Richard agreed to meet them in Smithfield. He came to them attended by the Lord Mayor, Sir William Walworth, and a guard of nobles and knights, and sent a messenger to say that the leaders of the people had nothing to do but to come and tell him of their grievances. Wat Tyler advanced alone, and with scant courtesy, perhaps, laid the demands of the peasants before the king. The story tells us that while he spoke he held his hand on his dagger, and that when he seized the bridle of the king's horse, the Lord Mayor stuck a short dagger into his throat, that he rode off a few yards, fell, and was immediately murdered (1381).

Then followed the scene in which Richard is said to have displayed such marvellous courage. On the one side we have the peasants crying out, 'They have slain our leader. Let us kill them all;' on the other we have the young king riding up to them and saying, 'I am your leader, I am your king; follow me, and I will give you all that you ask for.' The glory of his courage is somewhat dimmed if, as seems likely, the words were uttered only to

deceive and cheat the insurgents. That Wat Tyler should go forward alone, if he intended to do the king any harm, is past all belief. It is also certain that Richard broke his pledged word, and revoked the charters which he had signed and sealed, rivetting the chains which by his solemn promise were to be broken for ever.

Some twenty years later the evil days came upon Richard, not from the wrath of peasants, who had no one to speak for them, but from a Parliament whose control he had sought to shake off. He was still in the bloom of early manhood, when the national council solemnly declared him to be degraded from the state and authority of king, as having notoriously deserved that punishment. punishment. Nor did the likeness of his lot to that of his great-grandfather end here. The midnight slaughter in Berkeley Castle was repeated in that of Pontefract. Of the manner of his death we have no clear knowledge; that he was foully murdered there is no doubt. The penalty of dethronement, pronounced by the Parliament, could not satisfy the man who succeeded him as Henry IV.

Gems from the Poets.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 1807-1882.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, a distinguished American poet, was the son of the Hon. Stephen Longfellow, and was born at Portland, Maine, U.S.A., on the 27th February, 1807. He entered Bowdoin College at the age of fifteen, and graduated with honours in 1825. He was intended by his father for the law, but this was not to his taste, which inclined to the literary profession. He had contributed some poems to the United States Literary Gazette, and soon after graduating was made Professor of Modern Languages at his own College. He set out for a three years' tour in Europe, in order to qualify himself for the post, and spent his time most advantageously in studying the languages and

literature of the countries through which he passed. On his return home in 1829 he

entered upon his duties at Bowdoin, and published a record of his travels-'Outre-Mer. a Pilgrimage beyond Seas.' Five years later he resigned his Professorship at Bowdoin, and after spending twelve months in Gerinary and Northern Europe, accepted a similar appointment at Harvard University. There he resided until 1854, by which time he had produced the works that made him famous. After giving up his post at Harvard, he resided at Cambridge, U.S.A., where he lived surrounded by many celebrated men and women. From thence he sent forth at times new poems, full of his own great power. Here he died on the 24th March of the present year. Longfellow's poems are characterized by a simplicity and sweetness of style that is possessed by few other writers, and certain of his shorter pieces will have an enduring popularity. His chief long poems are 'Evangeline,' 'Miles Standish,' 'Hiawatha,' and 'Tales of a Wayside Inn,' but the collections entitled 'Ballads and other Poems,''Poems on Slavery,' Birds of Passage,' and 'Flower de Luce,' contain his best work.

SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us,
Stands the revelation of His love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

Written all over this great world of ours;
Making evident our own creation

In these stars of earth-these golden flowers.
And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part
Of the self-same universal being,
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,.
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gaily in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

FLOWERS.

These in flowers and men are more than seeming,
Workings are they of the self-same powers,

IT was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;

J. S. FLETCHER.

Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;
Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth, amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearings,
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield;
Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone,
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone.

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,
Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places then, and in all seasons,

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.
And with child-like, credulous affection,
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish main,

'I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.

'Last night, the moon had a golden ring,

And to-night no moon we see !'

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and colder blew the wind,
A gale from the North-east;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Dictionary.

EXPLANATORY LIST OF THE MORE DIFFICULT WORDS OCCURRING IN THIS NUMBER.

WORDS, SOMEWHAT DIFFICULT IN SPELLING, NOT OCCURRING IN THE ABOVE LIST.