GEORGE LEE, THE HEROIC FIREMAN.

THE following incident of true heroic bravery occurred at Clerkenwell at the close of July last, 1876. George Lee, the brave fireman, did all he could do, and laid down his life for another. He was so injured with the smoke and fire that he was at once removed to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where in a week afterwards he died. Captain Shaw believes this to be the greatest act of bravery ever shown by any fireman in the world.

ow much we owe, by night, by day,

To the heroic band

In armour clad, but not to slay,—
The firemen of the land!
Where burning beams are all a-glow
The doors and windows round,
To save the helpless forth they go
Where fiery floods abound.

They bear no warrior's burning brands
With measured martial stride,

No rifles glitter in their hands,

No swords are at their side:
They haste to save, and not to slay,
Where Danger's beacon glares,
And waves of fire in surges sway,
And the red column flares.

The flames rose high at Clerkenwell :
George Lee obeys the call,

And 'mid the tolling of the bell

He climbs the heated wall:

For in that upper smoke-filled room,
With gleaming sparks o'ercast,

The victim of a fiery doom,

A girl is dying fast.

He takes the maiden in his arms
Within this sulphurous cell,

And in the chamber of alarms
Five times the hero fell.

And yet he would not lose his hold,
Or leave the young girl there,
Although the flames his face enfold
And singe his streaming hair.

He could have left her there to die,
And saved himself by flight:
But no, he braved the red fire high,
He faced the furious light,
Unmindful of himself the while,
To shield another's life,
Flame-smitten in the burning pile,
To perish in the strife.

O valour more intrinsic far
Than the destroyer's deeds,

With spear and flashing scimitar,

Where wounded Virtue bleeds!
Now let him sleep with fame o'ersprent ;
Lay soft sods o'er his head :
George Lee deserves a monument
Among the noble dead.

IRVING'S NOBLE ACT.

Ar the Manchester Infirmary a poor factory operative had his leg amputated. He was all but dead, when the surgeon stated that nothing but an infusion of blood could save him. Mr. Irving, a medical student, volunteered to be bled, and twenty-five ounces of his life-blood were taken from him at his own serious risk, and infused into the dying man. This noble act of real heroism saved his life. See "The Times," September, 1876.

HILE the sun shines in all his wealth of glory,
Flinging his splendour around,

Gilding the hollow and the highland hoary,
True heroes will be found.

Not with the war-torch, where the spears are flashing And the rude trumpet brays;

Not where the bullet from the

gun

is crashing,
Not where the swordsman slays.

True valour dwelleth in the lowliest places,
Behind a hazel latch,—

Where sweetly cluster simple peasant faces,
Beneath a roof of thatch.

Though war-tents rise where Peace should reap her acre,
And camp-fires flare above,

Yet Charity, in white robes of the Maker,
Holds forth her urn of love.

Thank God for this! Thank God for Mercy's pinion
Hovering above the cloud,

With dews of kindness for lost man's dominion,
Though scoffers clamour loud!

On honour's page we fain would place another,
Adding the poet's hymn,

Who freely gave his best blood for his brother
When life's last light was dim.

Nothing could save the factory man from dying
But blood, and blood alone,
Who almost pulseless in the ward was lying,
When IRVING gave his own.

True greatness this, with no sword-smiting gory,
Spear-thrust, or hissing ball:

And think we, as we read this hero's story,
Of ONE who died for all.

THE SWAN OF ISCA.

HE earth is full of murmurs,
Strange echoes of the years,
Which float o'er fen and forest
When twilight sheddeth tears,

L

STALES

MICHAEL MANDER AND THE WAIN.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

T is still snowing, mother, and getting dark," said Jessie Mander, "and the wind is rising higher, so that it is difficult to walk against it. I have been down the road to see if father is coming; but there is no trace of him anywhere, nor can I hear the wain, or the rattle of his

whip. But this is nothing strange; as I have often heard him say that he carried his whip more for show than for use, and that many a long journey has been performed, with very heavy loads, from morning until night, when the roads were miserably rough and rutty, without even inflicting a single blow on the patient, struggling animal. We have often heard father assert that kind words were better than kicks, and a pat on the neck more powerful than a knotted lash. I wish, I am sure, that Philip Pooley would think so; for the tears came into my eyes yesterday to see him beating his horses up the sleety hill. I so wanted father to come home a little earlier to-day, because it is Christmas Eve, and we have such a number of things to talk about. Where has he gone to, mother? I have forgotten what you told me."

"Over to the rectory for a load of reed, Jessie. Call your brother Isaac from the barn; perhaps he can tell us something