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EoU^7"r5T. If. VI 



f 



fearvarb College Xibrar; 

PROM 




3 2044 102 854 783 



TEB 

STANDARD 

FOURTH READER. 

PART TWO. 

WITH SPELLING AND DEFINING LESSONS, 
EXERCISES IN DECLAUATIOH, ETC. 

>T 

KPBS SAROKNT. 



BOSTON: 

JOHN L. SIIOREY. 

1874. 



■ ^KC.T^5'^.7¥.'r;i 




)>\oXJLt^ ^AAj8-^Lt6i4h/vu 



Entered aocorfflng to Act of CongreM, In the year 1861, by Johh O. Saxgiht, in th« 
ClerkN Office of the District Court of the United Statet for the Dietrict of New York. 



Bl«eflt«iyf c^ hr 

B»BABT * BOBSrVB, 



aoivpB* 



QM&bridfe: Printed by Weteh, Blgelow, U C«. 



PREFACE. 



In a " Reader," properly so called, it is obvious 
that such exercises are most appropriate as are best 
for the one purpose of elocutionary practice. Re- 
gard should be had to this requirement rather than 
to the scientific or encyclopedical character of the 
lessotis. The author has been influenced by these 
views in the preparation of the present work. It 
veill be found to represent quite a variety of styles. 
The greiater number of the pieces have never before 
had a place in any similar collection ; but some will 
be recognized that are familiar to every cultivated 
taste. 

It IS difficult to see why, in commending to the 
young of our day a literary standard, we should 
offer them one lower than that their fathers looked 
up to. Indeed, our best teachers of elocution gen- 
erally prefer, for drilling exercises, those they are 
already acquainted with ; such pieces as, from their 
marked power and superiority, can never become 
hackneyed. The book that is largely made up of 
these can not be justly set aside under the plea that 



17 PBEFACE. 

pupils have exhausted it ; for those who can give 
proper effect to such pieces, in the delivery, will 
have little more to learn in the way of elocution. 
Let the young have the privilege, at the impressi* 
ble period of their lives, of being made familiar 
with the best J whether old or new, since, in the 
words of Webster, " truth in taste is allied with 
truth in morality/' 

In this volume, to aid in the understanding of 
every reading exercise, the most difficult words in 
it have been selected for spelling and defining les- 
sons; particular care being taken to keep the 
teacher on the alert against faults in pronunciation. 
The exercises in Part I., on the vowel and conso- 
nant sounds, ought to be practiced from time to 
^ime by the class. The subject of rhetorical deliv- 
ery is treated in the Special Exercises in the body 
of the work. 

The author submits his new Fourth Beader, in 
the belief that in practice it will be found easy and 
attractive by the young ; containing a good propor- 
tion of stirring and spirited piecea, at the same time 
that the examples for colloquial and unimpassioned 
deUvery are numerous and appropriate. 



CONTENTS, 



PAKT I. 

HaBKS AKD SOUHD8, 6 

£XEBCISE8 OH TK^ SOUITDB, • 7 



PAKT II. 

BSADINa, SPELUNG, AND DEFIKINa LESSOKS. 

PIECES m PBOSE. 
LBS80H. 

1. Distinot Paragraphf, IT 

2. A Taiking Bird, 19 

3. Sir Charles Napier, 21 

4. Tlie WUl and the Way, 24 

6. The Sailor's Life, 28 

7. On Character, 30 

8. Catiline Denonnced4>7 Cicero, 32 

9. Turning Awaj Wrath, 34 

10. Last bajs of Madame Roland, 37 

12. Cains Graoohns to the Romans, .• •^O 

13. Remarkable Providence, 43 

14. The Teacher's Vocation, ••••••... Lord Broughax, • • . 46 

15. The Simpleton and the Rognes, 47 

17. Reply to Lord Lyndhnrst, • • R. L. Shisl, 61 

18. Icebergs, • ..64 

20. Anecdotes of a Skylark, • . . . • 68 

2L The Paths of Success, • 61 

23. The Americans not to be Conquered, . • • Jomr Wilkes, .... 68 

24. A Magpie at Church 70 

25. On the Treatment of Books, •••...••. 72 

27. Speech ot i>iacK Hawk, » 76 

28. Catiline Expelled, Cicero, 79 

29. The Custom of Dueling, 80 

30. The Highest Cataract in the World, . . . .T. S. King, 83 

32. Special Exercises in Elocution — Partis, '. • . . «..;•. . • • 01 

1* 



VI CONTENTS. 

Lnaov. ^Aook 

33. The Seoond War with EngUuid, .... Bbowit, 95 

34. Sanrise on Mount Etna, P. Brydoitb, 97 

38. On Reeonoiliation with America, • . . Lord Chathax, 105 

39. I will Try, 108 

43. Arnold, the Teaoher, 115 

45. The Immortality pf the Soul, MASSiLLOir, 119 

46. Brevities — Exercises in Level Delivery, 121 

49. Rolla to the Peruvians, R. B. Sherxdait, . • • .127 

60. Oliver Goldsmith, WASHiirGTOir iRvnra, • • 129 

51. The Summons and the Lament, 134 

52. Joan of Arc, ••••. Thom as De Quincet, • . 136 

6^ In Favor of American Independence, • . Samuel Adaits^ 148 

68. Birth of a Volcanic Island, D. C. Wriqht, 153 

59. Thanksgiving for Existence, , 156 

62. Our Native Land, Htatt S. Legare, . . • . 160 

63. The Noblest Public Virtue, Henrt Clat, 162 

64. Breathe Pure Air, 164 

66. The American Robin, Miss Cooper, • 168 

67. The Study of Natural HbtOry, 172 

70. Woman in America, Daniel Webster, . • • .178 

72. Christopher Columbus, • • Washington IrtinG) • . 182 

75. Influence of Human Example, 187 

76. America's Obligations to England, • • • Isaac Barre, 189 

77. Right Against Might, 191 

79. Special Exercises in Elocution— Part II., ,195 

82. The Champion Speller, ........ W. Burton, 202 

85. Barbarity of War, Ret. T. Chalmers, . . . 20i8 

87. Last Charge of Ney, J. T. H^adley, 211 

89. Cause for Indian Resentment, Wm. Wirt, 215 

91. The Fall of Constantinople, Aubrey De Vere, .... 222 

93. The Boy Crusaders, * 226 

96. Allen's Capture of Ticonderoga, . . . . G. Bancroft, 235 

97. Man's Immortality, Wm. Prout, 236 

99. William the Silent, J. L. Motley, 239 

101. Ooing up in a Balloon, Charles Dickens, . . .246 

105. EaHy History of Kentucky, .255 

106. On Indifferehce to Popular Elections, . .O.McDuffie, 257 

110. Death the Gate of Lifb, ...... . Orville Dewey, • . . . 265 

111. Bruttis on the Death of Caesar, . . . • Shakspeare, 267 

114. Marid Antoinette, Edmund Burke, .... 270 

115. Dr. Arnold at Rjigby, Thomas Hughes, .... 271 

116. Hannibal to his Atmy, Liyy, . 274 

118. iaesultsoftheA£neri6anWar, C. J. Fox, 277 

121. Love is Power, Robert Chambers, • • .282 

124. Special Exercises in Elocution— Part m., 291 

li5. Columbus Discovers the NeW World, . . Washington IrVino, . . 298 

127. My Father's Log Cabin, ^ Daniel Webster, .... 302 

\28. Importance of Habit, , , . • • . . . Samuel Shilebi . . • ...303 



m 



•-.M.UttA. 



12& MowiiSiiia., ••...••.••. J. U Smnn^ • » * • .30€ 

133. Cbwcaoter of WMhiagtoii, Lqbd BaoooXAir, • • » . SIS 

ISO. Health and Bmroii^ 3S» 

13& Go to Work, Stt 

139. Special £xeremB»iaBloetttiMi--BMrtiy^ . . • • S2S 

l*fICXB IN TXSflB. 

61 The Erening How, 37 

194 The Worth of Ifmam, • • Joavna Baillu, . • • . 34 

letr Ruth to her MotJnr4B-Uwy W. B. 0. Pkabodt, ... 6a 

19^ Belshasiar,^ Hsmtr Hnioi, • • • • • 64 

%% M azeppa'8 Storj^ . • • • Lord Btbov, •••••• 64 

24« The Good Time Coning, Charlu Mackat, ... 76 

31. The Keeping of the Bridge, Lord Macaulat, • ... 87 

36. Where is He? . • • Huirx Nbkli, 143 

84r The Retort, • • • n • . 103. 

87. M aroo Boszaris, . « Fm-GBKiHB Hallks, • lOi 

il4 The Two Homef, • • . • . FxuciA Huf arb, • • • . 113 

i$0 Warren's AddieM, John Piebpoitt, • • • • • 114 

4i« The Good Great Man, ..•••... S. T. Colbkimx, • • • . lift 
m* The Dying TrumpeUr, ..••••.. JuLivg Mobkb, . • » • • 124 

48* Lines to a Child, Rxr. Sphbaui Pbaboihc, . 124 

40r True Glory, . . • • « Matthsw GRXBHSy • • . 12ft. 

60» The Village Gergjaaa and Zeaoher, . . OLiTSBt Goij>smith, • . • 131 

61, Pibrooh of Doooil Dhn, . * Sir Walter Scott, . • . 13&< 

61, Coronach, Sir Waiabr Scott, • • . 134 

68. The American FUg, .•••••.•• J. R. Praxb, 141 

66i The Battle of Ivry, • . • • Lord Ma«AFT«at, 144 

67. William Tell among the M onataiiiB, . . J. S. Enowleb, 160 

60. The Loss of th» Royal Geoi;gt, . . • . Wm. Gowper, 159 

ei. BoeaihM there a Man, • • Sir Walter Scott, ... 161 

63. LiTC while yon Live, Phiup Doddridob, ... 163 

65. The Pauper's Death-Bed, CAROLnne B. Soxtthey, . .167 

69. Lines to Little. Mary, Carolike B. Soitthet, . • 177 

70^ Prayer, ••.... James TllOMBOir, .... 186 

78. The Story of Gftoena, SAmvbl Ro€IBB«, • ... 183 

74, Apostrophe to the Ocean, Lobb BYrok, 185 

Be tme, Wx. GnroRD, 180 

77; Make Way for Liberty,' • • JAXEBMomooKEsr, . . .193 

78; Nothing to Wear, W. A. Butler, 194 

79. Special Exercises from Shakspeare, 198 

80. Catiline to his Troops, Rev. Geo. Crolt, .... 200 

81. Song of Hiawatha, H. W. LoirerELLOW, • • • 201 

83. Cato's Soliloquy, Joseph Addibon, . . • • 206 

84. Marullus to the Mob, Shakspeare, 207 

86. The Prussian General on the Rhine, .210 



tsA contents; 

LUIOV. »A<m' 

88. A Field of Battle, P. B. Sbbllet, 213 

Vitality of Truth, W.C.Bryant, •* 214 

90. Too Late I Stayed, W. R. Spbnceb, 216 

91. Bernardo del Carpio, Hemans and Lockhabt, • • . 217 

95. The Light and Life, Thomas Moorv, 234 

98. Parting of Douglas and Marmion, . Sir Walter Scott, 237 

100. The Death of Marmion, Sir Walter Scott, 243 

102. From a Prologue, 0. W. Holhes, 251 

103. The Graves of a Household, • • . . Felicia Heicans, 252 

104. The Rescue of the Lamb, Wm. Wordsworth, 253 

107. Downfall of Poland, Thomas Campbell, • . . • • 260 

109. Sonnet, J. Blanco White, 264 

110. From Young's Night Thoughts, 266 

112. Wolsey to Cromwell, Shakspeare, 268 

113. Speech of Van Artevelde, Henrt Taylor, 269 

116. Onward, J. K. Lombard, 273 

'117. Whatever is is Right, Alexander Pope, 276 

119. Battte Hymn and Farewell to life, Korner, 279 

1^0. Waterloo, • Lord Byron, 280 

122. Be Just, Aaron Hill, 289 

123. To-morrow, Nathaniel Cotton, 290 

1^4. Quotations from Poets, 293 

126. How to Have what we Like, . . . Horace Smith, 300 

130. Address to an Egyptian Mummy, . Horace Smith, 307 

132. The Winds, W. a Bryant, 312 

134. Mark Antony's Address, Shakspeare, 316 

135. Address of Caradoo, the Bard, • • . Sir E. B. Lttton, 319 

137. The Child of Earth, Caroline Norton, 323 

140. Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death, • • . Shakspeare, 332 

141. Catiline's Defiance, Geo. Crolt, 333 

Immortality, Sarah F. Adams, 334 

m Th,ITn.e«chabl.Oa.. {^^^^J^^.l •»« 

DIALOGUES. 

40. Quarrel of the Authors, Paraphrase from Molibrb, . .111 

54. The Hostess and the Quack, • • • Altered from John Tobin, • • . 143 

68. Cato's Message to Caesar, Joseph Addison, 175 

94. The Reading of the Will, • 230 

198. The Inquisitive Man, John Poole, 261 

122. The Choleric Father, R. B. Sheridan, •••••• 286 



PART I. 



HARKS AND SOUNDS. 



Good reading has iMen genenllj oonridered under three heede, nftmdy, 
the meehanicalt union buppoaes the ability to speak the names of words 
on seeing them \ tne inkelUctual, which includes a comprehension of the 
author's ideas ; and the rhetorical, in which the tones appropriate to an 
expressiun of feeling are considered, together with such a management 
of the Toice as may best eoirrey to the hearer the fiill import and senti^ 
tn«nt of what is read. 

The pauses and marks in reading are the comma ( , ), indicating tha 
shortest pause ; the semicolon ( ; ), indicating a pause somewhat longer 
than the comma ; the colon ( i ), indicating a pause longer than the semi- 
^lon ; the period ( • >, which indicates the longest pause. 

To these we should add the interrogation mark( t ). should we not?—- 
indicating a question ; the exclamation mark (1 ), indicating emotion ; 
the dash ( — ), indicating a sudden break ; the parenthesis marks (as 
here), used when words Independent of the sentence are thrown in. 

The apostrophe ( ' ) indicates th» possessive case; as, Mary's book. It 
is also used to mark the omission of one letter or more; as, e'er for ever ; 
*ffan for began. 

The hyphen is used to separate qrllables ; also to connect compound 
words ; as, in-ter-rupt. wood-shed. 

The acute accent, as now generally used in English dictionaries, de- 
notes that the stress of the Yoice should be put on a certain syllable ; as, 
Ikm'i-ly, ,in-Um1-date, in'stant, in-sisf. The pupil should distinctly 
understand this, as the pronunciation of words is frequently indioated, 
in the following lessons, by the help of this little mark. 

The diss'resis, a Greek word, signifying a divieion^ diyides into eyUt^ 
bles two yowels that might otherwise seem to make a diphthong ; as. 
Creator, Here the e and a are separate in sound; but in creature,, ea is 
a diphthong. The di»reas may be placed oyer a yowel. to show that the 



X HABES AND SOUNDS. 

\owel ought to be pronounced separately, as if commencing a new syllft* 
ble ; as, winged, learned, blessed, aged, 

Marks of quotation are used ** to denote that the words of another per- 
son, real or supposed, than the author, are quoted." 

The matron, a Greek word, signifying long, is merely the hyphen 
mark placed over a vowel, and denotes that the quantity is long ; as, 
hate, mete, hide, note, mute. The breve (from the Latin brevis, short) 
denotes that the vowel over which it is placed is short ; as, hut, mii, hit^ 
hot, hut, myth. 

Our language contains thirty-four purely elementary sounds, and six 
compound sounds, that are generally classed as elemeQtaxy. Five of the 
letters, a, e, i, o, u, are called vowels ; the rest cansonant8> except w and 
y when they end a syllable, and then they become vowels. 

These elementary sounds are a in far, fat, fate, fall ; e in me, m£t; 
i in fit ; o in note, not; u in bull ; oo in fool; u in but; w in wet; y in 
yet; h in hot; ng in king; m in man; n in not; t in let ; r in run; p in 
ftan, b in bag; fiii fan, if in van; ih in ihin, (h in thine; t in itn, d 
in din; k in kiiid, g in gun; s in sin, z in zeal ; sh in Shine, z ill 
azure. 

There are four compound vowel Sounds sometimes clashed as element- 
ary ; namely, t ih pine, u in cube, ou in house, oi in voice ; and two com- 
pound consonant sounds, namely, ch in chest, J in jest. 

The letters c, q, and z, do not appear in the libove list, because, as rep- 
resehtlktives of sound, they are redundant ; c expressing only what is a» 
w6ll expressed by » or A: (as in city, can); q being only lew; and x^ 
ks or gs. 

By connate conscmant sounds is meant a class of sounds allied or related 
to each other ; as p and b,f and v, th in thin and th in iJiis. ^eiformer, 
namely, p,f, and ih in thin, are said to be aspirate ; tlie latter, vocal. 

When two vdwels unite to form a syllable, they are dalled a diphthong; 
as, aid, mean, hoist. When three voWels unite to form a Syllable, they 
are 6alled a triphthong ; as, beauty, view. 

In the following exercises, words are arranged illustrating the sound 
to be enunciated. Let the pupil first pronounce the representative 
sound by itself, and then apply it to the letter or letters /Conveying it 
m the Exercise& 

It diould be explained that different letters are often used ta exprete 
the same sound, ^n great and weigh, ea and eigh. have the simple 
louhd of long a as kifdte, and are its substitutes or eqtiiyalents. 

Much trouble in the mispronunciation of common words, Such as 
again, been, none, catch, evil, even, &c», will be avoided by drilling a 
class in the following Exercises* the words of which have been carefally 
sdected. 



liABSS AK0 BOUVDB* 



:»f;^w:^^VKiK 



TOWtt BOtrHfiBi 



a : — (as m/ar.) Fa'tller, arm, ar'my, are, aZnui, art, aunt, ah, langli, 
taunt, flaunt, gaunt, ba/m, path, ca/f, ca/m, daunt, gape, guard, 
ha/f, haunt, heart, hearth, heark'en, aa/yef aer'geant, wradL 

& : — (jfaort^ twin hSiL) . M apt^ Mt^xid^ amlMr, lMide> Imt^mI, olamlier, 
ca»]iil vcateh^ A-liasiee'» gaafut, gaa^ gath'^i rati^er, pteld, barton, 
sac'ra-ment, mall, bal'co-ny, de-canfer, 8tamp> in-liat/it, lar'um, 
railler-y, tap'es-try, tar'ry. 

a ; ^-^(loiig, aa. in hiiei) Ak» au'g«l> chaml>er, daf^ fMght« o-bey^, 
dan'geri feigB,. gauges gcaage^ gnaat^ in^rti^, jail, pray, deigh, 
steak, straight, Malaon^ ra^gov eaarfbrtej fla^gnuiti pa'trl-ot, 
pas'try. 

a^-!— <biload, «• in«/ha.) All, arjD» ttught, aw^ftl^ virl^ ba/k, bal'sam, 
broad, cough, ex-alt', ought, salt, saooa, thmight, tMmgli (pro- 
nounced trayf)f naugh'ty, daugh'ter^ orb, lord, law, saw, mom, 
sau'cer,. sau'cy, swarm, warn, ward, sward, swar^thy, hal'ter, 
arter, thfairdom (spelt Idso thriU'dom)^ ap-pall' (spelt also aj9- 
paV)t auc'tioii, halt 

a : — (indeterminate, as in anki ffraaf. By soma at&tlMfit&iit Includ- 
ing Walker and Smart, the a in this class of words has the sound 
of short d, as in hut. Good usage,, in some parts of the country, 
gives it a sound as open as that of a in far, father,. Worcester 
assigns to it an intermediate place between the sounds of a in fiit 
and a in far. As this intermediate sound is necessarily yague 
and' undefined^ teachesa must, usa their discretion in. ahMoing 
from the authorities*) Maak,/ grasp,, ad-vanoe', pass, basltet, 
branch, glance, dance, clasp, cask, flask, last, mast, fiist, grass. 

A :»-r-«{a8 in ear^, share. Marked by. Walker Kke Ibsg d, as in hate; 
but it is obyiously a^mcdification'Qf this soiind^i ) Dmw,. pair, bear, 
air, ere (meaning before), e'er (contraction of <i;'«r),,ne*«r (coo- 
traction of nei/er), rare, &ir, lair, re-pair', snare. 

e ; --«^ (loQ|^ as in mi.) Cede, brief^ea«'prioe<,id»<^tf^ oon-ceh^i che'mon, 
ea'gl«» e'en« e'^^tist, ei'ther, net^therj IMiigue', field, fiend, key, 
in-yei'gIa,>aiaifrine',peo-ple^ pique, quay (Arg), i^B-ceijrti;, seiae^ siege, 
eel, ma-chine', po-lice', ra-yine', beard, mien, lei'soroy deedk 

8 : — (shoct, as in nut.) Bed, a-gain', a^gainsf i a'ny^ bready cellar, 
oleansfti.deaf, ep'g^ne, er'ring, fefid, for-get^, friend, get;,, guess. 



%n MARKS AKD BOUNDS. 

heaVen, heifer, ket'tle, leop'ard, ma'ny, mer'ry, peas'aiit, preface 
read'y, realm, said, says, tepid, yet 

e : — (ae in her,) Herd, ftm, fer^yid, bird, pearl, learn, earl, earUi, 
heard, mer'cj, mirth, girl, con-firm', per'son, term, worm, stem, 
germ, e-ter'nal, terse, word, worth, worse, nurse, de-ter'mine, 
pert, re-hearse', first, nnrst, worst, burst, furl, curl, world, whirl 
(These sounds are now usually classed together, though some nici 
critics would haye a difference in the Yowel sounds of first, burst, 
girl, curl, &c.) 

i: — (short, as in kit) Bid, fill, been, build, bus'y, England, giye, 
mir'ror, prefty, guilt, sieve, spir'it, syn'od, yine'yard, wit'ty, 
wom'en, withe (the tk aspirate, as in kuth), mountain, cap'tain, 
fi)unfain, min'ute, mas'cu-line, gen'u-ine. 

i: — (long, as iafind; a compound Towel sound.) Bind, ap-ply\ 
al-ly', buy, eye, guide, guile, high, in-dicf ; isle, o-blige', rye» 
sigh, sky, time, mild, child. 

5 : — (long, as in note). Boat, beau, bone, both, boVster, bowl, boum» 

bow'sprit, brooch, force, porch, por'trait, co'coa, do'tard, doughy 
droll, en-gross', foe, ibllow, fellow, mor'row, gourdy. knoll, loth, 
most, only, o'ral, pa-trol', scroll, sew, strew, sloth, soap, stone, 
soul, toad, troll, trow, whole, woe. 

6 - — (short, as in got) Hot, dross, flor'id, prod'uct, coVumn, gloss, 

groVel, hov'el, joc'und, knowl'edge, moth, qual^-ty, sor'ry, swamp, 
squad'ron, trode, wan, wand, was, ibreliead, watch, dollar, clocks 
noVel, log, frog. 

U : -* (as in fuU.) Book, butch'er, cou/d, cushion, hook, look, pull, 
pul'pit, push, put, shou/d, wolf, wool'en, wo'man, wood, wou/d. 

OO :— -Xlong, as in coot) Bloom, bal-loon', bruise, ca-noe', croup, cruise, 
do, fruit, group, lose, moon, moYC, poor, proye, pru'dent, rheum, 
rou-tine' (pronounced roo-ieen'), rude, rule, shoe, sur-tout', true, 
two, un-couth', who, prune. 

ii : — (short, as in biit.) Cut, a-boye', a-mong', blood, broth'er, col'or, 
comlMit, come, cous'in, does, done, dost, doth, double, dove, 
e-nough', flood, flourish, front, con-front', hur'ry, joust, mon'ey, 
none, noth'ing, some, tongue, young, slough (pronounced «^t#), 
son, monk. 

Q : — - (long, as in m^e. One of the yices of American pronunciation is 
to peryert the y sound of long u into oo; calling duke dook, dfftg 



. XABES AND SOUNDS. xm 

dooty, i^ne toon, &o. Long u after f , in fh^ same pliable, owing 
to the trilled quality of the r , may take the sound of long oo ; after 
the other consonants it should retain its normal sound.) Cube, 
dew, due, feud, knew, neu'tral, new, pro-duce', stew, stu'dent, 
stu'pid, tube, Tues'day, tu'mid, tu'tor, con'sti-tute, in'sU-tute, 
Tiew. 

OU • — (as in house. This sound is often perrerted into eeow, as \fkau$9 
were heeotue ; cow, keeow. Nothing could be more oflfen^ye to 
correct ears. ) Brow, cloud, down, doVry, crowd, drou^t, noun, 
counf 7, now, out, poVder, pro-nounoe^, town, tow, en-dow-menk 

O : • — (as in voice. This sound we often hear perrerted into long t, as 
if ;Nn'<on were piion ; boyt, bize. Ayoid the tendency.) Boil, 
broil, choice, coin, ibi1)le, hoist, joist, join, joint, loin, Im'ter, oil, 
oys'ter, point, poise, soil, spoil, toil, Yoy'age, roj'aL 

CONSONANT SOUNDS. 

h: — (as in hay,) Hall, ez-horf, ez-hausf, ex-hibit, liart8lioni» 
hosier (pronounced hot^ler), hum'ble, hom'age, while, whim, 
why, white, which. 

ng : — (ae in king. This sound is' often clipped by bad readers. Do not 
say robin for rob'bing, mornin fi)r morn'ing, &c.) Acting, beings 
length, bank, sing, wrong, wring, seeding, filling, blacking, 
giving, hanging. 

Xn : — (as in maxm. In such words as helm, elm, realm, chaam, priam^ 
en-thu^ti-asm, &c., beware of the tendency to conyert them into 
helum, elum, &c.) Blame, corumn, con-demn', emp'ty, gum, 
hymn, lamb, limn {lim), e'go-tism, lim'ner, phlegm (Jlem), 
soVemn, tempt^er. 

n : — ^ (as in nun. In the following words we have Italicised the un- 
sounded letters) Ba'sin, chick'en, con-di^', dead'en, deafen, 
e^y^n, for'ei^, fro'zen, hapten, heaVen, Aoieel, Latin, ofi'en 
rea'son, satin, slov'en, stolen. 

1 : -— (as in lull. In the following words we haye Italicised the mi- 
sounded letters). Al)]£, cattle, chap'el, coun^sel, coun'cil, driVel, 
e'ytl, flan'nel, flow, groVel, isle, par'cel, ti'tle, traVel, wea^seL 

r :-* (trilled, as in rough; untrilled, as in more-) Bringr grape. 
lil)ra-ry, pray, try, striye, trill, tray. Ar'dor, but'ter, care^ 
ex-pire', or'der, oure, yir'tue, mar'tyr. 
2 



Xnr VrMSSS AND SOCTNPS* 

OOONATA €0KSQK4tNT 80UKD8. 

p Andb ;^^(p, aspin^te, as in pipea.) Apt, hap'py-.. pert« pomp, 
prop'er. — (b, yooal, as in bribe,) Ba]>e,. barb, bib^ bul^ abb* glebe, 
tube, cub, blab. 

• and V : — (f, aspirate, as in fife,) Chafe, draught, epl-taph, graphic, 
haZf, ofi'en, soff en, qphere, trough (^rq^), pamphlet, pheasVmt, Ijonph^ 
nymph, h/phen. — (Y,,yocal, as in valve,) Brave, driye^ ha^y^e, hiye* 
oj^ Ste'phen, yiy'id,^ yoid. 

th in thin, and th in ifiit-: — * (th, aspirate, as in ikin.) Both, breath, 
e'ther, lOth, mouth, oath, pan'ther, path, sixth, thank, think, troths 
truth, thou'dandth, twelfth. — (th, yocal, as in this.) Breathe^ bathe, 
baths, be-neath', blithe, booth, booths, either, mouth (when a yerb), 
mouths, oaths, paths, the, thither, with,. 

t and d : — (t, aspirate, as in trite.) De6t, dou6t, drou^At,,hurt, kite, 
in-dict^ laughed, su6'tle,. test, tame>. yict^ualf wrecked. — (d, yocal, as 
in did.) Deed, charmed, couid, ebbed, judged, made, wou/d, shou/d« 

k and g : — (k,. aspirate, as in kick*) Aobe, a£-&et'v chord». clear, 
clock, concA, dis'ticA, ep'ocA, fo/ks, flac'cid {fiah^sid), quake,. quick, 
skep'tic. — (g, yocal, as in gag.) Gib'ber, gid'dy, gig, gimlet, gimp, 
keg, phys-i^^og^no-mj, rag'ged, rogue,, yague. 

6 and Z : " — (Sj aiq>irate,, as in, tisfter,) Dose, gas, griefii, host^ cent, 
cease, precl-pice, false, &s'ci-4iate, scene, scep'ter, sci^enee, tacit, 
use (when a noun), verse, yer-bose^ — (z, yocal, asin^ace.) Doze, 
baths, caves, haS) hous'es, is, oaths, ob^-serveS', re-sume^ use (wh6n a 
verb), V€nl'^5on, views, wasj ways. 

sh and Z as in az'ure: •— (sh«.o«pirate, as in shinei ) Chaise, chi^rade', 
chan-de-lier', chiv'al-ry, ma-chine', marsh, shall, shrl^ shriUi^shrink, 
shrub, shrine, shrimp, shroud, shrew. — (z, vocal, as in az^ure,) 
Gla'iier, leiWre, o'sier> rouge, treas'ure, vision. 

ch and^ J : — (ch^ aspirate, as in taeh.) Beaefa^ chm^ chest, check, 
chin, inch, march, milch, much, niche^. satch'el, scereh. — (j^ vocal, 
as in jar.) Age, huge, jump, gelVtin, gelid, gem, gibl)et, gibe,, 
gtbleb, gip'sy, gist, refuge, register, a^nalVgy, stage, jaU, gin'ger, 
jndge, sug-gest^ gyve, je-june'. 

W and y, wlien they end a word or syllable, as in now, dow'ry,JlyHng,. 
try, become vowels. When they begin a word or eorllablje, as in ictV/, 
a^ward', ye, they are regarded as having the force, of consonants. 



ICABES AND SOUNDS. 



THE UNACCENTED VOWEL SOUNDS, A«. 

A feebla enunciation of the nnaccent'ed qrllablM i« a oomnum duilt ; 
but an over precision should be avoided ; practice the following : eyer-y, 
de-liVer-er, de-liy'er-ance, mu'sic-al, medial, en'er-gjr, rev'ep^nt, ciTil» 
re'aL 

Of the peryersionof the diphthongs ou and oh hj which count is ooa- 
yerted into cuount, town into iaown, &c., and voice into vice ^ joint into 
jint, &c., we have already spoken. Persons habituated to this &ult are 
generally unaware of it. 

Do not change the w at the end of the words «atc, law, draw, &o., to 
r, as if they were sor, lor, dror, &c. 

Do not giTe the sound of short u to short a befbre nt and m, in a final 
unaccented syllable, as in ar'ro^ant, in'fant, tretfpa$$, main'te^nance, 
dor'mant, re-lucHant ; or the same sound of u to the final syllables in, 
intiiimdi.ence, as in con-tent^meni, genUle-men, prov'i-^ence, in'so'lent 
In these syllables there should be a delicate sound of short a and short e, 
without stress. 

The vowel before final /, in e'vil, drivfel, grov*el, &c.,j8 unsounded ; 
but in most other words it should be sounded in the unaccented syllable ; 
as, pen'cil, an'vil, fl'nnl, mefdal, nov'el, mod'el, par'cel, chaj/el, rev'el. 
Short i before n is subject to the same remark ; as, Lai'in, mafin, tal*in, 
cer'tain, mountain, cap'tain, founifain (pronounced cer*iin, &c.) But 
in cous'in, ba'sin, &c., the i is not heard 

Short e before n, when they moke a final syllable not under accent, 
should be sounded, in tud'den, kitch!en,slov'en, chiVdren, lin'en, chickfen, 
&c., and also before d in hun'dred; but in nearly all other words ending 
in unaccented en, the e of this syllable should be silent ; as, heav'en, 
e-lev'en, gar'den, giVen, eVen, off en, o'pen, sofi'en, &c. ; and the o 
should be silent in dea'con, par'don, trea'son, weap'on, ba'con, bea'con. 
per'son, rea'son, &c. 

EXPLANATIONS. 

In the spelling and defining lessons, the ibllowing abbreviations have 
been used : a for adjective ; ad, for adverb ; con, for conjunction ; n. for 
name or noun;- ohs. for obsolete; pi, for plural; pp, for participle pas^ 
sive ; ppr, for participle preteni ; prep, for preposition ; pret, for preterit 
tense; v. t. for verb intransitive ; v. t. for verb transitive. 

Forms indicating the pronunciation of the whole or a part of a word 
are sometimes placed in parenthesis between the word and the definition. 

The long vowel mark, or makron, and the short vowel mark, or breve, 
are occasionally placed over vowel letters, in the text This is generally 



rn MARKS AND SOUNDS.: 

done to indioate that the sound is apt to be slighted. Thus, long o in 
both, bone, mott, is often rohbed of its Aillness ; and long u in tu'tor, 
ttu'pid, duke, &c., is often perverted into the sound of oo in cooL The 
force of these marks, and also that of the ac'cent, should be veil under- 
stood by the pupil. 

The figures between marks of parenthesis, after the names of autiion, 
are designed to indicate the dates of birth and death. 



PAET II. 

REA3)IN«, SPELLING, AND DEFINING 

LESSONS. 



I ^DISTINCT PARAGRAPHS. 



BlOth, n.f lazinew; flowDMS. 
Prac'ticb or Prac'tise, o. t., to do or 

perform habitaall/ or often. 
Gourt'b-ous (kart'o.oii8), a,, polite. 
A-grbe'a-ble, a., pleasing. 
A-ware', a.f apprised; knowing. 



Lah'gvage^ n., hnman ipeeeh. 
Cor'fluz, n., a nnion of onrrenti. 
Mvb'clb (mns'sl), n., a fleshy fiber. 
Ex'br-cisb, n., praetice ; use. 
Trunk, n., the body of an animal« 
without the limbs. 



Pronounce notkingy nUtkHng } evi/, i'vl. Do not say feller tat feVlow j futer foe 
fu'turej readin for read'ingj eubdooe for eub-dHeM'. 

1. Beading aJoud, when rightly practiced, is good 
exercise for the health. It brings into active play- 
most of the muscles of the trunk, to a degree of which 
few are aware till- their attention is called to it. 

2. The sublimity of wisdom is tg do those things 
living which are to be desired when dying. Death 
has nothing terrible in it but what life has made so. 

3. He is a wise man who is willing to receive 
instruction from all men. He is a mighty man who 
Subdues his evil inclinations. He is a rich man who 
is contented with his lot. 

4. Lost I Somewhere between sunrise and sunset, 
two golden hours, each set with sixty-diamond min- 
utes. No reward is offered, for they are lost forever. 

5. Be courteous. Bemember that bad manners 
make bad morals. A kind no is often more agreeable 
than an uncourteous yes. 



18 DISTINCT PARAGRAPHS. 

6. Present time is all-important. The poorest day 
that passes over us is the conflux of two eternities. 
It is made up of currents that come from the remotest 
past, and flow onward into the remotest future. 

7. Reckoning the motion of the earth on its axis at 
seventeen miles a minute, it follows that, if you take 
off your hat in the street to bow to a friend, you go 
a long distance bareheaded without taking cold. 

8. " I do not like to say any thing against the per* 
son in question," said a very polite man ; " but I would 
merely remark, in the language of the poet, that to 
him ' truth is strange, stranger than fiction.' " 

9. A lazy fellow once complained in company that 
he could not find bread for his feimily. " Neither can 
I," said an honest laborer ; " I have to work for aU the 
bread I get." 

10. " Did you knock my hat over my head in earnest, 
sir ? " asked one man of another, in a crowd. — " Cer- 
tainly, I did, sir." — " It is well you did, sir ; for I do 
not put up with jokes of that kind." 

11. Let no man be too proud to work. Let no man 
be ashamed of a hard fist or sunburnt face. Let him 
be ashaftned only of ignorance and sloth. Let no man 
be ashamed of poverty. Let him only be ashamed of 
dishonesty and idleness. 

12. Be slow to promise, and quick to perform. Let 
not the tongue run before the thought. He keeps his 
road well who gets-rid of bad company. Credit lost 
is like a broken looking-glass. He is an ill boy who, 
like a top, goes no longer than he is whipped. 

13. A young naval officer, when asked what period 
of a certain battle was the most dreadful, replied: 
" The few hushed moments when they sprinkled the 
deck with sand to drink the human blood as yet un- 
shed." 



A TALKING BIRD. 



19 



n. — A TALKING BIRD. 



Ir^r-tisw, n,, mntoAl rlvw, 
AxfcV'KX»€r, n., •orreotnafls. 
Mem'o-ba-bls, a., worthy to be r«« 

membered. 
Op'kb-a-tor, n., one who opermtee. 
Vo-cir'sn-ATB,, v. /., to vtter with k 

loud Yoioe* 



Yield, ». t,, to giro up. 
Scis'soRS, n.jU., small shean. 
FsATH'sBBD^fp., coTered with feathers. 
Be-ybaleo'; v. t., disolosed. 
Ex-sued', v. t., followed. 
An'ec-dote, n., a prirate laot. 
' Yis'i-BLE, a., apparent. 

Gire the y sound to u in tune. Do not say pint fpr pHnt^ winder §o€ wfa'^w,/or. 
rird tot for'wardj akyount Ibr ac-counV, J?ronoanoe toward to rhyme with board. 

1. As a talker the parrot has Bome rivals among 
birds. The magpie, the jay and the raven, may be 
taught to utter intelligible sentences; but all these, 
and even the parrot himself, most yield to the star- 
lings who, to the faculty of speech^ adds the charm of 
a wild but melodious song. 

2. Anecdotes of the starling are not uncommon. 
Every body knows the story of Sterne's imprisoned 

/bird, who complained unceasingly, " I can't get out — 
I can't get out ; " and perhaps most of our readers 
cpuld match that story with another as good. 

3. But I once fell in with a starling whose genius 
soared far above that of the bird of Sterne ; and I will 
give you an account of that memorable interview, in 
which I shall be careful to set down nothing more 
than the simple fact. Thus it was. 

4. On a day, now many years ago, when I hap« 
pened to require the services of a barber, I stepped 
into the shop of one in a rather retired street. It was 
verging toward sunset, and, the shop-window beitig 
darkened with wigs, busts, bottled hair-brushes, per- 
fumes and sponges, the contents of the apartment were 
not clearly visible in, the dim light. 

5. On my opening the door, a voice called out; 
*' Gentleman wants to be shaved — gentleman wants 
to be shaved I " — " No," said I, " I want my hair cut." 



20 A TALKING BIBD. 

' — '' Gentleman wants to be shaved ! " rang the voico 
again. 

6. The barber came forward from an inner room, 
saying, " You 're wrong this time, Jacob ; " and, draw- 
ing up a small blind to let in more light, revealed a 
starling in a cage, who, I then saw, had been the sole 
shopkeeper when I entered. 

7. While I sat under the scissors, the operator comr 
menced a conversation with the bird. " Come, Jacob, 
give us a song, now; come, Jacob!" — "Come and 
kiss me, then," said the bird, in accents almost as plain 
as those of a child of six or seven years ; " come and 
kiss me — come and kiss me — come and kiss me I " 

8. The barber put his lips to the wires of the cage, 
and the bird thrust 4^is biU between them, and a suc- 
cession of loud kisses ensued, in which it was not pos- 
sible to distinguish those of the human from those of 
the feathered biped, until the barber had resumed hia 
task, when the bird continued kissing the air for some 
minutes. 

9. " Come, that 's kissing enough, Jacob ; now givft 
us a song. Come, ' Home, sweet home I ' " With 
that the barber began whistling the air ; the starling 
took it up, and continued it alone to the concluding 
bar of the second strain, whistling it with perfect accu- 
racy up to that point, and then breaking into its own 
wild natural song. 

10. " Ah ! Jacob, Jacob I why don't you finish you* 
music? — That 's the way it is, sir; you can't get 
them to sing a whole tune ; they always go oflF into 
their own wild notes before they get to the end." 

11. Jacob now began again to insist that I wanted 
shaving ; he would only be convinced to the contrary 
by more kissing. When he was quieted, I asked hia 
owner how he had succeeded in teaching him so 
effectually. 



SIB CHABLES KAPIEB. 21 

12. ''I had him young, sir/' he said, '' and he had 
nothing to unlearn when I got him. I sit bj him 
nearly all day, perhaps weaving a wig, or doing some 
other quiet job ; and I talk to him, and he talks to me. 
Of course I don't try to teach him more than one thing 
at a time. He can talk more than you have yet heard, 
and he '11 speak again presently." 

13. Of this I had some doubts, as the bird was then 
busy feeding ; but no sooner was the cloth removed 
from my neck, and I rose from my seat, than up started 
Jacob to his perch, and began shouting, with the 
whole force of his little lungs : " Gentleman, pay your 
money — gentleman, pay your money I " and he con- 
tinued to vociferate this delicate reminder long after 
the money was paid — as long, indeed, as I continued 
within hearing. 



in. — SIR CHARLES NAPIER. 



Feat, h,, tk rare deed; a triok. 
Staft, n., oiBoerf about a general. 
Stbad't, a., firm. 
Coir'QUES (konk'er), v. t,, to orer- 

come. 
Stat'ttrb, n., height of a man. 
Juo'oLER, ft., a person who practices 

sleight of hand tricks. 



Dx-TEBBBD'y 9. t., stoppcd hj fesT. 
Pjcr'il-ous, a., full of danger. 
Es-pla-itadb', n., a sloping grass-plat, 
Msir'A-cnrG, a., threatening. 
Sur'Bi-TiTE, a. haring aoote feelings. 
Cou-Lu'sioH, n.y a seeret agreement for 

fraud. 
FoB'n-TVDB, n., endurance. 



Pronoance Napier, Nafpeer f txtraordinary, ex'tror^di'-na-rjf ; wound, woondf 
tufordy tord. Do not say holler for hol'low, meeouni for mount, venter for venfure, 
^errit for epir'it. 

1. Sir Charles Napier was an English general, of 
extraordinary courage and determination. He was 
born in the year 1782. As a child he was weak and 
sickly, but of a noble spirit. Bold and fearless, he was 
at the same time compassionate as a girl. Naturally 
sensitive, he could, by his force of will, call up daring 
\il4 fortitude to conquer his timidity. 



22 SIB OHABLES NAPIEB. 

2. Unlucky as to accidents, he was never deterred 
thereby from striving in all the perilous feats of youth 
in youth, and in ail great actions becoming ag^ in age* 
When but ten years old, he struck his leg, in leaping, 
against a roughly-riveted bar with such force as to 
tear the flesh from the bone in a frightful manner. 
The wound was severe, but he bore the pain and fear 
with a spirit that excited the admiration of stem men. 

3. His moral resolution was very early shown. 
When he was but six years old, a wandering show- 
man was one day displaying his powers on the Es- 
planade at Castletown. This showman was short of 
stature, but huge of limb, with a savage expression of 
face, thick red hair and beard, alid a harsh voice. He 
was rather an alarming object to a child. 

4. A crowd of people gathered round him, atid after 
displaying some of his tricks, the man, balancing a 
ladder on his chin, invited, or rather, with menacing 
tone, ordered a chimney-sweep to mount and sit on 
the top ; but the boy shrank with fear from the shout- 
ing ruffian. Charles Napier was asked by his fathef 
if he would venture. Silent for a moment, he seetned 
to fear; but, suddenly looking up, said yes, and was 
borne aloft amid the cheers of the spectators. 

5. Again : at ten years of age, having, when angling, 
caught a fish, he was surprised by the descent of a 
half-tamed eagle, of great size and fierceness, Which, 
floating down from a tree, settled on his shoulders^ 
covered him with its huge dark wings, and took the 
fish out of his hands. Far from being frightened, he 
pursued his sport, and^ on catching another fish, held 
it up, inviting the eagle to try again, at the same time 
threatening the formidable bird with the spear-end of 
the rod. 

6. When Napier became a general, he took the right 
method for inspiring his men with his own heroip 



BIB CHABLEB NAUEB. 2S 

j^nt. H6 worked as hard as anj private soldier in 
the ranks. '^ The great art of commanding," he said, 
'^ is to ta^e a &ir share of the woric The man who 
leads an army can not succeed unless his whole mind 
is given to his task." 

7. An anecdote of his interview with a fiunons In- 
dian juggler shows his cool courage as well as his 
simplicity and honesty of character. After a certain 
battle, this juggler visited the camp, and performed 
his feats before the general, his fiunily, and staff. 
Among other performances, the man cut in two wi& 
a stroke of his sword a lime or lemon placed in the 
hand of his assistant. 

8. Sir Charles thouj^t there was some collusion 
between this assistant and the juggler. To divide by 
a sweep of the sword on a man's hand so small an 
object without touching the flesh, he believed to be 
impossible. To determine the point, he offered his ^ 
own hand for the experiment, and stretched out his 
right antik 

9. The juggler looked attentively at the hand, and 
fisdd he would not make the trial. '' I thought I would 
find you out I " exclaimed Sir Charles. " But stop," 
added the juggler ; " let me see your left hand." The 
left hand was submitted, and the jnan then said, firmly, 
'^ If yon will hold your arm steady, I will perform 
the feat." 

10. "But why the left hand and not the right?" 
asked Sir Charles. "Because," replied the juggler, 
^ the right hand is hollow in the center, and there is a 
nsk of cutting off the thumb )- the left is high, and 
the danger will be less." Sir Charles was startled^ 
^ I got frightened," he afterward said ; " I saw it wa« 
an actual feat of delicate swordsmanship. 

11. « If 1 had not abused the man before my staff, 
and challenged hhn to the trial, I honestly acknowl- 



24 



THE WILL AND THE WAT. 



edge I would have retired from the encounter. How- 
ever, I put the lime on my hand, and held out my arm 
Steadily. The juggler balanced himself, and, with a 
swift stroke, cut the lime in two pieces. I felt the 
edge of the sword on my hand as if a cold thread had 
been drawn across it" 



IV.— THE WELL AND THE WAY. 



MAz'iir, n,, a saying ; a prorerb. 
Har'shal, «., a ehief offioer. 
iBK^fiom^ a,f tedioiu. 
Bk'al-ize, V, t., to view as real. 
Viy'id-lt, ad., with spirit. 
Ix'BB-ciLa, a., weak ; infirm. 



Prih'ci-ple, n., a fixed belief. 
Mag'is-trate, n,, a cirU oiBoer. 
Eh-cou^'tbr, n., a meeting. 
Dbs'ul-to-rt, a.f without order. 
Cov-ceit-tra'tiov, n., aot of driring 
to a common center. 



0*er is a eontractloa of over. Pronoance Siraeh, S^rak ; dettOUy with aooeot on last 
syllable. Bo not say retl for re'al. Glye the y sound to u in $tu'pid. 

1. Nothing that is of real worth can be achieved 
without courageous working. Man owes his growth 
chiefly to that active striving of the will, that encoun- 
ter with difficulty, which we call effort ; and it is ar- 
tonishing to find how often results that seemed im- 
practicable are thus made possible. 

2. It is related of a young French officer that he 
used to walk about his apartment, exclaiming, " I will 
be Marshal of France and a great general." This 
ardent desire was the presentiment of his success ; for 
he did become a great commander, and he died a 
marshal of France. 

3. The story is told of a working carpenter, who 
was observed one day repairing, with more than usual 
care, a magistrate's bench ; and when asked the rea- 
son, he replied, "Because I wish to make it easy 
against the time when I come to sit on it myself." 
And, singularly enough, the man actually lived to sit 
upon that very bench as a magistrate. 



THE WILL AND THE WAY. 25 

' 4. That which most easily becomes a habit in us is 
the wiU. Learn, then, to will strongly and decisively ; 
thus fix your floating life, and leave it no longer to be 
carried hither and- thither, like a withered leaf, by 
every wind that blows. 

5. John Sterling, in a letter to his son, urges him 
to realize in his youth what a serious matter our life 
is ; how unworthy and stupid it is to trifle it away 
vrithout heed ; what a wretched, insignificant, worth- 
less creature any one comes to be, who does not as 
soon as possible bend his whole strength, as in string- 
ing a stiff* bow, to do whatever task lies before him. 

6. One of Napoleon's favorite maxims was, "The 
truest wisdom is a resolute determination." His life, 
beyond most others, vividly showed what a powerful 
will could accomplish. He threw his whole force of 
body and mind direct upon his work. Imbecile rulers 
and the nations they governed went down before him 
in succession. He used to say that he beat the Aus- 
trians because tbey never knew the value of time. 
" Every moment lost," he said, " gives an opportunity 
for misfortune." 

<* For indecision brings its own delays, 
And days are lost, lamenting o^er lost days. 
Are you in earnest ? Seize this very minute — 
What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. 
Boldness has. genius, power, and magic in it." 

7. Powell Buxton, writing to one of his sons, re- 
marks, " You must now give proofs of principle, deter- 
mination, and strength of mind, or you milst sink into 
idleness, and acquire the habits and character of a 
desultory, inefficient young man ; and if you once fall 
to that point, you will find it no easy matter to rise 
again. ' Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with 
all thy might.' I am sure that a young man may be 
very much what he pleases." 



26 THE WILL AND THE WAT. 

8. Energy enables a man to force his way through 
irksome drudgery and dry details, and carries him on- 
ward and upward in every station in life. It accom- 
plishes more than genius, with n4)t one half the dis- 
appointment and peril. 

9. "Woe unto him that is faint-hearted I" says the 
son of Sirach. There is, indeed, no blessing equal 
to the possession of a stout heart. Even if a man fail 
in his efforts, it will be a great satisfaction to him to 
enjoy the consciousness of having done his best. 

10. Lay it down as a maxim, that nothing can be 
accomplished without a fixed purpose — a concentra- 
tion of mind and energy. Whatever you attempt to 
do, whether it be the writing of an essay, or the whit* 
tling of a stick, let it be done as well as you can do it. 
It was this habit that made great men of Franklin, and 
Newton, and hundreds whose labors have been of 
incalculable service to mankind. 

11. Fix your mind closely and intently on what you 
undertake : in no other way can you have a reasona- 
ble hope of success. An energy that dies in a day is 
good for nothing. The inventions that bless mankind 
were not the result of a few moments' thought and 
investigation. A lifetime has often been given to a 
single object. It is will — force of purpose — that 
enables a man to do or be whatever he sets his mind 
on being or doing. 

12. A strong desire may itself transform possibility 
into reality. A holy man was accustomed to say, 
"Whatever yon wish^ that you are; for such is the 
force of the human will, joined to the Divine, that 
whatever we wish to be, seriously, and with a true 
intention, that we become. No one ardently wishes 
to be submissive, patient, modest, or liberal, who does 
not become what he wishes," 



THE EVENING HOUR. 



27 



v.— THE EVENING HOUR. 



Wba'bt, a.f tired ; fatigued. 
Twi'lioht, n.f the faint light after 

Banset and before snzirise. 
Con'verse, n., familiar talk. 
Vault'ed, a,f arohed. 



Rb-u^asb', n., liberation. 
Shad'ow-t, a., like a shadow. 
Team, n., two or more honei or 0X4 

yoked together. 
Tbought'ful, a., attentire. 



Bo not say dooi for d«iM, creoum for erowrif evenin* for eve'ning. Prono 
heavenly y hivfvn-4y j Daniel^ D&n'i-il, 

fewEET evening hour ! Dear evening hour I 
That calms the air and shuts the flower ; 
That brings the wild bird to its nest, 
The infant to its mother's breast. 



Sweet hour! that bids the laborer cease ; 
That gives the weary team release, 
And leads them home, and crowns them there 
With rest and shelter, food and care. 

1 season of soft sounds and hues. 
Of twilight walks among the dews. 
Of tender memories, converse sweet. 
And thoughts too shadowy to repeat I 

Yes, lovely hour I thou art the time • 
When feelings flow and wishes climb, 
When timid souls begin to dare. 
And God receives and answers prayer. 

Then, trembling, from the vaulted skies 
The stars look out, like thoughtful eyes 
Of angels calm reclining there. 
And gazing on our world of care. 

Sweet hour I for heavenly musing made. 
When Isaac walked, and Daniel prayed. 
When Abram's offerings God did own. 
And Jesus loved to be alone I 



£8 



THE sailor's life. 



VI.— THE SAILOR'S LIFE. 



NuvBED, pp,, torpid with oold. 

Sail'ob, n., a seaman. 

For'eiqn, a.y belonging to another 

coantry. 
Ob'phan, n.y a oUId ivho has lost 

father or mother, or both. 
Mar'ttb, n.f one who soffers death 

for the truth. 



Ice'eerg, n., a great mass of ioe. 
Sby'er-al, a.f separate ; many. 
Ab-til'le-bt, n.f weapons for war, 

chiefly oannon. 
Laz-a-bbt'to, n.y a house for diseased 

persons. 
Tor'AaB, n., a journey by sea. 
Pil'lar, n., a column ; a support. 



Bo not say inttkt for in'aeeU, ariek for tkriek, widder tor yaidfow^ dettitoot tot 
ie^tUmte. Pronounce ofttUy of'fn j against^ a^enat'. 

1. 0, THE difference between sea and land! The 
sailor lives a life of daily, hourly, momentary risk, and 
he reckons it by voyages. He goes on your errands, he 
dares dangers for you, he lives a strange life for you. 

2. Think of what winter is at sea. Think of what it 
is to have the waves discharge themselves on a ship, 
with a roar like artillery, and a force not much less. 
Think of what it is for a sailor to be aloft in the 
rigging, holding on by a rope, wet with the rain, or 
numbed with the cold, and with the mast of the ship 
swaying, like a reed, with the wind. 

3. Think of what it is when men drop from the yard 
arms into the sea, or when they are washed, like insects 
from the deck. Think of what it is, day and night, 
without rest and without sleep, to strive against a 
storm, — against the power of wind and waves,— • 
every wave a mighty enemy to surmount. 

4. Think what it is to strike a rock, — to shriek but 
once, and then, perhaps, be drowned. Think of the 
diseases that come of hardships at sea. Think of wha^ 
it is to be sick in a lazaretto, — to be dying in £t for- 
eign hospital. Think of all this, and then, perhaps, 
you will think rightly of what it is to be a sailor. 

5. Think of what you yourselves owe to the sailor. 
It is through his intervention that you are possessed 



TH£ SAILOB'S life. 29 

of those comforts that make of a house a home. Live 
comfortably you can not, — live at all, perhaps, you 
can not, — ^without seamen will expose themselves for 
you, risk themselves for you, and, alas ! often, very 
often, drown, — drown in your service, — drown, and 
leave widows and orphans destitute. 

6. ! what a consideration it is, that, so oft;en, my 
happiness is from sujffering somewhere I The church I 
worship in has every one of its pillars deep founded 
in a martyr's grave. The philosophy that delights me 
for its truth is what some wise man had first to learn 
in bitterness. My comforts are mine, many of them, 
through other men's miseries. Commerce spreads the 
world about with blessings, but not without there 
being shipwrecks from it on every coast, and deaths 
by drowning, — several every day, the year round. 

7. Ah I yes ; to beg with me, to plead with me, for 
the widow: and orphan of the mariner, there comes, 
from many a place where seamen have died, a call, a 
prayer, a beseeching voice ; — a cry from the coast of 
Guinea, where there is fever evermore ; a cry from 
Arctic seas, where icebergs are death; a cry from 
coral reefs, that ships are wrecked on horribly ; a cry 
from many a foreign city, where the sailor, as he dies, 
speaks of his family, and is not understood ,• a cry from 
mid-ocean, where many a sailor drops into a sudden 
grave I 

8. They ask your help, your charity, for the widows 
and orphans of those who, in times past, have gone 
down to the sea, — have gone down to the sea in 
ships I They ask you to remember, amid the com- 
forts and advantages of civilized life on dry land, 
the hourly perils and privations of the sailor ; of him 
through whose daring and toil the products of nations 
are interchanged, and the intercourse that shall one 

day make brethren of all mankind is kept up. 

2* 



32 CATILINE DENOUNCED BY CICERO. 

or seduces. By any fascination of manner ? His was 
only correct and agreeable. 

9. By what was it, then ? Merely by sense, indus- 
try, good principles, and a good heart — qualities 
which no well-constituted mind need ever despair of 
attaining. It was the force of his character that raised 
him; and this character not impressed on him by 
nature, but formed, out of no peculiarly fine elements, 
by himself. 

10. There were many in the House of Commons of 
far greater ability and eloquence. But no one sur- 
passed him in the combination of an adequate portion 
of these with moral worth. Horner was bom to show 
what moderate powers, unaided by any thing whatever 
except culture and goodness, may achieve, even when 
these powers are displayed amidst the competitions 
and jealousies of public life. 



Vin. — CATIUNE DENOUNCED BY CICERO. 



Daunt'ed, pp,, frightened. 

Baf'fle, v. t; to frustrate. 

Coun'cil, n., an assembly for consulta- 
tion. 

Slaugh'ter, n., butchery. 

Arch'iyes (arklvz), n., records. 

Scab'babd, n,, a sheath for a sword. 

For'feit, n., fine for an offense. 

Stat'ute, n., a law. 

Trea'son, n.f the crime of plotting 
against government. 



Con- yoked', pp,, called together. 
Con-front', v. u, to stand face to 

face. ^ 

De-ferred', pp.j put off. 
Post-pone', v. t., to defer. 
Con-spire', v. i,, to plot. 
De-yise' (de-vize'), v. t., to contrive. 
Pa-la'ti-uk, n.f the imperial palace 

of Rome. 
Ex'e-cra-ble, a., very hateful. 
Vig'i-lant, a., watchful. 



Pronounce Cicero, Sis't-ro ; Catiline, Cat'p4ine j the au in daunfed like a in 
father ; aword, aordj heard, herd ; are, r ; noth'ing, nUth'ingj dost, dutt. Give the 
y sound to u in du'ty, atat'ute, &c. Mind the aspirate in while. Sound short i in 
eoun'cil. 

Cicero, the greatest of Roman orators, was bom at Ar-pl'num, in Italy, 106 B. C, and 
was murdered by soldiers in his sixty-fourth year. One of his most celebrated speeches 
is that against Catiline, a high-born but profligate conspirator against the government. 

1. How far, 01 Catiline, wilt thou abuse our pa- 
tience ? How long shalt thou baffle justice in thy mad 



CATILINE DENOUNCED BY CICEBO. S3 

career? To what extreme wilt thou carry thy audac- 
ity ? Art thou nothing daunted by the^ightly watch, 
posted to secure lEe Palatium ? Nothing, by the city 
guards ? JTothing, by the rally of all good citizens ? 
Nothing, by the as semb ling of the Senate in this forti- 
fied place ? Nothing, by the averted looks of all hero 
present? - - 

2. Seest thou not that all thy plots are exposed?— 
that thy wretched conspiracy is laid bare to the knowl- 
edge of every man, here in the Senate ? — that we are 
well aware of thy proceedings of last night ; of the 
night before ; the place of meeting, the company con- 
voked, the measures concerned? 

3. 0. the times I 0, the morals of the times I The 
Senate understand all this. The Consul sees it. And 
yet the traitor lives! Lives? Ay, truly, and con- 
fronts us here in council, — presumes to take part in 
our delibefafions, — and, with his calculating eye, 
marks out each man of us for slaughter! And we, 
the while, think we have amply discharged our duty 
to the State, if we do but succeed in warding oflfihis 
madman's s Word and fury ! 

. 4. Long since, Catiline I ought the Consul to have 
o rdere gftiroe tTT execution, and brought upon thy own 
head the destrucHon thou hast been plotting against 
otEers ! There was in Rome that virtue once, that a 
wicked citizen waTheld more execrable than the dead- 
liest Toe! JFor thee, Catiline, we have still a law. Think 
not, because we are forbearing, that we are powerless. 

^5. We have a statute, — though it rests among our 
archiv es like a sword in its scabbard, — a statute 
which makes ihylyfe the forfeit of thy crimes. And, 
should I order thee to be instantly seized and put to 
death, i do not doubt that all g ood m en would say 
that the punishment, instead of being too cruel, was 
only too long deferred. 



'34 TURNING AWAY WRATH. 

6. But, for sufficient reasons, I will a while postpone 
the blow. TlherTwill 1 doom thee, when no man is tb 
be found, so lost to reason, so depraved, so like tht^ 
sd/,^ that he will not admit the sentence was deserved. 
While there is one man who ventures to def endl;Hee , 
live I 

" 7." But thou shalt live so beset, so hemmed in, so 
watched, by the vigilant guards I have placed around 
thee, that tEou shalt not stir a foot against the Repuy 
lie without my knowledge. There s hall be eves, to 
detect thy slightest movement, and ears to c atch t hy 
wanest whisper. Thou "slialt be seen and heard wlien 
thou dost not dream of a witness near. The darkness 
of night shall not cover thy treason ; the walls of pri- 
vacy shall not stifle its voice. 

8. Baffled on all sides^ thy most secret projects clear 
as noonday, what canst thou now devise ? Proceed, 
plot, conspire, as thoii wilt ; there is nothing thou canst 
contrive, propose, attempt, which I shall not promptly 
be made aware' of. Thou shalt soon be convincea tnat 
I am'^eveh more active in providingTbr the'preserva- 
'tion of the State, than thou in plotting its destruction I 



IX. — TURNING AWAY WRATH. 



fioME'sTBAD, n., an old family place. 
Neigh'bor, n.t one living near. 
Span'iel (span'yel), n., a dog ased In 

field-sports. 
Past'urb, n., gronnd covered with 

grass for cattle. 
Tresspassed, v. t., transgressed. 
A- vail', n., advantage. 



Ad'yo-cate, n., one who maintains a 

cause by argument. 
Par-ti'tion, n., that which separates. 
Ad-join'ing, a., lying near. 
LiT^ER-AL-LY, od.y acoordiug to th« 

letter. 
Gaunt, a., lean ; meager. 
An'swered, v., replied. 



Pronounce the cm in flaunt like a in father ; pretty^ priVty ; were, wer ; heard^ herd f 
agairiy a^in'. Bo not say adjine for ad-join' j destri for destroy' } cumt for out} 
aimett for ecar'neat (the ea like e in her), 

1. "I ONCE had," said William Ladd, the advocate of 
peace, " a fine field of grain growing upon an out-farm. 



TURNING AWAY WBATH. 35 

at some distance from the homestead. Whenever I 
rode by I saw my neighbor Pulcifer's sheep in the lot, 
destroying my hopes of a harvest. 

2. "These sheep were of the gaunt, long-legged 
kind, active as spaniels ; they would spring over the 
highest fence, and no partition wall could keep them 
out. I complained to neighbor Pulcifer about them, 
and sent him frequent messages, but all without avail. 

3. " Perhaps they would be kept out for a day or 
two; but the legs of the sheep were long, and my 
grain more tempting than the adjoining pasture. I 
rode by again : the sheep were still there. I became 
angry, and told my men to set the dogs on them ; and, 
if that would not do, I would pay them if they would 
shoot the sheep. 

4. " I rode away much agitated ; for I was not so 
much of a peace man then as I am now, and I felt lit- 
erally full of fight. All at once a light flashed in on 
me. I asked myself, ' Would it not be well for you to 
try in your own conduct the peace principle you are 
teaching to others?' 

5. " I thought it all over, and settled down in my 
mind as to the best course to be pursued. The next 
day I rode over to see neighbor Pulcifer. I found 
him chopping wood at his door. ' Good morning, 
neighbor I' said I. No answer. 'Good morning I' I 
repeated. He gave a kind of grunt, without looking 
up. 

6. " ' I came,' continued I, ' to see about the sheep.' 
At this he threw down his ax, and exclaimed, in an 
angry manner, ' Now are n't you a pretty neighbor, to 
tell your men to kill my sheep ? I heard of it ; a rich 
man, like you, to shoot a poor man's sheep !' 

7. . " ' I was wrong, neighbor,' said I ; * but it won't 
do to let your sheep eat up aU that grain ,• so I came 
over to say that I would take your sheep to my home- 



36 THE WORTH OF FAME. 

stead pasture^ and put them in with mine ; and in the 
fall you shall take them back, and if any one is missing 
you may take your pick out of my whole flock.' 

8. " Pulcifer looked confounded ; he did not know 
how to take me. At last he stammered out, 'Now, 
'Squire, are you in earnest ? ' — ' Certainly I am,' 1 
answered ; ' it is better for me to feed your sheep in 
my pasture on grass, than, to feed them here on grain ; 
and I see the fence can't keep them out.' 

9. " After a moment's silence, ' The slieep shall not 
trouble you any more,' exclaimed Pulcifer. 'I will 
fetter them all. But I '11 let you know that when any 
man talks of shooting, I can shoot, too ; and when a 
man is kind and neighborly, I can be kind and neigh- 
borly, too.' The sheep never again trespassed on my 
lot. 

10. " Now, my friends, remember this : When na- 
tions threaten to fight, other nations will be ready, too. 
Love will beget love ; a wish to be at peace will keep 
you in peace. You can overcome evil with good 
There is no other way." 



X. — THE WORTH OF FAME. 



Sloth'fxtl, a.f idle ; lazy. 
JBKP'Tr, a.f oontaining nothing. 
Mioht'y, a., powerful ; strong. 



Pil'qrim, n., a wanderer. 
Wist'ful, a,, full of thought. 
Ob-liy'i-on, n., forgetfulness. 



Bo not B&jpint for point ; objeek for ob'ject ; toile for vohile. Pronounce the o is 
nothing like short u, as in nut, 

I WHO shall lightly say that Fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
While in that sound there is a charm 
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm, 
As, thinking of the mighty dead, 

The young from slothful couch shall starts 
And vow, with lifted hands outspread. 

Like them to act a noble part I 



LAST DATS OF MADAME BOLAKD. SI 

1 who shall lightly say that Fame 

Is nothing but an empty name, 

When, but for those, — our mighty dead, — 

All ages past, a blank would be, 
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed, — 

A desert bare, a shipless sea ? 
They are the distant objects seen, — 
The lofty marks of what haffi been. 

I who shall lightly say that Fame 
Is nothing but an empty name. 
When memory of the mighty dead. 

To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye, 
The brightest rays of cheering shed. 

That point to immortality ? 

Joanna Baiuje. (1766— 1860.> 



XI. — LAST DAYS OF MADAME ROLAND, 



Scaf'fold, n., a temporary stage 
Right'eous, a., jast ; right. 
Des'pot, n., an absolute sovereign. 
Cra'ven, a., cowardly ; base. 
Cab'biage, n., a yebicle with two or 

more wheels. 
Ruf'fian, n,, a brutal fellow. 
Re-ceite', v. t.f to accept. 
OoN-TROL'y n., governing power. 
Pro-scribed', j^p., doomed ; outlawed. 



GoN-TEN'Tioir, n., an assembly. 
Co-LOs'sAL (from Colossus, a gigunlQ 

statue), a.f huge in size. 
Oor'ri-dor, n., a passage ; a gallery. 
Cov'E-iiAirT (kuv'e-nant), n., a mutual 

agreement. 
Guil'lo-tine (gillo-teen), n., a ma* 

chine for beheading persons. 
I-ron'i-cal, a., spoken in irony or 

sarcastic praise. 



In Riy-land\ the accent is on the last syllable. Give the y sound to u in at'ti-tude. 
The c in the last syllable of sac'ri-Jice has the sound of z. Do not say libutty for 
lib'er-ty ; presunce for pri^ince ; acrost for chcroM, 

1. During the reign of terror in Prance, Madame 
Roland waa brought before the Convention on an ab- 
surd charge of treasonable correspondence with Eng- 
land. By her presence of mind, her acuteness, and 
her wit, she baffled and mortified her accusers. 

2. But on the 31st of May, 1793, she was again 

A ~ 



88 LAST DATS OF HADAHE BOLAND. 

arrested; and sent to prison* As an officer was con- 
ducting her, he asked if she wished to have the win- 
dows of the carriage closed. "No," replied she; 
" oppressed innocence should not assume the attitude 
of crime and shame. I do not fear the looks of honest 
men, and I brave those of my enemies." 

3. The cowards apd ruffians who then had control 
of public aflfairs in France were afraid of the talents 
and the influence of this woman. They determined 
on her death. They gave her a trial ; but it was a 
mere mockery of justice, a solemn farce. In her 
address before the Revolutionary Tribunal, on the 8th 
of November, 1793, she spoke as follows : 

4. " Not to its own times merely does the generous 
mind feel that it belongs. It comprehends in its re- 
gard the whole human race, and extends its care even 
to posterity. It was my lot to be the friend of men 
proscribed and sacrificed by those who hated them for 
their superiority. And I must perish in my turn I I 
have a double claim to death at your hands. 

5. "When Innocence walks to the scajffold at the 
command of error and of guilt, every step she takes is 
an advance to glory. Might I be the last victim of 
that furious spirit of party, by which you are impelled, 
with what joy would I quit this unfortunate earth, 
which swallows up the friends of virtue, and drinks 
the blood of the just ! 

6. " Truth I Friendship I Country I — sacred objects, 
sentiments dear to my heart, — accept my last sac- 
rifice I My life was devoted to you, and you will ren- 
der my death easy and glorious. Righteous Heaven I 
enlighten this wretched people, for whom I invoked 
liberty. 

7. "Liberty? Ah! that is for noble minds — not 
for weak beings who enter into a covenant with guilt, 
and try to varnish cowardice and selfishness with the 



LAST BATS OF l£\I»Hir BOLASD. 39 

name of prudence; — not for corrupt wretches who 
rise from the bed of vice, qjjk from the mire of indi- 
gence, to feast their eyes on the noble blood that 
streams from the scaffold. 

8. " 0, no I Liberty is the portion of a people who 
delight in humanity, who revere justice, despise flat- 
tery, and venerate truth. While you are not such a 
people, I my fellow-citizens, in vain will you talk of 
liberty. Instead of Uberty, you will have licentious- 
ness ; and to that you will all in your turns fall victims. 
You will ask for bread, and will get — dead bodies I 
And at length you will bow down your necks to the 
yoke, and find your vile refuge in the rule of a despot. 

9. " I make no concealment of my sympathies, my 
opinions. I know that a Roman mother once was sent 
to the scaffold for lamenting the death of her son. I 
know that, in times of delusion and party rage, he who 
dares avow himself the friend of the proscribed, ex- 
poses himself to their fate. 

