Produced by Don Kostuch

[Transcriber's Notes:
Welcome to the schoolroom of 1900. The moral tone is plain.
"She is kind to the old blind man."

The exercises are still suitable, and perhaps more helpful than some contemporary alternatives. Much is left to the teacher. Explanations given in the text are enough to get started teaching a child to read and write. Counting in Roman numerals is included as a bonus in the form of lesson numbers.

The form of contractions includes a space. The contemporary word "don't" was rendered as "do n't".

The author, not listed in the text, is William Holmes McGuffey.

Passages using non-ASCI characters are approximately rendered in this text version. See the PDF or DOC versions for the original images.

The section numbers are decimal in the Table of Contents but are in
Roman Numerals in the body.

Page headings are removed, but section titles are followed by the page on which they appear.

Many items include a preceding biography of the author. This is ended with three pound symbols. ###

Don Kostuch end transcriber's notes]

[Illustration: Picture of a young woman and a trunk.]

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
As though she said, "Beware!"

(Item XCV. Ginevra)

McGUFFEY'S SIXTH ECLECTIC READER.

McGuffey Editions and Colophon are Trademarks of

JOHN WILEY & SONS. INC.

Arnold's (Matthew) Sohrab and Rustum
Burke's Conciliation with the American Colonies
Carlyle's Essay on Burns
Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Defoe's History of the Plague in London
De Quincey's Revolt of the Tartars
Emerson's The American Scholar, Self-Reliance and Compensation
Franklin's Autobiography
"George Eliot's" Silas Marner
Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield
Irving's Sketch Book (Ten Selections)
Irving's Tales of a Traveler
Macaulay's Second Essay on Chatham
Macaulay's Essay on Milton
Macaulay's Essay on Addison
Macaulay's Life of Johnson
Milton's L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Comus Lycidas,
Milton's Paradise Lost, Books I and. II
Pope's Homer's Iliad, Books I, VI, XXII, XXIV,
Scott's Ivanhoe
Scott's Marmion
Scott's Lady of the Lake
Scott's The Abbot
Scott's Woodstock.
Shakespeare's Julius Caesar
Shakespeare's Twelfth Night
Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice
Shakespeare's Midsummer-Night's Dream
Shakespeare's As You Like It
Shakespeare's Macbeth
Shakespeare's Hamlet,
Sir Roger de Coverley Papers (The Spectator),
Southey's Life of Nelson
Tennyson's The Princess,
Webster's (Daniel) Bunker Hill Orations,
——-
Sent, postpaid on receipt of price.

COPYRIGHT, 1879, BY VAN ANTWERP, BRAGG & COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY. COPYRIGHT, 1907 AND 1921, BY HENRY H. VAIL.

Preface (3)

In the SIXTH READER, the general plan of the revision of McGUFFEY'S SERIES has been carefully carried out to completion.

That plan has been to retain, throughout, those characteristic features of McGUFFEY'S READERS, which have made the series so popular, and caused their widespread use throughout the schools of the country. At the same time, the books have been enlarged; old pieces have been exchanged for new wherever the advantage was manifest; and several new features have been incorporated, which it is thought will add largely to the value of the series.

In the revision of the SIXTH READER, the introductory matter has been retained with but little change, and it will he found very valuable for elocutionary drill. In the preparation of this portion of the work, free use was made of the writings of standard authors upon Elocution, such as Walker, McCulloch, Sheridan Knowles, Ewing, Pinnock, Scott, Bell, Graham, Mylins, Wood, Rush, and many others.

In making up the Selections for Reading, great care and deliberation have been exercised. The best pieces of the old book are retained in the REVISED SIXTH, and to the these been added a long list of selections from the best English and American literature. Upwards of one hundred leading authors are represented (see "Alphabetical List. of Authors," page ix), and thus a wide range of specimens of the best style has been secured. Close scrutiny revealed the fact that many popular selections common to several series of Readers, had been largely adapted, but in McGUFFEY'S REVISED READERS, wherever it was possible to do so, the selections have been compared, and made to conform strictly with the originals as they appear in the latest editions authorized by the several writers.

The character of the selections, aside from their elocutionary value, has also been duly considered. It will be found, upon examination, that they present the same instructive merit and healthful moral tone which gave the preceding edition its high reputation.

Two new features of the REVISED SIXTH deserve especial attention—the explanatory notes, and the biographical notices of authors. The first, in the absence of a large number of books of reference, are absolutely necessary, in some cases, for the intelligent reading of the piece; and it is believed that in all cases they will add largely to the interest and usefulness of the lessons.

The biographical notices, if properly used, are hardly of less value than the lessons themselves. They have been carefully prepared, and are intended not only to add to the interest of the pieces, but to supply information usually obtained only by the separate study of English and American literature.

The illustrations of the REVISED SIXTH READER are presented as specimens of fine art. They are the work of the best artists and engravers that could be secured for the purpose in this country. The names of these gentlemen may be found on page ten.

The publishers would here repeat their acknowledgments to the numerous friends and critics who have kindly assisted in the work of revision, and would mention particularly President EDWIN C. HEWETT, of the State Normal University, Normal, Illinois, and the HON. THOMAS W. HARVEY, of Painesville, Ohio, who have had the revision of the SIXTH READER under their direct advice.

Especial acknowledgment is due to Messrs. Houghton, Osgood & Co., for their permission to make liberal selections from their copyright editions of many of the foremost American authors whose works they publish. January, 1880.

TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE. 1. Anecdote of the Duke of Newcastle Blackwood's Magazine. 63 2. The Needle Samuel Woodworth. 67 3. Dawn Edward Everett. 68 4. Description of a Storm Benjamin Disraeli. 70 5. After the Thunderstorm James Thomson. 72 6. House Cleaning Francis Hopkinson. 73 7. Schemes of Life often Illusory Samuel Johnson. 78 8. The Brave Old Oak Henry Fothergill Chorley. 81 9. The Artist Surprised 82 10. Pictures of Memory Alice Cary. 88 11. The Morning Oratorio Wilson Flagg. 90 12. Short Selections in Poetry:

 I. The Cloud John Wilson. 94
 II. My Mind William Byrd. 94
 III. A Good Name William Shakespeare. 95
 V. Sunrise James Thomson. 95
 V. Old Age and Death Edmund Waller. 95
 VI. Milton John Dryden. 96

13. Death of Little Nell Charles Dickens. 96 14. Vanity of Life Johann Gottfried von Herder. 100 15. A Political Pause Charles James Fox 102 16. My Experience in Elocution John Neal. 104 17. Elegy in a Country Churchyard Thomas Gray. 108 18. Tact and Talent 113 19. Speech before the Virginia Convention Patrick Henry. 115 20. The American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake. 119 21. Ironical Eulogy on Debt 121 22. The Three Warnings Hester Lynch Thrale. 124 23. The Memory of Our Fathers Lyman Beecher. 128 24. Short Selections in Prose: I. Dryden and Pope Samuel Johnson. 130 II. Las Casas Dissuading from Battle R.B. Sheridan. 130 III. Action and Repose John Ruskin. 131 IV. Time and Change Sir Humphry Davy. 131 V. The Poet William Ellery Channing. 132 VI. Mountains William Howitt. 132 25. The Jolly Old Pedagogue George Arnold. 133 26. The Teacher and Sick Scholar. Charles Dickens. 135 27. The Snow Shower William Cullen Bryant. 141 28. Character of Napoleon Bonaparte Charles Phillips. 143 29. Napoleon at Rest John Pierpont. 146 30. War Charles Sumner. 148 31. Speech of Walpole in Reproof of Mr. Pitt Sir R. Walpole. 151 32. Pitt's Reply to Sir Robert Walpole William Pitt. 152 33. Character of Mr. Pitt Henry Grattan. 154 34. The Soldier's Rest Sir Walter Scott. 156 35. Henry V. to his Troops William Shakespeare. 158 36. Speech of Paul on Mars' Hill Bible. 160 37. God is Everywhere Joseph Hutton. 161 38. Lafayette and Robert Raikes Thomas S. Grimke'. 163 39. Fall of Cardinal Wolsey William Shakespeare. 167 40. The Philosopher John P. Kennedy. 171 41. Marmion and Douglas Sir Walter Scott. 176 42. The Present Adelaide Anne Procter. 178 43. The Baptism John Wilson. 180 44. Sparrows Adeline D. Train Whitney. 185 45. Observance of the Sabbath Gardiner Spring. 186 46. God's Goodness to Such as Fear Him Bible. 189 47. Character of Columbus Washington Irving. 192 48. "He Giveth His Beloved Sleep." Elizabeth B. Browning. 195 49. Description of a Siege Sir Walter Scott 197 50. Marco Bozzaris Fitz-Greene Halleck. 202 51. Song of the Greek Bard Lord George Gordon Byron. 205 52. North American Indians Charles Sprague. 209 53. Lochiel's Warning Thomas Campbell. 211 54. On Happiness of Temper Oliver Goldsmith. 215 55. The Fortune Teller Henry Mackenzie. 218 56. Renzi's Address to the Romans Mary Russell Mitford. 221 57. The Puritan Fathers of New England F. W. P. Greenwood. 223 58. Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 226 59. Necessity of Education Lyman Beecher. 228 60. Riding on a Snowplow Benjamin Franklin Taylor. 231 61. The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius William Shakespeare. 284 62. The Quack John Tobin. 238 63. Rip Van Winkle Washington Irving. 242 64. Bill and Joe Oliver Wendell Holmes. 240 65. Sorrow for the Dead Washington Irving. 249 66. The Eagle James Gates Percival. 251 67. Political Toleration Thomas Jefferson. 253 68. What Constitutes a State? Sir William Jones. 255 69. The Brave at Home Thomas Buchanan Read. 256 70. South Carolina Robert Young Hayne. 257 71. Massachusetts and South Carolina Daniel Webster. 259 72. The Church Scene from Evangeline H. W. Longfellow. 262 73. Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood. 266 74. Diamond cut Diamond. E'douard Rene' Lefebvre-Laboulaye. 269 75. Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant. 275 76. Indian Jugglers William Hazlitt. 278 77. Antony over Caesar's Dead Body William Shakespeare. 281 78. The English Character William Hickling Prescott. 286 79. The Song of the Potter. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.290 80. A Hot Day in New York William Dean Howells. 292 81. Discontent.—An Allegory Joseph Addison. 295 82. Jupiter and Ten. James T. Fields. 301 83. Scene from "The Poor Gentleman" George Colman. 303 84. My Mother's Picture William Cowper. 310 85. Death of Samson John Milton. 312 86. An Evening Adventure 315 87. The Barefoot Boy John Greenleaf Wittier. 317 88. The Glove and the Lions James Henry Leigh Hunt. 321 89. The Folly of Intoxication William Shakespeare. 322 90. Starved Rock Francis Parkman. 325 91. Prince Henry and Falstaff. William Shakespeare. 327 92. Studies. Sir Francis Bacon. 332 93. Surrender of Granada. Sir Edward George Bulwer-Lytton. 334 94. Hamlet's Soliloquy. William Shakespeare. 339 95. Ginevra Samuel Rogers. 340 96. Inventions and Discoveries John Caldwell Calhoun. 344 97. Enoch Arden at the Window Alfred Tennyson. 347 98. Lochinvar Sir Walter Scott. 350 99. Speech on the Trial of a Murderer Daniel Webster. 352 100. The Closing Year George Denison Prentice. 355 101. A New City in Colorado Helen Hunt Jackson. 358 102. Importance of the Union Daniel Webster. 362 103. The Influences of the Sun John Tyndall. 364 104. Colloquial Powers of Franklin William Wirt. 366 105. The Dream of Clarence William Shakespeare. 368 106. Homeward Bound Richard H. Dana, Jr. 371 107. Impeachment of Warren Hastings T. B. Macaulay. 375 108. Destruction of the Carnatic Edmund Burke. 379 109. The Raven Edgar Allan Poe. 382 110. A View of the Colosseum Orville Dewey. 389 111. The Bridge Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.392 112. Objects and Limits of Science Robert Charles Winthrop. 394 113. The Downfall of Poland. Thomas Campbell. 396 114. Labor Horace Greeley. 398 115. The Last Days of Herculaneum Edwin Atherstone. 401 116. How Men Reason Oliver Wendell Holmes. 405 117. Thunderstorm on the Alps Lord Byron. 408 118. Origin of Property Sir William Blackstone. 410 119. Battle of Waterloo Lord Byron. 415 120. "With Brains, Sir" John Brown. 417 121. The New England Pastor Timothy Dwight. 410 122. Death of Absalom Bible. 420 123. Abraham Davenport John Greenleaf Whittier. 424 124. The Falls of the Yosemite Thomas Starr King. 426 125. A Psalm of Life Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.429 126. Franklin's Entry into Philadelphia. Benjamin Franklin. 431 127. Lines to a Waterfowl William Cullen Bryant. 434 128. Goldsmith and Addison William Makepeace Thackeray. 435 129. Immortality of the Soul Joseph Addison. 438 130. Character of Washington Jared Sparks. 440 131. Eulogy on Washington Henry Lee. 444 132. The Solitary Reaper William Wordsworth. 446 133. Value of the Present Ralph Waldo Emerson. 447 134. Happiness Alexander Pope. 451 135. Marion William Gilmore Simms. 453 136. A Common Thought Henry Timrod. 456 137. A Definite Aim in Reading Noah Porter. 457 138. Ode to Mt. Blanc Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 462

NAME PAGE NAME PAGE 75. PITT 152 93. TAYLOR, B. F, 231 76. POE, EDGAR ALLAN 382 94. TENNYSON 347 77. POPE 451 95. THACKERAY 435 78, PORTER, NOAH 457 96. THOMSON, JAMES 72, 95 79. PRENTICE, GEO. D. 355 97. THRALE. HESTER LYNCH 124 80. PRESCOTT 286 98. TIMROD, HENRY 456 81. PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE l78 99. TOBIN, JOHN 238 82. READ, T. B. 256 100. TYNDALL 364 83. ROGERS, SAMUEL 340 101. VON HERDER. J. G. 100 84. RUSKIN, JOHN 131 102. WALLER, EDMUND 95 85. SCOTT 156,176,197,350 103. WALPOLE 151 86. SHAKESPEARE. 95, 158, 167 104. WEBSTER 259, 352, 362 234, 281, 322, 327, 339, 368 105. WHITNEY, ADELINE D. T. 185 87. SHERMAN, R. B. 130 106. WHITTIER 317, 424 88. SIMMS, WILLIAM GILMORE 453 107. WILSON, JOHN 94, 180 89. SPARKS, JARED 440 108. WINTHROP, R.C. 394 90. SPRAGUE, CHARLES 209 109. WIRT, WILLIAM 366 91. SPRING, GARDINER 186 110. WOODWORTH, SAMUEL 67 92. SUMNER 148 111. WORDSWORTH 440

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. (10)
                         Page Drawn by Engraved by

GINEVRA Frontspiece H. F. Farney. Timothy Cole.

