PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRanger, one of the most popular of French poets, born in 1780, in Paris; died there in 1857. He composed many stirring songs during the Napoleonic period, but he did not begin to write them down until 1812. While an enthusiastic republican, he was at the same time a most devoted follower of Napoleon, a combination that endeared him to the populace. He runs the whole scale in his work, from some couplets sparkling with wit to powerful pieces that could be used as literary weapons by the faction with which he allied himself. LISETTE IN ATTIC CELL IT was here that Love his gifts bestowed Gladly once more I seek my youth's abode, In pilgrimage! Here my young mistress with her poet dared She was sixteen, I twenty, and we shared Yes, 'twas a garret, be it known to all, Here read, in charcoal traced along the wall, The unfinished line, Here was the board where kindred hearts would blend. The Jew can tell How oft I pawned my watch to feast a friend In attic cell! O, my Lisette's fair form could I recall There she would blind the window with her shawl, What though from whom she got her dress I've since Learned but too well? Still, in those days I envied not a prince Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst, Yes, it was here Marengo's triumph first Bronze cannon roared; France, with redoubled might, Felt her heart swell! Proudly we drank our Consul's health that night In attic cell. Dreams of my youthful days! I'd freely give, All the dull days I'm destined yet to live, Where shall I now find raptures that were felt, And hopes that dawned at twenty, when I dwelt In attic cell! THE OLD VAGABOND (Translation in Tait's Magazine) ERE in the ditch my bones I'll lay; H1 Weak, wearied, old, the world I'll leave. He's drunk," the passing crowd will say: "Tis well, for none will need to grieve. Some turn their scornful heads away, Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age I die; for hunger. slays me not at all. As he was born the aged wretch must die. In youth, of workmen o'er and o'er, I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade." 'Begone! our business is not more Than keeps ourselves; go, beg," they said— Thus poor, I might have turned to theft; Though poor and old, the sun at least was mine What country has the poor to claim? What boots to me your corn and wine, Your busy toil, your vaunted fame, Once when your homes by war o'er swept, Saw strangers battling on your land, Like any paltry fool I wept, The aged fool was nourished by their hand. Mankind! why trod you now the worm, WALTER BESANT WALTER BESANT, novelist, born at Portsmouth, England, 1838; died 1901. He intended to become a clergyman and was educated at Cambridge University. He became professor in Royal College, Mauritius, but returned home to take up a literary career. He was knighted in 1895. In addition to producing numerous stories he wrote constantly for a large number of magazines. Among his best novels are 66 All Sorts and Conditions of Men," "Armorel of Lyonesse," and "Beyond the Dreams of Avarice." IT THE CHILD OF SAMSON (Harper & Bros., Publishers) T was the evening of a fine September day. Through the square window, built out so as to form another room almost as large as that which had been thus enlarged, the autumn sun, now fast declining to the west, poured in warm and strong, but not too warm or strong for the girl on whose head it fell as she sat leaning back in the low chair, her face turned toward the window. The sun of Scilly is never too fierce or too burning in summer, nor in winter does it ever lose its force; in July, when the people of the adjacent islands of Great Britain and Ireland venture not forth into the glare of the sun, here the soft sea mists and the strong sea air temper the heat; and in December the sun still shines with a lingering warmth, as if he loved the place. This girl lived in the sunshine all the year round; rowed in it; lay in it; basked in it, bareheaded, summer and winter; in the winter she would |