10. " But I do not fear death. I never feared any 
thing but guilt ; and I will not purchase life at the 
price of a lie. Woe to the titaes I Woe to the peo- 
ple, among whom to do homage to disregarded truth is 
to incur their hate I Happy he who, under such cir- 
cumstances, is bold enough to defy that hate — as I 
do!" 

11. All the eloquence, all the courage, all the femi- 
nine beauty of Madame Roland, could not save her 
from the guillotine. She heard herself sentenced to 
death, with the air of one who saw in her condemna- 
tion merely her title to immortality. She rose, and, 
slightly bowing to her craven judges, said, with an 
ironical smile, " I thank you for considering me wor- 
thy to share the fate of the good and great men you 
have murdered." 

12. As she passed along the corridor, where the 



40 



GAIUS GBACCHUS TO THE ROMANS. 



other prisoners had assembled to greet her return, she 
Ipoked at them smilingijji and, drawing her right hand 
across her throat, made a sign expressive of cutting 
oflF a head. This was her only farewell ; it was tragio 
as her destiny, joyous as her deliverance; and well 
was it understood by those who saw it. 

13. To the last moment did this remarkable woman 
preserve her presence of mind, her intrepidity, and 
even her gayety. A colossal statue of Liberty, com^ 
posed of clay, like the liberty of the time, stood near 
the scaffold. Bowing before this statue, as though to 
do homage to a power ibr whom she was about to die, 
she exclaimed; " Liberty I Liberty I how many crimes 
are committed in thy name ! " She then resigned her- 
self to the hands of ^ the executioner, and in a few 
seconds her head fell into the basket placed to receive 
it. 



Xn. — CAIUS GRACCHUS TO THE ROMANS. 



Tbib'use, n., a Roman magistrate. 

Ab'jbct, a., mean ; low. 

Vs'nal, a., get to sale. 

Fla'grant, a.y burning ; shamefoL 

QueVtor, f»., a Roman treasurer. 

U-SURP (yu-inrp'), v. t,, to seize and 
hold by wrong. 

Im-pu'ni-tt, n., exemption from pun- 
ishment. 

iN'sTi-aATE, V. r., to urge. 

Dbm'a-goove, n., a leader of the mob. 

£x-A6'aB-BATB, v.y to oYorstate. 



Fac'tioh-ist, n., one who promoiei 
faction or mischievous dissension. 

An'ar-chist (-kist), n., one who pro- 
motes disorder. 

In-sa'tiatb, a., not to be satisfied. 

Ra-pa'ciovs, a,f given to plunder. 

Spo-li-a'tion, n., robbery. 

Mhr'ce-na-by, a., hired ; venal. 

Rb-ik-au^ou-batb, v. t., to enter upoq 
again. 

Ar-is-toc'ra-ct, n., literally, a gor* 
emment by the best ; the gentry. 



Proixmnoe CaftM, KA'yva ; Oracckusy OrdVkut. The abbreviation B. G. stands fat 
Be/ore ChrUt, Do not say toomult for tii'muU» Give the y soand to long u. 

OftiuB Oraochos, bom B. C. 163, was the son of that Cornelia who onoe said, pointing 
to lier two boys, " These are my Jewels ! *^ Tiberias, his elder brother, an advocate of 
popular rights, was slain by the aristocratic party. 

1. It is now ten years, BomansI since my brother, 
Tiberius Gracchus, was elected your trib'une. In what 



CAIUS GRACCHUS TO THE BOMANS. 41 

a condition did he find you I The great body of tho 
people pining in ab'ject poverty ; thousands suffering 
for the want of daily bread ; eager to labor, but with- 
out a clod of earth they could call their own I A few 
men, rapacious, insatiate, reckless, claiming to be the 
aristocracy (the aristocracy 1), having amassed enor- 
mous wealth by extortion and fraud, lorded it over 
you with remorseless rigor. 

2. The class of small landed proprietors had disap- 
peared. Mercenary idlers, their fingers itching for 
bribes, political tricksters, hungry usurers, desperate 
gamblers, all the vilest abettors of lawless power, had 
usurped the places of men once the strength and glory 
of the republic. Incalculable distress among the mil- 
lions, imbounded wealth and prodigality among the 
hundreds, — such was the state of things ! 

3. The rich might crush and plunder the poor with 
impunity ; for your rulers were corrupt, your judges 
cowardly and venal, and money could buy them all to 
aid in any act of spoliation. And bribery at elections 
— open, unblushing, flagrant — kept in power the men 
who were thus sapping the life-blood of the country. 
Do I exaggerate? Do I not rather too faintly picture 
the deep woe and degradation of the people, — the ra- 
pacity, arrogance, and depravity, of their oppressors I 

4. It was at such a time that Tiberius Gracchus 
presented himself to you for the trib'uneship, and was 
elected. His affectionate heart had been wrung by 
the spectacle of your distresses. He had seen with 
indignation the atrocious system under which you 
were plundered and down-trodden. He resolved upon 
your rescue He flung defiance at your domestic 
tyrants. He swiftly put an end to that system of 
fraud by which they robbed you of the public lands. 

5. No shelter of wealth, no privilege of rank or of 
high place, could save the guilty from his honest 

4* 



42 CAIUS GBACCHUS TO THE ROMANS. 

wrath, Ilis fiery denunciation. In vain did they retort 
with the cheap words " demagogue 1 " " factionist ! " 
*' an^'archist !" There was that truthfulness in his very 
tones, that simplicity and nobleness in his very bear- 
ing, that dignity and gentleness in his very rage 
against wrong, that carried conviction of his sincerity 
to every heart. 

6. ! how they grew pale with anger, those aris'to- 
crats, as they called themselves, when they felt their 
power melting away ; when they saw the people re- 
covering their rights, under the resistless eloquence 
of that young, devoted spirit ! He must be silenced, 
this audacious trib'une, this questioner of the incor- 
ruptibility of the privileged classes, this friend and 
leader of the people ; — he must be silenced 1 A 
bloody revenge must be taken for the fears, which he 
has made these plunderers endure, of being deprived 
of their illegally-got possessions. 

7. Alas ! the foul deed was done. In a tumult, in- 
stigated for the purpose, your illustrious trib'une, this 
champion of the poor, this friend of the friendless, 
was slain. His very body, which his friends sought 
from his murderers, was refused them ; and your sacred 
river was made more sacred by receiving in its bosom 
all of Tiberius Gracchus that could perish. 

8. And now, men of Rome, if you ask, as those who 
fear me have asked, why I have left my questorship in 
Sardinia without leave from the Senate, here is my 
answer: I must either have come to you without 
leave, or not at all. And if you ask why I have come 
at all, here is my reply : I have come to present my- 
self for the office my brother held, and for serving you 
in which he was brutally murdered. 

9. I have come to vindicate his memory, to reinau- 
gurate his policy. I have come — I avow it frankly — 
to strip the privileged classes of their privileges, to 



REMABKABLE PBOYIDENCE. 



43 



restore popular rights, to uplift the crushed, to bring 
down the oppressor. 

10. I come with clean hands, Romans ! — with no 
coffers filled with gold from desolated provinces and a 
ruined people. I can offer no bribe for votes. I 
come back poor as I went, — poor in all but hatred 
of tyrants, and zeal to serve my country. Shall I be 
your trib'une?* 



Xm. — REMARKABLE PROVIDENCE. 



Sledge, n., a sled ; a sleigh. 
Anx'ious, a., ooncemed ; uneasy. 
Wat'far-sr, n.f a traveler. 
Gbad'u-al-ly, ad.f by degrees. 
Be-goy'ered, v. t,, regained. 



Bat'o-ket, n., a dagger fixed at tha 

end of a gun. 
Sat'is-fisd, pp,, made oontent. 
THBitAT'EN-iHO, fpT., menacing. 
Pbo'ple, n,, persons in general. 



Pronounce the u in Russian like u in rule ; exhaust, fgx-kawst' (not ex-awstf). 

1. A FEW days before Christmas, in the year 1840, a 
Russian clergyman was going home, from a place at 
some distance from the village where he lived. Even- 
ing was fast approaching, and the weather was so 
bitterly cojd that it was almost dangerous for any one 
to be out. The good man was wrapped in a fur cloak, 
and traveled in a sledge, drawn at great speed, by a 
single horse, over the hard, smooth snow. 

2. As the clergyman drove along, he saw something 
lying on the ground, and stopped to see what it was. 
He found that it was the body of a soldier, who seemed 
to have fallen down exhausted with the cold, and was, 
to all at)pearance, dead. The clergyman, however, 
would not leave him on the road, but lifted him and 
the gun lying beside him into the sledge, and, cheer- 

* Caius Gracchus was elected trihane B. C. 124. He entered holdly upon 
his patriotic policy, and carried out many important reforms ; hut the aris- 
tooracy, growing desperate, induced a creature of their own to outbid him in 
extreme measures, and brought about a state of things which resulted in tha 
defeat and subsequent death of Caius Gracchus. 



44 BEMABKABLE PBOYIBENCE. 

ing on his horse, drove as fast as he could to the next 
inn, which it took about half an hour to reach. 

3. Although anxious to be at home, the clergyinan 
was not satisfied with leaving the poor soldier in the 
care of the people at the inn. He stayed for an hour, 
directing and helping them to do all that was possible 
in order to bring the man to conscious life again. 
And at length their endeavors were successful Grad- 
ually the half-frozen wayfarer recovered his senses and 
the U3e of his limbs. 

4. Then the clergyman set oflF homeward, having 
first rewarded the people of the inn, and also given 
them money to pay for a good meal for the s oldie r. 
As soon as the latter was refreshed, and felt able to 
go, he insisted on doing so, although the people did 
all they could to persuade him not to venture out 
again that night. But he said that he was carrying 
important letters, and must not delay any longer than 
was necessary. 

5. So, taking his gun, he proceeded on his way, 
which he found would very soon bring him to the vil- 
la^ where lived the clergyman to whom he owed his 
life. On reaching the place, though it was now very 
late at ni^lxt, he could not forbear going to the clergy- 
man's house, that he might, if possible, see and thank 
the good old man for what he had done. 

6. As the honest soldier went up to the house, he 
saw that, though it was so late, there were still lights 
in it ; and, as he came nearer, he heard loud voices and 
great confusion, within. He ran to the door, but it 
was fastened. Without waiting to knock, he went to 
the window close by, and, looking in, saw the clergy- 
man surrounded by four armed robbers. They had 
just tied his hands and feet, and were threatening to 
murder hm if he would not tell them where his money 
was to be found. 



THE TEAGHEB'S YOCATI 



im. 



45 



w 

7. The soldier instantly forced his way in, and fired 
his gun at one of the robbers, wounding him severely. 
The others attacked the new comer, but he disabled 
one with his bayonet, and the other two, becoming 
alarmed, rushed out of the house, leaving the clergy- 
Bjan, as may be supposed, overpowered by astonish- 
ment and gratitude at his sudden deliverance. And 
then his still deeper and happier feelings may be 
imagined when be found that the poor man, whose 
life he had saved only a few hours before, had now 
been made the means of preserving his own I 



XIV.— THE TEACHER'S VOCATION. 



pHRABS (fr&ze), n.| a form of speech. 
ScouROE (skuij), n.f a torturing whip. 
Mar'tial, a,f pertaining to war. 
Spe'cies, n., a sort ; class ; kind. 
Brii/liant, a,, shining ; splendid. 
Bk-queath', v. f., to give by will. 



Vo-CA'noir, n,, calling ; trade. 
Mbd'i-tate, v., to muse ; think. 
Ep'i-taph (ep'e-taf), n., an inscrip' 

tion on a tombstone. 
Lr-DOM'i-TA-BLii a., not to be suK 

dued. 



Do not say re-nyovm for re-noum' j appint for ap-point'. See Szercises on the Kle- 
mentary Sounds, paragraphs 15 and 16. The mark over the Mcond e in blessed Is a 
diaeresis, and indicates that there is a separation firam the preceding syllable in the 
sound of the Yoirel, thus : bless'ed. Sound the h in hum'ble. Pronounce BrouglUm^ 
-Broom, ¥ 

1. There is nothing which the adversaries of im- 
provement are more wont to make themselves merry 
with, than what is termed the " march of intellect ; " 
and here I will confess that I think, as far as the 
phrase goes, they are in the right. It is a very ab- 
surd, because a very incorrect, expression. It is little 
calculated to describe the operation in question. 

2. It does not picture an image at all resembling 
the proceeding, of the true friends of mankind. It 
much more resembles the prog'ress of the enemy to 
all improvement. The conqueror moves in a march. 
He stalks onward with the '^ pride, pomp, and circump 



46 THE teacher's vocation. 

stance " of war ; banners flying, shouts rending the 
air, guns thundering, and martial music pealing, to 
drown the shrieks of the wounded and the lamenta« 
tions for the slain. 

3. Not thus the schoolmaster in his peaceful voca- 
tion ! He meditates and pur'poses in secret the plana 
which are to bless mankind ; he slowly gathers round 
him those who are to further their execution; he 
quietly though firmly advances in his humble path, 
laboring steadily but calmly till he has opened to the 
light all the recesses of ignorance, and torn up by the 
roots all the weeds of vice. 

4. His is a progress not to be compared with any 
thing like a march ; but it leads to a far more brilliant 
triumph, and to laurels more imperishable than the 
destroyer of his species, the scourge of the world, 
ever won. 

5. Such men — men deserving the glorious title of 
Teachers of Mankind — I have found, laboring consci- 
entiously, though, perhaps, obscurely, in their blessed 
vocation, wherever I have gone. I have found them 
among the daring, the ambitious, the ardent, the in- 
dom'itably active French. 

6. I have found them among the persevering, reso- 
lute, industrious Swiss ; I have found them among the 
laborious, the warm-hearted, the enthusiastic Ger- 
mans; I have found them among the high-minded 
Italians ; and in our own country. Heaven be thanked, 
their numbers every where abound, and are every 
day increasing. 

7. Their calling is high and holy ; their fame is the 
prosperity of nations ; their renown will fill the earth 
in after ages, in proportion as it sounds not far off in 
their own times. 

8. Each one of these great teachers of the world^ 
possessing his soul in peace, performs his appointed 



• w 



THE SIUPLETON AND THE ROGUES. 



47 



course; awaits in patience the fulfillment of the prom- 
iseS; and; resting from his labors, bequeaths his mem- 
ory to the generation whom his works have blessed, 
and sleeps under the humble but not inglorious epi* 
taph; commemorating '^ one in whom mankind lost a 
friend; and no man got rid of an enemy." 

Lord Brouoham. 



XV.— THE SIMPLETON AND THE ROGUES. 



liosQUi (mosk), n., a Mohammedan 

plaotf of worship. 
Ca'i.if, n.y a title of the suooeason of 

Mohammed. 
Pbab'ant (pez'ant), n,, a nutio. 
Cbup'per (krup'per or kroop'er), n., 

a strap to secure a saddle. 
Cas'sock, n., a ooat or frock. 
TuB'BAKy n,, a Turkish head-dress. 



Cok-cbit', %; self-flattering opinion. 
DfA-M OBD, n., the most preoions stone. 
STBAT'A-GBir, tft., an artifioe in war ; 

a trick for Tiotorj. 
Oob-cbbt'bd, v. l, planned together. 
Pbn'bivb-lt, ad.f thonghtfully. 
Pbe-cip-i-ta'tiob, n., rash haste. 
Au-tbbb'tic, a., tme ; to be relied on. 
Shbbwd'bbss, n., ilj conning. 



Glv« the y sound of alphabetic v to eio in new ; also to u in/uture^JIgttredj venturr^ 
dupedj &c. Avoid Ukjing folUr^ feller^ tot fotlow^ kc The th in wUh has the vocal 
sound it has in breaUu. 

m 

1. There once lived, on the banks of the river Ti'- 
gris, in Asia, a peasant, whose name was Malek. He 
was distinguished for nothing except the very high 
opinion which he had of his own wisdom and shrewd- 
ness. How fer he was right in this conceit may be 
judged from an adventure in which he figured, and of 
which I will give you an authentic account. 

2. Malek was the owner of a goat and a mule ; and, 
learning that he could get a good price for them in 
Bagdad, he mounted the mule, and took his way to 
the great city, followed by the goat, around whose 
neck was tied a bell. 

3. '' I shall sell these animals,'' said Malek to him- 
self, " for thirty pieces of silver ; and with that amount 
I can purchase a new turban and a rich robe of wool, 
which I will tie with a sash of purple silk. The yoxing 



48 THE SIMPLETON AND THE ROGUES. 

damsels will then smile more favorably upon me, and 
I shall be the finest man at the Mosque." 

4. Whilst he was thus reveling in the anticipation 
of his future conquests, three artful rogues concerted 
a stratagem for robbing him of all his possessions. As 
he was riding slowly along, one of the rascals slipped 
off the bell from the neck of the goat, and fastening it, 
without being perceived, to the crupper of the mule's 
saddle, led away the smaller beast. 

5. Malek, hearing the bell, and supposing that the 
goat was near behind, continued to muse, without sus- 
pecting his loss. Happening, however,xa short while 
afterward, to look round, he found with dismay that 
the animal which formed so large a part of his riches 
was gone ; and he inquired with the utmost anxiety 
after his goat of every traveler he met. 

6. The second rogue now accosted him, and said, 
" I have just seen, in yonder field, a man in great haste 
dragging along with him a goat." Malek dismounted 
with precipitation, and requesting the obliging stran- 
ger to hold his mule, that he might lose no time in 
overtaking the thief, instantly began the pursuit ; but 
he soon returned from a fruitless search, only to find 
that neither his mule nor the obliging stranger, who 
had volunteered the information about the goat-stealer, 
was any where to be seen. 

7. As Malek walked pensively onward, overwhelmed 
with shame, anger, and disappointment, his attention 
was roused by the loud lamentations of a poor man 
seated by the side of a well. " Good ! Here is a 
brother in aflliction ! " thought Malek ; and, turning 
out of his way to sympathize with him, he recounted 
his own misfortunes, and then inquired the reason of 
that violent sorrow with which his new friend seemed 
to be agitated. 

: 8. " Alas 1 " said the poor man, in most piteous 



THE SIMPLETON AND THE ROGUES. 49 

tones, " as I was stooping here to drink, I accidentally 
dropped into the water a casket full of diamonds, 
which I was employed to carry to the Calif, at Bag- 
dad. Unfortunate wretch that I am ! I shall certainly 
be put to death, on suspicion of having stolen and 
concealed so valuable a treasure." 

9. " Why do you not jump into the well, in search 
of the casket, instead of making such an outcry?" 
asked Malek, astonished at the stupidity of the man. 
" Because the water is deep," replied the fellow, " and 
I can neither dive nor swim. ! my good master, if 
you will venture for me, I will reward you with thirty 
pieces of silver." 

10. Overjoyed at the prospect of making good his 
losses, Malek accepted the offer with exultation. Pull- 
ing off his cassock, vest, trowsers, and slippers, he 
plunged into the well, in search of the pretended cas- 
ket. He had hardly touched the water when the 
whining' individual — who, it is needless to say, was 
one of the three rogues who had laid this plot for the 
plunder of the poor peasant — seized upon his gar- 
ments, and bore them off to a place of security. 

11. After diving, and spending some time in the 
well, in an unavailing search, Malek climbed up, and 
looked round for his clothes. To his consternation he 
found that they were gone, and that with them had 
disappeared his bewailing friend, the loser of the 
imaginary diamonds. 

12. Thus, through inattention, simplicity, and ere- 
ftulity, coupled with too confident a reliance on his 
own sagacity and wisdom, was poor Malek duped out 
of all his possessions. A wiser if not a better man, he 
hastened back to his own humble cottage) with no 
other covering than a tattered cloak, which a worthy 
sailor, to whom he told his sorrows, lent him on the 
road. ^ . 



60 BUT? TO HBB M0THSB4N4JLir« 



XVI,— RUTH TO HER MOTHEB-INr-LAW. 

TBOAB'iiBBDt fp^, faoMded ; laid up. I CaYmsm^ fh, » large eaye* 
FuB^Ao% n^ aa anolosed flre^plaoa. I Poh'osb^ «• (;, W ttok on tHoHfy^ 



Dq not nr ikeent Ibv hmtrd (Aen()^ eavim«> t>r eai/ems>$ dotty fat db^ty^ IHb 
dimeiii owr the • in /«ra</ shovs that the tvo voirelB ase diaUnict Iq aoopd^ 

TlM beantiftil ttoiy of Bath, oo which the. foUowli« poem is fMuxted^ loiprt ba wd 
to dl i^dmi of the Bible. 

Fabswell ? no I it may not be ; 

My firm resolve is heard qq high L 
I will not brieathe fturewell to thee. 

Save only in my dying sigh. 
I know not that I now could bear 

Forever from thy side to part, 
And live without a itiend to share 

The treasured sadness of my heart. 

Too well I 've loved in other years 

To leave thee solitary now. 
When sorrow dims thine eye with, teart^ 

And ^ades the beauty of thy brew. 
1 11 share the trial and the pain, — 

And strong the furnace fire, must be, 
To melt away the willing chain 

That binds a daughter's heart to the«. 

I wiU not boaet a martyr's mijght 

To leave my home without a sigh, **- 
The dwelling of my past delight. 

The shelter where I hoped to die I -— 
In such a dQty, such an hour, 

The weak are strong, the timid brave; 
For Love puts on an angel's power,, 

And Faith grows mightier than the grave., 

For rays of heaven, serenely bright. 
Have gilt the caverns of the tomb ; 

And I can pon4er with delight 

On all it§ gSfbering thoiights of gloom. 






SEPLT TO LOBD LYNDHUfiffL 



51 



Then, mother, let us haste away 
To that blest kad to Israel given^ 

Where Faith, uimaddened by decay. 
Dwells nearest to its native heaven. 

But whene thou goest I will go ; 

With thine my earthly lot is cast ; 
In pain and pleasure, joy and woe. 

Win I attend thee to the last ; 
That hour shall find me by thy side, — 

And where thy grave is, mine shall be ; 
Breath can but for a time divide 

My firm and faithful heart from thee I 

W. B. 0. Pbabody. (179»— 1S4T.> 



XVII. — RBPLT TO LORD LITNDHURST. 



k^f aBK, a., stiff ; — • ad.r whoUj. 
Al'ibn (ale'yen), n., a foreigner. 
QMJjjMm, a., bwve ; Ugk-ipiritedL- 
PbI&'Awx, n*,.tk cIoM body of troepf . 
"LsfQiOMi «., a body- of soldiers.. 



Blenchid, Vk i.f shrank ; started baek. 
Im-pos'tubb, n., deception ; oheat. 
iN-rLBX-i-BiL'i-TT, n., fimness. 
CoB'PEd'bb-atb, n., aa aUy. 
Yo-cab'it-la-by, n., a list of words. 



* ProDonnoe Jssaue (in Hin*dos-taiiO Jt-il'ye ; Vimieira (in Portagal)) Vim-e-the'ra t 
Badqfos (in Spain) Bad-a4ai ; Althiera (in Spain) M-boih-d^ra ; Toulotue (in France) 
TtHhi00a:^. eive tbet y> sonnd' to u in JDuke» 

ThefblUndng elOQueatieiiwks irefe-mada byBlduud I«lar Bhlel, in the British Bar 
liament, in 1837, in reply to Lord Lyndhurat, wlio liad spoken of the Irish as ** aliens.' 
Rdel was bom in DnUin, Ireland, in 1791. He died' in 1851. 

1* I SHOULD be surprified, iudeed, if, while yon are 
doing Hs wFOBg, you did not profess your solicitude to 
do na justice* Englishmen were never wanting in 
such protestations* There is, however;, on^ exception. 

2. There is a man of great abilities, — not a member 
of this House, but whose talents and boldness have 
fdaced him in the topmost place in his party, — who 
has been heard to speak of the Irish as " aliens." Dia^ 
daining all imposture, and abandoning all reserve, he 



62 REPLY TO LORD LYNDHURSt. 

distinctly and audaciously tells the Irish people that 
they are not entitled to the same privileges as English^ 
men; that they are "aliens." Aliens? Good heav- 
ens ! Was Arthur, Duke of Wellington, in the House 
of Lords, and did he not start up and exclaim, " Hold I 
I have seen the aliens do their duty ? " 

3. The Duke of Wellington is not a man of an ex- 
citable temperament. His mind is of a cast too mar- 
tial to be easily moved; but, notwithstanding his 
habitual inflexibility, I can not help thinking that 
when he heard his countrymen designated by a phrase 
as offensive as the abundant vocabulary of his elo- 
quent confederate could supply, — I can not help 
thinking that he ought to have recollected the many 
fields of fight in which we have been contributors to 
his renown. 

4. The " battles, sieges, fortunes, that he has passed," 
ought to have come back upon him. He ought to 
have remembered that, from the earliest achievement 
in which he displayed that military genius which has 
placed him foremost in the annals of modern warfare, 
down to that last and surpassing combat which has 
made his name imperishable, — from Assay e to Water- 
loo, — the Irish soldiers, with whom your armies are 
filled, were the inseparable auxiliaries to the glory 
with which his unparalleled successes have been 
crowned. 

5. Whose were the arms that drove your bayonet^^ 
at Vimieira through the phalanxes that never reeled 
in the shock of war before? What desperate valor* 
climbed the steeps and filled the moats of Badajos? 

* The tone of sospension should be given at greatest, the dash indicating 
a sadden break in the speaker's remarks. The battle he there refers to is 
Waterloo, fought against Napoleon, June 18th, 1815. The opposing forces 
were commanded by Wellington, whose ** words,'' to which the orator alludes, 
were, ** Up, Guards, and at them ! ** Sir Henry Hardinge was the *^ gallant 
soldier " to whom Shiel appealed. 



REPLY TO LOBD LTNDHURST. 58 

Ally all his victories should have rushed and crowded 
back upon his memory ; Yimieira; Badajos, Salamanca, 
AJbuera^ Toulouse ; and, last of all, the greatest 

6. Tell me, for you were there, — I appeal to the 
gallant soldier before me, who bears, I know, a gen- 
erous heart in an intrepid breast ; — tell me, for you 
must needs remember, — on that day, when the desti- 
nies of mankind were trembling in the balance, while 
death fell in showers ; when the artillery of Prance, 
leveled with the precision of the most deadly science, 
played upon them ; when her legions, incited by the 
voice, inspired by the example, of their mighty leader, 
rushed again and again to the onset, — tell me if, for 
an instant, when to hesitate for an instant was to be 
lost, the " aliens " blenched 1 

7. And when, at length, the moment for the last de- 
cisive movement had arrived ; when the valor, so long 
wisely checked, was at last let loose ; when, with words 
familiar, but immortal, the great captain commanded 
the great assault, — tell me if Catholic Ireland, with 
less heroic valor than the natives of your own glori- 
ous isle, precipitated herself upon the foe ! The blood 
of England, Scotland, Ireland, flowed in the same 
stream, drenched the same field. 

8. When the chill morning dawned, their dead lay 
cold and stark together. In the same deep pit their 
bodies were deposited. The green corn of spring is 
now breaking from their commingled dust ; the dew 
falls from heaven upon their union in the grave ! Par^* 
takers in every peril, in the glory shall we not be per- 
mitted to participate? And shall we be told, as a 
requital, that we are estranged from the noble countr^f 
for whose salvation our life-blood was poured out ? 



54 ICEBERGS. 



XVm.— ICEBERGS. 



Abc'tic, a.y Ijing far north. 
Lik'pid, a.f dear ; pare. 
Gel'id (jelld), a., cold ; ioy« 
CrevIce, ti., a orack or fissure. 
Can'tas, n., coarse cloth for sails. 
Po'lab, a,, near the Pole. 
Wal'rus, n.y'the sea-horse. 
Cab'cass, n.f a dead body. 
A-BTSs', n., a fathomless depth. 
Fi.Bx'1-BLB, a., easily bent. 
Ax/ti-tude, n.y height. 
Cay'i-tv, n,, a hollow place. 



LAT'i-TUDE^n., breadth; distance Crom 
the Bqxiator. 

A-zoRBfi' (A-4Edrz)j n., islands ia tlM 
Atlantic Ocean, belonging to Portu- 
gal. 

Es'Qui-MAivx (Eslce-mo), u^ a raoe>of 
Indians in the Arctic regions. 

Con'ti-nrkt, n.f a large extent of land. 

In-devt'ei>, a.f notched. 

Ac-Gif KU-LA'^'Kn, a.f piled up^ 

Pbe-cip'i-tous, a,f very steeps 

Com-pact', a.f close ; solid. 



In latUudey attitude, century , tube, &c., attend to the y «oand of the v. Do not saj 
Uvl for let/il ; tremendyous for fre-men'doiM ; Artie for Arctic, 

1. IcEBEBGS are those masses of ice, resemblisg 
Hioimtains, which abonad iu the polar seas, and are 
sometimes found floating in the moderate latitudes. 
In the Arctic regions, the snow, which annuaUj &Ma 
on the islands or continents, being again dissolved by 
the progress of the summer's heat, pouirs forth namer« 
oils rilk and limpid streams, which collect along the 
indented shores, and in tiie deep bays enclosed by 
precipitous rocks. 

2. Here this clear and gelid water seon freezes, and 
every successive year supplies an additional crust, till, 
after flje lapse, perhaps, of several centuries, the icy 
mass rises, at last, to the size and aspect of a mountain, 
equal in elevation to the adjoining cliffs. The melting 
of the snow, which is afterward deposited on such 
enormous blocks, likewise contributes to their growth; 
and, by filling up the accidental holes or crevioes^ it 
renders the whole structure compact and uniform. 

3. Meanwhile the principle of destruction is ajready 
at work. The ceaseless agitation of the sea gradually 
wears and undermines the base of the icy mountain, 
till at length, by the action of its own accumulated 



ICKBIEItQd. 65 

weighty when it has perhaps attahred an «ltitade of a 
tbottsandy or eren two thousand feet, it is torn from 
its frozen chams, and precipiixbted, with a tremendons 
plange, into the abyss below. 

4. This mighty lannch now floats, like a lofty islandy 
dn the ^cean, till, driven southward by winds and cur- 
ren'^s, it indensibly wastes asid dissolves away in tho 
wide Atlantic. Icebergs have been known to drift 
from Baffin's Bay to the Azores. Berog composed o( 
fresh water, the ice is clear and solid ; and from the 
cavities the crews of the northern whalers are accus- 
tomed, by means of a hose or a flexible tube of canvas, 
to fill their casks 'easily with thie purest and softest 
water. 

5. Some cf£ iSie masses of floating ice in the polar 
seas are two miles long, and a mile or more broad. 
An idea tnay be formed of the immense depth to which 
icebergs descend, from ihe fact that the mass of ice 
below the level of the water is about ^ight times 
greater than that above. Captain Scoresby once 
counted five hundred of these bergs drifling with the 
current They rose above the sui&ce, from the height 
of one hundred to two hundred feet, and measured 
from a few yards to b mile in circumference. Many 
of them were loaded with beds of earth and rocks. 

6. An incident is related by Dr. Kane, that shows 
the wonderful powers of endurance of the Esquimaux. 
Two of these people were hunting the walrus, on the 
open ice of the frozen sea, when a north wind broke 
up the ice, and they found themselves afloat. An ice- 
berg being near, th^ urged their dogs toward it, and 
made good their kididing on it wiih them and the car- 
cass of the walrus. It was at the close of the last 
tnoonlight of December, a season when d&jlight is un« 
known in the Arctic latitudes. 

7. A complete darkness settled around tixem. They 



56 BELSHAZZAB. 

tied the dogs down to knobs of ice, and built a sort 
of screen from the wind for themselves. The berg 
drifted toward the south, and here, for a whole month, 
drifting, drifting along the coast-line of Baffin's Bay, 
dwelt these two hardy adventurers, wedged in ice, 
eating their walrus-meat, and sustaining life in spite 
of the intense cold. At length the iceberg grounded, 
^nd they contrived to make their way, on a sort of 
ice-raft, to the main land. 



XIX. — BELSHAZZAR. 



Herd, n., a drove ; acompatiy. 
Gourt'ier, n., one who courts favor. 
Beak'er, n.| a drinking cup. 
Ma'gi-an, n.f an Eastern sage. 



Me'ni-al, a.,, servile ; low. 
Proph'et, n,f one who foretells futort 

events ; an interpreter. 
Fes'ti-val, n., a time of feasting. 

' Do not say droring for drau/ing ; writiii for writing} toomult for tii'mult. 



The story of Belshazsar may be fonnd in the Bible, in the Book of I>aniel, Chap. v. 

The midnight hour was drawing on j 

Hushed in repose lay Babylon. 

But in the palace of the king 

The herd of courtiers shout aijid sing : 

Tlxere, in his royal banquet-hall, . 

Belshazzar holds high festival. 

The servants sit in glittering rows, 

The beakers are drained, the red wine flows ; 

The beakers clash, and the servants sin^, — 

A pleasing sound to the moody king. 

The king's cheeks flush, and his wild eyes shine ; 

His spirit waxes bold with wine ; 

Until, by maddening passion stung, 

He scoff's at God with impious tongue ; 

And his proud heart swells as he wildly raves, 

'Mid shouts of applause from his fawning slavea 



BELSHAZZAR. 57 

He spoke the word, and his eyes flashed flame I 
The ready servants went and came ; 
Vessels of massive gold they bore, 
Of Jehovah's temple the plundered store. 

And, seizing a consecrated cup. 

The king, in his fury, fills it up : 

'He fills, and hastily drains it dry, 

From his foaming lips leaps forth the cry, 

" Jehovah I at thee my scorn I fling 1 

I am Belshazzar, Babylon's king I '* 

Yet scarce had the impious words been said, 

When the king's heart shrank with a secret dread : 

Suddenly di^d the shout and yell, — 

A death-like hush on the tumult fell. 

And, lo I on the wall, as they gazed aghast, 
What seemed like a human hand went past, 
And wrote — and wrote, in sight of all — 
Letters of fire upon the wall I 
The king sat still, with a stony look, — 
His trembling knees with terror shook ; 
The *menial throng nor spoke nor stirred ; 
Fear froze their blood, — no sound was heard I 
The magians came ; but none of all 
Could read the writing on the wall. 

At length, to solve those words of flame, 
Fearless but meek the prophet came ; 
One glance he gave, and all was clear I 
" King I there is reason in thy fear ; 
Those words proclaim, thy empire ends, ^ 
The day of woe and wrath impends : 
Weighed in the balance, wanting found, 
Thou and thy empire strike the ground 1 " 
That night, by the servants of his train, 
Belshazzar, the mighty king, was slain 1 

From the Gebmax of Hexko. 



58 A5ECD0TE8 OF A 8KTLABK. 



XX. — ANECDOTES OF A SEYLASK. 



SbVuto (suing), ppr,^ uniUng witk 

iH'Tnt-nT-uio, a., eogsging. 
Ds-MOL'iBfl, V. I., to pall iovB. 
Op'po-Bm, «., pUtoed in front; ad- 



CsiL'iiro, »., the npper mrboe of % 

room, opposite te the toor. 
Rib'boh, »., ft slip of silk or satin. 
Khuck'lks, n., joints of the fingers. 
Dks-bbbt' (des-sert), n., ft senrice of 

fmits, Ac, ftfler ft meftl. 
Coh-cbiyk', v. f., to imftgine. | Dxz'Tni-ous-iiT, od., expertly. 

Gk'hi-al, a., enlivening. Wboof (hoop), »., ft ehont of parmit. 

Aroid sejing *iwl for ^vrtC. In ivM^A, loMIs, leken, Ao^ mind the aqinte. 

1. The skylark, which pours forth its animated song 
while floating high in the air, is an inhabitant of most 
parts of Europe, Asia, and North Africa, but is not 
found in America. A lady, belonging to a &mily in 
the south-east of Ireland, has recorded some very in* 
teresting anecdotes of a pet skylark, to which the 
name of " Tommy " had been given. 

2. This little bird was so tame that, when the &mily 
were assembled at break&st, he would fly upon the 
table, and walk round, picking up crumbs ; and some- 
times he would hop up on a loaf, and actuaHy allow a 
slice to be cut under his feet. It was curious to see 
him watching the operation of threading a needle. 
When the thread was put ever so little into the eye, 
he would seize the end of it, and dexterously pull it 
through. 

3. Sometimes, when one of the three young ladies 
of the family had &8tened her thread to her work, and 
continued sewing, he would make a su<Men plunge at 
the thread, and pull it out of the needle, th^i fly out 
of reach, and chuckle over the mischief Sometimes 
he would hop on an open work-box, and, seizing the 
end of a cotton thread, would fly with it to the other 
side of the apartment, unwinding yard upon yard from 
the revolving spool. 

4. The second of the young ladies to whom we 



-H 



▲KECBOTBS OF A BKTXABK. 59 

aUude was remarkable for the elegance aad Beatnest 
with which faer hair was always braided. This did not 
escape Tommy's observation, and he frequently made 
an attack upon it He wonM take the end of a ring- 
let tn his bill, and; fluttering before her fiice, wonM 
leave it in the most admired disorder. He would then 
again dutclde; as we have beard a aiagpie do alter any 
act of mischief. 

5. There was a gentleman, an intimate friend of the 
fitfnily, who, in his repeated visits, had made the ac- 
quaintance of Tommy. Whenever he made a morning 
call, he would say, " Ha 1 Tommy I good-morning to 
you. Are you ready for a game at shuttlecock T'* 
The Utile creature would instantly fly to his extended 
hand, and suffer itself to be thrown into the air, like 
that toy, and &U again into his hand ; and so the game 
would continue for several minutes, until «t length 
Tommy would fly to the ceiling, singing that splendkl 
melody which, in his natural state, the lark pours fori^ 
as h^ ascends above the douds. 

6. Another game, which Tommy perfectiy mnder- 
stood, was '' hide-and-go^seek ; '^ and for this he pfre- 
ferred, as his companion, the second of tilie three 
sisters. She would say, " Now, Tommy, I 'm going to 
hide;" and then, drawing the room door open, she 
would place herself behind it, and cry, "Whoop I" 
Tommy would immediately commence strutting up 
and down the floor, and, stretching out his neck, 
would peer under this, «nd behind that, as if he were 
seeking for her. At length, coming opposite to where 
she stood, he would gWj a loud scream, and fly tip to 
attack her hair. 

7. When this was over, asid he had a^n become 
quiet, she would say, " Now, Tommy, it is y&&r turn 
to hide." Immediately the bird wouM stsnd still 
under a table^ and she would commence a diltgeot 



QO .^kNECDOTES OF A SKTLABE. 

search, exclaiming, " Where is Tommy ? Did any ons 
see Tommy?" In the mean time he would never 
give, by sound or movement, the least indication that 
be was in the room ; but the moment she thought 
proper to find him he would again scream, and fly up 
tfi her. 

. 8. The mistress of the house, a little advanced in 
life, wore spectacles, which he would frequently pull 
Qfif, in his flights, and immediately let fall, as they were 
too heavy for him to carry ; and after every feat of 
this kind he would chuckle at his success. In the 
long days of summer, when the dinner things were re- 
moved, and the dessert was brought on, it was his 
practice to come upon the table, and, going round it, 
he would do something amusing to each person. 

. 9. He would bite the fingers of the master of the 
house, and give an exulting chuckle when the latter 
affected to be hurt. At another gentleman's knuckles 
he would strike like a game-cock, and pretend to be 
in a wonderful passion. Then he would take a sudden 
flight at a lady's cap, and, catching the end of a rib- 
bon, would gracefully flutter before her face, caroling 
a snatch of a song; and again he would visit his. fair 
friend with the beautiful hair, and, plucking out her 
combs, would speedily demolish her glossy curls. 

10. There remains one trait of sagacity, which those 
who recollect the entertaining little creature would 
scarcely pardon us if we omitted. The youngest of 
the three ladies was accustomed each night, before she 
retired, to take her candle over to Tommy's cage, to 
bid him good-night. He would instantly bring out 
his head from under his wing, and, standing up, sing 
one of the most beautiful little songs you could con- 
ceive it possible for a little throat like his to warble, — • 
a song, too, that he never gave forth on any other oc- 
casion. 



THE PATHS OF SUCCESS. 61 

11. If she attempted to go out of the room without 
thus coming to bid him good-night, although his head 
was under his wing, and you thought him asleep, he 
would instantly scream out, to put her in mind. To 
this may be added the singular &ct that he would not 
sing the same song for any one else who might take a 
candle to his cage, though he would respond by a 
chirp to his good-night. 

12. What the usual duration of a lark's age is we 
can not say. Tommy himself lived a happy life for 
thirteen years. At length he grew ill ; and care and 
skill were expended on him in vain. He was wrapped 
in cotton, and placed near the genial warmth of a 
moderate fire; yet still he languished. His young 
friend, for whom he used to sing his sweet good- 
night, approached him with her candle. He lifted his 
little head, and, as the dying swan is said to sing, he 
attempted to warble for her a last farewell. She burst 
into tears, and retired. In the morning Tonmiy was 
dead. 



XXI. — THE PATHS OF SUCCESS. 



Con-tbib'ute, v. t,f to giye ; to oon- 

dace. 
Mab'quis, n., a title of nobility. 
CouM'SBLy n., advice ; direction. 
Leisure (le'zhur), n., vacant time. 
De-tail', n., a particular acconnt. 
Ifu'Ti-NT, V. i.f to rise against officers 

at sea or in the army. 
Pbo-pen'si-tt, n.f inclination. 



EF-Fi'dENT (-fish'ent), a., caoiing ef- 
fects. 

Im-pbov'i-dbncb, n., lack of fore- 
thought. 

Rec-be-a'tion, n.| relief from toil. 

Punct-u-al'i-tt, n., careful exact- 
ness. 

Sec'be-ta-bt, n., one who writes for 
another ; a scribe. 



ProDonnce Hugh, H&. Do not say cusa for curse ; feound for found, Qive the 
|f loand to long u in man-tU/ac<'ilr-er,/dr£'une, re^Hi^ar^ &c. 

1. The path of success in business is invariably the 
path of common sense. Notwithstanding all that is 
said about " lucky hits," the best kind of success, in 
' 6 



64 THE PATHS OP SUCCESS. 

11. We naturally come to the conclusion that the 
person who is careless about time will be careless 
about business. When Washington's secretary ex- 
cused himself for the lateness of his attendance, and 
laid the blame upon his watch, Washington quietly 
replied, "Then you must get another watch, or I 
another secretary." Franklin once said to a. servant, 
who was always late, but always ready with an ex- 
cuse, " I have generally found that the man who is 
good at an excuse is good for nothing else." 

12. The unpunctual man is a general disturber of 
others' peace and serenity. He is systematically late ; 
regular only in his irregularity. He always arrives 
at his appointment after the hour ; gets to the railway 
station after the train has started; and posts his letter' 
when the mail has closed. It will generally be found 
that the men who are thus habitually behind time are 
habitually behind success, and that they become grum- 
blers and railers against fortune. 

13. Integrity in word and deed ought to be the 
very comer-stone of all business transactions. To the 
tradesman, the merchant, and manufacturer, it should 
be what courage is to the soldier, and charity to the 
Christian. It was well said by Hugh Miller, of the hon- 
est mason with whom he served his apprenticeship, that 
he " put his conscience into every stone that he laid." 

14. The truth of the old maxim, that " Honesty is 
the best policy," is upheld by the daily experience of 
life. The true mechanic will pride himself upon the 
excellence of his work ; the high-minded contractor, 
upon the faithful performance of his contract in every 
particular ; the upright manufacturer, upon the genu- 
in^Wis of the article he produces ; and the good mer* 
chant, upon the fair value of what he sells. And all 
these will find that their substantial success is pro- 
moted by their probity and just dealing. 



TH£ PATHS OF SUCCESS. 65 

15. It must be admitted that trad e tries character 
perhaps more severely than any other pursuit in life. 
Honor to those who stand the trial Hke true menl 
Money got by cheating, swindling, and overreaching, 
may for a time dazzle the eyes of the unthinking ; but 
what is it worth, compared with the satisfactions of 
A free conscience? To the gains of swindlers and 
rogues the words of the apostle strongly apply: 
" Your gold and silver are cankered ; and the rust of 
them shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your 
flesh, as it were fire." 

16. There may be success in life, without success in 
business. The merchant who faijed, but who after- 
ward recovered his fortune, and then spent it in pay- 
ing his creditors their demands in full, principal and 
interest, thus leaving himself a poor man, had a glori- 
ous success ; while he, who also failed, paid his credit- 
ors ten cents on a dollar, and afterward rode in his 
carriage, and occupied a magnificent mansion, was 
sorrowfully looked on by angels and by honest men 
as lam'entably unsuccessful. 

17. True success in life is success in building up a 
pure, honest, energetic character; in so shaping our 
habits, our thoughts, and our aspirations, as to best 
qualify us for that higher life on which we shall enter 
after the death of the visible body. Wordsworth well 
describes the " happy \yarrior " as one who " makei^ 
his moral being his prime care." 

18. <' 'T is he whose law is reason ; who depends 
Upon that law, as on the best of friends ; 
Who fixes good on good alone, and owes 
To Virtue every triumph that he knows ; 
Who, if he rise to station of command, 
Kises by open means, and there will stand 
On honorable terms, or else retire, 
And in himself possess his own desire ! " 

6* 



juzsppa^'a ffTosr. 



XXn.—MAZEPPA'S STOBZ. 



U'sBAin (ooloiiB), «., tanitoiy of 

RuMia in Barope. 
Bab'blb, s., % low nobw 
Tur'bkt, «., » aaudl lowtr. 
Bab'ri-br, tu, an obotniotioii. 
Dv-couKT^B-oca (-knrfoms), «., 

oiviL 



Bout, m., » clamorogs maltitodo. 
LiBU (la), n,, stead ; pUee ; bebjJ£ 
Faui, fld:, gladlj. 
Fubt-col'us, a., a aaeldBa orar m 

SaUwaj, readj to be lei dowB ta 

keep out an enemy. 
JIuAT, M., a dltdh jDond a oaflOa. 



Boand fhe ee In Aeorfil M in Aeart. Fnoonnee ^*«r(eooti«etion of ever) like air. 

" Bbiko forth the horse I " — the horse was brought : 

In truth he was a noble steed, — 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, — 
Who loi^ed as though the speed of thon g^t 
Were in his limbs ; bat he was wild* — 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught ; 
With spar and bridle andefiled^ — 

'T was bat a day he had been caaght ; 
And, snorting, with erected mane, 
And straggling fiercely, bat In vain. 
In the full foam of wrath and dread, 
To me the desert-bom was led. 
They bound me on — that menial throng — 
Upon his back, with many a iSiong ; 
Then loosed him, with a sadden lash. 
Away I — away ! — and on we dash 1 
Torrents less rapid and less ra^. 

Away I — away ! — my breath was gone ; 
I saw not where he hurried on. 
'T was scarcely yet the break of day ; 
And on he foamed I — away 1 — away I 
The last of human sounds which rose^ 
As I was darted from my foes. 
Was 1^ wild shout of savage laughier 
Which on the wind came roaring afW, 
A moment from that rabble rout. 



I 



masseppa's stobt. 67 

With sadden wrath I wrenched my head, 
And sni^iped the cord which to the mane 
Had bound my neck in lien of rein. 

And, writhing hatf my form about, 

Howled back my rage ; but 'mid the tread, 

The thunder of my courser's speed, 

Perchance they did not hear nor heed. 

It vexes me, for I would fain 

JHave paid their insult back again 

I paid it well in after days : 

There is not of that castle-gate. 

Its drawbridge and portcullis' weighty 

Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 

Nor of its fields a blade of grass. 
Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 
Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 

And many a time ye there might pass. 

Nor dream that e'er that fortress was ! 

I saw its turrets in a blaze, 

Their crackling battlements all olefin 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorched and blackening roo^ 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought, that day of pain. 
When launched, as on the lightning's flash. 
They b&de rae to destruction dash, 

That one day I should come again. 
With twice five thousand horse, to thaok 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 

They played m^ then a bitter prank. 

When, with the wild horse for my guide. 

They bound me to his foaming flank. 

At length I played them one as frank ; 

For time at last sets all things even ; 
And if we do but watch the hour. 
There never yet was human power 



68 THE AMERICANS NOT TO BE CONQUERED. 

Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 

Lord Byron. (1788^1824.) 



XXm.— THE AMERICANS NOT TO BE CONQUERED. 



litL'soMB, a.f nanieouB ; gross. 
E'ra, n., a date ; a period. 
De-filb', n., a narrow passage. 
Fe-lo'ni-ous, a,, malignant. 
Miyis-TEB, n,, an officer of state ; al- 
so, a olergyman. 

Do not say brutkren fat brithfren j fax for facts ; presunt for prea'int 



Len'i-tt, n., meroy ; clemency. 
An'u-LA-TO-Br, a., flattering. 
Pri'xa-bt, o., first in order. 
An'abch-t (an'ark-y), n., confosion. 
Fun-da-ment'al, a,, serying for th* 
fonndatien; essential. 



Ther-mop'y-Ias' waa a pass, celebrated in Grecian history for the stand made by Leonid 
das, with three hundred Spartans, against the host of Xerxes. 

1. Sir, it ill becomes the duty and dignity of Par- 
liament to lose itself in such a fiilsome, adulatory 
Address to the Throne as that now proposed. Wo 
ought rather to approach it with sound and whole- 
some advice, and even with remonstrances against 
the ministers who have precipitated the British nation 
into an unjust, ruinous, murderous, and felonious 
war. 

2. I call the war with our brethren in America an 
unjust and felonious war, because the primary cause 
and confessed origin of it is to attempt to take their 
money from them without their consent, con'trary to 
the common rights of all mankind, and to those great 
fundamental principles of the English constitution, for 
which Hampden bled. 

3. I assert that it is a murderous war, because it is 
an eflfbrt to deprive men of their lives for standing up 
in the defense of their property and their clear rights. 
Such a war, I fear, will draw down the vengeance of 
Heaven on this devoted kingdom. Sir, is any minis* 



THE AMEBICANS NOT TO BE CONQUERED. 69 

ter weak enough to flatter himself with the conquest 
of America? You can not, with all your al-lies^, with 
all the mercenary ruflSans of the North, you cem not 
eflFect so wicked a purpose. 

4. The. Americans will dispute every inch of ter. 
ritory with you, every narrow pass, every strong de- 
file, every Thermop'ylae, every Bunker's Hill ! More 
than half the empire is already lost, and almost all the 
rest is in confusion and anarchy. We have appealed 
to the sword, and what have we gained? Bunker's 
Hill only, and that with a loss of twelve hundred 
men 1 Are we to pay as dear for the rest of America? 
The idea of the conquest of that immense country is 
as romantic as it is unjust. 

5. The honorable gentleman who moved this Ad- 
dress says, " The Americans have been treated with 
lenity." Will facts justify the assertion ? Was your 
Boston Port Bill a measure of lenity? Was your 
Fishery Bill a measure of lenity ? Was your bill for 
taking away the charter of Massachusetts Bay a meas- 
ure of lenity ? I omit your many other gross provo- 
cations and insults, by which the brave Americans 
have been driven to their present state. 

6. Whether that state is one of rebellion, or of fit 
and just resistance to unlawful acts of power, I shall 
not declare. This I know : a successful resistance is a 
revolution, not a rebellion. Rebellion, indeed, ap- 
pears on the back of a flying enemy, but Revolution 
flames on the breastplate of the victorious warrior. 
Who can tell whether, in consequence of this day's 
action, the scabbard may not be thrown away by 
thenij as well as by vs; and, should success attend 
them, whether, in a few years, the independent Ameri- 
cans may not celebrate the glorious era of the revolu? 
tion of 1775, as we do that of 1688 ? 

John Wilkes (1717— 179T.) : 



TO A KAQFIX AT CHURCH. 



XXIV.— A MAGPIE AT CHURCH. 



pBK'cnrcT, «., a boimdary. 
S^l■C1^, V. /., to OMt oat 
B-TADB', V. t.y te efaMlo ; to ifaaB. 
A'«oii', ad.p looa; ever ami anm,. 

now and thou. 
Kao'oa-Hiia, v. a, to lmo«racain. 



Aisle (He), n.»a pasaage in a ehuQli. 
CoM-MUTS^y o. r., to ezohango. 
In-TMJD'nB, n,, one vho intradoU 
UN-on'Tao-DOXy a.^ not anoording to 

sound doctrine. 
iG-KO-ifUf'i-ovB-Lr, ad., AmoMttSty. 



ftAar-4AT^ «k I., to dtitf. [ WoMT (witnt), a.^ aMnstomad. 

B» nel i^r dM for tffl#| dtoHti^rior M r ^it tg § Jimai for joined f faoim^ Cdt «o«a<y , 
titadcr tir lote'dew / iMar« for were (wer). ProDoonoe teon/, uNiAt ; offotnet, a^#Mf i, 

1. The following anthentic story of a magpiie wa« 
commanicated to Fmser's London Magazine, bj a 
elergymaii. It proves the truth of the Rev. SyAiey 
Smith's observation, that, whatever powers of ora tory 
a minister may have, all command over the attention 
of his audience is at once lost when a bird makes its 
appearance in the church. Such, certainly, was the 
ease with Jack, a magpie, well known in a village in 
the county of Kent, in England, for his mis'chievous 
propensities, and who entered- the village church, in 
the afternoon of Sunday, July 2&th, 1852, during th« 
time of divine service. 

2. Our friend hopped quietly in a/t the open doer , 
and, for a time, surveyed the congregation, rec ogniz- 
ing many a friend, who was wont to greet him wift 
words of kindnesa and &miliarity. But on this oce»> 
sion Jack was surprised at finding that no notice was 
taken of him. At last he seemed determine tlra^ ho 
would not be thus overlooked ; and down the middte 
aisle he marched, knocking at the door of each pew, 
and announcing hi» arrival to the inmates with a clear, 
loud, " Here am 1 1 " This move had the desired effect ; 
for in a very few moments every eye was turned upon 
our hero. 

3. The worthy minister, finding himself in a decided 
minority, and perceiving broad grins coming over the 



A ttACPIB AT COTOBCB. TI 



before solemn &ceft o£ bis flock^ at once stopped ibe 
BerricOy-aBd desired the clerk to eject the intruden 
Sat the order was more easily given than executed. 
Jack was determined not to leavQ; and so, finding 
himself pursued, took refuge in a forest of legs belong* 
ing to his young friends^^'the school-children, who did 
not appear at all unwilling to afford him shelter. 

4. Thi& dark rushed oci,intenft upon catching the 
enemy, and putting an end to this unorthodox pro- 
ceeding ; and over, first a bench and then a child, he 
stumbled^ in> bis attempts to pounce upon the fugitive, 
' who easily evaded his grasp, and always appeared just 
where the clerk was not, informing him, ever and 
anon, of his whereabout, by the old cry, " Here am I ! " 
At l&st, wiffli the help of two or three of the congrega- 
tion who had joined in the pursuit,^ a capture was 
effected^and Jack was ignominiously turned out, and 
the door closed upon him. 

5v After the lapse of a few minutes, order and so* 
loranity were restored in the church ;^ and the prayers 
were commenced and ended without forther disturb- 
ance. The minister, in due .time, ascended to the pulpit 
He gave out his text, and ecMnmenced a discourse cal- 
oul$^d, no doubt,, to be of Huach benefit to his hear- 
ers; but het had not proceeded jbr when he was 
interrupted by a loud noi6e,^aceoiBpanied by rapping 
at the little window at the back of the pulpit. 

6. Turning round, to aaeertain th& cause, be beheld 
mx friend Jack pecking away at the window, flappmg 
his wings against, it, and screaming, at the top of his 
voice, "Here am II here am I!" — a feet which no 
one could gainsay, or resist laughing at. The worthy 
minister, finding his own gravity and liiat of his coth 
gregatioB so entirely upset by what had occurred, 
bK)ught his sermon to a speedy conclusion, and di»i 
missed tho eongreg&tlon* Sentence of death was r^ 



72 ON THE TREATMENT OF BOOKS. 

corded against the offender ; but, upon the petition of 
a number of the parishioners, it was commuted to 
banishment for life from the precincts of the churchr 
Such is the story of friend Jack. 



XXV ON THE TREATMENT OF BOOKS. 



L&TH, a., reluctant ; unwiUing. 
Knack, n., skUI or dexterity. 
Seizk, v. t.f to take hold of. 
Knuck'les, 11., joints of the fingers. 
Pob'trait, n., picture drawn from 

life. 
Mis'cHiEF, n., harm ; iignry. 
En-deay'ob, n., effort ; exertion. 



Pobt-fol'io, n.f a portable ease for 
papers. 

SB-CLu'sioir, n.f a shutting out. 

DB-Lnr^QUENT, n., an offender. 

Pbo-pbi'e-tob, n.y an owner. 

At'mos-phere (-fere), n,, the air en- 
compassing the earth. 

Il-lus'tbi-ous, a., yery distinguished. 



Do not say senee for stnee ; voUum for vol'Htne ; ateeout for stout . Give the vocal 
sound (as in breathe) to f A in beneath, Sound the f in the last syllable it inatincta, 

1. What a world is the book world ! What an illus- 
trious companionship does it offer for the gratification 
of our social and spiritual instincts and likings I The 
great, the brave, the good ; the oppressed and their 
deliverers ; the sages, the instructors, the benefactors 
of mankind, in all ages, live again in books. 

2. In books they reveal to us, in the seclusion of 
our chambers and firesides, what were the thoughts 
and motives of their secret lives; why they lived 
laborious days, and spumed the tempting delights of* 
sense J what was the spiritual atmosphere in which 
they breathed ; what the secret source of endeavor, 
never slackening till the goal was won. 

3. Books, like men, have a two-fold nature. Paper, 
print, and binding, are their bodily substances, and 
the thoughts that breathe along their pages may be 
called their spirit. And since we would be loth to 
abuse our living friend and benefactor, or his dead re- 
mains, we ought not to abuse a good. book. That, in 



<m TH£ TBEATMEKT OF BOOKS. 73 

the present day, books are cheap, is no reason why 
they should be cheaply estimated. 

4. Some persons of our acquaintance are, we are 
sorry to say, grossly wanting in a reverence for books. 
Thus, one exceltent gentleman never takes up a vol- 
ume without grasping it firmly between finger and 
thumh of both hands, and twisting it suddenly, as it 
were, inside out, by bringing his knuckles together 
behind. He may thus break the back of the book, 
especially if it be in boards, or only bound in cloth. 

5. Another of our friends has a knack of pulling at 
each leaf, as he reads it, and thumbing and pinching it, 
like a man in the paper market trying the stoutness of 
a sample. We happened, once, to take this gentleman 
with us into a shop where prints were sold. While 
we were turning over a portfolio, in search of a por- 
trait, he opened another, of new prints, and began 
looking at them for pastime. The proprietor flew for- 
ward, and seized his arm, saying, ^' I will show you 
those prints, sir, with pleasure ; but can not allow you 
to handle them.'' 

6. Why not? Other gentlemen are handling prints." 
— "Pardon me, — you do not know what you are 
about," said the shop-keeper, as he tied up the port- 
folio. " Were I to suffer you to proceed, you would 
do two hundred dollars' worth of mischief in a quarter 
of an hour. You should handle no prints but your 
own." 

7. The rebuke was perfectly just; and, like the de- 
linquent in question, there are numbers of inconsider- 
ate people, whose touch, albeit with fingers of the 
very cleanest, is ruin to a fine print or drawing, which^ 
when once crumpled, or " kinked," as the dealers say, 
can never again be pressed flat, or offered for sale as 
new. Books in folio or in quarto, especially when il- 
lus'trated, require as delicate handling as prints ; and 

7 



74 OH THE TREATMENT OF BOOKS. 

those who maltreat them will find their error, shonid it 
ever become convenient to turn them into cash. 

8. Some persons never lose the habit they acquired 
at the primary school, where they learned to spell 
" a, b, ab," and " b, a, ba " ; and, to the end of their 
lives, hold their books by sheer force of thumb pressed 
between the margins at the foot of the page. If this 
class of persons read much, — which they never do, — 
their books would perish by the tortures of the thumb- 
screw. 

9. Books should be handled tenderly. It should be 
remembered that their nerves and sinews are but 
sewing-thread and thin glue, and that they are not 
brickbats. They should never be forced open too 
wide ; should not be swung by a single cover ; not 
thumbed, hke a child's primer ; not folded down at the 
comers, to mark where the reader left oflF; not ground 
beneath the elbow; not consigned to the mercy of 
pitch-and-toss accidents. 

10. When read, they should lie comfortably in the 
hollow of the hand, or rest on the table or reading- 
stand ; and there is not really the slightest necessity 
for dropping a spoonful or two of bread-crumbs be- 
tween the leaves. If they are good books (and if they 
are bad, the sooner the owner gets rid of them the 
better), they have a solid right to good treatment, and 
should have it. 

11. It was a habit of Sir Peter Lely, the celebrated 
painter, never, if he could help it, to look at a bad 
picture ; he having found; by experience, that when- 
ever he did so he would -unconsciously get something 
bad from it, which his pencil would reproduce. Ap- 
ply Sir Peter's rule to bad books and bad company. 
"The knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom." There 
is no worse robber than a bad book. 



THE GOOD TDiE COIIIKG. 75 



XXVI. — THE GOOD TIME COMING. 



Im'pitlse, n., commnnioated force. 
'Weap'on, n.f instrument of offenae. 
SiiArGH'TEB, n.f butohery. 



iN-iQ'ui-TTy n,, wiokednetfl. 
Tbm'peb-atk, a., ealm ; sober. 
Su-p£b-8u>e', v. t,, to take the place o£ 



Pronounce glisten^plWin, *Twill ia a contraction of it wUL Do not nj comin 
iofeom'ing* Mind the ng sound. 

There 's a good time ooming, boys, 
. A good time coming : 
We may not live to see the day. 
Bat earth shall glisten in the ray 
^ Of the good time coming. 
Gannon balls may aid the truth. 

But thought 's a weapon stronger ; 
We '11 win our battle by its aid ; — 
Wait a little longer. 

There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
The pen shall supersede the sword, 
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord^ 

In the good time coming. 
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind. 

And be acknowledged stronger ; 
. The proper impulse has been given ; -*- 

Wait a little longer. 

There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
War in all men's eyes shall be 
A monster of iniquity. 

In the good time coming. 
Nations shall not quarrel then, 

To prove which is the stronger ; 
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — 

Wait a little longer. 



76 



SPEECH OF BLACK HAWK. 



There 's a good time coming, boySi 

A good time coming : 
The people shall be temperate. 
And shall love instead of hate. 

In the good time coming. 
They shall use, and not abuse. 

And make all virtue stronger : 
The reformation has begun ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Let us aid it all we can. 
Every woman, every man. 

The good time coming. 
Smallest helps, if rightly given. 

Make the impulse stronger ; 
'T will be strong enough one day ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

GHABLEa Mackat. 



XXVU. — SPEECH OP BLACK HAWK. 



Wab'biob (war'jar), n., a person en- 
gaged in war ; a soldier. 

Am'bush (the u as in bnll), n., the 
place or act' of lying in wait. 

ViCT'UAiiS (vit'tlz), n. frf., food. 

Db-cbit'ful, a., full of deceit. 



ToiCA-HAWK, n., an Ihdian hatchet. 
Htp'o-cbiti^ n., a dissembler. 
Bull'et, n., a baU'for a gnn. 
Wab'-whoop (-hoop)} n., the war-017 

of the American Indians. 
De-feat', v. t,, to orerthrow. 



Avoid saying piaon for poi'aon (poi'xn) ; caouncl for coun'cil ; caotoard for eou^ 
mrd i VOU88 for worse (fisa or like er in her); xuite; ttt white ; un'r for whiz. The th it$ 
with has the vocal sound as in breathe, 

1. You have taken me prisoner, with all my war^ 
riors. I am much grieved, for I expected, if I did nol 
defeat you, to hold out much longer, and give you 
more trouble before I surrendered. I tried hard to 
get you into an ambush ; but your last general under- 
stands Indian fighting. I determined to rush on you, 



SPJSECH OF BLACK HAWK. 77 

and &ght yon face to &ce. I fought hard ; but yonr 
guns were well lamed. The bn Uets flew like birds in 
the air, and whizzed by our ears Jike the wind through 
the trees in winter, 

2. My warriora fell around ine« I saw that my evil 
day was at hand. The sun rose dim on us in the 
m ornin g, and at mght it sank in a dark cloud, and 
looked like a ball of fire. That was the last sun that 
shone on Black Hawk. His heart is dead, and no 
longer beats quicITmliis bosom . He is now a prisoner 
to tibe white men , l^ey will do with him as they 
wish, 

3. But he can defy torture, and is not afraid of 
death. He is no c oward . Black Hawk is an Indian. 
He has done nothing for which an Indian ought to be 
ashamed. He has fought for his countrymen, against 
white men, who came, year after year, to cheat them, 
and take away their l ands . You know the cause of 
our making war. It is known to all white men, — 
known, to their s^me. The white naen despise the 
Indians, and driye them from their hoines. But the 
InHpins are not deceitful. The white men speak ill of 
l£e Indian, and look at him spitefully. But the Indian 
does not tell lies. I ndian s do not steal. 

4. An I ndian bad as the white men could not live 
in our nation. He would be put to death, and be 
eaten up by wolves. The white men who come to us 
are bad s choolm asters. They carry false looks, and 
deal in fitlse actions; they smile in the face of the 
poor Indian, to cheat him; they shake him by the 
hand, to gain his confidence, to make him drunk, and 
to deceive him. We told them to let us alone, and 
keep away from us ; but they followed on, and beset 
our paths, and coiled themselves among us, like the 
8mkg,^oisoning us by their touch. 

5. We were not safe. We lived in d anger . We 

7* 



78 BFEBCH OF BLACK HAWK* 

were becoming, like them, h ypocri tes and liars, — -all 
tiJkers, and no workers. We looked np to the Great 
SpiriL We went to our Father, at Washington. "^Wo 
were enconraged. His great council gave us fair 
words and big promises ; but we obtained no satis&c- 
tion. Things were growing worse. There were no 
deer in the forest. The opo ssum and beaver were 
fled; Ihe springs were drying up, and our people 
were without victuals, to keep them from starving. 

6. We called a great council, and made a large fire. 
The spirit of our fathers arose, and spoke to us to 
avenge our wrongs or die. We all spoke before the 
council-fire. It was warm and pleasant. We uttered 
the war-whoop, and dug up the tomahawk ; our knives 
were ready, and the heart of Black Hawk swelled high 
in his bosom when he led his warriors to battle. He 
is satisfied. He will go to the world of spirits con- 
tented. His father will meet him there, and commend 
him. Black Hawk has done his duty. 

7. He is a true Indian, and disdains to cry like a 
woman. He feels for his wife^ his chil dren , and his 
friends. But he does not care for himself. He cares 
for his people. They will suffer. He laments their 
fate. The white men do not scalp head3 ; but they do 
worse, — they poison hearts. His countrymen will 
not be scalped, but they will, in a few years,Tbecome 
like the white men, so that you can not trust them ; 
and there must be, as in the white settlements, nearly 
as many officers as men, to take care of them, and 
keep them in order. 

8. Farewell, my nation ! Black Hawk tried to save 
you, and avenge your wrongs. He spilt the blood of 
some of the whites. He has been taken prisoner, and 
his plans are stopped. He can do no more 1 He is 
near his end. His sun is setting, and he will rise no 
more- Varewell to Black Hawk 1 



CATILINE EXPELLED. 79 



XXVm. — CATILINE EXPELLED. 



6cHBMK (gkdme), n,, a plot 
HoBDB, It., a wandering band. 
Trai'tob, ft., one who beirays trust, 
Fbl'on, n., one gailtj of a capital 

crime. 
RapInb, n., act of plundering. 
IfvL'Hi-NATB, V. t,, to thunder. 
Dis'so-LUTB, a., loose. 



Ab'bo-lutk, o., eompleta ; oaiti^ 
Mis'CBK-ANT, n., a Tile wietefa. 
QlR'Bi-Boiff ft., lold&en itatiomd ia 

a fort or town. 
Glai/i-a-tob, «., a swoid-plajer. 
Ck>v-ciB'Hi-AL, «., of the nine naitara. 
Ad'yib-ba-bt, ft., an enemj. 
Tb&ach'bb-t, n., breaeh of iaith. 



Do not say rdine for re-join' ; /u*i tatJtrtU Jn /or*ti-tude, hue^u^, vir'tu9^ o^m- 
lute, con-sptc'u-otM, &c., give Che kmg or y Mand to the ». In o|ieft the < le nol 

SAuiided« 

1. At leng thy Roinans, we are rid of Catiline 1 We 
have driven him forth, drunfe with fury, Eliminating 
mischief, threatening to revisit us with fire and sword. 
He has gone; he has fled; he has escaped]; he has 
b roken aw ay. No longer, within the very walls of 
the city, shall he plot her ruin. 

2. We have f orced him from secret schemes into 
open rebellion. The bad citizen is now the avowed 
trailor. His flight is the confession of his treason. 
Would^ that his attendants had not been so few ! Be 
speedy, ye companions of his dissolute pleasures, — 
be~ speedy, and" you may overtake him, before night, 
on the Aurelian road. 

3. Let Eiin not languish, deprived of your society. 
Haste to rejoin the congenial crew that compose his 
army ; — his army, I say ; for who can doubt that the 
army under Manlius expect Catiirne for their leader? 
And such an army ! Outcasts from honor, and fugi- 
tives Irom debt; gamblers and felons; miscreants, 
wHose dreams are of rapine, murder, and conflagra- 
tion I 

4. Against these desperate troops of your adver- 
sary, prepare, ! Romans, your garrisons and armies. 
And first, to that maimed and battered gladiator op- 
pose your consuls and generals. Next, against that 



80 THE CUSTOM OF DUELING. 

miserable outcast horde lead forth the strength and 
flower of all Italy ! 

" 5. On the one side chastity contends ; on the o then 
wantonness ; Bere purity, there pollution ; here integ- 
rity, there treachery ; here piety, there profanity ; here 
constancy, there rage; he re hon jsty, there baseness f 
here continence, there lust. 

6. In short, eg^uity, temperance, f ortitu de, prudence, 
struggle with iniquity, luxury, cowardice, rashness"; 
every virtue with every vice ! And, lastly, the con- 
test lies between well-grounded hope and absolute de- 
spair. In such a conflict, were every human aid to 
fail, would not Providence empower^uch co nspicuou a 
virtue to triumph over such complicated vice ? 