DUKE OF NEWCASTLE 65 H. F. Farney. F.Juengling

GRAY'S ELEGY 112 Thomas Moran. Henry Bogert.

MARMION 177 C. S. Reinhart. J. G. Smithwick.

THE QUACK 240 Howard Pyle. J. P. Davis.

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND 272 Alfred Kappes. Timothy Cole.

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS 321 H. F. Farney. Smithwick and French.

HERCULANEUM 401 Charles D. Sauerwein. Francis S. King.

The subject of Elocution, so far as it is deemed applicable to a work of this kind, will be considered under the following heads, viz:

Articulation is the utterance of the elementary sounds of a language, and of their combinations.

As words consist of one or more elementary sounds, the first object of the student should he to acquire the power of uttering those sounds with distinctness, smoothness, and force. This result can be secured only by careful practice, which must be persevered in until the learner has acquired a perfect control of his organs of speech.

An Elementary Sound is a simple, distinct sound made by the organs of speech.

The Elementary Sounds of the English language are divided into Vocals,
Subvocals, and Aspirates.

Vocals are sounds which consist of pure tone only. They are the most prominent elements of all words, and it is proper that they should first receive attention. A vocal may be represented by one letter, as in the word hat, or by two or more letters, as in heat, beauty. A diphthong is a union of two vocals, commencing with one and ending with the other. It is usually represented by two letters, as in the words oil, boy, out, now.

Each of these can he uttered with great force, so as to give a distinct expression of its sound, although the voice be suddenly suspended, the moment the sound is produced. This is done by putting the lips, teeth, tongue, and palate in their proper position, and then expelling each sound from the throat in the same manner that the syllable "ah!" is uttered in endeavoring to deter a child from something it is about to do; thus, a'—a'—a'—.

Let the pupil he required to utter every one of the elements in the Table with all possible suddenness and percussive force, until he is able to do it with ease and accuracy. This must not he considered as accomplished until he can give each sound with entire clearness, and with all the suddenness of the crack of a rifle. Care must be taken that the vocal alone be heard; there must be no consonantal sound, and no vocal sound other than the one intended.

At first, the elementary sounds may be repeated by the class in concert; then separately.

Long Sounds.

Sound as in

a hate e err a hare i pine a pass o no a far oo cool a fall u tube e eve u burn

Short Sounds.

Sound as in

a mat o hot e met oo book i it u us

Diphthongs. oi, oy, as in oil, boy. ou, ow, as in out, now.

REMARK I.—In this table, the short sounds are nearly or quite the same, in quantity, as the long sounds. The difference consists chiefly in quality. Let the pupil determine this fact by experiment.

REMARK II.—The vocals are often represented by other letters or combinations of letters than those used in the table: for instance, a is represented by ai as in hail, by ea as in steak, etc.

REMARK III.—As a general rule, the long vocals and the diphthongs should be articulated with full, clear utterance; but the short vocals have a sharp, distinct, and almost explosive utterance. Weakness of speech follows a failure to observe the first point, while drawling results from carelessness with respect to the second.

Subvocals are those sounds in which the vocalized breath is more or less obstructed.

Aspirates consist of breath only, modified by the vocal organs.

Words ending with subvocal sounds may be selected for practice on the subvocals; words beginning or ending with aspirate sounds may be used for practice on aspirates. Pronounce these words forcibly and distinctly, several times in succession; then drop the other sounds, and repeat the subvocals and aspirates alone. Let the class repeat the words and elements, at first, in concert; then separately.

Subvocals. as in

b babe d bad g nag j judge v move th with z buzz z azure (azh-) w wine

Aspirates. as in

p rap t at k book ch rich f life th smith s hiss sh rush wh what

REMARK.—These eighteen sounds make nine pairs of cognates. In articulating the aspirates, the vocal organs are put in the position required in the articulation of the corresponding subvocals; but the breath is expelled with some force, without the utterance of any vocal sound. The pupil should first verify this by experiment, and then practice on these cognates.

The following subvocals and aspirate have no cognates:

SUBVOCAL as in

l mill ng sing m rim r rule n run y yet

h, as in hat.

Substitutes are characters used to represent sounds ordinarily represented by other characters.

a o what y i hymn e a there c s cite e a freight c k cap i e police ch sh machine i e sir ch k chord o u son g j cage o oo to n ng rink o oo would s z rose o a corn s sh sugar o u worm x gz examine u oo pull gh f laugh u oo rude ph f sylph y i my qu k pique qu kw quick

The most common faults of articulation are dropping an unaccented vowel, sounding incorrectly an unaccented vowel, suppressing final consonants, omitting or mispronouncing syllables, and blending words.

1. Dropping an unaccented vocal.

gran'a-ry gran'ry a-ban'don a-ban-d'n im-mor'tal im-mor-t'l reg'u-lar reg'lar in-clem'ent in-clem'nt par-tic'u-lar par-tic'lar des'ti-ny des-t'ny cal-cu-la'tian cal-cl'a-sh'n un-cer'tain un-cer-t'n oc-ca'sion oc-ca-sh'n em'i-nent em'nent ef'i-gy ef'gy ag'o-ny ag'ny man'i-fold man'fold rev'er-ent rev'rent cul'ti-vate cult'vate

2. Sounding incorrectly an unaccented vowel.

lam-en-ta'-tion lam-un-ta-tion ter'ri-ble ter-rub-ble e-ter'nal e-ter-nul fel'on-y fel-er-ny ob'sti-nate ob-stun-it fel'low-ship fel-ler-ship e-vent' uv-ent cal'cu-late cal-ker-late ef'fort uf-fort reg'u-lar reg-gy-lur

The vocals most likely to be dropped or incorrectly sounded are italicized.

  He attended divine service regularly.
  This is my particular request.
  She is universally esteemed.
  George is sensible of his fault.
  This calculation is incorrect.
  What a terrible calamity.
  His eye through vast immensity can pierce.
 Observe these nice dependencies.
  He is a formidable adversary.
  He is generous to his friends.
  A tempest desolated the land.
  He preferred death to servitude.
  God is the author of all things visible and invisible.

3. Suppressing the final subvocals or aspirates.

  John an' James are frien's o' my father.
  Gi' me some bread.
  The want o' men is occasioned by the want o' money.
  We seldom fine' men o' principle to ac' thus.
  Beas' an' creepin' things were foun' there.

  He learned to write.
  The masts of the ship were cast down.
  He entered the lists at the head of his troops.
  He is the merriest fellow in existence.
  I regard not the world's opinion.
  He has three assistants.
  The depths of the sea.
  She trusts too much to servants.
  His attempts were fruitless.
  He chanced to see a bee hovering over a flower.

4. Omitting or mispronouncing whole syllables.

Correct is improperly pronounced

Lit'er-ar-ry lit-rer-ry co-tem'po-ra-ry co-tem-po-ry het-er-o-ge'ne-ous het-ro-ge-nous in-quis-i-to'ri-al in-quis-i-to-ral mis'er-a-ble mis-rer-ble ac-com'pa-ni-ment ac-comp-ner-ment

  He devoted his attention chiefly to literary pursuits.
  He is a miserable creature.
  His faults were owing to the degeneracy of the times.
  The manuscript was undecipherable.
  His spirit was unconquerable.
  Great industry was necessary for the performance of the task.

5. Blending the end of one word with the beginning of the next.

  I court thy gif sno more.
  The grove swere God sfir stemples.
  My hear twas a mirror, that show' devery treasure.
  It reflecte deach beautiful blosso mof pleasure.
  Han d'me the slate.
  This worl dis all a fleeting show,
  For man' sillusion given.

  The magistrates ought to arrest the rogues speedily.
  The whirlwinds sweep the plain.
  Linked to thy side, through every chance I go.
  But had he seen an actor in our days enacting Shakespeare.
  What awful sounds assail my ears?
  We caught a glimpse of her.
  Old age has on their temples shed her silver frost.
  Our eagle shall rise mid the whirlwinds of war,
  And dart through the dun cloud of battle his eye.
  Then honor shall weave of the laurel a crown,
  That beauty shall bind on the brow of the brave.

Inflection is a bending or sliding of the voice either upward or downward.

The upward or rising inflection is an upward slide of the voice, and is marked by the acute accent, thus, ('); as,

Did you call'? Is he sick'?

The downward or falling inflection is a downward slide of the voice, and is marked by the grave accent, thus, ('); as,

Where is London'? Where have you been'?

Sometimes both the rising and falling inflections are given to the same sound. Such sounds are designated by the circumflex, thus, (v) or thus, (^). The former is called the rising circumflex; the latter, the falling circumflex; as,

But nobody can bear the death of Clodius.

When several successive syllables are uttered without either the upward or downward slide, they are said to be uttered in a monotone, which is marked thus, (—); as,

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll

Does he read correctly' or incorrectly'?

In reading this sentence, the voice should slide somewhat as represented in the following diagram:

Does he read cor-rectly or incorrect-ly?

If you said vinegar, I said sugar,

To be read thus:

If you said vinegar, I said sugar,

If you said yes, I said no.

To be read thus:

If you said yes, I said no.

What! did he say no?

To be read thus:

What! did he say no?

He did'; he said no',

To be read thus;

He did; he said no.

Did he do it voluntarily', or involuntarily'?

To be read thus:

Did he do it voluntarily, or involuntarily?

He did it voluntarily', not involuntarily',

To be read thus:

He did it voluntarily, not involuntarily.

Do they act prudently', or imprudently'?

Are they at home', or abroad'?

Did you say Europe', or Asia'?

Is he rich', or poor'?

He said pain', not pain'.

Are you engaged', or at leisure'?

Shall I say plain', or pain'?

He went home' not abroad'.

Does he say able', or table'?

He said hazy' not lazy'?

Must I say flat', or flat'?

You should say flat' not flat'.

My father', must I stay'?

Oh! but he paused upon the brink.

It shall go hard with me, but I shall use the weapon.

Heard ye those loud contending waves,
  That shook Cecropia's pillar'd state'?
Saw ye the mighty from their graves
  Look up', and tremble at your fate'?

First' Fear', his hand, its skill to try',
  Amid the chords bewildered laid';
And back recoiled', he knew not why'
  E'en at the sound himself had made'.

Where be your gibes' now? your gambols'? your songs'? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar'?

Thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is
Holy; "I dwell in the high and holy place."

RULE I.—Sentences, and parts of sentences which make complete sense in themselves, require the falling inflection.

1. By virtue we secure happiness'.

2. For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven': I will exalt my throne above the stars of God': I will sit, also, upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north'.

3. The wind and the rain are over'; calm is the noon of the day\: the clouds are divided in heaven'; over the green hills flies the inconstant sun'; red through the stormy vale comes down the stream'.

4. This proposition was, however, rejected,' and not merely rejected, but rejected with insult'.

Exception.—Emphasis sometimes reverses this rule, and requires the rising inflection, apparently for the purpose of calling attention to the idea of an unusual manner of expressing it.

1. I should not like to ride in that car'. 2. Look out! A man was drowned there yesterday'. 3. Presumptuous man! the gods' take care of Cato',

RULE II.—The language of emphasis generally requires the falling inflection.

1. Charge', Chester, charge'; on', Stanley, on'.

2. Were I an American, as I am an Englishman, while a single' foreign troop' remained' in my country, I would never' lay down my arms'—never', never', never.'

3. Does anyone suppose that the payment of twenty shillings, would have ruined Mr. Hampden's fortune? No'. But the payment of half twenty shillings, on the principle' it was demanded, would have made him a slave'.

4. I insist' upon this point': I urge' you to it; I press' it, demand' it.

5. All that I have', all that I am', and all that I hope' in this life, I am now ready', here, to stake' upon it.

RULE III.—Interrogative sentences and members of sentences, which can not be answered by yes or no, generally require the falling inflection.

1. How many books did he purchase'?

2. Why reason ye these things in your hearts'?

3. What see' you, that you frown so heavily to-day'?

4. Ah! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye'?

5. Whence this pleasing hope', this fond desire',
   This longing after immortality'?

Exception.—When questions usually requiring the falling inflection are emphatic or repeated, they take the rising inflection.

1. Where did you say he had gone'?

2. To whom did you say the blame was to be imputed'?

3. What is' he? A knave. What' is he? A knave, I say.

RULE IV.—The rising inflection is generally used where the sense is dependent or incomplete.

REMARK.—This inflection is generally very slight, requiring an acute and educated ear to discern it, and it is difficult to teach pupils to distinguish it, though they constantly use it. Care should be taken not to exaggerate it.

1. Nature being exhausted', he quietly resigned himself to his fate.

2. A chieftain to the Highlands bound',
   Cries', "Boatman, do not tarry!"

3. As he spoke without fear of consequences', so his actions were marked with the most unbending resolution,

4. Speaking in the open air', at the top of the voice', is an admirable exercise.

5. If then, his Providence' out of our evil, seek to bring forth good', our labor must be to prevent that end.

6. He', born for the universe', narrowed his mind,
   And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.

REMARK.—The names of persons or things addressed, when not used emphatically, are included in this rule.

7. Brother', give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick!,
   Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.

8. O Lancaster', I fear thy overthrow.

9. Ye crags' and peaks', I'm with you once again.

Exception 1.—Relative emphasis often reverses this and the first rule, because emphasis is here expressed in part by changing the usual inflections.

1. If you care not for your property', you surely value your life'.

2. If you will not labor for your own' advancement, you should regard that of your children'.

3. It is your place to obey', not to command'.

4. Though by that course he should not destroy his reputation', he will lose all self-respect'.

Exception 2.—The names of persons addressed in a formal speech, or when used emphatically, have the falling inflection.

1. Romans, countrymen, and lovers', hear me for my cause, etc.

2. Gentlemen of the jury', I solicit your attention, etc.

3. O Hubert', Hubert', save me from these men.

RULE V.—Negative sentences and parts of sentences, usually require the rising inflection.

1. It is not by starts of application that eminence can be attained'.

2. It was not an eclipse that caused the darkness at the crucifixion of our Lord'; for the sun and moon were not relatively in a position' to produce an eclipse'.

3. They are not fighting': do not disturb' them: this man is not expiring with agony': that man is not dead': they are only pausing'.

4. My Lord, we could not have had such designs'.

5. You are not left alone to climb the steep ascent': God is with you, who never suffers the spirit that rests on him to fail.

Exception 1.—Emphasis may reverse this rule.

We repeat it, we do not' desire to produce discord; we do not' wish to kindle the flames of a civil war.

Exception 2.—General propositions and commands usually have the falling inflection.

God is not the author of sin'. Thou shalt not kill.

RULE VI.—Interrogative sentences, and members of sentences which can be answered by yes or no generally require the rising inflection.

1. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation'?

2. Does the gentleman suppose it is in his power', to exhibit in Carolina a name so bright' as to produce envy' in my bosom?

