THE STARS close to the third, is the Waggoner. Do you see that shower of stars falling all around? Those are the souls the good God will not accept, to dwell with Him. . . . A little lower-that is the Rake or the Three Kings. It's those we people tell the clock by. Only by glancing at them I know, this minute, that midnight is past. The blazing one, a little lower, still towards the south, is John of Milan, the torch of the stars. Listen to what the shepherds tell about him! One night John of Milan, with the Three Kings and La Poucinière, were invited to the wedding of a star, one of their friends. La Poucinière being most hurried, set out first, they say, and took the upper road. Look at her up there, deep in the heaven. The Three Kings took a short cut, lower down, and caught up with her, but that lazybones John of Milan overslept himself and was left behind, and in a fury he hurled his walking-stick after them, to stop them. That is why the Three Kings are also called John of Milan's Walking-stick. But the most beautiful of all the stars, mistress, is our own Shepherd's Star, which gives us light as we lead forth our flocks in the dawn, and likewise in the evening when we bring them to the fold again. We call her also Maguelonne, lovely Maguelonne, who runs after Peter of Provence and is his bride every seven years.' What, shepherd? among the stars?' Are there, then, marriages 'Why to be sure, mistress And while I was trying to explain what these LORENZO AND JESSICA marriages were, I felt something light and delicate drop softly upon my shoulder. It was her head, drooping with slumber, that rested against me, with a delicious rustle of ribbons, of lace, of waving curls. She remained thus, nor stirred till the stars grew pale in heaven, made faint by the climbing day. As for me, I sat and watched her; a little troubled, deep down in my soul, but kept holy by the clear night which has never given me other than beautiful thoughts. Around us the stars continued their silent march, obedient as a mighty army; and once or twice I fancied that one of these stars, the most delicate, the most lustrous, had missed her way and had come to lean upon my shoulder and to sleep. ALPHONSE DAUDET Lorenzo and Jessica OW sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! How Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins ; WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE MIDNIGHT ON ST. THOMAS'S EVE Midnight on St. Thomas's Eve THE HE sky was clear remarkably clear-and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of our body, timed by a common pulse. The North Star was directly in the wind's eye, and since evening the Bear had swung round it outwardly to the east, till he was now at a right angle with the meridian. A difference of colour in the starsoftener read of than seen in England-was really perceptible here. The kingly brilliancy of Sirius pierced the eye with a steely glitter, the star called Capella was yellow, Aldebaran and Betelgueux shone with a fiery red. To persons standing alone on a hill during a clear midnight such as this, the roll of the world eastward is almost a palpable movement. The sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of the stars past earthly objects, which is perceptible in a few minutes of stillness, or by the better outlook upon space that a hill affords, or by the wind, or by the solitude; but whatever be its origin, the impression of riding along is vivid and abiding. The poetry of motion is a phrase much in use, and to enjoy the epic form of that gratification it is necessary to stand on a hill at a small hour of the night and, having first expanded with a sense of difference from the mass of civilised mankind, who are horizontal and disregardful of all such proceedings at this time, long and quietly watch your stately progress through the stars. NIGHT AND CARLYLE DYING After such a nocturnal reconnoitre among these astral clusters, aloft from the customary haunts of thought and vision, some men may feel raised to a capability for eternity at once. IN THOMAS HARDY Night-and Carlyle Dying N the fine cold night, unusually clear (Feb. 5, '81), as I walked some open grounds adjacent, the condition of Carlyle, and his approaching-perhaps even the actual death filled me with thoughts eluding statement and curiously blending with the scene. The planet Venus, an hour high in the west, with all her volume and lustre recover'd (she has been shorn and languid for nearly a year), including an additional sentiment I never noticed before-not merely voluptuous, Paphian, steeping, fascinating— now with calm commanding seriousness and hauteur -the Milo Venus now. Upward to the zenith Jupiter, Saturn, and the moon past her quarter, trailing in procession, with the Pleiades following, and the constellation Taurus, and red Aldebaran. Not a cloud in heaven. Orion strode through the southeast, with his glittering belt-and a trifle below hung the sun of the night, Sirius. Every star dilated, more vitreous, nearer than usual. Not as in some clear nights when the larger stars entirely outshine the rest. Every little star or cluster just as distinctly visible, and just as nigh. Berenice's hair showing every gem, and new ones. To the north-east and north the Sickle, the Goat and Kids, Cassiopeia, ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT While Castor and Pollux, and the two Dippers. through the whole of this silent indescribable show, inclosing and bathing my whole receptivity, ran the thought of Carlyle dying. (To soothe and spiritualise and, as far as may be, solve the mysteries of death and genius, consider them under the stars at midnight.) And now that he has gone hence, can it be that Thomas Carlyle, soon to chemically dissolve in ashes and by winds, remains an identity still? In ways perhaps eluding all the statements lore and speculations of ten thousand years-eluding all possible statements to mortal sense does he yet exist, a definite vital being, a spirit, an individual perhaps now wafted in spaces among those stellar systems? I have no doubt of it. In silence of a fine night such questions are answer'd to the soul, the best answers that can be given. With me, too, when depressed by some specially sad event or teazing problem, I wait till I out under the stars for the last voiceless satisfaction. WALT WHITMAN go On the Beach at Night N the beach, at night, ON Stands a child with her father, Watching the east, the autumn sky. Up through the darkness While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading, |