Cicero.* 



XXIX.— THE CUSTOM OF DUELING. 



Chal'lenge, n,f a snmmons to fights 
Un-til', pTfp., to the time thai. 
TBiyi-AL, a., trifling ; petty. 
Lu'di-cbovs, a., laughable. 
An-tag'o-ni8t, n., an enemy. 
Fe-bo'cious, a., fierce ; ornel. 



DE-PBAyi-TT, n., wickedness. 
Rb-yolt'ikg, a,, locking. 
Op-po'nent, n., one who opposes, 
Vib'tu-al-lt, ad., effectaallj. 
Ih-peb-tubb'a-blb, a., that can not 
be disturbed. 



ProDoanoe er in therefore like er in her ; sword, eordj England, ing'landf clothes, 
klothz. In en-sue', du'el, tu'tor, give the long or y sound to the u. |n out, now, 
couwte-nance, kc, give the pure sound of ou. Do not say instid for instead; di/fh 
kilty for d\f^-cul-ty ; presunt torpres'entf droumded for droioned. 

1. If two boys, who disagreed about a game of 
marbles or a penny tart, should, therefore, walk out 
by the river side, quietly take off their clothes, and, 
when they had got into the water, each try to keep 
the other's head down until one of them was drowned, 
we should, doubtless, think that these two boys were 
mad. 

2. If, when the survivor returned to his school- 
fellows, they were to pat him on the shoulder, tell 

* 3ee page 32 for a brief account of the great Roman orator. 



THE CUSTOM OF DUELINO. 81 

him he was a spirited fellow, and that if he had not 
tried the feat in the water they would never have 
played at marbles or any other game with him again, 
we should, doubtless, think that these boys were in- 
fected with a most revolting and disgusting depravity 
and ferociousness. 

3. And yet society does both tolerate and encour* 
age such depravity every day. Change the penny 
tart for some otiber trifle ; instead of boys put men, 
and, instead of a river, a pistol, and we encourage it 
all. We virtually pat the survivor's shoulder, tell him 
he is a man of honor, and that we would never have 
dined with him again if he bad not shot at his ac- 
quaintance. 

4. For what trivial causes have men gone out to 
kill each other I A gentleman accidentally runs against 
another, in the street, or treads on his toe, in a crowd. 
Harsh words ensue; a challenge is given; and two 
human beings, who, perhaps, never met each other 
before, go out to see which can succeed in taking the 
other's life. 

5. As civilization advances^ and Christian principles 
prevail, dueling must be more and more discountO'. 
nanced. The present law of England makes no dis^ 
tinction between the killing of a man in a duel and 
any other species of murder ; and the seconds of both 
parties are also guilty of murder. 

6. A ludicrous story is told of an affair which oc 
curred in Paris, when duels were more frequent than 
now. Two Englishmen stepped into a coffee-house, 
and took their seats at a table. Near them, at anothei 
table, sat a tall, grave-looking man, who appeared to 
be deeply absorbed in studying a book. 

7. Soon after the two Englishmen entered, one of 
them told the other that a celebrated dwarf had arrived 
in Paris. At this the tall man with the serious coua- 



83 THE CUSTOM OP DUELING. 

tenance opened his mouth and spake. ''I arrive," said 
he, " thou arrivest, he arrives ; we arrive, ye or yon 
arrive, they arrive." 

8. The Englishman, whose remark seemed to have 
suggested this mysterious outbreak, stepped up to the 
stranger, and inquired, " Did you speak to me, sir?" — 
"I speak," replied the stranger, "thou speakest, hf> 
«peaks ; we speak, ye or you speak, they speak." 

9. " How is this, sir ? " exclaimed the Englishmao^ 
who now began to be seriously indignant. "Yon 
tave the appearance of a gentleman. Do you meaiv 
to insult me ? " To which the tall man responded, " i 
iiisult, thou insultest, he insults ; we insult ye or you 
insult, they insult." 

10. " This is too much ! " said the Englishman, "i 
must have satisfaction. If you have any spirit to 
back your rudeness, come along with me." To thia 
defiance the imperturbable stranger, putting his book 
m his pocket, replied, "I come, thou comest, he comes; 
we come, ye or you come, they come." And there- 
upon he rose, with great coolness, and followed his 
challenger. 

11. In those days, when every gentleman wore a 
eword, duels were speedily dispatched. The hostile 
parties, on this occasion, went into a neighboring 
fencing saloon, and the Englishman, unsheathing his 
weapon, said to his antagonist, "Now, sir, you must 
fight me." — "I fight," replied the other, "thou fight- 
est, he fights; we fight," — here he made a thrust, — 
"ye or you fight, they fight;" and here he disarmed 
his oppo'nent. 

12. "Well," said the Englishman, "you have the 
best of it, and I hope ypu are satisfied." — "I am sat- 
isfied," replied the victor, "thou art satisfied, he is 
satisfied ; we are satisfied; ye or you are Satisfied, they 
are satisfied." — "I am glad every body is satisfied/'^ 



1 

J 

t 



THE HIGHEST CATARACT IN THE WORLD. 



83 



said the puzzled Englishman; ''but pray leave off 
quizzing me in this strange and unmerciful maimer, 
and tell me what is your object, if you have any, in 
doing it." 

13. The grave-looking gentleman now, for the first 
time, became intelligible. '' I am a Dutchman," said 
he, " and am learning your language. The book you 
saw in my hand was an English Grammar. I find 
much difficulty in remembering the peculiarities of the 
verbs ; and my tutor has advised me, in order to fix 
them in my mind, to conjugate every English verb 
that I hear spoken. This I have made it a rule to do. 
I do not like to have my studies broken in upon, or I 
would have told you this before." 

14. The Englishman laughed heartily at this expla- 
nation, and invited the conjugating Dutchman to dine 
with him and his friend. "I will dine," replied he, 
** thou wilt dine, he will dine ; we will dine, ye or you 
will dine, they will dine, — we will all dine together 1" 
This they accordingly did ; and the first sentiment that 
was proposed was, '' May all duels have as harmless a 
termination as ours I" 



XXX.— THE HIGHEST CATARACT IN THE WORLD. 



Sheer, a., dear ; perpendicular. 
Kis'suRE, n., a cleft 
Ba'sin, n.f a hollow place ; a dish. 
GranIte, n,f a hard rock. 
Nod'ule, n,f a small knot. 
Src'A-ifOREy %., a tree. 
Ber'pen-tieb, a,, winding ; spiral. 



Op'v-levce, n.f wealth ; riches. 

Com'pae-a-blib, a., worthy to be com- 
pared. 

GE-OL'o-ciTy n.f the science which 
treats of the stmctnre of the earth. 

CoK-PLEx'i-TT, n,, state of being oom'- 
plex or in'tricate. 



Fronoanoe Tosemitef T(hsem'p4e ; Sierra^ Se-ir'ra ; a in Ife-va'da like a In father f 
m in lux-u'rl-ant like gz ; tk In beneath and in pathe yocal as in breathe ; toward^ 
tdardf baein, bafen. Do not say eastun for east' em ; oppuaite for op'pth-eite f meddet 
for miad'ow, 

1. The To-Semite valley^ in California, is a pass 
about ten miles long. At its eastern extremity it 



84 THE HIGHEST CATARACT IN THE WOBLD. 

leads into three narrower passes, each of which ex- 
tends several miles, winding, by the wildest paths, into 
the heart of the Sierra Nevada chain of mountains. 
For seven miles of the main valley, which varies in 
width from three quarters of a mije to a mile and a 
half, the walls on either side are from two thousand to 
nearly five thousand feet above the road, and are 
nearly perpendicular. From these walls, rocky splint' 
ers, a thousand feet in height, start up, and, every 
winter, drop a few hundred tons of granite, to adorn 
the base of the rampart with picturesque ruin. 

2. The valley is of such irregular width, and bends 
so much, and often so abruptly, that there is great 
variety and frequent surprise in the forms and com?- 
binations of the overhanging rocks, as one rides along 
the bank of the stream. The patches of luxuriant 
meadow, with their dazzling green, and the grouping 
of the superb firs, two hundred feet high, that skirt 
them, and that shoot above the stout and graceftil 
oaks and sycamores, through which the horse-path 
winds, are delightful rests of sweetness and beauty 
amid the threatening awfulness. 

8. The Merced, which flpws through the main pass, 
is a noble stream, a hundred feet wide and ten feet 
deep. It is formed chiefly of the streams that leap and 
rush through the narrower passes, and it is swolleu, 
also, by the bounty of the marvelous waterfalls that 
pour down from the ramparts of the wider valley. 
The sublime poetry of Hab'akkuk is needed to describe 
the impression, and, perhaps, the geology, of these 
mighty fissures : " Thou didst cleave the earth with 
rivers." 

4. At the foot of the break-neck declivity of nearly 
three thousand feet, by which we reach the banks of 
the Merced, we are six miles from the hotel ; and every 
rod of the ride awakens wonder, awe, and a solemn 



THE HIGHEST CATABACT IN THE WOBLD. 85 

joy. As we approach the hotel, and tarn toward the 
opposite bank of the river, what is that 

" Which eyer sounds and shines, 
A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs aloof descried " ? 

That, reader, is the highest waterfall in the world, the 
Yo-Semite cataract, nearly twenty-five hundred feet in 
its plunge, dashing from 'a break or depression in a 
cliflF thirty-two hundred feet sheer. 

5. A writer, who visited this valley in September, 
calls the cataract a mere tape-line of water dropped 
from the sky. Perhaps it is so, toward the close of 
the dry season ; but as we saw it, the blended majesty 
and beauty of it, apart from the general sublimities of 
the Yo-Semite gorge, would repay a journey of a 
thousand miles. There was no deficiency of water. 
It was a powerful stream, thirty-five feet broad, fresh 
from the Nevada, that made the plunge from the brow 
of the awful precipice. 

6. At the first leap it clears fourteen hundred and 
ninety-seven feet ; then it tumbles down a series of 
steep stairways four hundred and two feet, and then 
makes a jump to the meadows five hundred and eigh- 
teen feet more. The three pitches are in full view, 
making a fall of more than twenty-four hundred feet. 

7. But it is the upper and highest cataract that is 
most wonderful to the eye, as well as most musical. 
The cliflF is so sheer that there is no break in the body 
of the water during the- whole of its descent of moro 
than a quarter of a mile. It pours in a curve, from 
the summit, fifteen hundred feet, to the basin that 
hoards it but a moment for the cascades that follow. 

8. And what endless complexities and opulence of 
beauty in the forms and motions of the cataract 1 It 
is comparatively narrow at the top of the precipice, 

8 



86 THE HIGHEST CATABACT IN THE WORLD. 

although^ as we said, the tide that pours over is 
thirty-five feet broad. But it widens as it descends, 
and curves a little on one side as it widens ; so that 
it shapes itself, before it reaches its first bowl of gran- 
ite, into the figure of a comet. More beautiful than 
the comet, however, we can see the substance of this 
watery loveliness ever renew itself, and ever pour 
itself away. 

9. The cataract seems to shoot out a thousand ser- 
pentine heads or knots of water, which wriggle down 
deliberately through the air, and expend themselves in 
mist before half the descent is over. Then a new set 
burst from the body and sides of the fall, with the 
same fortune on the remaining distance ; and thus the 
most charming fretwork of watery nodules, each trail- 
ing its vapory train for a hundred feet or more, is 
woven all over the cascade, which swings, now and 
then, thirty feet each way, on the mountain side, as if 
it were a pendulum of watery lace. Once in a while, 
too, the wind manages to get back of the fall, between 
it and the cliff, and then it will whirl it round and 
round, for two or three hundred feet, as if to try the 
experiment of twisting it to wring it dry. 

10. Of course I visited the foot of the lowest fall of 
the Yo-Semite, and looked up through the spray, five 
hundred feet, to its crown. And I tried to climb to 
the base of the first or highest cataract, but lost my 
way among the steep, sharp rocks ; for there is only 
one line by which the cliff can be scaled. But no 
nearer view that I found, or heard described, is com'- 
parable with the picture, from the hotel, of the Comet- 
Curve of the upper cataract, fifteen hundred feet high, 
and the two falls immediately beneath it, in which the 
same water leaps to the level of the quiet Merced. 

Rev. T. S. King. 



THE KEEPING OF THE BRIDGE. 



87 



XXXI.— THE KEEPING OF THE BRIDGE. 



Straight (strate), a., not crooked ;^- 
ad., directly ; in the shortest time. 

Cbest, n,f an ortiament on a helmet. 

Quoth (kwuth), v, it defective^ said. 

Ebb (like ere in there), ad,, before. 

Daunt'uesb (an 'AS m father), a,, fear- 
less. 



YAM'GrABD, n., first line of an army. 
Li'yiB, n,, bar for raising weights. 
DsiGN'mo, ppr,, oondesoending. 
A-thwabt', prtp,, aeross. 
Har'nbss, n,f armor ; fnmitare for a 

horse. 
GoB% a,, stained with dotted blood. 



In eap^tain, vU'lain, ke., gire os the soond of short <. Bo not say bU^ing^tor boUOmg, 

It is recorded hi the annals of ancient Rome that Horatins, assisted by LarUns and* 
HerminioB, defended the Sublician Bridge, over the Tibe/, against the whole £tniscan 
anny, nnder Po^sena, while the Romans broke down the bridge behind the ** dauntless 
Three." When the work was nearly finished, HoraUos sent back his two companions. 
As soon as the bridge was quite destroyed, he plunged hito the stream, and swam across 
to the city in safety, amid the arrows of the enemy. 

1. Out spake the Consal roundly : 

" The bridge mast straight go down ; 
For, since Janic'ulum * is lost, 

Naught else can save the town." 
Then out spake brave Hora'tius, 

The. Captain of the Gate : 
" To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds, 
For the ashes of his fathers, 

And the temples of his gods ? 

2. " Hew down the bridge. Sir Consul, 

With all the speed you may ; 
I, with two more to help me, 

Will hold the foe in play. 
In yon straight path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 
Kow, who will stand on either hand, 

And keep the bridge with me ? " 

* One of the hills of ancient Rome, from which it was separated by the 
river Tiber. Por'sena took the fort of Janicnlnm, and compelled the Romans ' 
lo retreat, oyer the bridge, into the city. 



88 THE KBSPDIG OF THE BRIDGK. 

3. Then out spake Spu'rins La/iins, -^ 

A Bam'nian * proud was he : — 
" Lo, I will stand on thj right hand» 

And keep the bridge with thee." 
And oat spake strong Hennin'ios^-x 

Of Tatian blood was he : — ^ 
" I will abide on thj left side. 

And keep the bridge with thee." 

4. " Horatins/' qnoth the Consul, 

" As then say'st, so let it be." 
And straight against that great array 

Forth went the dauntless three. 
For Romans, in Rome's quarrel. 

Spared neither land nor gold. 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life. 

In the brave days of old. 

5. The three stood calm and silent. 

And looked upon the foes. 
And a great shout of laughter 

From all the vanguard rose. 
But soon Etruria's noblest 

Felt their hearts sink to see 
On the earth the bloody corpses. 

In the path the dauntless three I 

6. Meanwhile the ax and lever 

Have manfully been plied. 
And now the bridge bangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
" Come back, come back, Hora'tius ! " 
■ Loud cried the Fathers t all ; 
" Back, Lai^tius 1 back, Hermin'ius ! 

Back, ere the ruin fall 1 '' 

* Romulas divided the Bonians into three tribes, called Rhanmensea, Tatip 
•Dfles, and Luoerenses. 

t The Roman Senators were ealled Fathers, or Consoript Fathenk 



THE KEEPING OF THE BRIDGE 89 

7. Back darted Spu'rius Lartius ; 

Hermimus darted back ; 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faoes^ 

And on the further shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have crossed once mora 

8. But, with a crash like thunder, 

Fell every loosened beam, 
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream ; 
And a long shout of triumph 

Eose from the walls of Borne, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the y^low foam. 

9. Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind ; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 

And the broad flood behind. 
" Down with him I " cried false Sextus, 

With a smile on his pale face. 
" Now yield thee I " cried Lars* Poi^sena« 

" Now yield thee to our grace." 

10. Round turned he, as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see ; 
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he ; 
But he saw on P&lati'nus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by the towers of Rome: 

11. '' Tiber I Father Tiber I 

To whom the Romans pray 1 

* In th« Etrasoan language Lan meant " mighty chief,** or lorA* 



90 THE KEEPINO OF THE BRmOB. 

A Soman's life, a Soman's arms. 
Take thou in charge this day I " 

So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 
The good sword by his side, 

And, with his harness on his back, 
Plunged headlong in the tide. 

12. No sound of joy or sorrow 

Was heard from either bank ; 
But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, ' 
With parted lips and straining eyes^ 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And when above the surges 

They saw his crest appear. 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry. 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

8. " Out on him I " quoth faAae Sextus ; 

'* Will not the villain drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 

We should have sacked the town I " — 
"Heaven help him 1 " quoth Lars Poi^sena, 

** And bring him safe to shore ; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 

14. And now the ground he touches, 
Now on dry earth he stands ; 
Now round him throng the Fathers, 

To press his gory hands ; 
And now, with shouts and clapping. 

And noise of weeping loud. 
He enters through the River-Gate, 
Bdme by the joyous crowd. 

Lord Macaulat. (1800—1860.) 



SPECIAL EXERCISES IN ELOCUTION. 91 

XXXn.— HPECXMi EXERCISES IN ELOCUTION. 

FAST L 



Clausb (klauz), n., a separate mem- 
ber of a sentence. 

Stbbbs, n., loroe ; weight. 

Covp'let (knp'Iet), n., two rersei. 

Sfb'gial (spesh'al), a,, designed for a 
particular purpose. 

Pber'agb, n,, the class of peen. 

Ap-pbo'pbi-atb, a., fit. 



Dis-PBBSB'y V. t,, to Boattar ; to die- 
pel. 

Pbom'i-hbnt, a,, standing ont. 

Ab'si-tba-bt, a., absolute ; goTemed 
bj will onlj. 

Jir-Yis'i'BLBy a., not to be seen. 

TBA6'B-i»r (traj'e-dj), %,, a dramatitt 
poem ; a fatal eyent. 



Pronoance MtrabeaUf Mlr'a-bo, Do not say emjroti* for em'pkO'HM (em'/(Ch9i»)f 
spiled for spoiled ; doo for d&e ; particlar for paretic u4apr. Re'al-ljf is in three sylia- 
bles. Do not caU it reely. In eer^taifif ea//taimj mryun'tain, kc, td has the sound of 
short i. ^ 

1. Articulation is the correct formation, by the 
organs of speech, of certain sonnds. Every word of 
more than one syllable is distingaished by the more 
forcible utterance, called accent, of one particular syl- 
lable, and the lighter utterance of the other, or others. 
The following words aflFord examples of accent: A 
com'pound, to com-pound'; an ac'cent, to ac-cenf^ 
blas'phe-mous, blas-phem'ing ; com-mand'er, com-man- 
danf. 

2. Pronunciation is the utterance of words with 
those vowel and consonant sounds, and that accent, 
which the best usage has established. Thus, pronun- 
ciation teaches us to say, ve^he-ment instead of ve-he^- 
merit; mis'chiev-ous instead of mis^hiet/ous ; and to 

• sound the ou in group and soup like o in move, in- 
stead of like ou in house. The correct pronunciation 
of words can be best learnt by reference to the dic- 
tionary. 

3. Pronunciation properly includes articulation. "In 
just articulation," says Austin, "the words are not 
hurried over, nor precipitated syllable over syllable. 
They are delivered out from the lips, as beautiful coins, 
hewly issued from the mint, deeply and accurately im» 



92 SPECIAL EXEfiCISEB IN ELOCUTION. 

pressed, perfectly finished, neatly struck by the proper 
organs ; distinct, sharp, in due succession, and of due 
weight" 

4. Inflections of the voice are those upward and 
downward slides in tone, by which we express either 
the suspension or the completion of the meaning of 
what we utter. Read the following sentence: "As 
trees and plants necessarily arise from seeds, so are 
you, An'tony, the seed of this most calamitous war." 
Here the voice slides up at the end of the first clause, 
at seedsj as the sense is not per-fected, and slides down 
at the completion of the sense, at the word wavj where 
the sentence ends. • 

5. Emphasis is that pecuUar stress which we Jay 
upon particular words, to bring out their meaning or 
importance more directly. Thus, in the following 
couplet from Pope, there is an exam^e of emphasis: 

" T is hard to say if greater want of skill 
Appear in writing or in judging ill. " 

Here the words writing and judging are opposed to 
each other, and are, therefore, the emphatical words. 

6. Another example : " When a Persian soldier was 
reviling Alexander the Great, an oflScer reprimanded 
him, by saying. Sir, you were paid to fight against 
Alexander, and not to rail at him." Here the reader 
who fully comprehends the force and meaning of the 
sentence, will not go astray in laying stress on the 
prominent words. We may apply the same remark to 
the following couplet, by Cowper : 

«* A modest, sensible, and well-bred man 
Woald not insult me, and no other can." 

7. Arbitrary rules are of little value in teaching to 
read. If you fully understand and feel what you are 
reading, — if you can pronounce all the words cor* 

tly, and if you have acquired facility of utterance 



'w»^r% 



iPBCIAL RTKBHTRlSfl IN KLOCUTIOSw 93 

hy practice, — you will be likely to read aright 
'' Probably not a single instance/' says Archbishop 
Whately, "could be found, of any one who has a<> 
tainedy by the study of any system of instructiony a 
really good delivery ; but there are many — probably 
nearly as many as have fully tried the experiment—* 
who have by this means been totally spoiled." 

8. In familiar discourse we rarely fail to place the 
emphasis properly ; aaid this is because we folly under- 
stand whaii we are saying. In order, therefore, to 
give the right emphasis to what we read aloud, we 
should acquaint ourselves with the meaning and con- 
struction of every sentence f for emphasis is, as it 
were, the invisible gesticulation of the mind through 
the voice, and all rules must give way to it.* 

9. Dispose the emphasis aright in the following sen- 
tence : ^ The pleasures of the imagination are not so 
gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the 
understanding." In this example, the emphatic words, 
gross and rejmedy are opposed to each other, and. con* 
trasted with sense and understcmding. 

** H(9 raised a mortal to the skies ; 
She drew an angel down/' 

Here three emphatic words in the first line are op- 
posed to three in the second. 

10. In the following passage, from Addison's tragedy 
of " Cato,'^ the italicized words ought to be the most 
emphatic ; and the parenthetical clause ought to be 
»poken in a lower tone of voice, and with a more rapid 
utterance, than the principal sentence ; a slight pause, 
both before and after the parenthesis, being appro- 
priate. 

«• If there 's a Power above us 
(And that there is, all Natut^ cries aloud 
Through all her works) , he must delight in virtus 
And that which he delights in must be happy." 



94 fiPECIiX EXI2BCI8BS IN ELOCUTION. 

IL The reply of Mirabeau, to the messenger of t^<^ 
king, who had ordered the French National Assembly 
to disperse, presents two emphatic words, which the 
reader who comprehends and feels the speech will not 
be slow to detect: '' Go say to those who sent you, 
that we are here by the power of the people, and that 
we will not be driven hence save by the power of the 
bayonet" 

12. The following passage, in the reply of Lord 
Thurlow to the Duke of Grafton, contains at least 
eight prominently emphatic words : " No one vener- 
ates the Peerage more than / do ; but, my lords, I 
must say that the Peerage solicited me, — not / the 
Peerage. Nay, more, — I can say, and will say, that, 
as a peer of Parliament, as Speaker of this right hon- 
orable House, as keeper of the great seal, as guardian 
of his majesty's conscience, as Lord High Chancellor 
of England, — nay, even in that character alone in 
which the noble duke would think it an afiront to be 
considered, but which character none can deny me, — 
as a man J — I am, at this moment, as respectable — I 
beg leave to add, as much respected — as the proudest 
peer I now look down upon." 

13. Pew positive rules for reading can be laid down, 
to which many unforeseen exceptions can not be taken. 
" Give the sense of what you read," says Mr. Knowles. 
^^Mind is the thing. Pauses are essential only where 
the omission would obscure the sense. The orator 
who, in the act of delivering himself, is studiously 
solicitous about parceling his words, is sure to leave 
the best part of his work undone. He delivers words, 
not thoughts. Deliver thoughts, and words will take 
care enough of themselves, — providing always that 
you have acquired the proper accuracy in pronun- 
ciation," 



THE SECOND WAB WITH ENGLAND, 



95 



XXXm. — THE SECOND WAR WITH ENGLAND. 



BiBGB (fM)ej), n., the besettiDg of a 

place with troops. 
SKByiLB, a., slaTish ; cringing. 
Bbb'tiaij, a., like a beaat. 
Bob'did, a,, foal ; coTotoiu. 
BoM-BABi/, V. t,f to attack with bombe. 
Fo-mbnt', V, L, to excite with heat. 
Iir'cu-Brs, n., the nightmare. 



iH-ciTL'CAn, 9. L, to urge upon hj 

fireqaent repetition. 
Db-ykl'op, v. t., to anoorer. 
Es-SEH'TiALy a.f neocMary ; pore. 
Dm-MoBfAJr-lz-isa, a., tending to d^ 

f troy moral prinoiplet. 
MAo-HA-HDf'i-Tr, n,, greatnea of 

mind ; generoiitj. 



Ay<^d saying wuat for worse ; exibit for ex-kifit $ tremeKdjfotu tot tr€'men'dou§, 
Sound er ia prap'er-tiff eu'er-gp, IWer'ty^ bun, 

1. If we are not fully prepared for war, let the sub- 
lime fact be soon exhibited, that a firee and valiant 
nation, with our numbers, and a just cause, is always 
a powerful • nation, — is always ready to defend its 
essential rights. In the Congress of 1774, among 
other arguments used to prevent a war, and discour- 
age separation from Great Britain, the danger of hav« 
ing our towns battered down and burnt was zealously 
urged. 

2. The venerable Christopher Gradsden, of South 
Carolina, rose and replied to it in these memorable 
words : " Our seaport towns, Mr. President, are com- 
posed of brick and wood. If they are destroyed, wo 
have clay and timber enough in our country to rebuild 
them. But, if the liberties of our country are de- 
stroyed, where shall we find the materials to replace 

3. During the siege of Boston, General Washington 
consulted Congress upon the propriety of bombarding 
the town. Mr. Hancock was then President of Con- 
gress. After General Washington's letter was read, a 
solemn silence ensued. This was broken by a member 
making a motion that the House should resolve itself 
into a committee of the whole, in order that Mr. Han- 
cock might give his opinion upon the important sub- 



96 TSB SECOND WAlt WITH ENGLAND. 

ject, as he was so deeply interested, from having al> 
his estate in Boston. 

4. After he left the chair, he addressed the chair- 
man of the committee of the whole in the following 
words : " It is true, sir, nearly all the property I have 
in the world is in houses, and other real estate, in the 
town of Boston ; but if the expulsion of the British 
army from it, and the liberties of our country, require 
their being burnt to ashes, issue the order /or that pur^ 
pose immediately J^ 

5. What inspiring lessons of duty do examples like 
these inculcate f War, fellow-citizens, id a great evil ; 
but not the greatest of evils. Submission to injustice 
is worse. Loss of honor is worse. A peace purchased 
by mean and inglorious sacrifices is worse. That 
sordid or that self-indulgent spirit, which would lead a 
man to prize the satisfactions of avarice or of worldly 
ease above country, above manliness, above freedom, 
is worse, fer worse. 

6. I am no apologist of war. I hate and deplore it. 
It should be the last resort of nations. It should be 
shunned on every principle. Christian and humane. It 
brings tremendous evils in its train. It foments some 
of the vilest passions of our nature, even as it often 
develops the most heroic virtues. If the money lav- 
ished in keeping up great naval atid military establish- 
ments were spent in employing labor, and educating 
the people, how much good might be effected, how 
touch evil might be prevented 1 

7* But an ignoble peace may be even more demoral^' 
izing than a sanguinary war. It may corrupt all the 
springs of a people's energy and magnanimity. It 
toay make them servile, sensual, selfish. It may be 
such an in'cubus on a nation's character, that every 
true patriot must feel crushed and degraded under its 
weight, till he Could almost exclaim, with disgraced 



SUNRISE ON KOUNT ETNA. 



97 



CassiO; ''Oil have lost my reputation. I have lost 
the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bes- 
tial. My reputation, lago, my reputation 1 " 

Brown. (I812.) 



XXXIV. — SUNRISE ON MOUNT ETNA. 



Ca'TA'ni-a, fi., a town on the east 

coast of Sicily. 
Dk-cuy'i-tt, n.f a slope. 
Proq'e-ny (proj'e-ny), n., offspring. 
£-ri7p'tion, n., a breaking forth. 
La'va, n., the melted matter which 

flows from a volcano. 
Vol-ca'no, n.f a burning mountain. 
Ar-o-hat'ic, a,f fragrant ; spicy. 
Dis-siic'i-LAB, a.f unlike. 
Sicp'a-rate, V. /., to disjoin ; to part. 



Ix-PLic'iT (im-plislt), a., wn^ped nf 

in ; trusting to another. 
Plab'tic, a.f giving form. 
Cha'ob (ka'os), n., a confused man. 
PIr'al-lel, n.f a line equally distant 

at all points from another line ; ^ 

resemblance. 
ScEN'ER-r, n., the objects that make 

up a scene or view. 
Dk-bcrt', v. t., to see at a distance. 
Di-teb'bi-tt, n.f difference. 



Pronounce Aliettdiy AUt'COo'de. The ph in cUmoapkere has the loand of/. Do not 
say triXT tor traetg, Per'/umey the noon, has the accent on the first syllable, to dlttln- 
gnish it from the verb ptr'fwmtf, 

1. At daybreak, we set off from Gata^nia, to visit 
Mount Etna, that venerable and respectable father of 
mountains. His base and his immense declivities are 
covered with a numerous progeny of his own; for 
QY^Tj great eruption produces a new mountain, and 
perhaps by the number of these, better than by any 
other method, the number of eruptions, and the age of 
Etna itself, might be ascertained. The whole mountain 
is divided into three distinct regions, called the fertile, 
the woody, and the barren region. These three are 
as different, both in climate and productions, as the 
three zones of the earth, and, perhaps, with equal pro- 
priety, might have been styled the Torrid, the Temper- 
ate, and the Frigid Zone. 

2. The first region surrounds the mountain, and 

constitxites the most fertile country in the world, 

9 



08 guinasB ov moukt etna. 

It extends to the distance of fourteen or fifteen miles^ 
where the woody * region begins. It is composed 
ahnost entirely of laya, which, after a nnmber of ages, 
is at last converted into the most fertile of all soils. 
Aft;er leaving Nicolo'si, twelve imles up the mountain, 
in an hour and a half s traveUng, over barren ashes 
and lava, we arrived on the con'fines of the woody 
region, or temperate zone. As soon as we came to 
these delightful forests, we seemed to have entered 
another world. The air, which before was sultry and 
hot, was now cool and refreshing ; and every breeze 
was loaded with a thousand per^ftimes, the whole 
ground being covered with the richest aromatic plants. 
Many parts of this region are surely the most delight- 
ful spots upon earth. 

3. This mountain unites every beauty and every 
horror, and the most opposite and dissimilar objects in 
nature. Here you observe a gulf, that formerly threw 
out torrents of fire, now covered with the most luxur 
riant vegetation, and from an object of terror become 
one of delight. Here you gather the most delicious 
fruit, rising from what was but lately a barren rock. 
Here the ground is covered with flowers; and we 
wander over these beauties, and contem'plate this wil- 
derness of sweets, without considering that, under our 
feet, but a few yards separate us from lakes of liquid 
fire and brimstone. 

4. But our astonishment still increases, upon raising 
our eyes to the higher region of the mountain. There 
we behold, in perpetual union, the two elements which 
are at perpetual war, — an immense gulf of fire, for- 
ever existing in the midst of snows, which it has not 
power to melt ; and immense fields of snow and ice, 
forever surrounding this gulf of fire, which they have 
not power to extinguish. The woody region of Etna 
ascends for abot^t ei^ht or nine miles, and forms a 



SUNRISE OK KOUKT ETNA. 99 

zone or girdle, of the brightest green, all around ihe 
mountain. 

5. This night we passed through little more than 
half of it, arriving some time before sunset at our 
lodging, which was a large cave, formed by one of the 
most ancient eruptions. Here we were delighted with 
the contemplation of many beautiful objects, the pros- 
pect on all sides being immense; and we already 
seemed to have been lifted from the eartL After a 
comfortable sleep, and other refreshments, at eleven 
o'clock at night we recommenced our expedition. 

6. Our guide now began to display his great knowl- 
edge of the mountain, and we followed him with im- 
plicit confidence where, perhaps, human foot had never 
trod before; sometimes through gloomy forests, which 
by day were delightful, but now, from the universal 
darkness, the rustling of the trees, the heavy, dull bel- 
lowing of the mountain, the vast expanse of ocean 
stretched at an immense distance below us, inspired 
a kind of awful horror. 

7. Sometimes we found ourselves ascending great- 
rocks of lava, where, if our mules should make but a 
&lse step, we might be thrown headlong over'^the 
precipice. However, by the assistance of our guide, 
we overcame all these difficulties, and in two hours 
we had ascended above the region of vegetation, and 
had left fer below the forests of Etna, which now ap- 
peared like a dark and gloomy gulf surrounding the 
mountain. 

8. The prospect before us was of a very diflTerent 
nature. We beheld an expanse of snow and ice, which 
alarmed us exceedingly, and almost staggered our 
resolution. In the center of this we descried the high 
summit of the mountain, rearing its tremendous head, 
and vomiting out torrents of smoke. The ascent, for 
some time, was not steep, and, as the surface of the 



100 SUNRISE ON MOUNT ETNA. 

anew sank a little, we had tolerably good footing; 
but, as it soon began to grow steeper, we found our 
labor greatly increased. 

9. However, we determined to persevere, calling to 
mind, in the midst of our labor, that the Emperor 
Adrian and the philosopher Plato had undergone the 
same; and from a like motive, too, — to see the rising 
sun from the top of Etna. At this point we at length 
arrived. But here description must ever fall short; 
for no imagination has dared to form an idea of so 
glorious and so magnificent a scene ; neither is there, 
on the surface of this globe, any one point that unites 
so many awful and sublime objects. 

10. The immense elevation from the surface of the 
earth, drawn as it were to a single point, without any 
neighboring mountain for the senses and imagination 
to rest upon, and recover from their astonishment, in 
their way down to the world; this point, or pinna- 
cle, raised on the brink of a bottomless gulf, as old as 
the world, often discharging rivers of fire, and throwing 
out burning rocks, with a noise that shakes the whole 
island; the unbounded extent of the prospect, com- 
prehending the greatest diversity, and the most beau- 
tiful scenery in nature, with the ?-ising sun advancing 
in the east to illumine the wondrous scene, — formed a 
combination to which I do not know a parallel. 

11. The whole atmosphere by degrees kindled up, 
and showed, dimly and faintly, the boundless prospect 
around. Both sea and land looked dark and confused, 
as if only emerging from their original chaos; and 
light and darkness seemed still undivided, tiU the 
morning, by degrees advancing, completed the separa- 
tion. The stars are extinguished, and the shades dis- 
appear. The forests, which but now seemed black 
crd bottomless gulfs, from which no ray was reflected 
to show their form or colors, appear a new creation 



BUNBISE ON KOUNT BTKA. 101 

TiBing to the sight, and catching life and beauty from 
every increasing beam. 

12. The scene still enlarges, and the hori^zon seems 
to widen and expand itself on all sides, till the sun, 
like the great Creator, appears in the east, and with 
his plastic rays completes the mighty scene. All ap- 
pears enchantment, and it is with difficulty we can 
believe we are still on earth. The senses, unaccus- 
tomed to the sublimity of such a scene, are bewildered 
and confounded ; and it is not till afler some time that 
they are capable of separating and judging of the ob- 
jects that compose it. The body of the sun is seen 
rising from the ocean, immense tracts both of sea and 
land intervening. The islands of Lip'ari, Pana'ri, 
Alicu'di, Strom'boli, and Volca'no, with their smoking 
summits, appear under your feet. 

13. You look down on the whole of Sicily, as on a 
map, and can trace every river, through all its wind- 
ings, from its source to its mouth. The view is abso- 
lutely boundless on every side, nor is there any one 
object within the circle of vision to interrupt it ; so 
that the sight is every where lost in the immensity^ and 
I am persuaded it is only from the imperfection of our 
organs that the coasts of Africa, and even of Greece, 
are not discovered, as they are certainly above the ho- 
rizon. The circumference of the visible horizon, on the 
lop of Etna, can not be less than two thousand miles. 

14. The highest point of the mountain is 10,874 feet 
above the level of the sea. About eleven hundred 
feet from the summit there is an irregular plane, esti- 
mated to be nine miles in circumference, and from this 
plane rises the steep terminating cone, at the top of 
which is the great crater or opening, continually 
throwing out sulphureous vapors, and which is so hot 
that it is very dangerous to go down into it. 

Patrick Bbydonb. (iT^^isia.) 
9* 



i02 WHEBE IS HE? 



XXXV.— WHERE IS HE? 



WnrD, V. i. and f ., to go. 

yAL*LMr, n., a hollow between hills. 



Ra'di-ajtcb, n.f sparkling luster. 
FA'TOB^ns, a., regarded with fiiTor. 



Do not say uwe, wisper, Ax., to wAere, toftu^er, Ice Heed the upinite. 
Han givetfa up the gboet, and where is he 7^ Job xIt. 10. 

*^ And where is he ? " Not by the side 

Of her whose wants he loved to tend ; 
Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, 

Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wead. 
That form beloved he marks no more. 

Those scenes admired no more shall see ; 
Those scenes are lovely as before, 

And she as fair, but where ishst 

• 
No, no I the radiance is not dim. 

That used to gild his favorite hill ; 
The pleasures that were dear to him 

Are dear to life and nature still. 
But, ah I his home is not as fair ; 

Neglected must his garden be ; 
The lilies droop and wither there. 

And seem to whisper, Where is he t 

• 

His was the pomp, the crowded hall ; 

But where is now the proud display ? 
Sis, riches, honors, pleasures, — all. 

Desire could frame ; but where are they? 
And he, as some tall rock that stands, 

Protected by the circling sea. 
Surrounded by admiring bands, 

Seemed proudly strong ; and where is he ? 

The church-yard bears an added stone ; 

The fire-side shows a vacant chair ; 
Here Sadness dwells, and weeps alone ; 

And Deaid) displays his banner there ! 



tHB BSTORT. 103 

The life has gone ; the breath has fled ; 

And what has been, no more shall be ; 
The well-known fonn, the welcome tread,— 

! where are thej t and where is he f 

HeNBT NxSUB. (1798— 1838.> 



XXXVI. — THE RETORT. 



Craft, n., manual art. 
Faut, ad,, gladly. 



CoH-cnri', V. /., to form In the mind. 
Liyb'u-hood, »., iiieaiifl of UTing. 



Onb day, a rich man« flushed with pride and wine, — 

Sitting with gaests at table, all quite merry, — 
Conceived it waald be vastly fine 

To crack a joke upon his secretuy . 
" Young man/' said he, '' by what art, craft, or trade, 

Did your good father earn his iiyelihood f " «— 
' He was a saddler, sir," the young man said ; 

'^ Aild in his tine was always reckoned good/' 

' A saddler, eh ? and had you stuffed with Oreek^ 
Instead of teaching you like him to do I 

And pray, sir, why did not your father make 
A saddler, too, of you ? " 

At this each flatterer, as in duty bound, . 

The joke applauded, aiad the laugh went round. 

At length, the secretary, bowing low. 

Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), 

^•5 Sir, by your leave, I fain would know 
Your father's trade." 

" My father's trade f Why, sir, but that 's too bad 1 
My father's trade ? Why, blockhead, art thou mad f 

My father, sir, was never brought so low : 
He was a gentleman, I 'd have you know 1 " 

" Indeed I excuse the liberty I take ; 

But, if your story 's true. 
How happened it your fath^ did not maJse 

A gentleman of you ? " 



104 MABCO BQZZABS. 



XXXVn.— MABCX) BQZ2ASIS. 



&B^imT, «., » soldier on g«aid. 
M oc'lcm, «., a M ohaiDBedan. 




SiL'BKm or Si.'brb, «., a afaort sword. 
NuKi'vBB, V. f., to feed ; to bring up, 
M ocayAcr (moantlD), «., a high hilL 

on the Tknldsh camp, at la^i, August 20, 1823^ 
fftonoanoe the a in Box-ta^ria like a in far. 

At midnight, in his gaarded tent, 

The Tiuk was dreaming of the honr 
When Greece, her knee in snppliance ^ent. 

Should tremble at his pow er. * * * 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Su'iiote band. 
True, as the steel of their tried blades, — 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian thousands stood. 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood 

On old Platae»a7s day ; 
And now these breat&ed that haunted air — 
The sons of sires who conquered there — 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare. 

As quick, as far as they I 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek, 
" To arms I they come I the Greek ! t he Greek ! '^ 
He woke — to die midst ffame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and saber stroke. 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud * 

Bozzaris cheer his band : ~ 
" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires; 

God — and your native land I " 



ON BECOKCILIATION WITH AKEBICA. 105 

They fought, like brave men, lon^ and well ; 

They piled that gr ound with M oslem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzans fell. 

Bleeding aFevery vein : 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smil e, when rang their proud " hurrah/' 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close. 
Calmly as to a night's repose. 

Like fl ower s at set of suq. 

Bozzaris I with the storied brave, 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Eest thee . There is no p roude r grave 

Even in her own proud clime. 

We tell thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou aiTlreedom's now and fame's, — 
One of the few, the immortal names. 

That were not born to die. Halleck. 



XXXVin. — ON RECONCILIATION WITH AAIERICA. 



Re-peIl', v. t.f to make void. 
Be-tract', v. t.f to take back. 
•Al-lay', v. t.f to repress ; to cheok. 
Fob'eign (for'en), a., belonging to 

another nation or country. 
CoN-CEs'sioir, n.f act of yielding. 
Al'ien-ate (ale'yen-&te), v. t., to 

transfer to another ; to estrange. 
Ex-tor'tion, n., unlawful exaction. 



Re-mot'al, n., act of remoring. 
0b'yi-0U8, a.f easily discorered. 
Del'e-gate, n.f one sent to act for 

others. 
GoH-PLi-c ACTION, n., an entanglement. 
Ul'ti-mate-ly, ad.f finally. 
Pol'i-cy, n., management of publio 

a£fairs. 
Des'pot-ism, n.f absolute power* 



In acts, sub'jects, &c., sound the t. Bo not say eivl for cii/il. 

1. America can not be reconciled — she ought not 
to be reconciled — till the troops of Britain are with- 
drawn. How can she trust you, with the bayonet at 
her breast ? How can she suppose that you mean less 
than bondage or death? Tt is not repealing this or 
-that act of Parliament, — it is not repealing a piece of 
j)archment; — that can restore America to our bosom^ 



106 ON BECONCILUllON WITH AlCERICl. 

2. Yoa must repeal ber fears and her resentments ; 
and you may then hope for her love and gratituda 
Bat now, insulted with an armed force posted at Bos- 
ton, irritated with a hostile array before her eyes, her 
concessions, if yon cotdd force them, would be suspi- 
cious and insecure, — the dictates of fear, and the ex- 
tortions of force I 

3. But it is more than evident that, princifded and 
united as they are, you can not force the Americanis 
to your unworthy terms of submission. Repeal, there- 
fore, my lords, I say ! But bare repeal will not satisfy 
this enlightened and spirited people. You must go 
through the work. You must declare you have no 
right to tax. Then they may trust you. 

4. There is no time to be lost. Every moment is 
big with dangers. While I am speaking, the decisive 
blow may be struck, and millions involved in the con- 
sequence. The very first drop of blood shed in a civil 
and unnatural war will make a wound which years, 
perhaps ages, may not heaL 

5. When your lordships look at the papers trans* 
mitted to us from America, — when you consider their 
decency, firmness, and wisdom, — you can not but re- 
spect their cause, and wish to make it your own. I 
must declare and avow, that, in the master states of 
the world, I know not the people nor the senate who, 
under such a compilication of diflScult circumstances, 
can stand in preference to the delegates of America, 
assembled in General Congress at Philadelphia. For 
genuine sagacity, for singular moderation, for solid 
wisdom, manly spirit, sublime sentiments, and sim- 
plicity of language, — for every thing respectable and 
honorable, — they stand unrivaled. 

6. I trust it is obvious to your lordshfps that all 
attempts to impose servitude upon such men, to estab- 
lish despotism over such a mighty continental natioQi 



ON BECQNCILIATION WITH AMERICA. 107 

mnst be vain, must be &tal. This wise people speak 
out. They do not hold the language of slaves. They 
tell you what they mean. They do not ask you to re- 
peal your laws as a favor. They claim it as a right ; 
.they demcmd it They, tell you they will not submit 
to them. And I tell you the acts must be repealed. 
We shall be forced ultimately to retract. 

7. Let us retract while we can, not when we musL 
I say we must necessarily undo these violent, oppres- 
Bive acts. They must be repealed. You will repeal 
them. I pledge myself for it, that you will, in the end, 
repeal them. I stake. my reputation on it. I will con- 
sent to be taken for an idiot, if they are not finally re* 
pealed."" Avoid, then, this humiUating, this disgraceful 
necessity. * 

8. Every motive of justice and of policy, of dignity 
and of prudence, urges you to allay the ferment in 
America, by a removal of your troops from Boston, — 
by a repeal of your acts of Parliament On the other 
hand, every danger and every hazard impend, to deter 
you from perseverance in your present ruinous meas- 
ures: foreign war hanging over your heads by a slight 
and brittle thread ; France and Spain watching your 
conduct, and waiting the maturity of your errors I 

9. To conclude, my lords, if the ministers thus per- 
severe in misadvising and misleading the king, I will 
not say that they can alienate the affections of his sub- 
jects from the crown, but I will affirm that they will 
mak« his crown not worth his wearing. I will not say 
that the king is betrayed, but I will pronounce that 

1^ kingdom is undone I ^ „ 

° Lord Chatham. (1708—1778.) 

* tThis prediction was Tvrified. After a throe ywn* fmitless war, the re- 
peal of the offensire acts was sent ont as a peace-offering to the Colonies ; hot 
it was too late. The speech from which onr extracts are made was delirered 
in the Honse of Lords, January 20, 1776, qn a motion to withdraw the BrlU 
idi troops Arom Boston. 



IW I WILL TRY. 



XXXIX. — I WILL TRY. 

Pal'lxt, II., a painter's oolor-board Art^i-san (arfe-san), n^ a person 



for the hand. 
Cajt'yas, n., a coarse oloth. 
.Cob'tuxb, ».j style of dress. 
De-tkb'. v. t.f to stop by fear. 
A-Do' (a-doo'), n.f troable ; iti^ 
Ma-tuke', a., ripe ; fall-grown. 



skilled in any art. 
Min'ia-tubb (min'e-tor), n., a small 

likeness or picture. 
Thob'ough-ly (thur'ro-ly), ad., with 

completeness ; fully. 
Ob-ut'eb-ate, v. t.f to blot out. 



Do not say costoovii pieter, dook^ &c. Heed the y sound of long u. 

1. Thebe is a society in London known as the Soci- 
ety of Arts. Its object is the encouragement of talent 
in the various departments of art. Prizes are awarded 
by the society, sometimes to painters for their pic- 
tures, and sometimes to humble artisans for improve- 
ments in weaving, or in the manufacture of bonnets, 
lace, or artificial flowers. 

2. More than half a century ago, a little fellow, 
named William Ross, not twelve years of age, was talk- 
ing with his mother about an exhibition of paintings 
at the society's rooms. William was very fond of 
paintings, and could himself draw and color with re- 
markable skill. " Look you, William," said his mother ; 
" I saw some paintings in the exhibition which did not 
seem to me half as good as some of yours." 

3. "Do you really think so, mother?" asked he. — 
'' I am sure of it," she replied. " I saw paintings in- 
ferior, both in color and drawing, to some that are 
hanging in your little chamber." William knew that 
his mother was no flatterer, and he said, " I have a 
mind to ask permission to hang one or two of my 
paintings on the walls, at the next exhibition." — 
'^Why not try for one of the prizes?" asked his 
mother. 

4. "01 mother dear, do you think I should stand 
any chance of success?" said William. — ^" Nothing 



I WILL TBT. 109 

venture, nothing have," said his mother. " Ton can 
but try." — " And I wiU try, mother dear," said Wil- 
liam. " I have a historical subject in my head, out of 
which I think I can make a picture." — " What is it, 
William?" 

5. " The death of Wat Tyler. You have heard of 
him? He led a mob in the time of Richard the 
Second. Having behaved insolently before the king, 
at Smithfield, Tyler was struck down by Walworth. 
Mayor of London, and then killed by the king's at 
tendants." 

6. "It is a bold subject, William; but I will say 
nothing to deter you from trying it." — "If I fail, 
mother, where will be the harm? I can try again." — 
" To be sure you can, William. So we will not be dis- 
appointed should you not succeed in winning the 
silver pallet offered by the society for the best histori- 
cal painting." 

7. Without more ado, little William went to work. 
He first acquainted himself with the various costumes 
of the year 1381. He learnt how the king and the 
noblemen used to dress, and what sort of clothes were 
worn by the poor people and laborers, to which class 
Wat Tyler belonged. He also learnt what sort of 
weapons were carried in those days. 

8. After having given some time to the study of 
these things, he acquainted himself thoroughly with 
the historical incidents attending the death of the bold 
rioter. He grouped, in imagination, the persons who 
were present at the scene, — the king and his attend- 
ants, Walworth, the mayor, Wat Tyler himself, and, in 
the background, some of his ruflSanly companions. 

9. The diflSculty now was to Select that period of 
the action best fitted for a picture, and to group the 
figures in attitudes the most natural and expressive; 
Many times did little William make a sketch of the 

10 



110 I WILL TRY. 

flcene on paper, and then obliterate it, diesatisfied with 
bis work. At times he ahnost despaired of accom- 
plishing any thing that should do justice to the con- 
ception in his mind. But, after many trials and many 
failures, he completed a sketch which he decided to 
transfer to canvas. 

10. He now labored diligejatly at his task^ and took 
every opportunity to improve himself in a knowledge 
of colors and their effects. At length the day for 
handing in his picture arrived. He then had to wait 
a month before there was any decision as to its merits. 
On the day appointed for the announcement of the 
decision many persons of distinction were present, in- 
cluding ladies. The meeting was presided over by 
the Duke of Norfolk. 

11. William's mother was present, of course. She 
sat waiting the result, with a beating heart. What a 
proud mother she was when, after the transaction of 
some uninteresting business, it was announced that 
the prize of a silver pallet, for the best historical pic- 
ture, was awarded to the painter of the piece entitled 
" The Death of Wat Tyler " I Poor Mrs. Ross could 
dot refrain from weeping, she was so very glad. 

12. When it was found by the audience that little 
William Ross was the successful artist, their applause 
broke forth with enthusiasm. To see such a little fel- 
low gain a prize over competitors of mature age, was 
a novelty and a surprise. William was summoned 
with his picture to the duke's chair, and there he re- 
ceived such counsel and encouragement as were of 
great service to him in his future career. He after- 
ward became Sir William Ross, miniature painter to 
Queen Victoria ; having risen to fortune and rank by 
carrying out, with determination and perseverance, 
his simple promise to his mother of " I will try." 



QUABfiEL OF THE AUTHORS. Ill 



XL. — QUARREL OP THE AUTHORS. 



l>i(fTioN, n,, language ; style. 

SoH'irsT^ n,, a poem of fourteen lines. 

t*Bi/AirT, «., one who -maket a vain 
parade of his knowledge. 

S'ooLS'cAP, n.| a kind of writing pa- 
per. 

Do not laj Lain tat Lat^n ; ttaioo tat ttai'ue. Fronoimoe q/k«n, {f^ 



Bal'lab, n., a short narratire song. 

PLA'oi-A-Bm (-Je), a., one who 
off another's writings as his own. 

Me'tsb or Mx'tbx, n., measure as ap- 
plied to Terse. 

Haih^aih', v. t,, to nphold. 



Enter Batiub and Msnus, meeting. 

Savius. Sir, I 'm proud to have met you. Long have 
I known 
Your productionB, and often I 've wished them my own. 
Tour verses have beauties in none other found. 

Meviits. In yours all the graces of diction abound. 
^ Ba. Your phrases are neat, your style charmingly light. 

Me. We ^nd the pathetic in all that you write. 

Ba. Your odes, how delightful I how tender and true I 
Who now will compare Pope or Dryden with you ? 

Me. Your songs have a noble and elegant vein. 
That even old Horace could never attain. 

Ba, 'Can any thing equal your love-ditties rare T 

Me. Can aught with your wonderftil sonnets compare T 

Ba. If the public could estimate half of your worth — 

Me. If merit now met its due honors on earth 

Ba. You 'd roll through the streets in a carriage of gold. 

Me. Every square in the city your statue would hold. 
Hem 1 this ballad of mine — your opinion upon it. 
I should like to . 

Ba. Pray, sir, have you met with a sonnet 
On the flag of our country ? 

Me. A sonnet ? — Just so. 
'T was read at a party, a few nights ago. 

Ba. Do you know who 's the author ? 

Me. I know not — nor care ; 
For H is an exceedingly trifling afliair. 

Ba. Yet many admire it — or so they tell 7ii«. 

Me. No matter for that ; it 's as bad as can be. 



112 QUARREL OP THE AUTHORS. 

And if you had but seen it, sir, you 'd think so too. 

Ba. Dear sir, I am sorry to differ from you ; 
But I hold that its merit must every one strike. 

Me. May the Muses preserve me from making the like « 

Ba, I maintain that a better the world can not show ; 
For I am the author — yes, /, you must know. 

ife You? 

B(L I. 

Ife. Well, I wonder how that came to pass. 

Ba. I had the bad luck not to please you, alas I 

Me. Perhaps there was something distracted my head ; 
Or else the man spoiled it, so badly he read. 
But here is my ballad, concerning which I 

Ba. The days of the ballad methinks are gone by ; 
'T is very old-fashioned, and out of date quite. 

Me. Yet, even now, many in ballads delight. 

Ba. No matter ; I think them decidedly flat. 

Me. You think them ! Perhaps they 're no worse, sir, 
for that. 

Ba. For pedants, indeed, they have charms beyond 
measure. 

Me. And yet we perceive they afford you no pleasure. 

Ba. You give others qualities found but in you. 

Me. You call others names that are justly your due. 
Go, blotter of foolscap ! contemptible creature I 

Ba. Go, scribbler of sonnets, and butcher of meter ! 

Me. Go, impudent pla'giarist ! Pedant, g^t out I 

Ba Go, rascal ! Be careful ! mind what you 're about I 

Me. Go, go I strip your writings of each borrowed 
plume ; 
Let the Greeks and the Latins their beauties resume. 

Ba. Go, you, and ask pardon of Venus and Bacchus, 
For your lame imitations of jolly old Flaccus.* 

Me. Remember your book's insignificant sale. 

Ba. Remember your bookseller driven to jail, 

* Quintus Horatius Flaoous, or Horace, a famous Roman poet, bom 65 B. CL 
Venus was the goddess of loye, and Baoohus the god of wine, in the ancient 
mythology. ^ 



THE TWO H0ME9. 113 

Me, My pen shall avenge me — to your great disaster. 
Ba. And mine shall let you know, sir, who is youi 

master. 
Me. I defy you in verse, prose, Latin, and Greek I 
Ba. .You shall hear from me, sir, in the course of HtM 

week. ImitcUedfrom Mouerk. 



XII. — THE TWO HOLIES. 



Hbarth (the ea like a in far), n., 

place on which a fire is made. 
Tojr (yon), a., i^ithin yiew. 



Ten'dbil, n., a ipiral shoot of a climb* 

ing plant. 
Sol'eun (sorem), a., sacredly serions. 



Do not say hatont for haunt (the au is like a in /or). Qire ott in fount and oi in 
re Voiding their pare sounds. Do not say acroat fur chorou'. Do not slight the artiio 
niation of ask^st. Practice it well. 

FIRST SPEAKER. 

Seest thou my home ? — 't is where yon woods are waving, 
In their dark richness, to the summer air ; 

Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving, 
Leads down the hill a vein of light, — 'tis there I 

'Mid those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming. 
Fringed with the violet, colored with the skies I 

My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming. 
Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 

My home ! the spirit of its love is breathing 
In every wind that plays across my track ; 

Prom its white walls the very tendrils wreathing 
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 

'T. 

There am 1 loved, there prayed for ; there my mother 
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; 

There my young sisters watch to greet their brother;— 
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly. 

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending, 
All the home-voices meet at day's decline; 

10* 



114 WABBEN'S ADDBESfi. 

Ono are those tones, as from one heart ascending : 
There laughs my home, — sad stranger I where is thine f 

SECOND 8PKAKEB. 

Ask'st thou of mine ? «— In solemn peace 'tis lying. 

Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 
'T is where /, too, am loved with love nndying, 

And fond hearts wait my step : but where are they f 

Ask where the earth's departed have (heir dwelling ; 

Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air I 
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 

My lonely heart that love unchanged is there. 

And what is hcnne and where, but with the loving t •— 
Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine I . 

My spirit knoweth, in its weary roving. 
That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine. 

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother 1 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene I 

For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I will believe — but dark seas roll between. 

FEUaA HemaNS. (1795—1835.) 



Xm.— WAEREN'S ADDRESS 

AT THB BATTLB OF BUNKER's HILL. 

Pbal, II., a lucooflsion of loud sounds, Dibs'pot, n., a tyrant. 

as of cannon, ibo. Hab'ttbed, pp., put to death for Cha 

QuAii^ V. u, to sink in spirit truth or for patriotism. 

The c in the last syllable of leaden and heaven is not sounded. 

Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves I 
Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 
Hope ye mercy still t 



ABNOXiD, THE TSACHEIU 115 

What 's the mercy despots f^el f 
Hear it in that battle peal I 
Bead it on yon bristling steel I 
Ask it — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire? 
Look behind you I they 're a^re I 

And, before you, see 
Who have dpne it ! — From the Tale 
On they come I — and will ye quail? — 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be I 

In the God of battles trust I 
Die we may — and die we must : 
But, 0, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where heaven its dews shall shed. 
On the martyred patriot's bed, 
And the rocks shall raise their head. 

Of his deeds to tell ? 

JOHK FlBBPOHT. 



XLin. — ARNOLD, THE TEACHER. 



'pRis>''fttE, a., first ; earliest. 
Nbu'tral a,, indifferent. 
Pli'ant, a., easily bent. 
Ca-beer', n., a course ; a race. 
Jk-tbitse', a., stretched ; extreme. 
IN'Btbuot'ob, n,f a teacher. 
Gbab-ac-tbb-ib'tiOj a,, marking dhar- 

aoter. 
Z18T, n., relish ; flavor. 



Cozv'sciKNCEy n., the fiMralty of know- 
ing right from wrong. 

I-de'al, a.f existing in idea. 

Tem'po-ral, a., relating to time Mid 
to things of this world. 

Ex-povnd'er, n., an explainer. 

In-ybitt'-or, n., one who inyenti. 

Ear'nbst, a., zealous ; serious. 

In-gen'u-ovs (-jen), a,, frank. 



Do not aaj wnble tor hum'ble f nootral for neH'tralj ideel for i-de'al } appint for 
tgif-poinf. Pronounce diteem, dix^zem'. 

1. The careerjof Thomas Arnold, the distinguished 
instructor of youth, though teeming with the poetry 



116 ABNOLD, THE TEACHEB. 

of common l ife, was not one of stirring i ncident ^ or 
ro-mance' ; it consisted in laboring to his best in his 
sacred vocation. Bom in England in ITQS^ he was 
educated at Winchester College, and in 1827 became 
headjuaater of* RugHy School^ He died in 1842, at 
the early age o f forty-seven. 

2. His professional ^KK' began at Eujgby; and he 
plunged into fourteen years of uninterrupted toil. 
Holding labor to be his appointed lot on earth, he 
harnessed himself cheerfiilly to his jwork . A cravin g 
for rest^was to him a sure sign that neither mind nor 
body retained its pristine vigor ; and he determined, 
while blessed with health , to proceed like the camel in 
the wilderness, and ^ie with his burden on his back. 
His characteristic traiij was intense earnestness. He 
felt life keenly ; its responsibilities as well as its enjo y- 
ments. ^His very pleasures ~were earnest. In nothmg 
was he indifferent or neutral. 

3. His principles were few : the fear of God was the 
beginning of his wisdom, and his object was not so 
much to teach knowledge, as the means of acquiring 
it ; to furnish, in a word, the key to^he temple. He 
desired to awaken the intellect of each individual boy, 
and contended that the main movement must come 
from within, and not from without, the pupil ; and that 
all that could be should be done by him, and not /or 
him. ' ' 

4. In a word, his scheme was to call forth in the 
little world of school those capabilities which best 
fitted boys for their career in the great world. He 
was not only possessed of strength, but had the art of 
imparting it ; he had the power to grasp a subject him- • 
self, and then ingraft it on the intellect of others. 

5. His pupils were made to feel that thefe was a 
work for themnfo do ; that their happiness, as well as 
their duty, lay in doing that work well. Hence an 



J 



ABNOLD^ THE TEACHEB. 117 

indescribable zest was communicated to a young man's 
feelinp abont l ife ; a strange joy came over him on dis- 
cemipg that he had the means of being usefiily and 
thus of being happy. He was inspired with a bumble, 
profound, and most "religious consciousness that work 
is the appointed c alling of man on earth;' the element 
in which his nature is ordained to d^elop itself, and 
in which his progressive advancement toward heaven 
is to lie. 

6. The three e nds at which Arnold aimed, in the 
order of their relative im porta nce, were firsthand fore;- 
most to inculcate religipus and moral principle, then 
gentl emanli ke conduct, and lastly intellectual ability. 
To his mind^ religion and politics — the doing one^s 
duty to God and to man — were the two thing s really 
wanCng. T Jnlike the schoolmasters of his early life, 
he held all the scholarship man ever had to be infi- 
nitely worthless in compsudfum with even a very hum. 
ble degree of spirit ual ad vancement. 

7. He loved tuition for itselfT of which he fully felt 
the solemn r esponsibili ty and the ideal beauty, and 
which he was among the first to elevate to its true 
dimity . It was the destiny and business of his enlEire 
life. His own youthfulness of t emperam ent and vigo r 
fitted him better for the society of the young than o] 
the old; he enjoyed their spring of mind and body, and 
by p ersonal intercour se hoped to train up and mould 
to good their pliant minds, while wax to receive, and 
marblg to retain. 

8. He led his pupils to place implicit trust in his 
decisions, and to esteem his approbation as their high- 
est rewgjyj. He gained his end by treating them as 
gentlemen, as reasonable beings, in whose conscience 
ana comm on sen se he might confide ; and to this ap- 
peal to {Eeir nobler faculties, to his relying on their 
hono r, the ingenuous youth responded worthily. 



118 THE GOOD GREAT HAK. 

9. Once, at LaJeham, when t eachin g a r ather dnH 
boy, he spoke somewhat sharply to him, on which the 
pupil looked up in his face, and said, " Why do you 
epeat^ so angrily, sir? — i ndeed, I am doing the best I 
can." Arnold at once acknowledged his error ^ and 
expressed his regret for it. Years afterward he used 
to tell the story to his children, and aSHed,""^! never 
felt SO muchin my life : that look and that speech I 
have never forgotten." 

10. One oTiiis principal holds was • in his boy-ser- 
mons ; that is, in sermon s to wEich his youngcongre- 
gation could and did listen, and of which he was the 
absolute inventor. TThe secret of that'power lay in its 
intimate connection with the man himself. He spoke 
with both spirjtjial and temporal authority, and truths 
divine seemed mended by the tongue of an expounder 
whose discourse was a living one,— doctrine m action, 
*— and where precept was enforced by example. 

11. His^was the exhibition of a simple, earn est man, 
who practiced what he preached, who probed the 
depths of life, and expressed strongly and P^J^J^^is 
love of goodness and abhorrence of sin. There was, 
indeed, a moral supremacy in him j his eyes looked 
into the heart, and all that was base and mean cowered 
before him ;" and, when he preached, a sympathetic 
thrill ran through his audienceV " * 



XUV.— THE GOOD GREAT MAN. 

CoBSB, n., a corpse. I E'qua-blb, a., even ; smoalli* 

Rk-vouncb', v. u, to oast off. I Ob-taxn', v. <., to get ; to gain. 

Sound the or in vMrtk like er tn htr ; the f A in vjUK as in hreatlu* 

FIRST SPEAKER. 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 
Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains I 



THB IlfHOBTAUTT 09 THE SOUL. 



119 



It seems a story from the world of spirits 
When any man obtains that which he merits. 
Or any merits that which he obtains. 

SECOND SPfiAKEB. 

For shame, my friend t — renounce this idle strain I 

What wonldst thon have a good great man obtain 7 

Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain. 

Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ? 

Goodness and gpreatness are not means, but ends. 

Hath he not always treasures, always friends. 

The good great man f Three treasures, — love, and lights 

And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath ; 
And three fast friends, more sure than day or night, — 

Himselfi his Maker, and the Angel Death. 

S. T. COUSRIDOB. (1770 — 1834.) 



XLY. — THB IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



Ir-pKst'VBB, n,, deception ; fraud. 

Gm-MS'BA (ke-me'ra), n., idle fanoj. 

Fut'o-lovs, o., trifling ; Tain. 

Per'ju-rt, n,f crime of false swearing. 

PaoB'i-TT, n., honesty ; truthfulness. 

If-8kh'batb, a,, venmless ; stupid. 

Rbt-bi-bu'tiok, n., repayment. 

Ds-irAT'u-iUL-izsD, pp,, made unnat- 
ural. 

VAUKyBn (au like a in fsar), pp., 
boasted. 



CsH'BirT, n., a substance which makef 

bodies unite. 
Preo'i-catb, v. t,, to aiBniL 
Ix-bb-cil'i-tt, n., weakness. 
Ls-oiT'i-MAn, a., lawfuL 
Il-lu'bitb, a., deoeiring bj fUs9 

show. 
An-Bi-Hi-ifA'TiOK, n,f destruction. 
lyn-cA-CT, n,f power ; use. 
Bua'BKAR, n,f an imaginary terror. 
Ib-re-spon'bi-ble, a,, not answerable 



Do not aaj air for are (like r) } govunmerU for yov'm-n-menf ; iuoo for it'^fi*. 

1. If we wholly perish with the body, what an im- 
posture 18 this whole system of laws, manners and 
usages, on ^^ich human society is founded I If we 
wholly perish with the body, those maxims of charity, 
patience, justice, honor, gratitude and friendship, which 
sages have taught and good men have practiced, what 
are they but empty words, possessing bo real and 
binding efficacy ? 



120 THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. "^ 

2. Why should we heed them, if in this life only W6 
have hope ? Speak not of duty. What can we owe 
to the dead, to the living, to ourselves, if all arCj or 
toiU be, nothing ? Who shall dictate our duty, if not 
our owir pleasures, — if not our own passions ? Speak 
not of morality. It is a mere chimera, a bugbear of 
human invention, if the life of man terminates with the 
grave. 

3. If we must wholly perish, what to us are the 
sweet ties of kindred ? what the tender names of 
parent, child, sister, brother, husband, wife, or friend ? 
The charactei*s of a dra'ma are not more illusive I We 
have no ancestors, no descendants ; since succession 
can not be predicated of nothingness. Would wo 
honor the illustrious dead? How absurd to honor 
that which has no existence I 

4. Would we take thought for posterity? How 
frivolous to concern ourselves for those whoso end, 
like our own, must soon be annihilation ! Have we 
made a promise? How can it bind nothing to noth- 
ing ? Perjury is but a jest. The last injunctions of 
the dying, — what sanctity have they, more than the 
last sound of a chord that is snapped, of an instru' 
ment that is broken ? 

5. To sum up all : If we must wholly perish, then is 
obedience to the laws but an insensate servitude; 
rulers and magistrates are but the phantoms which 
popular imbecility has raised up ; justice is an unwar- 
rantable infringement upon the liberty of men, — an 
imposition, a usurpation ; the law of marriage is a vain 
scruple; modesty, a prejudice; honor and probity, 
such stuff as dreams are made of; and the m5st heart* 
less cruelties, the blackest crimes, are but the legiti* 
mate sports of man's irresponsible nature I 

6. Here is the issue to which the vaunted philoso- 
phy of unbelievers must inevitablv lead ! Here is 



BBEVmES. 121 

that social felicity, that Bway of reason, that emancipa- 
tion from error, of which they eternally prate, as the 
fruit of their doctrines I Accept those doctrines, and 
the whole world falls back into a frightful chaos ; and 
all the relations of life are confouDded ; and all ideas 
of vice and virtue are reversed ; and the most inviola- 
ble laws of society vanish ; and all moral discipline is 
discredited. 

7. Accept those doctrines, and the government of 
states and nations has no longer any cem'ent to up- 
hold it ; and all the harmony of the body politic be- 
comes discord ; and the human race is no more than 
an assemblage of reckless barbarians, shameless, re- 
jnorseless, brutal, denaturalized, with no other law 
than force, no other check than passion, no other 
bond than irreligion, no other God than self. Such 
would be the world which impiety would make 1 Such 
would be this world, were a belief in God and immor- 
tality to die out of the human heart I 

From the French of Massh^lox. (1717 — 1742. 



XLVI.— BREVITIES. 

XXERCISBS IN LEVEL OR COLLOQUUL DELrfERT. 



dox'pASS (kum'pass), n,, space ; an 
instrument by which ships are 
steered. 

Oan'yass, v. L, to solicit votes. 

StTR'GEON, n.f one who cures by the 
hand or by instruments. 

Bp'och (ep'ok or e'pok), n., era ; date. 