3. If it be admitted, that strict integrity is not the shortest way to success, is it not the surest', the happiest', the best'?

4. Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens, To wash this crimson hand as white as snow'?

Exception.—Emphasis may reverse this rule.

1, Can' you be so blind to your interest? Will' you rush headlong to destruction?

2. I ask again, is' there no hope of reconciliation? Must' we abandon all our fond anticipations?

3. Will you deny' it? Will you deny' it?

4. Am I Dromio'? Am I your man'? Am I myself'?

RULE VII.—Interrogative exclamations, and words repeated as a kind of echo to the thought, require the rising inflection.

1. Where grows', where grows it not'?

2. What'! Might Rome have been taken'? Rome taken when I was consul'?

3. Banished from Rome'! Tried and convicted traitor'!

4. Prince Henry. What's the matter'?

Falstaff. What's the matter'? Here be four of us have taken a thousand pounds this morning.

Prince H. Where is' it, Jack, where is' it?

Fal. Where is' it? Taken from us, it is.

5. Ha'! laughest thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?

6. And this man is called a statesman. A statesman'? Why, he never invented a decent humbug.

7. I can not say, sir, which of these motives influence the advocates of the bill before us; a bill', in which such cruelties are proposed as are yet unknown among the most savage nations.

RULE VIII.—Words and members of a sentence expressing antithesis or contrast, require opposite inflections.

1. By honor' and dishonor'; by evil' report and good' report; as deceivers' and yet true'.

2. What they know by reading', I know by experience'.

3. I could honor thy courage', but I detest thy crimes'.

4. It is easier to forgive the weak', who have injured us', than the powerful' whom we' have injured.

5. Homer was the greater genius', Virgil the better artist'.

6. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied'; that of Pope is cautious and uniform'. Dryden obeys the emotions of his own mind'; Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of composition.' Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid'; Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle'. Dryden's page is a natural field, rising into inequalities, varied by exuberant vegetation'; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe and leveled by the roller'.

7. If the flights of Dryden are higher', Pope continues longer on the wing'. If the blaze of Dryden's fire is brighter', the heat of Pope's is more regular and constant'. Dryden often surpasses' expectation, and Pope never falls below' it.

REMARK l.—Words and members connected by or used disjunctively, generally express contrast or antithesis, and always receive opposite inflection.

1. Shall we advance', or retreat'?

2. Do you seek wealth', or power'?

3. Is the great chain upheld by God', or thee'?

4. Shall we return to our allegiance while we may do so with safety and honor', or shall we wait until the ax of the executioner is at our throats'?

5. Shall we crown' the author of these public calamities with garlands', or shall we wrest' from him his ill-deserved authority' ?

REMARK 2.—When the antithesis is between affirmation and negation, the latter usually has the rising inflection, according to Rule V.

1. You were paid to fight' against Philip, not to rail' at him.

2. I said rationally', not irrationally'.

3. I did not say rationally', but irrationally'.

4. I said an elder' soldier, not a better'.

5. Let us retract while we can', not when we must'.

REMARK 3.—The more emphatic member generally receives the falling inflection.

1. A countenance more in sorrow', than anger'.

2. A countenance less in anger', than sorrow'.

3. You should show your courage by deeds', rather than by words.

4. If we can not remove' pain, we may alleviate' it.

A series is a number of particulars immediately following one another in the same grammatical construction.

A commencing series is one which commences a sentence or clause.

Faith, hope, love, joy, are the fruits of the spirit.

A concluding series is one which concludes a sentence or a clause.

The fruits of the spirit are faith, hope, love, and joy.

RULE IX.—All the members of a commencing series, when not emphatic, usually require the rising inflection.

1. War', famine', pestilence', storm', and fire' besiege mankind.

2. The knowledge', the power', the wisdom', the goodness' of God, must all be unbounded.

3. To advise the ignorant', to relieve the needy', and to comfort the afflicted' are the duties that fall in our way almost every day of our lives.

4. No state chicanery', no narrow system of vicious politics', no idle contest for ministerial victories', sank him to the vulgar level of the great.

5. For solidity of reasoning', force of sagacity', and wisdom of conclusion', no nation or body of men can compare with the Congress at Philadelphia.

6. The wise and the foolish', the virtuous and the evil', the learned and the ignorant', the temperate and the profligate', must often be blended together.

7. Absalom's beauty', Jonathan's love', David's valor', Solomon's wisdom', the patience of Job, the prudence of Augustus', and the eloquence of Cicero' are found in perfection in the Creator.

REMARK.—Some elocutionists prefer to give the falling inflection to the last member of a commencing series.

Exception.—In a commencing series, forming a climax, the last term usually requires the falling inflection.

1. Days', months', years', and ages', shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll.

2. Property', character', reputation', everything', was sacrificed.

3. Toils', sufferings', wounds', and death' was the price of our liberty.

RULE X.—All the members of a concluding series, when not at all emphatic, usually require the falling inflection.

1. It is our duty to pity', to support', to defend', and to relieve' the oppressed.

2. At the sacred call of country, they sacrifice property', ease', health', applause' and even life'.

3. I protest against this measure as cruel', oppressive', tyrannous', and vindictive'.

4. God was manifest in the flesh', justified in the Spirit', seen of angels', preached unto the Gentiles', believed on in the world', received up into glory'.

5. Charity vaunteth not itself', is not puffed up', doth not behave itself unseemly', seeketh not her own', is not easily provoked', thinketh no evil'; beareth' all things, believeth' all things, hopeth' all things, endureth' all things.

REMARK.—Some authors give the following rule for the reading of a concluding series: "All the particulars of a concluding series, except the last but one, require the falling inflection." Exception l.—When the particulars enumerated in a concluding series are not at all emphatic, all except the last require the rising inflection.

He was esteemed for his kindness', his intelligence', his self-denial', and his active benevolence'.

Exception 2.—When all the terms of a concluding series are strongly emphatic, they all receive the falling inflection.

1. They saw not one man', not one woman', not one child', not one four-footed beast'.

2. His hopes', his happiness', his life', hung upon the words that fell from those lips,

3. They fought', they bled', they died', for freedom.

RULE XI.—A parenthesis should be read more rapidly and in a lower key than the rest of the sentence, and should terminate with the same inflection that next precedes it. If, however, it is complicated, or emphatic, or disconnected from the main subject, the inflections must be governed by the same rules as in the other cases.

REMARK.—A smooth and expressive reading of a parenthesis is difficult of acquisition, and can be secured only by careful and persistent training.

1. God is my witness' (whom I serve with my spirit, in the gospel of his Son'), that, without ceasing, I make mention of you always in my prayers; making request' (if, by any means, now at length, I might have a prosperous journey by the will of God'), to come unto you.

2. When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying his left hand upon his breast' (a slender, white staff with which he journeyed being in his right'), he introduced himself with a little story of his convent.

3. If you, AEschines, in particular, were persuaded' (and it was no particular affection for me, that prompted you to give up the hopes, the appliances, the honors, which attended the course I then advised; but the superior force of truth, and your utter inability to point any course more eligible') if this was the case, I say, is it not highly cruel and unjust to arraign these measures now, when you could not then propose a better?

4. As the hour of conflict drew near' (and this was a conflict to be dreaded even by him'), he began to waver, and to abate much of his boasting.

RULE XII.—The circumflex is used to express irony, sarcasm, hypothesis, or contrast.

NOTE.—For the reason that the circumflex always suggests a double or doubtful meaning, it is appropriate for the purposes expressed in the rule. It is, also, frequently used in sportive language; jokes and puns are commonly given with this inflection.

1. Man never is, but always to be, blest.

2. They follow an adventurer whom they fear; we serve a monarch whom we love. They boast, they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error. Yes, they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection: yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs, covering and devouring them.

RULE XIII.—The use of the monotone is confined chiefly to grave and solemn subjects. When carefully and properly employed, it gives great dignity to delivery.

1. The unbeliever! one who can gaze upon the sun, and moon, and stars, and upon the unfading and imperishable sky, spread out so magnificently above him, and say, "All this is the work of chance!"

2. God walketh upon the ocean. Brilliantly
   The glassy waters mirror back his smiles;
   The surging billows, and the gamboling storms
   Come crouching to his feet.

3. I hail thee, as in gorgeous robes,
   Blooming thou leav'st the chambers of the east,
   Crowned with a gemmed tiara thick embossed
   With studs of living light.

4. High on a throne of royal state, which far
   Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
   Or where the gorgeous east, with richest hand
   Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
   Satan exalted sat.

5. His broad expanded wings
   Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
   As if he floated there without their aid,
   By the sole act of his unlorded will.

6. In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
   On half the nations, and with fear of change
   Perplexes monarchs.

That syllable in a word which is uttered more forcibly than the others, is said to be accented, and is marked thus, ('); as the italicized syllables in the following words:

morn'ing. pos'si-ble. ty'rant. re-cum'bent. pro-cure'. ex-or'bi-tant, de-bate'. com-pre-hen'sive.

Common usage alone determines upon what syllable the accent should be placed, and to the lexicographer it belongs, to ascertain and record its decision on this point.

In some few cases, we can trace the reasons for common usage in this respect. In words which are used as different parts of speech, or which have different meanings, the distinction is sometimes denoted by changing the accent.

sub'ject sub-ject' pres'ent pre-sent' ab'sent ab-sent' cem'ent ce-ment' con'jure con-jure'

There is another case, in which we discover the reason for changing the accent, and that is, when it is required by emphasis, as in the following:

1. His abil'ity or in'ability to perform the act materially varies the case. 2. This corrup'tion must put on in'corruption.

In words of more than two syllables, there is often a second accent given, but more slight than the principal one, and this is called the secondary accent; as, em"igra'tion, rep"artee', where the principal accent is marked ('), and the secondary, ("); so, also, this accent is obvious, in nav"iga'tion, com"prehen'sion, plau"sibil'ity, etc. The whole subject, however, properly belongs to dictionaries and spelling books.

Emphasis consists in uttering a word or phrase in such a manner as to give it force and energy, and to draw the attention of the hearer particularly to the idea expressed.

This is most frequently accomplished by an increased stress of voice laid upon the word or phrase. Sometimes, though more rarely, the same object is effected by an unusual lowering of the voice, even to a whisper, and not unfrequently by a pause before the emphatic word.

The inflections are often made subsidiary to this object. To give emphasis to a word, the inflection is changed or increased in force or extent. When the rising inflection is ordinarily used, the word, when emphatic, frequently takes the falling inflection; and sometimes, also, the falling inflection is changed into the rising inflection, for the same purpose.

Emphatic words are often denoted by being written in italics, in SMALL
CAPITALS, or in CAPITALS.

Much care is necessary to train the pupil to give clear and expressive emphasis, and at the same time to avoid an unpleasant "jerky" movement of the voice.

Where the emphasis is independent of any contrast or comparison with other words or ideas, it is called absolute emphasis.

1. We praise thee, O God; we acknowledge thee to be the Lord.

2. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!

3. Arm, warriors, arm!

4. You know that you are Brutus, that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.

5. Hamlet. Saw, who?
   Horatio. The king, your father.
   Hamlet. The king, my father?

6. Strike—till the last armed foe expires;
   Strike—for your altars and your fires;
   Strike—for the green graves of your sites;
   God, and your native land!

Where there is antithesis, either expressed or implied, the emphasis is called relative.

1. We can do nothing against the truth, but for the truth.

2. But I am describing your condition, rather than my own.

3. I fear not death, and shall I then fear thee?

4. Hunting men, and not beasts, shall be his game.

5. He is the propitiation for our sins; and not for ours only, but for the sins of the whole world.

6. It may moderate and restrain, but it was not designed to banish gladness from the heart of man.

In the following examples, there are two sets of antitheses in the same sentence.

7. To err is human, to forgive, divine.

8. John was punished; William, rewarded.

9. Without were fightings, within were fears.

10. Business sweetens pleasure, as labor sweetens rest.

11. Justice appropriates rewards to merit, and punishments to crime.

12. On the one side, all was alacrity and courage; on the other, all was timidity and indecision.

13. The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation; the fool, when he gains the applause of others.

14. His care was to polish the country by art, as he had protected it by arms.

In the following examples, the relative emphasis is applied to three sets of antithetic words.

15. The difference between a madman and a fool is, that the former reasons justly from false data; and the latter, erroneously from just data.

16. He raised a mortal to the skies,
    She drew an angel down.

Sometimes the antithesis is implied, as in the following instances.

17. The spirit of the white man's heaven, Forbids not thee to weep.

18. I shall enter on no encomiums upon Massachusetts.

When words, which are the same in part of their formation, are contrasted, the emphasis is expressed by accenting the syllables in which they differ. See Accent, page 33.

1. What is the difference between probability and possibility?

2. Learn to unlearn what you have learned amiss.

3. John attends regularly. William, irregularly.

4. There is a great difference between giving and forgiving.

5. The conduct of Antoninus was characterized by justice and humanity; that of Nero, by injustice and inhumanity.

6. The conduct of the former is deserving of approbation, while that of the latter merits the severest reprobation.

Emphasis sometimes changes the inflection from the rising to the falling, or from the falling to the rising. For instances of the former change, see Rule II, and Exception 1 to Rule IV. In the first three following examples, the inflection is changed from the rising to the falling inflection; in the last three, it is changed from the falling to the rising, by the influence of emphasis.

1. If we have no regard for religion in youth', we ought to have respect for it in age.

2. If we have no regard for our own' character, we ought to regard the character of others.

3. If content can not remove' the disquietudes of life, it will, at least, alleviate them.

4. The sweetest melody and the most perfect harmony fall powerless upon the ear of one who is deaf',

5. It is useless to expatiate upon the beauties of nature to one who is blind',

6. And they that have believing masters, let them not despise them, because they are brethren'; but rather let them do them service.

When it is desired to give to a phrase great force of expression, each word, and even the parts of a compound word, are independently emphasized.

1. Cassius. Must I endure all this? Brutus. All this!—Ay,—more. Fret, till your proud—heart—break.

2. What! weep you when you but behold
   Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look ye here,
   Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors.

3. There was a time, my fellow-citizens, when the Lacedaemonians were sovereign masters, both by sea and by land; while this state had not one ship—no, NOT—ONE—WALL.

4. Shall I, the conqueror of Spain and Gaul; and not only of the Alpine nations, but of the Alps themselves; shall I compare myself with this HALF—YEAR—CAPTAIN?

5. You call me misbeliever—cutthroat—dog.
   Hath a dog—money? Is it possible—
   A cur can lend three—thousand—ducats?

A short pause is often made before or after, and sometimes both before and after, an emphatic word or phrase,—thus very much increasing the emphatic expression of the thought.

1. May one be pardoned, and retain—the offense?
   In the corrupted currents of this world,
   Offense's gilded hand may shove by—justice;
   And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself
   Buys out the law: but 't is not so—above:
   There—is no shuffling: there—the action lies
   In its true nature.

