itself. As early as the age of twelve the Christian warrior entered upon the office of page, remaining in it for two years. This period was one of instruction, in which the acolyte of Chivalry learned modesty, obedience and skill in horsemanship, and was exercised in the use of the lighter weapons which he would have to bear, as squire and knight, in the battlefield. The page was usually retained at the court or castle of some noble baron, whom he attended in his field of sports, as well as at the tournament and camp. He poured out the wine for his lord at the banquet, flayed and disemboweled the prey taken at the hunt, placed it on the table when cooked and carved the dishes. His duty was largely in attendance upon the ladies, for whom he performed many acts of courtesy, and among whom made many friends, who should have pride in his future prowess as squire or knight. His noviciate passed, the more onerous duties of squire commenced. The office of squire combined duties of a warlike and of a menial character. Among the latter, he laced his master's helmet, buckled his cuirass, closed the rivets of his armor and in some instances performed other duties of a valet de chambre, such as shaving his lord's face and curling his hair. The more manly exercises in which he was engaged, were those best suited to fit him for war. They consisted in feats of strength and agility, tilting and riding, and military evolutions of all kinds. It is related of the renowned Boucicaut, that he was taught to spring upon a horse while armed at all points; to exercise himself in running; to strike for a length of time with ax or club; to dance, to throw somersets when entirely armed, except his helmet; to mount horseback, behind a comrade, by barely laying a hand on his sleeve; to raise himself between partition walls to any height, by placing his back against one and his knees and hands against the other; to mount a ladder placed against a tower on the under side, solely by aid of his hands; to throw a javelin and to pitch a bar. The most important of a squire's duties, however, were on the battlefield. He had charge of his master's shield and horse, and when in actual engagement, he had to support him in any undertaking that he might propose. Although in theory, the office of squire was preparatory to that of knighthood, there are many instances where the squires preferred to remain such, and in that office, were in command of small bodies of troopers, whom they led to the aid of any to whom honor or profit might take them. Knighthood, however, was the office of honor and command in Chivalry, and its attainment signified hardihood, courage, and the best qualities of heart and hand. The ceremonies by which it was conferred, whenever time and place permitted, were long and splendid. Preparatory to entering upon his new dignity the squire was stripped of his garments and took a bath; on leaving which he was clad in a white tunic, the symbol of purity; a red robe, emblematic of the blood he was to shed in the cause of Chivalry; and a black doublet, in token of death, which would be his lot, as well as that of his fellowmen. Thus purified and clothed he would enter the church and pass the night in prayer, often alone, but sometimes with a friend who prayed with him. The first act of the next morning was that of confession, after which he took communion or the sacrament. He then advanced to the altar, where the prince or noble lord, from whom he was to receive the order of knighthood, stood, and kneeling before him, he would receive the accolade-three strokes upon the neck, with the flat part of a sword, in the hands of him who conferred the distinction accompanied by words, about as follows: "In the name of God and St. George (or St. Michael) I make thee a Knight; be faithful, bold and fortunate." After this the churchmen and very often ladies of high rank who were present assisted to array the new knight in the garb of his order; putting on first his gilt spurs, then his coat of mail, his breastplate, arm pieces, gauntlets, and last of all his sword, which had been previously laid upon the altar. The oath of STUDIES FROM FROISSART. Chivalry was then administered to him, which was to the effect that he would be faithful to God, to the king and to the ladies. After this his helmet was brought to him and a horse, upon which he usually sprang without the aid of stirrups and carracoled within the church, brandishing his lance and flourishing his sword. Then quitting the sacred edifice he exhibited himself in similar manner before the public. The ceremonies of investiture of the different orders of knighthood were quite varied, and in some respects were often suggestive of an origin, the same as ceremonies of the Masonic Order, in the perverted ordinances of the Gospel practiced by the early Christians, after the priesthood had been taken away. The following account of the rituals be longing to the Order of the Bath is extremely curious and will illustrate some points of