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 high 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 FROISSAT'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 flag 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,