2. He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
   "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!
   He woke—to die—midst flame and smoke."

3. This—is no flattery: These—are counselors
   That feelingly persuade me what I am.

4. And this—our life, exempt from public haunt,
   Finds tongues—in tree, books—in the running brooks,
   Sermons—in stones, and—good in everything.

5. Heaven gave this Lyre, and thus decreed,
   Be thou a bruised—but not a broken—reed.

In reading verse, the inflections should be nearly the same as in reading prose; the chief difference is, that in poetry, the monotone and rising inflection are more frequently used than in prose. The greatest difficulty in reading this species of composition, consists in giving it that measured flow which distinguishes it from prose, without falling into a chanting pronunciation.

If, at any time, the reader is in doubt as to the proper inflection, let him reduce the passage to earnest conversation, and pronounce it in the most familiar and prosaic manner, and thus he will generally use the proper inflection.

1. Meanwhile the south wind rose, and with black wings
   Wide hovering', all the clouds together drove
   From under heaven': the hills to their supply',
   Vapor and exhalation dusk and moist
   Sent up amain': and now, the thickened sky
   Like a dark ceiling stood': down rushed the rain
   Impetuous', and continued till the earth
   No more was seen': the floating vessel swam
   Uplifted', and, secure with beake'd prow',
   Rode tilting o'er the waves'.

2. My friend', adown life's valley', hand in hand',
     With grateful change of grave and merry speech
     Or song', our hearts unlocking each to each',
   We'll journey onward to the silent land';
   And when stern death shall loose that loving band,
     Taking in his cold hand, a hand of ours',
     The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers',
   Nor shall his heart a moment be unmanned'.
   My friend and brother'! if thou goest first',
     Wilt thou no more revisit me below'?
   Yea, when my heart seems happy causelessly',
     And swells', not dreaming why', my soul shall know
   That thou', unseen', art bending over me'.

3. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth',
     A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown';
   Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth',
     And Melancholy marked him for her own'.

4. Large was his bounty', and his soul sincere',
     Heaven did a recompense as largely send';
   He gave to misery (all he had) a tear',
     He gained from heaven' ('t was all he wished') a friend'.

5. No further seek his merits to disclose',
     Or draw his frailties from their dread abode';
   (There they alike' in trembling hope repose',)
     The bosom of his Father, and his God'.

In reading verse, every syllable must have the same accent, and every word the same emphasis as in prose; and whenever the melody or music of the verse would lead to an incorrect accent or emphasis, this must be disregarded.

If a poet has made his verse deficient in melody, this must not be remedied by the reader, at the expense of sense or the established rules of accent and quantity. Take the following:

   O'er shields, and helms, and helme'd heads he rode,
   Of thrones, and mighty Seraphim prostrate

According to the metrical accent, the last word must be pronounced "pros-trate'." But according to the authorized pronunciation it is "pros'trate. Which shall yield, the poet or established usage? Certainly not the latter.

Some writers advise a compromise of the matter, and that the word should he pronounced without accenting either syllable. Sometimes this may be done, but where it is not practiced, the prosaic reading should be preserved.

In the following examples, the words and syllables which are improperly accented or emphasized in the poetry, are marked in italics. According to the principle stated above, the reader should avoid giving them that pronunciation which the correct rending of the poetry would require, but should read them as prose, except where he can throw off all accent and thus compromise the conflict between the poetic reading and the correct reading. That is, he must read the poetry wrong, in order to read the language right.

1. Ask of thy mother earth why oaks are made
   Taller and stronger than the weeds they shade.

2. Their praise is still, "the style is excellent,"
   The sense they humbly take upon content.

3. False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
   Its fairy colors spreads on every place.

4. To do aught good, never will be our task,
   But ever to do ill is our sole delight.

5. Of all the causes which combine to blind
   Man's erring judgment, and mislead the mind,
   What the weak head with strongest bias rules
   Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.

6. Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
   And catch the manners living as they rise.

7. To whom then, first incensed, Adam replied,
   "Is this thy love, is this the recompense
   Of mine to thee, ungrateful Eve?"

8. We may, with more successful hope, resolve
   To wage, by force or guile, successful war,
   Irreconcilable to our grand foe,
   Who now triumphs, and in excess of joy
   Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heaven.

9. Which, when Beelzebub perceived (than whom,
   Satan except, none higher sat), with grave
   Aspect, he rose, and in his rising seemed
   A pillar of state.

10. Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,
    That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow,
    Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget,
    Those other two equaled with me in fate.

NOTE.—Although it would be necessary, in these examples, to violate the laws of accent or emphasis, to give perfect rhythm, yet a careful and well-trained reader will be able to observe these laws and still give the rhythm in such a manner that the defect will scarcely be noticed.

In order to make the measure of poetry perceptible to the ear, there should generally be a slight pause at the end of each line, even where the sense does not require it.

There is, also, in almost every line of poetry, a pause at or near its middle, which is called the caesura.

This should, however, never be so placed as to injure the sense of the passage. It is indeed reckoned a great beauty, where it naturally coincides with the pause required by the sense. The caesura, though generally placed near the middle, may be placed at other intervals.

There are sometimes, also, two additional pauses in each line, called demi-caesuras.

The caesura is marked (||), and the demi-caesura thus, (|), in the examples given.

There should be a marked accent upon the long syllable next preceding the caesura, and a slighter one upon that next before each of the demi-caesuras. When made too prominent, these pauses lead to a singsong style, which should be carefully avoided.

In the following examples, the caesura is marked in each line; the demi-caesura is not marked in every case.

1. Nature | to all things || fixed | the limits fit,
   And wisely | curbed || proud man's | pretending wit.

2. Then from his closing eyes || thy form shall part,
   And the last pang || shall tear thee from his heart.

3. Warms in the sun, || refreshes in the breeze,
   Glows in the stars, || and blossoms in the trees.

4. There is a land || of every land the pride,
   Beloved by Heaven || o'er all the world beside,
   Where brighter suns || dispense serener light,
   And milder moons || imparadise the night;
   Oh, thou shalt find, || howe'er thy footsteps roam,
   That land—thy country, || and that spot—thy home.

5. In slumbers | of midnight || the sailor | boy lay;
     His hammock | swung loose || at the sport | of the wind;
   But, watch-worn | and weary, || his cares | flew away,
     And visions | of happiness || danced | o'er his mind.

6. She said, | and struck; || deep entered | in her side
   The piercing steel, || with reeking purple dyed:
   Clogged | in the wound || the cruel | weapon stands,
   The spouting blood || came streaming o'er her hands.
   Her sad attendants || saw the deadly stroke,
   And with loud cries || the sounding palace shook.

Simile is the likening of anything to another object of a different class; it is a poetical or imaginative comparison.

A simile, in poetry, should usually he read in a lower key and more rapidly than other parts of the passage—somewhat as a parenthesis is read.

1. Part curb their fiery steeds, or shun the goal
   With rapid wheels, or fronted brigades form.
   As when, to warn proud cities, war appears,
   Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush
   To battle in the clouds.
   Others with vast Typhoean rage more fell,
   Rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the air
   In whirlwind. Hell scarce holds the wild uproar.
   As when Alcides felt the envenomed robe, and tore,
   Through pain, up by the roots, Thessialian pines,
   And Lichas from the top of Oeta threw
   Into the Euboic sea.

2. Each at the head,
   Leveled his deadly aim; their fatal hands
   No second stroke intend; and such a frown
   Each cast at th' other, as when two black clouds,
   With heaven's artillery fraught, came rolling on
   Over the Caspian, there stand front to front,
   Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow
   To join the dark encounter, in mid-air:
   So frowned the mighty combatants.

3. Then pleased and thankful from the porch they go
   And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe:
   His cup was vanished; for, in secret guise,
   The younger guest purloined the glittering prize.
   As one who spies a serpent in his way,
   Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
   Disordered, stops to shun the danger near,
   Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear,—
   So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road,
   The shining spoil his wily partner showed.

The natural pitch of the voice is its keynote, or governing note. It is that on which the voice usually dwells, and to which it most frequently returns when wearied. It is also the pitch used in conversation, and the one which a reader or speaker naturally adopts—when he reads or speaks— most easily and agreeably.

The compass of the voice is its range above and below this pitch. To avoid monotony in reading or speaking, the voice should rise above or fall below this keynote, but always with reference to the sense or character of that which is read or spoken. The proper natural pitch is that above and below which there is most room for variation.

To strengthen the voice and increase its compass, select a short sentence, repeat it several times in succession in as low a key as the voice can sound naturally; then rise one note higher, and practice on that key, then another, and so on, until the highest pitch of the voice has been reached. Next, reverse the process, until the lowest pitch has been reached.

High Pitch.

NOTE.—Be careful to distinguish pitch from power in the following exercise. Speaking in the open air, at the very top of the voice, is an exercise admirably adapted to strengthen the voice and give it compass, and should be frequently practiced.

1. Charge'! Chester" charge'! On'! Stanley, on'!

2. A horse'! a horse'! my kingdom' for a horse'!

3. Jump far out', boy' into the wave'! Jump', or I fire'!

4. Run'! run'! run for your lives!

5. Fire'! fire'! fire'! Ring the bell'!

6. Gentlemen may cry peace'! peace'! but there is no peace!

7. Rouse' ye Romans! rouse' ye slaves'!
   Have ye brave sons'? Look in the next fierce brawl
   To see them die'. Have ye fair daughters'? Look
   To see them live, torn from your arms', distained',
   Dishonored', and if ye dare call for justice',
   Be answered by the lash'!

Medium Pitch. (47)

NOTE.—This is the pitch in which we converse. To strengthen it, we should read or speak in it as loud as possible, without rising to a higher key. To do this requires long-continued practice.

1. Under a spreading chestnut tree,
     The village smithy stands';
   The smith, a mighty man is he,
     With large and sinewy hands';
   And the muscles of his brawny arms
     Are strong as iron bands.

2. There is something in the thunder's voice that makes me tremble like a child. I have tried to conquer' this unmanly weakness'. I have called pride' to my aid'; I have sought for moral courage in the lessons of philosophy', but it avails me nothing'. At the first moaning of the distant cloud, my heart shrinks and dies within me.

3. He taught the scholars the Rule of Three',
     Reading, and writing, and history', too';
   He took the little ones on his knee',
   For a kind old heart in his breast had he',
     And the wants of the littlest child he knew'.
   "Learn while you're young'," he often said',
     "There is much to enjoy down here below';
   Life for the living', and rest for the dead',"
     Said the jolly old pedagogue' long ago'.

Low Pitch. (48)

1. O, proper stuff!
   This is the very painting of your fear:
   This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,
   Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts,
   Impostors to true fear, would well become
   A woman's story at a winter's fire.
   Authorized by her grandam.

2. Thou slave! thou wretch! thou coward!
   Thou little valiant, great in villainy!
   Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
   Thou fortune's champion, thou dost never fight
   But when her humorous ladyship is by
   To teach thee safety! Thou art perjured too,
   And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou,
   A ramping fool; to brag, and stamp, and sweat,
   Upon my party! thou cold-blooded slave!

3. God! thou art mighty! At thy footstool bound,
   Lie, gazing to thee, Chance, and Life, and Death;
   Nor in the angel circle flaming round,
   Nor in the million worlds that blaze beneath,
   Is one that can withstand thy wrath's hot breath.
   Woe, in thy frown: in thy smile, victory:
   Hear my last prayer! I ask no mortal wreath;
   Let but these eyes my rescued country see,
   Then take my spirit, all Omnipotent, to thee.

4. O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright
     All space doth occupy, all motion guide,
   Unchanged through time's all-devastating blight!
     Thou only God, there is no god beside!
   Being above all things, mighty One,
     Whom none can comprehend and none explore;
   Who fill'st existence with thyself alone,—
     Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,—
     Being whom we call God, and know no more!

Quantity, in reading and speaking, means the length of time occupied in uttering a syllable or a word. Sounds and syllables vary greatly in quantity. Some are long, some short, and others intermediate between those which are long or short. Some sounds, also, may be prolonged or shortened in utterance to any desired extent. Quantity may be classified as Long, Medium, or Short.

DIRECTIONS FOR PRACTICE ON LONG QUANTITY.—Select some word of one syllable ending with a long vocal or a subvocal sound; pronounce it many times in succession, increasing the quantity at each repetition, until you can dwell upon it any desired length of time, without drawling, and in a natural tone.

REMARK.—Practice in accordance with this direction will enable the pupil to secure that fullness and roundness of voice which is exemplified in the hailing of a ship, "ship aho—y;" in the reply of the sailor, when, in the roar of the storm, he answers his captain, "ay—e. ay—e;" and in the command of the officer to his troops, when, amid the thunder of artillery, he gives the order, "ma—rch," or "ha—lt."

This fullness or roundness of tone is secured, by dwelling on the vocal sound, and indefinitely protracting it, The mouth should be opened wide, the tongue kept down, and the aperture left as round and as free for the voice as possible.

It is this artificial rotundity which, in connection with a distinct articulation, enables one who speaks in the open air, or in a very large apartment, to send his voice to the most distant point. It is a certain degree of this quality, which distinguishes declamatory or public speaking or reading from private conversation, and no one can accomplish much, as a public speaker, without cultivating it. It must be carefully distinguished from the "high tone," which is an elevation of pitch, and from "loudness." or "strength" of voice.

It will be observed that clearness and distinctness of utterance are secured by a proper use of the subvocals and aspirates—these sounds giving to words their shape, as it were; but a clear, full, and well-modulated utterance of the vocals gives to words their fullness.

1. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!

2. Woe, woe, to the inhabitants of Jerusalem!

3. O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,
   Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?
   Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,
   That smote the foes of Zion and of God?

4. O sailor boy! sailor boy! never again
   Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;
   Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,
   Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.

5. O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! who hast set thy glory above the heavens! When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers; the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him? For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor. Thou madest him to have dominion over the work of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet. O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!

1. Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose;
     The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong;
   The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,
     To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

2. Bird of the broad and sweeping wing!
     Thy home is high in heaven,
   Where the wide storms their banners fling,
     And the tempest clouds are driven.

3. At midnight, in his guarded tent,
     The Turk lay dreaming of the hour
   When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
     Should tremble at his power.

4. On New Year's night, an old man stood at his window, and looked, with a glance of fearful despair, up the immovable, unfading heaven, and down upon the still, pure, white earth, on which no one was now so joyless and sleepless as he.

1. Quick! or he faints! stand with the cordial near!

2. Back to thy punishment, false fugitive!

3. Fret till your proud heart breaks! Must I observe you? Must I crouch beneath your testy humor?

4. Up drawbridge, grooms! what, warder, ho!
   Let the portcullis fall!

5. Quick, man the lifeboat! see yon bark,
     That drives before the blast!
   There's a rock ahead, the fog is dark,
     And the storm comes thick and fast.

6. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language; and though, perhaps, I may have some ambition to please this gentleman, I shall not by myself under any restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction, or his mien, however matured by age or modeled by experience.

Movement is the rapidity with which the voice moves in reading and speaking. It varies with the nature of the thought or sentiment to be expressed, and should be increased or diminished as good taste may determine. With pupils generally, the tendency is to read too fast. The result is, reading or speaking in too high a key and an unnatural style of delivery—both of which faults are difficult to be corrected when once formed. The kinds of movement are Slow, Moderate, and Quick.

DIRECTIONS.—Read a selection as slowly us possible, without drawling. Read it again and again, increasing the rate of movement at each reading, until it can be read no faster without the utterance becoming indistinct. Reverse this process, reading more and more slowly at each repetition, until the slowest movement is obtained.

1. Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
   With me but roughly, since I heard them last.

2. A tremulous sigh from the gentle night wind
     Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping,
   While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
     Keep guard; for the army is sleeping.

3. O Lord'! have mercy upon us, miserable offenders'!

4. So live, that when thy summons comes to join
   The innumerable caravan that moves
   To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
   His chamber in the silent halls of death,
   Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
   Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
   By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
   Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
   About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

1. The good', the brave', the beautiful',
     How dreamless' is their sleep,
   Where rolls the dirge-like music'
     Of the over-tossing deep'!
   Or where the surging night winds
     Pale Winter's robes have spread
   Above the narrow palaces,
     In the cities of the dead'!

2. Lives of great men all remind us
     We can make our lives sublime,
   And, departing, leave behind us
     Footprints on the sands of time.

3. Cast your eyes over this extensive country. Observe the salubrity of your climate, the variety and fertility of your soil; and see that soil intersected in every quarter by bold, navigable streams, flowing to the east and to the west, as if the finger of heaven were marking out the course of your settlements, inviting you to enterprise, and pointing the way to wealth.

1. Awake'! arise'! or be forever fallen.

2. Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
     Near to the nest of his little dame,
   Over the mountain side or mead,
     Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.

3. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace—
   Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
   I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
   Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
   Rebuckled the check strap, chained slacker the bit,
   Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

4. Oh my dear uncle, you don't know the effect of a fine spring morning upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singing, the park so gay, that I took a leap out of your balcony, made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased them all around the park to get an appetite for breakfast, while you were snoring in bed, uncle.

Quality.—We notice a difference between the soft, insinuating tones of persuasion; the full, strong voice of command and decision; the harsh, irregular, and sometimes grating explosion of the sounds of passion; the plaintive notes of sorrow and pity; and the equable and unimpassioned flow of words in argumentative style. This difference consists in a variation in the quality of the voice by which it is adapted to the character of the thought or sentiment read or spoken. In our attempts to imitate nature, however, it is important that all affectation be avoided, for perfect monotony is preferable to this fault. The tones of the voice should be made to correspond with the nature of the subject, without apparent effort.

Passion and Grief

   "Come back! come back!" he cried, in grief,
     "Across this stormy water;
   And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
     My daughter! O, my daughter!"

Plaintive

   I have lived long enough: my way of life
   Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf:
   And that which should accompany old age,
   As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
   I must not look to have.

Calm

A very great portion of this globe is covered with water, which is called sea, and is very distinct from rivers and lakes.

Fierce Anger

   Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
   And shook his very frame for ire;
     And—"This to me!" he said,—
   "An 't were not for thy hoary beard,
   Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
     To cleave the Douglas' head!

Loud and Explosive

     "Even in thy pitch of pride,
   Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
     I tell thee, thou 'rt defied!
   And if thou said'st I am not peer
   To any lord in Scotland here,
   Lowland or Highland, far or near,
     Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"

Gesture is that part of the speaker's manner which pertains to his attitude, to the use and carriage of his person, and the movement of his limbs in delivery.

Every person, in beginning to speak, feels the natural embarrassment resulting from his new position. The novelty of the situation destroys his self-possession, and, with the loss of that, he becomes awkward, his arms and hands hang clumsily, and now, for the first time, seem to him worse than superfluous members. This embarrassment will be overcome gradually, as the speaker becomes familiar with his position; and it is sometimes overcome at once, by a powerful exercise of the attention upon the matter of the speech. When that fills and possesses the mind, the orator is likely to take the attitude which is becoming, and, at least, easy and natural, if not graceful.

1st. The first general direction that should be given to the speaker is, that he should stand erect and firm, and in that posture which gives an expanded chest and full play to the organs of respiration and utterance.

2d. Let the attitude be such that it can be shifted easily and gracefully. The student will find, by trial, that no attitude is so favorable to this end as that in which the weight of the body is thrown upon one leg, leaving the other free to be advanced or thrown back, as fatigue or the proper action of delivery may require.

The student who has any regard to grace or elegance, will of course avoid all the gross faults which are so common among public speakers, such as resting one foot upon a stool or bench, or throwing the body forward upon the support of the rostrum.

3d. Next to attitude, come the movements of the person and limbs. In these, two objects are to be observed, and, if possible, combined, viz., propriety and grace. There is expression in the extended arm, the clinched hand, the open palm, and the smiting of the breast. But let no gesture be made that is not in harmony with the thought or sentiment uttered; for it is this harmony which constitutes propriety. As far as possible, let there be a correspondence between the style of action and the train of thought. Where the thought flows on calmly, let there be grace and ease in gesture and action. Where the style is sharp and abrupt, there is propriety in quick, short, and abrupt gesticulation. Especially avoid that ungraceful sawing of the air with the arms, into which all ill-regulated fervor betrays many young speakers.

What is called graceful manner, can only be attained by those who have some natural advantages of person. So far as it is in the reach of study or practice, it seems to depend chiefly upon the general cultivation of manners, implying freedom from all embarrassments, and entire self-possession. The secret of acquiring a graceful style of gesture, we apprehend, lies in the habitual practice, not only when speaking but at all times, of free and graceful movements of the limbs.

There is no limb nor feature which the accomplished speaker will not employ with effect, in the course of a various and animated delivery. The arms, however, are the chief reliance of the orator in gesture; and it will not be amiss to give a hint or two in reference to their proper use.

First—It is not an uncommon fault to use one arm exclusively, and to give that a uniform movement. Such movement may, sometimes, have become habitual from one's profession or employment; but in learners, also, there is often a predisposition to this fault.

Second—It is not unusual to see a speaker use only the lower half of his arm. This always gives a stiff and constrained manner to delivery. Let the whole arm move, and let the movement be free and flowing.

Third—As a general rule, let the hand be open, with the fingers slightly curved. It then seems liberal, communicative, and candid; and, in some degree, gives that expression to the style of delivery. Of course there are passages which require the clinched hand, the pointed finger, etc., etc.; but these are used to give a particular expression.

Fourth—In the movements of the arm, study variety and the grace of curved lines.

When a gesture is made with one arm only, the eye should be cast in the direction of that arm; not at it, but over it.

All speakers employ, more or less, the motions of the head. In reference to that member, we make but one observation. Avoid the continuous shaking and bobbing of the head, which is so conspicuous in the action of many ambitious public speakers.

The beauty and force of all gesture consist in its timely, judicious, and natural employment, when it can serve to illustrate the meaning or give emphasis to the force of an important passage. The usual fault of young speakers is too much action. To emphasize all parts alike, is equivalent to no emphasis; and by employing forcible gestures on unimportant passages, we diminish our power to render other parts impressive.

The business of training youth in elocution, must be commenced in childhood. The first school is the nursery. There, at least, may be formed a distinct articulation, which is the first requisite for good speaking. How rarely is it found in perfection among our orators.

"Words," says one, referring to articulation, should "be delivered out from the lips, as beautiful coins, newly issued from the mint; deeply and accurately impressed, perfectly finished; neatly struck by the proper organs, distinct, in due succession, and of due weight." How rarely do we hear a speaker whose tongue, teeth, and lips, do their office so perfectly as to answer to this beautiful description! And the common faults in articulation, it should be remembered, take their rise from the very nursery.

Grace in eloquence, in the pulpit, at the bar, can not be separated from grace in the ordinary manners, in private life, in the social circle, in the family. It can not well be superinduced upon all the other acquisitions of youth, any more than that nameless, but invaluable, quality called good breeding. Begin, therefore, the work of forming the orator with the child; not merely by teaching him to declaim, but what is of more consequence, by observing and correcting his daily manners, motions, and attitudes. You can say, when he comes into your apartment, or presents you with something, a book or letter, in an awkward and blundering manner, "Return, and enter this room again," or, "Present me that book in a different manner," or, "Put yourself in a different attitude." You can explain to him the difference between thrusting or pushing out his hand and arm, in straight lines and at acute angles, and moving them in flowing circular lines, and easy graceful action. He will readily understand you. Nothing is more true than that the motions of children are originally graceful; it is by suffering them to be perverted, that we lay the foundation of invincible awkwardness in later life.

In schools for children, it ought to be a leading object to teach the art of reading. It ought to occupy threefold more time than it does. The teachers of these schools should labor to improve themselves. They should feel that to them, for a time, are committed the future orators of the land.

It is better that a girl should return from school a first-rate reader, than a first-rate performer on the pianoforte. The accomplishment, in its perfection, would give more pleasure. The voice of song is not sweeter than the voice of eloquence; and there may be eloquent readers, as well as eloquent speakers. We speak of perfection in this art: and it is something, we must say in defense of our preference, which we have never yet seen. Let the same pains be devoted to reading, as are required to form an accomplished performer on an instrument; let us have, as the ancients had, the formers of the voice, the music masters of the reading voice; let us see years devoted to this accomplishment, and then we should be prepared to stand the comparison.

Reading is indeed, a most intellectual accomplishment. So is music, too, in its perfection. We do by no means undervalue this noble and most delightful art, to which Socrates applied himself even in his old age. But one recommendation of the art of reading is, that it requires a constant exercise of mind. It involves, in its perfection, the whole art of criticism on language. A man may possess a fine genius without being a perfect reader; but he can not be a perfect reader without genius.

  'T is not enough the voice' be sound and clear',
  'T is modulation' that must charm the ear.
  When desperate heroes grieve with tedious moan,
  And whine their sorrows in a seesaw tone,
  The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes,
  Can only make the yawning hearers doze.

  The voice all modes of passion can express
  That marks the proper word with proper stress:
  But none emphatic can that speaker call,
  Who lays an equal emphasis on all.

  Some o'er the tongue the labored measure roll,
  Slow and deliberate as the parting toll;
  Point every stop, mark every pause so strong,
  Their words like stage processions stalk along.

  All affectation but creates disgust;
  And e'en in speaking, we may seem too just.
  In vain for them' the pleasing measure flows,
  Whose recitation runs it all to prose:
  Repeating what the poet sets not down,
  The verb disjointing from its favorite noun,
  While pause, and break, and repetition join
  To make it discord in each tuneful line'.

  Some' placid natures fill the allotted scene
  With lifeless drawls, insipid and serene;
  While others' thunder every couplet o'er,
  And almost crack your ears with rant and roar;
  More nature oft, and finer strokes are shown
  In the low whisper than tempestuous tone;
  And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze,
  More powerful terror to the mind conveys
  Than he, who, swollen with impetuous rage,
  Bullies the bulky phantom of the stage.

  He who, in earnest studies o'er his part,
  Will find true nature cling about his heart.
  The modes of grief are not included all
  In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl:
  A single look' more marks the internal woe,
  Than all the windings of the lengthened Oh'!

A laughable story was circulated during the administration of the old Duke of Newcastle, and retailed to the public in various forms. This nobleman, with many good points, was remarkable for being profuse of his promises on all occasions, and valued himself particularly on being able to anticipate the words or the wants of the various persons who attended his levees, before they uttered a word. This sometimes led him into ridiculous embarrassment; and it was this proneness to lavish promises, which gave occasion for the following anecdote:

At the election of a certain borough in Cornwall, where the opposite interests were almost equally poised, a single vote was of the highest importance. This object the Duke, by well applied argument and personal application, at length attained; and the gentleman he recommended, gained the election. In the warmth of gratitude, his grace poured forth acknowledgments and promises without ceasing, on the fortunate possessor of the casting vote; called him his best and dearest friend; protested, that he should consider himself as forever indebted to him; and that he would serve him by night or by day.

The Cornish voter, who was an honest fellow, and would not have thought himself entitled to any reward, but for such a torrent of acknowledgments, thanked the Duke for his kindness, and told him the supervisor of excise was old and infirm, and, if he would have the goodness to recommend his son-in-law to the commissioners, in case of the old man's death, he should think himself and his family bound to render his grace every assistance in their power, on any future occasion.

"My dear friend, why do you ask for such a trifling employment?" exclaimed his grace; "your relative shall have it the moment the place is vacant, if you will but call my attention to it."

"But how shall I get admitted to you, my lord? For in London, I understand, it is a very difficult business to get a sight of you great folks, though you are so kind and complaisant to us in the country."

"The instant the man dies," replied the Duke, "set out posthaste for London; drive directly to my house, and, be it by night or by day, thunder at the door; I will leave word with my porter to show you upstairs directly; and the employment shall be disposed of according to your wishes."

The parties separated; the Duke drove to a friend's house in the neighborhood, without a wish or desire to see his new acquaintance till that day seven years; but the memory of the Cornish elector, not being burdened with such a variety of objects, was more retentive. The supervisor died a few months after, and the Duke's humble friend, relying on the word of a peer, was conveyed to London posthaste, and ascended with alacrity the steps of that nobleman's palace.

The reader should be informed, that just at this time, no less a person than the King of Spain was expected hourly to depart this life, an event in which the minister of Great Britain was particularly concerned; and the Duke of Newcastle, on the very night that the proprietor of the decisive vote arrived at his door, had sat up anxiously expecting dispatches from Madrid. Wearied by official business and agitated spirits, he retired to rest, having previously given particular instructions to his porter not to go to bed, as he expected every minute a messenger with advices of the greatest importance, and desired that he might be shown upstairs, the moment of his arrival.

His grace was sound asleep; and the porter, settled for the night in his armchair, had already commenced a sonorous nap, when the vigorous arm of the Cornish voter roused him from his slumbers. To his first question, "Is the Duke at home?" the porter replied, "Yes, and in bed; but has left particular orders that, come when you will, you are to go up to him directly."

"Bless him, for a worthy and honest gentleman," cried our applicant for the vacant post, smiling and nodding with approbation at the prime minister's kindness, "how punctual his grace is; I knew he would not deceive me; let me hear no more of lords and dukes not keeping their words; I verily believe they are as honest, and mean as well as any other folks." Having ascended the stairs as he was speaking, he was ushered into the Duke's bedchamber.

"Is he dead?" exclaimed his grace, rubbing his eyes, and scarcely awakened from dreaming of the King of Spain, "Is he dead?"

"Yes, my lord," replied the eager expectant, delighted to find the election promise, with all its circumstances, so fresh in the nobleman's memory.