Vot'age, n,f a journey by sea. 
Pat'ten, n.f a sort of shoe. 
SiTp'pLi-ANT, n., a humble petitioner. 
Fbiy'd-lous, a., slight ; vain. 
Mo-ment'ous, a., important. 
Ma-rinb' (-reen), a., belonging to 
the sea. 



j The au in haunt has the sound of a in far. In gov'em-orf in'ter'eatf tafer-eUt^ heed 
the sound of er ; in town and eounVer. the sound of ou, 

i 

1. The Dull Bazob. — "Does this razor go easy?" 
asked a barber of his customer, who was writhing 
under a clumsy instrument, the chief recommendation 
of which was a strong handle. — " Well," replied the 



122 BREVITIES. 

poor fellow, 'Hhat depends upon what you call this opei^ 
ation. If 70U 're skinning me, the razor goes tolerably 
easy ; but if you 're shaving me, it goes rather hard." 
— " Does n't it take hold ? " asked the barber. — " Yes, 
it takes hold, but it won't let go," replied the victim. 

2. How TO Rum your Health. — A humorous 
writer gives the foUowing rules for ruining health: 
Stop in bed late. Eat hot suppers. Turn day into 
night, and night into day. Take no exercise. Always 
ride when you can walk. Never mind about wet feet. 
Have half a dozen doctors. Take all the medicine 
they give you. Try every new quack. If that doesn't 
kill you, quack yourself 

3. Carrying a Joke too far. — A fellow stole a 
saw, and on his trial told the judge that he only took it 
in joke. " How far did you carry it ? " inquired the 
judge. — " Two miles,"^ atiswered the prisoner. — " Ah I 
that 's carrying a joke too far I " said the judge ; and 
the prisoner was sentenced to hard labor, in the House 
of Correction, for three months. 

4. Too Officious. — " Your house is on fire I " ex- 
claimed a stranger, rushing into the parlor of a pomp- 
ous and formal citizen. — "Well, sir," replied the latter, 
" to what cause am I indebted for the extraordinary 
interest which you seem to take in the affairs of my 
house ? " 

5. Making the Best of Things. — "I have told 
you," says Southey, " of the Spaniard who always put 
on spectacles when about to eat cherries, in order 
that the fruit might look larger and more tempting. 
In like manner I make the most of my enjoyments ; 
and though I do not cast my eyes away from my 
troubles, I pack them in as small a compass as I can 
for myself, and never let them annoy others." 

6. Pate of Idlers. — The man who did not think 
it was respectable to bring up his children to work 



BBEYITIES* 123 

• 

has just heard firom his three sons. One of them is a 
driver on a canal; another has been taken up as a 
vagrant ; and the third has gone to a certain public 
institution, to learn to hammer stone, under a keeper. 
7. Rebuking Arroga.nce. — When Abemethy was 
canvassing for the oflSce of surgeon to St. Barthol- 
omew Hospital, in London, he called upon a rich 
grocer, one of the governors. The great man behind 
the counter, seeing the poor surgeon enter, immedi- 
ately assumed the grand air toward the supposed sup- 
pliant for his vote, and said: "I presume, sir, you 
want my vote and interest at this momentous epoch 
of your life." Abemethy, who hated humbugs, and 
felt nettled at the tone, replied, " No, I don't ; 1 want 
a pennyworth of figs. Come, look sharp, and wrap 
them up ; I want to be off ! " 

8. Opposition to Reform. — "I do not mean," — said 
the Rev. Sydney Smith, at a meeting on the Reform 
Bill, — " r do not mean to be disrespectful ; but the 
attempt of the Lords to stop the progress of reform, 
reminds me very forcibly of the great storm of Sid- 
mouth, and of the conduct of the excellent Mrs. Part* 
ington on that occasion. In the winter of 1824, there 
set in a great flood upon that town ; the tide rose to 
an incredible height ; the waves rushed in upon the 
houses, and every thing was threatened with destruc- 
tion. 

" In the midst of this sublime and terrible storm, 
Dame Partington, who lived upon the beach, was seen 
at the door of her house, with mop and pattens, trun- 
dling the mop, squeezing out the sea-water, and vigor- 
ously pushing away the Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic 
was roused. Mrs. Partington's spirit was up ; but I 
need not tell you that the contest was unequal. The 
Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. She was excel- 
lent at a slop or a puddle, but she should not have 



124 BBEYmES. 

meddled with a tempest. Gentlemen^ be at you^ 
ease ; be quiet and steady. You will beat Mrs. Part- 
ington." 

9. HuRDEBiNG A TuBfi. — Foote once asked a man 
without a sense of a tune in him, " Why are you for- 
ever humming that tune ? " — " Because it haunts me/' 
was the reply. — " No wonder," said Foote ; " you are 
forever murdering it." 

10. The Quaker's Retort.-^ A Quaker and a hot^ 
headed youth were, on a recent occasion, quarreling 
in the street. The man with the broad-brimmed hat 
kept his temper most equably, which seemed but to 
increase the anger of the other. '^ Fellow," said the 
latter, with an oath, '' I don't know a bigger fool than 
you are." — " Stop, friend," replied the Quaker, " thou 
dost forget thyself." 

11. On Early Rising. — Said Lord Chatham to his 
son : " I would inscribe on the curtains of your bed, 
and the walls of your chamber, ' If you do not rise 
early, you can make progress in nothing. If you do 
not set apart your hours of reading, if you suiSer your- 
self or any one else to break in upon them, your days 
will slip through your hands unprofitable and fiivo*- 
lous, and unenjoyed by yourself.' " 

12. A Stupid Question. — Professor Porson, being 
once at a dinner party, where the conversation turned 
upon Captain Cook and his celebrated voyages round 
the world, an igtiorant young man, in order to contrib- 
ute his mite toward the general conversation, asked 
the professor, thoughtlessly, "Pray, sir, was Cook 
killed on his jfirst voyage ? " — "I believe he was," 
answered Porson, " though he does not seem to have 
minded it much; for he immediately entered on a 
second." 

13. The Judge and the Lawyer. — On a certiain 
occasion, when pleading a cause at the bar, Lawyer 



THE BTIKO TBUVFETEB. 125 

Brooks observed to Judge Rice, that he wonld con- 
clude his remarks on the following day, unless the 
Court would consent to set late enough for him to 
finish them that evening. " SUj sir," said the judge ; 
^ not set : hens set." — "I stand corrected, sir," replied 
the lawyer, bowing. Not long after, the judge, while 
giving an opinion in a marine case, asked, in regard 
to a certain ship, " At what wharf does she lay ? " — 
^^lAe, may it please your honor," exclaimed Mr. Brooks; 
^ not lay : hens lay.^' 



XLVII. — THE DYING TRUMPETER. 



J^ld-Mar'shal, n., the oommander 
of an snny. 



Vioto'bia, n., a Latin word, meaning 
mctory. 



^Ehe 4w in iuwm "k/A the y ■oand of long u. Proooanor v>oi(ml, woonA- 

Upon the field of hattle 

The dying trumpeter lay, 
And from his side the life-blooif 

Was streaming fast away. 

His deadly wound is burning. 

And ySt he can not die 
Till his company returning 

Bring news of victory. 

Hark I as be rises reeling 
Upon the bloody ground, — 

Hark I o'er the field is pealing 
A well-known trumpet's sound. 

It gives him life and vigor ; 

He grasps his horse's mane ; 
tie mounts, and lifts his trumpet 

To his dying lips again. 

And all his strength he gathers 
To hold it in his hand, 
11* 



126 



TO A CHILD. 

Then pours, in tones of thunder, 
'* Victoria I " o'er the land. 

" Victoria I '' sounds the trumpet I 

" Victoria I " all around ; 
" Victoria I " like loud thunder 

It runs along the ground. 

And in that blast so thrilling. 

The trumpeter's spirit fled ; 
He breathed his last breath in it. 

And from his steed fell dead. 

The company returning 

Stood silent round their friend ; 

"That," said the old field-marshal, 
" That was a happy end I " 

From the German of Julius Moskr. 



1 



XLVm. — TO A CHILD. 



•A^AUi. n.f a pleasing trifle. 
HOARD, V. I., to lay up ; to amass. 
Low^EB (lou'er), v. i., to appear dark. 
Wbest'ler, n.j one who wrestles. 



Tal'is-han, n., a magical figure eat 

or oDgraved ; a charm. 
Ix'poBT, ft., weight ; consequence. 
Ce-les'tial, a., heavenly. 



Practice the consonant termination §ts in tem'ptatB. Heed the pure soiuvl ot oi In 
aoiledf toiled. In ^netUh (a contraction of beneath) the tk is TocaL 

Things of high import sound I in thine ears, 

Dear child, though now thou mayst not feel their power ; 

But hoard them up, and in thy coming years 
Forget them not, and, when earth's tempests lower, 

A. talisman unto thee shall they be. 

To give thy weak arm strength — to make thy dim eyes see. 

Seek Truth, — that pure celestial Truth, — whose birth 
Was in the heaven of heavens, clear, sacred, shrined 

In Reason's light. — Not oft she visits earth, 
But her majestic port, the willing mind. 



BOLL A TO THE PERUVIANS. 127 

Through Faith, may sometimes see. Give her thy soul. 
Nor faint, though Error's surges loudly 'gainst thee roll. 

Be free — not chiefly from the iron chain. 
But from the one which Passion forges — be 

The master of thyself. If lost, regain 

The rule o'er chance, sense, cii^cumstance. Be free. 

Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'neath thy feet. 

And stand erect, as for a heaven-born one is meet. 

Seek Virtue. Wear her armor to the fight ; 

Then, as a wrestler gathers strength from strife, 
Shalt thou be nerved to a more vigorous might 

By each contending, turbulent ill of life. 
Seek Virtue. She alone is all divine ; 
And, having found, be strong, in God's own strength and 
thine. 

Truth — Freedom — Virtue — these, dear child, have power. 

If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain. 
And bless thy spirit, in its darkest hour. 

Neglect them — thy celestial gifts are vain ; 
In dust shall thy weak wing be dragged and soiled ; 
Thy soul be crushed 'neath gauds for which it basely toiled. 

Rev. Ephraih Feabodt. 



XLIX.— ROLLA TO THE PERUVIANS. 

Le€^a-ct, n.f s bequest. I Craft't, a., onnning ; sly. 

VuLT'uRE, n., s bird of prej. | Ay'a-bice, n., greed of gain. 

1. My brave associate^, — partners of my toil, , my 
feelingSyand my fame! — can Rolla's words/ add 
vigor to the virtuous energies which inspire your 
hearts ?( No I y You have judged^ as I have^ the foul- 
ness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders 
would delude yon. Your generous spirit has com- 



128 ROLLA TO THE PERUYIANS. 

pared, as mine has, the motiyes/which, in a war like 
this, can animate their minds and ours. 

2. They,^by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power^^ 
for plunder, and extended rule>; we,^for our country^'x 
our altarsy^and our homes. \ Thej^foUow an adventurer 
whom they fear, and obey a power which they hate ; 
we serve a monarch whom we love,^ — a God whom we 
adore.\ Whene'er they move in anger, desolation .jracka 
their progress I Whene'er they pause in amityj^afflic- 
tion mourns their friendship. 

3. They boast they come but to improve our state^ 
enlarge our thought8,/and free us from the yoke of 
error I\ Yes r^ they will give enlightened freedom to 
our minds, who are themselves/the slaves of passion, 
avarice, and pride I They^x^ffer us their protection. 
Yes: such protection as vultures give to lambs. — 
covering and devouring theml They call on us to 
barter all of good we have inherited and proved, for 
the desperate chance ^f something better which they 
promise. 

4. Be our plain answer this: \ The throne we honor 
is the people's choice ; the laws we reverence are our 
brave fathers'Uegacy ; the faith we follow teaches us 
to live in bonds of charity with all mankind,/and die 
with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your in 
vaders this;\ and tell them, too, we seek no change — 
and, least of all, such change as they would bring us ! 



Why praise we, prodigal of fame, 
The rage that sets the world on flame ? 
My guiltless Muse Mb brow shall bind 
Whose godlike bounty spares mankind. 
For those whom bloody garlands crown. 
The brass may breathe, the marble frown ; — 
To him, through e\ery rescued land, 
Ten thousand living trophies stand I 



OUYEB GOLDSMITH. 



129 



L. — OLIVER GOLDSMTTH. 



nAv'LET, n,, a email Tillage. 
Gal'low, a., unfledged. 
Furze, n., a prickly shrub. 
Se-dar', n,, s portable carriage. 
MA-CHnrE" ( -sheen), -^., any oompU- 

eaied work ; an engine. 
Whim'si-cal, a., full of whims. 
I-DEif'Ti-Fr; V. t,,io prove or to make 

the same. 



CoUlf'TEB-PART, ft., a O/^PJ. 

CouN'TKR-PBrr-KD, pp.^ feignad. 
Dir'n-DsaT, a,, not oonfident 
DEAx'A-TizEy o. f.y to oompoie in tha 

form of a plaj. 
Ld'di-cbous, a.f laughable. 
AcfV'ATE, o. i., to put in aetion. 
E-QUiv'A-LBSTy n., tiiat which is equal 

in worth. 



Pnmoanee Ardagk, AHda (the final a like a ixxfar). Bo not say re»pe* for rt-tpteU^* 
Give the ew in Anteti; the y Bound of long u. 

1. Thebe are few writers for whom the reader feels 
such personal kindness as for Oliver Goldsmith; for 
few have so eminently possessed the magic gift of 
identifying themselves with their writings: We read 
his character in every page, and grow into familiar 
intimacy with him as we read. 

2. The artless benevolence that beams throughout 
hig works ; the whimsical, yet amiable views of human 
life and human nature ; the unforced humor, blending 
so happily with good feeling and good sense, and sin- 
gularly dashed at times with a pleasing melancholy ^t 
even the very nature of his mellow, and flowing, and 
softly tinted style, — all seem to bespeak his moral as 
well as his intellectual qualities, and make us love the 
man at the same time that we admire the author. 

3. While the productions of writers of loftier pre- 
tension and more sounding names are suffered to 
moulder on our shelves, those of Goldsmith are cher- 
ished and laid in our bosoms. We do not quote them 
with ostentation, but they mingle with our minds, 
sweeten our tempers, and harmonize our thoughts; 
they put us in good humor with ourselves and with 
the world, and in so doing they make us happier and 
better men* 



150 OLTTEB GOLDSMITH. 

4. Oliver Goldsmith was bom on the 10th of Novem- 
ber, 1728, at the hamlet of Pallas, or Pallasmore, coun- 
ty of Longford, in Ireland. Let us draw from his own 
writings one or two of those pictures which, under 
feigned names, represent his father and his family, and 
the happy fireside of his childish days. 

5. "My father" — says the Man in Black, who, in 
some respects, is a counterpart of Goldsmith himself — • 
" my father, the younger son of a good family, was 
possessed of a small living in the church. His educa- 
tion was above his fortune, and his generosity greater 
than his education. Poor as he was, he had his flat- 
terers poorer than himself. For every dinner he gave 
them, they returned him an equivalent in praise ; and 
this was all he wanted. 

6. " The same ambition that actuates a monarch at 
the head of his army, influenced my father at the head 
of his table. He told the story of the ivy-tree, and that 
was laughed at ; he repeated the jest of the two schol- 
ars, and the company laughed at that ; but the story 
of Taffy in the sedan-chair was sure to set the table in 
a roar. Thus his pleasure increased in proportion to 
the pleasure he gave.' He loved all the world, and he 
fancied all the world loved him. 

7. " As his fortune was but small, he lived up to the 
very extent of it. He had no intention of leaving 
his children money, for that was dross ; he resolved 
that they should have learning, for learning, he used 
to observe, was better than silver or gold. For this 
purpose he undertook to instruct us himself, and took 
as much care to form our morals as to improve our 
understanding. 

8. " We were told that universal benevolence was 
what first ce-ment'ed society. We were taught to 
consider all the wants of mankind as our own ; to re- 
irard the human /ace divine with affection and .esteem; 



k 



OLIYEB GOLDSMITH. 131 

Se wound us up to be mere machiDeB of pity, and ren- 
dered us incapable of withstanding the slightest im- 
pulse, made either by real or fictitious- distress. In a 
word, we were perfectly instructed in the art of giving 
away thousands before we were taught the necessary 
qualifications of getting a farthing." 

9. In Goldsmith's " Deserted Village " we have an* 
other picture of his father and his father's fireside : 

<* His boase was known to all the yagrant train, — 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
The long-remembered b^gar was bis guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly b&de to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, — 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their yices in their woe ; 
'Careless their merits or their fiiults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began." 

10. Oliver's education commenced when he was 
about three years old ; that is to say, he was gathered 
under the wings of one of those good old motherly 
dames, found in every village, who" cluck together the 
whole callow brood of the neighborhood, to teach 
them their letters and keep them out of harm's way. 
At six years of age he passed into the hands of the 
village schoolmaster, one Thomas Byrne, or, as he was 
commonly and irreverently named, Paddy Byrne, a 
capital tutor for a poet. ' 

11. Goldsmith is supposed to have had him and his 
school in view in the following sketch in the " Deserted 
Village " : 

*' Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
With blossomed furae unprofitably gay, 



132 OLIYEB GOLDSMITH. 

There, in hie noisy mansion, sjcilled to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stem to view, — 
I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to traee 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned." 

12. Byrne had brought with him from the wars a 
world of campaigning stories, of which he was gener- 
ally the hero, and which he would deal forth to his 
wondering scholars, when he ought to have been 
teaching them their lessons. These stories had a pow- 
erful effect upon the vivid imagination of Goldsmith, 
and awakened an unconquerable passion for wandering 
and seeking adventure. 

13. An amusing incident is related as occurring to 
Goldsmith, while yet a lad, in one of his journeys. 
He had procured a horse, and a friend had furnished 
him with a guinea for traveling expenses. He was 
but a stripling of sixteen, and being thus suddenly 
mounted on horseback, with money in his pocket, it is 
no wonder that his head was turned. He determined 
to play the man, and to spend his money in independ- 
ent traveler's style. 

14. Accordingly, instead of pushing directly for 
home, he halted for the night at the little town of 
Ardagh, and, accosting the first person he met, inquired, 
with somewhat of a consequential air, for the best 
house in the place. Unluckily, the person he had 
accosted was one Kelly, a notorious wag, who was 
quartered in the family of one Mr. Peatherstone, a 
gentleman of fortune. Amused with the self-conse- 
quence of the stripling, and willing to play off a 
practical joke at his expense, Kelly directed him to 



f 



OLIVEB GOLDSMITH. 133 

what was literally "the best house in the place," 
namely, the family mansion of Mr. Featherstone. 

15. Goldsmith accordingly rode up to what he sup- 
posed was an inn, ordered his horse to be taken to 
the stable, walked into the parlor, seated himself by 
the fire, and demanded what he could have for supper. 
On ordinary occasions he was diffident and even awk- 
ward in his manners, but here he was " at ease in his 
inn," and felt called upon to show his manhood and 
enact the experienced traveler. 

16. His person was by no means calculated to play 
off his pretensions ; for he was short and thick, with 
a pock-marked face, and an air and carriage by no 
means of a distinguished cast. The owner of the 
house, however, soon discovered his whimsical mis- 
take, and, being a man of humor, determined to indulge 
it, especially as he accidentally learned that this in- 
truding guest was the son of an old acquaintance. 
Accordingly Goldsmith was " fooled to the top of his 
bent," and permitted to have full sway throughout the 
evening. Never was schoolboy more elated. 

17. When supper was served, he most condescend- 
ingly insisted that the landlord, his wife and daughter, 
should partake, and ordered a bottle of wine to crown 
the repast and benefit the house. His last flourish 
was on going to bed, when he gave especial order to 
have a hot cake at break&st. His confusion and dis- 
may, on discovering the next morning that he had 
been swaggering in this free and easy way in the 
house of a private gentleman, may be readily con- 
ceived. True to his habit of turning the events of 
his life to literary account, he dramatized this chapter 
of ludicrous blunders and cross purposes, many years 
afterward, in his comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer ; 
or, the Mistakes of a Night." 

Washington iRViNa. (1783—1860.) 
12 



134 



THE SUHHONS AND THE LAMENT. 



U. — THE SUMMONS AND THE LAMENT. 

Pi'broch (pi'brok), »., martial miuio Cum'bbr, n., Tezation ; troable. 

produced bj the bagpipe. 
H£ad't, o., rash ; impetaoiu. 
Plaid (plad), %., a striped oloth. 
Gear, %., dress ; fnmiture. 
Rhtthm (rithm), n., measure of time 

in poetrj or music. 
Cok'o-nach (-nak), n,, a dirge. 



OoR'Bi (oor^ray), n., side of the hill 

where the game lies. 
Fo'rat, %,, a sudden attack. 
Pen'moit, n., a banner. 
Suv'fragb, n., vote ; assent 
(Vmu-la-titb, a., heaped up. 
Vas'sal, n.f a dependent. 



Pronounce Beattie, BttVy ; DonuU, Don'nilf deceased*, not deceazed. 

1. Wb are told by Sir Walter Scott that those 
persons acquainted with the pipe-music of Scotland 
affect to discover, in a well-composed pibroch, the 
imitative sounds of a march, conflict, pursuit, and all 
the current of a heady fight. To this opinion Dr. Beat- 
tie has given his suffrage in the following passage : 

2. " A pibroch is a species of tune peculiar, I think, 
to the Highlands and Western Isles of Scotland. It 
is performed on a bagpipe, and differs totally from all 
other music. Its rhythm is so irregular, and its notes, 
especially in the quick movement, so mixed and hud- 
dled together, that a stranger finds it impossible to 
reconcile his ear to it, so as to perceive its mod- 
ulation. 

3. " Some of these pibrochs, being intended to rep- 
resent a battle, begin with a grave motion, resembling 
a march ; then gradually quicken into the onset ; run 
off with noisy confusion and turbulent rapidity, to 
imitate the conflict and pursuit; then swell into a 
few flourishes of triumphant joy ; and perhaps close 
with the wild and slow wailings of a funeral pro- 
cession." 

4. In the following admirable poem, Sir Walter Scott 
seems to have tried to convey, as far as he could by 
language, an idea of this imitative modulation. The 
first two stanzas should be delivered in a moderate 



THE SUMMONS AND THE LAMENT. 135 

thgngli aDimated style. At the third stanza the read- 
er's utterance should increase in rapidity, and then 
rise louder and louder, and quicker and quicker, with 
cumulative force, to the conclusion. 

• 
'* Pibroch of Bonuil Dha, pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy "wild voice anew, summon Clan Connil ! 
Come away, come away — hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array, Gentles and Commons ! 

*' Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky ; 
The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlochy. 
Come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one ; 
Come every ste^l blade, and strong hand that bears one. 

^ Leave un tended the herd, the flfx;k without shelter ; 
Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar ; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges ; 
Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. 

** Come, as the winds come, when forests are rended ; 

Come, as the waves come, when navies are stranded. 

Faster come, faster come, fiister and faster ! 
* Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master ! 

** i'ast they come, fast they come, see how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle's plume, blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades ; forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset ! " 

5. The coronach of the Highlanders, like the vluloo 
or fiineral song of the Irish, was a wild expression of 
lamentation, poured forth by the mourners over the 
body of a departed friend. When the words of it 
were articulate, they expressed the praises of the de- 
ceased, and the loss the clan would sustain by his 
death. Sir Walter Scott has given us an exquisite 
imitation of the coronach in the following lines. They 
afford an excellent exercise in low vocal pitclr, and in 
a modulation, slow, impressive, and pathetic as a fune- 
ral "march. 



136 JOAN OF ABO, 

** He is gone on the mountain, be is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest. 
The fount, reappearing, from the rain-Klrops shall borrow ; 
But to us comes no cheering, to Duncan no morrow ! 

** The hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary, 
But the voice of the weeper wails manhood *in glory ; 
The autumn winds, rushing, waft the leaves that are serest, 
But our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest. 

•* Fleet foot on the oorei, sage counsel in cumber. 
Red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and forever ! *^ 



LII. — JOAN OF ARC. 



Lin'e-al, a., being in a direct line ; 

hereditary. 
Ab'jegt, a., mean ; base. 
Dau^phiit, n.f title of the French 

king's eldest son. 
Bil'let, n., a log of wood cut with a 

bill or small hatchet 
Be-lapse", v. t., to fall back. 
Pbe-ter-itat'u-ba]:*, a., beyond what 

is natural. 



Chiv'A]>bovs (shiy-), a., knightly. 

SoR^CER-r, n.f magic ; witchcraft. 

Hbb'e-tic, n,f one who rejects an es- 
tablished religious creed. 

Vi'tiatb (vish'yate), v. /., to spoil. 

A-pos'tate, n.f one who forsak^ his 
religion. 

In-ey'i-ta-ble, a.f not to be shunned, 

Ma-lig'ni-tt, n.f malice ; spite. 

Lag'garo, a.f backward ; slow. 



Pronounce Jo'an in two syllables ; Domremyf Dong-ri'm^ i Orleant^ Qr4e-ohng'; 
TroyeSf Tro-ah' ; RheimSf Rdngz ; coup-de-main (a rapid, successful attack), ko<h<ie* 
numg*} neither f ne'ther or ni'tkerj the former mode is preferred. 

1. Joan of Arc was bom, in 1412, in the little 
village of Domremy, on the borders of Lorraine, in 
France. Her parents were poor, and maintained 
themselves by their own labor upon a little land, with 
a, few cattle. Jo'an worked in the field in summer, 
and in winter she sewed and spun. Small was her 
stock of learning, for she could neither read nor write; 
but she would often go apart by herself, in the pasture, 
as if to talk with God. She was a devout attendant 
at church; and gave to the poor to the utmost extent 



aOAN OF ABC. 137 

of her means ; a girl of natural piety, that saw God in 
forestS; and bills, and fountains, but did not the less 
seek him in places consecrated by religion. 

2. Her native land was, at this period, in a dis* 
tracted state. Paris was occupied by English troops, 
and the King of England was declared by a strong 
party the rightful heir of the throne of France. The 
people of the north of France, seeing in his success 
the end of strife, favored his cause ; but in the south 
the country people and a part of the nobiUty stood by 
the lineal heir, Charles the Seventh, and by the old 
nationality. Meanwhile the English were extending 
their power ; and the city of Orleans was so closely 
besieged by them that its fall seemed inevitable. It 
was a dark day for France. 

3. For some time Joan had entertained the belief 
that she was in communion with the spirits of de* 
parted saints ; that she saw angelic visions, and heard 
angelic voices. These voices now whispered to her 
the duty imposed upon herself of delivering France 
and restoring its nationality. She found the means 
of making her way to the presence of the true heir of 
the throne, Charles the Seventh ; and although, as he 
stood among his courtiers, he at first, in order to test 
her prophetic gift, maintained that he was not the 
king, she fell down and embraced his knees, declaring 
that he was the man. She offered to raise the siege 
of Orleans, and to conduct Charles to Rheims to be 
crowned. 

4. At this time she was eighteen years old, slender 
and delicate in shape, with a pleasant countenance, a 
somewhat pale complexion, eyes rather melancholy 
than eager, and rich chestnut-brown hair. As the 
king's affairs were hopeless, he did not refuse what 
seemed the preternatural aid proffered by Joan. She 
demanded for herself a particular sword in the church 

12» 



138 JOAN OF ABC. 

of St. Catharine, which was given to her. She put on a 
male dress, and unfurled her banner at the head of the 
French army, whom she had inspired with her own 
strong convictions of help from on high through her 
means. 

6. She now appeared frequently in battle, and was 
several times wounded; still no unfeminine cruelty 
ever stained her conduct. She never killed any one, 
never shed blood with her own hand. She interposed 
to protect the captive or the wounded. She mourned 
over the excesses of her countrymen, and would throw 
herself from her horse to administer comfort to a dy- 
ing foeman. Resolute, chivalrous^ gentle, and brave, 
wise in council, constant in her faith in her high mis- 
sion, and inspiring the whole immense host by her 
enthusiasm, the secret of her success seemed to lie as 
much in her good sense as in her courage and her 
visions. This girl of the people clearly saw the ques- 
tion before France, and knew how to solve it. 

6. When she . had first appeared before the king, he 
had been on the point of giving up the struggle with 
the English, and of flying to the south of France. 
Joan taught him to blush for such abject counsels. 
She liberated Orleans, that great city, so decisive by 
its fate for the issue of the war. Entering the city 
after sunset, on the 29th of April, 1429, she took part^ 
on Sunday, May 8th, in the religious celebration for 
the entire disappearance of the besieging force. On 
the 29th of June, she gained, over the English, the de- 
cisive battle of Patay'; on the 9th of July, she took 
Troyes by a coup-de-main ; on the 15th of that month, 
she carried the dauphin into Rheims ; on Sunday, the 
17th, she crowned him ; and there she rested from her 
labor of triumph. She had accomplished the capital 
objects which her own visions had dictated. She had 
saved France. What remained was — to suffer. 



1 



JOAN OF ABC. 139 

r- 

7. Having placed the king on his throne, it was her 
fortune thenceforward to be thwarted. More than 
one military plan was entered upon which she did not 
approve. Too well she felt that the end was now at 
hand. Still, she continued to jeopard her person in 
battle as before ; severe wounds had not taught her 
caution ; and at length she was made prisoner by the 
Burgun'dians, and finally given up to the English. 
The object now was to vitiate the coronation of 
Charles the Seventh as the work of a witch ; and, for 
this end, Joan was tried for sorcery. She resolutely 
defended herself from the absurd accusation. 

8. Never, from the foundations of the earth, was 
there such a trial as this, if it were laid open in all its 
beauty of defense, and all its malignity of attack. O, 
child of France ! shepherdess, peasant-girl 1 trodden 
tinder foot by all around thee, how I honor thy flash- 
ing intellect, — quick as the lightning, and as true to 
Its mark, — that ran before Prance and laggard Eu- 
rope by many a century, confounding the malice of 
the ensnarer, and making dumb the oracles of false- 
hood ! " Would you examine me as a witness against 
myself? " was the question by which many times she 
defied their arts. The result of this trial was the 
condemnation of Joan to be burnt alive. N^ver did 
grim inquisitors doom to death a fairer victim by 
baser means. 

9. Woman, sister! there are some things which you 
do not execute as well as your brother, man ; no, nor 
ever will. Yet, sister, woman, — cheerfully, and with 
the love that burns in depths of admiration, I acknowl- 
edge that you can do one thing as well as the best of 
men, — you can die grandly 1 On the 20th of May, 
1431, being then about nineteen years of age, Joan of 
Arc underwent her martyrdom. She was conducted, 
before midday, guarded by eight hundred spearmen^ 



140 JOAN OP ABC. 

to a platform of prodigious height, constructed of 
wooden billets, supported by occasional walls of lath 
and plaster, and traversed by hollow spaces in every 
direction, for the creation of air-currents. 

10. With an undaunted soul, but a meek and saintly 
demeanor, the maiden encountered her terrible fate. 
Upon her' head was placed a mitei', bearing the in- 
scription, ^^Bdapsed heretic, apostate, idolatress.^* Het 
piety displayed itself in the most touching manner tG 
the last ; and her angelic forgetfulness of self was man. 
ifested in a remarkable degree. The executioner had 
been directed to apply his torch from below. He did 
so. The fiery smoke rose upward in billowing vol- 
umes. A monk was then standing at Joan's side. 
Wrapt up in his sublime oflSce, he saw not the danger^ 
but still persisted in his prayers. 

11. Even then, when the last enemy was racing up 
the fiery stairs to seize her, even at that moment did 
this noblest of girls think only for hirrij — the one 
friend that would not forsake her, — and not for her- 
self ; bidding him with her last breath to care for his 
own preservation, but to leave her to God. '^ Go 
down," she said ; " lift up the cro^s before me, that I 
may see it in dying, and speak to me pious words to 
the end." Then, protesting her innocence, and recom- 
mending her soul to Heaven, she continued to pray ^s 
the flames leaped up and walled her in. Her last 
audible word was the name of Jesus. Sustained by 
faith in him, in her last fight upon the scaflFold, she 
had triumphed gloriously ; victoriously she had tasted 
death. 

12. A soldier, who had sworn to throw a fagot on 
the pile, turned away, a penitent for life, on hearing 
her last prayer to her Saviour. He had seen, he said, 
a white dove soar to heaven from the ashes where the 
brave girl had stood. Thomas De Quincey (altered). 



THE AMEBICAN FLAO. 



Ul 



I 



rin.— THE AMERICAN FLAG. 



A'zuBE (a'zhur), a., sky-bine. 
Bald'bick (a as in fall), n., a belt; 
Stii'bol, n.f a sign ; an emblem. 
Gob'gboub (gor'jus), a,, splendid 
Be'cijll, 9., belonging to a king. 



Wbl^kih, n., tiw TauU of licftTen. 
Bbl'libd, pp., swollen ont. 
Ms'TB-oBy n., a lominons bodj 

ing in the air. 
HAB'Bnr-GBB (-jer), n., a fbremimer. 



Pronounce ere (meaning be/ore^ eooner than) like air. 

When Freedom, from her mountain height, 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of night,^ 
And set the stars of glory there. 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldrick of the skies, 

And striped its pure, celestial white 

With streakings of the morning light. 

Then from his mansi on in the sun 

She called her eagle bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 

The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic m onarc h of the cloud, 

Wno rear'st aloft thy r^gal f ornix 
To h'^rthe tempest trumpings T3u3l 
And see the lightning lances dri^n. 

When strive the warriors of the stonki. 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
Child of the Sun ! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free^ 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward a^^y the battle-stroke, 
Andj)0 its blendings "Sllifieliiar, 
fifeerai nbows on the doud of war. 

The fiarbingers of victory 1 

Flag of the brave I thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and trimnph high, 
WheiTspeaks th^ signal trud&pet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming m. — 



142 THE AHEBICAN FLAG. 

Ere yet the l ife-bloo d, warm and wet. 
Has dimmed tte glistening bayonet, 
Each soM i^r eye shall brightly turn 
To where ^y sky-bom g lories bum ; 
And, Whis spnnging stegs advance, 
Catch war and venge^ice from the g lance . 

And, when the ca nnon-m outhings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud. 
And gory sabers rise and faJl 
XiKe shdots of flam e on midnight's pall/ 
shall thy meteor glances glow," 
And cowenng foesshall sink beneath 
Eacligallant armlESTstrikes below 
If f^ lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas I on Qcean/s^wguve 
"TEy stars shall glitter o'er the brave. 
When Death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack. 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and' thee. 
And smile to see thy splendors, fly' 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home I 

By angel hands to Valor given ; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 

And all thy hues were born in heaven* 
Forever float that standard sheet I 

Where T)reathes the foe but falls T)efore us ' 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, ' 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ' 

J. B. Drake. (1795^]89w.> 



I 



THE HOSTESS AND THE QUACK. 143 



LTV.— THE HOSTESS AND THE QUACK. 



Bbvibb, n,f a hurt on the flesh. 
Lvx, «./., to put out of joint. 
Draught (draft), n,, the quantity 

drunk at once. 
Brat, v. /., to beat in a mortar. 



PHLE-Boyo-MUK, V., to let Uood wlth 

a lancet. 
Fab'ri-bb, n., one who ohoei or oani 

honet. 
Qb'hub (je'nns), n,, kind ; aort. 



ProDoonoe noner nin. Do not nj noaller for noal'low. 

Enter Hostess and I^amtYj^do^ followed by Bal-^thaz'ar unperceived. 
The loiter carries a drawn sward, and overhears what is sgid of 

Mm, - 

Hostess, Doctor Lampedo, you must keep this man, 
if you can so contrive it, another fortnight in my 
house. Come, you shall not be the loser. Your bill 
already must be almost as long as mine is. Another 
fortnight, doctor. 

Lampedo. It can not be. The man's as well as I 
am. Have some mercy. He has been here almost 
three weeks already. His accident ought not to have 
detained him half a day. 

Host. Well, then, a week — detain him a week. 

Lam, You talk now like a reasonable hostess that 
sometimes has a reckoning with her conscience. We 
may keep him a week. 

Host, He still believes he has an inward bruise. 

Lam. I would he had 1 Or that he had slipped his 
'shoulder-blade, or broke a leg or two (not that I bear 
his person any malice), or luxed an arm, or even 
sprained his ankle. 

Host. Ay, broken any thing except his neck. 

Lam, However, for a week I '11 manage him. He 
has the constitution of a horse — but I '11 manage him. 
A ferrier should prescribe for him — but I'll manage 
him. 

Host. J) o so, doctor. Custom is scarce; but the 
occupant of the best room must pay a big price. 



144 , THE HOSTESS AKD THE QUACK. 

Lam. Let me see — let me see. To-morrow we 
phlebotomize again ; the next day I make him swallow 
my new-invented patent draught ; then I have some 
pills prepared ; on Thursday we throw in the bark ; 
on Friday 

BdUhazar {coming forward). Well, sir, on Friday — 
what on Friday ? Come, proceed. 

Lam. Discovered I 

Host Mercy, noble sir 1 

Lam. We crave your mercy. 

Bal. On your knees 1 'T is well. Pray, — for your 
time is short. 

Host. Nay, do not kill us. 

BoH. You have been tried, condemned, and only 
wait. for execution. Which shall I begin with? 

Lam. The elder one, by all means. 

Bol. Come, then, prepare ! 

Host. Have pity on my weakness. 

Bed. Tell me, thou quaking mountain of gross flesh 
— tell me, and in a breath — how many poisons you 
have cooked up for me. 

Host. None, as I hope for mercy. 

Bal. Is not thy wine a poison ? 

Host. No, indeed, sir. 'T is not, I own, of the first 
quality, but 

Bal. But what ? Speak out. 

Host. I always give short measure, sir, and ease my 
conscience that way. 

BcH. Ease your conscience, indeed 1 I '11 ease your 
conscience for you. 

Host. Mercy, sir I The times are hard. 

Bal. Rise, if you can, and hear me. 

Host. Your commands, sir? 

BcH. If, in five minutes, all things are prepared for 
my departure, you may yet survive. 

Host, It shall be done in less time. 



THE HOSTESS AND THE QUACK. 145 

-BoZ. Awayl Be speedy. (TAc Hostess ^oesoM/.) 

Lam. So I now comes my turn. 'T is all over with 
me. There 's dagger, rope, and ratsbane, in his looks I 

Bed, And now, thou sketch and outline of a man I 
thou thing that hast no shadow in the sun I — thou 

Lam. I do confess my leanness. I am spare, and 
therefore spare me. 

Bal. Why I wouldst thou have made me a thorough- 
fare for thy whole shop ? 

Lam. Man, you know, must live. 

Bal. Yes : he must die, too. 

Lam. For the sake of my patients, good sir, 

Bal. I '11 send you to the major part of them. The 
window, sir, is open. Come, prepare 1 

Lam. Fray, consider ; I may hurt some one in the 
street 

Bal. Why, then, I '11 rattle thee to pieces in a dice- 
box,, or grind thee in a coffee-mill to powder ; for thou 
must sup with Fluto 1 So, make ready ; whilst I, with 
this good small-sword for a lancet, let thy starved 
spirit out (for blood thou hast none), and nail thee to 
the wall, where thou shalt look like a dried beetle^ 
with a pin stuck through him. 

Lam. Consider my poor wife. 

Bal. Thy wife 1 

Lam. My wife, sir. 

Bal. Hast thou dared think of matrimony, too ? 
f Lam. I have a wife, and three angelic babes, who, 
by those looks, are well-nigh fatherless. 

Bed. Well, well I your wife and children shall plead 
for you. Come, come ; the pills 1 where are the pills? 
^Froduce them. 

Lam. Here is the box. 

Bed. Were it Pando'ra's, and each single pill had 
ten diseases in it, you should take them. 

Lam. What, all? 

38 



146 



THE BATTLE OF lYBT* 



Bed. Ay, all ; and quickly, too. Come, sir, begin 1-— 
That 's well I another. 

Lam. One 's a dose. 

Bal. Proceed, sir ! Good I Swallow it fairly. Is 
it down ? 

Lam. It is down, sir, I regret to say. 

Bal. Now another. 

Lcm. I dare not do it^. 

Bal. You must. That 's well ! One more, now. 

Lam. What will become of me ? Let me go home, 
and set my shop to rights, and, like immortal Caesar, 
die with decency. 

Bal. Away I and thank thy lucky star I have not 
brayed thee in thine own mortar, or exposed thee for 
a large specimen of the lizard genus. 

Lam. Would I were one I for they can feed on air. 

Bid. Home, sir, and be more honest I 

Lam, If I am not, I '11 be more wise, at least. 

Altered from John Tobin. (me— 18041 



LV. — THE BATTLE OP IVET. 



linos (leej), n., a superior lord. 
Lkague (leeg), n., allianoe of states. 
Van, n.f front of an army. 
Tbun'chboh (trun'shun), n,, a staff of 

oommand; aolub* 
GaiT'AL-Rr (shiv-), n., the body or 

order of knights. 



Ofi'i-FLAiixB (or'e-flahm)i ft., ol^ 

royal banner of France. 
Cul'ybr-in, n., a oi^uum. 
Sov'bb-eign (snv'er-in), a., sapreoM 

in power. 
Fob'eign-sb, f»., one not a satire. 
Hibs'lino, a», serving for hire. 



The battle of Ivry, in France, in which Henry IT. defeated the Duke <rf Mayeraie^ 
look place March 14, IfiOO. Pronounce Rochelle^ Ro^hiP ; Seine, Sdne ; Colignif 
K94emi'y€e ; QueHert, QwiPders ; lyAumoU, De^mahP, 



Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, 
Through thy com-^fields green, and sunny vales, pleasant land of 
IVanoe I 



THE BATTLE OP IVBT. 147 

And ihsm-i Rochelle, our own RocheUe, proud city of the waterv. 
Again let r aptur e ligh t the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. 
As thou wert constant in our"ins/be joyous in our joy, — 
For cold and stiff and still are they Who wrought thy walls annoy. 
Hu^[_hum ! a single field hath turned the chance of war. 
Hurra ] hurra ! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre I 

! how our hearts were heating, when, at the dawn of day; 
We saw the army of the Loaigue drawn out in long array "p 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers7 
And Ap ^penz ePs stout^infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears ! 
There rode the brood of &l8e Lorraine, the curses of our land ! 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand ; 
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood/ 
And good Cqligni's hoary hair, all dabbled with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the liying God, who rules the fate of war. 
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. 

The king has come to marshal us, in all his a raaor drest ; 

And helias bound a snoyr-white plume upon his gallant qr^t. 

He looked upon his peop le, and a tear was in his eye; 

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stem and high. 

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, 

Down all our line, in deafening shout, *' God save our lord, tha 

KngJ" 
" -Ajid ifmy standard-bearer fall, — as fell full well he may, — 
(For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray). 
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war* 
And be your 5riflarmme, to^ay, the helmet of Navarre." 

Hurra ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din 
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring cuTverin. 
Thefiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders anfl Almayne. 
Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with the lance ! 
A^ousand spurs are striking deep,*iar thousand spears in rest, 
A thousand Imights are pressing close behind the snow-white erect 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, 
Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 

Now, Heaven be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath turned 

his rein ; 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter — the Flemish count is slain ; 



148 IN FAVOB OP AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. 

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale. 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and fla^, and cloven nuuL 
And {Een we thought on vengeance, and all along our van 
'< Bemember St. BartholomewP' was passed from man to inan ; 
But out spake gentle Henry, then : << No Frenchman is my foe ; 
Down, down with every foreigner ! but let your brethren go." 
! was there ever such a luiight, in friendship or in war, 
Ajb our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ! 

Lord Macaulat. 



LVI. — IN FAVOR OP AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. 

PELIVERJED IN PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST l8T, 1776, TWENTT-SEYEN DATk 
AFTER THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 



An'vals, n. fl., records of eventB year 

by year. 
Au-gust', a,, grand ; imposing. 
Db-vice', n., scheme ; trick. 
CLBM^BN-cr, n.f mildness. 
Pal'pa-ble, a., gross ; plain. 
In-ter'prbt, v. t,f to explain. 
Im-tes'tinb, a., internal ; domestic. 



A'St'lum, n.f a refuge. 
Db-lin'e-ate, V, t,f to sketch. 
Ex-pe'di-bn-cy, n., fitness. 
VoL'uN-TA-Bi-Lr, od,, of ono's om 

free will. 
U-NA-Niic'i-TT, n., agreement. 
Ac-qvi-es'cence, n., compliance. 
E-vurcB', V. /., to prove ; to show. 



Do not say gradooal for grad'H-al ; prodooee for pr<hdiiee ; fireemun torjree'mtn. 

1. My countrymen, from the day on wHich an ao* 
commodation takes place between England and Amer- 
ica, on any other terms than as independent States, I 
shall date the ruin of this country. We are now, to 
the astonishment of the world, three millions of souls 
united in one common cause. 

2. This day we are called on to give a glorious ex, 
ample of what the wisest and best of men were rejoiced 
to view only in speculation. This day presents the 
world with the most august spectacle that its annals 
ever unfolded: Millions of freemen voluntarily and 
deliberately forming themselves into a society for their 
common defense and common happiness 1 

3. Immortal spirits of Hampden, Locke, and Sydney! 
Will it not add to your benevolent joys to behold your 
posterity rising to ^he dignity of men — evincing to 



IN FAYOB OF AHEBICAN INDEPENDENCE. 149 

the world the reality and expediency of your systems^ 
and in the actual enjoyment of that equal liberty which 
you were happy when on earth in delineating and 
recommending to mankind? 

4. Other nations have received their laws from- con- 
querors ; some are indebted for a constitution to the 
sufferings of their ancestors through revolving centu- 
ries ; — the people of this country alone have formally 
and deliberately chosen a government for themselveS| 
and with open, uninfluenced consent, bound them- 
selves into a social com'pact. 

5. And, fellow-countrymen, if ever it was granted 
to mortals to trace the designs of Providence, and in- 
terpret its manifestations in favor of their cause, we 
may, with humility of soul, cry out. Not unto us, not 

UNTO us, BUT TO ThY NAME BE THE PRAISE. The COU- 

Aision of the devices of our enemies, and the rage of 
the elements against them, have done almost as much 
toward our success as either our counsels or our 
arms. 

6. The time at which this attempt on our liberties 
was made, — when we were ripened into maturity, 
had acquired a knowledge of war, and were free from 
the incursions of intestine enemiesj — the gradual ad- 
vances of our oppressors, enabling us to prepare for 
our defense, — the unusual fertility of our lands, the 
clemency of the seasons, the success which at first 
attended our feeble arms, producing unanimity among 
our friends, and compelling our internal foes to acqui- 
escence, — these are all strong and palpable marks 
and assurances that Providence is yet gracious unto 
zion, that it will turn away the captivity of 
Tacob ! 

7. Driven from every other comer of the earth, 
freedom of thought and the right of private judgment 
tn matters of conscience direct their course to this 

13* 



150 WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAlNa 

happy country, as their last asylum. Let us cherish 
the noble guests! Let us shelter them tmder the 
wings of universal toleration I Be this the seat of 
UNBOUNDED RELIGIOUS FREEDOM I She Will bring with 
her in her train Industry, Wisdom, and Commerce. 

8. Our utiion is now complete. You h^ve in the 
field armies sufficient to repel the whole force of your 
enemies. The hearts of your soldiers beat high with 
the spirit of freedom. Go on, then, in your generous 
enterprise, with gratitude to Heaven for past success, 
and confidence of it in the future I For my own part, 
I ask no greater blessing than to share with you the 
common danger and the common glory. If I have a 
wish dearer to my soul than that my ashes may be 
mingled with those of a Warren and a Montgomery, it 
is — That these American States may never cease 
TO be free and indepbstdent I 

Samvbl Adams. (1722— I8O3.) 



LVII WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 



Mb-thihks', v. imp., it fleeois to me. 
Bvor (bwoj), t>. t,f to keep afloat. 
GoRGB (gorje), n., the throat ; a 

narrow pass between mountains. 
Bx-pahd'ed, pp,f spread out. 



TfiRALL'noic (the a as in/olT), n., the 

state of bondage. 
Im'press, n., mark ; stamp. 
ificH'o (ek'o), «!., the roFerberation of 

a sound. 



Do not say kaita for hands. Pronouiee agaifij a^en'; ay, oA-ee' without 
Hon of the syllables in utterano&i 

TE~crags and peaks, I 'm with you once again 1 
I hoI3 to you the hands you first belieid, — 
To show they still are free I Methinks I hear 
A spirit in your echoes answer me, 
And bid your tenant welcome home again. — 
sacred forms, how fair, how proud you look I 
How high you lift your heads into the sky I 
How huge you ire 1 how mighty, and how free I 



WILLIAM TELL AUOKG THE HOUSTAINS. 151 

Ye are the thiags that tower, that shine — whose Bmile 
Makes glad, whose frown is tetrible ; whose forms^ 
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 
Of awe divine I Ye guards of liberty, 
I '_m with you once again T 1 call to you^ 
With all my~voice I I hold my hands to you. 
To show they still are free. I rush to yoti 
As though I could embrace you I 

Scaling y5nder peak, 

I saw an eagle wheeling, near its brow, 

O'er the aEyss. His broad expanded wing^ 

Lay calm and motionless upon the air. 

As if he floated there, without their aid. 

By the sole act of his unlorded will. 

That buoyed him proudly up f Instinctively 

I bent my bo wj yet wheeled he, heeding not 

The death that threatened him I I could not shoot I 

'T was li berty 1 I turned my bow aside. 

And let him sostf away.. ^ 

O nce Switze rland was free ! 0, with what pride 
I used to walk these hilTs, look up to heaven, 
And bl ess G iod that it was so I It was free.! 
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 't was free I 
Free_as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, 
And plowj:)ur valleys without asking leave ; 
Or as our p eaks , that wear their caps of snow 
In very presence of the regal sun I 

How ha£py was I in it then I I loved. 

Its very storms I Ay, often have I sat 

In my boat, at mght, when down the mountain gorge 

The wijMJ came roaring—- sat in it, and eyed 

The t hunde r breaking from his cloud, and smiled 

To see him shs^ke hi$ lightnings o'er my head. 

And think I had no master, save his own I 

You know the jutting cliff, round which a track 
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow 



152 



BIBTH OF A VOLCANIC ISLAND. 



To such anotherjjne^ with scanty room 

For two to pass abreast? Overtaken there 

By the mountain-blast, I 've laid me flat alon g ; 

And while gust followed gust more furiously. 

As if 't would sweep me o'eFthe horrid brink. 

And I have thought of other lands, whose storms 

Are summer-flaws to those of mine, and jus^^ 

Have wished me there, — the thought that mine was free 

Has checked that wish ; and I have raised my head^ 

And cried, in thralldom, to that furious wind, 

" Blow on I — This is the land of liberty f'' 

Sheridan Knowles. 



LVm. — BIRTH OF A VOLCANIC ISLAND. 



DiAD Reck'on-iko, n.f calculation of 

position at sea by the log. 
Lab'boabd, a.f the left on shipboard 

as one looks toward the bow. 
Ov'sLAuaHT, n., an attack. 
Beck'et, n.f a ring of rope. ^ 
A-pobt', ad,, to the larboard. 
Be-lat', v.t., to make fast. 
Shoal, n., a crowd, as of fishes. 



Ba-bom'k-teb, n.f an instniment fo* 

showing the weight of the atino8% 

phere. 
CiB-cuM^FEB-KNCB, ft., the line tha( 

l^onnds a circle. 
Pob-tent'ous, a.f betokening evil. 
League (leeg), n., three English miles. 
Psalm'ist (sahm'ist), n., a writer of 

psalms. 



Do not say helum tot helm ; colume for eoFamn ; fax torfaoU ; Jtut fatJtrsU 

1, It was a night of pitchy darkness. At four bells, 
in the first watch, not a breath of air was moving, and 
the drenched sails, wet by the afternoon and evening 
rains, hung heavily from the yards, or flapped against 
the masts and rigging, as the ship rolled lazily on the 
long leaden swells of the Pacific Ocean. A number 
of days had passed without an observation of the sun 
or stars. The ship had been navigated by "dead 
reckoning," and no one, therefore, was supe of the 
latitude or of the longitude. Danger might be nearer 
than any one supposed. 

2. The captain had gone below at eight bells, but 
feeling troubled at the portentous appearance of tba 



BIBTH OF A YOLGAinC BLAND. 163 

weather, he had been unable to sleep, and was on deck 
again, walking nervously fore and aft, now peering on 
this side, and then on the other side of the quarter- 
deck, looking anxiously out into the darkness, then 
aft, then at the compass, and then at the barometeri 
which hung in the cabin gangway. 

3. Round and round went the ship, heedless of her 
helm, and the mercury told the same tale it had told 
for hours before. In vain did the eyes of anxious men 
peer into the darkness ; only inky blackness met their 
straining gaze every where. Thus matters stood till 
six* bells, when the mercury began to fall suddenly. 
The quick, jerking voice of the captain was then 
heard. 

4. " Mr. Smalley, you may take in the light sails." — 
" Ay, ay, sir ; " and, stepping to the main-mast, he called 
out, " Forward there I " and was immediately answered, 
"Forward, sir.". — "Stand by the top-gallant and the 
flying-jib halyards." In a moment he heard the re- 
port, "Ready, sir." — "Let go the halyards, and clew 
down ; let go the sheets, and clew up ; that '11 do ; be- 
lay all ; now jump up and furl them ; be lively, lads." 

5. While this was going on, the captain took another 
look at the barometer, and found the mercury still 
going down fast. Thoroughly aroused now, he caught 
bis speaking-trumpet from the beckets, and cried out, 
" Hold on, there. Down from aloft, every man of you. 
Call all hands." Down caine the men again. ^ " All 
hands ahoy I " was called with great strength of voice 
at both the cabin and forecastle gangways, and then 
followed one of those scenes which defies such de- 

* Indicating eleven o'clock at night. The time at sea is marked every 
half hour hy strokes on a bell. At noon eight strokes are made, at half past 
twelve one stroke, and so on, — one being added every half hour, till, at four 
o'clock, eight bells are again struck. Then, at half past four, one stroke is 
made, and so on till at eight o'clock, when eight strokes are again made, and 
the first night watch begins. 



154 BIBTH OF A TOLCAmC IBLASD. 

Bcription as would make it intelligible to a landsman, 
but which any sailor readily understands. 

6. The top-sails were close-reefed, a reef taken in 
the mainsail, the jib, and flying-jib, and all the light 
sails were furled, and the ship made ready for the ex- 
pected gale. But yet no breath of air had been felt 
moving. An unnatural stillness and heaviness of the 
atmosphere were observed by aU. Several of the sea- 
men saw a dim purple streak suddenly appear right 
ahead of the ship, and called out, '' Here it comes, sir.'' 
. — " Where ? " cried the captain. — *'Right ahead, sir." 
^' Hard a-port your helm." — " Hard a-port it is, sir." — 
" Brace round the yards." — " Ay, ay, sir." 

7. The yards were braced round, and the ship was 
got ready to receive the expected blast on the larboard 
tack. That dreadftil streak of cloud grew almost crim- 
son ; and there was heard what seemed the heavy roar 
of the coming gale, and ^very man held his breath, 
awaiting the shock. Good men and courageous sailors 
were on that ship's deck, but they shrank, like fright- 
ened children, from the terrible onslaught. When God 
speaks in those fearful storms, His voice is awfiil to 
the ear, and many a strong man has quailed before it. 
And the storm itself is scarcely more trying to one's 
nerves than the dreadful suspense of the moment before 
it strikes. 

6. Thus they waited till the minutes lengthened into 
hours, and the only change perceptible was in the 
deepening color of that lowering cloud of crimson 
light. At length eight bells told that four o'clock had 
arrived, and daylight was looked for even as those men 
in the ship with Paul looked for it when they "wished 
for day." But the struggling light of morning seemed 
only to reveal the thickness of the darkness to the 
wondering vision. Just at daylight the ears of all on 
board were stunned with successive, quick reports. 



BIBTH OF A VOLCANIC ISLAKD. 155 

lender than whole broad-sides from a hnndred-gmi 
ship ; and the heavens were lighted tip with a fiery 
red Ught^ 

9. The ocean at the same time was stirred from her 
profonndest depths ; great waves, without any visible 
cause, ran in the most awful commotion, now striking 
together and throwing the white foam and spray high 
in air, then parting, to meet again in fearful embrace as 
before. A shoal of sperm whales ran athwart the 
ship's bows, making every e}i:ertion to escape from the 
Btrangely-troubled water. Within a few cable lengths 
of the ship an immense column of water was thrown 
mast-head high, and fell back again with a roar like 
Niagara. A deep, mournful noise, like the echo of 
thunder among mountain caverns, was constantly 
heard, and none could tell whence it came. The 
noble ship was tossed and shaken like a plaything. 
" Heaven have mercy upon us 1 " cried officers and 
men. " What is this ? What is coming next ? Is it 
the day of judgment ? " The royal Psalmist described 
them accurately : " They reel to and fro, and stagger 
like a drunken man, and are at their wit's end." 

10. Soon the mystery was solved, when right before 
their eyes, about one league from them, there arose 
the rough sides of a mountain out of the yielding 
water, and reared its head high in the air 1 Then, from 
its summit, flames burst forth, and melted lava ran Hke 
* ijver down the declivity, and fell Uke a cascade of 
flame into the seething ocean. It was a birth-throe 
of nature, and an island was bom which was miles in 
pircumference. 

11. Two years afterward I sailed over that very 
place, but the placid water gave no intimation that 
an island had been there. Yet no man has said that 
be saw the death and burial of that land whose birth 
I have thus chronicled V " They that go down to the 



156 THANKSGIVING FOB EXISTENCE. 

sea in ships, that do business in the great waters, — 
these see the Works of the Lord, and his wonders in 
the deep." D. C. Wright. 

12. The foregoing narrative, from the Western Chris- 
tian Advocate, is vouched for as entirely true by its 
author. Volcanic eruptions similar to that he de- 
scribes are on record. Upon the coasts of Iceland, and 
in great depths of water, new islands have been thrown 
up, some of which have remained, and others disap- 
peared. In the year 1783, a new island was thrown 
up off the coast, consisting of high cliffs ; and with 
such an ejection of pum'ice, that the ocean was cov- 
ered to the distance of one hundred and fifty miles, 
and ships were impeded in their course by the shoals 
of floating stones. 

13. In 1811, a volcano forced its way from beneath 
the sea, off the island of St. Michael, one of the Azores. 
It formed a crater above the water a mile in circum- 
ference, and about three hundred feet high. In the 
middle of the seventeenth century, an island was 
thrown up among the Heb'ri-des, which in a month 
disappeared. In th^ Bay of Naples, Monte Nuo'vo 
was thrown up in one day nearly five hundred feet 
high, and a mile and a half in circumference. These 
facts suflSciently show that the incidents of Mr. Wright's 
narrative are not unexampled. 



LIX. — THANKSGIVINQ FOR EXISTENCE. 

Oui-TB, V. t., to adhere to ; to stick, t BEAxfTE-ous, a., fair ; pleasing. 
Ooiv-tim'platk, v. ^, to consider. | Mag'ni-ft, v. f., to exalt. 

Aroid saying eer for ere (like otr); heerd for heard (herd) ; bust for burst. 

1. Bless'ed be thy name, Lord! my Creator. 
Blessed be thy name forever and ever. Thou didst 



THANKSGIVING FOB EXISTENCE. 157 

call me fVom nothingness, from the deep sleep of the 
dust, that I might breathe the air of life, and drink the 
light of thy glorious sun. When I look around, what 
multitudes of living things salute mine eyes! The 
earth is full of beauty ; the voice of delight and joy- 
ousness is heard on every side. 

2. Thou hast given me a mind to contem^plate thee; 
and when I gaze on the bright sky, or the fair earth, 
or the deep sea, I read the wonders of thy power, thy 
wisdom, and thy tender mercies, and I know that thou 
art God. Thou hast given me a heart to melt with 
love, and to rejoice in goodness ; thou hast given mt> 
feelings, to spring up like beauteous flowers, and bios* 
8om in thy smile ; above all, thou hast given me the 
promise of life beyond the grave. Blessed be thy 
glorious name I 

3. When I feel the full burst of joy in the early 
morning ; when my heart is full of gaysomeness and 
mirth, when my limbs are fresh with vigor, and rejoice 
in their strength, then, Lord ! my Creator, let me 
praise and bless thy name ; for all my joy, and health, 
and strength, are thine. Thou providest for me daily; 
the air I breathe is full of life and sweetness ; my daily 
bread is joyful to me ; the eye makes beauty where it 
looks ; and the ear turns barren sounds to harmony. 

4. Thy hand is ever open to my wants, and thy 
blessings fall like the sunlight and the rain. Thine 
ear never faileth to listen to my prayers. Grant them 
as may seem best in thy sight. Be thou the guide and 
comfort of my early youth. What a gift is mind 1 
Surely it is a shadow of thyself I Great and marvel- 
ous is its power, its glory, and its strength ; but all it 

a-th of good is thine ! 

5. Thou hast given me sense, that I may enjoy; 
understanding, that I may gather knowledge ; affeo- 
tioys, that I may love ; and reason, that I may distin- 



158 ON THE LOSS OF THE BOTAL 6E0B6E. 

guish truth from error, good from evil ! Enlighten 
my mind, Lord I with thy brightness, which is truth 
itself, that I may cleave to the good, and abhor the 
evil. Teach me to know thee in spirit and in truth, so 
thai I may show forth thy glory in all my works and 
ways. 

6. Let me make an offering to thee, Lord, of the 
blossoms of my early youth I Ere the days come " in 
which I shall say, I have no pleasure in them," let me 
praise thee in the freshness of my heart, and think of 
thee in all my moments of joy. Like the early dawn 
of a bright day to come, let my youth be glorious ; so 
that in the mid-day I may find rest and peace, and at 
evening time there may be light Blessed be thy 
name, God, my Creator I Let all things bless thee 
and magnify thee, for thy goodness ; world without 
endl 



LX. — ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 



Hebl, v. t.f to inoline ; to loan. 
3hbatb, n.f a scabbard. 



Shrouds, n. pi., ropes to support a 
ship's masts. 



Po not sagr sroudt for skrottda ; fatl torfaftalf kunderd for kun'dred. 

In September, 1782, irhiie at anchor off Si^thead, near Portsmouth, tn Bngland, the 
Boyal George, the finest ship in the British navy, was sank under circumstanoes cor* 
reetly rdated in the poem. She had been heeled oyer to one side, for some slight repairs. 

Toll for the brave ! the brave that are no more I 
All sunk beneath the wave, fest by ijheir native shore ! 
Eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried. 
Had made the vessel heel, and laid her on her side. 
A land-breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset ; 
Down went the Royal George, with all her erew complete I 

Toll for the brave ! Brave Kerapenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought — his work of glory done. 
It was not in the battle ; no tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; she ran upon no rock. 
His sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down with twice four hundred m#n. 



THE BISTH-DAT OF SFBIKG. 



159 



Weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by oar foes I 
And mingle with our cup the tear that England owes. 
Her timbers yet are sound, and she may float ag^in, 
Pull charged with England's thunder, and plow the distant 

main. 
But Kempenfelt is gone ; his victories are o'er ; 
^d he and his eight hundred shall plow the wave no 

more. William Cowpsr. (1731— 1800.) 



LXI. — THE BIRTH-DAY OF SPRING. 



P^'Air, n., a song of joy. 
CIr'ol, v. I., to wurble ; to sing. 
Ju'bi-leb, n., a season of joy. 
Plow'bb-st, n., a smaU flower. 



Vbb'hal, •, Ytelonging to spring. 
Proph'e-ct (profe-sy), n., prediction. 
OHo'RtTS (ko'nis), n., part of musie in 
which aU join. 



In at-tune'f ftc, heed the eantloD a lo long u. The ai in/ury is ttie ssi^ m in mir. 

Cbt Holiday I Holiday I let us be gay, 

And share in the rapture of heaven and earth ; 

For, see I what a sunshiny joy they display, 
To welcome the Spring on the day of her birth ; 

While the elements, gladly outpouring their voice. 

Nature's psean proclaim, and in chorus rejoice I 

Loud c&rols each rill, as it leaps in its bed ; 

The wind brings us music and balm from the south. 
And Earth in delight calls on Echo to spread 

The tidings of joy with her many-tongued mouth ; 
Over sea, over shore, over mountain and plain, 
Far, far doth she trumpet the jubilee strain. 

Hark ! hark to the robin I its magical call 
Awakens the flowerets that slept in the dells ; 

The snow-drop, the primrose, the hyacinth, all 
Attune at the summons their silvery bells. 

Hush! ting-a-ring-ting I don't you hear how they sing? 

They axe pealing a fairy-like welcome to Spring. 

The love-thrilling wood-birds are wild with delight ; 
Like arrows loud whistling the swallows flit by ; 



160 OUB NATIVE LAND. 

The rapturous lark, as he soars out of sight, 

Sends a flood of rich melody down from the sky. 
In the air that they quaff, all the feathery throng 
Taste the spirit of Spring, that outbursts in a song. 

To me do the same vernal whisperings breathe, 
In all that I scent, that I hear, that I meet 

Without and within me, above and beneath: 
Every sense is imbued with a prophecy sweet 

Of the pomp and the pleasantness Earth shall assume 

When adorned, like a bride, in her flowery bloom. 

In this transport of nature each feeling takes part ; 

I am thrilling with gratitude, reverence, joy ; 
A new spring of youth seems to gush from my heart. 

And the man is transformed all at once to a boy. 
I let me run wild, as in earlier years ; 
If my joy be withheld, I shall burst into tears. 

Horace Smith. (1779—1849.) 



LXn.^OUR NATIVE LAND. 



Pelf, n., money ill gotten. 
Pbi-me'yal, a.f original ; first. 



Eic-bel'lish, v. t.f to adorn. 
Cap'i-tal, n., a ohief citj. 

Aroid saying otjex for. ob'jects ; near for ne^er (as if n&re). 



1. Sib, I dare not trust myself to speak of my 
country with the rapture which I habitually feel when 
I contem'plate her marvelous history. But this I will 
say, — that, on my return to it, after an absence of 
only four years, I was filled with wonder at all I saw 
and all I heard. What is to be compared with it ? I 
found New York grown up to almost double its former 
size, with the air of a great capital, instead of a mere 
flourishing commercial town, as I had known it. 

2. I listened to accounts of voyages of a thousand 
miles, in magnificent steamboats, on the waters of 
those great lakes, which, but the other day, I left 



OUB NATIVE hAND. 161 

Bleeping in the primeval silence of nature, in the 
recesses of a vast wilderness ; and I felt that there is 
a grandeur and a majesty in this irresistible onward 
march of a race, created, as I believe, and elected, to 
possess and people a continent, which belong to few 
other objects, either of the moral or material world. 

3. We may become so accustomed to such things 
that they shall make as little impression upon our 
minds as the glories of the heavens above us; but, 
looking on them, lately, as with the eye of the stranger, 
I felt, what a recent English traveler is said to have 
remarked, that, far from being without poetry, as some 
have vainly alleged, our whole country is one great 
poem. 

4. Sir, it is so; and if there be a man who can 
think of what is doing, in all parts of this most blessed 
of all lands, to embellish and advance it, — who can 
cont^emplate that living mass of intelligence, activity, . 
and improvement, as it rolls on, in its sure and steady 
progress, to the uttermost extremities of the West, — 
who can see scenes of savage desolation transformed, 
almost with the suddenness of enchantment, into those 
of fruitfulness and beauty, crowned with flourishing 
cities, filled with the noblest of all populations, — if 
there be a man, I say, that can witness all this, passing 
under his very eyes, without feeling his heart beat 
high, and his imagination warmed and transported by 
ity be sure that the raptures of song exist not for him* 

'* Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 
• * This is my own, my native land ' ? 

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 
From wandering o^ a foreign strand? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well, 
For him no minstrel raptures swell I 

14* 



162 THE NOBLEST PUBLIC YIBTUE. 

ffigh though his titloB, proud ids name, 
BoundlesB his wealth as wish can elaim ; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf. 
The wretch, concentered all in self, 
lining, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doahly dying, shall go down ^ 

To the vile dost, from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, nnhonored, and unsong." * 

Hughes. Lsga-be. (1797 ^isa.) 



LXm.— TBDE NOBLEST PUBLIO VlKTOiL 



GoY^ (kuVet), 9. ^, to derire wrong- 

folly or strongly. 
Ab-80Bbbo', fp., swallowed up. 
^e-OEAHD'izB-iCBirr, «., state of being 

•g'gnndued or nuide great. 
Vol'un-ta-bt, a.y aeting by ehoioe. 



SAc'ai-nca (-Hs), n., an offering 
E'go-tism, n.y the magnifying of ene^f 

self. 
Qkot'bl (groVvl), t. u, to eringe. 
Ik-fu-ta'tion, n., reproaoh. 
Im-meas'u-iu.-^lb, a., immease. 



Do not dor the final oooaooaat oomMnations in tii'ter-e«<9, jmomple, fleft,/ie/Vfi|jw, 
tfgo-tiam^ paftri'Ot-4tm (not -itiim), o-ctom' (not aerott), kc 

1. There is a sort of courage, to which — I frankly 
confess it — I do not lay claim; a boldness to which I 
dare not aspire; a valor which I can not covet, I 
can not lay myself down in the way of the welfare and 
happiness of my country^ That, I can not, I have not 
the courage, to do. ' I can not interpose the power 
with which I may be invested, — a power conferred, 
not for my personal benefit or aggrandizement, bnt 
for my country's good, — to check her onward marc& 
to greatness and glory. I have not courage enough, 
• — I am too cowardly for that I 

2. I would not, I dare not, lie down, and place my 
body across the path that leads my country to pros- 
perity and happiness. This is a sort of courage widely 
different from that which a man may display in his 

* From '' The Laj of the Last Minstrel," bj Sir Walter Scott 



THE NOBLEST PUBLIC TntTUB. 183 

private conduct and personal relations. Personal or 
private courage is totally distinct from that higher and 
nobler courage which prompts the patriot to offer him- 
self a voluntary sacrifice to his country's good 

3. Apprehensions of the imputation of the want of 
firmness sometimes impel us to perform rash and in- 
considerate acts. It is the greatest courage to be able 
to bear the imputation of the waiit of courage. But 
pridC; vanity, egotism, so unamiable and offensive in 
private life, are vices which partake of the character of 
crimes in the conduct of public affairs. The unfortu- 
nate victim of these passions can not see beyond the 
Httle, petty, contemptible circle of his own personal 
interest All his thoughts are withdrawn from his 

p country, and concen'trated on his consistency, his firm* 
ness, himself. 

