The

Church, Miss Strickland and Mrs. Everett Green for private life. Tales of a Grandfather and Burton for the sad Scottish story. Then in more detail Anderton's Life of Bishop Ken, Evelyn's and Pepys' Diaries, Evelyn's Life of Mrs. Godolphin, the Memoirs of Lady Rache. Russell, and the Life of Grissell Baillie. But books crowd on us so much that I can only tell you of a few that have interested me. Spider. Here Macaulay comes in

Arachne. With wonderful interest. His account of the trial of the Seven Bishops is one of the most striking bits of writing in the language. Spider. One

Bishops.

may finish up their histories in Miss Strickland's Seven

Arachne. Add to that the Life of Robert Frampton, one of the non-juring bishops. Allowing for Macaulay's hero-worship of William of Orange, like Froude's of Henry VIII., and for his misunderstandings of the Church, he is the most interesting writer you can take up for that time. But Lord Stanhope who comes in next is far more trustworthy, and you should also read Marlborough's life. Cox's is too long for our degenerate days, but Creighton's short life is well done. Spider. How far does Stanhope go on?

Arachne. Well through the Jacobite days. You should also have for the Church Mr. Keble's Life of Bishop Wilson, and Southey's Life of Wesley, or a short life published by the S.P.C.K. But Perry has here only a little supplement, and the Church history of those times has yet to be written.

Spider. Horrid times!

Arachne. Yes, there is a sad picture of them in Mrs. Oliphant's Times of George II., or even in the Life of Mrs. Delaney. Orme's History of Hindostan is quite a relief, the people there are so gallant. Do you remember, it was the solace of Scott's boyhood, during his long illness, when he used to make little forts and fight the battles? I read it aloud once, and it is really fascinating.

Spider. Then there is Macaulay's Life of Clive.

Arachne. Without the same detailed charm, though full of life. I think the American war is best to be read in Higginson's Young Folks' History of the United States, or in the History of America, also by him, in Macmillan's little red series.

Spider. How about Thackeray's book about the four George's?

Arachne. Unjust and unpleasant in every way, especially to the two later ones. Alison's History of the French Revolution is a huge book, but it is really the best guide to the whole political history of the time, and as to the memoirs of individuals, and histories of wars, I cannot attempt to tell you the quarter of them, even if I had read any large proportion of them myself.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GREEK TRAGEDIANS.

SOPHOCLES (continued).

THE MAIDENS OF TRACHIS.*

DEIANIRA'S PITY FOR THE CAPTIVES.

[LICHAS, a herald, has just told DEIANIRA of Heracles' success. There are also present the CHORUS and IOLÊ, with other captive ladies.]

CHORUS.

Mr queen, here's sure and present joy waits on thee,
In what thou hear'st and see'st before thine eyes.

DEIANIRA.

And should I not, hearing the prosperous hap
Of my good lord, with all my heart rejoice?
My joy must still keep pace with his success,
Indeed it must; and yet, if well we heed,
His fortune that's o'er prosperous hath some fear
Lest he once fall; for I am moved, sweet friends,
With marvellous deep pity to behold

These ladies, torn by harsh fate from their homes,
Thrown fatherless on a strange land, and those,
Who, my heart says, were gently nurtured once,
Doomed now to lead the life of slaves. Oh Zeus,
That giv'st the victory, let me not see thee e'er
Thy countenance so turn on child of mine,
Or, if thou dost, yet not whiles I have life.
Thus, looking on these ladies, prompts my fear.

Oh hapless girl (To IOLE), how rank'st thou among these?
Matron art thou or maid? for thy looks say

Nought of all this thou know'st, but art right royal.

[IOLÊ remains silent.

Lichas, who's he calls this fair stranger child?
What mother had she? who was her father? speak,
For most of all it pities me to see her,

As she doth show alone in modesty.

LICHAS.

How should I know? Why, madam, ask of me?
Perchance she springs from some not meanest there.

DEIANIRA.

From the blood-royal? Some child of Eurytus?

LICHAS.

I know not, for I stayed not long to question.

DEIANIRA.

Nor heard'st her name from these her fellowship?

LICHAS.

Nay, nay. I did my part and held my tongue.

* Owing to an oversight, the introduction to this play was given separately in the

Monthly Packet for October last.

DEIANIRA.

Oh, tell me then, poor thing, thyself. Indeed
It grieves me much to know not who thou art.
LICHAS.

I think she will not to more purpose move
Her tongue than heretofore, for she's not spoke,
As yet, word small or great, but still as tho'
Her heart did labour with its weight of grief,
Ceased not, poor soul, to weep, since erst she left
Her father's wind-swept towers; her lot's indeed
Past help, and yet it asks our sympathy.

DEIANIRA.

Then leave her to herself, and let her go
Within as she shall choose. I would not add
Another grief to those she hath already.

This one's enough. And now, let's all within ;
Thou thitherward to haste where thou wouldst be ;*
I, to set all in readiness within.

DEIANIRA'S FEARS OF HER RIVAL.

DEIANIRA.