"When did he die?"

"The day before yesterday, exactly at half past one o'clock, after being confined three weeks to his bed, and taking a power of doctor's stuff; and I hope your grace will be as good as your word, and let my son-in-law succeed him."

The Duke, by this time perfectly awake, was staggered at the impossibility of receiving intelligence from Madrid in so short a space of time; and perplexed at the absurdity of a king's messenger applying for his son-in-law to succeed the King of Spain: "Is the man drunk, or mad? Where are your dispatches?" exclaimed his grace, hastily drawing back his curtain; where, instead of a royal courier, he recognized at the bedside, the fat, good-humored countenance of his friend from Cornwall, making low bows, with hat in hand, and "hoping my lord would not forget the gracious promise he was so good as to make, in favor of his son-in-law, at the last election."

Vexed at so untimely a disturbance, and disappointed of news from Spain, the Duke frowned for a moment; but chagrin soon gave way to mirth, at so singular and ridiculous a combination of circumstances, and, yielding to the impulse, he sunk upon the bed in a violent fit of laughter, which was communicated in a moment to the attendants.

The relater of this little narrative, concludes, with observing, "Although the Duke of Newcastle could not place the relative of his old acquaintance on the throne of His Catholic Majesty, he advanced him to a post not less honorable—he made him an exciseman." —Blackwood's Magazine.

[Illustration: Bedroom: The Duke is startled awake, sitting up in bed with distressed look on his face. A servant is holding a candlestick. A third man is slightly bowed and holding his hat in his hands. The duke's sword rests against a chair at the foot of the bed.]

Notes.—Duke of Newcastle.—Thomas Holles Pelham (b. 1693, d. 1768), one of the chief ministers of state in the reign of George II. of England.

Cornwall.—A county forming the extreme southwestern part of England.

King of Spain.—Ferdinand VI. was then the king of Spain. He died in 1759.

His Catholic Majesty, a title applied to the kings of Spain; first given to Alfonso I. by Pope Gregory III. in 739.

The gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling
  In waltz or cotillon, at whist or quadrille;
And seek admiration by vauntingly telling
  Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill:
But give me the fair one, in country or city,
  Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart,
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,
  While plying the needle with exquisite art:
The bright little needle, the swift-flying needle,
  The needle directed by beauty and art.

If Love have a potent, a magical token,
  A talisman, ever resistless and true,
A charm that is never evaded or broken,
  A witchery certain the heart to subdue,
'T is this; and his armory never has furnished
  So keen and unerring, or polished a dart;
Let beauty direct it, so polished and burnished,
  And oh! it is certain of touching the heart:
The bright little needle, the swift-flying needle,
  The needle directed by beauty and art.

Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration,
  By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all;
You never, whate'er be your fortune or station,
  Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball,
As gayly convened at the work-covered table,
  Each cheerfully active, playing her part,
Beguiling the task with a song or a fable,
  And plying the needle with exquisite art:
The bright little needle, the swift-flying needle,
  The needle directed by beauty and art.
                                        —Samuel Woodworth.

Edward Everett, 1794-1865. He was born at Dorchester, Mass., now a part of Boston, and graduated from Harvard College with the highest honors of his class, at the age of seventeen. While yet in college, he had quite a reputation as a brilliant writer. Before he was twenty years of age, he was settled as pastor over the Brattle Street Church, in Boston, and at once became famous as an eloquent preacher. In 1814, he was elected Professor of Greek Literature in his Alma Mater; and, in order to prepare himself for the duties of his office, he entered on an extended course of travel in Europe. He edited the "North American Review," in addition to the labors of his professorship, after he returned to America.

In 1825, Mr. Everett was elected to Congress, and held his seat in the House for ten years. He was Governor of his native state from 1835 to 1839. In 1841, he was appointed Minister to England. On his return, in 1846, he was chosen President of Harvard University, and held the office for three years. In 1852, he was appointed Secretary of State. February 22, 1856, he delivered, in Boston, his celebrated lecture on Washington. This lecture was afterwards delivered in most of the principal cities and towns in the United States. The proceeds were devoted to the purchase of Mt. Vernon. In 1860, he was a candidate for the Vice Presidency of the United States, He is celebrated as an elegant and forcible writer, and a chaste orator.

This extract, a wonderful piece of word painting, is a portion of an address on the "Uses of Astronomy," delivered at the inauguration of the Dudley Observatory, at Albany, N, Y, Note the careful use of words, and the strong figures in the third and fourth paragraphs. ###

I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from Providence to Boston; and for this purpose rose at two o'clock in the morning. Everything around was wrapped in darkness and hushed in silence, broken only by what seemed at that hour the unearthly clank and rush of the train. It was a mild, serene, midsummer's night,—the sky was without a cloud, the winds were whist. The moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen, and the stars shone with a spectral luster but little affected by her presence.

Jupiter, two hours high, was the herald of the day; the Pleiades, just above the horizon, shed their sweet influence in the east; Lyra sparkled near the zenith; Andromeda veiled her newly-discovered glories from the naked eye in the south; the steady Pointers, far beneath the pole, looked meekly up from the depths of the north to their sovereign.

Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of the dawn.

The blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch stars shut up their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy teardrops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds, the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state.

I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient Magians, who, in the morning of the world, went up to the hilltops of Central Asia, and, ignorant of the true God, adored the most glorious work of his hand. But I am filled with amazement, when I am told, that, in this enlightened age and in the heart of the Christian world, there are persons who can witness this daily manifestation of the power and wisdom of the Creator, and yet say in their hearts, "There is no God."

Notes.—Jupiter, the largest planet of the solar system, and, next to Venus, the brightest. Pleiades (pro. ple'ya-dez), a group of seven small stars in the constellation of Taurus.

Lyra, Androm'eda, two brilliant constellations in the northern part of the heavens. Pointers, two stars of the group called the Dipper, in the Great Bear. These stars and the Polar Star are nearly in the same straight line.

Blue Hills, hills about seven hundred feet high, southwest of Boston,
Massachusetts.

Magians, Persian worshipers of fire and the sun, as representatives of the
Supreme Being.

Benjamin Disraeli. 1805-1881, was of Jewish descent. His ancestors were driven out of Spain by the Inquisition, and went to Venice. In 1748, his grandfather came to England. His father was Isaac Disraeli, well known as a literary man. Benjamin was born in London, and received his early education under his father. He afterwards studied for a lawyer, but soon gave up his profession for literature. His first novel, "Vivian Grey," appeared when the author was twenty-one years of age; it received much attention. After several defeats he succeeded in an election to Parliament, and took his seat in that body, in the first year of Victoria's reign. On his first attempt to speak in Parliament, the House refused to hear him. It is said that, as he sat down, he remarked that the time would come when they would hear him. In 1849, he became the leader of the Conservative party in the House. During the administration of W. E. Gladstone, Mr. Disraeli was leader of the opposition. In 1868, he became prime minister, holding the office for a short time. In 1874, he was again appointed to the same office, where he remained until 1880. His wife was made Viscountess of Beaconsfield in 1868. After her death, the title of Earl of Beaconsfield was conferred on Disraeli. He ranked among the most eminent, statesmen of the age, but always devoted a portion of his time to literature. "Lothair," a novel, was published in 1870. ###

* * * They looked round on every side, and hope gave way before the scene of desolation. Immense branches were shivered from the largest trees; small ones were entirely stripped of their leaves; the long grass was bowed to the earth; the waters were whirled in eddies out of the little rivulets; birds, leaving their nests to seek shelter in the crevices of the rocks, unable to stem the driving air, flapped their wings and fell upon the earth; the frightened animals of the plain, almost suffocated by the impetuosity of the wind, sought safety and found destruction; some of the largest trees were torn up by the roots; the sluices of the mountains were filled, and innumerable torrents rushed down the before empty gullies. The heavens now open, and the lightning and thunder contend with the horrors of the wind.

In a moment, all was again hushed. Dead silence succeeded the bellow of the thunder, the roar of the wind, the rush of the waters, the moaning of the beasts, the screaming of the birds. Nothing was heard save the plash of the agitated lake, as it beat up against the black rocks which girt it in.

Again, greater darkness enveloped the trembling earth. Anon, the heavens were rent with lightning, which nothing could have quenched but the descending deluge. Cataracts poured down from the lowering firmament. For an instant, the horses dashed madly forward; beast and rider blinded and stifled by the gushing rain, and gasping for breath. Shelter was nowhere. The quivering beasts reared, and snorted, and sank upon their knees, dismounting their riders.

He had scarcely spoken, when there burst forth a terrific noise, they knew not what; a rush, they could not understand; a vibration which shook them on their horses. Every terror sank before the roar of the cataract. It seemed that the mighty mountain, unable to support its weight of waters, shook to the foundation. A lake had burst upon its summit, and the cataract became a falling ocean. The source of the great deep appeared to be discharging itself over the range of mountains; the great gray peak tottered on its foundation!—It shook!—it fell! and buried in its ruins the castle, the village, and the bridge!

James Thomson, 1700-1748, the son of a clergyman, was born in Scotland. He studied at the University of Edinburgh, and intended to follow the profession of his father, but never entered upon the duties of the sacred office. In 1724 he went to London, where he spent most of his subsequent life. He had shown some poetical talent when it boy; and, in 1826, he published "Winter," a part of a longer poem, entitled "The Seasons," the best known of all his works. He also wrote several plays for the stage; none of them, however, achieved any great success. In the last year of his life, he published his "Castle of Indolence," the most famous of his works excepting "The Seasons." Thomson was heavy and dull in his personal appearance, and was indolent in his habits. The moral tone of his writings is always good. This extract is from "The Seasons." ###

    As from the face of heaven the shattered clouds
  Tumultuous rove, the interminable sky
  Sublimer swells, and o'er the world expands
  A purer azure.

           Through the lightened air
  A higher luster and a clearer calm,
  Diffusive, tremble; while, as if in sign
  Of danger past, a glittering robe of joy,
  Set off abundant by the yellow ray,
  Invests the fields; and nature smiles revived.

    'T is beauty all, and grateful song around,
  Joined to the low of kine, and numerous bleat
  Of flocks thick-nibbling through the clovered vale:
  And shall the hymn be marred by thankless man,
  Most favored; who, with voice articulate,
  Should lead the chorus of this lower world?

    Shall man, so soon forgetful of the Hand
  That hushed the thunder, and serenes the sky,
  Extinguished fed that spark the tempest waked,
  That sense of powers exceeding far his own,
  Ere yet his feeble heart has lost its fears?

Francis Hopkinson, 1737-1791. He was the son of an Englishman; born in Philadelphia, and was educated at the college of that city, now the University of Pennsylvania. He represented New Jersey in the Congress of 1776, and was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. He was one of the most sensible and elegant writers of his time, and distinguished himself both in prose and verse. His lighter writings abound in humor and keen satire; his more solid writings are marked by clearness and good sense. His pen did much to forward the cause of American independence. His "Essay on Whitewashing," from which the following extract is taken, was mistaken for the composition of Dr. Franklin, and published among his writings, It was originally in the form of "A Letter from a Gentleman in America to his Friend in Europe, on Whitewashing." ###

There is no season of the year in which the lady may not, if she pleases, claim her privilege; but the latter end of May is generally fixed upon for the purpose. The attentive husband may judge, by certain prognostics, when the storm is at hand. If the lady grows uncommonly fretful, finds fault with the servants, is discontented with the children, and complains much of the nastiness of everything about her, these are symptoms which ought not to be neglected, yet they sometimes go off without any further effect.

But if, when the husband rises in the morning, he should observe in the yard a wheelbarrow with a quantity of lime in it, or should see certain buckets filled with a solution of lime in water, there is no time for hesitation. He immediately locks up the apartment or closet where his papers and private property are kept, and, putting the key into his pocket, betakes himself to flight. A husband, however beloved, becomes a perfect nuisance during this season of female rage. His authority is superseded, his commission suspended, and the very scullion who cleans the brasses in the kitchen becomes of more importance than he. He has nothing for it but to abdicate for a time, and run from an evil which he can neither prevent nor mollify.

The husband gone, the ceremony begins. The walls are stripped of their furniture—paintings, prints, and looking-glasses lie huddled in heaps about the floors; the curtains are torn from their testers, the beds crammed into windows, chairs and tables, bedsteads and cradles, crowd the yard, and the garden fence bends beneath the weight of carpets, blankets, cloth cloaks, old coats, under petticoats, and ragged breeches. Here may be seen the lumber of the kitchen, forming a dark and confused mass for the foreground of the picture; gridirons and frying pans, rusty shovels and broken tongs, joint stools, and the fractured remains of rush-bottomed chairs. There a closet has disgorged its bowels—riveted plates and dishes, halves of china bowls, cracked tumblers, broken wineglasses, phials of forgotten physic, papers of unknown powders, seeds and dried herbs, tops of teapots, and stoppers of departed decanters—from the rag hole in the garret, to the rat hole in the cellar, no place escapes unrummaged. It would seem as if the day of general doom had come, and the utensils of the house were dragged forth to judgment.

In this tempest, the words of King Lear unavoidably present themselves, and might, with little alteration, be made strictly applicable.

  "Let the great gods,
  That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
  Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
  That hast within thee undivulged crimes
  Unwhipp'd of justice.
                       Close pent-up guilts,
  Rive your concealing continents, and cry
  These dreadful summoners grace."

This ceremony completed, and the house thoroughly evacuated, the next operation is to smear the walls and ceilings with brushes dipped into a solution of lime, called whitewash; to pour buckets of water over every floor; and scratch all the partitions and wainscots with hard brushes, charged with soft soap and stonecutters' sand.

The windows by no means escape the general deluge. A servant scrambles out upon the penthouse, at the risk of her neck, and, with a mug in her hand and a bucket within reach, dashes innumerable gallons of water against the glass panes, to the great annoyance of passengers in the street.

I have been told that an action at law was once brought against one of these water nymphs, by a person who had a new suit of clothes spoiled by this operation: but after long argument, it was determined that no damages could be awarded; inasmuch as the defendant was in the exercise of a legal right, and not answerable for the consequences. And so the poor gentleman was doubly non-suited; for he lost both his suit of clothes and his suit at law.

These smearings and scratchings, these washings and dashings, being duly performed, the next ceremonial is to cleanse and replace the distracted furniture. You may have seen a house raising, or a ship launch— recollect, if you can, the hurry, bustle, confusion, and noise of such a scene, and you will have some idea of this cleansing match. The misfortune is, that the sole object is to make things clean. It matters not how many useful, ornamental, or valuable articles suffer mutilation or death under the operation. A mahogany chair and a carved frame undergo the same discipline; they are to be made clean at all events; but their preservation is not worthy of attention.