4. The high, the exalted, the sublime emotions of a 
pa'triotism which, soaring toward heaven, rises &r 
above all mean, low, or selfish things, and is absorbed 
by one soul-transporting thought of the good and 
glory of one's country, are never felt in his impene- 
trable- bosom. That patriotism which, catching its 
inspiration from on high, and, leaving at an immeasur- 
able distance below all lesser, groveling, personal 
interests and feelings, — animates and prompts to deeds 
of self-sacrifice, of valor, of devotion, and of death 
itself, — that is public virtue; that is the noblest, the 
tublimest of all public virtues I 

Henbt Clay. (1777— 1861> 

*' LnrE while you live," the Spicure would say, 
'* And seize the pleasures of the present day I '' — 
" Live while you live," the Christian preacher cries, 
*' And give to God each moment as it flies." 
Lord I in my view, let b5th united be : — * 
I live to pleasure, while I live to Thee. 



164 BBEATHE PURE AIB. 



LXrV.— BREATHE PURE AIR. 



Stbvct'vbe, n., intemftl organization; 
a building. 

Func'tion, n., employment ; henoe, 
the acting of any bodily organ. 

Trav'erse, t;. t.f to cross. 

A-oult', n., a grown-np person. 

In-fringe', v. t., to break. 

In-spi-ba'tion, n., an in-breathing. 

Car-bon'ic, a., pertaining to carbon. 

Hogs'head, n., a measure of sixty- 
three gallons. 



Per-ni'cious, o., hurtful. 
San'i-ta-rt, <z., relating to health. 
RES-pf RA-TO-BY, a., having power to 

respire or breathe. 
Dor'hi-to-rt, n.f a place to sleep in. 
Neu'tral-ize, v. t.f to render neutral 

or inert. 
Yen'ti-late, v.f to expose to air. 
Ox'r-GEN (-jen), n., the vital part of 

atmospheric air. 
Vi-tal'i-ty, n., principle of life. 



Give er in tria/ergej ex'er-ciae, &c., its full sound, without stress. In at'mos-phert 
pk has the sound off; ere, in tkere'forCf like er in her, 

1. It is estimated that during one day's healthful 
existence no less than sixty hogsheads of pure atmos- 
phere must enter the human lungs. This is allowing 
but one pint for each inspiration, and but eighteen 
inspirations for each minute ; though it must be clear 
to all that during active exercise it frequently happens 
that in one minute of time more than twice eighteen 
inspirations take place, and considerably more than a 
pint of air enters the lungs at a single inspiration. 
The fact may be easily tested. 

2. Now, this immense volume of air is on purpose 
to give life to the liquid essence of our food — life to 
the dead blood. Until acted upon by the atmosphere, 
the fluid which is traversing the lungs is, to all intents 
and purposes, dead, and consequently totally incapable 
of repairing worn structures, of carrying on functionSf 
or of maintaining any vitality in the system ; nay, it 
even contains in its elements a considerable quantity 
of pernicious poison, brought to the lungs to be given 
out in the act of breathing, lest it should kill the hu- 
man fabric. The poison alluded to is carbon'ic acid. 
To breathe in an atmosphere of carbonic acid is death| 

'd as it is certain. 



BREATHE PUBB AIB. 165 

t 

8. Let us imagine, then, forty individuals to have 
entered a room of sufficient size to receive them with«- 
out overcrowding. We may as well consider it an 
ordinary school-room, and the forty individuals forty 
industrious pupils. This will give us an opportunity 
of noticing, among other things, how impure air affects 
the thinking brain. Suppose them diligently at work, 
then, in an unventilated apartment, with the door and 
windows closed. Now, calculating from the same esti- 
mates as before, in one minute from the time of entry 
each of the forty pairs of lungs has performed eighteen 
respirations, and with every respiration a pint of air 
has been deprived of a fourth part of its oxygen, and 
the same volume of carbonic acid has been mingled 
with the atmosphere of the school-room. 

4. In one minute of time, therefore, forty times 
eighteen pints, that is, seven hundred and twenty 
pints, — as we are not speaking of adults, we will say 
six hundred pints of the inclosed air, — have been 
deprived of no less than a fourth of their creative 
oxygen ; while an equal volume of the destroying acid 
is floating in the apartment, and influencing the blood 
at every inspiration. Or, — which will be found, upon 
calculation, to amount to the same thing, — in one sin- 
gle minute, as much as one hundred and fifty pints-'* 
upward of eighteen gallons of air — have altogether 
lost their life-creating power; the deficiency being 
made up by a deadly poison. 

/6. Now, since such a change takes place in one 
minute, let me beg of you to reflect what takes place 
in ten, what in twenty, what in half an hour ; what 
must be the amount of poison which the lungs of these 
unfortunate victims are inhaling, after an hour of such 
confinement. And yet how common it is, not for 
school-children alone, but for persons of all ages and 
conditions, to be shut up in low-pitched, badly-venti- 



166 BBEATHE PUBB AIB. 

lated apartments; for more than, five, six, or seven houra 
together 1 

6. Allow me to remind you that in the human body 
the blood circulat.es once in two and a half minutes. 
In two and a half minutes all the blood contained in 
the system traverses the respi'ratory surface. Every 
one, then^ whp breathes an impure atmosphere two 
and a half minutes, has every particle of his blood 
acted on by the vitiating air. Every particle has be- 
come less vital — less capable of repairing structures, 
or of carrying on functions ; and the longer such air 
is respired, the more impure it becomes, and the more 
corrupted grows the blood. 

7. Permit me to repeat, that, after breathing for two 
and a half minutes an atmosphere incapable of prop- 
erly ox'ygenating the fluids which are trav'ersing the 
lungs, every drop of blood in the human being is more 
or less poisoned ; and in two and a half minutes morp 
even the minutest part of all man's fine-wrought organs 
has been visited and acted upon by this poisoned fliiid, 
— the tender, delicate eye, the wakeful ear, the sens- 
itive nerves, the heart, the brain ; together with the 
skip, the muscles, the bones throughout their struc- 
ture, — in short, the entire being. There is not a point 
in the human frame but has been traversed by vitiated 
blood, — not a point but must have suffered injury 1 

8. Without food or exercise, man may enjoy life 
some hours; he may live soijie days. He can not 
exist a few minutes without air. And yet, what laws 
are so infringed as the laws of respiration ? In our 
temples of public worship, in our courts of justice, in 
our prisons, our mines, our factories, and our schools, 
ventilation was, until lately, almost disregarded ; nay, 
is still, in many places, entirely disregarded. And as 
for private dwellings, it may be most unhesitatingly 
affirmed that even for the wealthier classes of society 



THE paufsb's DEATH-^ED. 167 

not one honse in a hundred — perhaps not one in a 
thousand — is constructed on sound sanitary princi« 
pies with respect to its ventilation. 

9. I aUude not so much to lower stories as to dor- 
mitories. How rare to find a dormitory whose atmos- 
phere ^t early morning would not be more tainted than 
when it was entered for repose the previous night ! 
Yet, be it borne in mind that whenever, after a night's 
repose, the slightest degree of closeness is percepti- 
ble in a chamber, it is an incontrovertible proof that 
the chamber is not well ventilated ; and that, whatever 
may have been the benefit which the system may have 
received from sleep, that benefit has been partly neu- 
tralized by the ill effects of an impure atmosphere. 



LXV.— THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 

Pal'tbt (a as in fall), a,, worthless I Court'ikb (koxVyer), n., one who 
Mba'oeb, or VMAfQBM, o., Ie«n. . | ooorts &Yor. 

In new and atu-pen^douMt ffire the y ■ouiid of knag u. The flnt flye ibmBW of the 
fonowing poem afford a remarkaUy fine exercise in low pitch and a MKmn, measured 
deUvery. At the sixth stansa the Toice should change to a high pitch V)d the tone of 
JKoltatioii* 

Tread softly, — bow the head,-* 

In reverent silence bow ; 
No passing bell doth toll, — 
Yet an immortal soul 

Is passing now. 

Stranger, however great, 
With holy reverence bow ;— 

There 's one in that poor shed,-?-* 

One by that paltry bed, — 
Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggar^s roof, 
Lo I death doth keep his state ; 



168 



THE AMEBICAN BOBIN. 



Enter, — no crowds attend ; 
Enter, — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 

That pavement, damp and cold. 

No smiling courtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands. 
Lifting, with meager hands, 

A dying head. 

No mingling voices sonnd, — 

An infant wail alone ; 
A sob suppressed, — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 

The parting groan. 

0, change I — 0, wondrous change I — 

Burst are the prison bars, — 
This moment, there, so low. 
So agonized, — and now 

Beyond the stars I 

O, change I — stupendous change I 

There lies the soulless clod ; 
The Sun eternal breaks, — 
The new immortal wakes, — 

Wakes with his God 1 

CaBOUNE B. SoUTHET. (1794 — 1854..) 



LXVI.— THE AMERICAN ROBIN. 



Pe-tach'xbnt, n., a party sent off for 

special dnty. 
Neigh'bob-hood, n., vicinity. 
PoRT'i.r, a., balky ; corpulent. 
Ai'TBi-Bunfi, n., a quality. 



Gait, n., manner of walking. 
CoN-spic^u-ouSy a,f open to Tiew* 
Gaud't, a., showy. 
O'ri-ole, n.f a bird. 
Vol'uk-ta-by, a., willing. 



AToid toying feeU for Jields ; idee for i-de'af graxfvl for grcafel, 

1. It is now the thirtieth of March. The song-spar- 
rows and bluebirds are here, and have been with ns 



'^ TTHE AMERICAN BOBIK. 169 

geveral days. The robins are getting quite numerous; 
they seem to come in detachments; or possibly they 
only pass from one neighborhood to another in flocks. 
Their note is very pleasant; and, after the silent win- 
ter, falls with double sweetness on the ear. Their 
portly persons and warm red jackets make them very 
conspicuous, flying about among the naked branches, 
or running over the wilted grass. 

2. They are more frequently seen on the ground 
than any other bird we have, excepting the sparrow; 
and it is amusing to watch the different ^it of the 
two. The sparrow glides along with great agility and 
ease; whether in the grass or on the gravel, his 
movement is light and free. But the robin usually 
makes more fuss ; he runs by starts, drops his head, 
moves rapidly for a few feet, and then stops suddenly, 
with an upward jerk of his head, repeating the same 
course until he takes flight. 

3. The Eu-ro-pe'an robin is a smaller bird than 
ours, and lives, through the year, as far north as 

•England, cheering his native fields with a simple lay, 
even during the c^d weather. His habits are differ- 
ent from those of our own bird ; he builds in grassy 
banks, and has a trick of scraping dpad leaves together 
before his door, probably with the idea of concealing 
his nest. With us, the robin never builds on the 
ground; his nest is placed in trees, where, from its 
size, it is very conspicuous. Once in a while, how- 
ever, he builds about a house, but in such a case usu- 
ally fixes his nest in some spot shaded by a vine or 
the branches of a tree. 

4. For two summers in succession we had a nest on 
a window-sill of the second story, and this sprmg two 
pairs seem to be building about the eaves; but iii 
these instances the spots chosen are screened by Vir- 
ginia creepers. Passing through one. of the village 



170 THE AMERICAN ROBIK. 

streets, this afternoon, we saw a robin's nest in a veiy 
low and exposed situation. The honest creatures 
must have great confidence in their neighbors, which, 
it is to be hoped, wilt'not be abused. T*he nest was 
in the comer of an out-building facing the street, and 
so near the side-walk that one could almost reach it 
across the paling. 

5. It was entirely unscreened ; a straj branch of a 
locust tree projected, indeed, above it ; but if the rob- 
ins expect the foliage to shelter them7at this early day, 
they have made a sad miscalculation. The mother- 
bird was on the nest, as we passed, sitting, of course. 
She slowly moved her large brown eyes toward us, as 
we stopped to watch her, but without the least expres- 
sion of fear ; — indeed, she must see the village people 
coming and going all day long, as she sits there on the 
nest. ^ 

« 

6. What a very remarkable instinct is that of a sit- 
ting bijrd I By nature the winged creatures are full of 
life and activity, apparently needing little regose, flit- 
ting the livelong day through the fields and gardens,* 
seldom pausing except to feed, to dress their feathers, 
or to sing; — abroad, many of them, before dawn, and 
still passing to and fro across the darkening sky of the 
latest twilight ; — capable, also, when necessary, of a 
prolonged flight, which stretches across seas and con- 
tinents. 

7. And yet there is not one of these little winged 
mothers but will patiently sit, for hour after hour, day 
after day, upon her unhatched brood, warming them 
with her breast, — carefully turning them, that all may 
share the heat equally, and so fearful lest they should 
be chilled, that she will rather suffer hunger herself 
than leave them long exposed. That it is no unusual 
drowsiness which comes over them at this t^oe, ren- 
dering the du^jr mor§ easj^i is evid^Jit, for you seldom 



THE AMERICAN ROBOT. 171 

find them sleeping ; their bright eyes are usually open, 
and they look, indeed, quite thoughtful, as though 
already reflecting about their little family. 

8. The male, among some tribes, occasionally re* 
lieves his mate, by taking her place awhile, and among 
all varieties he exerts himself to bring food to her, and 
to sing for her amujiement. But, altogether, this vol- 
untary imprisonment of those busy, lively creatures, 
is a striking instance of that generous, enduring pa- 
tience which is a noble attribute of parental affection. 

9. The robin with iw is musical only in early spring; 
the rest of the year he is a very silent bird. Some 
few occasionally linger through the cold weather as 
far north as the Mohawk ; but this seems accidental. 
Many take a south-eastern direction toward the sea^ 
sh^e, and many more go still further south to a milder 
climate. They are with us, however, eight or nine 
months of the year, — honest, homely creatures, run* 
ning through plowed furrows, and about the grass- 
plots and paths around our doors ; so that they are 
every where considered as friends of the house. 

10. I have seen it asserted that the early colonists 
gave to the gaudy oriole the name of" English rbJ3in;" 
showing how fondly memory colored all they had left 
behind, since one bird is very plain in his plumage, 
the other remarkably brilliant. The name of robin, 
however, has now attached itself decidedly to the large 
red-breasted thjush, with which we are all familiar. 
This bjrd, though differing in many respects from the 
Robin Redbreast of Europe, yet with the name inherits 
also the favor of his kinsman, getting all the credit, in 
this part of the wojld, of watching over the Babes in 
the Woods, picking berries to feed them, and gather 
ing leaves for their covering. 

*" " Miss Susan F. Cooper. 



172 THE STUDY OF NATUBAL HISTORT. 



LXVII. — THE STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



Ik-still', v. t., io infuse by drops. 

Sn-gen'der (-jen-), v. t», to prodnce. 

6pe'cies (spe'shez), n., a sort. . 

Met-a-hobph'o-8I8 (-morf-), n., a 
change of form. Plural, meta- 
morphoses. 



A-nal'o-gy, n.y resemblance. 
Con'yeb-sant, a.f familiar with. 
Trans-cend'ent, a., surpassing. 
In-qtji'rT; n.f search for truth. 
Ad-ap-ta'tion, n.f fitness. 
Man'i-fest, a., eyident ; plain.- 



Aroid saying produx, insex^ objex, Jcc, for prod'ueta^ in'seeU, oVjects, &c. 

1. Though it be impossible and absurd to wish that 
every young person should grow up a naturalist by 
profession, yet this age offers no more wholesome 
training, both moral and intellectual, than that which 
is given by instilling into the young an early taste for 
outdoor physical science. 

** Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 't Ib her privilege, 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy." 

2. How to give habits of enterprise, patience, ac 
curate observation, — above all, how to develop the 
physical powers without engendering brutality and 
coarseness, — are questions becoming daily more puz- 
zling, while they need daily more to be solved, in an 
age of enterprise, travel, and emigration, like the pres- 
ent. Without undervaluing other branches of sci- 
ence, it may be safely affirmed that Natural History, 
or the history of the natural products of the earth, 
is capable of affording more to interest and instruct^ 
more to refresh and relax, the well-disposed mind, 
on a very slight acquaintance with it, than any othei 
pursuit. 

3. Not a step can the learner advance in it, but be 
meets with wonders previously unsuspected. The 
more he knows, the more he desires to know ; and the 



THE STUDY OF NATURAL HISTOBT. 173 

further he advances, the more does he perceive hoTV 
much delight is yet in store for him. The beneficent 
Creator of all has not only ordained that every part of 
bis works should be good, — should be adapted to 
answer its designed end, and should contribute, in the 
highest degree of which it is capable, to the well-being 
of his creatures, — but he has made every thing " beau- 
tifiil in its season." 

4. He has so formed the mind of man that it derives 
pleasure from the contemplation of the glorious works 
around us. And it is, therefore, a worthy employment 
of our faculties to encourage this pleasure, and to 
place it upon a more solid and extended foundation 
than that afforded by the mere forms and colors of 
objects, however beautiful these may be. One great 
source of the pleasure derived from the inquiry into 
the structure and mode of existence of the living 
beings around us, arises from the adaptation of their 
parts to each other, and of the whole to the place it 
has to occupy. 

5. The philosopher who studies the motions of 
the heavenly bodies, and the station of this earth 
among them, traces these adaptations no less clearly ; 
but it requires profound and long-continued study to 
be able to comprehend them aright. The naturalist, 
however, can discern them, with far less re-search', in 
every plant that grows, in every animal that breathes ; 
and he meets with a constant variety, which prevents 
iim from growing weary of the pursuit. 

6. Yet the young are too frequently kept in igno- 
rance of the wonders and beauties around them : and, 
whilst encouraged to learn many languages, and read 
many books, they remain unacquainted with the bright 
Volume of creation, the pages of which are daily and 
hourly unrolled before them, " written," to use the im* 

t)ressive words of Lord Bacon. " in the only language 

16» 



174 THE STUDY OF NATUBAL HISTOBT. 

which hath gone forth to the ends of the world, iina£ 
fected by the confusion of Babel." 

7. If boys were acquainted with the wonderful 
structure of insects, and of other animals low in the 
scale, they would not be found sticking pins into flies, 
or tormenting cats ; nor, when men, would they treat 
those noble domestic animals, the horse and the ox, 
with cruelty. The girl who has learned to derive 
enjoyment from observing the operations and watch- 
ing the metamorph^oses of insects, — who knows their 
history, and is con'versant with their structure, habits, 
and curious economy, — will mark these circumstances 
in animals higher in the scale ; and, ascending to her 
own species, will learn also the elevation of her own 
nature. 

8. The young person who, in strolling through the 
fields and woods, can tell you the name of every wild 
flower and every bird you see, — can inform you as to its 
habits, the time of its appearance, and in what regions 
of the earth it is to be found, — possesses a fund of 
useful and entertaining knowledge which must lend a 
charm to every ramble, and make his or her society 
prized by all who have souls to rec'ognize and admire 
the manifold indications in creation of Providential 
bounty and Omniscient skill. 

9. The just relations of all created things to one 
another prove tliem to be the work of one almighty 
Designer. The great globe may be considered as a 
mu-se'um, furnished forth with the works of the Su- 
preme Being ; man being placed in the midst of it, as 
alone capable of comprehending and valuing it And, 
if this be true, as certainly it is, what then becomes 
man's duty ? Moralists and divines, with nature her- 
self, testify that the purpose of so much beauty and 
perfection being made manifest to man, is that he may 
study and celebrate the works of God. If we have no 



CATO^S HESSAOE TO CiESAB. 



175 



vital and intelligent &itli in the things which are aeeUf 
bow shall we believe those which are not seen ? 

10. A happy sensibility to the beauties of nature 
should, therefore, be actively cherished and developed 
by the young. It engages them to contem'plate the 
Creator in his wonderful works ; it purifies and har- 
monizes the soul, and prepar«ds it for moral and intel- 
lectual discipline ; it supplier a never-failing source of 
amusement; it contributes largely to bodily health; 
and, as a strict analogy subsists between material and 
moral beauty, it leads the heart by an easy transition 
from the one to the other, and thus recommends vir- 
tue for its transcendent loveliness, and makes vice 
appear the object of contempt and abomination. 



LXVni.— OATO'S MESSAGE TO C.SSAR. 



Ros'trux, n.| a platform for speakers. 
Le'gioit, ft., a body of soldiers, [vioe. 
Bis-baitd', o. (., to dismiss from ser- 
Bic-ta'tob, »., an absolate ruler. 



Cap^i-tol, n.f a temple in Rome. 
SAc'Bi-LEaE, n.f the crime of violat 

ing sacred things. 
Ex-post'u-late, o. t., to plead with. 



Decius. Caesar sends health to Cato. 

Gato, Could he send it 
To Cato's slaughtered friends, it would be welcome. — 
Are not your orders to address the Senate ? 

Dec, My business is with Cato. Csesar sees 
The straits to which you 're driven ; and, as he knows 
Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life. 

Gato, My life is grafted on the fate of Rome. 
Would he save Cato ? bid him spare his country I 
Tell your dictator this ; and tell him, Cato 
Disdain^s a life which he has power to offer. 

Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar ; 
Her gep.erals and her consuls are no more, 
Who checked his conquests, and denied his triumphq. 
Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend ? 



176 CATO'S MESSAGE TO C.£SAB, 

Cato, Those very reasons thou hast urged forbid it. 

Dec. Cato, I Ve orders to expostulate, 
And reason with you, as from friend to friend. 
Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head. 
And threatens every hour to burst upon it I 
Still may you stand high in your country's honors. 
Do but comply and make your peace with Caesar, 
Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato, 
As on the second of mankind. 

Goto. No more I 
I must not think of life on such conditions. 

Dec, CsBsar is well acquainted with your virtues. 
And therefore sets this value on your life : 
Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship^ 
And name your terms. 

Goto, Bid him disband his legions. 
Restore the commonwealth to liberty. 
Submit his actions to the public censure. 
And stand the judgment of a Roman Senate : 
Bid hirh do this, and Cato is his fnend. 
. Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom, — 

Goto, Nay, more, — though Cato's voice was ne'er en> 
ployed 
To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes. 
Myself will mount the Rostrum in his favor. 
And strive to gain his pardon ,from the people. 

Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueror. 

Cato, Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman. 

Dec. What is a Roman, that is CsBsar's foe? 

Oato, Greater than CaBsar : he 's a friend to virtue. 

Dec. Consider, Cato, you 're in Utica, 
And at the head of your own little Senate ; 
You don't now thunder in the Capitol, 
With all the mouths of Rome to second you. 

CcUo. Let Mm consider that who drives us hither. 
'T is CsBsar's sword has made Rome's Senate little 
And thinned its ranks. Alas I thy dazzled eye 
Beholds this man in a false glaring light, 
Which conquest and success have thrown upon him. 



LINES TO LITTLE MABY. 



ny 



Didst thou but view him right, thou Mat see him blac^ 
With murder, treason, sacrilege, and — crimes 
That strike my soul with horror but to name them. 
I know thou look'st on me as on a wretch 
Beset with ills, and covered with misfortunes ; 
But, as I love my country, millions of worlds • 
Should never buy me to be like your Caesar. 

Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to CsBsar, 
For all his generous cares and proffered friendship ? 

Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain : 
Presumptuous man I the gods take care of Cato. 
Would CaBsar show the greatness of his soul, 
Bid him employ his care for these my friends, 
And make good use of his ill-gotten power. 
By sheltering men much better than himself. 

Joseph Addison. (lera^-Wi./) 



LXIX. — LINES TO LITTLE MARY. 



Coa'rt, a., careful ; oautions. 
Pa'gan, a., heathen. 
Iiv'TBi-CATE, a.f entangled. 



Ben'i-son (-zon), n., a blessing. 
Lab't-rinth, n., a maze. 
SiTc'ciNCT-LT, «d.f briefly ; eompaotl} 



I 'm bidden, little Mary, to write verses unto thee ; 

I 'd fain obey the bidding, if it rested but with me ; 

But the mistresses I 'm bound to (nine ladies, hard to please !), 

Of all their stores poetic so closely keep the keys, 

That 't is Only now and then — by good luck, as we may say — 

A couplet or a rhyme or two falls fairly in my way. 

Fruit forced is never half so sweet as that comes quite in season ; 
But some folks must be satisfied with rhyme, in spite of reason ; 
So, Muses, all befriend me, — albeit of help so chary,— 
To string the pearls of poesy for loveliest little Mary. 

And yet, ye pagan damsels,* not overrfond am I 

To invoke your haughty favors, your fount of Cas'taly : 

*By the pagan damsels, the "nine ladiev hard to please/' the author 
means the Nine Muses ; female deities that were imagined by the ancients 
to preside over poetry, music, &.o. The fount of Castaly was on Mount Par* 
oassus, in Greece, and was saered to Apollo and the Muses. 



J7S WOMAN IN AMEEICA. 

I 'ye sipped a purer fountain ; I 've decked a holier flhrine ; 
I own a mightier mistress ; — Nature, thou art mine ! 

And only to that well-head, sweet Mary, I '11 resort, 

For just an artless verse or two, — a simple strain and short,— 

Befitting well a pilgrim, wayworn with care and strife. 

To offer thee, young trayeler, in the morning track of life. 

There 's many a one wiU tell thee, 't is aU with roses gay ; 
There *s many a one will tell thee, H is thorny all the way. 
Deceivers are they every one, dear child, who thus pretend : 
God's ways are not unequal ; make Him thy trusted friend, 
And many a path of pleasantness He '11 clear away for thee, 
However dark and intricate the labyrinth may be. 

I need not wish thee beauty, I need not wish thee grace ; 
Already both are budding in that in&nt form and fiace. 
I will not wish thee grandeur, I toill not wish thee wealth ; 
But only a contented heart, peace, competence, and health ; 
Fond friends to love thee dearly, and honest friends to chida, 
And faithful ones to cleave to thee, whatever may betide. 

And now, my little Mary, if better things remain 
Unheeded in my blindness, unnoticed in my strain, 
I 'U sum them up succinctly in " English undefiled," — 
My mother-tongue's best benison, — Qod bless thee, prepiouB child ! 

Caroline B. Southey. 



LXX.— WOMAN IN AMERICA. 



l>Ro-inTL-GA'TXON, n., open teaohing. 
Peb-pe-tu'i-tt, n., endless duration. 
Ar-tif'i-cer, n., a mechanic. 



A-chieve'kent, n., a deed ; a feat 
Fran'chise, n.,9, privilege. 
Trus-teb', n., one who has a tnui. 



Pronoanoe Stael, Stak'iL Do not slur ttie sound of er in got/eminent. In Mf»> 
iucts'j eon'teatSf &c., heed the consonant terminatioos. 

1. It 18 by the promulgation of sound morals in the 
community, and, more especially, by the training and 
instruction of the young, that woman performs her 
part toward the preservation of a free government. It 
ia generally admitted that public liberty, the perpe- 



WOMAN IN AMERICA. 179 

tuity of a free constitution, rests on the virtue and 
Intelligence of the community which enjoys it How 
is that virtue to be inspired and bow is that intelli- 
gence to be communicated? Bonaparte once asked 
Madame de Stael in what manner he could most pro- 
mote the happiness of France. Her reply is full of 
political wisdom. She said: ''Instruct the mothers 
of the French people." 

2. Mothers are, indeed, the affectionate and effect- 
ive teachers of the human race. The mother begins 
her process of training with the infant in her arms. 
It is she who directs, so to speak, its first mental and 
spiritual pulsations. She conducts it along the im- 
pressible years of childhood and youth, and hopes to 
deliver it to the rough contests and tumultuous scenes 
of life, armed by those good principles which her child 
has received from maternal care and love. 

3. If we draw within the circle of our contempla- 
tion the mothers of a civilized nation, what do we see? 
We behold so many artificers working, not on frail and 
perishable matter, but on the immortal mind, moulding 
and- fashioning beings who are to exist forever. We 
applaud the artist, whose skill and genius present the 
mimic man upon the canvas ; we admire and celebrate 
the sculptor, who works out that same image in endur- 
ing marble ; but how insignificant are these achieve- 
ments, though the highest and the fairest in all the 
departments of art, in comparison with the great voca* 
tion of human mothers! They work, not upon the 
canvas that shall fail, or the marble that shall crumble 
into dust, but^upon mind, upon spirit, which is to last 
forever, and which is to bear, for good or evil, through- 
out its- duration, the impress of a mother's plastic 
hand. 

4. I have already expressed the opinion, which all 
allow to be correct, that our security for the duration 



180 WOMAN IN AMERICA^ 

of tho free institutions which bless our country de* 
pends upon the habits of virtue, and the prevalence 
of knowledge and of education. Knowledge does not 
comprise aU which is contained in the larger term of 
education. The feelings are to be disciplined; the 
passions are to be restrained ; true and worthy motives 
are to be inspired ; a profound religious feeling is to 
be instilled, and pure morality inculcated, under all 
eircumstances. 

5. All this is comprised in education. Mothers who 
are faithful to this great charge Will tell their children 
that neither in political nor in any other concerns of 
life can man ever withdraw himself from the perpetual 
obligations of conscience and of duty ; that in every 
act, whether public or private, he incurs a just re- 
sponsibility ; and that in no condition is he warranted 
in trifling with important rights and obligations. 

6. They will impress upon their children the truth, 
that the exercise of the elective franchise is a social 
duty, of as solemn a nature as man can be called to 
perfono ; that a nxan may not innocently trifle with hi, 
vote ; that every free elector is a trustee, as well f6^ 
others as himself; and that every man and every meas^ 
ure he supports has an important bearing on the inter- 
ests of others, as well as on his own. It is in the 
inculcation * of high and pure morals, such as these, 
that, in a free republic, woman performs her sacred 
duty, and fulfills her destiny. 

Daniel Webster. (1782 -. 1862.) 



Father of light and life I thou Good Supreme I 
0, teach me what is good I teach me thyself I 
Save me from folly, vanity, and vice. 
From every low pursuit ; and feed my soul 
With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure. 
Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss I 



THB STBAWBEBBT GIRL. 181 



LXXI. — THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. 



Balm't, a., firagnnt ; sweet. 
Clus'tbr, n., a buneh. 



CouBT'Lr, a.f elegani ; poilt*. 
Bbill'iaxt, a., Bhiniflg. 



In perfume, the accent is on the first sjIlaUe when it is a noon ) on the second, when 
It is a rerb. Do not saj dooep for deu^jf. 

1. It is summer 1 it is summer 1 How beautiful it 
looks 1 There is sunshine on the old gray hills, and 
sunshine on the brooks ; a singing-bird on every 
bough ; soft per^fumes on the air ; a happy smile on 
each young lip, and gladness every where. ! is it 
not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods, — 
to look upon the painted flowers, and watch the open- 
ing buds; — or, seated in the deep, cool shade, at some 
tall ash-tree's root, to fiU my little basket with the 
sweet and scented fruit 1 

2. They tell me that my father's poor; — thai is no 
grief to me, when such a blue and brilliant sky my up« 
turned eye can see. They tell me, too, that richer 
girls can sport with toy and gem. It may be so ; and 
yet, methinks, I do not envy them. When forth I go 
upon my way, a thousand toys are mine : the clusters 
of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine. My 
jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the' 
rose. 1 show me any courtly gem more beautiful 
than these. 

3. And then, the fruit 1 the glowing fruit 1 how 
sweet the scent it breathes I I love to see its crimson 
cheek rest on the bright green leaves. Summer's own 
gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, — the wild- 
wood fruit, — my eager eye is seeking every where. 
1 summer is a pleasant time, with all its sounds and 
sights ; its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil, 
Calm delights. I sigh when first I see the leaves fell 
yellow on the plain ; and all the winter long I sing, — •' 

Sweet summer 1 come again 1 Mary Howitt 

16 



182 CHRISTOPHEB COLUMBUS. 



LXXn.— CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



Vis'iON-A-RT (▼!>•), n., a dreamer. 
Mkr-cu'ri-al, a,, lively ; Bpirited. 
Bsv';«R-iB, n,f deep masing. 



Sooth'say-er, n., a foreteller. 
Db-ci'phbr, v. t.f to explain. 
Op'u-lbmt, o., rich ; wealthy. 



Pronounoe OphiVy Qfftr • Hia-pan-i-o'la^ u marked ; Aaia^ A'the-a, 

1. He was decidedly a vi skmary , but a visionary of 
an u ncomm on and successful kind. The manne r in 
which his ardent ima ginati on and m ercuri al natur e 
were controlled by a poVerful judgment, and directed 
by an acute sagacity, is the most extraordinary f eatur e 
in his chara'cterr" Thus governed, his imagination, ie? 
stead of wasting itself in idle soarings, lent wings_ to 
his judgment, and bore it away to conclusions at which 
comnibn minds could never have arrived ; nay, which 
they could not perceive when pointed out. 

2. To his^ intellectual vision it was given to read , in 
the signs of the times and the re verie s of past ages^ 
the indications of an unknpwn world, as soothsayers 
were said to read predictions in the stars, and to fore- 
tell events from the visions of the night. " His sou T]^ 
observes a Spanish writer, " was superior to the age 
in which he lived. For him was reserved the great 
enterprise to plow a sea which had given rise to so 
many fables, and to decipher the mystery of his tiine." 

3. With all the visionary fervor of his imaginatiQix, 
its fondest dreams fell short of the reality. He died 
in ignorance of the real grandeur of his discovery. 
Until his last breath, he entertained the idea that he 
had merely opened a new way to the old resorts of 
opulent commerce, and had discovered some of the 
wild regions of the East. He supposed Hispaniqla to 
be the ancient Ophir which had been visited by the 
ships of Solomon, and that Cuba and Terra F irmsi 
were but remote parts of Asia . 

4. What visions of glory would have broke upon 



THE STOBY OF dKEYBA. 183 

his mind^ could he have known that he had indeed dis- 
co vere d a new continent, equal to the whole of the 
old world in magnitude, and separated, iy two vast 
oceaus, from all the earth hitherto known by civilized 
man ! And how would his magnanimous spirit have 
been consoled, amid the Qhills oT age and cares of 
penary, the neglect of a fickle public and the injustice 
oFan ungr ateful king, could he. have anticipated the 
splendid empir es wEich were to spread over the beau- 
tiful world he had discovered, and the nation^ and 
tongues and languages which were to fill its lands 
with his renown, and to revere and bless his name to 
the latest posterity 1 WAsmnoTON IsYmo. 



LXXra.— THE STORY OP GINEVRA. 



Kup'tial, a., pertaining to marriage. 
Ten'aitT'LESS, a,, unoocupied. 



pAyiCi n,f a sndden fright. 
Quest, n., act of seeking. 



Aroid saying sred for ahred. In Jirat^ nurat^ buratf give the Mond of «rln Aen 
Fronoance Oinevroj Je^i'vra ; FraneeaeOf Fran-ckia'eo, 

She was an only child, her name Ginevnii — 

The joy, the pride, of an indulgent father, — 

And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 

Marrying an only son, Francesco Dona, 

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 

She was all gentleness, all gayety, 

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 

But now the day was come, — the day, the hour; 
Now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time. 
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 
And, in her shining youth, Ginevra gave 
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 

Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast. 
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting; 
Nor was she to be found 1 Her father cried, 



184 THE STORY OP GINEVRA. 

" 'T is but to make a tri»l of our love I " 

And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, 

And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 

'T was but that ijLstant she had left Francesco. 
Laughing and looking back, and flying still, 
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger ; 
But now, alas I she was not to be found ; 
Nor, from that hour, could any thing be guessed, 
But that she was not I 

Weary of his life. 

Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking. 

Flung it away in battle with the Turk , 

The father lived, and long might you have seen 

An old man wandering as in quest of something, — 

Something he could not find, he knew not what. 

When he was dead, the house remained a while 

Silent and tenantless ; then went to strangers . 

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, 
When, oii an idle day, — a day of search, 
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, — 
A mouldering chest was noticed, and 't was said. 
By one as young, as thoughtless, as Gineyra, 
" Why not remove it from its lurking-plOtSfi.? " 

'Twas donp as soon as sn,id; but, on the way. 

It burst — it fell ; and, lo I a skeletoji. 

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 

A golden clasp clasping a shred of ^old I 

AH else had perished, save a wqdding ring. 

And a small seal, her mother^s legacy. 

Engraven with a name, — the name of both, — Oinevra 

There, then, she had found a grave I 
Within that chest had she concealed herself. 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the ha^pjc* 
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there. 
Fastened her down forever I 

Samuel Bogers. (1760 — 1857.) 



APOSTBOPHE TO THE OCEAN. 185 



LXXIV.— APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 



A-pos'tro-fhe, h,, a digressive ad- 
dress. 

"Ray' AGE, n,, desolation ; min. 

Tor'bid, a., violently hot. 

Ar-ma'da, It., a large fleet of ships of 
war. 

XJN'FXElled* (-neld), a., nntolled. 



Yk8t or Y JEAST, n., the foam or froth 
of liqaor in fermentation. 

Le-vi'a-than, n., a sea-monster. 

Ab'bi-teB| n., an umpire. 

Tba-fal-oab', n., a cape in Spain, ot 
which was fought, in 1805, the greal 
naval battle in whioh Nelson fell* 



Pronounce none, nun ; were, wer j been, bin ; nefer, ndre ; are, r 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
_ There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes. 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar. 
I love not man the less, but nature more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 

To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceaL 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll 1 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin ; — his control 

Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plaii^ 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 

A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffiiied, and unkno^m. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitols, — 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 

Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 

They melt into thy yest of waves, which mar 
Alike the armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 
16* 



186 APOSTBOPHE TO THE OCEAK; 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee ; — . 

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they f 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 

And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 

Has drifed up realms to deserts : — not so thou. 
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play ; 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow, — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 

Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm— 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime — 

The image of eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 

The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone I 

And X have loved thee. Ocean I and my joy 

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 

I wantoned with thy breakers : they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 

Made them a terror, 't was a pleasing fear, 
For I was, as it were, a child of thee. 

And tnisted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 

Lord Btrom: 



Be brave, be just ; and, when your country's laws 

Call you to witness in a dubious cause. 

Though Power should plant his rack before your eye, 

And, frowning, dictate to your lips the lie, — 

Think it a crime no tears can e'er efface 

To purchase safety with compliance base, — 

At honor's cost, a feverish span extend. 

And sacrifice, for life, life's only end 1 — Gifford. 



mFLUENCE OF HUMAN EZAlfPLB. 187 



LXX v.— INFLUENCE OF HUMAN EXAifPLE. 



Ih-dbl'i-blb, a,, not to be eflBMed. 
Man'na, n,f a hoDoy-like Jnioe g«l 

from a kind of aah-lrae. 
Ram-i-fi-ca'tioh, n,, a brmnohing. 

Ar^M Barring ax fare acts. Oire o in nofAsn^ and nofM the sound of ihoctii. 



Fbuc'tx-ft, r. i., to bear fmit. 
Com-po'nent, a.f helping to oompoee. 
Ti'intATR, o. L, to qniFer. 
As-so'ciATE, n., r companion. 



1. Every morning we enter upon a new day, that 
carries an unknown future in its bosom. How stir- 
ring the reflection 1 Thoughts may be bom to-day, 
which may never die. Feelings may be awakened to- 
day, which may never be extinguished. Hopes may 
be excited to-day, which may never expire. Acts may 
be performed to-day, the consequence of which may 
not be realized till eternity. 

2. There is something solemn and awful in the con- 
sideration that there is not an act nor a thought in 
the life of a human being, that does not carry with it 
a train of consequences, the end of which we may 
never trace. We all, to a certain extent, influence the 
lives and minds of those about us. The good deed 
or thought will live, even though we may not see it 
fructify; but so will the bad ; and no person is so insig- 
nificant as to foe sure that his example will not do good 
on the one hand, or evil on the other. 

3. There is, indeed, an element of immortality in the 
life of man, even in this world. No individual in the 
universe stands alone ; he is a compo'nent part of a 
system of mutual dependences ; and by his several 
acts he either increases or diminishes the sum of hu- 
man good now and forever. As the present is rooted 
in the past, and the lives and examples of our fore* 
fathers still to a great extent influence t^, so are w© 
by our dail}'^ acts contributing to form the condition 
ttud character cf the future. 



188 INFLUENCE OF HUMAN EXAMPLC:. 

4. No man's acts die utterly. It is a terrible thought 
to remember that nothing can be forgotten. I have 
somewhere read that not an oath is uttered that does 
not continue to vibrate through all time, in the wide- 
spread current of sound ; not a prayer lisped, that its 
record is not to be found stamped on the laws of 
nature by the indelible seal of the Almighty's will. 

*< We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best ; 
And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest ." 

5. Every act we do, or word we utter, as well as 
^yery act we witness, or word we hear, carries with it 
an influence which not only extends over our whole 
future Kfe, and gives to it color and direction, but pro- 
duces some efiect, slight or important, upon the whole 
frame of society. We may not, and indeed can not, 
trace the influence working itself into action in its 
various ramifications among children, friends, asso- 
ciates ; yet there it is, assuredly, working on forever. 
And herein lies the great significance of setting forth 
a good example, — a silent teaching, which even the 
poorest person and the humblest child can enforce by 
his daily life. 

6. Let us first take heed to our thoughts; for 
thoughts resolve themselves, sooner or later, inta 
habits and deeds. To think is to live.. Let us, then, 
reject all eviliand impure thoughts, and give entertain^ 
ment only to those that are good and kind, noble and 
forgiving, instructive and elevating. Time and life, 
unfilled with thought, are useless, unenjoyed, bringing 
no pleasure for the present, storing no good for future 
need. To-day is the golden chance, wherewith to 
snatch thought's blessed fruition, — the joy of tho 



^America's obligations to England. 189 

present, the hope of the future. To-day is the tim^ 
for all good resolutions, anJlfor all first steps in im- 
provement : — 

y bright presence of To-day , let me wrestle with thee, gracious angel ! 

1 will not let thee go except thou bless me ; bless me, then, To-day ! 
O, sweet garden of To-day, let me gather of thee, precioos Eden ; 

I have stolen bitter knowledge, give me fruits of life To-day. 

O, true temple of To-day, let me worship in thee, glorious Zion ; 

I find none other place nor time than where I am To-day. 

O, living rescue of To-day, let me run into thee, ark of refuge ; 

I see none other hope nor chance, but standeth in To-day. 

0, rich banquet of To-day, let me feast upon thee, saving mano* . 

I have none other food nor store but daily bread To-day. 



LXXVI.-- AMERICA'S OBUGATIONS TO ENGLAND. 

FBOK THE SPEECH IN REPLY TO CHARLES TOWNSHEND, A XEMBXR 07 

THE BRITISH MINISTRY, 176& 



Gbubge, v.t.f to murmur at. 
Mite, n., any thing very small. 
SuB^TiiE (snt'tl), a,, sly ; crafty. 
Fbont^ier (front'eer), n., a border. 



De-fenbb' or De-fence', n,, protection 
fVom injury ; resistance to evil. . 
Re-coil', v, t., to start back. 
E-mol'u-mbnt, n., gain ; inoon^e. 



Pronoance disUnctly the consonant terminations here represented: aakt f hands f 
frtndz ; beastn ; aub'jektt ; akta ,* tri'um/a ; feelingx ; bandz. These and similaf 
consonant combinations are too often slighted. 

1. The honorable member has asked : — " And now 
will these Americans, children planted by our care, 
nourished up by our indulgence, and protected by our 
arms, — will they grudge to contribute their mite?" 
They planted hy your ^arel — No, your oppressions 
planted them in America I They fled from your tyr- 
anny to a then uncultivated and inhos'pitable country, 
where they exposed themselves to almost all the hard- 
ships to which human nature is liable; and, among 
others, to the cruelties of a savage foe the most subtle, 
and I will take upon me to say the most for^midable, 



190 AMERICA'S OBLIGATIONS TO EN6LAKD. 

of any people upon the face of the earth ; and yet, 
actuated by principles of true English liberty, our 
American brethren met all hardships with pleasure, 
compared with those they suflfered in their own coun- 
try from the hands of those that should have been 
their friends. 

2. They nourished up hy your indulgence! — They 
grew by your neglect of them 1 As soon as you be- 
gan to care about them, that care was exercised in 
sending persons to rule them, in one department and 
another, who were, perhaps, the deputies of deputies 
to some members of this House, sent to spy out their 
liberties, to misrepresent their actions, and to prey 
upon them ; — men whose behavior, on many occar 
dions, has caused the blood of those sons of liberty to 
recoil within them; men promoted to the highest seats 
of justice, — some who, to my knowledge, were glad, by 
going to a foreign coury^ry, to escape being brought 
to the bar of a court of justice in their own. 

3. They protected hy your arms I — They have nobly 
taken up arms in your defense I — have exerted a valor, 
amid their constant and laborious industry, for the 
defense of a country whose frontier was drenched in 
blood, while its interior parts yielded all its little 
savings to your emolument. And, believe me, — re- 
member I this day told you so, — that same spirit of 
freedom which actuated that people at first will accom- 
pany them still ; but prudence forbids me to explain 
myself further. 

4. Heaven knows I do not at this time speak from 
motives of party heat. What I deliver are the genu- 
ine sentiments of my heart. However superior to me, 
in general knowledge and experience, the respectable 
body of this House may be, yet I claim to know more 
of America than most of you, having seen that coun- 
try and been con'versant with its aflFairs. The people, 



BIGHT AQAIVST MIGHT. 



191 



I believe, are as truly loyal as any subjects toe King 
has ; but they are a people jealous of their liberties, 
and who, if those liberties should ever be violated, 
will vindicate tnem to the last drop of their blood. 

Isaac Barbi. 



LXXVn. — RIGHT AGAINST MIGHT. 



Shikld (sheeld), n., a broad piece of 

defensive annor. 
ScTTHB, n., an instnimeni for mowing. 
CoK^QVBR (konk^er), «. r., to gain by 

force. 



CAv'Aif-RT, n., mounted troops. 
In'FAirr-BTy n., foot soldiers. 

PfiAS'AST-RT, H.f mstlcs. 

Lit't, v. t., to laise ; to eolleet. 
Mbr'cb-iia-bt, a., hired ; venal. 



Pnmounce Winkelried^ Vinkfktl-reed ; Sewtpaeky Zem'piki Zwieh, Zo&riki Vn^ 
terwaidenf Oon'ter-wU-den (the a m inybfi)* 

1. On the ninth of July, in the year 1368, a remark- 
able scene might have been witnessed in a forest on 
the borders of Lake Sempach, in Switzerland. An 
army of Austrians, led by Duke Leopold, was drawn 
up in order of battle against a small force of Swiss, 
co mpose d chiefly of the peasantry of the land. The 
Austrians, claiming to rule the country, had laid enor- 
mous taxes on commerce, and levied heavy tolls on all 
the prdduce carried to market. 

2. The peasantry were at last so roused by the op 
pression of their tyrants that they rose in rebellion, 
fully resolved to throw off the hateful yoke. The 
army of Leopold was followed by carts to hang the 
r ebelli ous rustics. He advanced to the attack with his 
splenclid cavalry and mercenary infantry ; the former 
comprising many of the haughty nobles of Austria, 
and the latter made up of strolling bands from the 
south of Europe. 

3^ On arriving at the foot of a hiU, the nobles dis- 
mounted and gave their horses to their squires, disdain- 
ing to fight in knightly fashion against " base-looking 



192 BIGHT AGAINST MIGHT. 

peasants." Great, indeed, was the contrast between 
the two arm ies. The Austrians, cased in steel from 
head to foot^ marched onward, four^ thousand str^ng|, 
with weapons gteaming in the sun, and gilt hdmets, 
glitterfng brightly, in " all the pomp, pride,., and j^- 
cumstance pf war," — a spectacle that might well strike 
terror into the hearts of men less fearful than the 
hardy mountaineers', who, with heroic frpiit, awaited 
the onset. ~" 

4. It was the spirit, indeed, that sustained the man j 
for the arms of the Swiss were mostly scythes, clubs, 
or clumsy spears ; and their o nly de fense against the 
weapons of their foes was the rudest sort of shields, 
— mere boards fastened to their arms ; while their 
whole number was thirteen hundred men. Truly is it 
said of Switzerland at this hour: 

** Few were the numbers she could boast ; 
But every freeman was a host, 



And felt as though himself were he 
On whose sole arm hung victory." 

5. The nobles formed a close phal'anx, the spears of 
the fourth rank projecting in front; and thus "they 
advanced to the attack. The Baron de Hazenburg, an 
experienced warrior, feared the determination of the 
Swiss, and advised the duke to sendTbr a reserve 
which he had left behind, near Zurich. But his cau- 
tions were treated with scorn. The nobles, however, 
wished Leopold not to engage personally in the com- 
bat, or, at least, to remain on horseback ; but he re. 
plied, " What I will Leopold of Austria lookj)n while 
his barons are dying for him ? No ! I will either con- 
quer, or remain on the field ! " 

6. And now from the Swiss arose the shout, " Make 
way for liberty I" But though they rushed onward 
to the encounter with loud shouts, they were brought 



BIGHT AGAINST MIGHT. 193 

to a s udden hal t by what seemed a wall o f stqel. In 
vain did they strive to break through that forest of 
l^ces presented by the foe. Their best and bravest 
were flung back, bleedings and almost in despair. 
Every moment their peril was increasing. The wings 
of the Austrian army gradually advanced, so as to 
forno^a part of a circle, which, completed, would place 
the heroic Swiss all within the very jaws of death. 

7. Who shall stop the approaching ruin ? Just as 
all seemed lost, Arnold Winkelried (ever honored be 
the name !), a native of Unterwalden, cried out, " I '1\ 
open a way for you 1 Take care of my wife and chil- 
dren ! Switzerland forever ! Make way for liberty I " 
Then, rushing upon the enemy, and " gathering, with 
a wide embrace, into his single heart, a sheaf of fatal 
Austrian spears," he made an opening, through which, 
with sword and ax, poured the impetuous Swiss. 
N othing could withstand their fury. Leopold and his 
nobles were routed with terrific slaughter. Let Jamea 
Montgomery describe the act of the martyr of liberty : 

** Make way for liberty ! " he cried ; 
Then ran, with arms extended wide, 
As if his dearest friend to clasp ; —^ 
Ten sp^irs he swept within his grasp. 
" Make way for liberty ! " he cried ; 
Their keen points crossed from side to side; 
He bowed amongst them like a tree, 
And thus made way for liberty. 
Swift to the breach his comrades fly, — 
•* Make way for liberty ! " they cry. 
And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart! 
While, instantaneous as his fall. 
Bout, ruin, panic, seized them all. 
An earthquake could not overthrow 
A city with a surer blow. 
Thus Switzerland again was free ; 
Thus Death made way for liberty I 



17 



194 



NOTHnSfG TO WEAB. 



LXXVm. — NOTHING TO WEAR. 



Wbitiib (rithe), v. t., io twist pne's 
•elf Tiolently, as if in pain. 

Bick'r-t, a., affeoted with rickets ; 
weak ; imperfect 

Tbap'piivqSi n. pi,, ornaments. 



Tin'bel, m., a kind of shining oloth ; 

any thing showy. 
Pke-tkhsk' or Pss-nxci', «., a &Im 

riiow or olaim. 
BiB-Bii-CHAirT', V. s., to free from spells. 



Aroid aajing ipere for iphere (ftfere)} euas for eurse; spile fattpoilf relum for 
rlalm, in soch words as Ae/m, e/m, cAonii, Jtc, some speakers hare a bad bahit of 
introdttoiBg a decided rowd soond before the m. 

1 LADiBS, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
Please trundle your hoops just put of Broadway, 
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride. 
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side. 
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt 
TTieir children have gathered, their city have built ; — 
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey. 

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair. 
Baise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt y 
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt ; 

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair 
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old. 
Half-starved, and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold ! 

See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet. 
All bleeding and bruised by the stSnes of the street ; 
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell 

From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor • 
Hear the curses that sound like Hope's dying farewell. 

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door ; 
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare, — 
Spoiled children of Fashion, — you've nothing to wear 

And, I if perchance there should be a sphere 
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here ; 
Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of Time 
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime ; 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense. 
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretense^ 



SPECIAL EXEBCISES IN ELOCUTIOK. 195 

Must be clothed, for the life and the service above, 
With puritji truth, faith, meekness, and love ; 
O, daughters of Earth I foolish virgins, beware I 
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear I 

W. A. B0TLBB. 



LXXIX. — SPECIAL EXERCISES IN ELOCUTION. 

PABX n.* 



Tol'u-blk, a., flnent in words. 

Yxo'xAN ( jo'man), n., a oommon man 
of the first class. 

Chol'eb-ic (k'ol-), a., irasoible. 

Bui'sox, p. t.f to redeem from captiv- 
ity or punishment. 



Rx-8pict'its, a., belonging to cacli ; 

having respect to. 
Ih-obatb" or In'GRAn, a., nnthankfoL 
Cahk'xbxd, pp.f oormpted. 
Rb-tal'i-atx, v., to return like for 

like ; to requite. 



Prcmoaiice Cicero, Sia^e-ro, Do not say trill for shrill ; helum tot helm. 

Student How shall we know what words we ought 
to make emphatic, in reading aloud? 

Professor, The only sure rule is this: Acquaint 
yourself fully with the meaning and spirit of what you 
have to utter, and then you will bestow your empha- 
sis in a manner the best fitted to bring out that mean- 
ing and spirit. 

Stu. I readily comprehend the importance of that 
rule. If I ask you for the loan of your pencil, and 
you hand me your penknife, and I say, " No, it is your 
pencil I want," — it is easy to see that I should lay 
the principal stress on the word pencil. 

Pro. Even so in reading ; if you understand the lan- 
guage, you will be likely to lay the right stress upon 
the right words. 

Stu. I have been reading what Walker says on the 
modulation of the voice. 

Pro. Walker is good authority. What does he say? 
How does he define the word ? 

* For Part I. see pag» 91. . 



196 SPECIAL EZEBCISES IN ELOCUTION. 

Stu. He says that modulation in speaking signifies 
that agreeable variety of changes through which the 
voice may be made to pass. The Latin word modfvAor 
simply means to measure off properly ; to regulate. 

Pro, Yes, the voice is capable of assuming three 
keys, or pitches, — the high, the middle, and. the low. 
We use the high pitch in calling to a person at a dis- 
tance ; the middle J in ordinary conversation, like that 
we are now having ; the low, when we wish no one to 
hear except the person to whom we speak, or when 
we would say something solemn or impressive to an 
audience. 

8tu, Walker cautions us, however, that the differ- 
ence between loud and high, and low and soft tones, 
ought to be well understood. We can speak louder 
or softer, and still continue the same pit<;h, or key ; 
but we can not speak higher or lower without shifting 
the key. 

Pro. Let it be borne also in mind that it is not he 
who speaks the loudest who can be heard the fiirthest. 
Very loud speakers are seldom heard to advantage. 
Burke's voice is said to have been a sort of shrill cry, 
which marred the effect of what he uttered. Lord 
Ghat'ham's lowest whisper was distinctly heard; and his 
middle tones were sweet, rich, and beautifully varied. 

8tu. I have seen it stated that musical notes will be 
heard to a much greater distance than mere noises 
however loud. 

Pro, We will devote the rest of this conversation 
to the consideration of Exercises in High Pitch, quot- 
ing our illustrations from Shakspeare. High Pitch, 
though uncommon in level speaking or reading, is 
appropriate to the delivery of passages -where great 
excitement, anger, or indignation, is to be conveyed ; 
as in the following address of Richard the Third to 
his troops : 



SPECIAL IBXISBCISBS IN ELOCUTIOH. 197 

" Fight, gentlemen of England ! fight, bold jeomen ! 
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head : 
Spur jour proud horses hard, and ride in blood ; 
Amaze the welkin with jour broken staves. — 
A thousand hearts are great within mj bosom : 
Advance our standards, set upon our foes ! 
Our ancient word of courage, &ir Saint Greorge, 
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery drSgons ! 
Upon them ! Yictorj sits on our helms." 

8tu. Do you remember the speech which Borneo 
fitters, on encountering . Tyb'alt, who has just slain 
Romeo's friend, Mercutio? 

Pro. Yes ; it should be uttered in a high, but not iu 
a very loud, key. Intense passion may sometimes be 
better expressed by suppressed tones than by a loud, 
voluble enunciation. 

Stu. That agrees with what Walker says: "The 
tones which mark the passions and emotions of the 
speaker are entirely independent of the modulation of 
the voice, though often confounded with it ; for modu- 
lation relates only to. speaking either loudly or softly, 
in a high or a low key ; while the tones of the passions 
or emotions mean only that quality of sound that indi- 
cates the feelings of the speaker, without any reference 
to the pitch or loudness of his voice." But how are 
we to acquire that peculiar quality of sound that indi 
cates the passions we wish to express ? 

Pro. The answer is easy : by feeling the passion 
which expresses itself by that peculiar quality of 
sound. 

Stu. But how are we to acquire a feeling of the 
passion ? 

Pro. The advice of Cicero is this : " Represent to 

jrour imagination, in the most lively manner possible, 

fill the most striking circumstances of the transaction 

yoM describe, or of the passion you wish to feel.'' 

What are the circumstances in Romeo's case ? 

17* 



198 SPECIAL EXEBCISES IN ELOCUTIOK. 

Stu. He has been grossly insulted by Tybalt, but 
has avoided quarreling with him. Mercutio, Romeo's 
friend, takes up~ the quarrel, and is slain by Tybalt ; 
and the latter, immediately after, is met by Romeo, 
who accosts him thus : 

" Alive ! in triumph, and Mereutio slain C 
Awaj to heayen, respective lenity, 
And fire-€yed fury be my conduct now ! ^ 
Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again 
That late thou gavest me ; for Mercutio's soul 
Is but a little way above our heads, 
Staying for thine to keep him company ; 
And thou or I, or both, must go with him.'^ 

Fro. There is a good exercise in high pitch in the 
reply of Coriola'nus to Aufid^ius. The latter has 
sneered at the haughty soldier as a " boy of tears " ; 
and Coriolanus retaliates, in words showing oyer* 
powering rage. Let me hear you read the passage. 

8tw It requires practice ; but I will do my best. 

" Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart 
Too great for what contains it. * Boy ? ' slave/ 
Cut me to pieces, Volcians ; men and lads. 
Stain all your edges on me. < Boy ! ' False hound ! 
If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there, 
That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I 
Fluttered your Volcians in Co-ri'o-li : 
A&ncldidit! «Boy!'" 

Pro, The tone of choleric defiance in these words 
of Hotspur affords another exercise in high pitch : 

" Not speak of Mortimer ? 
But I will speak of him ; and let my soul 
Want mercy if I do not^otn with him ! 
Yea, on his part, I '11 empty all these veins. 
And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust, 
But I will lift the down>trod Mortimer 
As high in the air as this unthankful king, — 
Ab this ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke." 



SPECIAL EXERCISES IN ELOCUTIOK. ' 199 

8tu. The king has refused to ransom Mortimer, who 
happens to be the brother of Hotspur's wife. The in- 
dignant Hotspur again breaks out as follows : 

** He said he would not lansom Mortimer ; 
Forb&de mj tongue to speak of Mortimer ; 
But I will find him when he lies asleep, 
And in his ear I '11 hollo Mortimer ! 
Nay, I '11 have a starling shall be taught to speak 
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him 
To keep his anger still in motion." 

Pro. With one more exercise we will conclude our 
illustrations for the present. It is the contemptuous 
'^c^ch of Coriolanus, the haughty patrician of Borne, 
to the populace : 

** What would you have ... you curs, 
That like not peace nor war? The one affirights you, 
The other makes you proud. He that trusts you, 
Where he should find you lions, finds you ... harxs ; 
Where foxes — geese : you are no surer, no. 
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice, 
Or hailstone in the sun. He that depends 
Upon your favors, swims with fins of lead, ' 

And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye . ,.. Trust ye? 
With ev^ minute you do change a mind, 
And call ^Vn noble, that was now your hate^ 
^m vile, that was your garland! " 

8tu. These exercises seem to me to require a good 
Jeal of practice to do them justice. 

Pro. That is true : therefore let them have practice. 
Learn some of them by heart, and give them forth as 
you have opportunity ; first being sure, from your 
teacher's authority, that you deliver them aright and 
in good taste. The physical benefit derived from 
such exercise of the lungs, prudently pursued, is as 
great as that got in many of the feats of the gymna- 
sium. It is an exercise which any one can advanta- 
geously take, in-doors or out. 



200 



cahline's last speech to his tboofs. 



LXXX. — CATILINE'S LAST SPEECH TO HIS TROOPS. 



Tavht (the au like a in far), n., bit- 
ter or sarcastic reproach. 
Gall'ikg (a as in fall), a., fretting. 



Co'hobt, n.f a troop of soldiers, aboul 

four or fire hundred. 
Bur'dbn (bur'dn), v. t., to encumber. 



The following exercise shoold be read with mndb spirit and energy. Commencing in 
the tone of sorrow and despair, the voice should be gradually raised till, at the dimax^ 
it should attain an explosiye force, expressiye of reckless resolye and defiance. 

Brave cCmrad es I all is mined I I disdain 
To hide the truth from you. The die is thrown ! 
And now, let each that wishes for long life 
Put up his swor d, and kneel for peace to Eome; 
Ye are all free to go. — What I no man stirs I 
Not one I — a soldier's spirit in you allf 

Give me your hands! This moisture in my eyes 

Is womanish — 't will pass. 

My no ble hearts I 

Well have you c hose n to die 1 For, in my mind. 
The grave is better than overburdened lilel — 
Better the quick release of glorious wounds, 
Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues ; — 
Better the spear-head quivering in the heart. 
Than daily struggle against Fortune's curse ; 
Better, in manhood's muscle and high blood, 
To leap the gulf, than totter to its edge 
In poverty, dull pain, and base decay. 

Once more, I say, — Are ye r esolve d ? 
Then, each man to his tent, and take therms 
That he would love to die in, — for (his hour 
We storm the Consul's camp. — A last farewelll 
When next we meet, we '11 have no time to look 
How parting clouds a soldier's countenance : — 
Few as we are, we '11 rouse them with a peal 
That shall shake Rome I — 

Now to your cohorts' Tieads I The word 's Bevengef 

Rev. George Croly. (1788 — 1860.)* 



80K6 OF HUWATHA. 



201 



LXXXI. — SONG OP HIAWATHA. 



Lb'gend (I6'jend), n., a wild story. 
Pa'thos, n,f feeling ; paaaion. 
Pai.-i-badb', n., a fence or fortilBoa- 
tion of sharpened stakes. 



Et'bt (&'re), n., a plaee where birds 

of prey bnild and hatch. 
TBA-DrnoH, fi., oral aooovnt handed 

down from age to age. 



Pronoanoe Hiawatha^ Ht-a-wc^tha (the leoond a as in fall) ; the om in Aaic«f like a 
in far. Heed the kmg o in akad'owy mead'ow. 

1. Ye who love the haunts of nature, love the sun- 
shine of the meadow, love the shadow of the forest, 
love the wind among the branches, and the rain-shower 
and the snow-storm, and the rushing of great rivers 
through their palisades of pine-trees, and the thunder 
in the mountains, whose innumerable echoes flap like 
eagles in their eyries, — listen to these wild traditions* 
to this Song of Hiawatha ! 

2. Ye who love a nation's legends, love the ballade 
of a people, that, like voices from afar off, call to us to 
pause and listen, speak in tones so plain and childlike- 
scarcely can the ear distinguish whether they are sung 
or spoken, — listen to this Indian legend, to this Song 
of Hiawatha I 

3. Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, who have 
faith in God and nature, who believe that in all ages 
©very human heart is human; that, in even savage 
bosoms, there are longings, yearnings, strivings, for 
the good they comprehend not ; that the feeble hands 
and helpless, groping blindly in the darkness, touch 
His right hand in the darkness, and are lifted up and 
strengthened, — listen to this simple story, to this 
Song of Hiawatha ! 

4. Ye who sometimes in your rambles through the 
green lanes of the country, where the tangled barberry- 
bushes, hang their tufts of crimson berries over stone 
walls gray with mosses, — pause by some neglected 
graveyard; for a while to muse and wonder on a half 



202 



THE CHAMPION SPELLER. 



effaced inscription, writ with little skill of song-craft) 
homely phrases, but each letter full of hope and yet 
of heart-break, full of all the tender pathos of the Here 
and the Hereafter, — stay and read this rude inscrip- 
tioU; read this Song of Hiawatha I Longfellow. 



LXXXn.— THE CHAMPION SPELLER. 



CB-LBH'i-rr, n., flwiftness. 
Pbod'i-gt (-jy), n.» any thing aiton- 

iahing ; a monster. 
Thbbsr'uld, n., the door-siH. 
Ex-tbaob'dI'ITA-rt (eks-tror'-), a,, 

out of the usual order. 
WizLD (weeld)^ v. t,, to use with 

power. 



Tsii'po-BA-BT, €u, lasting only, for m 

time. 
Ob-thoo'ba-pht, n,f art of spelling. 
Si-mTL-TA'NB-ouB, a., being at th« 

same time. 
Ac-qui-si'tion (ak-we-sish'un), n., tha 

act of gaining ; the thing gained. 
pQir'B-TBATE, V, t., to pioree. 



The habit which the two boys, introdnoed in this story, had of dipping the sound of 
ng in such words as tptUing, chopping^ 4cc., is one whichi we hope, every youth win 
avoid in serious delivery. 

1. Let no one suppose that in the following story I 
would underrate the importance of learning to spell 
correctly. In these days the young person who hopes 
to attain to positions of trust and profit must be a 
good speller. What I would impress upon your minds ^ 
is, that you must not only learn the orthography of a 
word but acquaint yourself with its meaning; not only 
know the outside form of a word, its letters and sylla- 
bles, but penetrate to its inner spirit and life. 

2. The most extraordinary spelling, and, indeed, read- 
ing machine, in our school, was a boy whom I shall 
call 'Mem'orus Wordwell. He was mighty and won- 
derful in the acquisition and remembrance of words, — 
of signs without the ideas signified. The alphabet he 
acquired at home before he was two years old. What 
exultation of parents, what exclamation from admiring 
visitors I " There was never any thing Uke it." He 
had almost accomplished his a-b abs before he was 



THE CHAMPION SPBLLEB. 203 

thoQghi old enough for schooL At an earlier ag^ than 
usual, hoTvever, he was sent ; and then he went from 
Ache to Abomination in half the sununers and winters 
it took the rest of us to go over the same space. It 
was astonishing how quickly he mastered column efter 
column, section after section, of obstinate orthograr 
phies. 

3. Those martial terms I haye just used, together 
with our hero's celerity, put me in mind of Caosar; so 
I will quote him. Memorus might have said, in respect 
to the hosts of the spelling-book, '' I came, I saw, I 
conquered." He generally stood at the head of a 
class every member of which was two years his elder. 
Poor creatures 1 they studied hard, some of them, but 
it did no good : Memorus Wordwell was bom to be 
above them, as some men are said to have been '' bom 
to command." 

4. Master Wordwell was a remarkable reader, too. 
When but five years old he could rattle off a word as 
extensive as the name of a Bussian noble, as easily as 
the schoolmaster himself. ''He can read in the hardest 
chapters of the Testament as fast ag'in as I can," said 
bis mother. — "I never did see any thing beat it 1" ex- 
claimed his father ; '' he speaks up as loud as a minis- 
ter." But I have said enough about thfs prodigy. I 
have said thus much because, although he was thought 
so surpassingly bright, he was the most decided ninny 
in the school. The fact is, he did not know what the 
sounds he uttered meant. It never entered his head, 
nor the heads of his parents and most of his teachers, 
that words and sentences were written, and should be 
read, only to be understood. 

6. One little anecdote about Memorus Wordwell be- 
fore we let him go. It happened one day that the 
*' cut and split " wood for the fire fell short, and Jonas 
Patch was out wielding the ax in school-time. He had 



204 THE CHAMPION SPELLER. 

been at work about half an hour, when Memorus, who 
was perceived to have less to do than the rest^ was 
sent out to take his place. He was about ten years 
old, and four years younger than Jonas. " Memorus," 
said the teacher, " you may go out and spell Jonas." 
Our hero did not think of the Yankee sense in which 
the master used the word spelL Indeed, Memorus had 
never attached but one. meaning to it whenever it was 
used with reference to himself. He supposed the mas- 
ter was granting him a ride extraordinary on his favor- 
ite hobby. So he put his spelling-book under his arm, 
and was out at the wood-pile with the speed of a boy 
rushing to play. 

6. " Have you learnt your spellinMesson, Jonas ? " 
was his first salutation. — ''I have n't looked at it yit," 
was the reply. " I mean to cut up this plaguy great 
log, spellin' or np spellin', before I go in. I had as 
lief keep warm here choppin' wood, as freeze up there 
in that cold back seat." — " Well, the master sent me 
out to hear you spell." — "Did he? Well, put out 
the words, and I '11 spell." Memorus being so distin- 
guished a speller, Jonas did not doubt but that he 
was really sent out on this errand. So our deputy 
spelling-master mounted the top of the wood-pile, just 
in front of Jonas, to put out words to his temporary 
pupil, who still kept on cutting out chips. 

7. " Do you know where the lesson begins, Jonas? " 
— " No, I don't; but I s'pose I shall find out now." — 
" Well, here 't is." (They both belonged to the same 
class.) " Spell A-bom-i-na'tion." Jonas spells: A b-o-m 
bom Orbom — in the mean time up goes the ax high in air 
— i Orbomri — down it goes again into the wood — 
n-a na a-bomri-na- — up it goes again — t-io-n tiorij 
arbom'i'na4ion. Chuck goes the ax again, and at the 
same time out flies a furious chip, and hits Memorus 
ozi the nose. At this moment the master appeared 



THE CHAMPION SPELLEB. 205 

just at the comer of the school-house, with one foot 
still on the threshold. " Jonas, why don't you come 
in? Didn't I send Memorus out to spell you?" — 
" Yes, sir ; and he has been spelling me. How could 
I come iUj if he spelt me here ? " 

8. At this the master's eye caught Memorus perched 
tip on the top stick, with his book open upon his lap, 
rubbing his nosp, and just in the act of putting out 
the next word of the column: " Ac-com-mo-da'tion,*' 
pronounced Memorus, in a broken but louder voice 
than before; for he had caught a glimpse of the master, 
and he wished to let him know that he was doing his 
duty. This was too much for the master's gravity. 
He perceived the mistake, and, without saying more, 
wheeled back into the school-room, almost bursting 
with the most tumultuous laugh he ever tried to sup- 
press. The scholars wondered at his looks, and grinned 
in sympathy. 

