cans, the smallest number Italians, and these few were almost all members of the nobility of Southern Italy. Among many illustrious names I saw those of Victor Hugo and Walter Scott. Among the souvenirs there is a paper-weight presented by the Emperor and Empress of Russia to a citizen of Broek as a sign of their gratitude for the hospitality he had offered the Grand Duke Nicholas Alexandrovitch. ec"cen-tric'i-ty, oddity. fa-cades', fronts of buildings. bas"re-liefs', projecting figures. su-per'flu-ous, useless. EDMONDO DE AMICIS (Abridged). car'i-ca-ture, burlesque. o'di-ous, abominable. im"be-cil'i-ty, weakness of mind. in-vec'tives, abuses; reproaches. au-tom'a-tons, mechanical moving en'nui, weariness and disgust. figures. ta'bors, small drums. EDMONDO DE AMICIS (1846 im" por-tu'ni-ty, persistent curiosity. tra-di'tion, unwritten history. ) is an Italian writer, whose books of travel have been translated into many languages. He has visited almost every country in the world and his descriptions of his various voyages are wonderfully picturesque and vivid. In addition to his writings of this character, he is the author of the popular juvenile book Heart," in which the daily happenings of a school year are entertainingly told by one of the boy pupils. The description of Broek is taken from his "Holland" by permission of The John C. Winston Company. BEAUTY A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness, but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. JOHN KEATS (Selected). LOSS OF THE ARCTIC It was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages; from Rome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains, from the capitals of various nations; all of them saying in their hearts, “We will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial fury, and then we shall embark; we shall slide across the appeased ocean, and, in the gorgeous month of October, we shall greet our longed-for native land, and our heart-loved homes." And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the Orient, converging upon London, still hastening toward the welcome ship, and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. They crowded aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a host of passengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us. The hour was come. The signal ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. The anchors were weighed; the . great hull swayed to the current; the national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes, the wheels revolve, the signal-gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his errand. And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur,-home is not far away. And, every morning, it was still one night nearer home! Eight days had passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that forever haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland. Boldly they made it, and, plunging in, its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship and passen gers. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of mist, both steamers were holding their way with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible. At a league's distance, unconscious, and, at nearer approach, unwarned; within hail, and bearing right toward each other, unseen, unfelt, till, in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect!) ordered away his boat with the first officer, to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley, the first mate of the Arctic, went over the ship's side, oh! that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul on a like occasion: "Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved." They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters, gaining upon the hold, and rising up upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh! had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to obey -had he stood to execute efficiently the commander's will— we may believe that we should not have to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But apparently each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, then honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineer, waiters, and crew rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of the collision to the catastrophe of the sinking! Oh, what a burial was there! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and the flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been. HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 66 66 Good-speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 'Twas moonset at starting; but, while we drew near And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, |