who have never seen it some idea of its magnitude may be given in the fact that it took thirty-five years to complete the building. Its architect, Sir Christopher Wren, and the chief builder, Thomas

Strong, both lived to see it begun and completed. It reflects the greatest credit on the distinguished man who designed the plan, and saw it carried into execution. On the marble slab of Wren's

tomb are written these words: Si monumentum requiris, circumspice; which mean that you have but to look round if you would have a true monument to his genius.

The site on which this magnificent building stands had been previously devoted to similar purposes. Other churches had been erected there, and it is affirmed that altars of the Druids once stood on the spot, long before Julius Cæsar invaded our shores.

A few figures concerning this cathedral will not be uninteresting. Its whole cost was about threequarters of a million of money, and defrayed by a tax on all the coal which came into the port of London. From east to west it is 500 feet long; its breadth about 250 feet; the height to the top of the cross is 404 feet; its highest tower 222 feet. The clock, which is on the south-west tower, has two faces. The minute hands are nearly 10 feet long, and weigh 75 pounds each. The pendulum is 16 feet, the weight at the end being about 180 pounds. Within the clock-tower is the great bell, with this inscription, Richard Phelps made me, 1716,' weighing four and a half tons, and which is only tolled on the death of a member of the Royal Family, the Bishop of London, the Dean of St. Paul's, or the Lord Mayor.

The body of the cathedral is almost filled with monuments, some of them of costly marble and of exquisite workmanship. Those of Lord Nelson, Captain Cook, Duke of Wellington, John Howard, and Sir Joshua Reynolds, would be sure to attract attention. The funeral ceremonies of Lord Nelson in 1806, and of the Duke of Wellington in 1852, were among the many remarkable crowded gatherings in this famous building.

There are many other objects of interest, which will be shown by the guides on the payment of a trifling sum. The Whispering Gallery, for instance, is worth a visit. While seated at one end of the room, a low whisper uttered against the wall can be heard distinctly from the other side of the dome. From there to the Stone Gallery, and again to the Golden Gallery, extensive views may be obtained if the London fog and smoke are not too thick.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was

nigh,

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,

She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), 'Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away! And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.'

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me although I was poor; When the sour-looking folk sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

C

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey!
And he licked me for kindness, my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

CAMPBELL.

LESSON 9.

THE SHEPHERD IN WINTER.

beam-less, without beams
case-ment, window frame
de-ject-ed, downcast
dun, dark colour
lagg-ing, falling behind

plaid, woollen cloth, cloak sleet-ed, mingled with snow or hail

swain, peasant, shepherd Yar-row, the dog's name

When red hath set the beamless sun,

Through heavy vapours dark and dun;
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm,
Hurling the hail and sleeted rain

Against the casement's tinkling pane,-
The sounds that drive wild deer and fox
To shelter in the brake and rocks,
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal and to dangerous task!

Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,
The blast may sink in mellowing rain;
Till, dark above, and white below,
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain must go.

Long with dejected look and whine,
To leave the hearth his dogs repine;
Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Around his back he wreathes the plaid;
His flock he gathers, and he guides
To open downs and mountain sides,
Where, fiercest though the tempest blow,
Least deeply lies the drift below.

The blast that whistles o'er the fells
Stiffens his locks to icicles;

Oft he looks back, while streaming far
His cottage window seems a star,—
Loses its feeble gleam,-and then

Turns patient to the blast again,
And, facing to the tempest's sweep,

Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep.

If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale;
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffened swain;
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,
Couches upon his master's breast,
And licks his cheek to break his rest.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.