9. In a few moments Jonas came in, followed by 
Memorus with his spelling-book, who exclaimed, "I 
have heard him spell clean through the whole lesson, 
and he did n't spell one quarter of 'em right." The 
master could hold in no longer. The scholars, too, 
perceived the blunder, and there was one simulta'ne- 
ous roar from teacher and pupils ; the scholars laugh- 
ing twice as loud and uproariously in consequence 
of being permitted to laugh in school-time, and to do 
it with the accompaniment of the master. 

10. It was some time before Memorus could be made 
to see where the joke lay. At last the teacher told him 
to look out the word spell in the dictionary. He did 
BO, and found among the definitions under spdl, when 
a transitive verb, the following : " to take the turn or 
place of?^ Light began to dawn on the mind of the 
champion. Warren Burton. 

18 



206 



CATO'S SOLILOQUT. 



LXXXm. — CATO'S SOLILOQUY. 



Bave, H; poison ; rain. 
So-ul'o-qut, n., a talking alono or to 
onalB self. 



Ah'ti-dotb, n., a medicine to prewat 

the effects of poison. 
In'ti-xItb, V, t., to hint. 



It must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest welL 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality ? 
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
Of falling into naught f Why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and. startles at destruction t 
'T is the divinity that stirs within us, 
'T is Heaven itself, that points out a hereafter. 
And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity I — thou pleasing, dreadful thoughx"! 
Through what variety of untried being. 
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass I 
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me ; 
But shadows, clouds and darkness, rest upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there 's a Power above us, — 
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 
Through all her works, — he must delight in virtue ; 
And that which he delights in must be happy. 
But when ? or where ? This world was made for Ca&sar. 
I 'm weary of conjectures, — this * must end them. 

. Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me. 
This * in a moment brings me to my end ; 
But this t informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade awav, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth. 
Unhurt amid the war of elements. 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. Addisom; 



* A dagger. f Plato's treatise on the immortality of the lool. 



ICABULLUS TO THE BOMAN POPULACE. 



207 



LXXXIV.— MARULLUS TO THE ROMAN POPULACE. 



SiBKw (stro), V. /., to sGfttter. 
Ti'bbr, n., a rWor in It^j. 
Com'cayb, a., hollow ; vrohed. 
Tbib'u-ta-bt, n., one paying tribvte. 



Bkp-li-ca'tiov, n,, return or repvr- 

onnioQ of Bound. 
iH-m-MiT', V. t., to oanM to 

for a time. 



Aroid saying wm^der tar win'4ow f foUer fon fotlow; wut for wotm; wttU km 
wkttU } wen for when ; neow for now. The th in undemtiUk it Tocal m in kreathtf 
not aspirate as in breath. The first e in wkere'/bre shooU hare the sound it has in 
Ufkere. Bo not gire the a in tnanp (pronoonoed men'np) a long sound. Gire the « la 
Imgraiitude its y sound. 

Wherefobb rejoice that GsBsar comes in triumph t 

What conquest brings he home ? 

What tributaries follow him to Rome, 

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels 1 

You blocks, jou stones, you worse than senseless things I 

JOU hard hearts I you cruel men of Rome I 

Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements. 
To towers, and windows, yea, to chimney-tops. 
Tour infants in your arms, and there have sat 
The live-long day with patient expectation 
To see great Pompey pass the stoeets of Rome* 

And when you saw his chariot but appear, 
Have you not made a universal shout. 
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks^ 
To hear the replication of your sounds, 
Made in her concave shores ? 

And do you now put on your best attire ? 

And do you now cull out a holiday ? 

And do you now strew flowers in his way, 

That comes in triumph over Pompey^ 8 blood f — 

Begone I Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, 

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 

That needs must light on this ingratitude 1 

WlLUAU ShaKSPEARE. (1564 — 1616.) 



208 



BABBABITY OP WAB, 



^xXXXV. — BARBARITY OF WAR. 



Bn'aisK (en'jin), n., a machine. 
Da-LU'siVB, a,, tending to deeeive. 
Im-pb'bi-ous, a., commanding. 
Kb-cip'bo-cal, a.f acting in return. 



A-TBo'cious, a.f Terj wicked. 
Lac'eb-atb (las-), V. t., to tear. 
Ai.-le'yi-ate, v. t.f to lighten. 
Sub-ob'di-natb, a,, inferior. 



Be careful in the pronnnciation of the following words: em-beVtUh^mentt (ool 
-munt9\ ten'der-nef, Jlfture*, drau/ing-room (not droring'), en-ter-tmn'mtntMf 
Gkn'al-ry (9kiv-\ toound (tpoond). 

1. On every side of me I see causes at work which 
go to spread a most delusive coloring over war, and 
to remove its shocking barb aritie s to the background 
of our contemplations altogether. I see it in the his- 
tory which tells me of the superb appearance of the 
troops, and the brilliancy of their successive charges. 
I see it in the poetry which lends the magic of its 
numbers to the narrative of blood, and transports 
its many admirers, as, by its images, and its figures, 
and its nodding plumes of chivalry, it throws its 
treacherous embellishments over a scene of legalized 
slaughter. 

2. I see it in the music which represents the prog- 
ress of the battle ; and where, after being inspired by 
the trumpet-notes of preparation, the whole beauty 
and tenderness of a drawing-room are seen to bend 
over the sentimental entertainment ; nor do I hear the 
utterance of a single sigh to interrupt the death-tones 
of the thickening contest, and the moans of the* 
wounded men, as they fade away upon the ear, and 
sink into lifeless silence. 

3. All, all, goes to prove what strange and half 
sighted creatures we are. "Were it not so, war could 
never have been seen in any other aspect than that of 
unmingled hatefulness ; and I can look to nothing but 
to the progress of Christian sentiment upon earth to 
arrest the strong current of the popular and prevail 



BABBABITT OF WAB. 209 

iDg partiality for war. Then only will an imperious 
sense of duty lay tlie check of severe principle on all 
the subordinate tastes and faculties of our nature. 

4. Then will glory be reduced to its right estimate, 
and the wakefal benevolence of the gospel, chasing 
away every spell, will be turned by the treachery of 
no delusion whatever from its simple but sublime 
enterprises for the good of the species. Then the 
reign of tru^ and quietness will be ushered into the 
wo_rld, and ^r — cruel, atrocious, unrelenting war — 
will be stripped of its many and its bewildering fasci- 
nations. Rev. Thomas Chalmers. 



5. Nobody sees a battle. The common soldier fires 
Away amid* a smoke-mist, or hurries on to the charge 
in a crowd which hides every thing from him. The 
officer is too anxious about the performance of what 
he is specially charged with to mind what others are 
doing. The commander can not be present every 
where ; he learns from his reports how the work goes 
on. It is well ; for a battle is one of those jobs which 
men do without daring to look upon. 

6. Over mjles of country, at every fieldjence, in 
every gorge of a vaUej or entry into a wood, there is 
murder committing — wholesale, continuous, recip'ro- 
cal murder. The human form — God's image — is 
mutilated, deformed, lacerated, in every possible way, 
and with every variety of torture. The wounded are 
jolted off in carts to the rear, their bared nerves 
crushed into maddening pain at every stone or rut ; or 
the flight and pursuit trample over them, leaving them 
to writhe and roar without assistance — and fever and 
thirst, the most enduring of painful sensations, possess 
thgip entirely. 

7. The ripening grain is trampled down; the garden 
is trodden into a black mud ; the fruit-trees, bending 

18* 



210 THE PBUSSUN GEKEBAL ON THE RHINE. 

beneath their luscious load, are shattered by the can* 
no n-sho t. Churches and private dwellings are used as 
fortresses, and ruined in the conflict. Bams and 
stack-jards catch fire, and the conflagration spreads 
on all sides. And yet the desolation which a battle 
spreads over the battle-field is as nothing when com* 
pared with the moral blight which war diffuses througl^ 
all ranks of society in tJie country where it rages. 

8. Such is war, with its sufferings and sorrows. 
Such is war in Christian and civQized Europe — war 
in an age when most has been done to alleviate its 
horrors. Whitewash it as we will, it still remains full 
of Head men's bones and rottenness within. Those 
who trust most to it will be sure to feel m^t severely 
that it is an engine the direction and efficacy of which 
defy calculation — ^^ which is as apt to recoil upon those 
who explode it as to carry destruction into the ranks 
of their adversaries. '" 



LXXXVl. THE PRUSSIAN GENERAL ON THE RHINE. 

Pronoooce Blueketf BlooVer ; yea^ ya or ye. TIm Itanner Is nuMt In use. 

'T WAS on the Rhine the armies lay : — 
To France, or not ? Is 't yeat^or nay ? 
They pondered long, and pondered well ; 
At length old Blucher broke the spell : 

" Bring here the map to me I . 
The road to France is straight and free. 
Where is the foe f " — " The foe f Why, here 1 "— 
" We 'II beat him. Forward 1 Never fear I 
Say, where lies Paris?" — " Paris f — here I " — 
" We '11 take it. Forward I Never fear I 
So throw a bridge across the Rhine ; 
Methinks the Frenchman's sparkling wine 
Will taste the best where grows the vine 1 " 

From the Oerman of Kopisch. 



LAST CHARGE OF KEY. 



211 



LXXXVn.— LAST CHARGE OF NEY. 



Cow-n-manfAijf a. As here nsed, it 
refeifl to the continent of Europe, 
as apurt from the British isles. 

EN-eAN'QuuiBD, pp,, blood-staioed. 

Bqvad'boh (skwod'mn), n., a body of 
troops in any regular form. 

Bat-tal'iok, n., a body of soldiers 
from fire to eight hundred. 



Zr'nith, n.y the point in the heaTWM 

direetly oyer our head. 
Sa'bbb or Sa'brb, n., a sword. 
Plow or Plough, n., an agriooltanl 

implement. 
Al-likd', pp,, united by treaty. 
Ru^LU-KHT, a,f flowing baok. 
Ex-haust" (egs-hawsf ), v. t,, to empty. 



Pronounce Prussia, Proo'8ke-€u Do not slight er in tn'tr-gy } t in sud'ien'^ ghfrn 
ex-hausff tx-hib'iti ow SnfotUtw^ akad^ow, 

1. The w^e continent,! s tmpp le exhibited no 
B ublimer spectacle than this last effor t of Napole on to 
save his ainVjug ftmpjrft. Euro pe had been put upon 
the plains of Waterloo to be battled for. The greatest 
miUtaiy energy and still the world possessed had been 
tasked to the utmost during the day. Thrones were 
t otter ing on the en sanguine d &§ld, and the shadQTrs 
of fug itive king s flitted through the smoke of battle. 

2. Bonaparte's star trembled in the zenith , — now 
blazing out in its ancient s plendo r, now sudd enly pa ling 
before his anxiqug^ye,. At length, when ibhe Prussians 
appeared on the field, he res^veB to stake Europe on 
one bold throw. He committed himself and Prance 
to Ney , and saw his empire rest on a single chance. 

3. Ney felt the pressure of the immense responsi- 
bility on his brave heart, and resolved not to prove 
unworthy of the great trust. Nothing could be more 
imposing than the movgujient of that grand column to 
the assault. Th at gu ard had never yet recoiled before 
a human foe ; and the allied forces beheld with awe its 
firm anJ terrible advance to the final charge. 

4. For a moment the b atterie s stopped playing, and 
the firing cea sed along the British lines, as, withodt the 
b eatin g of a drum, or the bjast of a bugle, to cheer 
their steady courage, they moved in d ead s ilence over 



212 LAST CHABGE OP NET. 

the glain. The next m oment the a rtiller y opened^ and 
the head of that gallant column seemed to sink into the 
earth. Rank after rank went down ; yet they neither 
stopped nor faltered. Dissjolving sq uadro ns, and whole 
battalions disaggearing o ne after another in the dg: 
structive fire^ affected not their s teady co urage. The 
ranlcs closed up as before , and each, t read ing over his 
lallen^omrade, pressed firmly on. 

5. The h orse which Ney rode f ell unde r him, and he 
had scarcely m ounted another before it also sank to 
the earth. Again and again did that u nflinching man 
feeLhis stgjed siiik down, till five had been shot under 
hiflL T^en, with his u nifor m riddled with b ullets , and 
his fece singed and blackened with powder, fie m arche d 
on foot, witii drawn si^er, at the head of his men. In 
vain did the artillery hurl its st orm of fire a nd lead^ 
into that l iving ma ss. Up to the very muzzles they 
pressed, and, driving the "artillerymen 5Fom fheir own 
pieces, pushed on through theJEnglish l ines. 

6. But at that moment a file of soldiers who had 
lain flat on the ground, behind a low ridge of earthy 
suddenly rose, and pQured a volley in their very faces. 
Another and another followed, till one broad 
flame rolled on their bosoms, and in such_a fiejye and 
unexpected flow, that h uman courage c ould not with ,- 
stand it. They reeled^ shook, staggered b ack, then 
turned and fled. 

7. Ney was borne back in the refluent tidg^ and 
lurried over the field. But for the crowd of f ugitive s 
that forced him on, he would have stood al one, and 
fallen on his footsteps. As it was, disdaining to fly, 
though the whole army was flying, he formed his men^ 
into two immense squares, and endeavored to stem the 
terrific current, and would have done so^ had^ it not 
been for the thirty thousand fresh Prussians that 
Dressed on his exhausted ranks. -—.-.., 



A FIELD OP BATTLE. 213 

8. For a long-time these s quare s stood and let the 
artillery plow through them. But the fate of Napo- 
leon was writ ; and though Ney doubtless^^ what no 
other man in the a rmy c ould have done, the decree 
could not be re verse d. The star, that had blazed so 
brightly over the world, went down in blood, and the 
^^ bravest of^ the brave " had f ought his last battle. 
It was w orthy of his great name; and the " charg e" of 
the Old Guard at Waterloo, with him at their head, 
will be pointed to by remotest generations with a 
shud^r. J. T. Hkadlkt. 

< 

LXXXVm.— A FIELD OF BATTLE. 



Zeph'tb (sef nr), n., a soft breete. 
Eb'on, a,f black like ebony. 
C^hg'ob (klang'gor), n.,m loud, shriU 
Boand. 



PofwrniT'oiTg, a., foretokening UI. 
In-x'bm-atb, a., drunk. 
Liu'e-a-iceht, n., oatline ; feature. 
Veb'hal, a., pertaining to spring. 



How beautiful this night I The balmiest sigh 
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear 
Were discord to the speaking quietude 
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vaults 
Studded with stars unutterably bright. 
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, 
Seems like a canopy which love has spread 
Above the sleeping world. 

Ah 1 whence yon glare, 
That fires the arch of heaven ? — that dark red smoke, 
Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are quenched 
In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow 
Gleams faintly through the gloom that g&thers round. 
Hark to that roar, whose swifl and deafening peals 
In countless echoes through the mountains ring. 
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne I 

Now swells the intermingling din ; the jar. 
Frequent and frightful, of the bursting bomb ; 



214 A HELD OF BATTLE. 

The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout, — - 
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men 
Inebriate with rage I — Loud and more loud 
The discord grows ; till pale Denath shuts the scene. 
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws 
Bis cold and bloody shroud I 

Of all the men 
Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there. 
In proud and vigorous health, — of all the hearti 
That beat with anxious life at sunset there, — 
How few survive I how few are beating now I — 
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm 
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause. 
Save when the frantic wail of widowed love 
Comes shuddering on€he blast, or the faint moan 
With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay 
Wrapt round its struggling powers. 

The gray mom 
Dawns on the mournful scene ; the surphur-ous smoke 
Before the icy wind slow rolls away, 
And the bright beams of frosty morning dance 
Along the spangled snow. There, tracks of blood. 
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms, 
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments 
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful path 
Of the out-sallying victors. Far behind 
Black ashes note where a proud city stood. 
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen ; — 
Each tree which guards its darkness fix)m the day 
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb ! 

Percy Btsshs Shellst. (1792— 1833.) 



Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 

The eternal years of God are hers ; 
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, 

And dies among her worshipers. BbtaVT* 



CAUSE FOR INDIAN BESENTXENT. 215 



LXXXIX. — CAUSE FOR INDIAN RESENTMENT. 

fc'M-FLA'cA-BLT, od., irreooDcilably. | Vih-dic^tiyb, a., rereiigefiil. 
H'm-bo'cious, o., fierce ; savage. I Ix'po-tbhck, »., want of power. 

In kov'tr, noth'ingy none, give o the foand of short m as in love^ o-ftooe', Ice. 

1. You Bay that you have bought the country. 
Bought it ? Yes ; — of whom ? Of the poor, trembliug 
natives, who knew that refusal would be vain ; and 
who strove to make a merit of necessity, by seeming 
to yield with grace what they knew that they had not 
the power to retain. — Alas, the poor Indians I No 
wonder that they continue so impla^cably vindictive 
against the white people. No wonder that the rage 
of resentment is handed down from generation to gen- 
eration. No wonder that they refuse to associate and 
mix permanently with their unjust and cruel invaders 
and exterminators. . 

2. No wonder that, in the unabating spite and frenzy 
of conscious impotence, they wage an eternal war, as 
well as they are able ; that they triumph in the rare 
opportunity of revenge ; that they dance, sing, and 
rejoice, as the victim shrieks and &.ints amid the 
flames, when they imagine all the cringes of their op- 
pressors collected on his head, and fancy the spirits 
of their injured forefathers hovering over the scene, 
smiling with ferocious delight at the grateful spectacle^ 
and feasting on the precious odor as it arises from 
the burning blood of the. white man. 

3. Yet the people here affect to wonder that the 
Indians are so very unsusceptible of civilization ; or, 
in other words, that they so obstinately refuse to adopt 
the manners of the white man. Go, Virginians, erase 
from the Indian nation the tradition of their wrongs. 
Make them forget, if you can, that once this charming 
country was theirs ; that over these fields, and through 



216 TOO LATE I STAYED. 

these forests, their beloved forefathers once, in care- 
less gayety, pursued their sports and hunted their 
game ; that every returning day found them the sole, 
the peaceful and happy proprietors of this extensive 
and beautiful domain. Go, administer the cup of ob- 
livion to recollections like these ; and then you wiI7 
cease to complain that the Indian refuses to be civilized. 
4. But, until then, surely it is nothing wonderful 
that a nation, even yet bleeding afresh from the mem' 
ory of ancient wrongs, perpetually agonized by new 
outrages, and goaded into desperation and madness at 
the prospect of the certain ruin which awaits their 
descendants, should hate the authors of their miselv 
ies, of their desolation, their destruction, — should hate 
their manners, hate their color, hate their language, 
hate their name, hate every thing that belongs to them I 
No ; never, until time shall wear out the history of 
their sorrows and their sufferings, will the Indian ba 
brought to love the white man, and to imitate hi» 
mann«ar». William Wirt. (1772— lS3&.,x 



XC — TOO LATE I STAYED. 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime ; 
- Unheeded flew the hours ; — 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
That only treads on flowers 1 

What eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of his glass, 
When all its sands are diamond sparks. 

That dazzle as they pass I 

Ah I who to sober measurement 

Time's happy swiftness brings, 
When birds of Paradise have lent 

Their plumage for his wings ! W. R. Spknoeb. 



.BEBNARDO DEL OAItnO. 217 



XCI.— BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 



GagE) n., a challenge to combat. 
Ybarn (yern), v. i., to long. 
Swerve, o. t., to deviate. 
Con'de, n., a Spanish earl. 
Gran-dee", n,f a man of rank. 
Caitiff (ka-), n., a base fellow. 
Pal'ter-ikg (pawl-), ppr,, shifting. 



Fal'chioh (fawrchnn), n., a swoid. 
LoRD'uira, n., a petty nobleman. 
Cham>i>on, n., the leading oom1>ai» 

ant In a cause. 
Dun'geon, n., a dose dark prison. 
Loy'al, a., faithfal ; tme. 
Vas'sal) n., a subject ; a serf. 



ProDOODce SanehOt SanWko $ Cattiltf Kat-^eel'. Do not say baird far biard. 

King Alfonso, of Spftin, aocording to the old dironicle, had offered Bernardo del C«*- 
pio immediate possession of the pers<m of his llither, the king*s prisoner, in exeiiaoge tot 
the castie of Carpto, held by Bernardo. The latter gave up the stronghold ; whereupon 
the mocking king caused the father to be put to death, and his corpse placed on horse- 
back, in which state it was led out to the son, the trusting Bernardo. In Mrs. Hemans*s 
ballad, Bernardo is represented as letting the false king go free. In Lockhart*s biUlad, 
which is tax the superior in spirit, Bernardo lets the king hear fh>m him again. By a 
combination of parts of the two ballads (placing that by Mrs. Hemans first), with slight 
alterations, we get a clear story ; though chrontelers leave us in the dark m to Ber- 
aardo^s history after the murder of his father. 

The warrior bowed his created head, 

And tamed his heart of fire, 
And sued the haughty king to free 

His long-imprisoned sire : — 
" I bring thee here my fOrtress-keys, 

I bring my captive train, 
I pledge thtee faith, my liege, my lord I — 

1 break my father's chain 1 " 

" Rise, rise 1 even now thy father comes, 

A ransomed man, this day I 
Mount thy good horse ; and thou and I 

Will meet him on his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, 

And bounded on his steed. 
And urged, as if with lance in rest. 

The charger's foamy speed. 

And lo I from far, as on they pressed. 

There, came a glittering band. 
With one that 'mid them stately rode, 

As a leader in the land : — 
19 ' 



218 BEBKABDO DSL OABnO*. 

*' Now haste, Beraurdo, haste I for theiv. 

In Teiy truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart 

Hath yearned so long to see.'' 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast healred» 

His cheek's hue came and went ; ^ 
He reached that gray-haired chi eftain 's side^ 

And there, dismounting, bent ; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent. 

His Mher's hand he took ; — 
What was there in its touch that all 

Tfift fiery sjint shook i 

Thai hand was cold, — a frozen thing.—* 

It dropped from his like lead I 
He looked up to the face abore, — 

The face was of the dead I 
A pliune waved o'er the noble ^W/— 

The brow was fixed and white 1 
He met, at last, his fatiier's eyes^— 

But in them was no sight I 

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed; 

But who could paint i;hat gaze? 
They hushed their very hearts that saw 

Its horror and amaze : 
They might have chained him, as before 

That st5ny form he stood ; 
For the power w€ks stricken firom his arm. 

And from his lip the blood. 

Then, starting suddenly, he rushed 

And seized the monarch's rein^ 
^.mid the pale and wiHered looks 

Of all the courtier train ; 
And with, a fierce, o'emaetering gnup^ 

The rearing war-horse led, 
^.nd sternly set them ^ce to faoei*-!* 

The kin^ before ^l^e dead I 



BEBNABDO D£L ClBPia 219 

«< Came I not forth upon thy p ledge ^ 

My father's hand to kies J — 
Be still, and gazetbon on, false king I 

And tell me what is this ! 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought,-^ 

GivlTanswer, where are they 7 
K thou wouldst clear thy perjured son!. 

Send life through this cold clay^I 

'' Into these glassy e2;es pat light, — 

Be still I keep down thine ire,— 
Bid tbetfe white lips a blessing speak,-— 

This earth is not my sire I 
Give me back him for whom I strove. 

For whom my bipod was shed ; — 
Thou canst not -r- and a king? — 

His dnst be mountains on thy head f 

Upon his horse Bernardo sprang. 

Defian ce inllis look ; 
l!!hen at the pale and trembling king 

A warning finger shook. 
And ere, of all that arm'ed train. 

Vassal or chief dared stir, — 
^'IsisAl return P* Bernardo cried— 

And gave his steed the spur. 

With soiAe good ten of his chosen me&i 

B ernar do hath appeared. 
Before them all, in the palace hall, 

The lying king to beard ; 
With cap in hand and eye on ground. 

He came in reverend gxiise ; 
But ever and anon he frowned, 

And fiame broke from his eyes. 

" And dar'st thou, caitifi*," cries the king, 

" Thus come unbid to me ? 
But what from traitor's blood should spring. 

Save traitor like to thee ? 



220 BERNABDO DEL CABHO. 

His Bire, l ords , had a traitor's heart, — 

Perchance our c hampion brave 
May think it were a pious part 

To share Don Sancho's grave." 

*' Whoever told this tale the king. 

Will he the tale^repeat ? " 
Cries Ber'nard^ ** here my gage I fling 

Before the liar's feet. 
No treason was in Sancho's b lood , — 

No stain in mine doth lie : 
Below £Ee throne, what knight will own 

The coward calumny ? 

** Your horse was down, — your hope w as flown,- 

I saw the falchipxi shine, 
That soon had drunk your royal bloody 

Had I not ventured mine ; 
But memory soon of service done 

Deserteth the in-grate' ; 
You 've thanked the son for life and crown 

By the father's bloody fate. ' 

" You swore upon your kingly faith 

To set Don Sancho free ; 
But (out upon'^our paltering breath I) 

The light he ne'er did see : 
He died in dungeon cold and dim^ 

By Alfonzo's base decree ; 
And visage blind, and mangled limb. 

Were all you gave to me. ' ""- 

" The king that swerveth from his word 

Hath stained his purple blackT^ 
No Spanish lord will draw the sword^ 

Behind a liar's back ; 
But upble vengeance shall be naine,— 

An open hate I '11 show ; — 
The king hath injured Carpio's line, 

And Bernard is his foei " 



BERNABDO DEL CABHO. 221 

** Seize — seize him ! " load the king doth scream; 

" There are a thousand here ; 
Let his foul blood this instant stream ; — 

What I caitiffs, do ye fear ? 
Seize — seize the traitor 1 " But not onjp 

To move a finger dareth : 
Bernardo standeth by the throne. 

And calm his sword he bareth. 

He drew the falchion from the sheath. 

And held it up on high ; 
And all the hall was still as death : — 

Cries Bernard, " Here am I ; 
And here 's the sword that owns no lord. 

Excepting Heaven and me : 
Fain would I know who dares its point,— 

King, cond^, or grandee." "* 

Then to his month his horn he drew ; 

(It hung below his cloak ;) 
His ten true men the signa l knew. 

And through the rinjg^ they broke. 
With h elm on head, and blade in hand . 

The knights the circle brake,* 
And back the lordlings 'gan to stand. 

And the false king to quake. ^ 

" Ha ! Bernard," quoth Alfonzo, 

" What means this warlike guise ? 
Ye know full well I jested ; — 

Ye know your worth I prize 1 " 
But B ernard turned upon his heel. 

And, smiling, passed away : — 
Long rued Alfonz o and Castile 

The j estin g of tliat day"T 

* Obsolete preterit of to break We now say bnm, 
19* 



222 THfi PALL OF CONSTANTOrOPLBL 



XCII.— THE FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE. 



Macx, n»f a short staff. 
Fans, n., a temple ; a church. 
Scmsx (sicm), It., a divisioii. 
Pa-cha' (pa-shaw'), n,, a governor of 

a Turkish prorince. 
Is'lax (ii-), n., the body of Maliom- 

etan belierers. 
Or^TO-MAir, a,, Turkish. 
At'a-bal, n., a kettle-dmm. 
Jan'i-za-rt, h., a soldier of the TnriK- 

ish foot-guards. 
Iv-YBt'KBrATB, o., old ; dccp-roote^. 



Ha-ranquk' (ha-rang'), »., a speeeh. 
Ghbis'tev-dom (kris'snOin.y the whol« 

body of Christians. 
Obbs'cknt, h., the figure of the new 

moon, as borne in the Turkish flaf^. 
Re-hbab'sal (-her-), n., repetition ; 

recital. 
Ca-the'dral, n., the principal churck 

in a bishop's see. 
Rit'u-AL} »., ceremonial. 
CoM-PACi^^ tu, close ; solid. 
Mtb'i-ad, n., ten thousand. 



A. D. stands far <m'no domfi-ni, lAtin for in the year of the Lord ; St. for Saint- 
Pronounce Conetantinej Kon'»tan-teen ; SophiOf So-flfa ; a in Oa-la4af a* in /or. 

1. The attacks which, daring Buccessivd centuries, 
the walls of Constantinople had sustained, were but 
the rehearsal of the tragedy in store. That power, 
which, as early as the year 668, had appeared in arms 
before them, had continued century after century to 
watch for their downfall. The might of Islam burned 
to fling itself upon the ancient Christian capital, and 
was resolved to hang about its neck until one or the 
other had perished. In that wonderful career of suc- 
cess which had aitended it within but a few years of 
the prophet's* death, the capture of Constantinople 
had been its highest aspiration. That aspiration was 
never lost sight of; for instinctively and inveterately 
the Crescent hated the Cross. 

2. The fatal hour had at last arrived. On the sixth 
of April, 1453, Ma'homet II. planted his standard before 
the gate of St. Roma'nus, and commenced that siege 
which ended in the loss to Christendom of what had 
for so many centuries been revered as her eastern me- 
trop'olis. One thing alone, it is probable, could have 
averted that calamity. Had it been possible to heal 

- * iiohammed, the so-caUed prophet^ founder of the Mohammedan religion* 



THE PALL OF C0N8TAMTIN0FLB. 228 

the great schism in the church, the western world 
would not have calmly stood by to witness the down^ 
&il of eastern Christendom. 

3. After a separation of six centnries, the Oreek and 
Latin churches had been solemnly reunited at the 
Council of Florence, A. D. 14S8 ; but on the return of 
the emperor, and the prSFates who accompanied him, 
all that they had effected was disowned, and the flames 
of religious hatred broke out more furiously than 
ever. The consequences were fetal. Distracted by 
their own internal quarrels, the princes of western 
Europe could spare neither time nor thought, neither 
money nor arms; to protect from the Ottoman invasion 
a Christian power with which, it not being in comma, 
nion with them, they had little religious sympathy, 
and with which, owing to its remoteness, they had no 
other bond. 

4. The events of that terrible siege can never be 
forgotten by a so'journer at Constantinople. Every 
thing that he sees and hears is a memorial of it, and 
the spot is still pointed out, close to the widest breach 
in the wall, on which the heroic Constantine was seen 
last before his death. Never, perhaps, was so unequal 
a battle so long and so direfully contested ; and even 
at the last it seems probable that Mahomet would have 
been repulsed by those mighty walls, had he not re- 
sorted to an expedient almost without precedent in 
the annals of war. 

5. Finding that success was not to be hoped for, 
except through a double attack by sea and land, and 
unable to force the narrow channel of the Bos'phorus, 
he transported his lighter vessels by land, dragging 
them in a single night over the high grounds of Galata 
and launched them again in the shallow waters of the 
harbor, inaccessible to the deeper ships of the Greeks. 
He was thus enabled to construct a floating battery, 



224 THB FALL OF CONSTAimKOFLE. 

which opened its fire upon the weakest part of the 
citj wallsy and ^ breach was ere long effected. Dis- 
aster followed np disaster, and within a few days four 
towers, near the gate of St. Boma'nos, had crombled 
to the gronnd. 

6. The conclusion ceased to be doubtful ; but Gon^ 
stantine, resolved that the Eastern empire, like its last 
monarch, should perish bj an honorable death, refused 
all disgraceful conditions of peace. After consulting 
his astrologers, Mahomet fixed the twenty-ninth of 
May as the day for the final assault. On ihe previous 
day he harangued his chiefs, and sent heralds through 
the camp, who threatened with his impla'cable dis- 
pleasure all who might shrink from their duty. The 
ardor of the troops burned with a steady flame, and 
the camp resounded with shouts of '^ There is no Ood 
but God; and Mahomet is his Prophet" 

7. History contains no passage more solemn or more 
pathetic than the last &rewell of the Greek chiefs, 
summoned by Constantino to his palace, the night 
before the general assault. The emperor, in his final 
appeal, held out small hopes of success ; but the heroic 
band needed none, resolved to die in the discharge 
of duty. They wept; they embraced each other; 
finally, they repaired to the cathedral of St. Sophia, 
and, for the last time before that fane was converted 
into a mosque, partook of the Holy Communion. 

8. The emperor asked pardon of all whom he might 
ever have injured, and received from his people, as 
from his confessor, an absolution confirmed ere long 
by that of death. That sad ritual over, the chiefs 
mounted their horses once more, and each proceeding 
to the spot on the ramparts confided to his especial 
care, waited there for the morning light. Day broke 
at last, and with it the battle. The assault was begun 
at the same time by sea and land; and in a few 



THE FALL OF COKSTAimNOPLE. 225 

moments a mighty and mnltitudinons host, wielded as 
if by some unseen power like that which directs the 
tides of the sea, was precipitated to the attack. 

• 9. To retreat or to stand still for a moment became 
impossible, even if any in that assailing army had 
wavered. Wave after wave was repulsed, but the 
conquering tide rushed on : those in the front ranks 
were pushed forward by the com-pacf masses behind, 
and the myriads who fell successively beneath the 
walls, whose gaping ruins we still behold, filled up 
the trenches with their bodies, and bridged a way for 
the myriads that followed. 

10. The pachas 6f Bomania, and Anatolia, and Syria, 
and every Eastern province that bowed to the Cres- 
cent, advanced successively, with jeweled turban, at 
the head of their respective hosts. Attended by his 
household troops, and holding an iron mace in his 
hand, Mahomet II., seated on horseback close by, wit- 
nessed every assault, and rewarded every high action 
with his eye. During a temporary lull, the voice of 
the emperor was heard urging his exhausted band to 
one effort more. At that moment, Mahomet, lifting 
his mace, gave the final sign ; and the irresistible Jan- 
izaries,, whose strength had been reserved until then, 
rose up and dashed themselves on their prey. 

11. From that instant the details of the battle were 
lost in clouds of smoke and flame, and the clamor of 
drums, trumpets, and ats^bals. It is only known that 
Justinia'ni, wounded in the hand by' an arrow, and 
despairing of the event, abandoned the walls, in spite 
of the remonstrances of the emperor. Constantino 
himself continued to fight to the last, surrounded by 
his nobles and friends, who strengthened themselves, 
as their ranks thinned, by shouting his name. 

12. The last words which he was heard to utter 
were, "Can not there be found a Christian to riay 



228 THE BOY CBUSADEBS. 

money, and, when asked whither they were going:, 
they would reply, "We go to seek the Holy Gross 
beyond the seas." 

6. The same spirit spread rapidly through Germany, 
where the standard of the cross was followed, not 
only by boys of humble rank, but by some of noble 
families, who resisted all the eflForts of their friends to 
restrain them. The German boys, several thousands 
in number, clad in long pilgrim robes marked with a 
cross, and bearing scrips and staves in their hands^ 
commenced their march toward Italy, across the Alps. 
But their fanatical illusions were destined soon to give 
place to hardships and sufferings of the most pitiable 
description. Many perished in traversing the rugged 
and desert mountains; some from excessive fatigue, 
others from hunger and privation. 

7. The expedition of Stephen of Vendome and his 
young crusaders was destined to meet with a termina- 
tion still more deplorable than that of their German 
imitators. About thirty thousand in number, they 
marched toward Marseilles, to embark for Palestine, 
headed by Stephen, who rode in a chariot adorned 
with tap'estry, attemded by armed sat'ellites. Their 
dreams of glory faded very quickly. 

8. A more atrocious plot is not recorded in history 
than that laid for these simple-minded children, on 
their arrival in Marseilles, by two slave-merchants of 
that city. These traders offered them the use of their 
ships to convey them to Syria, without remuneration, 
pretending to rejoice in such an opportunity of aiding 
a pious enterprise. The unsuspicious boys accepted 
the offer with joy. 

9. Convinced that Providence had favored them, 
and would soon crown all their hopes, they embarked 
in seven vessels. After two days' sail, a violent storm 
awept the Mediterranean; two of the vessels were 



THE BOY CBnSADEB& 229 

wrecked on the west coast of Sardinia, and all on 
board perished. In after years, a church was built 
upon the coast, in memory of the New Innocents, as 
they werq termed, and the bones of those washed on 
shore were shown as sacred relics. 

10. The other five ships escaped the storm ; but, in- 
stead of landing in Syria, the ruthless merchants, who 
accompanied their prey, sailed for Egypt, and sold 
every one of their helpless victims in the slave-market 
of Alexandria. The merchants took care that not one 
should remain to return to Europe with the tale of 
their base treachery. Afler eighteen years had passed 
away, one poor captive escaped to his native land. 
He related the sad story, and told that several hundred 
boys had been purchased by^he Governor of Alex- 
andria, and were passing their days in servitude; 
eighteen had been tortured to death at Bagdad for 
refusing to embrace the Mahometan faith ; while four 
hundred had been bought by the Calif, and humanely 
treated. 

^l. While* pitying the superstition which for a mo- 
ment tolerated so wild and calamitous an enterprise as 
the crusade of the children, we might reflect with 
profit on the energies put forth in that chivalrous age 
in pursuit of the imaginary and unattainable, so much 
greater than the eflForts made in the cause of truth and 
righteousness by those who now walk in the full noon- 
tide of gospel light. If we consider the romantic spirit 
of those times, we may perceive that the recital of the 
wrongs endured by pilgrims to the Holy Land, joined 
to the appeals of Christian preachers, the processions 
and ceremonies in furtherance of the object, may all 
have so worked on youthful imaginations as to incite 
them to deem it practicable to execute a work which 

had fallen unaccomplished from the hands of kings. 

20 



830 THE BEADING OF THE WILL. 

XCIV.— THE READING OF THE WILL. 

GHAi8B(iliue),ft., alight two-wheeled Ltya-lip (goprononneedhy Wehrto r; 

by Wslher), n,, one w«Ak 

Lac^bt, a., a waiter or foofanaa. or 

Nsptf aw (pronoaneeS fKTjf* hjr Web- Rbp'bo-batb, a., a worthless fellow. 

ster ; nh^f by Walker), a., the Ix-pai'if is (LatiB), ad,, in the first 

soa of a brother or oikter. 
Oos-TEHBB^f f^, MsemUed. * 



pBKM'ifl-BS, a. pL, things premised. 

AveiA-gtvii« Uie« ia tf»«Mte#, re4eaw#, kc^ the soand of s. In b€-fue^*^ tk 
has iti ▼ocsl ■ound, as in breathe. 

<^ua4CTBBS.-»8wiFB,cAre»er; Cobh^c emUUrg Tsabk Mnxnraios, c yeaiKf 
atoiU toipa ; 'Sqcibb Dkawl, m lawyer. 



Swipes. A sober occasion tfais^ brother Gurrie I 
Who would have thought the old ladj was -so near 
her end? 

Ourrie. Ah I we must all die, brother Swipes. Those 
who live the longest outlive the most 

8u)ipe8. True^ true; but, since we must die and 
l^ave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law 
takes such good care of us. Had the old ladj her 
senses when she departed? 

Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. 'Squire Drawl told me 
she read every word of her last will and testament 
aloud, and never signed lier name better. 

Swipes. Had you any hint from the 'Squire whai 
disposition she made of her property ? 

Cur. Not a whisper I The 'Squire is as close as a 
miser's purse. But one of the . witnesses hinted to 
me that she has cut off her graceless nephew with a 
shilling. 

Swipes. Has she ? Good soul ! Has she ? You know 
I come in, then, in right of my wife. 

Cur. And I in my own right ; and this is, no doubt, 
the reason why we have been called to hear the reading 
of the will. 'Squire Drawl knows how things shouldi 
be donC; though he is as air-tight as one of your own 



THE READING OP THE WILL. 231 

beer-barrels, brother Swipes. But here comes the 
graceless nephew, — the young reprobate. He mast 
be present; as a matter of course, you know. (Enter 
Frank Millington.) Your servant; young gentleman. So, 
your benefactress has left you, at last I 

Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and 
good friendS; Mr. Millington. 

Frank. It is so, sir ; but I could bear her loss better, 
bad I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. 
She was my only friend; and I knew not her value. 

Cur, It is too late to repent. Master Millington. 
You will now have a chance to earn your own bread. 

Swipes. Ay, ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better 
people are obliged to. You would make a fine brew 
er's boy, if you were not too old. 
^ Our. Ay, or a saddler's lackey, if held with a tight 
rein. 

Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt 
has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, 
and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly 
as I shall mine submissively. I shall retire. (Enter 
'Squiks Drawl.) 

^Sqmre. Stop, stop, young man ! We must have 
your presence. Good morning, gentlemen. You are 
early on the ground. 

Cur. I hope the 'Squire is well to-day. 
. ^Squire. Pretty comfortable for an invalid. 

Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected your 
lungs. 

^Squire. No, I believe not. You know I never hurry. 
Slow and sure is my maxim. WeU, since the heirs at 
law are all convened, I shall proceed to open the last 
will and testament of your deceased relative, according 
to law. 

Swipes. It 's a trying scene to leave all one's possee^ 
sions^ 'Squire, in this maimer I 



2S2 THE BEADING OF THE WILL. 

Cur. It really makes me feel melancholy when I 
look round and see every thing but the venerable 
owner of these goods. Well did the preacher say, 
"All is vanity ! '' 

^Squire. Please to be seated, gentlemen. I will put 
on my spectacles, and proceed to th^ reading. Here 
it is : — " Imprimis : Whereas my nephew, Francis Mil- 
lington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, 
has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and incapa- 
ble of managing my large estate, I do hereby give and 
bequeath all my bouaeft. 6irms, stocks, bonds, moneys, 
and property, both personsl and real, to my dear 
cousins, Samuel S'vipes, of Malt street, brewer, and 

Christopher Currie^ of Fly-court, saddler, (Excuse 

me, gentlemen, while I wipe my spectacles.) 

Swipes. (DreadJuUy overcome.) Generous creature ! kind 
soul ! I always loved her. 

Cur. She was good, she was kind, she was in her 
right mind I Brother Swipes, when we divide, I think 
I will take the mansion-house. 

Swipes. Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie 1 My 
wife has long had her eye upon that, and must have it. 

Cur. There will be two words to that bargain, Mr. 
Swipes ! And, besides, I ought to have the first 
choice. Did n't I lend her a new chaise every time she 
wished to ride? And who knows what influence 

Swipes. Am not I named first in her will ? And did 
I not furnish her with my best small beer for more 
than six months ? And who knows 

Frank. Gentlemen, I do not see that my presence 
will be of any use here. I must leave you. 

'Squire. Remain, Frank. Pray, gentlemen, keep youi 
seats. I have not done yet. Let me see ; where was 
I? — Ay, ay; here's the place: "All my property, 
both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel 
Swipesj of Malt street, brcAver " 



THE BEADING OF THE WILL. 233 

Bioipes, Yes ! The dear soul ! 

^Squire. "And Christopher Currie, Fly-court, sad- 
dler " 

Cfur. Yes I The good old lady I 

^Squire. " To have and to hold in trust, for the sole 
and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Milling- 
ton, until he shall have attained the age of twenty- 
one years ; by which time I hope he .will have s6 far 
reformed his evil habits, as that he may safely 
be intrusted with the large fortune which I hereby 
bequeath to him." 

Swipes. What 's all this ? You don't mean that we 
are humbugged ? In trust I — how does that appear? 
Where is it? 

^Squire. There ! On the parchment, in two words 
of as good old English as I ever penned. 

Cur. Pretty well too, Mr. 'Squire, if we must be sent 
for to be made a laughing-stock of I She shall pay for 
every ride she had out of my chaise, I promise you. 

Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times, 
if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought 
l^ere to be made the sport of a graceless profligate I 
But we will manage ,his property for him, Mr. Currie ! 
We '11 make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled 
withl \ 

Cur. That will we 1 

^Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen ; for the instrument 
is dated three years ago, and the young gentleman 
must already be of age, and able to take care of him' 
self; so your services as trustees are null and void. 
Is it not so, Francis ? 

Frank. It is, sir. I shall be twenty-two m May. 

^Squire. Then gentlemen, having attended to the 
breaking of this seal according to law, j^ou are released 
from any further trouble in the premises* 

20* 



234 THE LIFB AND LIGHT. 



XCV.^THE UFK AND UGHT. 



Vista, «., a view ; a prospect 
EvKN i^yn), n., the close of the day. 

ProDOunee wherever (a contraction of «Aer-ei/er) whef-air*. 



Woh'dbous (wuii-)> O; admliabUu 
Ra'di-aht, a., emitting rftys. 



Thou art, God, the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see ; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night, 
Are but reflections caught from Thee. 

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine t 

When Day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of Even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into Heaven, — 

Those hues that make the Sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant. Lord I are Thine. 

When Night, with wings of fitarry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies. 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes,-^ 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine. 

So grand, so countless. Lord I are Thine. 

When youthful Spring around us breathes, 
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the Summer wreathes, 
Is bom beneath that kindling eye. 

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine. 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 

Thomas Moore. (1780— 1851) 



ALLEN'S OAFTUBB OF TICOIIDEBOGA. 2S5 



XOVI. — ALLEN'S OAFTDEB OF TIOONDBBOGA, 



Cam-pamdc' (kam-pan*'), »., the time 
an army keeps the field in on* 
year. 

P£B'E]fP<TO-Bi-LT, ad., poeitiTe^f. 



Cbn'ter or Cbn'trk, n., the mid41e. 
Fv-sbe' (fa-zee'), n., a firelock. 
"FitM'uocK, n., a gun with a loek« 
Wick'kt, »., a small gate. 

Bo not najpize tatpoUt (poix), morvin tfx'mom'ing j fu9t 

1. The men were at once drawn up in three ranks, 
and, as the first beams of morning broke npon the 
mountain peaks, Ethan Allen addressed them thus: 
"Friends and fellow-soldiers, we must this morning 
quit our pretensions to valor, or possess ourselves of 
this fortress; and, inasmuch as it is a desperate at- 
tempt, I do not urge it on, contrary to will. Y6u that 
will undertake it voluntarily, poise your firelock." 

2. At the word every firelock was poised. " Pace 
to the right 1 " cried Allen; and, placing himself at the 
head of the center file, Arnold keeping emuloasly at 
his side, he marched to the gate. It was shut, but the 
wicket was open. The sentry snapped a fusee at him. 
The Americans rushed into the fort, darted upon the 
guards, and raising the Indian war«whoop, such as 
had not been heard there since the days of Montcalm, 
formed on the parade in hollow square, to face each 
of the barracks. 

3. One of the sentries, after wounding an officer, 
and being slightly wounded himself, cried out for 
quarter, and showed the way to the apartment of the 
commanding offi^cer. " Come forth instantly, or I will 
sacrifice the whole garrison," cried Allen, as he reached 
the door. At this, Delaplace, the commander, came 
out, half dressed, with some of his clothes in his hand. 

4. " Deliver to me the fort instantly," said Allen. — * 
**By what authority?" asked Delaplace. — "In the 
name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Con* 
gross 1" answered Allen. Delaplace began to speak 



236 mah's nofOSTALiTr. 

again, but was peremptorflj interrapted ; and, at sight 
of Allen s drawn sword near his head, he gave up the 
garrison, ordering his men to be paraded without 



5. Thus was Ticonderoga taken, in the gray of the 
morning of the tenth of Maj, 1775. What cost the 
British nation eight millions sterling, a succession of 
campaigns, and many lives, was won in ten minutes, 
by a few undisciplined men, without the loss of life or 
limb. Geobgs Bakcboft, 

XCVn.— MAX'S IMMORTALITY. 



%•.<., to eoBfllade hj itmmat- ' Coh-sist'eiit, a., mgreemg. 
img. Ix-com-pat'i-blb, a., not able to oo- 

AM'Sfmn.Asm, v. f., to destroy at- ' exist ; ineonsutent. 
tarity. . Bs-PBHD'XHT, a., relyiiig on. 

or dt'Xiiu'. The fiomier mode is p re fe r re d . 



1. WhoBt is to became of man ? Is the being who, 
sorveying nature, rec'ognizes, to a certain extent, the 
great scheme of the universe, — but who sees infinitely 
more which he does not comprehend, and which he 
ardently desires to know, — is he to perish like a mere 
brute ; all his knowledge useless ; all his most earnest 
wishes ungratified? How are we to reconcile such a 
fate with the wisdom, the goodness, the impartial jus* 
tice, so strikingly disjJayed throughout the world by 
its Creator? 

2. Is it consistent with any one of these attributes, 
thus to raise hopes in a dependent being, which are 
never to be realized? — thus to lift, as it were, a comer 
of the veil, — to show this being a glimpse of the splen- 
dor beyond, — and after all to annihilate him? With the 
character and attributes of the benevolent Author of 
the universe, as deduced from his works, such concep- 
tions are absolutely incompatible. The question then 

icura — What is to become of man? 



PABTING OF DOUGLAS XSJ) KAfiMIOK. 



237 



3. That he is mortal, like the lower animals^ sad 
experience teaches him ; but does he, like them, die 
entirely ? Is there no part of him that, surviving the 
general wreck, is reserved for a higher destiny ? Can 
that within man which reasons like his immortal Cre- 
ator, — which sees and acknowledges his wisdom, and 
approves of his designs, — be mortal like the rest? Is 
it probable, nay, is it possible, that what can thus com- 
prehend the operations of an immortal Agent, is not 
itself immortal? 

4. Thus has reasoned man in all ages ; and his de- 
sires and his feelings, his hopes and his fears, have all 
conspired with his reason to strengthen the convic- 
tion that there is something within him which can not 
die; that he is destined, in short, for a future state of 
existence, where his nature will be exalted, and his 
knowledge per-fect'ed, and where the great design of 
bis Creator, commenced and left imperfect here below, 

WILL BE COMPLETED. WiLLUM PrOUT. 



XCVm.— PARTING OF DOUGLAS AND MARMION. 



PuLiir, v. t.y to oomplain. 
List, v. t., to desire or choose. 
Raze, v, t., to cut clear off ; erase. 
Pbzb, n,, an equal ; a nobleman. 
Han'ob, n., a lord's estate in land. 
Gaitnt^lbt (a» as a in far), n,, an iron 

glove. 
Vif-uweif, tUf unfit. 



Swabth't (a as in toar), a., of dark 

hue. 
Row'bl.(<'w as in now), n., the little 

wheel of a spur. 
Ash'ev, a., of the color of ashes ; also^ 

made of ash. 
Bb-hest', n., command. 
Un-scathbd', a,, not hurt. 



Avoid saying ferce tor Jleree (feerati)} adoo for a-ditu'. Pronounce aovereign^ 
tSv^er-in ; open, o'jm ; however, kow-air' ; even, e'vn ; eetid, aid. 

The train from put the castle drew ; 
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: — 

"Though something I might plain/' he said, 
" Of cold respect to stranger guest. 



7f 



238 PlSTmO OF DOUGLAS AISTD ItAAinOH. 

Bent hither by your king's behest, 

While in Tantailon's fowe^I stfdd. 
Fart we in firiendship from your land, 
And. noble earl/receive my hand.'' 

Bnt Dougla s round him drew Jala cloak , 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — 
'' My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 
Be open^ at my sovereign's wilL 
To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be the owner^s peer ; 
My castjes are my Idng^s alone. 
From turret to foundittion stone ;—« 
The hand of Douglas is his own,*^ 
And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion clajgp. 

^ *Burned Marmion's swarthy cheeklike fivfl^ 
And shook his very frame for ire ; 

And ** This to""me 1 " he said ; 
" An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head I 
And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer. 
He, who does England's message here 
Although the meanest in her state. 
May well, proud Angus,* be thy mate. 

• ** And, Douglas, more I tell thee here. 

Even in fhy pitch of pride. 
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 

I tell thee, thou 'rt defied ! 
And if thou saidst, I lun not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near. 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied 1 " 

On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age : 

Angiu ma one of ike titles of DonglML 



WILLUM THB BSUSm. 289 

Fierce he broke forth : " And dar^st thou, then, 
To beard the lion in his den, 

The Douglas in his b^ ? 
And hoj^st thou hence unscathed to go ? 
Sojj by Saint Bryde of Bothwell, no I — 
Up drawbridge, grooms I — what, warder, ho I 

Let the portcullis fall." 

Lord Marmion turned,^-- well was his need,^^ 

And dfushed thelrowels in his steed. 

like arrow through the archwaj sprung, 

The ponderous grate behind him rung ;— 

To pass there was such scanty room. 

The bars, descending, razed his pfume. 

The Bjged along the dra wbrid ge fllesi 

Just as it trembled on the rise ; 

!Nfot lighter does the swallow skim 

Along the smooth lake's level brim : 

And when Lprd Marmion reached his band, 

He halts, and turns with clencVed hand, 

A shout of loud defiance pours, 

And* shakes his gauntlet at the towers I 

Sir Walter Scott. 



XCIX.— WILLIAM THB SILENT. 



Xp'ic, n., ft heroic poem. 



IBio'oT, n., an illiVeral beliey«r. Tobt'it-ous, a., twisted ; erooked. 



Ax-nqvtf (aii-teek')y a,, andent 

S-YOKsT, t*. t., to eaU forth. 

Cdi-ous, Ok, deserriDg hatred. 

BTx-MSt'iu-CAL-LT, a., With due pro- 
portions. 

C6l-i*a.'tion, n., ootnparison ; a repast. 

FuLL'NBsg or Fullness, n., state of 
heing fUl. 



REY'x-innEy m., iaooaie. 



Po'tent-ate, n.y a prince or lOTereign. 
Oomf'sEL-OB or OoiTH'sUk-um, ft., cot 

who gives ooni^sel. 
Pab'si-x6-nt, n.f stinginess. 
CoN-VRONT' (-fm&t), o. t,f to flue i to 

oppose. 
Tac-i-tub5'i-ty (tas-), n., silence. 
pBE-XA-TOBK'Lf , ad,, too carlj. 



Ataid saying endoord for en-dured; moddl for mot^elj attempa tn ai-tei^W, 

1* The history of the rise of the*Netherland Bepub* 
lie is at the same time the biography of William thi» 



240 WnjJAM THE SELEHT. 

Silent That life was a noble Christian epic ; inspired 
with one great purpose from its commencement to its 
close ; the stream flowing ever from one fountain with 
expanding fullness, but retaining all its original purity. 

2. In person, William was above the middle height, 
perfectly well made and sinewy, but rather spare than 
stout. His eyes, hair, beard and complexion, were 
brown. His head was small, symmetrically shaped} 
combining the alertness and compactness character' 
istic of the soldier, with the capacious brow furrowed 
prematurely with the horizontal lines of thought, 
denoting the statesman and the sage. His physical 
appearance was, therefore, in harmony with his organ- 
ization, which was of antique model. 

3. Of his moral qualities, the most prominent was his 
piety. He was, more than any thing else, a religious 
man. Prom his trust in God, he ever derived support 
and consolation in his darkest hours. Implicitly rely- 
ing upon Almighty wisdom and goodness, he looked 
danger in the face with a constant smile, and endured 
incessant labors and trials with a serenity which seemed 
more than human. While, however, his soul was full 
of piety, it was tolerant of error. No man ever felt 
more keenly than he that the reformer who becomes 
in his turn a bigot is doubly odious. 

4. His firmness was al-lied' to his piety. His con- 
stancy in bearing the whole weight of a struggle af» 
unequal as men have ever undertaken, was the themo 
of admiration, even to his enemies. The rock in the 
ocean, " tranquil amid raging billows," was the favorite 
emblem by which his friends expressed their sense of 
his firmness. A prince of high rank, and with royal 
rev'enues, he stripped himself of station, wealth, almost 
at times of the common necessaries of life, and became, 
in his country's cause, nearly a beggar as well as an 
outlaw. He lived and died, not for himself, but for 



WILLIAM THE SILENT. 241 

his country : ^' God pity this poor people I " were his 
dying words. 

6. The supremacy of his political genius was en- 
tirely beyond question. He was the first statesman 
of the age. The quickness of his perception was only 
equaled by the caution which enabled him to mature 
the results of his observation. His knowledge of 
human nature was profound. He governed the pas- 
sions and sentiments of a great nation as if they had 
been but the keys and chords of one vast instrument ; 
and his hand rarely failed to evoke harmony, even out 
of the wildest storms. 

6. He possessed a ready eloquence — sometimes im- 
passioned, oftener argumentative, always rational. His 
influence over his audience was unexampled in the 
annals of that country or age ; yet he never conde- 
scended to flatter the people. He never followed tho 
nation, but alwaysHed her in the path of duty and of 
honor, and was much more prone to rebuke the vices 
than to pander to the passions of his hearers. He 
aever failed to administer ample chas'tisement, wher- 
ever it was due, to par'simony, to jealousy, to insubor- 
dination, to intolerance, to infidelity; nor feared to 
confront the states or the people, in their most angry 
hours, and to tell them the truth to their faces. 
^ 7. He had the rare quality of caution, a character- 
istic by which he was distinguished from his youth. 
At fifteen he was the confidential counselor, as at 
twenty-one he became the general-in-chief, to the most 
politic as well as the most warlike potentate of his 
age ; and if he at times indulged in wiles which mod- 
ern statesmanship, even while it practices, condemns, 
he ever held in his hand the clue ,of an honorable pur- 
pose to guide him through the tortuous labyrinth. 

8. His enemies said that he was governed only by 
ambition — by . a desire of personal advancement* 

21 



242 WILLIAH THE SILENT. 

They never attempted to deny his talents, his industry, 
his vast sacrifices of wealth and station ; but they ridi- 
culed the idea that he could have been inspired by 
any but unworthy motives. God alone knows the 
heart of man. He alone can upweave the tangled 
skein of human motives, and detect the hidden springs 
of human action ; but as far as can be judged by a 
careful observation of undisputed facts, and by a dili- 
gent collation of public and private documents, it 
would seem that no man — not even Washington — < 
has ever been inspired by a purer pa'triotism. 

9. Whether originally of a timid temperament or 
not, he was certainly possessed of perfect courage at 
last. In siege and battle — in the deadly air of pesti' 
lential cities — in the long exhaustion of mind and 
body which comes from unduly protracted labor and 
anxiety — amid the countless conspiracies of assassins 
— he was daily exposed to death in every shape. 
Within two years, five different attempts against his life 
had been discovered. Bank and fortune were offered 
to any malefactor who would compass the murder. 
He had already been shot through the head, and almost 
mortally wounded. 

10. Under such circumstances even a brave men 
might have seen a pitfall at every step, a dagger in 
every hand, and poison in every cup. On the con* 
trary, he was ever cheerful, and liardly took more pre* 
caution than usual. " God, in his mercy," said he, 
with unaffected simplicity, "will maintain my innov 
cence and my honor during my life and in future ages. 
As to my fortune and my life, I have dedicated both, 
long since, to His service. He will do therewith what 
pleases Him for His glory and my salvation." 

11. William the Silent went through life bearing the 
load of a people's sorrows upon his shoulders with a 
emiling face, ThPJr Tiame wa§ the last word upon l^is 



THE DEATH OF MABHIOK.' 243 

lips, save the simple affirmative, with which the soldier, 
who had been battling for the right all his lifetime, 
commended his soul in dying " to his great Captain, 
Christ." The people were grateful and affectionate, 
for they trusted the character of their " Father Wil 
liam," and not all the clouds which calumny could col 
lect ever dimmed to their eyes the radiance of that 
lofty mind, to which they were accustomed, in their 
darkest calamities, to look for light As long as he 
lived he was the guiding-star of a whole brave nation, 
and when he died the little children cried in the streets. 

John Lothbop Motlet. 



12. William of Orange, the founder of the Dutch 
Republic, whose eulogy his American historian has 
here given, fell before the pistol of an assassin, July 
10th, 1584, in the fifty-second year of his age. Three 
poisoned balls had been fired into his body. He re- 
ceived his title of Orange from the principality of that 
name in Prance, which had been held by his ancestors. 
He was, called " the Silent " because of his prudence 
and taciturnity on occasions when an incautious word 
or look might have betrayed great interests. 



C — THE DEATH OF MARMION. 



Doffed, pp,, put off; tti^en off. 
Cas^qub (oask), n., ~a helmet. 
Blo'gan, n,f the war-ory of a Scottish 

clan. 
Vvs'voTfy n., r small flag. 
Pal^coh (faw'kn), n., a hawk. 



Hous'iNG (hoaz-), n,, a saddle-clotlii 
Sio'net, n.y a private seal. 
Var'lbt, n., a scoundrel ; a footman. 
A-maim', ad., with all force ; without 

stop ; at once. 
Un-nubt'ured, a., ill-bred. 



Pronounce Dacrt, IXi'ker ; wounds woond. ^Gan is a contraction of &;3«^af»' 

Wide raged the battle on the plaiD ; 
Spears shook, and falchions €aphed amain ; 
Fell England's arrow-flight ^ike rain ; 



241 THE DEATH OF MARMIOK. 

And crests of Scottish chieftains brave 
Floated like foam upon the wave ; 
Tet still amid the tumult high 
England saw Marmion's pennon fly. 

The bSrder slogan rent the sky : 

" A Home I a Gordon I '' was the cry ; 

Loud were the clanging blows 1 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high. 

The pennon sank and rose ; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. 

It wavered 'mid the foes. 

Swift to the fray Blount rode amain. 
Followed by all the archer train. 
The fiery youth, with desperate charge. 
Made, for a space, an opening large ;^ 

The rescued banner rose ; 
But darkly closed the war around, — 
Like pine-tree rooted from the ground, 

It sank among the foes I 

Then, fast as shaft can fly, 
Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread. 
The loose rein dangling from his head. 
Housing and saddle bloody red. 

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by. 

And soon, straight up the hill there rode 

Two horsemen drenched with gore. 
And in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand still strained tbe broken brand. 
His arms were smeared with blood and sand. 
Dragged from among the horses' feet. 
With dinted shield, and helmet beat. 
The falcon crest and plumage gone, — 
Can that be haughty Marmion ? 



THE DEATH OF HABiaON. 245 

Tonng Blount his armor did unlace. 
And, gazing on his ghastly face, 

Said, " By Saint George, he 's gone I 
That spear-wound has our master sped ; 
And see the deep cut on his head I 

Good-night to Marmion I " — 
" Unnurtured Blount I thy brawling cease: 
He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; " peace I '' 

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, 

Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — 

" Where 's Harry Blount ? Fitz Eustace whew ^ 

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare I 

Eedeem my pennon I Charge again I 

Cry, ' Marmion to the rescue I ' — Vain I 

Last of my race, on battle-plain 

That shout shall ne'er be heard again I 

" Yet my last thought is England's ; fly I 
To Dacre bear my signet ring ; 
Tell him his squadrons up to bring. 
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire. 
With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
Full upon Scotland's central host, — 
Or victory and England 's lost I 
Must I bid twice ? Hence, varlets I fly I 
Leave Marmion here alone — to die I '' 

The war, that for a space did fail, 

Now, trebly thundering, swelled the gale. 

And — Stanley I was the cry ; — 
A light on Marmion's visage spread. 

And fired his glazing eye ; 
With dying hand, above his head 
He shook the fragment of his blade. 

And shouted " Victory ! " — 
" Charge, Chester, charge I On, Stanley, on I '' 
Were the last words of Marmion. 

Sib Walter Scott. 

21» 



346 



GODTG UP IN A BALLOON. 



CL — GOING UP IN A BALLOON. 



CoH'CLATBy n., an moemblj of oardi- 

naU. 
Bba'sier (-zher), n., a pan for coali. 
Jm WLATE^f V. t., to swell with wind. 
Pbo-tbuoe', v. t., to tbnut out. 
Ht'obo-okit (-jen), m., a gas which is 

one of the elements of water. 
E-loh'gatb (e-long'gate), v. t., to 

lengthen. 
Co-HK'sioir (ko-he'ihnn), n,, the act 

of stieking together. 
DEM-o-LfnoH, n., destmction. 



Veb'ti-cal, a,, being in the senitb, ot 
perpendicalarly orer head." 

Thk'o-bist, n., one given to specula* 
tion. 

Al'ti-tude, n.y height. 

PXb'a-chutk (-shoot), n., an Instm- 
ment like an umbrella, for safetj 
against a fall from a balloon. 

A-e'bI'AL, a,, belonging to the air. 

A'eb-o-naut, n., one who goes up ia 
a balloon. 

Psir'Ai.-TT, 9; punishment. 



Arold saying attempt for ot-temptaf } olfjex for ofjeeU. Pronoonce Bologna, BA- 
Un'jfai Montgoffier, Msng-gnl-ftH^ } the e in R^no as in j»rey ; Rozier, Ro-ze-if. 

1. WjLD and daring as was the act, it is no less true 
that men's first attempts at a flight through the air 
were literally with wings. They supposed that, by 
elongating their ams with a broad mechanical cover - 
ing, they could convert them into wings. They did 
not consider that birds possess air-ce lls, which they 
can inflate ; that they have enornaous st reng th of sinew, 
expressly for the purpose of flj'ing; and that their 
bones are full of air instead of marrow. 

2. And so there have been desperate h alf-the orists, 
who, in their ignorance, have launched themselves 
from towers and other high places, and floundered 
down, to the demolition of their necks or limbs, accord- 
ing to the obvious laws and penalties of nature. The 
most successful of these instances of the extraordinary 
but misapplied force of human energies and^aring 
was that of a certain citizen of Bologna, in the thir- 
teenth century, who actually managed, with some kind 
of wing contrivance, to fly from a mountain of B ologn a 
to the River Reno, without injury. 

. 3. " Wonderful I admirable I " cried all the citizens. 
'^ Stop a little," said the religious authorities of the 



GOING UP IN A BALLOON. 217 

times ; " this must be looked into." They sat m sacred 
con'clave. " K the man had been killed," said they, 
*' or even m utila ted shockingly, our religious scruples 
would have been satisfied ; but, as he has escaped un- 
hurt, it is clear he must be in leagu e with the ey_Q 
0£§." The p_oor„" successful " man was therefore con- 
demned to be burnt alive, and the sentence was car- 
ried into execution. 

4. So far as we can see, the first real discoverer of 
the b alloon was Dr. Black, who , in 1767, proposed to 
inflate a large skin with hydrogen gas ; and the first 
who brought t heor y into practice were the brothers 
Montgolfier. But t heir t heory was that of the " fire- 
balloon," or the fo rmati on oT an artificial cloud of 
smoke, by m eans of "EeaFfrom a lighted brasier placed 
beneath an enormous bag, or balloon, and fed with fuel 
while up in the air. The Academy of Sciences imme- 
diately gave the invention every encouragement, and 
two gentlemen volunteered to risk an ascent in this 
alarming machine. 

5. The firgt of these was De Rozier, a gentleman of 
scientific attainments, who was to con;<iucV the ma- 
chine ; arid he was accompanied by an officer of the 
Guards. They ascended, in the year 1785, in the pres- 
ence of the Court^ of France and all the scientific men 
in Paris. The intrepid voyagers had several narrow 
escapes. The whole ijnachifte was near taking fire^; but 
eventually they returned to the ground in safety, after 
a journey of dbout six miles. Both these courageous 
men subsequently came to untimely ends.- 

6. But let us ascend into the sky. Taking balloons 
as they are, " for better, for worse," let us for once 
have an aerial flight. The first tiling you naturally 
expect is some extraordinary sensation, which takes* 
away your breath for a time, in springing high up into 
the air. But no such matter occurs. The extraordinary 



248 GOING UP IN A BALLOON. 

thing is, that you experience no se nsat ion at all, so far 
as motion is concerned. ~ 

7. A very amusing il lustra tion of this is given in a 
letter published by Mr. Poole , the well-known author , 
shortly after his ascent " I do not despise y.ou^ says 
he, " for talking about a bi^Uoon going_up, for it is an 
error which you share in common with some millio ns 
oTour fello w-crea tures ; and I, in the d ays of my igno- 
rance, thought with the rest of you. I know b etter 
now. The fact is, we do not -go up at all; but at about 
five minutes p'ast six, on the evening of Friday, the 
14th oi September, 1838 — at about that timeTVaux- 
hall Garden s', with all the people in themj went downV- 

8. Feeling nothing of the ascending motjoiji^ the iirst 
i mpre ssion that takes possession of you, in "going 
up " in a b alloo n, is the quietude, the silence, that 
grows more and more entire. ^The restless heaving to 
and fro of the huge inflated sphere above your head 
(to say nothing of the noise of the c rowd ), the flapping 
of ropes, the rustl^ing of silk, and the creaJdng of the 
basket-work of the car — all has ceased. - There is a 
total c essation of all atmospheric resistance. You sit 
in a sjlence w^hich becomes more perfect every s econd . 
After the bustle of many moving objects^ you stare 
before you into blank air^ 

9. So much for what yc»u first feel ; and now what is 
the thing you first do? In this case e very bo dy is 
alike. We all do the same thing. We look over the 
side of the car. We do this very cautiously, keep- 
ing a firm seat, as though we clung to i^by a certain 
attraction of cohesima ; and then, holding on by the 
edge, we carefully protrude the peak of our travgliag- 
cap, and then the tip of the npjie, over the edge oT 
the car, upon which we rest our mou±b. 

10. Every thmg below is seen in so uew a form, so 
flat, compressed, and so simultaneously, — so muc h 



GOING UP IN A WALLOON. 249 

too-m uch-ai^time, -r- that the first look is hardly so 
sati sfact ory as could be desired. But soon we thrust 
ihe chin fairly over the edge, and take a good stare 
do wnw ard ; and this repays us much better. Objects 
appear under very novel circumstances Trom this ver* 
tical position. Thev are stunted and foreshortened, 
and rapidly fl attened to a mag-like appearance ; they 
get s malle r and s maller , and cl earer and cl earer. 

11. Away goes the earth, with its hills and valleys, 
its trees 'luid buildings, its men, women and chijJren, 
its horses and cattle, its rivers and vessels, — all sink- 
ing lower and lower, and becoming less and less, but 
getting more and more distinct and defined as they 
diminish in ^size . But, besides the retreat toward mi- 
nuteness, the outspread o bjects flatten as they lessen ; 
— men and women are nv©ipche,s high, then four, 
t hree^ two, one inch — and now a speck. As for the 
Father JofEiyers, he becomes a dusky-gray, winding 
streamlet, and his largest s hips are no more than flat, 
pale deck s, all the masts and rigging being foreshort- 
ened to nothing. We soon come, now, to the shadowy, 
the in distin ct, and then all is lost in air. Floating 
clouds fill up the space beneath. 

12. How do we feel, alFthis time? "Calm, sir^ — 
calm and resigned." Yes, and more than this. After 
a little while, when you find nothipg hagpeixs, and see 
nothing likely to happen, a delightful serenity takes 
the place of all other sensations ; to this the extraor- 
dinary s ilence , as well as the pale beauty and floating 
hues that surround you, chiefly contribute. The si^ 
legce is perfect — a wonder and a rapture. We hear 
the ticking "oTour watches. Tick I tick ! — or is it the 
beat of our own hearts'? We are sure of the watch ; 
anSTnow we think we can hear both. 

