taken a favourable 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.' 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. 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. 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. 'I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,' said the poor schoolmaster. 'Who is that?' said the boy, seeing Nell. 'I am afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.' The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down. 'You remember the garden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dull ness seemed gathering upon the child, 'and how pleasant it used to be in the evening? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, won't you?' The boy smiled faintly, so very, very faintly, and put his hand upon his friend's grey head. He moved his lips too, but no voice came from them; no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued the hum of distant voices borne upon the evening air came floating through the open window. 'What's that?' said the sick child, opening his eyes. 'The boys at play upon the green.' He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. 'Shall I do it?' said the schoolmaster. 'Please wave it at the window,' was the faint reply. Tie it to the lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of me, and look this way.' He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate and book, and other boyish property, upon a table in the room. And then he laid him down softly once more, and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her. She stepped forward and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and companions-for such they were, though they were man and child-held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep. The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down. CHARLES DICKENS: By permission of Messrs. Chapman & Hall (Limited). In the next few lessons we propose to bring before our young readers some of the best known English poets, with a specimen of their poetry in each case. The biographical sketches will be very brief, as the lessons are intended for exercises in the art of reading poetry. A word or two on poetry in general will not be out of place, perhaps, by way of introduction. Poetry is from a Greek word signifying the production of the imagination expressed in language. It is too often confounded with verse or rhyme. What appears to be prose may be the highest style of poetry, the books of Job, Ruth, and the Psalms being very good examples. On account of its being subjected to certain rules of measure and accent, the word poetry is now only applied to rhythmical productions. Poetry is a very old form of composition, as may be seen in the earlier productions of the Old Testament, and it has obtained more or less in every country. It has exerted a considerable influence, not only upon individuals, in refining and softening their manners, but upon nations at large. Macaulay said, 'Let me but make the ballads of a nation, I care not who makes their laws.' Leaving aside the higher influence of poetry, have we not in our own experiences had proof of its value, especially of rhyme? How often has some simple story told in verse had an effect that could never have been produced by a relation in prose? How often have we remembered a fact, when wrapped up in rhyme, that would have escaped our memories if told in the ordinary way? Some boys can never tell how many days there are in June until they run over in their minds the old rhyme : Thirty days hath September, April, June, and dull November ; All the rest have one and thirty, save the month of February; Twenty-eight are all its store, but in leap-year one day more.' That is a kind of useful, practical poetry; and if it prevents us from making an absurd mistake, or saves us the trouble of turning to an almanac, it is to be commended to our friends. Turning now to the subject of this lesson, we are introduced to one of the greatest poets the world has known-perhaps the greatest poet of all ages. Previous to his time there had lived two poets whom the world had crowned with laurels, Homer and Dante, but of them and Milton it is thus written :- 'Three poets in three distant ages born, JOHN MILTON was born in Bread Street, London, on December 9, 1608, not long after Guy Fawkes had made his attempt on the Houses of Parliament. His father, being a thorough musician, and something of a poet too, endeavoured to cultivate like tastes in his son, and placed him under the best tutors at an early age. He obtained many honours at school and college, and commenced when very young to poetize. For some time he travelled in Europe, and made the acquaintance of the celebrities of that time, including Galileo. After the execution of Charles I., he was employed as Latin Secretary to the state, and did good service to the Commonwealth; it is said that Milton's pen was no less terrible than Cromwell's sword. Constant study, writing, and application to books, so affected his sight that in 1654 he became totally blind. It was after this sad event that he wrote his glorious work, Paradise Lost. For this unequalled production he received the paltry sum of £5, with a promise of £5 more if 1300 copies were sold. For many years he suffered from gout, |