For instance: a fine large engraving is laid flat upon the floor; a number of smaller prints are piled upon it, until the superincumbent weight cracks the lower glass—but this is of no importance. A valuable picture is placed leaning against the sharp corner of a table; others are made to lean against that, till the pressure of the whole forces the corner of the table through the canvas of the first. The frame and glass of a fine print are to be cleaned; the spirit and oil used on this occasion are suffered to leak through and deface the engraving—no matter. If the glass is clean and the frame shines, it is sufficient—the rest is not worthy of consideration. An able arithmetician hath made a calculation, founded on long experience, and proved that the losses and destruction incident to two white washings are equal to one removal, and three removals equal to one fire.

This cleansing frolic over, matters begin to resume their pristine appearance: the storm abates, and all would be well again; but it is impossible that so great a convulsion in so small a community should pass over without producing some consequences. For two or three weeks after the operation, the family are usually afflicted with sore eyes, sore throats, or severe colds, occasioned by exhalations from wet floors and damp walls.

I know a gentleman here who is fond of accounting for everything in a philosophical way. He considers this, what I call a custom, as a real periodical disease peculiar to the climate. His train of reasoning is whimsical and ingenious, but I am not at leisure to give you the detail. The result was, that he found the distemper to be incurable; but after much study, he thought he had discovered a method to divert the evil he could not subdue. For this purpose, he caused a small building, about twelve feet square, to be erected in his garden, and furnished with some ordinary chairs and tables, and a few prints of the cheapest sort. His hope was, that when the whitewashing frenzy seized the females of his family, they might repair to this apartment, and scrub, and scour, and smear to their hearts' content; and so spend the violence of the disease in this outpost, whilst he enjoyed himself in quiet at headquarters. But the experiment did not answer his expectation. It was impossible it should, since a principal part of the gratification consists in the lady's having an uncontrolled right to torment her husband at least once in every year; to turn him out of doors, and take the reins of government into her own hands.

There is a much better contrivance than this of the philosopher's; which is, to cover the walls of the house with paper. This is generally done. And though it does not abolish, it at least shortens the period of female dominion. This paper is decorated with various fancies; and made so ornamental that the women have admitted the fashion without perceiving the design.

There is also another alleviation to the husband's distress. He generally has the sole use of a small room or closet for his books and papers, the key of which he is allowed to keep. This is considered as a privileged place, even in the whitewashing season, and stands like the land of Goshen amidst the plagues of Egypt. But then he must be extremely cautious, and ever upon his guard; for, should he inadvertently go abroad and leave the key in his door, the housemaid, who is always on the watch for such an opportunity, immediately enters in triumph with buckets, brooms, and brushes—takes possession of the premises, and forthwith puts an his books and papers "to rights," to his utter confusion, and sometimes serious detriment.

Notes.—Lear.—The reference is to Shakespeare's tragedy, Act III, Scene 2.

Goshen.—The portion of Egypt settled by Jacob and his family. In the
Bible, Exodus viii, 22, Goshen was exempted from the plague of the flies.

The teacher should ascertain that the pupils note the satire and humor of this selection.

This letter was written about a hundred years ago. What word in the first paragraph that would probably not be used by an elegant writer of the present day? Note the words that indicate changes in domestic customs; such as testers, joint stools, wainscots, house raising.

Samuel Johnson, 1700-1784. This truly remarkable man was the son of a bookseller and stationer; he was born in Lichfield, Staffordshire, England. He entered Pembroke College, Oxford, in 1728; but, at the end of three years, his poverty compelled him to leave without taking his degree. In 1736, he married Mrs. Porter, a widow of little culture, much older than himself, but possessed of some property. The marriage seems to have been a happy one, nevertheless; and, on the death of his wife, in 1752, Johnson mourned for her, most sincerely. Soon after his marriage, he opened a private school, but, obtained only three pupils, one of whom was David Garrick, afterward the celebrated actor. In 1737, he removed to London, where he lived for most of the remainder of his life. Here he entered upon literary work, in which he continued, and from which he derived his chief support, although at times it was but a meager one, His "Vanity of Human Wishes" was sold for ten guineas. His great Dictionary, the first one of the English language worthy of mention, brought him 1575 Pounds, and occupied his time for seven years. Most of the money he received for the work went to pay his six amanuenses. The other most famous of his numerous literary works are "The Rambler," "Rasselas," "The Lives of the English Poets," and his edition of Shakespeare. In person, Johnson was heavy and awkward; he was the victim of scrofula in his youth, and of dropsy in his old age. In manner, he was boorish and overbearing; but his great powers and his wisdom caused his company to be sought by many eminent men of his time. ###

Omar, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy-five years in honor and prosperity. The favor of three successive caliphs had filled his house with gold and silver; and whenever he appeared, the benedictions of the people proclaimed his passage.

Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance, The brightness of the flame is wasting its fuel; the fragrant flower is passing away in its own odors. The vigor of Omar began to fail; the curls of beauty fell from his head; strength departed from his hands, and agility from his feet. He gave back to the caliph the keys of trust, and the seals of secrecy; and sought no other pleasure for the remainder of life than the converse of the wise and the gratitude of the good.

The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His chamber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of experience, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caleb, the son of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day early, and retired late. He was beautiful and eloquent; Omar admired his wit, and loved his docility.

"Tell me," said Caleb, "thou to whose voice nations have listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, tell me, how I may resemble Omar the prudent? The arts by which thou hast gained power and preserved it, are to thee no longer necessary or useful; impart to me the secret of thy conduct, and teach me the plan upon which thy wisdom has built thy fortune."

"Young man," said Omar, "it is of little use to form plans of life. When I took my first survey of the world, in my twentieth year, having considered the various conditions of mankind, in the hour of solitude I said thus to myself, leaning against a cedar which spread its branches over my head: 'Seventy years are allowed to man; I have yet fifty remaining.

" 'Ten years I will allot to the attainment of knowledge, and ten I will pass in foreign countries; I shall be learned, and therefore I shall be honored; every city will shout at my arrival, and every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed will store my mind with images which I shall be busy through the rest of my life in combining and comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible accumulations of intellectual riches; I shall find new pleasures for every moment, and shall never more be weary of myself.

" 'I will not, however, deviate too far from the beaten track of life; but will try what can be found in female delicacy. I will marry a wife as beautiful as the houries, and wise as Zobeide; and with her I will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdad, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent.

" 'I will then retire to a rural dwelling, pass my days in obscurity and contemplation; and lie silently down on the bed of death. Through my life it shall be my settled resolution, that I will never depend on the smile of princes; that I will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts; I will never pant for public honors, nor disturb my quiet with the affairs of state.' Such was my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly upon my memory.

"The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of knowledge, and I know not how I was diverted from my design. I had no visible impediments without, nor any ungovernable passion within. I regarded knowledge as the highest honor, and the most engaging pleasure; yet day stole upon day, and month glided after month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had vanished, and left nothing behind them.

"I now postponed my purpose of traveling; for why should I go abroad, while so much remained to be learned at home? I immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges: I was found able to speak upon doubtful questions, and I was commanded to stand at the footstool of the caliph. I was heard with attention; I was consulted with confidence, and the love of praise fastened on my heart.

"I still wished to see distant countries; listened with rapture to the relations of travelers, and resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty; but my presence was always necessary, and the stream of business hurried me along. Sometimes, I was afraid lest I should be charged with ingratitude; but I still proposed to travel, and therefore would not confine myself by marriage.

"In my fiftieth year, I began to suspect that the time of my traveling was past; and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic pleasures. But, at fifty, no man easily finds a woman beautiful as the houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of wishing to marry. I had now nothing left but retirement; and for retirement I never found a time, till disease forced me from public employment.

"Such was my scheme, and such has been its consequence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the years of improvement; with a restless desire of seeing different countries, I have always resided in the same city; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried; and with an unalterable resolution of contemplative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdad."

Notes.—Bag dad'—A large city of Asiatic Turkey, on the river Tigris.

In the ninth century, it was the greatest center of Moslem power and learning.

Zobeide (Zo-bad').—A lady of Bagdad, whose story is given in the "Three
Calendars" of the "Arabian Nights."

In this selection the form of an allegory is used to express a general truth.

Henry Fothergill Chorley, 1808-1872. He is known chiefly as a musical critic and author; for thirty-eight years he was connected with the "London Athenaeum." His books are mostly novels. ###

A song to the oak, the brave old oak,
  Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;
Here's health and renown to his broad green crown,
  And his fifty arms so strong.
There's fear in his frown, when the sun goes down,
  And the fire in the west fades out;
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
  When the storms through his branches shout.

In the days of old, when the spring with cold
  Had brightened his branches gray,
Through the grass at his feet, crept maidens sweet,
  To gather the dews of May.
And on that day, to the rebec gay
  They frolicked with lovesome swains;
They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid,
  But the tree—it still remains.

He saw rare times when the Christmas chimes
  Were a merry sound to hear,
When the Squire's wide hall and the cottage small
  Were filled with good English cheer.
Now gold hath the sway we all obey,
  And a ruthless king is he;
But he never shall send our ancient friend
  To be tossed on the stormy sea.

Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
  Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
  When a hundred years are gone.

It may not be known to all the admirers of the genius of Albert Durer, that that famous engraver was endowed with a "better half," so peevish in temper, that she was the torment not only of his own life, but also of his pupils and domestics. Some of the former were cunning enough to purchase peace for themselves by conciliating the common tyrant, but woe to those unwilling or unable to offer aught in propitiation. Even the wiser ones were spared only by having their offenses visited upon a scapegoat.

This unfortunate individual was Samuel Duhobret, a disciple whom Durer had admitted into his school out of charity. He was employed in painting signs and the coarser tapestry then used in Germany. He was about forty years of age, little, ugly, and humpbacked; he was the butt of every ill joke among his fellow disciples, and was picked out as an object of especial dislike by Madame Durer. But he bore all with patience, and ate, without complaint, the scanty crusts given him every day for dinner, while his companions often fared sumptuously.

Poor Samuel had not a spice of envy or malice in his heart. He would, at any time, have toiled half the night to assist or serve those who were wont oftenest to laugh at him, or abuse him loudest for his stupidity. True, he had not the qualities of social humor or wit, but he was an example of indefatigable industry. He came to his studies every morning at daybreak, and remained at work until sunset. Then he retired into his lonely chamber, and wrought for his own amusement.

Duhobret labored three years in this way, giving himself no time for exercise or recreation. He said nothing to a single human being of the paintings he had produced in the solitude of his cell, by the light of his lamp. But his bodily energies wasted and declined under incessant toil. There was none sufficiently interested in the poor artist, to mark the feverish hue of his wrinkled cheek, or the increasing attenuation of his misshapen frame.

None observed that the uninviting pittance set aside for his midday repast, remained for several days untouched. Samuel made his appearance regularly as ever, and bore with the same meekness the gibes of his fellow-pupils, or the taunts of Madame Durer, and worked with the same untiring assiduity, though his hands would sometimes tremble, and his eyes become suffused, a weakness probably owing to the excessive use he had made of them.

One morning Duhobret was missing at the scene of his daily labors. His absence created much remark, and many were the jokes passed upon the occasion. One surmised this, and another that, as the cause of the phenomenon; and it was finally agreed that the poor fellow must have worked himself into an absolute skeleton, and taken his final stand in the glass frame of some apothecary, or been blown away by a puff of wind, while his door happened to stand open. No on thought of going to his lodgings to look after him or his remains.

Meanwhile, the object of their mirth was tossing on a bed of sickness. Disease, which had been slowly sapping the foundations of his strength, burned in every vein; his eyes rolled and flashed in delirium; his lips, usually so silent, muttered wild and incoherent words. In his days of health, poor Duhobret had his dreams, as all artists, rich or poor, will sometimes have. He had thought that the fruit of many years' labor, disposed of to advantage, might procure him enough to live, in an economical way, for the rest of his life. He never anticipated fame or fortune; the height of his ambition or hope was, to possess a tenement large enough to shelter him from the inclemencies of the weather, with means enough to purchase one comfortable meal per day.

Now, alas! however, even that one hope had deserted him. He thought himself dying, and thought it hard to die without one to look kindly upon him, without the words of comfort that might soothe his passage to another world. He fancied his bed surrounded by fiendish faces, grinning at his sufferings, and taunting his inability to summon power to disperse them. At length the apparition faded away, and the patient sunk into an exhausted slumber.

He awoke unrefreshed; it was the fifth day he had lain there neglected. His mouth was parched; he turned over, and feebly stretched out his hand toward the earthen pitcher, from which, since the first day of his illness he had quenched his thirst. Alas! it was empty! Samuel lay for a few moments thinking what he should do. He knew he must die of want if he remained there alone; but to whom could he apply for aid?

An idea seemed, at last, to strike him. He arose slowly, and with difficulty, from the bed, went to the other side of the room, and took up the picture he had painted last. He resolved to carry it to the shop of a salesman, and hoped to obtain for it sufficient to furnish him with the necessaries of life for a week longer. Despair lent him strength to walk, and to carry his burden. On his way, he passed a house, about which there was a crowd. He drew nigh, asked what was going on, and received for an answer, that there was to be a sale of many specimens of art, collected by an amateur in the course of thirty years. It has often happened that collections made with infinite pains by the proprietor, have been sold without mercy or discrimination after his death.

Something whispered to the weary Duhobret, that here would be the market for his picture. It was a long way yet to the house of the picture dealer, and he made up his mind at once. He worked his way through the crowd, dragged himself up the steps, and, after many inquiries, found the auctioneer. That personage was a busy man, with a handful of papers; he was inclined to notice somewhat roughly the interruption of the lean, sallow hunchback, imploring as were his gesture and language.

"What do you call your picture?" at length, said he, carefully looking at it.

"It is a view of the Abbey of Newburg, with its village and the surrounding landscape," replied the eager and trembling artist.

The auctioneer again scanned it contemptuously, and asked what it was worth. "Oh, that is what you please; whatever it will bring," answered Duhobret.

"Hem! it is too odd to please, I should think; I can promise you no more than three thalers."

Poor Samuel sighed deeply. He had spent on that piece the nights of many months. But he was starving now; and the pitiful sum offered would give bread for a few days. He nodded his head to the auctioneer, and retiring took his seat in a corner.

The sale began. After some paintings and engravings had been disposed of, Samuel's was exhibited. "Who bids at three thalers? Who bids?" was the cry. Duhobret listened eagerly, but none answered. "Will it find a purchaser?" said he despondingly, to himself. Still there was a dead silence. He dared not look up; for it seemed to him that all the people were laughing at the folly of the artist, who could be insane enough to offer so worthless a piece at a public sale.

"What will become of me?" was his mental inquiry. "That work is certainly my best;" and he ventured to steal another glance. "Does it not seem that the wind actually stirs those boughs and moves those leaves! How transparent is the water! What life breathes in the animals that quench their thirst at that spring! How that steeple shines! How beautiful are those clustering trees!" This was the last expiring throb of an artist's vanity. The ominous silence continued, and Samuel, sick at heart, buried his face in his hands.