13. Two other sensations must by no means be 
f orgotten . You become very cold, and desperately 



250 GOING UP IK A BiLLOOK. 

hungry. Of the increased col dness which you feel on 
passing from a brigh t cloud into a dark one, the^bd.- 
loon is quite as sensitive as you can be ; anTprobably 
much more so, for it p roduces an immediate change 
of al titude . The expansion and co ntractio n wEicE 
two romantic gentlemen fancied took place in the size 
of their heads, does resdly take place in the balloon, 
according as it passes from a cloud of one temperature 
into that of another. ~ 

14. But here we are, still above the clouds I We 
may assume that you would not like to be " let off " 
in a parachute, even on the i mprov ed principle ; we 
will therefore prepare for de scendin g with the b^loon. 
The vajvejine is pulled ! — out r ushes the gas from 
the top of the balloon — you see the flag fly upward — ■ 
down through the clouds you sink, faster and faster, 
lower and lower. Now you begin to see dark masse s 
below — there's the old earth again^! — The dark 
masses now discover the mselv es to be little fQffifits, 
little towns, tree-tops, house-tops. Out goes a s hower 
of sand from the balla st-bags , and our d escent becomes 
slower ^ — another shower, and up we mount again, in 
search of a better sj ppt to alight upon. 

15. Our g uardi an aeronaut gives each of us a bag 
of b allast , and directs us to throw out its contents 
when he calls each of us by njime, and in such quan* 
t ities only as he specifies. Moreover, no one is sud-^ 
denly to leap out of the balloon when it touches the 
earth ; partly because it may cost him his own life or 
limbs, and partly because it would cause then Salloon 
to shoot up again with those who remained, and so 
make them lose the advantage of the good de scen t 
already ^ined, if nothing worse happened. Mean; 
tiffi.e, the gr apnel-ir on has been lowered, and is dan- 
gling down at the end of a strong rope of a hundred 
and fifty feet long. It is now trailing over*th<^ ground. 



FBOM A PROLOGUE TO A PLAT. 251 

16. Three j ourneym en bri cklaye rs are in chase of Jt 
It catches upon a hank — it tears its wa^ through. 
Now the three br icklayer s are joined by a couple of 
f ejlow s in sm ock-fro cks, a policeman, five boys, fol- 
lowed by three girls^ and, last of all^ a woman with a 
child in her arms, — all runnmg, sho uting , scre amin g, 
yelling, as the g rapnel-ir on and r ope go trailing and 
b obbin g over the ground before them. At last the 
iron catches upon a hedge — grapples with its roots ; 
the b alloo n is ar rested , but struggles hard ; three or 
four men seize the rope, and down we are hauled. 

Charles Dickens. 



Cn.— FROM A PROLOGUE TO A PLAT. 



pRo'LooTTE (prolog), It., introdaction 

to a discoarse or plaj. 
pBB'LUDE or Prrl'udb, 91., Di:isio in- 

trodaotorj to a piece or oonoert. 
Baize, n., a coarse woolen cloth. 



LuRN, a., forsaken ; forlorn. 

Pri'ha Don'na (pre-) n., the prinoi- 

pal female singer. 
Mill'ion-aire, n., one worth a mill- 

ion.- 



The satire on certain stage representations in the following lines wQl be foond as Joiift 
as it is lively and amusing. 

What is a prologue ! Let our Tutor teach : 
pro means beforehand ; lo^o^ stands for speech. 
^T is like the harper's prelude on the strings, 
The prima donna's courte'sy ere she sings. 

'* The world 's a stage," — as Shakspeare said, one day; 
The stage a world, was what he meant to say. 
The outside world 's a blunder, that is clear ; 
The real world that Nature meant is here. 

Here every foundling finds its lost mamma ; 
Each rogue, repentant, melts his stem papa ; 
Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid. 
The cheats are taken in the traps they laid ; 
One after one, the troubles all are past, 
Till the fifth act comes right side up, at last. 



252 THE GRATES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all. 
Join bauds, so happy, at the curtaiu's fall I 

Here suffering virtue ever finds relief. 

And black-browed ruffians always come to grief. 

When the l6rn damsel, with a frantic screech, 

And cheeks as hueless as a brandy peach. 

Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven ; " and drops upon her knees 

On the green baize beneath the (canvas) trees. 

See to her side avenging Valor fly: — 

" Ha ! Villain ! Draw 1 Now, Terator, yield or die I " 

— When the poor hero flounders in despair, 
Some dear lost uncle turns up millionaire,' 
Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy. 
Sobs on his neck, " My boy I My boy! My Boy ! " 

. W. Holmes. 



cm.— THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 



Mtr'tle, n., a fragrant shrub. 
Cb'dar, n., an evergreen tree- 



Sey'ered, pp., separated. 
Naught (nawt), n., nothfng. 



The ea in hearth has properly the sound it has in heart ; though in (V jut 
of the following beautifiU poem the author gives it thelsound of ea in eo^A 

They grew in beauty, side by side, — 
They filled one house with glee ; 

Their graves are severed, far and wide. 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
She had each folded flower in sight ; — 

Where are those dreamers now? 

One 'mid the forests of the west. 

By a dark stream is laid ; — 
The Indian knows his place of rest. 

Far in the cedar shade. 



TWE BESCUE (V THE LAICB. 253 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,-— 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
He was the loved of all, yet none 

O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapt his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 
She faded 'mid Italian flowers, — 

The last bf that bright band. 

And parted thus, (hey rest who played 

Beneath the same green tree ; 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent knee^ — 

They that with smiles lit up the hall. 

And cheered with song the hearth I 
Alas, for love ! ifffiou wert all. 

And naught beyond, Earth I 

Mrs. Hejt^n* 



CIV. — THE RESCUE OF THE LAMB. 



8vcfoim, n., liid in distress. 
Tbi'umph (-umf), tt., joy for success. 



Guard'i-ah, n., a defender. 
Chak^kel, n.f course for & stream. 



Walker and Worcester pronoonoe letted lipt, rhyming with kept. 

Seek who will delight in fable, 
I shall tell you truth, A lamb 

Leaped from this steep bank to follow 
^Cross the brook its thoughtless dam. 

Par and wide on hill and valley 
Rain had fallen^ unceasing rain ; 

And the bleating mother's young one 
Struggled with the flood in vain. 
22 



jtH 



EABLT raSTOBY OP KEXTTUCET. 






But, as chanced, a cottage maiden 
(Ten years scarcely had she told) 

Seeing, planged into the torrent. 
Clasped the lamb, and kept her hold. 

Whirled adown the rocky channel, 

Sinking, rising, on they go. 
Peace and rest, as seems, before them 

Only in the lake below I 

! it was a frightful current. 

Whose fierce wrath the girl had braved ;— 
Clap your hands with joy, my hearers. 

Shout in triumph — both are Saved 1 

Saved by courage that with danger 
Grew — by strength, the gift of love I 

And belike a guardian angel 
Came with succor from above. 

Wm. Wordsworth.' (1770—1860.) 



CV. — EARLY HISTORY OF KENTUCKY. 



PuITL'trt n., domestic fowls. 
L&is'rRE, n., vaeaDt tiine. 
Skill'ful or Skil'fttl, a., ez-pertT. 
Stock-ade', fi., a line of stakes as a 

defense or barrier. 
EKi6HT-£R'RAHT-Rr, 11., the feats, Ac, 

of an errant or roving knight. 



In'stt-gate, V, t.f to urge ; to incite. 
Buf'fa-loes, n. pi., of buflEalo. 
Pi-o-nber', n., one who goes befort 

to clear the way. 
Ba-ro'5i-al, a., Irelating to a baron. 
Vo-LU'iii-irovs, a., consisting of manj 

Tolumes. 



In dis-coi/er-y^ cov'tred^ mod'ern, &c., heed the soond of er. Do not say tkuat for 
ifUrat ; keows for cowa. The second a in ap-par'ent has the sound of a in care. 

1. The English have never displayed the same thirst 
of discovery as the Spaniards and French, either in 
North or South America. A love of adventure, an 
eager curiosity, a desire of change, or some like 
motive, had carried the French all over the continent, 
while the En>chsh colonist continued quietly Y'J hin 



EABLT HISTOBT OF KENTUCKy, 255 

their own limits. The French missionaries coasted 
along the lakes, and descended the Mississippi, a whole 
century before the Virginians began to cross the Alle- 
ghany ridge, to get a glimpse of the noble inheritance, 
which had remained undisturbed for centuries, waiting 
their coming. 

2. It was not till the year 1767, — only eight years 
before the breaking out of the revolutionary war, — that 
John Finley, of North Carolina, descended into Ken- 
tucky for the purpose of hunting and trading. The 
feelings of wonder and delight experienced by this 
early pioneer in passing through the rich lands, which 
were filled with deer, buffaloes, and every kind of 
game, and covered with the majestic growth of centu- 
ries, soon communicated themselves to others. Like 
the spies, who returned from Palestine, they declared, 
" The land, which we passed through to search it, is 
an exceeding good land." They compared it to parks 
and gardens, or a succession of farms stocked with 
cattle, and full of birds tame as barn-yarjj poultry. 

3.- Instigated by these descriptions, in 1769, Daniel 
Boone, a man much distinguished for bravery and skill, 
entered Kentucky. And now commenced a scene of 
enterprise, romantic adventure, cliiv'alric daring, and 
patient endurance, not surpassed in the history of 
modern times. . Nothing in those voluminous tales of 
knigh t^rra ntry, which occupied the leisure of pages 
and sqmres of old baronial days, or in the Waverley 
novels and their train of romances of the second class, 
which amuse modern gentlemen and ladies, — nothing 
in these works of imagination can exceed the realities 
of early Kentucky history. 

4. From 1769 till Wayne's victory on the Maumee, 
in 1794, a period of twenty-five years,- including the 
whole revolutionary war, the people of Kentucky 
were engaged in Indian warfare, for life and home. 



256 EARLY HISTOBT OF KENTUCKY. 

Sorrounded by an enemy fer outnumbering them, — 
deadly in hatred, of ferocious cruelty, wielding the 
same rifle with themselves, and as skilli'ul in its use, — 
the intrepid inmiigrants took possession of the coun- 
try, felled the forest, built towns, laid out roads, and 
changed the wilderness into a garden. 

5. No man could open his cabin-door, in the morn- 
ing, without danger of receiving a rifle-bullet from a 
lurking Indian ; no woman could go out to milk the 
cows, without risk of having a scalping-knife at her 
forehead before she returned. Many a man returned 
from hunting, only to find a smoking ruin where he 
had left a happy home with wife and children. But 
did this constant danger create a constant anxiety ? 
Did they live in terror? Fightings were without; 
were fears within ? By no means. 

6. If you talk with the survivors of those days, they 
will tell you : " We soon came to think ourselves afl 
good men as the Indians. We believed we were as 
strong as thej^ as good marksmen, as quick of sight^ 
and as likely to see them as they were to see us_; so 
there was no use in being iSfaid of them." The 
danger produced a constant watchfulness,^ an active 
intelligence, a prompt decision; traits still strongly 
apparent in the Kentucky character ; traits which have 
done much for the prosperity of the people. 

7. By the same causes, other, more amiable and 
social qualities, were developed. While every man 
was forced to depend on himself, and trust to his own 
courage, coolness and skill, every man felt that he 
depended on his neighbor for help in cases where his 
own powers could no longer avail him. And no man 
could decline making an effort for another, when he 
knew that he might need a like aid before the sun went 
down. Hence we have frequent examples of one man 
risking his life to save that of aqother, and of des- 



OH INDIFFEREKCE TO POPITLAB ELECTIONS. 257 



perate exertions made for the common safety of the 
dwellers in fort or st()ckade, 

8. Can wC; then, wonder at the strong family attach- 
ment^ still existing in Kentucky ? The remembrance 
of hours of co mmon danger, and mutual sacrifice, and 
generous disregard of self, must have sunk deep into 
the hearts of those earnest men, the early settlers. 
''He saved my life, at the risk of his own." "He 
helped me bring back my wife from the Indians." 
^ He shot the man who was about to dash out my in- 
fant's brains." Here was a foundation for friendships, 
which nothing could root up. 

9. "Whispering tongues can poison truth;" but no 
tongues could do away such evidences of true friend- 
ship as t hese . No subsequent coldness, no after injury, 
could efface their remembrance. They must have been 
treasured up, in the deepest cells of the heart, with a 
sacred gratitude, a religious care. And hence, while 
Indian wariSre developed all the stronger and self 
relying faculties, it cultivated also all the sympathies 
the confi ding t rust, the generous affectibns, which, to 
the present hour, are marked on the heart of that 
people's character. 



CVI. — ON INDIFFERENCE TO POPULAR ELECTIONS. 



Mand'i-craft, n., work of the hand. 

Ap'a-thy, n.f want of feeling 

Leth'ar-gy (-jy), n.; a morbid (dis- 
eased) drowsiness. 

Ves'tal, m., pertaining to Vesta; 
pure ; chaste. 

BiE-hJjvE'f V. t., to re-light. 

As-ckkd'en-ct, n., influence ; poww. 

Cbi'si8> n., a critical time. 



Fac'tioit-I8t, n., one who promotes 

faction and disagreement. 
Spb'cial (spesh'al), a., particular. 
Gan'grbne (gang'grene), n., mortilU 

oation of flesh. 
Pro-me'the-an, a.f having the life- 

.giving quality of the fire Prome* 

theus stole from heaven. 
De-pos'it, n.f a thing intrusted. 



In tn'tr-gy, in'ter-cst^ W/er-ty^ ex'tr-cUe^ &c., do not slur the er. 

1. We have been frequently told that the farmer 
should attend to the plow, and the mechanic to his 

22* 



258 ON INDIFFEBENCE TO POPULAR ELECTIOKB. 

handicraft, during the canvass for the presidency. Sir, 
a more dangerous doctrine could not be inculcated. 
11* there is any spectacle from the contemplation of 
which I would shrink with peculiar horror, it would 
be that of the great mass of the American people sunk 
into a profound apathy on the subject of their highest 
political interests. 

' 2. Such a spectacle would be more portentous, to 
the eye of intelligent patriotism, than all the monsters 
of the earth, and fiery signs of the heavens, to the eye 
of trembling superstition. If the people could be in- 
dififerent to the fate of a contest for the presidency, 
they would be unworthy of freedom. If I were to 
perceive them sinking into this apathy, I would even 
apply the power of political galvanism, if such a power 
could be found, to rouse them from their fatal lethargy. 

3. " Keep the people quiet I Peace! peace!" Such 
are the whispers by which the people are to be lulled 
to sleep, in the very crisis of their highest concern^. 
Sir, " you make a solitude, and call it peace 1" Peace? 
'T is death 1 Take away all interest, from the people, 
in the election of their chief ruler, and liberty is no 
more. What, sir, is to be the consequence ? If the 
people do not elect the President, somebody must. 
There is no special providence to decide the question. 
Who, then is to make the election, and how will it 
operate? 

4. The general patriotic excitement of the people, 
in relation to the election of the President, is as essen- 
tial to the health and energy of the political sj'stem, as 
circulation of the blood is to the health and energy of 
the natural body. Check that circulation, and you 
inevitably produce local inflammation, gangrene, and 
ultimately death. Make the people indifierent, destroy 
their legitimate influence, and you communicate a mor- 
bid violence to the eflForts of those who are ever ready 



ON mDIFFEBENCE TO POPULAR ELECTIONS. 259 

to assume the control of such affairs, — the mercenary 
intriguers and interested office-hunters of the country. 
5. Tell me not, sir, of popular violence ! Show me 
a hundred political factionists, — men who look to the 
election of a President as a means of gratifying their 
high or their low ambition, — and I will show you the 
Very materials for a mob, ready for any desperate ad' 
venture connected with their common fortunes. The 
reason of this extraordinary excitement is obvious. It 
is a matter of self-interest, of personal ambition. The 
people can have no such motives ; they look only to 
the interest and glory of the country. 
" 6. There was a law of Athens which subjected every 
citizen to punishment, who refused to take sides in 
the political parties which divided the republic. It 
was founded in the deepest wisdom. In political 
affairs, the vicious, the ambitious, and the interested, 
are always active. It is the natural tendency of vir- 
tue, confiding in the strength of its own cause, to be 
inactive. It hence results that the ambitious few will 
inevitably acquire the ascendency, in the conduct of 
human affairs, if the patriotic many, the people, are 
not stimulated and roused to a proper activity and 
effort. 

7. Sir, no nation on earth has ever exerted so ex- 
tensive an influence on human affairs as this will cer- 
tainly exercise, if we preserve our glorious system of 
government in its purity. The liberty of this country 
is a sacred deposit, a vestal fire, which Providence 
has committed to us, for the general benefit of man- 
kind. It is the world's last hope. Extinguish it, and 
the earth will be covered with eternal darkness. But 
once put out that fire, and I " know not where is the 
Pro-me'the-an heat which can that light relume." 

George McDuffie. (1785— .185L^ 



260 THE DOWNFALL OF VOhAUfD. 



CVn. — THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND. 



LEAflmsD (leegd), pp,, united. 
Pam'doub (-door 2, n., a foot soldier in 

the Austrian serTice. 
Toc'siN, n.f an alarm-bell. 
Dm^nip'o-tent, a,f all-powerful. 



Yol'leted, pp,, discharged at onoe. 
PD-is'sAKT, a., powerful. 
Hus-sar' (buz-), n., amouDted8oldie& 
Pre-saqk', v. t., to foreshow. 
Sak-ma'tia, n., old name of Poland. 

Pronounce Pharaoh^ Fafro, Aroid saying arieked for shrieked ; picter tor ptcfwrt. 



I SACRED Truth I thy triumph ceased a while. 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, 
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars 
Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars. 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of mom. 
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet hom;- 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van. 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man I 

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed 

Wide o'er the field a waste of ruin laid : 

Heaven ! he cried, my bleeding countty save 1 — 

Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 

Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains^ 

Eise, fellow-men I our country yet remains I 

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high ! 

And vow for her to live I — with her to die 1 

He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form. 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,—* 
"Eevenge, or death,'' — the watchword and reply; 
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm. 
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm I • 

In vain, alas I in vain, ye gallant few I 
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew:--^ 
! bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 



THE INQUISinyB HAlf. 261 

Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe I 
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear. 
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career ; — 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
And Freedom shrieked — as Kosciusko fell. 

I righteous Heaven I ere Freedom found a grave. 
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? 
Where was thine arm, Vengeance I where thy rod. 
That sn^ote the foes of Zion and of God ? 
That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car 
Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar ? 
Where was the storm that slumbered till the host 
Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; 
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 
And heaved an ocean on their march below ? 

Departed spirits of the mighty dead I 
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled I 
Friends of the world I restore your swords to man. 
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van I 
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone. 
And make her arm puissant as your own I 
! once again to Freedom's cause return 
The patriot Tell — the Bruce of B annockburn 1 

Thomas Campbell. (1777 — 1844.) 



CVm. — THE INQUISITIVE MAN. 



DicK'r, n., a- «ieat behind a oamage 

for seirants. 
Na'bob, n,j A man of wealth. 
pBR-PET'u-AL-Lr, od.. Constantly. 



At-tor'net (-tnr-), n., one who aots 
for another, especially in law. 

Trav'el-ino or Trat'el-lihg, ppr., 
journeying. 



Avoid the habit of saying aint you for are n^t (amt) you ; skersly for acaree'ly ; Mt 
for (Aked ; $toopid for H&'pid, 

Doubledot. Here comes Mr. Paul Pry I I wish he 
was further. He is gne of those idle, meddling fellows, 
who^ having no employment, are perpetually interfer- 



262 THE INQUISITIVE MAN. 

ing in other people^s aflFairs. He does n't scruple to 
question you about your most private concerns. Then 
he will weary you to death with a long story about 
the loss of a sleeve-button, or some such idle matter. 
But I '11 soon get rid of him. (Enter Pry.) 

Pry. Ha»I how d'ye do, Mr. Doubledot? 

Doub, Ve'ry busy, Mr. Pry, and have scarcely time 
to say " Pretty well, thank you." 

Pry. Well, since you're busy, I won't interrupt 
you; only, as I was passing, I thought I might as well 
dro^ in. 

Doub, Then you may now drop out again. The 
London coach will be in, presently, and 

Pry. No passengers by it to-day ; for I have been 
to the hill to look for it. 

Doub. Did you expect any one by it) that you were 
BO anxious? 

Pry. No; but I make it my business to see the 
coach come in every day. I can't bear to be idle. 

Dovh. Useful occupation, truly ! 

Pry. I always see it go out. Have done so these 
ten years. 

Dovh. {Aside.) Tiresome blockhead! {Ahv^d.) Well, 
good-niorning to you. 

Pry. Good-morning, Mr. Doubledot. Your house 
does n't appear to be very full just now. 

Doub. No, no ; and I wish it was n't as full as it is. 

Pry. Hal you are at a heavy rent — eh? I've 
often thought of that. No supporting such an estab- 
lishment without a deal of custom. If it is n't asking 
an impertinent question, don't you find it rather a hard 
matter to make both ends meet, when Christmas comes 
round? 

Doub. If it isn't asking an impertinent question, 
what 's that to you ? 
Pry. O, nothing ; only some folks have the luck of 



THE INQUISITiyE ICAN. 263 

it. They have just taken in a nobleman's family at 
the Green Dragon. 

Doub, WhatF What's that? A nobleman at the 
Green Dragon? 

Fry. Traveling carriage and four. Three servants 
on the dicky and an outrider, all in blue liveries. 
They dine and stop all night. A pretty bill there wiU 
be to-morrow; for the servants are not on board wages. 

Doub. Plague take the Green Dragon I How did 
you discover that the servants are not on board wages? 

Pry. I was curious to know, and asked one of them. 
You know I never miss any thing for want of asking. 
'Tis no fault of mine the nabob is not here. 

Doub. Why, what had you to do with it? 

Pry. You know I never forget my friends. I 
stopped the carriage, as it was coming down hill, 
brought it to a dead stop, and said that if his lord- 
ship — I took him for a lord, at first — that if his lord- 
ship intended to make any stay, he could n't do better 
than go to Doubledot's. 

Dovh. Well? 

Pry. 'Well, — would. you believe it? — out pops a 
saflFron-colored face from the carriage window, and 
says, " You 're an impudent rascal, for stopping my 
carriage I and I'll not go to Doubledot's if there's 
another inn to be found within ten miles of it I " 

Dovh. There I that comes of your stupid meddling ! 
If you had n't interfered, I should have stood an equal 
chance with the Green Dragon. 

Pry. I 'm very sorry ; but I did it for the best. 

Doub. Did it for the best, indeed ! You meddling 
booby ! By your oflScious attempts to serve, you do 
more mischief in the neighborhood than the excise- 
man, the apothecary, and the attorney, all together. 

Pry. Well, there 's gratitude I Now, really, I must 
go. Good-morning. (Goes.^ 



264 



NIGHT BEVEALS WHAT DAY CONCEALS. 



Doub. I 'm rid of liini; at last, thank fortune I (P^r 
reenters.) Well, are n't you gone ? What now ? 

Pry, I 've dropped one of my gloves. No I Now, 
that 's very odd — here it is in my hand, ,all the time. 

Dovh. 01 get ont of my way. .(Goes out.) 

Pry, Come, that's civil. K I were the least of a 

bore, now, it would be pardonable ; but Hullo! 

there 's the postman I I wonder whether the Parkins's 
have got letters again to day ? They have had letters 
every day this week, and I can't, for the life of me, 
think what they can be about. (Runs off, and returns.) 
Dear me 1 I was going off without my umbrella. 

Altered from John PoolA. 



CIX.^ NIGHT REVEALS WHAT DAY C0NCEAI5. 



Heb'pe-kvs, ft., a Greek name giyea to 
the planet Venus when sbe i^pean 
in tibe evening. 



Can'o-pt, n.f B oovering of state OTSt 

hea4« 
Tranb-lu'cent, a.y clear ; lucid. 



A sonnet is properly a poem of fourteen lines, with rhymes occurring like thoee in Um 
following, pronounced by Coleridge one of the finest In the English language. 

Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 
Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 

This glorious canopy of light and blue f 

Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hes'perus, with the host of heaven, came ; 
• And, lo I Creation widened in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 

Within thy beams, Sun ! Or who could find. 
While fly, and leaf, and insect, stood revealed 

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 
Why do we, then, shun death, with anxious strife ? . 
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Li/ef 

i. Blanco White. 



DEATH THE GATE OF LIFE. 



266 



ex.— DEATH THE GATE OF UFE. 



Dom'pass (kum-), v. L, to pass round; 

hence, to seouie ; to obtain. 
^a'lo, n,f pi. Ha'los, a bright oircle 

round the sun or moon. 
'Bxsu-viLiI or Ful-fil', v. U, to perform. 



FA-aL'x-TT, n., easiness. 
Uh-to'ward, a,f perverse. 
Ap-pa-ra'tvs, n., the furniture or 

means for some art or purpose. 
Bbt-bi-bu'tion, n., repayment. 



The o in 9honB is short, according to Worcester } long, acoordlng to Webster. FA>> 
aounoe opmt, fi'jm ; kaattn, h&'nn, 

1. I HAVE seen one die: she was beautiful; and 
beautiful were the ministries of life that were given 
her to fulfill. Angelic loveliness enrobed her ; and a 
grace, as if it were caught from heaven, breathed in 
every tone, hallowed every affection, shone in every 
action — invested as a halo her whole existence, and 
made it a light and a blessing, a charm and a vision 
of gladness, to all around her ; but she died I Friend- 
ship, and love, and parental fondness, and infant weak- 
ness, stretched out their hand to save her ; but they 
could not save her ; and she died ! What I did all that 
loveliness die ? Is there no land of the blessed and 
the lovely ones, for such to live in ? Forbid it reason, 
religion, bereaved affection, and undying love I forbid 
the thought I • 

2. I have seen one die — in the maturity of every 

power, in the earthly perfection of every faculty ; 

when many temptations had been overcome, and many 

hard lessons had been learnt ; when many experiments 

had made virtue easy, and had given a facility to 

action, and a. success to endeavor; when wisdom had 

been wrung from many mistakes, and a skill had been 

laboriously acquired in the use of many powers ; and 

the being I looked upon had just compassed that most 

useful, most practical of all knowledge, how to live 

and to act well and wisely ; yet I have seen such a one 

die I 

•ft 



266 DEATH THE GATE OF LIFE. 

3. Was all this treasure gained, only to be lost? 
Were all these faculties trained, only to be thrown into 
utter disuse? Was this instrument — the intelligent 
soul, the noblest in the universe — was it so labori- 
ously fashioned, and by the most varied and expensive 
apparatus, that, on the very moment of being fiBished, 
it should be cast away forever ? No ; the dead, as we 
call them, do not so die. They carry their thoughts 
to ajiother and a nobler existence. They teach us, 
and especially by all the strange and seemingly un-to'- 
ward circumstances of their departure from this life, 
that they, and we, shall live forever. They open the 
fiiture world, then, to our faith. 

4. 0, death I — dark hour to hopeless unbelief ! hour 
to which, in that creed of despair, no hour shall suc- 
ceed I being's last hour I to whose appalling darkness, 
even the shadows of an avenging retribution were 
brightness and relief — death I what art thou to the 
Christian's assurance? Great hour! answer to life's 
prayer — great hour that shall break asunder the bond 
of life's mystery. 

5. Hour of release from life's burden — hour of 
reunion with the loved and lost — what mighty hopes 
hasten to their fulfillment in thee ! What longings^ 
what aspirations, breathed in the still night, beneath 
the silent stars — what dread emotions of curiosity — 
what deep meditations of joy — what hallowed impos- 
sibilities shadowing forth realities to the soul, all verge 
to their consummation in tJiee I 0, death ! the Chri9- 
tian^a death I What art thou, but a gate oi life, a poN 
tal of heaven, the threshold of eternity ? 

^'' Death^gives us more than was in Eden lo&t. 
This king of terrors is the prince of peace. 
WJ»«n shalj T die to vanity, pain, death ! 
When shaJJ I dU: — TV^^ft 8haJ; I live forever J " 

Pswir. 



BBUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CJERAB. 



267 



CXI.— BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CJSSAE. 



Csv'sTTRE, n., faalt-finding ; blame. 
Of-fensx' or Of-futcb', n., tnasgres- 
sion. 



Ex-tkr'u-ate, ». t,, to lessen. 
NoNB (oun), «., not one ; not taxy. 



When a noon ends in «, the « of the pow es iire case to Mmetimei omitted Ibr the leke 
if euphony } as, ** Bratos* lore,** ** For Jesus* sake.** When mine to used a^Jectirdy, 
as beloir, the absence of aooentnal force will permit the shortening of the soond into min. 

Romans, countrymen, «nd lovers I Hear me for my 
cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe 
me for mine honor ; and have respect to mine honor, 
that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom ; 
and awake your senses, that you may the better 
judge. 

If there be any in this assembly, — any dear friend 
of CaBsar's, — to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar 
was not less than his. If, then, that friend demand 
why Brutus rose against Cassar, this is my answer : 
Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome 
more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die 
all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free- 
men? 

As Caesar loved me, I waep for him ; as he was for- 
tunate, I rejoice at it; aa he was valiant, I honor him; 
but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, 
for his love; joy, for his fortune ; honor, for his valor; 
and death, for his ambition ! Who is here so base, 
that would be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for him 
have I ofiFended. Who is here so rude, that would not 
be a Roman ? If any, speak ; for him have I ofiFended. 
Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If 
any, speak ; for him have I ofifended. I pause for a 
reply. - 

None ? — Then none have I ofiFended. I have done 
no more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The 
question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol ; his 



2d8 WOLSET TO CBOlfWELL. 

glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy ; nor hia 
offenses enforced, for which he suffered death. 

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark An'tony; 
who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive 
the benetit pf his dying, a place in the com^mon wealth : 
as which of you shall not? With this I depart: 
That, as I wlew my best lover for the good of Rome, 
I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please 
my country to ueed my death. Shakspearb. 



CXn.w-WOLSEY TO CROMWELL. 

Ii'Ynr-TO-BT, n., a list of ^oods. j Pbith'kb, oorraption of pray thu* 
ATotd Mjlng dep» for d^ptlU. Ttvoaanee WoUey^ WooFxy ; hitrd^ kenL 

Cromwell, I did jiot think to shed a tear 

In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, 

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 

Let 's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 

And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be. 

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 

Of me must more be heard, — say, then, I taught thee ; 

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor. 

Found thee a way, out of hi« wreck, to rise in, — 

A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 

Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me I 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition I 
By that sin fell the angels : how can man, then, 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't ? 
Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee : 
Corruption wins not more than honesty ; 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not ; 
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. 
Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, 0, Cromwell 
^all'st a bless'ed martyr I 



SPEECH OF VAN ABTEVELDEL 269 

Serve the king. 

And Prithee, lead me in : 

There, take an inventory of all I have, 

To the last penny ; 't is the king's ; my robe, 

And my integrity to Heaven, is all 

I dare now call mine own. 0, CromweU, Cromwell I 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 

I served my king, he would not, in mine age. 

Have' left me naked to mine enemies 1 Shakspeabi 



CXm. — SPEECH OP VAN ARTEVELDE. 

Ax or Axe, n., an iron tool. I Vex'ox-otjs, a,, poisonoos. 

800UBGE (skuij), V, t,, to lash. I PXas'ant, n,, a rustio laborer. 

Pronounce Navarre, Na-var* } againsty a^insff Aeoven, hit/vnf wedpon, wtp*yHi» 

What, then, remains. 
But in the cause of nature to stand forth. 
And turn this frame of things the right side up ? 
For this the hour is come, the sword is drawn ; 
-A.nd tell your masters vainly they resist. 
Nature, that slept beneath their poisonous drugs. 
Is up and stirring, and from north and south, 
From east and west, from England and from France, 
Prom Germany, and Flanders, and Navarre, 
Shall stand against them like a beast at bay. 

The blood that they have shed will hide no longer 
In the blood-slaken soil, but cries to heaven. 
Their cruelties and wrongs against the poor 
Shall quicken into swarms of venomous snakes. 
And hiss through all the earth, till o'er the earth, 
That ceases then from hissings and from groans, 
Eises the song — How are the mighty fallen I 
And by the peasant's hand I 

Low lie the proud, 

And smitten with the weapons of the poor, — 
23* 



270 MABIE ANTOINETTB. 

The blacksmith's hammer and the woodman^s ax ! 
Their tale is told ; and for that they were rich. 
And robbed the poor; and for that they were strong. 
And scourged the weak ; and for that they made law» 
Which turned the sweat of labor's brow to blood, — 
For these their sins the nations cast them out. 

These things come to pass 
From small beginnings, because God is just. 

Hbnrt Taylob. 



CXIV.— MARIE ANTOINETTE.^ 



Ccab'bard, n., a sheaUi. 
Bopa'is-TBR (sof-), n., an artful rea- 

8oner. 
Dis-as'ter, n,f a sad mishap. 



Mit'i-43Ate, v. t., to soften. 
Cay-a-lzer' (-leer), n., a knight. 
Dau'phin-ess, n.,the Daaphln's wifjk 
(See definitions, p. 136). 



Pronounce VersaiUes, Ver-^AW ; tphere^ sfiref even, e'vn} chivalry ^ shit/al-ry. 

1. It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw 
the Queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Ver- 
sailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which 
she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. 
1 saw her just above the hori'zon, decorating and 
cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move 
in, — glittering like the morning star, full of life, and 
splendor, and joy. 0, what a revolution ! and what 
a heart must I have, to contem^plate without emotion 
that elevation and that fall I 

2. Little did I dream, when she added titles of ven- 
eration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectfiil 
love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the 
sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that 
bosom. Little did I dream that I should have lived 
to see such disasters fallen upon her, in a nation of ^ 
gal'lant men, — in a nation .of men of honor and of 
cavaliers 1 I thought ten thousand swords must have 

* Bom 1765 ; beheaded 1792. Prononnoe Ma^^ Anrtwak-Mm 



DR. ARNOLD AT BUGBT. 271 

leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look 
that threatened her with insnlt. 

3. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, 
economists and calculators, has succeeded; and the 
glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never 
more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank 
and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obe* 
dience, that subordination of the heart, which kept 
alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted 
freedom ! 

4. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defense of 
nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic 
enterprise, is gone I It is gone, that sensibility of 
principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like 
a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated 
ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and 
under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all 
its grossness. Eduund Burke. (1730^i797.) 



OXV.— DR. ARNOLD AT RUGBY.* 



TiBR (teer), n., a nnk ; a row. 
Truce, n., suspension of hostilities ; 

temporary peace. 
Oal'lant, a.f brave ; noble. 
List'en (lis'n), V. t,, to hearken. 



Thob'ouqh-hbss (thni'ro-), n., cam* 

pleteness. 
Mi-nor'.'VT, n.f smaller number. 
Un-daunt'ed {au like a in far), a.p 

fearless ; intrep'id. 



Avoid saying ehappl tat chap'el. The t and e in often are not sounded. 

« 

1. More worthy pens than mine have described that 
scene : the oak pulpit standing out by itself, above the 
school' seats ; the tall, gallant form, the kindling eye, 
the voice — now soft as the low notes of a flute, now 
clear and stirring as the call of the light infantry 
bugle — of him who stood there, Sunday after Sunday, 
witnessing and pleading 'for his Lord, the King of 

* For some aooonnt of Dr. Arnold, the teacher, see page 115, 



272 DB. ABKOLD AT BUGBT. 

lighteonsnesSy and love, and glorj^ with whose spirit 
he was filled, and in whose power he spoke ; the long 
lines of young faces rising, tier above tier, down the 
^ whole length of the chapel, from the little boy's who 
had just left his mother, to the young man's who was 
going out next week into the great world, rejoicing in 
his strength. It was a great and solemn sight. 

2. But what was it, after all, which seized and held 
these three hundred boys, — dragging them out of 
themselves, willing or unwilling, for twenty minutes, 
on Sunday afternoons? True, there were boys scat- 
tered up and down the school, who, in heart and head, 
were worthy to hear, and able to carry away, the 
deepest and wisest words then ^oken. But these 
were a minority always, generally a very small one, 
oft;en so small a one as to be countable on the fingers 
of your hand. What was it that moved and held us, 
the rest of the three hundred reckless, childish boys, 
who feared the Doctor with all our hearts, and very 
little besides in heaven or earth ? 

3. We couldn't enter into half that we heard; we 
hadn't the knowledge of our own hearts, or the knowl- 
edge of one another, and little enough of the faith, 
hope, and love, needed to that end. But we listened, 
as all boys, in their better moods, will listen, — ay, and 
men too, for the matter of that, — to a man whom we felt 
to be, with all his heart, and soul, and strength, striv- 
ing against whatever was mean, and unmanly, and un- 
righteous, in our little world. It was not the cold, 
clear voice of one giving advice and warning, from 
serene heights, to those who were struggling and sin- 
ning below; but the warm, living voice, of one who 
was fighting for us and by our side, and calling on us 
to help him and ourselves, and one another. 

4. And so, wearily and little by little, but surely and 
steadily on the whole, v^as brought home to the young 



ONWARD. 273 

boy, for the first time, the meaning of his life : that it 
was no fool's or sluggard's paradise, into which he had 
wandered by chance, but a battle-field, ordained from 
of old, where there are no spectators, but the youngest 
must take his side, and the stakes are life, and death. 
And he, who roused this consciousness in them, showed 
them, at the same time, by every word he spoke in the 
pulpit, and by his whole daily life, how that battle wai 
to be fought; and stood there before them, their fellow- 
soldier and the captain of their band. 

5. The true sort of captain, too, for a boys' army ; 
one who had no misgivings, and gave no uncertain 
word of command, and, let who would yield or make 
truce, would fight the fight out — so every boy felt — 
to the last gasp, and the kst drop of blood. Other sides 
of his character might take hold of and influence boys, 
here and there, but it was this thoroughness and un- 
daunted courage which, more than any thing else, won 
his way to the hearts of the great mass of those on 
whom he left his mark, and made them believe, first in 
him, and then in his Master. Hughes. 



CXVL -. ONWARD. 

Baxp'aht, a., violently active. I Tbi-umph'ant, a., joyfully viotorioitf 

Vot as though I had already attained. — Phiuppiaks, UL 1& 

Not, ray soul, what thou hast done, 

But what thou art doing ; 
Not the course which thou hast run* 

But which thou 'rt pursuing ; 
Not the prize already won, 

But that thou art wooing I 

Thy progression, not thy rest,—' 

Striving, not attaining, — 
Is the measure and- the test 



274 HANNIBAL TO HIS ARMT. 

Of thy hope remaining ; 
Not in gain thoa 'rt half bo blest 
As in conscious gaining. 

If thou to the Past wilt go. 

Of Experience learning, 
Faults and follies it can show, — 

Wisdom dearly earning ; 
But the path once trodden, know, 

Hath no more returning. 

Let not thy good hope depart. 

Sit not down bewailing ; 
Bouse thy strength anew, brave heart I 

'Neath despair's assailing : 
This will give thee fairer start, — 

Knowledge of thy failing. 

Tet shall every rampant wrong 

In the dust be lying, — 
Soon thy foes, though proud and strong^ 

In defeat be flying ; 
Then shall a triumphant song 

Take the place of sighing. 

J. K. Loiauiu). 



CXVn.~ HANNIBAL TO HIS ARMY. 



Al-lies', n.pi; oonfederates. 
A-massbd', pp.f heaped up. 
Pbb-scbibb', v., to give law. 
Ab-sail'ant, n., one who attacks. 



Im-pbt'v-ous, a., violent ; forcible. 
Vbt'br-ah, a,, long exercised. 
Al-teb'na-tivb (al"), n., a choice gir« 
en of two things. 

ProDoanoe Alpine, U'pln, : kottile, hot'tU; Carthaginian^^ Kar-tha^in'patu. 



1. HerE; soldiers, you must either conquer or die. 
On the right and left two seas enclose you ; and you 
have no ship to fly to for escape. The river Po around 
you, — the Po, larger and more impetuous than the 
Rhone, — the Alps behind, scarcely passed by you 



HAKKIBAL TO HIR ABlfT. 21S 

^hen fresh and vigorous, — hem you in. Here For- 
tune has granted you the termination of your labors ; 
here she will bestow a reward worthy of the service 
you have undergone. 

2. All the spoils that Rome has amassed by so many 
triumphs will be yours. Think not that, in proportion 
as this war is great in name, the victory will be diffi- 
cult. Prom the Pillars* of Hei^cu-les, from the ocean, 
from the remotest limits of the world, over mountains 
and rivers, you have advanced victorious through the 
fiercest nations of Gaul and Spain. And with whom 
are you now to fight ? With a raw army, which this 
very summer was beaten, conquered and surrounded ; 
an army unknown to their leader, and he to them ! 

3. Shall I compare myself, almost bom, and certainly 
bred, in the tent of my father, that illustrious com- 
mander, — myself, the conqueror, not only of the 
Alpine nations, but of the Alps themselves, — myself, 
who was the pupil of you all, before I became your 
commander, — to this six months' general? or shall I 
compare his army with mine ? 

4. On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all 
full of courage and strength : — a veteran infantry ; a 
most gal'lant cavalry ; you, our allies, most faithful 
and valiant ; you, Carthaginians, whom not only your 
country's cause, but the justest anger, impels to battle. 
The valor, the confidence of invaders, are ever^greater 
than those of the defensive party. As the assailants 
in this war, we pour down, with hostile standards, 
upon Italy. We bring the war. Suffering, injury and 
indignity, fire our minds. 

5.. First they demanded me, your leader, for punish- 
ment ; and then all of you, who had laid siege to Sa- 
gun'tum. And, had we been given up, they would 
have visited us with the severest tortures. Cruel and 

• An snoieat name for the heights of Gibraltar and of the opposite ooaii 



276 Kk^mStAL TO HIS ABHT. 

haughty nation I Every thing must be yours, and at 
your disposal I You are to prescribe to us with whom 
we shall have war — with whom peace I You are to 
shut us up by the boundaries of mountains and rivers, 
which we must not pass 1 

6. But you — yov, are not to observe the limits yon 
yourselves have appointed ! " Pass not the I-be'rus ! '' 
— What next? "Saguntum is on the Iberus. You 
must not move a step in any direction!" — Is it a 
small thing that you have deprived us of our most 
ancient provinces, Sicily And Sardinia? Will you take 
Spain also ? Should we yield Spain, you will cross 
over into Africa. Will cross, did I say? They have 
sent the two Consuls of this year, one to Africa, the 
other to Spain I 

Soldiers, there is nothing left to us, in any quarter, 
but what we can vindicate with our swords. Let those 
be cowards who have something to look back upon ; 
whom, flying through safe and unmolested roads, their 
own country will receive. There is a necessity for ris 
to be brave. There is no alternative but victory or 
death; and, if it must be rfecrfA, who would not rather 
encounter it in battle than in flight? The immortal 
gods could give no stronger in-cen'tive to victory. 
Let but these truths be fixed in your minds, and once 
again I proclaim, you are conquerers I Livr, 



Cease, then, nor order imperfection name ; 

Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 

All nature is but art, unknown to thee ; 

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see | 

All discord, harmony not understood ; 

All partial evil, universal good ; 

And spite of pride, in 6rring reason's 8pit<^, 

One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. Topb 



BESULTS OP THE AMERICAN WAB, 1780. 277 



OXVm.— RESULTS OP THE AMERICAN WAR, 1780. 



Ab-baioh' (fix-rkae'), v. t,, to aoooM, 
as in a court of justioe. 

Bx'scBiPTy n., an imperial edict. 

Bat'o-nbt, n., a dagger at the end of 
a gun ; so called from Bayonne, In 
France, where it was first made. 

As-cbibe', v. t.f to attribute to. 



Pbo-bcribed', pp., put out of the pro* 

tection of the law. 
Mab'sa-cbb (mas'sa-ker), n., promis* 

cuous slaughter ; butchery. 
Mab-i-fbs'to, n,f a public declaration. 
San'guin-a-rt (sang'gwin-a-xy), a,, 

bloody ; murderous. 



FroDoance Parliament, Par'le-ment. Jnprodueedj ke., heed the sound of long u. 

1. We are c harge d with expressing joj^ at the tri- 
umphs of A meri ca. True it is that, in a former session, 
I proclaimed it as my sincere opinion, that if the Min- 
istry had succeeded in their first scheme against th& 
liberti es of America, the liberties of this country would 
have been at an end . Thinking thig^ as I did^ in thb 
sincerity of an honest heart, I rejoiced at the resist 
ance which the Ministry had met to their attempt. 
That great and glorious state sman, the late Lord Chat- 
ham, feeling for the liberties of his native country, 
thani^ed Heaven that. JLmerica had resisted. 

2. But, it seems^ " all the calamities of the country 
are to be ascribed to the wishes, and the joy, an(f 
the speechej, of Opposition." 0, miserable and un 
fortunate Ministry ! 0, blind and incapable men I 
whose measures are framed with so little foresight, 
and executed with so little firmness, that they not 
on ly cfuin ble to pieces, but bring ruin on the country, 
merely because one rash, weak or wicked man, in the 
House of Commons, makes a speech against them I 

3. But who is he who arraigns gentlemen on this 
side of the House with causing, by their inflammatory 
speeches, the misfortunes of their country ? The ac- 
cusation comes from one whose inflammatory ha- 
rangues have led the nation, step by step, from violence 
to violence, in that inhuman, unfeeling system of blood 

— 24 



278 BESULTS OF THE AHEBICAN WAR, 1780. 



and m assacre, which every honest man must detest^ 
which every good man must abhor, and every wise 
man co ndemn ! And ^is man "imputes the guilt of 
s uch naeasure s to those who had all along foretold the 
consequences ; who had praye d, en treate d, and suppli- 
cated, not only for America, but for the credit oTtlie 
nation and its eventual welfare, to arrest the hand 
^f Power, meditating ^laiigKter, and d irected by 
\Djasticel 

4. What was the co nsequenc e of the san^inary 
measures recommendedm those bloody, infl ammgO ory 
speeches ? Though Boston was to be starve d, though 
Hancock and Adams were proscribed, yet at the feet 
of these very men the Pa rliamen t of Gre at Britain was 
obliged to kneel, flatter, and cringe ; and, as it had the 
cruelty, at one time, to denounce vengeance against 
these men, so it had the meanness,' afterward, to im- 
plore their f orgivenes s. Shall he who caDed the 
Americans " Hancock and his crew," — shall he pre- 
Bume to reprehend any set of men for inflammatory 
speeches ? . "'' "^ ^ 

5. It is this accursed American war that has l ed u s, 
bte£ by step, into all our present misfortunes am 
national dis grace s. What was the c ause of our wast- 
ing forty millions of money, and sixty t housand * lives ? 
The American war 1 What was it that produc ed the 
J5^nch rescript and a T5*^rench war? Tfie American 
war I What was it that produced the Spanish mani- 
festo and Spanish war? The American war 1 What 
was it that armed forty-two thousand men in Ireland 
with the arguments carried on the points of forty' 
thousand bayonets ? The American war ! For what 
are we about to incur an additional debt of twelve or 
fourteen millions? This accursed, cruel, diabolical 
Amerian war I Charles Jambs Fox. (1749_i806.) 



BATTLE HTUK; AKD FABEWELL TO LIFE. 279 



CXIX.— BATTLE HYMN, AND FAREWELL TO LIFE. 

Low'kb (lou'er), v, i., to appear dark. I Sk'baph-ic (se-rafio), «., pertaining 
OuiSB, n.f garb ; manner. 1 to or like a aeraph. 

Theodore Korner, the martial poet of Oennany, and author of the jblloiriog poema, waa 
Mn in the year 1791, and fell in battle Auguat 26, 1813, when acarceljr twentj-two jmn 

Father of earth and heaven I I call thy name I 

Bound me the smoke and shout of battle roll ; 
My eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame ; — 

Father, sustain an untried soldier's soul. 

Or life, or death, whatever be the goal 
That crowns or closes round the struggling hour. 

Thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole 
One deeper prayer, 't was that no cloud might lower 
On my young fame I — hear I God of eternal power ! 

Now for the fight I Now for the cannon-peal I 
Forward — through blood, and toil, and cloud, and fire I 

Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel, 
The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire I 
They shake I like broken waves their squares retire ! 

On them, hussars ! Now give them rein and heel ; 
Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire : 

Earth cries for blood I In thunder on them wheel I 

This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph-seal I 



My deep wound burns ; my pale lips quake in death,-— 

I feel my fainting heart resign its strife ; 

And, reaching now the limit of my life. 
Lord, to thy will I yield my parting breath I 
Yet many a dream hath charmed my youthful eye,— 

And roust life's fairy visions all depart ? 

0, surely no I for all that fired my heart 
To rapture here, shall live with me on high. 

And that fair form that won my earliest vow. 
That my young spirit prized all else above. 
And now adored as freedom, now as love, 



280 



WATERLOO. 



Stands in seraphic guise before me now ; 
And, as my failing senses fade away, 
It beckons me on high, to realms of endless day I 

KOBKBS. 



CXX.— WATERLOO. 



KicHK (nlteb), n., a smsU recess in 
the side of a wall. 



REy^EL-Br, n., noisy merriment. 
Birr, n., a carriage for the dead. 



On the ni^ht preTious to the battle of Waterloo, it is said that a ball was g^ven at Bnts. 
■els. To this the poet allndes ia the introductory stansa. The battle was fought June 
18, 1815, when the allied army, composed of 67,856 men, commanded by the Duke of 
Wellington, defeated the French army, of 71,047 men, commanded by Napoleon in 
person. 

There was a sound of revelry by night; 

And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry ; and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men : 

A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, 

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again ; 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell. — 
But, hush I hark I a deep sound strikes like a rising knell I 

Did ye not hear it ? No ; 't was but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street. 

On with the dance I let joy be unconfined I 

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet I — 

But, hark I that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before. 
Arm I arm I it is, it is the cannon's opening roar I 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain ;* he did hear 

♦ Frederick William, Duke of Brunswick, and brother of Qneen Caroline. 
He distinguished himself in the Peninsular war. He was killed at the head 
of his troops two days before the battle of Waterloo. He was bom in 1771. 



WATERLOO. 281 

That sound the first amid the festival, 

And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear : 
And when they smiled; because he deemed it near, 

His heart more truly knew that peal too well, 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell I 

Ah I then and there was hurrying to and fro. 

And gSithering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 

And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated ; — who could gucM* 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful mom could ribe ! 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering^ car^ 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 

And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar. 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 

Roused up the soldier eYe the morning star ; 

• While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb. 

Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe I they come I they 
come I " 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life ; 

Last eve, in beauty's circle, proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife ; 

The morn, the marshaling in arms — the day. 

Battle's magnificently stem array I 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, 

The earth is covered thick with other clay, 

• Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 

Bider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent. 

Byron- 
24» 



282 LOYB IB POWER. 



CXXI. — LOVB IS POWER. 



AB'BI-tba'tioh, n., the reference of a 
oaase to persoos ohosen by the par- 
ties to decide jt. 

Dbv-as-ta'tion, n., wastes 

Sub-trac'tion, a., the taking; of a part 
from the rest. 

Ac-cou'tbr-mbitt8 or Ac-cou'tbe- 
MBNTS (-koo'ter-), n. jl,y equipage. 

Hab-tbl'lo Tower, n., a vaulted 
roand tower for coast defmse. 



Pes Air'NDM (Latin), by the year, t 
Ap-pur'te-hancb, n., what belongi^ 
PIr'a-ltze, v. r., to affect as #th 

palsy ; to deaden. ' 

Bbl-lig'bb-eht (-ly-), a., warH^ak- 

ing. ^ 

Pec-u-la'tioh, n., theft of fiblie 

money. 
En-Oen'dbr (-jen-), o. f ., to prjilaoe . 

£x'i-GBN-cr, a., pressing nece^lty. 

\^ 
The h in hum'hlt ought to be sounded. Give tr in ex'er'^iae, got/em-mem*, kc^ 
its trae sound, as in Aer, without stress. 



1. War may be defined as a people's expedient for 
accomplishing a purpose by violence. - It is expressly 
so; and all the ingenuity in the world woul(^&ii. to 
make it out as any thing else. What a strai 
A man who would seek to assert a right, 
defend himself from wrong, by violence, -^ 
taking arms, and wounding or killing thom* 
him, — would be regarded as an intolerable 
The laws of his country would hold him m^ 
a capital offense, and he would suffer the sever^Nfftj 
alty they were empowered to inflict. 

2. But when a collection of men, forming 
called a nation, have a right to be asserted, or a wtong 
to be redressed, or perhaps only an opinion to be ad- 
vanced, it is thought quite fair and reasonable that 
they should use these violent and murderous 'means. 
What is forbidden to individuals in every state above 
the most savage, and hardly tolerated even there, is 
freely granted to civilized nations, which, accordingly, 
are every now and then seen falling into bloody fights 
about matters which, with private men, would be set* 
tied by a friendly arbitration, or, at most, a decision in 
a law court. 




LOVE IB POWEIL 



283 



3. Some of the evils of war are so manifest as to 
need only to be mentioned. Such is the destruction 
o^flife which it occasions, always followed, of course, 
b^iHinisery to many survivors. Such is the devastation 
fflen introduces into a country which is its seat, 
injury it does, by misapplying the national ener- 
^and funds, is less apt to be understood. Yet this 
[e of its greatest evils. War destroys — it never 
IS or produces. All it does is in the way of sub- 
>n — nothing in the way of addition, 
yhe men who become soldiers are kept from use- 
fullemployment ; the money spent in their pay, ac- 
colteiments, and all the appurtenances of war, is laid 
om on what makes no return, and is gone forever as 
lly AS if it had been thrown into the sea. The per- 
is, indeed, who furnish the articles required for war, 
^e lived upon the profits' of their work; but their 
rk has been unserviceable, whereas it might have 
otherwise. Their talents and labor have all been 
>cted. Thus, in every point of view, the money 

war is misspent, 
'ar not only takes largely of our existing means, 
anticipating the future, but it paralyzes and 
the powers by which means are acquired. The 
>rce of a country is usually much deranged by 
fn consequence of the shutting up of certain mar- 
aud the danger incurred in reaching others, 
ifacturers are consequently thrown idle. All this 
fcends in incalculable miseries upon the humbler 
classes. 

6. But perhaps the most fatal efiect of war is the 
lowering of the moral tone of the people. It sets all 
their sympathies into wrong directions, and introduces 
a new set of objects to public notice. Idle parade and 
gewgaws take the place of solidly-useful matters ; men 
worship what destroys ; merit is estimated, not by the 



284 LOVE IS POWER. 

extent of good that a man does, but by his power of 
inflicting evil. The modest benefactors of their race 
are overlooked ; while praise is heaped upon him who 
has shown an unusual amount of perhaps merely ani- 
mal courage, or, at best, exercised ingenuity in inflict- 
ing suffering upon his fellow-creatures. 

7. In the progress of such a dispute with another 
nation the selfish feelings are called into powerful 
play. We wish for victory, and seek to obtain it, 
without the least regard to the merits of the case. 
"Our own country and cause, right or wrong," ia 
practically the maxim of all belligerent parties. This 
selfishness and injustice diffuse themselves into the 
administration of the government, and even into pri- 
vate affairs ; so that corruption, peculation and fraud, 
abound on all hands. In such a state of things all 
that conduces to moral progress is sensibly checked ; 
and it may be said that, for every year spent in war, 
we would require five to do away with its bad effects, 
and enable us to start at the point where we formerly 
were. 

8. It is not wonderful that war should be so ruin- 
ous ; for men are so constituted as to be benefited only 
by mutual kindness and a firm union, and not by doing 
each other harm. It is a great mistake to suppose 
even that we can be benefited, in the long run, by only 
consulting our own interests. A much greater mistake 
is to suppose that we can, as a rule, derive good from 
what does harm to our neighbors. All our highest 
gratifications are found in the eff'orts we make to give 
happiness to others. A nation, therefore, on the out- 
look for happiness to itself, ought to promote the 
benefit of its neighbors ; it should seek to form friendly 
relations with them; to produce an interchange of 
benefits by commerce and other means ; to do them, in 
short, all the good in its power. * 



LOVE IS POWEB. 285 

9. But now a policy of suspicion, attended with im- 
mense expense, is established among states. France 
keeps up an army and navy, lest Britain should some 
day fall upon her. Britain does the same, dreading 
some outbreak on the part of Prance. Ports are raised 
beside harbors, to protect shipping from these imagin- 
ary hostilities. Half the men who are at the prime of 
life are obliged to go into discipline as soldiers, for a 
month per annum, that they may be ready to repel 
any assault from their neighbors, who are drilling 
under the same terror for them. 

10. Thus money is misexpended, and human labor 
misapplied, to an enormous amount, from a mere senti- 
ment of jealousy, — a fear which actually engenders 
its own assailants. How strange that no people have 
ever yet been found capable of the gallantry of saying 
to a neighbor^ " We arm not, for we mean no harm, 
and wish to apprehend none. Here we offer you love, 
instead of hostility. You are too magnanimous, in 
such circumstances, to refuse the one or offer the 
other " ! No nation, civilized to the degree of those 
in western Europe, could withstand this. There is no 
nation but would, like Orlando, blush and hide its 
sword. 

11. There is nothing Quixotic in this doctrine. It 
proceeds upon the most familiar principles in human 
nature, namely, that an honest good-will generates 
the sam^in the bosoms to which it is addressed. 
Would governments but try the relaxation of an im'- 
port duty, instead of the putting a war-vessel into 
commission ; would they but hold out a friendly hand 
in any case of exigency, — such as occurred when 
Hamburgh was burnt, — instead of raising up jealous 
forts and martello towers, they would find Tiow much 
better it is to do good than to threaten or inflict evil, 
and how truly Love is Poweb. Chambers. 



286 



THE CHOLfiBIO FATHER. 



CXXII.—THE CHOLERIC FATHER. 



PiT'TANCE, n., a small allowanoe. 
O'ciLs (O'giy, o. t., to look at with Bide 

glanoes. 
Ri-CBUiT'iNa, ppr., raising troops. 



Thwart (a as in war), v. t., to «om« 
across; henoe to frustrate; todofaai. 
Jack'a-napes, n.y a monkey. 
Mu-Mijp'i-CBNCE, It., liberality. 



Vor practicing the voice in the level tones of ordinary oonversation, and forming a nat- 
Ufal, easy and coUoqnial style of reading, no exercise is more suitable than a lively, well- 
written dialogne. Readers, who enter into the spirit and humor of the following, can 
hardly CsU of giving it the proper effect. 

Capt, Absolute. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, 
and looking so well I Your sadden arrival at Bath 
made me apprehensive for your health. 

Sir Anthony. Very apprehensive, 1 dare say, Jack. 
What, you are recruiting here, hey ? 

Capt. A. Yes, sir ; I am on duty. 

Sir A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I 
did not expect it ; for I was going to write to you on 
a little matter of business. Jack, I have heen consid- 
ering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably 
not trouble you long. 

Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more 
strong and hearty ; and I pray fervently that you may 
continue so. 

Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all 
my heart. Well, then. Jack, I have been considering 
that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to 
plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible 
that the income of your commission, and what I have 
hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad 
of your spirit. 

Capt. A. Sir, you are very good. 

Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have 
xny boy make some figure in the world. I have re* 
solved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble inde- 
pendence. 

Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such 



THB CHOLEBIC FATHEB. 28T 

generosity makes the gratitude of reason more lively 
than the sensations even of filial affection. 

Sir A. I am glad you are so sensible of my atten- 
tion ; and you shall be master of a large estate in a 
few weeks. 

Capt A, Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude. 
I can not express the sense I have of your munifi* 
cence. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to 
quit the army ? 

Sir A, O, that shall be as your wife chooses. 

Capt. A. My wife, sir? 

Sir A. Ay, ay, settle that between you — settle that 
between you 

Capt A. A wife, sir, did you say ? 

Sir A. Ay, a wife — why, did not I mention her 
before ? 

Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir. 

Sir A. Upon my word, I must n't forget her, though I 
Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by 
a marriage, — the fortune is saddled with a wife; but I 
suppose that makes no difference ? 

Capt. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me I 

Sir A. What 's the matter? Just now you were all 
gratitude and duty. 

Capt. A. I was, sir ; you talked to me of independ- 
ence and a fortune, but not one word of a wife. 

Sir A. Why, what difference does that make ? Sir, 
if you have the estate, you must take it with the live 
stock on it, as it stands. 

Capt. A. If my happiness is to be the price, I must 
beg leave to decline the purchase. Pray, sir, who is 
the lady ? 

Sir A. What 's that to you, sir ? Come, give me 
your promise to love, and to marry her directly. 

Capt. A. Sure, sir, that 's not very reasonable, to 
summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of J 



288 THE CHOLERIC FATHER. 

Sir A. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in yon 
to object to a lady you know nothing of. 

Copt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once 
for all, that on this point I can not obey you. 

Sir A. Hark you. Jack I I have heard you for some 
time with patience ; I have been cool, —r quite cool ; 
but take care ; you know I am compliance itself, when 
I am not thwarted ; no one more easily led — when 
I have my own way ; but don't put me in a frenzy. 

Copt. A, Sir, I must repeat it ; in this I can not obey 
you. 

Sir A. Now, shoot me, if ever I call you Jack again 
while I live 1 

Copt. A, Nay, sir, but hear me. 

Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word — not a word I — not 
one word I So, give me your promise by a nod ; and 
I '11 tell you what. Jack, — I mean, you dog, — if you 
don't 

CapL A. "What, sir, promise to link myself to some 
mass of ugliness ; to 

Sir A. Sir, the lady shall be as ugly as I choose ; she 
shall have a hump on each shoulder ; she shall be as 
crooked as the crescent ; her one eye shall roll like the 
bull's in Cox's mu-se'um"; she shall have a skin like a 
mummy, and the beard of a Jew ; — she shall be all 
this, sir ! yet I '11 make you ogle her all day, and sit 
up all night to write sonnets on her beauty I 

Capt A. This is reason and moderation, indeed I 

Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy! — no grin- 
ning, jackanapes 1 

Capt A, Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor 
for mirth in my life. 

Sir A. 'T is false, sir ! I know you are laughing in 
your sleeve: I know you'll grin when I am gone, 
sir I 

Capt, A, Sir, I hope I know my duty better. 



THE CHOLERIC FATHEB. 289 

Sir A. None of your passion, sir I none of your vio- 
lence, if you please I It won't do with me, I promise 
you. - 

Capt, A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. 

Sit A. I know you are in a passion in your heart ; 
I know you are, you hypocritical young dog I But it 
won't do I 

Capt A. Nay, sir, upon my word 

Sir A, So, you will fly out I Can't you be cool, like 
me? What good can passion do? Passion is of no 
service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing repro- 
bate I There, you sneer again ! Don't provoke me ! 
But you xely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, 
you dog 1 You play upon the meekness of my dispo- 
sition ! Yet, take care ; the patience of a saint may 
be overcome at last I But, mark ! I give you six hours 
and a half to consider of this : if you then agree, 
without any condition, to do every thing on earth that 
I choose, why, I may, in time, forgive you. If not, 
don't enter the same hemisphere with me ; tion't dare 
to breath the same air, or use the same light, with me ; 
but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own ! I '11 
strip you of your commission ; I '11 lodge a five-and- 
three-pence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live 
on the interest ! I '11 disown you, I '11 disinherit you 1 
I '11 never call you Jack again I {Exit,) 

Capt A. Mild, gentle, considerate father I I kiss 
your hand. R. B. Sheridan. (1761— isie.) 



I MY young friend, be obstinately just ; 
Indulge no passion, and betray no trust. 
Let never man be bold enough to say. 
Thus, and no further, shall my passion stray : 
The first crime past compels us into more, 
And^ guilt grows yb/e, that was but choice before. 

Aarok Hill. (1684 ^ 1749.) 



290 TO-KORBOW. 



CXXin. — TO-MORROW. 



OvLL, V. t., to cheat ; to triok. 
Ab'kaiit (ar-) a,, rile ; downright 
AifDrr, n., a final aooonnt. 
Pa'tri-arcb (-ark), n., the head of a 
family or ohnroh. 



Pkh'u-bt, «., porerty. 
Sin'ti-ksl, n., a soldier on guard. 
Im-plbad'ed, pp,, aocmed ; sued 
Fan-tab'tic, a,, fanoifnl. 
Hood'winked, a,, blinded. 



In ■* Go to^ to is proDonnoed too. Bo not say morrer tot mor^row, Jnsttee is 
spoken of as ** hoodwinked,** because the ancient painters peraooified her with a bandag» 
arer her eyes as emblematical ct her Impartiality. The following admirable rsn^ib rf 
should be careftilly ocnmed and prsctioedk 

To-morrow, didst thou say ? 
Methongbt I heard Horatio say, To-morrow ! 
Go to — I will not hear of it To-morrow ? 
It is a sharper, — who stakes pennry 
' Against thy plenty ; — takes thy ready cash. 
And pays thee naught but wishes, hopes, and promises. 
The currency of idiots; — injurious bankrupt, 
That gulls the easy creditor I 

To-morrow ? 

It is a period no where to be found 

In all the hoary registers of Time, — 

Unless perchance in the fooV 8 calendar. 

Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society 

With those who own it. No, my dear Horatio, 

'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father ; 

Wrought of such stuff as dreams are.; and as bftseless 

As the fantastic visions of the evening. 

But soft, my friend, arrest the present moments, — - 
For, be assured, they all are Arrant telltales ; 
And though their flight be silent, and their paths 
Trackless as the winged couriers of the air, 
They post to Heaven, and there record thy folly; 
' Because, though stationed on the important watch, 
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, 
J)idst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved. 

And know, for th^^t thpu slumberedst on thy guard, 
Thou ^balt l^c inade \o answer at the bar 



SPECIAL EXEBCIBES IN ELOCUHOV. ^ 291 

For every fugitive ; and when thou thus 

Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal 

Of hoodwinked Justice,— t(7/io shall tell thy audit f 

Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio ; 

Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings ; 

'T is of more worth than kingdoms I far more precious 

Than all the crimson treasures of life's foun 

I let it not elude thy grasp,- — 

But, like the good old patriarch* npon rec'ord. 

Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee. 

Nathaniel Cottok. (I707 -« I78t.> 



CXXIV —SPECIAL EXERCISES IN ELOCUTION. 

FART HLf 



^Bi«t or Fi'brb, n.f a slender thread. 
8cep'ter or Scep'tbx, n., a short staff 

borne foy kings. 
BaxufvixSf n. pi,, a flesh-market 
BapIne n., act of plunder. 
Er'i-THBT, n., an adjective denoting a 

quality. 
Ex-chbq'uxb (eks-chek'er), n., an 

English court for revenue cases. 
Pab'a-site, n., one who fawns on the 

Tieh. 

Pronoonoe Schiller, Shil'Ur ; JFallenttein, VaVlenstine (a as in /or.) 



Om'i-koits, a,, foreboding ill. 
Pal'pa-blb, a.f tiiat may be felt> 

gross ; evident. 
Ep'i-taph (ep'e-taf ), n., an inscriptiDn 

on a tomb. 
Col-lo'qui-al, a., pertaining to or 

nsed in conversation. 
Au-bo'ba, n., the dawning light \ the 

morning. 
Um-ix-peachbd', a., not accused. 



Professor. In our last conversation, we considered 
i;he obTions fact that the voice may be exercised in 
three ranges, or pitches, namely, the high, the middle^ 
iand the 2ote;. It is in the middle range that it has the 
greatest variety; and this range includes the tones 
which we habitually make use of when we speak to a 
person at a moderate distance from us. 

* An allusion to JacoVs wrestling with the angel (Genesis, chap. 32, 
verses 24, 26i) Jacob says : ** 1 will not let thee go until thou bless me." 
See the beautiful lines, page 189. 

\ For Part I., see page 91 ; Part II., page 195. 



292 SPECIAL EXERCISES IN ELOCUTIOK. 

Student Our present tones, as I understand It, are 
in this middle pitch. Walker tells us that the voice 
naturally slides into a higher key when we want to 
speak louder, but not so easily into a lower key when 
we would speak more softly. 

Pro. Yes ; experience shows us that we can raise 
our voice to any pitch it is capable of; but the same 
experience tells us that it requires much art and prac- 
tice to bring the voice to a lower key when it is once 
raised too high. 

8tu. What am I to understand by the 6Wo4und 
quality of voice? 

Pro, The word is made up of two Latin words, o^r^ 
and ro4un'do, and literally means with a round mouth. 
It was 'first introduced, I believe, by Dr. James Rush, 
in his work on the Voice ; and he simply meant by it 
that ampler middle tone which one might employ be- 
fore a large public audience, as distinguished from the 
more colloquial pitch which we might use in address* 
ing a friend at the breakfast table. The following 
passage, from Lord Chatham's speech, of November 18, 
1777, on the American war, ought to be delivered 
with the orotund body and fullness, although, with the 
exception of the last impassioned sentence, it should 
be given in the middle pitch. Try it. 

8tu, The difficulty will be, I think, to preserve thai 
middle quality of voice. I fear that, in aiming at the 
orotund, I shall reach the high; but I will do my best: 

** You can not, I venture to say it, you can not conquer America. 
What is your present situation there ? We do not know the worst ; 
but we know that in three campaigns we have done nothing, and 
suffered much. You may swell every expense, and strain every 
effort, still more extravagantly; accumulate every assistance you 
can beg or borrow ; traffic and barter with every little pitiful Ger- 
man prince, that sells and sends his subjects to the shambles of a 
foreign country; your efforts are forever vain and im'potent,-^ 
doubly so from this mei^cenary aid on which you rely ; for it irri- 



SPECIAL EXEBCISES IN ELOCUTIOK. 293 

totes to an incuraUe resentment the minds of jour enemies, to over- 
mn them with the sordid sons of rapine and of plunder, devoting 
them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling crueltj. If I 
were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop 
was landed in my country, I nkyer would lay down my arms i — 
never! never! never!" 