resemblance such as are referred to above: "Each of the new knights was attended by two squires of honor, gentlemen of blood, and bearing coats of arms, who were worshipfully received at the door of an appointed chamber by the king-of-arms and the gentleman usher of the Order. The person thus elected entered into the chamber with the squires, who being experienced in matters of Chivalry were usually called esquire-governors. They instructed the candidate in the nature, dignity and duties of the military order; they took care that all the ceremonies should be explained, as they had allegorical significations, and punctually observed. elected was not permitted to be seen by outsiders from the time he entered upon the ceremonies, and the esquire-governors on the first evening of his entry, sent for a proper barber to make ready a bathing vessel, handsomely lined inside and out with linen, having cross hoops over it, covered with tapestry; a blanket was spread on the floor by the side of the bathing vessel. The beard of the elected being shaven and his hair cut, the squires acquainted the sovereign or great master of the order that he was prepared for the bath. Some of the sage and experienced knights then went into council and The 23 prepared to direct the elect in the order and feats of Chivalry. These knights being preceded by several esquires of the sovereign's household, and accompanied by minstrels playing songs of rejoicing on their instruments, repaired to the prince's chamber. The esquire-governors upon hearing the music, undressed the elected and put him into the bath. The music ceasing, the grave knights entering the chamber without any noise, severally, one after the other, kneeling near the bathing vessel, with a soft voice, instructed the elected in the nature and course of the bath, and put him in mind that forever after he ought to keep his body and mind pure and undefiled. Thereupon the knights, each of them, cast some of the water of the bath upon the shoulders of the elected, and retired, while the esquire - governors took the elected out of the bath and conducted him to his pallet bed, which was plain and without curtains. As soon as his body was dry, they clothed him very warm in a robe of russet, having long sleeves reaching down to the ground, and tied about the middle with a cordon of ash colored and russet silk, with russet hood, like to a hermit, having a white napkin hanging to the cordon or girdle. The barber having removed the bathing vessel, the experienced knights again entered, and from hence conducted the elected to the chapel of King Henry VII. They being thus entered preceded by all the esquires making rejoicings and the minstrels playing before them, the elected thanked the knights and squires for their kind services; and they all departed, leaving only the elected, one of the prebendaries of the church of Westminster, the chandler and the verger of the church. There he performed his vigils during the whole night in prayers to God, with a taper burning before him. When the day broke and the elected had heard morning prayers, the esquiregovernors reconducted him to the prince's chamber and laid him in bed. When the proper time came, the great master was informed that he was ready to rise, and the sage knights were commanded to proceed again to the chamber. The elected having been aroused by the music and the esquires having provided everything in readiness, the knights at their entry wished the elected a good morning and ordered him to arise, whereupon the esquires taking him by the arm, the oldest of the knights gave him his shirt, the next his breeches, the third his doublet, the fourth a surcoat of red tartan, lined and edged with white sarsenet, two others took him out of bed, two others drew on his boots, in token of the beginning of his warfare, another girded him with his white girdle, put on his coif or bonnet; and lastly, another flung on him the costly mantle of his order." Such appear to have been some of the ceremonies of investiture of knighthood. Ceremonies gorgeous as the rights they conferred were great. In point of rank, knights were the associates of princes, and in war qualified to take high command. War indeed was their element; for it and by it, in one sense, they lived and what Butler says of them is frequently found to be not more humorous than true: "They did in fight but cut work out, De Vallibus. WORDS THAT LAUGH AND CRY. Did it ever strike you that there was anything queer about the capacity of written words to absorb and convey feelings? Taken separately they are mere symbols, with no more feeling to them than so many bricks, but string them along in a row under certain mysterious conditions, and you find yourself laughing or crying as your eye runs over them. That words should convey mere ideas is not so remarkable. "The boy is fat," "the cat has nine tails," are statements that seem obviously enough within the power of written language. But it is different with feelings. They are no more