10. This was the "New England Primer," which for a century and a half was the first book in religion and morals as well as in learning and literature.

II. For an account of the massacre of Protestants in Paris on St. Bartholomew's Day, Aug. 24, 1572, consult a good encyclopædia.

12. Simon Bradstreet was governor of Massachusetts in 1679–1686, and again in 1689-1692.

13. The matchlocks were fired by means of slow-burning match-cords, which were lighted at one or both ends when carried into action.

14. To hold an Anglican service, Andros forcibly took possession of the Old South Meeting-house. This will explain the bitter feeling of the people. 15. According to an old tradition, when the town of Hadley was attacked in King Philip's War, and the settlers were irresolute for want of a leader, a venerable man, unknown to all, appeared suddenly in the streets, took command of the people, gave military orders that led to the defeat of the Indians, and then disappeared as suddenly as he came. It was afterwards supposed that this mysterious person was William Goffe, who had been a general in Cromwell's army, and had been compelled to flee from England as a 'regicide' for having been one of the judges who sentenced Charles I. to death." It was this mysterious appearance that Hawthorne here makes use of, changing the time and place of the event.

16. John Winthrop landed in Massachusetts in 1630, and served repeatedly as colonial governor.

17.

""
"Old Noll was a nickname of Oliver Cromwell.

18. It is characteristic of Hawthorne's genius, thus to make the Gray Champion symbolize New England independence and courage. This single stroke gives a deeper meaning to the entire story.

FANCY'S SHOW-BOX.

This story, as we learn from Julian Hawthorne's excellent biography of his father, possesses a peculiar personal interest. It was suggested by a bitter experience. Hawthorne had been ensnared in the toils of a false and malicious woman, by whom he was induced to believe that a friend of his had grossly insulted her. In his sudden burst of indignation, Hawthorne sent him a challenge. Fortunately, the friend in question was acquainted with the dangerous character of the woman; and after fully vindicating his innocence, and convincing Hawthorne of her perfidy, he generously demanded a renewal of their friendship. This, of course, was as generously granted.

Unfortunately, this was not the end of the matter. Shortly afterwards another friend of Hawthorne's, Cilley by name, received a challenge, which he was not bound by the so-called "code of honor" to accept. But while

he was hesitating, some one said to him, "If Hawthorne was so ready to fight a duel without stopping to ask questions, you certainly need not hesitate." Hawthorne was considered a model of honorable and manly conduct, and this argument was decisive. Cilley accepted the challenge, met his antagonist, and was killed.

When Hawthorne learned these facts, he was smitten with remorse. He saw that it was Cilley's high esteem for him that led to his fatal decision. "Had I not sought to take the life of my friend," was the burden of his meditation, "this other friend would still be alive." And he felt as if he were almost as much responsible for his friend's death as the man that shot him.

It was under these circumstances that "Fancy's Show-Box" was written. "In it the question is discussed, whether the soul may contract the stains of guilt, in all their depth and flagrancy, from deeds which may have been plotted and resolved upon, but which physically have never had an existence. The conclusion is reached, that it is not until the crime is accomplished that guilt clinches its gripe upon the guilty heart and claims it for its own. . . . There is no such thing, in man's nature, as a settled and full resolve, either for good or evil, except at the very moment of execution.' Nevertheless, 'man must not disclaim his brotherhood with the guiltiest; since, though his hand be clean, his heart has surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of iniquity. He must feel that, when he shall knock at the gate of Heaven, no semblance of an unspotted life can entitle him to entrance there. Penitence must kneel, and Mercy come from the footstool of the throne, or that golden gate will never open!' Those who wish to obtain more than a superficial glimpse into Hawthorne's heart cannot do better than to ponder every part of this little story.”

XIII.

SELECTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

TELL me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! -
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, act in the living Present:

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,

Spake with us on earth no more!