a hundred years, and which appears to have been especially effectual in stirring the loyalty of the Jacobites, viz. The King shall enjoy his own again.' The song was apparently written and composed during the Civil Wars, and at once taken into favour by the Royalist party; the mention of it is introduced by Sir Walter Scott in his novel of Woodstock,' where he puts it into the mouth of the dissolute Cavalier Wildrake. Those who sang in the days of the Restoration did so, no doubt, with all the gratification that is naturally felt by men who are fortunate enough to witness the fulfilment of their own prophecies. But it was soon restored to its former significance, and became once more the expression of a hope destined this time never to be realised.

It was to the accompaniment of The King shall enjoy his own again' that James made his first entry into Dublin after his flight from England; and when, more than half a century later, the Young Pretender entered Edinboro' in triumph after the battle of Preston, it was to the sound of the same almost historic strains.

While the supporters of James II. were feeding their enthusiasm with this tune, his opponents had also adopted one which seems to have exercised an equal or even greater influence on their party. 'Lillibullero,' best known perhaps to modern readers as the unfailing refuge, in times of doubt, of gentle Uncle Toby, was, according to Burnet, a foolish ballad made at that time, treating the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner ... that made an impression on the army that cannot well be imagined by those who saw it not. The whole army, and at last all people both in city and country, were singing it perpetually. And perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect.' The words of Lillibullero,' which have been assigned to various authors, are described by Macaulay as in no respect above the ordinary standard of street poetry; but the tune, which appears to have been composed by Purcell, has since been employed for numerous other sets of words.

Some of the most striking scenes of the French Revolution were performed to the accompaniment of well-known tunes. The Parisians who thronged in thousands to the Champ-de-Mars, there to dig and make ready for the Feast of Pikes, marched to the brisk melody of Ça ira.' It was heard again when, in June, 1792, a furious mob of men and women defiled before the Assembly, singing and dancing the Carmagnole round a bleeding

6

heart borne upon a pike. But foremost among national and political tunes, as well for its intrinsic merit as for the part it has played in history, must be reckoned the song of the five hundred and seventeen able men who knew how to die,' the Hymn or March of the Marseillaise, luckiest musical composition ever promulgated. The sound of which will make the blood tingle in men's veins; and whole Armies and Assemblages will sing it, with eyes weeping and burning, with hearts defiant of Death, Despot, and Devil.' Few scenes, even in a time when scenes of tragic interest followed each other in such rapid succession, are more striking than that where the twenty-two Girondins, standing at the foot of the scaffold on which they were to die, raised the Hymn of the Marseillaise, the chorus growing fainter as the guillotine swiftly did its work, and dying into silence as the last head fell. That the authorship of such a composition should be claimed by more than one person was to have been expected; it is commonly, however, ascribed to Rouget de Lisle, a young artillery officer who was stationed at Strasbourg early in 1792. Whoever the composer may have been, some subtle sympathy with human passions must surely have been felt by him who, by a simple consecution of sounds, could, and indeed can still after the lapse of nearly a century, stir the pulse of a whole nation, and rouse a people to revolution. A tune the performance of which even in times of peace can scarcely be safely tolerated under despotic rule must certainly be reckoned as a power; nor is that power limited to the country which gave it birth: the 'March of the Marseillaise' has become the Hymn of Revolution all over the world.'

TOZER had turned sixty-five. He was short and spare, with a pointed nose, of the barometrical type, which indicated minute differences of temperature with the utmost delicacy. The upper part of his head was entirely bald; but he had tufts of white woolly hair over each ear: these were met by a white woolly beard, which went from one ear, under his chin, to the other ear; so that, from a little distance, his face had the appearance of being swathed in cotton wool, for toothache or the mumps.

He had long arms, and immense feet, which he turned out at

right angles with his body when he walked. He was reported to have been handsome in his youth.

Tozer kept a private boarding-school, which he conducted on principles of his own. He had once been a brilliant scholar and excellent teacher, but, at the time of which I write, his palmy days might have been described as prehistoric. There were unkindly rumours which said that he had erred through fine old port, and others which described him as having gone out of the way through excellent Madeira; but to these I shall make no further reference. In one respect, at all events, Tozer was unaltered; his temper was as fine as ever. Through manhood and old age, he retained unimpaired the fiery qualities which had ever been the distinguishing characteristic of his scholastic career; and the older he grew, the more lovingly did he cherish the swish.

Tozer's teeth were the pride and joy of his declining years. It required a close inspection to detect that they were false; for a long time he believed that no one knew it save the dentist and himself, but one morning Toddy got into his dressing-room (from which Tozer had run out in a hurry to quell a sudden rising in No. 5 dormitory), and finding the teeth in a tumbler of water on the table, he abstracted the section belonging to the lower jaw, and carried it away. Tozer's reading of prayers that morning was an appalling performance, never to be forgotten by those who had the good fortune to hear it.

In his latter days, Tozer became very absent-minded; and sometimes on Sunday mornings the chapel bell would continue ringing for half an hour after the time of service, until some one was sent to summon him, when he would appear, with his cap on wrong side foremost, and often with a Plato and Virgil instead of his Bible and Prayer Book under his arm. But this was regarded by us as a very venial fault, for when he came in late, Tozer would dismiss us without a sermon.

He had buried three wives, and was suspected of a desire to take, and perhaps to bury, a fourth.

II.

THERE were three assistant masters. Peach, the mathematical master, was the only one in the place of whom we were the least afraid. He was a middle-aged man, gross and pursy, with a white doughy face, illumined by small black eyes. We abhorred him

for his habit of favouritism, which led him to pet two or three boys in every form, and vent his spleen on all the others. We called him Pike because of the voracity with which he ate at table. During the first years of his mastership, Pike persistently declined to send up anyone to be flogged, not from tender or humanitarian

motives, but from sheer squeamishness on the subject of the swish, it being the function of the master who reported him to hold the hands of the victim during the operation. But one day, in a rage, he sent up Davis of the upper third; and having once tasted blood, and rather liked it, he never afterwards failed to report one or two of us when the week's work was overhauled on Monday morning.