visible in the symbols that hold them than electricity is visible in the wire; and yet there they are, always ready to respond when the right test is applied by the right person. That spoken words, charged by human tones and lighted by human eyes, should carry feelings, is not so astonish Suppose, ing. The magnetic sympathy of the orator one understands; he might affect his audience, possibly, if he spoke in a language they did not know. But written words-how can they do it? for example, that you possess reasonable facility in grouping language, and that you have strong feelings upon some subject, which finally you determine to commit to paper. Your pen runs along; the proper words present themselves, or are dragged out, and fall into their places. You are a good deal moved; here you chuckle to yourself, and half a dozen lines further down a lump comes into your throat, and perhaps you have to wipe your eyes. You finish, and the copy goes to the printer. When it gets into print a reader sees it. His eye runs along the lines and down the page until it comes to the place where you chuckled as you wrote; then he smiles, and six lines below he has to swallow several times and snuffle and wink to restrain an exhibition of weakness. And then some one else comes along who is not so good a word-juggler as you are, or who has no feelings, and swaps the words about a little and twists the sentences; and behold! the spell is gone and you have left a parcel of written language duly charged with facts, but without a single feeling. No one can juggle with words with any degree of success without getting a vast respect for their independent ability. They will catch the best idea a man ever had as it flashes through his brain, and hold on to it, to surprise him with it long after, and make him wonder that he was ever man enough to have such an idea. And often they will catch an idea on the way from the brain to the penpoint, turn, twist, and improve on it as the eye winks, and in an instant there they are, strung hand in hand across the page and grinning back at the writer: "This is our idea, old man-not yours!" As for poetry, every word that expects to earn its salt in poetry should have a head and pair of legs of its own, to go and find its place, carrying another word if necessary. If the words won't do this for him it indicates that he is out of sympathy with his tools. But you don't MARY. find feelings in written words unless there were feelings in the man who wrote them. With all their apparent independence they seem to be little vessels that hold in some puzzling fashion exactly what is put into them. You can put tears into them, as though they were so many little buckets; and you can hang smiles along them, like Monday's clothes on the line, or you can starch them with facts and stand them up like a picket fence; but you won't get the tears out unless you first put them in. Art won't put them there. It is like the faculty of 25 getting the quality of interest into pictures. If the quality exists in the artist's mind he is likely to find means to get it into his pictures, but if it isn't in the man no technical skill will supply it. So if the feelings are in the writer and he knows his business, they will get into the words; but they must be in him first. It isn't the way the words are strung together that makes Lincoln's Gettysburg speech immortal, but the feelings that were in the man But how do such little plain words manage to keep their grip on such feelings? That is the miracle. MARY. A STORY OF SAGE-BRUSH BENCH. BY NEPHI ANDERSON. "Let not ambition mock their useful toil, HER name I. was Mary-not May nor Mamie, but plain simple Mary-and she lived on Sage-brush Bench. Now, before going further with this narrative, I may as well tell you that it does not deal with lords and ladies, dukes and barons; in fact, it has nothing to do with what is called "high life;" and if any of my readers cannot endure a plain account of a homely life, they had better pass by this article altogether. As for me, there is nothing I like better than to hear of the unpretentious heroism of the plodding commoner; to hear of the mighty deeds of moral courage that are taking place every day among the forgotten millions of our race; deeds that are never heralded to the world but remain with the doer, not to die but to form a choice stone in the construction of his character. They who sit in high places are before the public gaze. Their little acts of bravery are looked upon in wonder and admiration-know ye not that scattered over all earth's plains and valleys, hidden in its nooks and crannies, God's humblest creatures are daily performing acts of courage, before which the deeds of the exalted pale into insignificance. But there, I am preaching and I started out to tell a story. Well, Mary, as I said, lived on Sagebrush Bench; and not a very beautiful place it was. It lay close to the mountain, six miles from the city and one mile from the village below. The soil was rich enough