Pro. In order to acquire strength in the middle 
ftoneSy it is well to practice the voice in passages like 
the preceding, and some' from Cicero's speeches, pre- 
serving all the energy of which we are capable in the 
middle range, but not suffering the voice to rise to a 
very higfi pitch. Here is something in a different 
vein ; but, in the delivery, the voice should be in the 
middle pitch, and have an orotund smoothness and 
purity of tone : 

" I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ; 

You can not rob me of f^ Nature ^s grace ; 
You can not shut the windows of the sky. 

Through which Auro-ra shows her brightening &ce ; 
You can not bar my constant feet to trace 

The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve. 
Let Health my nerves and finer fibers brace, 
And I their toys to the great children leave : 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave ! " 

Byron's Apostrophe to the Ocean affords a good 
.exercise in orotund delivery. Select, now, a passage 
to suit your own taste. 

Stu. I will read Job's noble description of the war- 
•torse, — taking Noyes's translation : 

" Hast thou given the horse strength? 
Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? 
Hast thou taught him to bound like the locust ? 
How majestic his snorting ! how terrible ! 
He paweth in the valley ; he exulteth in his strength, 
And Tusheth into the midst of arms. 
He laugheth at fear ; he trembleth not, 
And tumeth not back from the sword. 
Against him rattleth the quiver> 
26* 



294 SnCIAJL EZEBdSEB IK ELOCimOlI. 

The flanung speBir, and the kooe. 

With nige and faiy he devometh the ground ; 

He standeth not still when the trumpet aoundetfa. 

He saith among the tmmpeta. Aha I aha ! 

And nraiSBth the battle a&r off, — 

The thunder of the captainB, and the waindioot." 

Pro. The reply of Grattan to Cony fomishes Hie 

followiBg impassioned example : 

• 

<< The right honorable gentleman has called me ' an unimpeached 
traitor.' I ask, why not ' traitor,' unqualified by any epithet? I 
will tell him : it was because he dare not ! It was the act of a 
eow»l,who »»» hi. »m to otrike.lmt Iu» not ooo^se to give 
the blow ! I will not call him villain, because it would be unpar- 
liamentary, and he is a privy councilor. I will not call him fool, 
because he happens to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. But I say 
he is one who has abused the privil^e of Parliament, and the &ee* 
dom of debate, to the uttering language which, if spoken out of this 
House, I should answer only with a blow ! I care not how high his 
situation, how low his character, how contemptible his speech; 
whether a privy councilor or a parasite, — my answer would be a 
blow l" 

Portia's celebrated address, from Shakspeare's Mer- 
chant of Venice, affords one of the most beautiful 
exercises in the language for a pure orotund delivery, 
in middle pitch, unbroken by passion. It can not be 
too often and carefully practiced : 

<< The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed : 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ; 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it beeomes 
TheMthroned monarch better than his crown : 
His scepter shows the force of temporal powefi 
The attribute to awe and majesty. 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above the scepter^ sway, — 
It is enthroned in the hearts of king9, 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest GU^'s 



SPECIAL EXEBCISES IN ELOCUnON* 295 

Whea mercy deasons jmtioe : therefore, Jew, 
Though juetioe he thy plea, ooiuider thui, — 
That, in the ooorse ofvjuBtiee, none of us 
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 
And that same prayer .doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy." 

But we have now to consider the question of low 
pitch. " There are few voices," says Walker, " so per- 
fect as to combine the three ranges, or, in other words, 
a full compass of voice ; those which have a good lower 
range often wanting an upper range, and those which 
have a good upper range often wanting a lower range. 
Care should be taken to improve that part of the voice 
which is most deficient." The following beautiful pas- 
sage, from Coleridge's translation of Schiller's " Wal- 
lenstein," presents an example for practice. It begins 
in quite a low pitch, in the tone — almost a whisper — 
of tearful anguish and despondency ; but at the eigh- 
teenth line the voice rises; and the twentieth and 
twenty-first lines should be delivered in the high pitch 
of abandonment to an overmastering sentiment of 
enthusiasm and regret : 

** He is gone — is dust ! 
He, the more fortunate ! yea, he hath finished ! 
For him there is no longer any future. 
His life is bright — bright without spot it was^ 
And can not cease to be. No ominous hour 
Knocks at his door with tidingis of mishap. 
Far off is he, above desire and fear ; 
No more submitted to the change and chance 
Of the unsteady planets. 0, His well 
With him ! but who knows what the coming hour, 
Veiled in thick darkness, brings for %ls? 

This anguish wiU be wearied down, I know ; — " 
What pang is permanent with man ? From the highest, 
As from the vilest thing of every day, 
He learns to wean himself ; for the strong hours 
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost 
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life* 



296 SPECIAL EXEBCIBBB IN ELOCUTIOK. 

For, ! he etood beside me, like mjr jouih, — 
Tiuisfoimed for me ihe real to a dream, 
Clothing the palpable and the familiar 
With golden eshalations of the ditwn ! 
Whatever fortunes wait mj future toils, 
The beautiful is yanished — and returns not." 

fiiw. There is a well-known poem, by James Shirley,^ 
which seems to me to afford an example of low pitch : 

« The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate ; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings ! 
Scepter, crown, 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crook'ed scythe and spade." 

Pro. The closing sentences from the address of the 
young and gifted Robert Emmett, who was hung, in 
1803, in Dublin, having been convicted of high trea- 
son against the British crown, afford another appropri- 
ate example of low pitch : 

" I am going to my cold and silent grave. My lamp of life ib 
nearly extinguished. My race is run. The grave opens to receive 
me, — and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one request to ask, at 
my departure, from this world ; — it is the charity of its silence. 
Let no man write my epitaph ; for, as no man who knows my mo- 
tives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse 
them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my 
tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do 
justice to my character. When my country takes her place among 
the nations of the earth, — then, and not till then, — let my epitaph 
he written ! I have done. ' ' 

Stu. Thomas Moore's lines, on the death of the same 
Robert Emmett, are in a like subdued strain : 

<' ! breathe not his name ; let it sleep in the shade. 
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid : 
Sad, silent and dark, be the tears that we shed. 
As the night-dew that f&Ua on the grass o'er his head. 



SPECIAL EZEBCISBS IN ELOCUTIOK. 297 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weepe 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls." 

Pro. The following passage from Young's Night 
Thoughts has been often quoted as an appropriate 
exercise in low pitch : 

*< Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne. 
In ray less majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden scepter o'er a slumbering world. 
Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound ! 
Nor eye nor listening ear can object find. 
Creation sleeps. 'T is as the general pulse ' 
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause, 
An awful pause, prophetic of her end." 

8tu, What do you understand by a mon'otone ? 

Pro, A monotone is intonation without change of 
pitch ; that is, a fullness of tone without ascent or 
descent on the scale. The following passage, from 
Milton, exemplifies the tone : 

'< High on a throne of royal state, which far 
Outshone the wealth of Ormus or of Ind, — 
Or where the gorgeous East, with richest handi 
Showers, on her king^ barbaric, pearl, and gold, — 
Satan exalted sat." 

The tone is often appropriate in solemn and sublime 
descriptions ; and there are many passages in the Book 
of Job in which it may Jbe employed with suitable 
efiect ; as in the following : 

<* Fear came upon me, and trembling. 
Which made all my bones to shake. 
Then a spirit passed before my eyes,— 
The hair of my flesh stood up ; 
It stood still, but I could not discern the fonn thereof: 
An image was before my eyes ; 
There was silence, and I heard a voice saying. 
Shall mortal man be more just than God? 
Shall a man be mpre pure than his Maker? " 



298 



COLUMBUS DISCOVEBS THE NEW WORLD. 



CXXV.— COLUMBUS DISCOVERS TBDE NEW WORLD. 

Peohb, «.» inclined ; bending down. Suati-tt (swar-), n., sweetneak 
Trah'soeht (-ailent), a., fleeting. Ab-o-mat'ic (ar-) a., fragrant. 

IM'TMMU^, «., strained oloae. O-bi-bm'tal, a., eastern. 

In his ooBpntatioiM OcINubInii supposed thai the iriand ef Cl-pen'go, or Jap-aa', n 
fa about ttie ritaaticm oi Fi»jrida j and at this island he hoped first to aniTe. 

1. The breeze ^ad been fresh all day, with more sea 
than usual, and they had made great progress. At 
sunset they had stood again to the west, and were 
plowing the waves at a rapid rate, the Pinta keeping 
the lead, from her superior sailing. The greatest ani- 
mation prevailed throughout the E^ps ; not an eye was 
closed that night. As the evening darkened, Colum- 
bus took his station on the top of the cabin of his ves- 
sel, ranging his eye along the dusky horizon, and 
maintaining an intense and unremitting *watch. 

2. About ten o'clock he thought he beheld a light 
glimmering at a great distance. Fearing that his 
eager hopes might deceive him, he called to Pedro, a 
gentleman of the king's bedn^hamber, and inquired 
whether he saw a light in that direction. The latter 
replied in the affirmative. Columbus, yet doubtful 
whether it might not be some delusion of the fancy, 
called still another, and made the same inquiry. By 
the time the latter had ascended the round-house the 
light had disappeared. 

3. They saw it once or twice afterward, in sudden 
and passing gleams, as if it were a torch in the bark 
of a fisherman, rising and sinking with the waves, or 
in the hand of some person on shore, borne up and 
down as he walked from house to house. So transient 
and uncertain were these gleams, -that few attached 
any importance to them. Columbus, however, consid- 
ered them as certain signs of land, and, moreover, that 
the land was inhabited. 



COLUMBUS DISCOYEBS THE NEW WOBLD. 299 

4. They contmued their course until two in the 
uorning, when a gun from the Pinta gave the' joyful 
fiignal of land. It was first discovered by a mariner 
named Eodrigo; but the reward was afterward ad- 
judged to Columbus, for having previously perceived 
the light. The land was now clearly seen about two 
leagues distant ; whereupon they took in sail, and lay 
to, waiting impatiently for the dawn. 

5. The thoughts and feelings of Columbus, in this 
little space of time, must have been tumultuous and 
intense. At length, in spite of every difficulty and 
danger, he had accoQiplished his object ; the great mys- 
tery of the ocean was revealed ; his theory, which had 
been the scoff of sages, was triumphantly established ; 
he had secured to himself a glory which must be as 
durable as the world itself. 

6. It is difficult to conceive the feelings of such a 
man at such a moment ; or the conjectures which must 
have thronged upon his mind, as to the land before 
him, covered with darkness I That it was fruitful was 
evident, from the vegetables which floated from its 
shores. He thought, too, that he perceived the fra- 
grance of aromatic groves. The moving light he had 
beheld proved it the residence of man. But what were 
its inhabitants ? 

T. Were they like those of the other parts of the 
globe ? or were they some strange and monstrous race, 
such as the imagination was prone in those days to 
give to all remote and unknown regions? Had he 
come upon some wild island far in the Indian Sea ? or 
was this the famed Cipango itself, the object of his 
golden fencies? A thousand speculations of the kind 
must have swarmed upon him, as, with his anxious 
crews, he waited for the night to pass away ; wonder- 
ing whether the morning light would reveal a savage 
wilderness, or dawn upon spicy groves, and glittering 



300 HOW TO HAVE WHAT WB LIKE. 

fanes, and gilded eitieS; and all the splendor of oriental 
civilization. 

8. It was on Friday morning, the 12tli of October, 
1492, that Columbus first beheld the New World. As 
the day dawned, he saw before him a level island, sev- 
eral leagues in extent, and covered with trees like a 
continual orchard. Though apparently uncultivated, 
it was populous, for the inhabitants were seen issu- 
ing from all parts of the woods, and running to the 
shore. 

9. Columbus niade signal for the ships to cast anchor, 
and the boats to be loanned and armed. He entered 
his own boat, richly attired in scarlet, and holding the 
royal standard. As he approached the shore, he was 
delighted with the purity and suavity of the atmos^ 
phere, the crystal transparency of the sea, and the 
extraordinary beauty of the vegetation. On landing, 
he threw himself on his knees, kissed the earth, and 
with tears of joy returned thanks to God. 

WASfflNGTON Irving. 



OXXVL— HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE. 



At'tic, n., the upper story. 
Al'che-mist (-ke-), n., one skiUed in 

occult or secret chemistry. 
Cok'jur-eb (kun'jur-er), n., a jnggler. 
BANc'trM SAKc-To'RrK (Latin), the 

holy of holy places. 
En-co-xi-as'tic, a., full of praise. 



Tbaks-mu-ta'tion, n., change into an- 
other substance or form. 

E-Lix'iR Vi'TiE, It., an imaginary liq- 
uor for transmuting metals int« 
gold. 

SrB-LixED',pj9., brought into a statt 
of yapor by heat. 



Do not say mettla for tnet'alt ; kine for coin ; kiUlea for kii'tlea* 

Hard by a poet's attic lived a chemist, 

Or alchemist, who had a mighty 

Faith in the elixir vitae ; 
And, though unflattered by the dimmest 

Glimpse* of success, kept credulously groping 



HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE. 301 

And grubbing in his dark vocation ; 

Stupidly hoping 
To find the art of changing metals, 
And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles, 
By mystery of transmutation. 

Our starving poet took occasion 

To seek this conjurer's abode ; 

Not with encomiastic ode, 
Or laudatory dedication, 

But with an offer to impart. 

For twenty pounds, the secret art 
Which should procure, without the pain 

Of metals, chemistry, and fire, 
What he so long had sought in vain, 

And gratify his heart's desire. 

The money paid, our bard was hurried 

To the philosopher's sanctorum. 
Who, as it were sublimed and flurried 

Out of his chemical decorum. 
Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his 
Crucibles, retort, and furnace. 

And cried, as he secured the door. 
And carefully put to the shutter, 

" Now, now, the secret, I implore I 
For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter I'' 

With grave and solemn air, the poet 
Cried : " List I 0, list, for thus I show it : 
Let this plain truth those ingrates strike. 

Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave : 
That we may all have what we like. 

Simply by liking what we have I " 

HoBACE Smith. (1779— 1849.> 
28 



802 KT father's loo cabin. 



CXXVn.— MY FATHER'S LOG CABIN. 



ffAUKT (oil like a in/or), n., bitter re- 
proaeh ; nplwaiding words. 



pRm'i-nys, a., first ; originaL 
An'HV-Aii, «., eomiiig yearly. 

Do not say $kalUr tot tkatlow, FrooouDoe socri^e, tac'ri-Jix, 

1. It is only shallow-minded pretenders who either 
make distinguished origin matter of personal merit, or 
obscure orijgin matter of personal reproach. Taunt 
and scoffing at the humble condition of early life aflfect 
nobody in this country but those who are foolish 
enough to indulge in them ; and they are generally 
sufficiently punished by public rebuke. A man who is 
not ashat^ed of himself need not be ashamed of his 
early condition. 

2. It (lid not happen to me to be bom in a log 
cabin ; but my elder brothers and sisters were bom in 
a log cabin, which was raised aimd the snow-drifts of 
New Hampshire, at a period so eany, thai wn^d the 
smoke first rose from its rude chimney, and curled 
over the frozen hills, there was no similar evidence 
of a white man's habitation betweefi it and the settle- 
ments on the rivers of Canada. 

3. . Its remains still exist. I makei to it an annual 
visit. I can*y my children to it, to te^cli them the 
hardships ensured by the generations whichTiave gone 
before them. I love to dwell on the tender recollec- 
tions, the kindred ties; the early affections, and the 
touching narratives and incidents, which mingle with 
all I know of this primitive family abgde. 

4. I weep to think that n0ni3 of those who inhabited 
it are now among the living ; and if ever I am ashamed 
of it, or if I ever fail in affectionate veneration for 
him who reared it, and defended.it against savage 
violence and destruction, — chensned all the domestic 
virtues beneath its roof, and, tlrrdS^ the fire and 
blood of a seven years' revolutionary war, shrank 



nCPOBTAKCE OF HABIT. 303 

from no danger, no toil, no sacrifice, to save his coun« 
try, and to raise his children to a condition better 
than his own, — may my name and the name of my 
posterity be blotted forever from the memory of 
mankind! Danubl Wsbsteb. 



CXXVm. — IMPORTANCE OP HABIT. 



WsBirca, V, t., to ptill with a twist 
Pboxb'nbss, n,f habitual difposition. 
AVX-LANCHB (-lansh), n,, a maM of 

snow sliding down a mountain. 
jH-Di-yiD-i7-AL'i-TTy fi., Separate ez- 

jstenoe. 



IiT^TB-GRAL, a., wholo ; entire. 
Ds-Yi-A'noir, n,, a turning aside from 

the way. 
Bb-tolt'ino (-Tolt- or -Tolt-), a,f 

shocking. 
Wont's!) (wnnt'ed), a,, aoenstomed. 



Jfrooovaaee Bnmgham, Broom. Bemember that t. e. steods for id et< (Latin for 
MatU), 

1. Man, it has been said, is a bundle of habits ; and 
habit is second nature. A celebrated Italian poet had 
80 strong an opinion -as to the power of repetition iD. 
act and thought, that he said, ''All is habit in mankind, 
even virtue itself." Butler, in his "Analogy," im- 
presses the importance of careful self-discipline and 
firm resistance to temptation, as tending to make vir- 
tue habitual ; so that at length it may become more 
easy to be good than to give way to sin. " As habits 
belonging to the body," he says, " are produced by 
external acts, so habits of the mind are produced by 
the execution of inward practical purposes, — i, €., car- 
rying them into act, or acting upon them, — the prin- 
ciples of obedience, veracity, justice, and charity." 

2. And again, Lord Brougham says, when enforcing 
the immense importance of training and example in 
youth, " I trust every thing, under God, to habit, on 
which, in all ages, the lawgiver, as well as the school- 
master, has mainly placed his reliance;-— habit, which 
makes every thing easy, and casts the diflSculties upon 
the deviation from a wonted course." Thus, make 



S04 IMPORTANCE OF HABIT. 

sobriety a habit, and intemperance will be hatefol; 
make prudence a habit, and reckless profligacy will 
become revolting to every principle of conduct which 
regulates the life of the individual. 

3. Hence the necessity for the greatest care and 
watchfulness against the inroad of any evil habit ; for 
the character is always weakest at that point at which 
it has once given way; and it is long before a principle 
restored can become so firm as one that has never 
been moved. It is a fine remark of a Russian writer, 
that " Habits are a necklace of pearls : untie the knot, 
and the whole unthreads." 

4. Wherever formed, habit acts involuntarily andl 
without efibrt ; and it is only when you oppose it that 
you find how powerful if has become. What is done 
once and again, soon gives facility and proneness. The 
habit at first-may seem to have no more strength than 
a spider's web ; but, once formed, it binds as with a 
chain of iron. The small events of life, taken singly, 
may seem exceedingly unimportant, ,like snow that 
falls silently, flake by flake ; yet, accumulated, these 
snow-flakes form the avalanche. 

5. Self-respect, self-help, application, industry, integ- 
rity, — all are of the nature of habits, not beliefs. 
Principles, in fact, are but the names which we assign 
to habits ; for the principles are words, but the habits 
are the things themselves, — benefactors or tyrants, 
according as they are good or evil. It thus happens 
that, as we grow older, a portion of our free activity 
and individuality becomes suspended in habit; our 
actions become of the nature of fate, and we are 
bound by the chains which we have woven around 
ourselves.* 

6. It is, indeed, scarcely possible to over-estimate 
the importance of training the young to virtuous 
habits. In them they are the easiest formed, and, 



IHFOBTANCE OF HABIT. 305 

tfrhen formed, they last for life. Like letters cut on 
the bark of a tree, they grow and widen with age, 
<' Train up a child in the way he should go, and when 
he, is old he will not depart from it." The beginning 
holds within it the end ; the first start on the road of 
life determines the direction and the destination of the 
journey. As habit strengthens with age, and charaC' 
ter becomes formed, any turning into a new path 
becomes more and more difficult. Hence it is often 
harder to unlearn than to learn ; and for this reason 
the Grecian flute-player was justified, who charged 
double fees to those pupils who had been taught by 
an inferior master. 

7. To uproot an old habit is sometimes a more pain^ 
fill thing, and vastly more difficult, than to wrench out 
a tooth. Try and reform an habitually indolent, or im- 
provident, or drunken person, and, in a large majority 
of cases, you will fail; for the habit, in each case, has 
wound itself in and through the life, until it has become 
an in'tegral part of it, and can not be uprooted. Hence 
the wisest habit of all is the habit of care in the forma- 
tion of good habits. Even happiness itself may become 
habitual. There is a habit of looking at the bright side 
of things, and also of looking at the dark side. 

8. Dr. Johnson has said that the habit of looking at 
the best side of a thing is worth more to a man than 
% thousand pounds a year ; and we possess the power, | 
t6 a great extent, of so exercising the will as to direct 
the thoughts upon objects calculated to yield happi- 
ness and improvement, rather than their opposites. 
In this way the habit of happy thought may be made 
to spring up like any other habit. And to bring up 
men or women with a genial nature of this sort, a good 
temper, and a happy frame of mind, is perhaps of even 
more importance, in many cases, than to per-fect' them 

in much knowledge and many accomplishments. 

26* 



306 MOUliiT SINAI. 



CXXIX. — MOUNT SINAI. 



BuLAK, a., exposed ta wind or oold. 

THAyEL-BB or I&A.y'EIr-LBB, ft., ODO 

who trayela. 
^BAK, n.f a sharply pointed hill* 



G^BAir'iTB, n,f a hard roek. 
Por'NA-cLB, n., a summit. 
Gk-og'ba-pheb, n., one skilled hi 
geography. 



AToid aayhig Mrub for thrub, Pronoance Sinaif SVn& ; Ararat^ Ar'a^at. 

1. I BTAOT) upon the ver y pea k of Sinai , where Mos^ds 
stood when he talked with the Almighty. Can thia 
bej^r is it a mere d ream? Can this naked rock have 
been the witness of that gr eat in terview between man 
and his Maker ? — where, amid thunder and lightnin g, 
and a fearfui_ quaking'of the mountiiin, the ilmigUty 
gave to "his chosen peop4e the precious tables oi nis 
law, — those hiles of "infinite wisdom and goodness, 
which, to this day, best teach man his duty Toward 
God, his neighbor and himself? 

2. The scenes of many of the incidents recorded in 
the Bible 'are extremely uncertain. Hi storians and 
geographers place the garden of Eden, the paradise 
of our first parents, in difierent parts of Asia ; and they' 
do not agree upon the site of the tower of Babel, iE^ 
mountain~or Ararat, and many of the most interesting 



places in the Holy Land ; but of Sinai there IsTio 
doubt. This is the holy mountain ; and among all the 
stupendous works of nature hbt a place can"l&e selected 
m6fe"^fed. for the exhibition of Almighty powefT"'' 

3. I have stood upon the summit of the giant Etna, 
and looted over ?he clouds floating beneath it, upon 
the bold scenery of Sicily, and the distant mountains 
of Calabria; upon the top of Vesuvius, and looked 
down upon the waves of lava, and the ruined and half 
recovered cities at its foot ; but they are nothing com- 
pared with the terrific solitudes and bleak majjBsty of 
Sinai. 

4. An observing traveler has well called it "a pej> 



iJ>I>BES8 TO AN EGTFTIAN IfTJlOfT. 



307 



feet sea of desolation." Not a tree, a shrub; or blade 
of grass, is to be'seen npon the bare and nigged sides 
of innumerable mountains, heaving their naked sunf- 
mits'to the skies; while the crumbling masses of gran- 
ite around, and the distant view of the Syrian desert, 
with its boundless waste of sands, form the wildest 
and most dreary, the most te rrific and desolate picture, 
that imagination can conceive. ^ ' " ^ 

5. The level surface of the very top, or pinnacle, is 
about sixty feet square. There, on the same spot 
where they were given, I opened the sacred book in 
which those laws are recorded, and read them with a 
deeper feeling of devotion, as if I were standing nearer, 
anSr receiving; them more directly from, the Deity 
himself; J. L. Stephens. 



CXXX. —ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY- 



Elf, n.f an imaginary spirit. 
Poth'er (the th yooal, aa in breathe), 

n., a stir ; a bostle. 
jyuituYf n., one who is dnmb. 
In-cox-ku^ki-ca-tiyb, a., nnsooial. 
PodT'HU-xous, a., bom or done after 

one's death. 



Tbg'u-icevt, n., a ooyering. 
SVcRE-CT, n,f state of being hidden. 
Hob'a-nob or Hob'nob, v., to toueh 

glasses and drink healths. 
Gi-gan'tio (ji-gan-), a., mighty. 
Ev-A-NEs'cENCE, n., a vanishing. 
Arch'i-tect (ark'e-), n,, a builder. 



The Mem-no'ni-tim was the palace of King Memnon, in Thebes. The pyramid of 
Cheops (pronoonoed Kefops) stili stands, its base ooYering about eleyen acres. The 
pyramid of Ge-phrfi^nCs is somewhat smaller. In finmt of it is the great Sphinx (pro- 
nounced sjlnx), a stupendous figure, having the body of a lion and a human head. There 
was a colossal statue of Memnon, from which music was said to proceed at sunrise. Te 
this the poet alludes in the tenth stansa. 

And thou hiast walked about — how strange a story! — 
In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago ; 

When the Memno'nium was in 8^1 its glory, 
And Time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stQpendous, 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak I for thou Ipng enough hast acted dummy ; 
Thou hast a tongue^ — come, let us hear its tane; 



1 



ji08 ABDBESS TO AN EGYPTIAN HUHMT. 

Thoa 'rt standiDg on thy legs, i^bove ground, Mummy I 

Revisrting the glimpses of the moon, 
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 
But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. 

Tell us, for doubtless thou canst recollect. 

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame f 

Was Cheops or Ce-phre nes architect 
Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? 

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden 
By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade ; 

Then say what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? 

Perhaps thou wert a priest, and hast been dealing 

In human blood, and horrors past revealing. 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat. 
Has hob-a-nobbed with 'Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ; 

Or defied thine own to let Queen Di'do pass ; 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch, at the great temple's dedication. 

1 need not ask thee if that hand, when armed. 
Has any Roman soldier mauled or knuckled ; 

For thou wert dead and buried, and embalmed, 
Ere R5m'ulus and Re'mus had been suckled I 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy pri-me'val race was run. 

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, 

How the world looked when it was fresh and youn^, 
And the great deluge still had left it green. 

Or was it then so old that history's pages 

Contained no record of its early ages ? 



ADDRESS TO AN EGTFTIAN MUiaCY. 309 

Still silent, incommauicative elf? 

Art swom to secrecy ? — then keep thy vows ; 
But prithee tell us something of thyself, — 

Beveal the secrets of thy prison-house ! 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, 
What hast thou seen, what strange adventures numbered f 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 
4Ve have, above grouod, seen some strange mutations ; 

The Roman empire has begun and ended, — 

New worlds have risen, — we have lost old nations, 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled i 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head. 
When the great Persian conqueror, Camby'ses, 

Marched armies o'er thy tomb, with thundering tread, — 
Overthrew 0-si'ris, O'rus, A'pis, I'sis, 

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder. 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed. 

The nature of thy private life unfold : 
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast. 

And tears adown thy dusty cheek have rolled. 
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face f 
What was thy name and station, age and race ? 

Statue of flesh I — immortal of the dead ! — 

Imperishable type of evanescence I — 
PSsthumous man> who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecayed within our presence ! — 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning. 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning! 

Why should this worthless tegument endure, 

If its undying guest be lost forever ? 
O ! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 

In living virtue ; that, when both must sever. 
Although corruption may our frame consume. 
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! Hob. Sioth. 



810 LIFE. 



CXXXI-^LIRB. 



Ab'id (ar^id), a., dry ; parched. 
Gob'geoits (gor'jtts)} a*> splendid. 
Tu'ber, n., a ilesfay stem, formed un- 
der gronnd and filled witk starch. 
lioN^AD, n.f an atom. 
Pbt'bi-fibd, a.f -changed to stone. 
CoH-smc-MA'noB, n., completion. 



Gat'a-loove (-log), n., a list. 
Mi-nutb', o., very small. 
Vx-TAL'i-Tr, n,, the principle ef life. 
Pab>-a-6it'ic, m,f growing on adoother 

plant or animal. 
An-^-hal'cvlb, n., a minnte animal. 
Ap-pbb'ciatb, «. t., to valne duly. 



Ayoid saying exibit for em-kWit ; inBtx for in'MeetM ; tf^pt for <<ep(ft«. In tubers 
4ur*ingtPerypet'u-€U, dewed, kc^ give long u or etc its y sound. 

1. Op all miracles the most wonderful is that of 
life — the common, daily life which we carry with ns, 
and which every where surronnds us. The siln and 
stars, the blue firmament, day and night, the ti^^ and 
seasons, are as nothing compared with it. Life — the 
soul of the world, but for which c reation were not 1 
It is life which is the grand glory of the world. It was, 
indeedj^ the consummation of creative power, at which 
the morning stars sang together for jo£. Is not the 
sun glorious, because there are living eyes to be glad- 
dened by his beams ? Is not the fresh air delicious, 
because there are living creatures to inhale and enjoy 
it? Are not odors fragrant, and sounds sweety and 
colors gorgeQUS, because there is the living sensation 
to appreciate them? 

2. Without life, what were they all ? What were a 
Creator himself, without life — intelligence — under- 
standing — to know and to adore Him, and to trace 
his finger in the works that he hath made? Boundless 
v arie ty and perpetual chs^oge are exhibited in the liv- 
ing beings around us. Take the class of insects alone. 
Of these, not fewer than one hundred thousand distinct 
species are already known and described ; and every 
day is adding to the catakgue. Wherever you pene- 
trate, where life can be sustained, you find living be- 
ings to exist, — in the depths of ocean^ in the a rid desert^ 



LIFE. 311 

or at the icy polw- regiona. The mt teems with Ufe. 
The soil, which clotiieB the earth all round, is Bwarming 
with life, vegetable and a&inial. 

3. During how many thoasands of years has the 
vitality o^ seeds heen preserved deep in the earth's 
hoBOio ! Not less wonderfai is the feet stated by Lord 
Lindsay, who took from the hand of an Egyptian mnm - 
my a tuber, which must have been wrapped np" more 
than two thonsand years before. It was planted, waa 
i^ined and dewed upon, the son shone on it again, 
tmd the root grew, and budded, bursting forth and 
blooming into a beanteoas dahlia I 

i. Take a drop of water, and examine it with the 
microBCppe. Lo I it is swarming with living creatores. 
Within life exSte other life, until it recedes before the 
powers "o? human vision. The parasitic ammalcole, 
which preys upon or within the body of a larger an! 
^^ is itself preyed upon by para site b peculiar to 
itself. Each of these monads is endowed with its 
appropriate organs, possesses Bpontaneous power of 
motion , enjoys an independent vit^ity 1 

5. Here is a drop of stagnant 
water magnified si^ hundred 
times its original Bize. These 
living beings appear too close 
together to admit of the exist- 
ence of a greater number; and 
yet science affirms that Bucb a 
drop contains forms of life which 
■ — to whatever perfection microscopic power may 
attain — human perseverance will never accurately de- 
tect. A cubic inch of stagnant water is calculated to 
contain more than five hundred millions of living, ac- 
tive, and organized beings. 

6. With lime and Boda we may manufecture glass" 
out of invisible animalcoles. The hone, by which we 



312 THE WINDS. 

give an edge to the razo r and to mechanical tools , ia 
composed of myriads of these little b eing s, in a petri- 
fied state. Yea, every grain of dust on which we set 
our feet may have been a living c reature . 

7. Here, then, ive pause in our study of these minute 
beings. We call them minute ; but before the eye of 
Omnipotence all such distinctions vanish. The small 
and the weak are regarded by Him with the same be- 
nignity as the massive and the mighty. We, therefore, 
have the most powerful inducement to the exercise 
of an implicit confidence in Him, who not only caused 
the mountains to rise, the seas to flow, and the p^Ianeta 
to revolve in their orbits, but has also created, with 
various animal functions, points of life far beyond the 
reach of our unassisted vision^ and provides for them 
their daily food. 



CXXXn.— THE WINDS. 



Btbaigbt, ad,f directly. 
Whirl'pool, n., an eddj. 



Cat'a-ract, n,f a large waieifiJl. 
Wail'ing, jpr., lamenting. 



Ayoid Baying cataraka for cat<Mract», The th in beneath is vocal as in breathy not 
aspirate as in breath. 

Te winds, ye unseen currents of the air, 
Softly ye played a few brief hours ago ; 

Ye bore the murmuring bee ; ye tossed the hair 
O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow ; 

Ye rolled the round white clouds through depths of blue ; 

Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew ; 

Before you the catalpa blossoms flew, — 

Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. 

How are ye changed I Ye take the cataract's sound ; 

Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might; 
The*mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground ; 

The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. 



CHARACTER OP WASHINGTON. SIS 

The clouds before you shoot like eagles past ; 
The homes of men are rocking in your blast ; 
Te lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast. 
Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. 

The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, 

^ To escape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. 

Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain ; - 

The harvest field becomes a river's bed ; 
And torrents tumble* from the hills around ; 
Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned, 
And wailing voices, mid the tempest's sound, 

Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread. 

Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard 
A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; 

Te fling its floods around.you, as a bird 

Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. 

See I to the breaking mast the sailor clings ; 

Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs. 

And take the mountain billow on your wings. 
And pile the wreck of pavies round the bay. 

W. C. Bbyant. 



CXXXm. — CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 



Fob'teb, V, t.f to cherish. 
CoiTif'ciL, n., an assemblj for consult- 
ation or advice. 
San'guine (sang'gwin), a., ardent. 
Coir-SBByji', V. Uf to preserve. 



Coh'pli-ca-ted, a., entangled. 
Con-suh'hate, a., complete ; perfect 
Bk-lin^quish-hent (-Unk'wish-), n.« 

the act of quitting. 
Stead'i-nbss, n., firmness. 



Avoid saying it'ned fat joined ; spile for spoil ; toust for worst ; ftut tar^sU 

1. How grateful the relief which the friend of man- 
kind, the lover of virtue, experiences, when, turning 
from the contemplation of such a character as Napo- 
leon, his eye rests upon the greatest man of our own 
or any age, — the only one upon whom an epithet, so 
thoughtlessly lavished by men, to foster the crimes of 

97 



314 GHABACTEB OF WA8HIN0T01I. 

their worst ei^emieS; may be innocentlj and justly 
bestowed I 

2. This eminent person is presented to onr observa- 
tion, clothed in attributes as modest, as unpretending, 
as little calculated to strike or to astonish, as if he had 
passed unknown through som^ secluded region of pri- 
vate life. But he had a judgment sure and sounds a 
steadiness of mind which never sufiered s^ny passion, 
or even any feeling, to ruffle it§ calm,* a strength of 
understanding which worked rather than forced its 
way through all obstacles, — removing or avoiding 
rather than overleaping them. 

3. If these things, joined to the most absolute self- 
denial, the most habitual and exclusive devotion to 
principle, cap constitute a great character, without 
either quickness of apprehension, remarkable resources 
of information, or inventive powers, or any brilliant 
quality that might dazzle the vulgar, — then surely 
Washington was the greatest man that ever lived in 
this world, uninspired by divine wisdom, and unsus- 
tained by supernatural virtue. 

4. His courage, whether in battle or in council, was as 
perfect as might be expected from this pure and steady 
temper of soul. A perfect just man, with a thoroughly 
firm resolution never to be misled by others, any more, 
than to be by others overawed; never to be seduced 
or betrayed, or hurried away by his own weaknesses 
or self-delusions, any more than by other men's arts ; 
nor ever to be disheartened by the most complicated 
difficulties, any more than to be spoilt on the giddy 
heights of fortune ; — such was this great man. 

5. Great he was, preeminently great^ whether wo 
regard him sustaining alone the whole weight of cam- 
paigns, ajl but desperate, or gloriously terminating a 
just warfare by his resources and his courage ; presid- 
ing over the jarring eleipejjts of his political council. 



CHABACTEB OF WASHINGTON. 915 

alike deaf to the Btorms of all extremes, or directing 
the formation of a new government for a great people, 
the first time that so vast an experiment had ever been 
tried by man ; or, finally, retiring from the supreme 
power to which his virtue had raised him over the 
nation he had created, and whose destinies he had 
guided as long as his aid was required, — retiring with 
the veneration of all parties, of all nations, of all man- 
kind, in order that the rights of men might be con- 
served, and that his example never might be appealed 
to by vulgar tyrants. 

6. This is the consum'mate glory of Washington : a 
triumphant warrior where the most sanguine had 
a right to despair ; a successful ruler in all the diffi- 
culties of a course wholly untried; but a warrior^^ 
whose sword only left its sheath when the first law of 
our nature conunanded it to be drawn ; and a ruler 
who, having tasted of supreme power, gently and un- 
ostentatiously desired that the cup might pass from 
him, nor would suflfer more to wet his lips than the 
most solemn and sacred duty to hia country and hia 
God required I 

7. To his latest breath did this great patriot main- 
tain the noble character of a captain the patron of 
peace, and a statesman the friend of justice. Dying, 
he bequeathed to his heirs the sword which he had 
worn in the war for liberty, and charged them " never 
to take it from the scabbard but in self-defense, or in 
defense of their country and her freedom;" and com- 
manded them that, "when it should thus be drawn, 
they should never sheathe it, nor ever givenit up, but 
prefer falling with it in their hands to the relinquish- 
ment thereof," — words, the majesty and simple elo* 
quence of which are not surpassed in the oratory of 
Athens and Rome. 

8. It will be the duty of the historian and the sage, 



316 MARK ANTONY'S ADDRESS. 

in all ages, to let no occasion pass of commemorating 
this illustrious man; and, until time shall be no nrore, 
will a test of the progress which our race has made in 
wisdom and in virtue be derived from the veneration 
paid to the immortal name of Washington I 

Lord Brougham. 



CXXXIV.— MARK ANTONY'S ADDRESS, 

OVER THE DEAD BODT OF CiESAS. 



Pint, n., an impression. 
GRiBv'ous-Lr, ad., with grief. 
Cof'feb, n., a chest ; a treasure. 
Vbst'ubb, n., a garment ; a robe. 
Btat'ue (stat'yu), n., an image. 
Lu'PBR'CAL (-kal), n,f a Roman festi- 
val in honor of Pan. 
Mu'ti-ny, n., an insurrection. 



Man'tlb, n., a loose cloak. 
Jxjdq'mkkt, n.y the power or the ac^ 

of judging. 
Com'mons, n. pl.f the common people. 
Is'suE, n., progeny ; oflbpring. 
TEST'A-ifENT, n,, a will. 
Nbr'yi-i (ner'Td-i), n,, a warlike raof 

once inhabiting Belgium. 



Mark Antony's oration, from Shakspeare's tragedy of Julias Caesar, is deservedly ceL 
ebrated. It is immediately preceded by Bratas*s address, which may be found on pagt 
S67. GflBsar, on aooount of his designs against the liberties of the people, had been slai^ 
bj Brutus and others. Mark Antony artfully rouses the people against the slayers. , 

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ; 
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do lives after them ; 
The good is oft inter'red with their b ones . 
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious. 
If it were so it was a grievous fault ; 
And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest^ 
(For Brutus is an honorable man ; 
So are they all, all honorable men ;) 
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 
He was my friend, faithful and just to me ' 
But Brutus says, he was ambitious; 
And Brutus is an honorable man. 

He hath brought many captives home to Rome/ 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill . 



MARK ANTOKT'S ADDRESS. 317 

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 

When that the poor have* cried, Caesar hath wept. 

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. 

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

Tou all did see that, on the Lupercal, 

I thrice presented him a kingly crown, • 

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition f 

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And, sure, he is an honorable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke ; 

But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once, not without cause ; 

What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?— » 

judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, 

And men have lost their reason I — Bear with me ; 

My heart is in the coflSn, there, with Caesar, 

And I must pause till it come back to me. 

But yesterday, the word of Caesar might 

Have stood against the world ; now lies he there. 

And none so poor to do him reverence. 

masters I if I were disposed \o stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
Who^ you all know, are honorable men. 

I will not do them wron^. I rather choose 
To wrong the dead, to wrong mjself, and you. 
Than I will wrong such honorable men. 

But here 's a parchment with the seal of Caesar. 
I found it in his closet. 'T is his will I 
Let but the commons hear this te stam ent, — 
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read, — 
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds; 
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; 
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 
And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
27» 



318 MARK AirrONT'S ADDRESS. 

Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 
Unto their issue I 

If you hare tears, prepare to shed them now. 

You all do know this mantle. I remember 

The first time ever Cassar put it on. 

'T was on a summer's evening, in his tent-; 

That day he overcame the Nervii. 

Look I in this place ran Cassius' dagger through | 

See, what a rent the envious Casca made I 

Through this, the well-belov'ed Brutus stabbed ; 

And, as he plucked his curs'ed steel away, 

Mark how the blodd of CsBsar followed it I 

This, this was the unkindest cut of all ; 
For, when the noble Caesar saw him stab, ^ 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms. 
Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart; 
And, in his mantle muffling up his face. 
Even at the base of Pompey's statue. 
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell , 
0, what a fall was there, my countrymen! 
Then I, an J you, and all of us fell down ; 
'Whilst bloody treason flourisEed over us. 

0, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel 
The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. — 
Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold 
Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here 1 
• Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors 1 — ^ 

Good friends, sweet friends, Ict me dot stir you uj) 
To suclua sudden flood of mutinv. 
They that have done this deed jyre honorable. 
W^t private gri^ft they have, alas I I know not, 
Th^ nmde them do it ; they are wise and hortforable, 
And wfll, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 

X come not. friends^ to steal away your hearts. 
I am no^ratdr, as Brutus is; < : 

But, a^ you know me all, a plain, blunt inati, 



► ^ 



ADDRESS OF CABADOC; tHE BABD. Slid 

That love myiriend, — and mat thevinow full well 
Toat gave tn^ublic leave to speak of him 
For I have nether wit, nor words, nor Worth, 
Action, nor utterance, nor the power o^^eech 
To stir men's bloqd7 I only speak ri^t ot. 



I tell yoa JaSI which you yotifr^lyes do know; 

Sht)^ Jwi sweet Csssar's wounds, — poor, poor, dumb 

And bid ^^m sj^ak for^q. But Were I Brutus, 

And Bjutus An^cmy, there^were ap Amrsy 

Would ruffle uf> "^^our spirits, a;id piit a tongue 

In everv V^ound of Cassar, thi£ shoidd move 

I'he zUm^ ofRome to rise^and nrntiny I Shasspeabb. 

CXXXV. — ADDRESS OP OAR'ADOC, THE BARD. 



&Rp'uL-CHBR or Sep'ul-chbb (-ker), 
n., a tomb or grave. 



Quail, v. t., to sink ; to shrink. 
War'bxor (wor'yar), n., a soldier. 



Cym'ria was the anctettt name of WaXes. By one of the prlmltire Iswa of the country, 
no Cymrian bard cOold bear weapons. 

Hark^ th^ measured mardh I — the Saxons coitiel 
The sound earth quails beneath the hollow tread! 

Your fathers rushed upon the swords of Rome, 
And climbed her war-ships, when the Cs&sar fled I 

The Saxons come I — why wait within the wall ? 

They scale the mountain ; — let its torrents fall I 

Mark, ye hav6 swords, and sbiel^fe, and armor, yk'! 

' No mail defends the CycOrian Child of Song ; 
But where the warrioir, there the bard shall be 1 

All fields of glory tx) the bard belong 1 
His realm extends wherever godlike strife 
Spurns the base death, and wins immortal life. 

Unal^med he goes — his guard the shield of all, 
Where he bounds foremost on the Saxon spear 1 

Unarmed he goes, that, falling, even his fall 
Sha/ll ^ring no shame, and shall bequeath no fear! 

Does the song €ease ? — avenge it by the deed, 

And make the sepulcher — a nation freed I Bulwer. 



820 HEALTH AND EXERCISE. 



CXXXVI.— HEALTH AND EXERCISE. 



Yaque, a., loose ; uoMttled. 
Thb'a-tkr or The'a-trb, n,, a play- 

hoQM ; a field of action. 
Ez'pi-ATB, V, t,f to atone for. 
lioB'i-FT, V. Uf to vary. 
Du-ob'oan-ize, v. /., to destroy order 

or system. 



Stren'v-ous, a., bold and aotiTtt. 
Rb-ten'tiyb, a,f able to retain. 
Nu-TRFnoN, n,, that which nourishes^ 
Ir-bbp'a-ra-blb, a,, not te be re> 

paired. 
CoN-nu'ciYE, a., leading to. 
Yalye, n.| a folding door. 



Avoid saying maintainanee tat nunn'le-nonce. The Oreek plural of gymnoHum 
O'tM-na'xAtf'um) is gymtuuia. 

1. The reproach of selfishness is sometimes igno- 
rantly brought against persons who are very carefal 
of their health. But, in reality, no man is so thor- 
oughly selfish as he who, in the ardent pursuit of 
pleasure or of profit, heedlessly neglects those habits 
and conditions of life, without proper attention to 
which, health can not be preserved. The burden of 
such a man's support may, through* his own fault, be 
thrown on society or on his friends ; and he may, too 
late, regret his inattention to a few simple rules, by 
the observance of which he might have maintained his 
constitution unimpaired. 

2. In proportion as we give to the matter the con* 
sideration it deserves, we shall become anxious rathei- 
to take care of health when we have it, than first to 
lose it, and then exert ourselves to recover it. Says 
an old writer : " You that have health, and know not 
how to prize it, I '11 tell you what it is. Health is that 
which makes your meat and drink both savory and 
pleasant. Health is that which makes your bed easy, 
and your sleep refreshing; which revives your strength 
with the rising sun, and makes you cheerful at the 
light of another day. 

3. '' 'T is that which makes exercise a sport, and 
walking abroad the enjoyment of your liberty ! 'T is 
that which makes fertile the natural endowments of 



HEiXTH AND EXERCISE. 821 

your mind, and preserves them long from decay; 
makes your wit active, and your memory retentive. 
'T is that which supports the fragility of a corruptible 
body, and preserves the verdure, vigor, and beauty of 
youth. 'T is that which makes the soul take delight 
in her mansion, sporting herself at the casements of 
your eyes 1 'T is that which makes pleasure to be 
pleasure, and delights delightful." 

4; Let it once become a part of ordinary school- 
training to acquire a knowledge of the laws of health, 
and instead of going through life with vague ideas of 
the right way, — vague notions of the importance of 
exercise, circulation, pure air, and diet, — our youth 
would grow up with sound opinions ; they would per- 
ceive not only why exercise is conducive to health, 
but why without due exercise the main'tenance of 
health is impossible. 

5. All those to whom the training of children ia 
intrusted would perceive that, so often as they permit 
those children to pass one single day without due mus- 
cular exercise, so often do they permit them to inflict 
an irrep'arable wrong upon their systems. The omis- 
sion of a single day's due muscular exercise, even 
though it occasion no feeling of discomfort, is a wrong 
inflicted on the growing system which can never be 
expiated ; for a day^s development is sacrificed, 

6. The Creator, be it remembered, has designed the 
first thirty-five years of human life for the development 
of the system. For thirty-five years the creative power 
exceeds the disorganizing power. Day by day, during 
the whole of that period, man might, by constant obe- 
dience to the Creator's laws, be growing stronger and 
stronger, throughout his entire organization. Let these 
facts be considered, and then reflect what man's prime 
might be, and what it too frequently is. 

7. The benefits of exercise, to those whose occupy 



322 HEALTH AND fiXEBCKfi. 

tion does not require physical exertion, can not be too 
highly estimated. The body must undergo a certain 
amount of fatigue, to preserve its natural streiSgth, and 
maintain all the muscles and organs in proper vigor. 
This activity equalizes the circulation, and distributes 
the blood more effectually through every part. Cold 
feet, or a chill any where^ shows that the circulation 
is languid. The muscles, during exercise, press on the 
veins, and help forward the currents of blood by quick- 
ening every vessel into activity. The valves of the 
heart are in this way aided in the work of sending 
on this stream, and relieved of a certain amount of 
labor. 

8. When exercise is neglected, the blood gathers 
too much about this central region, and the oppression 
about, the heart, difficulty of breathing, lowness of 
spirits, anxiety and heaviness, numerous aches and 
stitches, are evidences of this stagnation. People^ are 
afraid to take exercise, because they fancy they want 
breath, and feel weak. But the very effort would free 
the heart from this burden, by urging the blood for- 
ward to the extremities ; it would ease their breath- 
ing, by liberating the lungs from the same superabund- 
ance ; it would make the frame feel active and light, 
as the effect of equalized circulation and free action. 

9. The important position which physical education 
should occupy, in the education of youth, has attracted 
the attention of philosophers and lawgivers from the 
earliest ages. It was provided by one of the laws of 
So^on that every Athenian should be taught to read 
and to swim. The regular liberal education of a Greek 
youth consisted of three parts, — grammar, music, and 
gymnastics ; but the latter occupied as much attention 
as all the others put together. 

10. From the age of sixteen to eighteen, the youth 
of ancient Greece devoted themselves exclusively to 



THE CHILD OF EAJHIE. S2B 

gymnastics. The academy and tlie ly-^e'nm — names 
which among ns are associated with intellectual cul- 
ture — were originally gymnasia, theaters of strenuous 
bodily discipline, as well as scenes of mental exercise. 

11. In modern times, physical training has been 
strangely neglected. It is erroneously assumed that 
the natural instincts of the young will lead them to 
take as much exercise as they require. If they dwelt 
out of doors, like wild animals, this might be true ; but 
how often do the more studious allow themselves to 
be detained by an entertaining book, or some other 
in-door attraction, from taking the proper amount of 
exercise in the open air I 

12. Excessive iBxercise should always be avoided. 
Instances are not uncommon in which undue exertion 
has produced effects scarcely less injurious than those 
which result from inactivity. The existence of either 
class of evils is sufficient to prove that some general 
system of physical teaching and training should be 
established in all schools, by which one sex may be 
preserved from the evils of deficiency, and the other 
from those of excess, in exertion. 



CXXXVn.— THE CHILI) OF EARTH. 

Glimpse, n*, a motaneBtarylight. r TuMfricE, n., a window madt by drM»- 

6LA.irT, V. i,, to torn aslant. | ing latns or bars. 

Fainter her slow step falls frdm day to day ; 

Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow ; 
Yet doth she fondly cling to life, and say, 

"I am content to die, — but, 01 not now I — 
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring 

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe; 
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing ; 

Not while bright flowers around my footisiepB wreathe; — 



824 THE cmu) OF eabth. 

Spare me, great God I lift up my drooping brow ; 
I am content to die, — but, I not now I '' 

The spring hath ripened into summer time ; 

The season's viewless boundary is past ; 
The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime ; 

I must this glimpse of beauty be the last? — 
" Let me not perish while o'er land and sea, 

With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on ; 
Not while the murmur of the mountain bee 

Greets my dull ear with music in its tone I 
Pale sickness dim4 my eye, and clouds my brow ; 
I am content to die, — but, I not now I " 

Summer is gone ; and autumn's soberer hues 

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving com ; 
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues. 

Shouts the halloo I and winds the eager hom.-^ 
" Spare me a while, to wander forth and gaze 

On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream ; 
To watch in silence while th^ evening rays 

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam ' 
Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; 
I am content to die, — but, I not now I " 

The bleak wind whistles ; snow-ehowers, far and d*5»» 

Drift without echo to the whitening ground. 
Autumn hath parsed away ; and, cold and dr<?ar. 

Winter stalks on with frozen mant?e bound ; 
Yet still that prayer ascends. — " ! laughingly 

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd ; 
Our home-flre blazes broad, and bright, and high. 

And the roof rings with voices light and loud ! 
Spare me a while I raise up my drooping brow I 
I am content to die, — but, I not now I '' 

The spring is come again — the joyful spring I 

Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread ; 

The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing ; — 
The child of earth is numbered with the dead I — 



60 TO WORK. 825 

*' Thee never more the sunshine shall ^wake, 
Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane ; 

The steps of friends th/ slumber may not break, 
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again I 

Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow : 

Why didst thou linger ? — thou art happier now I " 

Caroline Nortok. 

CXXXVm. — GO TO WORK. 



Do-MAiiv', ti.f estate ; dominion. 
Com'pe-tencb, n,f a sufficiency. 
Stben'u-ous, a,f bold ; active. 
A-nom'a-ly, n.f a deviation from the 

common rule ; irregularity. 
Duc'tIlb, a., easily led ; pliable. 



Ob-oan'ic, o., consisting of organs 

structural. 
Un-sen'tient (-sen'shent), a., nothav* 

ing sensation or feeling. 
In-ten'si-fibd, pp.f made intense. 
£x-u'ber-akt (egz-), a., abundant. 



Avoid saying louat tot worst ; noo^ constitootion^ &c., for new, con-«ft-/u'<ton, &c* 

1. " Go to work." Such is the brief but significant 
admonition, which Nature utters aloud in every human 
oar ; an admonition, in fact, which the God of Nature 
has put into her mouth, and which she is ever and 
anon repeating to all the dwellers upon earth. She 
reminds us, by a thousand plain signs, that every thing 
within her domain is at work, and that therefore we 
have no right to stand still. She shows us that every 
atom and particle of the material world is in a state of 
constant activity, — that change and modification, of 
some sort or other, are going on unceasingly, and that 
nothing does or can remain at rest. 

2. The ground we tread ; the air we breathe ; every 

thing we touch, taste, or handle ; the very bones, mu* 

cles, and fluids, which make up our frames, — all are 

passing in an unceasing progression to a new organic 

condition. Action, action I is the living voice of un^ 

sentient matter. There is not even a possibility of 

standing still : each passing moment contributes some-. 

thing toward a new complexion to the face of the 

28 



626 00 TO WORK. 

material universe; the very processes of dee^y and 
death are but new constitutions and elements of vital- 
ity and activity. If these \hings Ibe so, then what a 
disgraceful anomaly is laziness ! 

3. Having nothing to do is the very worst excuse 
that could be preferred for doing nothing. To have 
nothing to do is a disgrace to a reasonable being ; to 
love it is a vice, and to persist in it is a crime. Whether 
by circumstances ad' verse to us we are deprived of 
employment, or are in no need of it through the pos- 
session of a competence, we are morally bound to find 
or to create a vocation for our activities and faculties. 

4. "I have faith in labor," says Channing ; "and I 
see the goodness of God in placing us in a world where 
labor alone can keep us alive. I would not change, 
if I could, our subjection to physical laws, our ex- 
posure to hunger and cold, and the necessity of con- 
stant conflicts with the material world. I would not, 
if I could, so temper the elements that they should in- 
fuse into us only grateful sensations ; that they should 
make vegetation so exuberant as to anticipate every 
want, and the minerals so ductile as to offer no resist- 
ance to our strength of skill. Such ^ world Would 
make a contemptible race." 

6. The lazy die and are buried, and no man misses 
them ; the workers live on in their works, and, in a 
true sense, possess the earth long »fter the earth holds 
their lifeless clay. Their monuments are around us, 
and above us, and under us ; and we honor them for 
their work's sake, whether we will or not. " Heaven 
helps those who help themselves," is ^ well-worn 
maxim, embodying in a small compass the results of 
vast human experience. 

6. The spirit of self-help is the root of all genuine 
growth in the individual. Fortune has been often 
blamed for her blindness ; but fortune is not so blind 



«0 TO WORK. 827 

Bfl men are. Those who look into practical life will 
find that fortune is almost invariablj on the side of 
the industrious, the self-denying, and the prudent, as 
the winds and waves are on the side of the best navi- 
gators. Nor are the qualities necessary to insure suc- 
cess at all extraordinary. They may, for the most 
part, be summed up in these two — common sense and 
perseverance. 

7. Some writers have even defined genius to be only 
common sense intensified. A distinguished teacher 
spoke of it as " the power of making efforts." John 
Foster held it to be " the power of lighting one's own 
fire." Buffon said of genius, " It is patience." New- 
ton's was, unquestionably, a mind of the very highest 
order; and yet, when asked by what means he had 
Worked out his extraordinary discoveries, he modestly 
said, ** If I have done the public any service, it is due 
to nothing but industry and patient thought." 

8. " The fact is," says the Rev. Sydney Smith, " that, 
in order to do any thing in this world worth doing, we 
must not stand shivering oathe bank, and thinking of 
the cold and the danger, but jump in, and scramble 
through as well as we can. It will not do to be per- 
petually calculating risks, and adjusting nice chances. 
It did all very well before the flood, when a man could 
consult his friends upon an intended publication for 
one hundred and fifty years, and then live to see its 
success for six or seven centuries afterward ; but at 
present a man waits, and doubts, and hesitates, and 
consults his brother, and his uncle, and his cousins, 
and his particular friends, till, ope fine day, he finds 
that he is sixty-five years of age, — that he has lost so 
much time in consulting first cousins and particular 
friends, that he has no more time left to follow their 
advice." 

9. The habit of strenuous, continued labor« will 



328 



SPECUL EXERCISES IN ELOCUTION. 



become comparatively easy, in time, like every othei 
habit. Thus, even men with the commonest brains 
and the mest slender powers will accomplish much, if 
they will but apply themselves wholly and indefatiga- 
bly to one thing at a time. " The longer I live," said 
a successful man, "the more I am certain that the 
great difference between men — between the feeble 
and the powerful, the great and the insignificant — ii^ 
energry, invincible determination, a purpose once fixed; 
and then — death or victory I " 

** If what shone afar so grand 
Turn to nothing in thy hand, 
On again ! the virtue lies 
In the struggle, not the prize." 



CXXXrX. — SPECIAL EXERCISES IN ELOCUTION. 

PART IV.* 



Bkar, a,, dry ; withered. 

Gor'gon, n,f a fabled monster that 

turned beholders to stone. 
Sod'den, pp. oi^seethCf to boil. 
Gib'bet (jibl>et), n., a gallows. 
Bait'ed, pp., attacked ; har'assed. 
Drach'ma (drak'ma), n., a Ghreek coin. 
Con-junc'tion, n.f union. 
Hen'ace, n., a threat. 



Lk'gion, n.f a body of soldiers 
Aug-hent', v. /., to increase. 
Ih-uube', v. t.f to confine closely. 
Iu-hac'u-late, a.f without spot. 
A-men'i-tt, n.f pleasantness. 
In-di-re(/tion, n.f a course not ^^t* 
Con-tri'tion, n., repentance. 
Coh-punc/tion, n.f remorse. 
Pro-lip'ic, a., fertile. 



1. — Pathos and Patriotism. — Grattan. 

I DO not give up my country. I see her in a swoon, but 
she is not dead. Though in her tomb she lies helpless and 
motionless, still there is on her lips a spirit of life, and on 
her cheek a glow of beauty. 

** Thou art not conquered ; beauty's ensign yet 
Is crimson m thy lips, and in thy cheeks, 
And Death's pale flag is not advanced there.'' 

While a plank of the vessel sticks together, I will noj. 



♦ For Part I., see page 91 ; Part II., page 195 ; Part III., page 291. 



SPECIAL EXERCISES IK ELOCUTION. 329 

leave her. Let the courtier present his flimsy sail, and 
cany the light bark of his faith with every new breaiLi of 
wind ; I will remain anchored here , with fidelity to the fof- 
tuneb oT my country, faithful to her freedom, faithtul iO. 
her fall I 

2 . — Indignant D enial. — Knowles. 

Lucius. Justice will be defeated. 

Virginiv^. Who says that ? 
He lies in the face of the gods. She is immutable, 
Immaculate, and immortal ! And, though all 
The guilty globe should blaze, she would spring up 
Through the fire, and soar above the crackling pile, ' 
With not a downy feather ruffled by . - -- 

Its fierceness I 

3. — Horror and Alarm. — Shakspeare. 

Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight 
With a new Gorgon. — Do not bid me speak : 
See, and then speak yourselves. — Awake I awake I 
Ring the alSrum-bell I — Murder and treason ! 
Ban^uo and Donalbain I Malcolm, awake I 
Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit. 
And look on death itself I — up, up, and see 
The great doom's image I — Malcolm I Banquo I 
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites 
To countenance this horror I 

4. — Dying for Freedom. — Byron. 

They never fail who die 

In a great cause I The block may soak their gore ; 

Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their limbs 

Be strung to city gates and castle walls ; — 

But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 

Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, 

They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 

Which overpower all others, and conduct 

The world, at last, to freedom I 
' 28» ' ' 



380 SPECIAL EXEBCISBS IN ELOCUTION. 

5. — Remorse and DsspoNDSNcnr. — Shakspeare. 

1 have lived long enough :^ my way of life 

Is fallen into the sear, the ygllow leaf ; 

And that which should accompany old age. 

As honor, love, obedience, t roops o f friends, 

I must not look to have ; but, in their stead . 

Curses, not loud, but deep, — moi^^honor — breath I 

Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not- 

6. •— EuL0(rsr. — Shakspeare, 

This was the noblest Roman of them all : 

All the conspirators, save only he. 

Did that they did in envy of great Caesar ; 

He, only, in a general honest thought. 

And common good to all, made one of them. 

His life was gentle ; and the elements 

So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up. 

And say to all the world, " This was a maiTP^ 

T. — Improve the Present Moment. — Dryden. 

Happy the man, and happy he alone. 

He who can call to-day his own : 

He who, secure within, can say, 
To-MORROW ! do thy worst, for I have lived to-day ! 

Be fair pr foul, or rain or shine. 
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate are mine. 

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power ; 
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour, 

8. — The Murderer's Confession. — Sbrace Smith. 

The country's amenity brings no serenity ; 

Each rural sound seeming a menace or screaming ; 

Not a bird or a beast but cries. " Murder 1 

There goes the offender 1 
Dog him, waylay him, encompass him, stay him. 

And make him surrender I " 
Nerves a thousand times stronger could bear it no longer I 



BPJSCIAL EXERCISES IN ELOCUTIOH. 331 

Grief, sickness, compunction, dismay in conjunction, 
Nights and days ghost-prolific, more grim and terrific 

Than judges and juries, 
Make the heart writhe and falter more than gibbet and 

halter! 
Arrest me, secure me, seize, handcuff, immure me I 
I own my transgression — will make full confession I — 
Quick! quick! let me plunge in some dark-vaulted duu« 

geon. 
Where, though tried and death-fated, I m&j not be baited 

By fiends and by furies ! 

9. — Brutus to Cassius. — Sh/okspeare. 

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 

For I am armed so strong in honesty 

That they pass by me as the idle wind^ 

Which I re spect n oT. I did send to you 

For certain s ums of g old, which you oenied me ;— 

For I can raise no money by vile means . 

0, Heaven 1 I had ratEer coin my Beart, 

And 3rop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 

From the hard Bands of peasants their vile trash 

By any indirection. — I did send 

To you for gold to pay my legions, 

WhicFyou oenied me. Was^lhat done like Cassius f 

Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 

When Marcus Brutus grows so c'ovetous. 

To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 

Be ready, gods, with all your th underbol ts, 

DasOim to'pTeces I 

10. — Milton on ms Blindness. 

I dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon» 
Irrev'ocably dark — total eclipse — 
Without all hope of day ! 
• 0, first created beam, and thou, great Word, 
" Let there be light," and light was over all, 
Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree f 






332 



hahlet's soliloquy on death. 



CXL.— HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 



Coil' n., tumult ; bustle. 

Cast, »., a tinge ; a slight ooloring. 

BoUBjr (bum or boom) n., a limit or 

bound. 
Pith, it., force ; energy. 
Sbu^flkd, fp., shifted ofL 
Out-ba'geous, a., intolerable. 
Rub, h., difficulty ; pinch. 



BoD'Knr, n., a large needle ; an 
eient term fur a small dagger. 

Fab'del, a., a little pack ; a burden. 

A-WBT^ iar-tf), ad., not in a straight 
direction. 

Qui-b'tus (Latin), n., final rest 

CoN'TU-ME-Lr, H., insolenoe. 

CoH-suM-M A'noH, ft.. Completion. 



The reader should study the author's meaning in this SolQoqay. In the fifth, sixth 
lines, &c., he seems to mean simply this : " Death — sleep — they are equal ; they do 
not differ \ and U, by the sleep <rf death, we could throw off all our cares -and troubles, 
such a sleep would be desirable indeed.** But the thought of what may come after 
death immediately checks him in his suicidal speculations. 

To be — or not to be — that is the question ! 
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, — 
Or, to ts^ke arms against a sea of troubles, 
And, by opposing, end them I — To die, — to sleep; 
No more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished 1 

To die, — to sleep ; — 

To sleep ? perchance to dream ; — ay, there 's the rub ; 

For^ in that sleep of death, what dreams may come. 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. 

Must give us pause. — There 's the respect* 

That makes calamity of so long life I 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely. 
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 
The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
When he himself might his quietus make « 

With a bare bodkin ? 



That is, the consideration. Shakspeare often uses the word in this mdm* 



CATILINE'S DEFIANCE. 



333 



Who would fardels bear, 
To groan and sweat under a weary life, — 
But that the dread of something after death,— 
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn 
No traveler returns, — puzzles the will ; 
And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. 

And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 

And enterprises of great pith and moment, 

With this regard, their currents turn awry 

And lose the name of action; Shakspearb. 



CXU. — CATILINE'S DEFIANCE, 

ON BEING BANISHED FROM ROME BT THE SENATE 



Wan (won), a., palQ and sickly. 
Slack, a., loose ; weak. 
Loathe, v, t., to abhor. 
Ban^ished, pp., expelled ; ez'iled. 
Con'tact, n., touch ; close union. 
Al-le'gi-ancb (-je^), n., the duty of a 
subject to government. 



Tar'ta-rus (Greek), n., a name for 
the infernal regions. 

An'arch-y (-ark-), n., political con- 
fusion ; want of rule. 

Pro-scrit'tion, n., a dooming to 
death, exile, or loss of property. 

Cok-vict'ed, pp.f proved guilty. 



In hearth (harth) th ig aspirate in the singuIaT, but vocal (as in breeUhe) in the plural. 
Pronounce mtuMocre, mfu'sa-ker. In thirsty and hurtt^ give the vowel the sound of 
t in her. Do not pervert oi in poi'aon. 

Banished from Kome I What 's banished, but set free 

From daily contact of the things I loathe ? 

" Tried and convicted traitor 1 " — Who says this ? 

Who '11 prove it, at his peril, on my head ? 

Banished ? — I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain I 

I held some slack allegiance till this hour ; 

But now my sword '& my own. 

Smile on, my lords. 

I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, 

Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, 



334 CATILINE'S BEFUKGEL 

I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, 

To leave you in your lazy dignities. 

But here I stand and scoff you : — here I fling 

Hatred and full defiance in your face. 

Your consul /s merciful. For this all thanks. 

He dages not touch a hair of Catiline. 

"Traitor I " I go — but I return. This .... trial T- 

Here I devote your senate I I 've had wrongs^ 

To stir a fever in the blood of age. 

Or make the infi^nt sinew strong as steel. 

This day 's the birth of sorrows I — This hour's work 

Will breed proscriptions. 

Look to your hearths, my lords ; 
For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods. 
Shapes hot from Tar^tarus I — all shames and crimes ; 
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; 
Susgicion, poisoning his brother's cup ; 
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and ax. 
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; 
Tilt Anarchy comes down on you like night, 
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave. ~ 

I go — but not to leap the gulf alone. 

I go — but when I come, 't will be the burst 

Of ocean in the earthquake, — rolling back 

In swift and. mountainous ruin. Fare you well I 

You build my funeral-pile ; but your best blood 

Shall quench its flame. Back, slaves ! 

I will return. George Croli 



ZMMORTALTTY. 

0, Ko I it is no flattering lure, no fancy weak or fond. 
When Hope would bid us rest secure in better life beyou<l ; 
Nor loss, nor shame, nor grief, nor sin, her promise luay 

gainsay ; 
The voice divine hath spoke within, and God did ne'er 

betray. Sarah F. Abams* 



'rSE UNSEABCHABLE 0N& 335 



CXLII. — TffE UNSEARCHABLE ONE. 



VxBaK, n., the outside of a border. 
fipHEBK (8f9r>)i n., a.globe ; an orb. 
.Cha'os, n., a coofased mass. 
Ih-bf'fa-ble, a., unspeakable. 
11B4SARCH-., n*f laborioas searob. 



Po'TKirp-Aiv, fi., a^sovereigD; apdnoe. 
Mab-ykl-ous or Mab^yhtIiOUB, a., 

wonderful. 
Pbi-me'val» a., original. 
Gba-0a'tioH| n., regular pr o g ress. 



In pienitudCj gratitude, heed the y soond of long w. Do not say relunu tot rtalwi 
{rilmx), Pronottiioe ere (meaoiag betoe) Iflte air ; n^otking^ nothing. 

In its sublime research, philosophy 

May measure out the ocean-deep ; may count 
The sandsyor the sun*s rays; but, God! for thee 

There is no weight nor measure: — none can moupt 
Up to thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark. 

Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try 
To trace thy counsels, -infinite and dark ; 

And thought is lost, ere thought can soar so high. 

Even like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First chaos, then existence. Lord, on thee 
Eternity had its foundation : all 

Sprang forth from thee — of light, joy, harmony, 
Sole origin; — all life, all beauty thine. 

Thy word created all, and doth create , 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. 

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be, glorious I great! 

Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate I 

Thou art I directing, guiding all, thou art I 

Direct my understanding, then, to thee ; 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart.— 

Though but an atom ^mid immensity, 
Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand I 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, 
On the last verge of mortal being stand. 

Close to the realms where angels have their birth. 
Just on tb§ }>pundaries of the spirit-land I 



336 Ta£ UNSEARCHABLE ONE. 

The chain of being is complete in me ; 

In me is matter's last gradation lost, 
And the next step is spirit — Deity 1 

I can command the lightning, and am dust I 
A monarch — and a slave I a worm -r- a god ! 

Whence came I here, and how so marvelously 
Constnicted and conceived I Unknown I This clod 

Lives surely through some higher energy ; 

For, from itself alone, it could not be 1 

Creator, yes : thy wisdom and thy word 
Created me ! Thou Source of life and good I 

Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord I 

Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude, 

Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death, and bSde it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 

Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, 
Even to its Source — to Thee — its Author, there I 

0, thought ineffable I 0, vision blest ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee. 
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast 

And waft its homage to thy Deity. 
God, thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar. 

Thus seek thy presence. Being wise and good I 
'Mid thy vast works admire, obey, adofe ; 
And when the tongue is eloquent no more, 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude I 

From the Sussian o/Qabbiel B. Derzhavhob* 



THE END.