My friends, while yet within, in act to go,
The stranger holds the captive maids in talk,
Have I, all unperceived, stole out to you,
To tell you of a plan my hands have shaped,
The whiles I claim your pity for my wrongs.
For I've received this girl (no girl, methinks,
But wedded), as a merchant man some freight;
A bale shall prove sore burden to my peace.
And now we two, beneath the self-same roof,
One lord await; such wage doth Heracles,
So fond and true as the world rumours him,
Send me for meed of my long housekeeping.
And yet, my heart cannot be wroth with him,
Though sick to death with this same sickness oft.
Yet dwell with her! what woman lives could do it ?—
In the same house-sharing the self-same marriage?

For I perceive her beauties still at bud,

Whiles mine decay; whereof the first invites
The eyes of men to seizure of their bloom,
But from the last they coldly turn away.

Here lies my fear; that Heracles though called
My lord, prove suitor to her younger charms.
But peace! said I not wrath did ill become

A wife's sound sense? yet there's a thought, my friends,
I'll tell you of, shall bring me remedy. . . .

THE NURSE DESCRIBES THE DEATH OF DEIANIRA.

When she was entered in the house alone,
And saw her son within the court bespread
The yielding couch, against he back returned
To meet his sire, she, hid where none might see,
Moaned, sinking on the altar, 'Desolate!'

* i.e. to meet Heracles.

+ She proceeds to tell them of the Centaur's gift.

Sore weeping if some homely thing she touched,
That ever she, poor soul, was wont to use.
And ever wandering restless to and fro
About the house, if e'er the gaze she met
Of one of those that served and loved her well,
Forth gushed her tears, poor lady, at the sight,
Whiles her own mouth did her harsh fate accuse,
And life made childless for all days to come.
Anon her plaints she ceased, and suddenly
I saw her rush towards her husband's room.
And I, veiling my eyes in shadow, watched,
Myself unseen, and saw her spread and smooth
The covering on the couch of Heracles,
And when an end was made, she leapt thereon,
And sat her in the midst upon the couch,
And thus, weeping hot floods of tears, she spake :
'Oh couch and all that was my bridal bliss,
Farewell for ever now, since me no more
Your downy rest shall have as bed-fellow.'
Thus speaking, both her eager hands at once
Her robe unloosed, whose clasp of beaten gold
Was fastened o'er her breast, and all her side
And her left shoulder bared; but I made haste,
With all the strength I could, to tell her son
What deed his mother did devise; then scarce
Our hasty steps had measured to and fro,
Ere we beheld her smite the two-edged sword
Deep in her side, below the heart. Loud shrieked
Her son when that he saw; too well he knew,
Unhappy boy, his wrath had aimed that blow,*
Warned as he was too late, by those at home,
That she unwillingly did what she did,

At the brute beast's behest. And then the boy
Seemed, in his grief, as he would never cease
Lamenting, while he wailed his mother's fate,
Or pressing her cold lips with his, but lay,
His languid side by her side, moaning oft
'Twas his light tongue had basely slandered her,
And crying, 'twixt his sobs, his life was reft
Of father, mother both, and in one day.
Thus things are there; so that if one should count
On two short days or more, his thoughts are vain.
For no man shall the morrow call his own,

Ere he in bliss outlive the present day.

GERARD W. SMITH.

*Her son, Hyllus, had been the first to bring her the news of his father's death, and to cover her with reproaches for her supposed guilt.

†The Centaur Nessus.

ODDS AND ENDS OF WORK IN A CITY PARISH.

IV.

PICTURES AND MUSIC.

If it be true that one of the greatest kindnesses we can do for the children of the working classes is to teach them, as far as we can, to care for things that shall be sources of pleasure to them in all their hard-working lives, then, after we have made them love flowers and books, we can scarcely do better for them than teach them to care about looking at pictures.

We shall not talk about the use of it, for the words we quoted in our paper on books dispose, once for all, of all utilitarian objections that might be raised against it; so we shall only tell of the pleasant mornings that once a year it falls to our lot to spend with our school children in a large annual exhibition of paintings which is held in our city. And any one who tries a like experiment will probably feel, as we do, that in the couple of hours spent among the pictures he has learned more of the individual characters of many of the children, and they have taken into their little minds a larger store of new ideas, than could have been done on either side in as many months of the ordinary schoolroom routine.

For there are as many different ways of looking at a picture as there are of reading a book. Some few of the children seem to find their whole pleasure in going as fast as they can from one painting to another, and ascertaining the names, almost without taking time to see what they are about; but most of them look at them intelligently enough, and are delighted to be talked to a little about them—to have some of the beauties of the landscapes pointed out to them-to be told the stories of the historical pieces-and to have stories or meanings suggested for the figure pictures, which latter stories, however, we find they nearly always accept, not as suggestions merely, but as literal and well-authenticated facts. Of course the figure pieces are the most general favourites, especially those that represent such scenes of everyday life as they are familiar with already, for there seems to be a special attraction in seeing common things transferred to canvas and hung up to be looked at; and one child, indeed, amused us not a little by picking out for particular admiration in a very beautiful painting an earthenware jug with the window reflected in it, which occupied a very subordinate place in the picture, and yet pleased her more than any other part of it, because it was something whose truthfulness she could test for herself.

VOL. 4.

34

PART 23.