and raised a few potatoes. But since Farmer Dolphs had removed from the city, three years ago, his scanty capital had gradually diminished and the little band of boys and girls around his sage-brush fireside were getting more threadbare and at times a little more hungry than ever. Farmer Dolphs was strong in his determination to conquer the sterile soil; by another year the canal would be finished, and water would gurgle into the dry ground and unlock from earth her hidden treasures. But it was a hard struggle and I verily believe he would not have succeeded in his undertaking had it not been for Mary. Mary, his oldest daughter, was nineteen. He had four children besides, and as he was a widower, Mary became the head of the household in her father's absence. She was general housekeeper. She was mother to little Norah, and rebellious Dick; advisor to steady George and mischievous Roland. She was the cook and the washwoman. She made her own and Norah's dresses-they were not al ways in the latest style, but, as styles changed so often and she lived so far from the center of fashion, we can excuse that. She patched and repatched the smaller boys' trousers, and as for that, her father's too. She looked after the milking, did the churning, and sent the boys to town with butter and eggs. Mary did all this and innum able minor duties of home, and noblest of it all, did it cheerfully. It was hard work; it kept her going from daylight to dark. Still she did not complain-it was her duty. Who then can say that Mary was not a heroine, performing heroic deeds every day of her life? A hot July day had closed. Twilight was darkening the valley below as Mary brought the pails to the boys for the milking. She paused by the bars of the corral, looking at her father, who was plodding homeward with his grubbing hoe across his shoulders. Father was tired; his step seemed slower than usual to-night. Mary saw it and her own weary body straightened from the leaning position on the fence. There was a listlessness also in her manner quite foreign to her bright activity. The boys each received his pail and set to milking. Mary still remained at the bars, the evening breeze pressing the calico garment against the slight form. And here I am reminded that no description as yet has been given of my heroine; a sorry oversight indeed. Was she good looking? What was the color of hair and the poise of her head? Never mind. Each reader has no doubt formed a mental picture of her by this time and I shall neither add to nor take from it, except to say that her figure was slender, and her complexion light. Yes, she was beautiful too-the good are always beautiful, and Mary was a good girl, else I would not be writing her history. "Father," said Mary as he was about to pass her into the house, "I want to speak to you a minute.” looking for a girl, a girl to do housework. He said he would pay good wages as he must have one and”—she paused again but he failed to help her: he simply said, "Well?" "And," she continued, "I've been thinking what a help it would be to us to get a little money-Norah needs shoes and I”—he glanced down at the well-worn dress and ragged shoe-"You see Norah could stay at Sister Smith's—if only you and the boys could get along for a week or two-perhaps you could'nt but I thought I would just mention it to you." Farmer Dolphs looked at her in a strange way and she dropped her head a little. "So you want to work out, do you,” he said. "No, I don't want to father, but—” "Yes, I understand," he interrupted, "I am certainly opposed to you going to the city alone to work. You know the evils that exist there and the temptations that would beset you. Try to content yourself a little longer and we will all shortly pull out of our present poor circumstances." "All right, father." "We might be able to get along without you, but it would be difficult, my girl." "I'll not go. I was only thinking of it anyway." But as she strained away the milk that night she had hard work to keep down a sob. The vision of new shoes and dresses took their departure. Poor Mary! There was another besides the pecuniary cause which added to her disappointment a little—just a little-so little in fact that Mary would hardly acknowledge it to herself. A certain young blacksmith lived in town. Of course this was nothing strange, but this certain young blacksmith had been out on Sagebrush Bench hunting rabbits a number of times. He was well acquainted with George, and one day he had ended busi ness with pleasure-or pleasure with business, either way-and taken Mary to a party in the village over the creek. Next day the tunes she usually sang with a vim "Yes Mary," and her father stopped by over the pots and pans, she hummed in her side, "What is it?" After a pause she went on, "I want to speak to you about-there was a gentleman here yesterday, who said he was a subdued tone. That had been two months ago, and although plenty of gunners had stopped to drink buttermilk from her tin dipper, none of them had |