart's Chronicles.
I.
White clung the sparkling frost to the long dry weeds in the hedges,
The bramble's crimsoning leaf spread crusted and curded with silver;
White nets of sparkling thread, the cobwebs hung on the bushes,
Where spiders, frozen and dead, were swaying like felons in fetters;
Heavy and frozen, the folds hung from the slumbering banners,
Muffled, and solemn, and low, came the sound of the sentinels' voices.
The old blind king on the hill stood, and the hum of the nations
Rose, and, filling the air, gladdened the heart of the monarch;
Armed, and wearing a crown, his long hair flowing and snowy,
Mixed with his beard as it fell on the steel and gold of his armour;
His thin hands leant on a sword that had shone in many a battle,
Sceptre and prop of a realm guarded from Mahomet's children;
His helm was crested with plumes, spoils of the birds of the desert,
A triple white feather and crest glittered high over his visor;
At his feet knelt, praying, his son, armed and prepared for the saddle;
His charger, pawing the ground, neighed by the open pavilion,
Ardent as hound for the chase, eager to leap on the lances.
The king spake never a word, but lifted his eyes unto Heaven,
And his tears fell trickling fast, as he muttered a prayer and a blessing;
But the son, impatient and hot, vaulted at once on his charger,
And cried to the banners, "Advance, in the name of the Prince of Bohemia!"
Then, with a flourish of horns, and a burst of chivalrous music,
The knights swept eagerly on, and bore down the slope of the valley,
With ruffle of pennon and flag, and a tossing of threatening lances,
As the blind King fell to the ground, and prayed with passionate weeping,
Blessing both banner and crest, in the name of St. James the Apostle,
The patron saint of his son, the saint of the land of Bohemia.
II.
Then the Bishop of Avignon came, and knelt at the feet of the champion,
Prayed him to tarry awhile, and not to lead yet to the battle.
"Strike at the English, the knaves!" cried the proud prince, smiling in anger;
"This day," said the heir to the throne, "we must win honour or perish."
Taking the nag in his hand, he swore to lead on with the foremost;—
Close, and deadly, and thick shot the threatening ranks of the archers,
Drawing together their shafts, equal in skill and in courage.
As the prince rode leisurely on, deep through the flood of the battle.
Stripes of crimson and white adorned their numberless trappings:
"These are womanly things!" cried the brave young prince of Bohemia;
"Away with this gilding and fur, this tinsel unstained by the battle—
These chains and jewels and gold, mere marks for the shafts of an archer;
Kings in the days of romance wore rude steel forged with the hammer,
Close-fitting hauberk of chain, defying the Mussulman sabres;
My father's is beaten and bruised, and split with Carpathian arrows,
Crimson with blood from the heart of Paynims, slain in the melée;
The badge I wear on my shield, was won in the fray with the heathen;
These plumes of an Arab fierce torn from the brow of an infidel Soldan,
To-day shall glimmer afar o'er the tempest and roar of the onset.
Leave women ermines and fur, soft mantles satin and silken;
Give me a clothing of steel, and adamant dug from the mountain,
