and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and prayed, that come what might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on the dear folks at home. 12. Indeed, the Squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London he had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting advice, -something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. 13. To condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: "I won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he don't do that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. 14. "Shall I go into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. 15. "Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good scholar? Well, but he is n't sent to school for that, — at any rate, not for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the digamma; no more does his mother. 16. "What is he sent to school for? Well, partly because he wanted to go. If he'll only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling man, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that's all I want," thought the Squire; and upon this view of the case framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited to their purpose. 17. For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings, carrying his hatbox, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a hard biscuit on the table. 18. "Now, then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink that; there's nothing like starting warm, old fellow." 19. Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked himself into his shoes and his great-coat, well warmed through. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful, winding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the breast of his coat, the horn sounds, Boots looks in and says, "Tally-ho, sir"; and they hear the ring and the rattle of the four fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the inn. 20. "Anything for us, Bob?" says the burly guard, dropping down from behind, and slapping himself across the chest. 21. "Young genl'm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game, Rugby," answers Ostler. 22. "Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening the hind-boot, and shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. "Here, shove the portmanteau up atop, I'll fasten him presently. Now then, sir, jump up behind." 23. "Good by, father, my love at home." A last shake of the hand. Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while with the other he claps his horn to his mouth, Toot, toot, toot! the ostler lets go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away goes the Tally-ho, forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up. T. Hughes. EXERCISE. 1. Great was the grief amongst the village school-boys. 2. Each of them had given him some little present. 3. Madame Brown had supplied the biggest cake ever seen in our village. 4. Tom and his father alighted at the inn. 5. He heard with unfeigned joy the paternal order for supper. 6. He wondered at all the vehicles passing. 7. He fraternized with the boots and ostler. 8. He ascertained that the coach was a tiptop goer. 9. Being summoned to supper he regaled himself on beef-steak and oyster-sauce. 10. You are going to be chucked into this great school. 11. All the way up to London he had pondered what he should say to Tom. LXXXI. THE KNIGHT'S TOAST. T I. HE feast is o'er! Now brimming wine And silence fills the crowded hall, II. Then up arose the noble host, And smiling cried : "A toast! a toast! To all our ladies fair! Here, before all, I pledge the name Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame, - VI. "T is now St. Leon's turn to rise; On him are fixed those countless eyes; Envied by some, admired by all, Far famed in lady's bower, and hall, The flower of chivalry. VII. St. Leon raised his kindling eye, VIII. "To one whose love for me shall last To one whose love hath longer dwelt, IX. Each guest upstarted at the word, And Stanley said: "We crave the name, Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, Whose love you count so high." X. St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood, Thus, lightly, to another; Then bent his noble head, as though H EALTH is a blessing so invaluable that you cannot be too careful in preserving it. It is that which makes your meat and drink savory, and your sleep refreshing; which gives bloom to your cheek and suppleness to your limbs, and renders active exertion a delight. When health deserts you, food loses its relish, and exercise becomes a toil. Sleep refuses to lull you into sweet forgetfulness; and leave you couch your if, indeed, you are even able to leave it tired and unrefreshed. You are feeble, spiritless, despondent. Life itself becomes a burden. 2. Three things are especially necessary to the preservation of health, pure air, due exercise, and cleanliness. 3. In breathing, you first draw air into the lungs, and then send it out from them. But when it returns from the lungs, it is not in the same state as when it entered. Nearly two fifths of that portion of it which is of the most value in sustaining life has disappeared, and its place has been supplied by an equal volume of what is positively injurious. If the same air is breathed again and again, it at last becomes altogether incapable of supporting life. 4. Accordingly, it is found that the air of a close room in which any considerable number of persons are assembled soon becomes noxious, while even the breath of a single person is sufficient, after a time, to make such a room unwholesome. Those who labor in confined and crowded workshops are neither so long-lived nor so healthy as those who work in airy buildings; and in the open country the average duration of human life exceeds that in the towns by at least sixteen years. 5. You may have heard of the horrible suffering which was endured in the Black Hole of Calcutta, in 1756. One hundred and forty-six Englishmen were thrust into a wretched prison eighteen feet square, in which there were only two very small windows by which air could be admitted. Scarcely was the door shut upon the prisoners |