"Twenty-one thalers!" murmured a faint voice, just as the auctioneer was about to knock down the picture. The stupefied painter gave a start of joy. He raised his head and looked to see from whose lips those blessed words had come. It was the picture dealer, to whom he had first thought of applying.

"Fifty thalers," cried a sonorous voice. This time a tall man in black was the speaker. There was a silence of hushed expectation. "One hundred thalers," at length thundered the picture dealer.

"Three hundred!" "Five hundred!" "One thousand!" Another profound silence, and the crowd pressed around the two opponents, who stood opposite each other with eager and angry looks.

"Two thousand thalers!" cried the picture dealer, and glanced around him triumphantly, when he saw his adversary hesitate. "Ten thousand!" vociferated the tall man, his face crimson with rage, and his hands clinched convulsively. The dealer grew paler; his frame shook with agitation; he made two or three efforts, and at last cried out "Twenty thousand!"

His tall opponent was not to be vanquished. He bid forty thousand. The dealer stopped; the other laughed a low laugh of insolent triumph, and a murmur of admiration was heard in the crowd. It was too much for the dealer; he felt his peace was at stake. "Fifty thousand!" exclaimed he in desperation. It was the tall man's turn to hesitate. Again the whole crowd were breathless. At length, tossing his arms in defiance, he shouted "One hundred thousand!" The crestfallen picture dealer withdrew; the tall man victoriously bore away the prize.

How was it, meanwhile, with Duhobret, while this exciting scene was going on? He was hardly master of his senses. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, and murmured to himself, "After such a dream, my misery will seem more cruel!" When the contest ceased, he rose up bewildered, and went about asking first one, then another, the price of the picture just sold. It seemed that his apprehension could not at once be enlarged to so vast a conception.

The possessor was proceeding homeward, when a decrepit, lame, and humpbacked invalid, tottering along by the aid of a stick, presented himself before him. He threw him a piece of money, and waved his hand as dispensing with his thanks. "May it please your honor," said the supposed beggar, "I am the painter of that picture!" and again he rubbed his eyes.

The tall mall was Count Dunkelsback, one of the richest noblemen in Germany. He stopped, took out his pocketbook, took out a leaf, and wrote on it a few lines. "Take it, friend," said he; "it is a check for your money. Adieu."

Duhobret finally persuaded himself that it was not a dream. He became the master of a castle, sold it, and resolved to live luxuriously for the rest of his life, and to cultivate painting as a pastime. But, alas, for the vanity of human expectation! He had borne privation and toil; prosperity was too much for him, as was proved soon after, when an indigestion carried him off. His picture remained long in the cabinet of Count Dunkelsback, and afterward passed into the possession of the King of Bavaria.

Notes.—Albert Durer (b. 1471, d. 1528) lived at Nuremburg, Germany. He was eminent as a painter, and as an engraver on copper and wood. He was one of the first artists who studied anatomy and perspective. His influence on art is clearly felt even at the present day.

Newburg, or Neuburg, is on the Danube, fifty miles south of Nuremburg.
Bergen Abbey was north of the village.

Alice Cary, 1820-1871, was born near Cincinnati. One of her ancestors was among the "Pilgrim Fathers," and the first instructor of Latin at Plymouth, Mass. Miss Cary commenced her literary career at her western home, and, in 1849, published a volume of poems, the joint work of her younger sister, Phoebe, and herself. In 1850, she moved to New York. Two of her sisters joined her there, and they supported themselves by their literary labor. Their home became a noted resort for their literary and artistic friends. Miss Cary was the author of eleven volumes, besides many articles contributed to periodicals. Her poetry is marked with great sweetness and pathos. Some of her prose works are much admired, especially her "Clovernook Children." ###

Among the beautiful pictures
  That hang on Memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
  That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
  Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden,
  That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies,
  That lean from the fragrant hedge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
  And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
  Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,
  It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,
  With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that dim old forest,
  He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,
  Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
  The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
  And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother,
  A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded
  My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
  Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
  Lodged in the tree tops bright,
He fell, in his saintlike beauty,
  Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
  That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
  Seemeth the best of all.

Wilson Flagg, 1806-1884, was born in Beverly, Mass. He pursued his academical course in Andover, at Phillips Academy, and entered Harvard College, but did not graduate. His chief Works are: "Studies in the Field and Forest," "The Woods and Byways of New England," and "The Birds and Seasons of New England." ###

Nature, for the delight of waking eyes, has arrayed the morning heavens in the loveliest hues of beauty. Fearing to dazzle by an excess of delight, she first announces day by a faint and glimmering twilight, then sheds a purple tint over the brows of the rising morn, and infuses a transparent ruddiness throughout the atmosphere. As daylight widens, successive groups of mottled and rosy-bosomed clouds assemble on the gilded sphere, and, crowned with wreaths of fickle rainbows, spread a mirrored flush over hill, grove, and lake, and every village spire is burnished with their splendor.

At length, through crimsoned vapors, we behold the sun's broad disk, rising with a countenance so serene that every eye may view him ere he arrays himself in his meridian brightness. Not many people who live in towns are aware of the pleasure attending a ramble near the woods and orchards at daybreak in the early part of summer. The drowsiness we feel on rising from our beds is gradually dispelled by the clear and healthful breezes of early day, and we soon experience an unusual amount of vigor and elasticity.

During the night, the stillness of all things is the circumstance that most powerfully attracts our notice, rendering us peculiarly sensitive to every accidental sound that meets the ear. In the morning, at this time of year, on the contrary, we are overpowered by the vocal and multitudinous chorus of the feathered tribe. If you would hear the commencement of this grand anthem of nature, you must rise at the very first appearance of dawn, before the twilight has formed a complete semicircle above the eastern porch of heaven.

The first note that proceeds from the little warbling host, is the shrill chirp of the hairbird,—occasionally vocal at an hours on a warm summer night. This strain, which is a continued trilling sound, is repeated with diminishing intervals, until it becomes almost incessant. But ere the hairbird has uttered many notes, a single robin begins to warble from a neighboring orchard, soon followed by others, increasing in numbers until, by the time the eastern sky is flushed with crimson, every male, robin in the country round is singing with fervor.

It would be difficult to note the exact order in which the different birds successively begin their parts in this performance; but the bluebird, whose song is only a short, mellow warble, is heard nearly at the same time with the robin, and the song sparrow joins them soon after with his brief but finely modulated strain. The different species follow rapidly, one after another, in the chorus, until the whole welkin rings with their matin hymn of gladness.

I have often wondered that the almost simultaneous utterance of so many different notes should produce no discords, and that they should result in such complete harmony. In this multitudinous confusion of voices, no two notes are confounded, and none has sufficient duration to grate harshly with a dissimilar sound. Though each performer sings only a few strains and then makes a pause, the whole multitude succeed one another with such rapidity that we hear an uninterrupted flow of music until the broad light of day invites them to other employments.

When there is just light enough to distinguish the birds, we may observe, here and there, a single swallow perched on the roof of a barn or shed, repeating two twittering notes incessantly, with a quick turn and a hop at every note he utters. It would seem to be the design of the bird to attract the attention of his mate, and this motion seems to be made to assist her in discovering his position. As soon as the light has tempted him to fly abroad, this twittering strain is uttered more like a continued song, as he flits rapidly through the air.

But at this later moment the purple martins have commenced their more melodious chattering, so loud as to attract for a while the most of our attention. There is not a sound in nature so cheering and animating as the song of the purple martin, and none so well calculated to drive away melancholy. Though not one of the earliest voices to be heard, the chorus is perceptibly more loud and effective when this bird has united with the choir.

When the flush of the morning has brightened into vermilion, and the place from which the sun is soon to emerge has attained a dazzling brilliancy, the robins are already less tuneful. They are now becoming busy in collecting food for their morning repast, and one by one they leave the trees, and may be seen hopping upon the tilled ground, in quest of the worms and insects that, have crept out during the night from their subterranean retreats.

But as the robins grow silent, the bobolinks begin their vocal revelries; and to a fanciful mind it might seem that the robins had gradually resigned their part in the performance to the bobolinks, not one of which is heard until some of the former have concluded their songs. The little hairbird still continues his almost incessant chirping, the first to begin and the last to quit the performance. Though the voice of this bird is not very sweetly modulated, it blends harmoniously with the notes of other birds, and greatly increases the charming effect of the combination.

It would be tedious to name all the birds that take part in this chorus; but we must not omit the pewee, with his melancholy ditty, occasionally heard like a short minor strain in an oratorio; nor the oriole, who is really one of the chief performers, and who, as his bright plumage flashes upon the sight, warbles forth a few notes so clear and mellow as to be beard above every other sound. Adding a pleasing variety to all this harmony, the lisping notes of the meadowlark, uttered in a shrill tone, and with a peculiar pensive modulation, are plainly audible, with short rests between each repetition.

There is a little brown sparrow, resembling the hairbird, save a general tint of russet in his plumage, that may be heard distinctly among the warbling host. He is rarely seen in cultivated grounds, but frequents the wild pastures, and is the bird that warbles so sweetly at midsummer, when the whortleberries are ripe, and the fields are beautifully spangled with red lilies.

There is no confusion in the notes of his song, which consists of one syllable rapidly repeated, but increasing in rapidity and rising to a higher key towards the conclusion. He sometimes prolongs his strain, when his notes are observed to rise and fall in succession. These plaintive and expressive notes are very loud and constantly uttered, during the hour that precedes the rising of the sun. A dozen warblers of this species, singing in concert, and distributed in different parts of the field, form, perhaps, the most delightful part of the woodland oratorio to which we have listened.

At sunrise hardly a robin can be beard in the whole neighborhood, and the character of the performance has completely changed during the last half hour. The first part was more melodious and tranquilizing, the last is more brilliant and animating. The grass finches, the vireos, the wrens, and the linnets have joined their voices to the chorus, and the bobolinks are loudest in their song. But the notes of the birds in general are not so incessant as before sunrise. One by one they discontinue their lays, until at high noon the bobolink and the warbling flycatcher are almost the only vocalists to be heard in the fields.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,
  A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on,
  O'er the still radiance of the lake below:
  Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,
E'en in its very motion there was rest,
  While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
  To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
  Right onward to the golden gate of heaven,
While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.
                                          —John Wilson

My mind to me a kingdom is;
  Such perfect joy therein I find,
As far exceeds all earthly bliss
  That God or nature hath assigned;
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

NOTE.—This is the first stanza of a poem by William Byrd (b, 1543, d. 1623), an English composer of music.

Good name, in man or woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls.
Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
                             Shakespeare.—Othello, Act III, Scene III.

But yonder comes the powerful king of day,
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow
Illumed with liquid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad. Lo! now apparent all,
Aslant the dew-bright earth and colored air
He looks in boundless majesty abroad,
And sheds the shining day that, burnished, plays
On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams,
High gleaming from afar.
                                                        Thomson.

Edmund Waller, 1605-1687, an English poet, was a cousin of John Hampden, and related to Oliver Cromwell. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge. Waller was for many years a member of Parliament. He took part in the civil war, and was detected in a treasonable plot. Several years of his life were spent in exile in France. After the Restoration he came into favor at court. His poetry is celebrated for smoothness and sweetness, but is disfigured by affected conceits. ###

  The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;
  So calm are we when passions are no more.
  For then we know how vain it was to boast
  Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost.
  Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
  Conceal that emptiness which age descries.
  The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
  Lets in new light through chinks that time has made:
  Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,
  As they draw near to their eternal home.
  Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
  That stand upon the threshold of the new.

John Dryden, 1631-1703, was a noted English writer, who was made poet laureate by James II. On the expulsion of James, and the accession of William and Mary, Dryden lost his offices and pension, and was compelled to earn his bread by literary work. It was during these last years of his life that his best work was done. His "Ode for St. Cecilia's Day" is one of his most, celebrated poems. His prose writings are specimens of good, strong English. ###

  Three poets, in three distant ages born,
  Greece, Italy, and England did adorn;
  The first in loftiness of thought surpassed,
  The next in majesty, in both the last.
  The force of nature could no further go;
  To make a third she joined the other two.

Note.—The two poets referred to, other than Milton, are Homer and Dante.

Charles Dickens. 1812-1870, one of the greatest novelists of modern, times, was born in Portsmouth, but spent nearly all his life in London. His father was a conscientious man, but lacked capacity for getting a livelihood. In consequence, the boy's youth was much darkened by poverty. It has been supposed that he pictured his father in the character of "Micawber." He began his active life as a lawyer's apprentice; but soon left this employment to become a reporter. This occupation he followed from 1831 to 1836. His first book was entitled "Sketches of London Society, by Boz." This was followed, in 1837, by the "Pickwick Papers," a work which suddenly brought much fame to the author. His other works followed with great rapidity, and his last was unfinished at the time of his death. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. Mr. Dickens visited America in 1842, and again in 1867. During his last visit, he read his works in public, in the principal cities of the United States.

The resources of Dickens's genius seemed exhaustless. He copied no author, imitated none, but relied entirely on his own powers. He excelled especially in humor and pathos. He gathered materials for his works by the most careful and faithful observation. And he painted his characters with a fidelity so true to their different individualities that, although they sometimes have a quaint grotesqueness bordering on caricature, they stand before the memory as living realities. He was particularly successful in the delineation of the joys and griefs of childhood. "Little Nell" and little "Paul Dombey" are known, and have been loved and wept over, in almost every household where the English language is read. His writings present very vividly the wants and sufferings of the poor, and have a tendency to prompt to kindness and benevolence. His works have not escaped criticism. It has been said that "his good characters act from impulse, not from principle," and that he shows "a tricksy spirit of fantastic exaggeration." It has also been said that his novels sometimes lack skillful plot, and that he seems to speak approvingly of conviviality and dissipation. "The Old Curiosity Shop," from which the following extract is taken, was published in 1840. ###

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived, and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. "When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." These were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird, a poor, slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed, was stirring nimbly in its cage, and the strong heart of its child mistress was mute and motionless forever! Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace and perfect happiness were born, imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes! the old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed, like a dream, through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild and lovely look. So shall we know the angels, in their majesty, after death.

The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile; the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now, and, as he said it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.

She was dead, and past all help, or need of help. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast, the garden she had tended, the eyes she had gladdened, the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful hour, the paths she had trodden, as it were, but yesterday, could know her no more.

"It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, "it is not in this world that heaven's justice ends. Think what earth is, compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish, expressed in solemn tones above this bed, could call her back to life, which of us would utter it?"

She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night; but, as the hours crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man; they were of no painful scenes, but of people who had helped them, and used them kindly; for she often said "God bless you!" with great fervor.

Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was at beautiful music, which, she said, was in the air. God knows. It may have been. Opening her eyes, at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man, with a lovely smile upon her face, such, they said, as they had never seen, and could never forget, and clung, with both her arms, about his neck. She had never murmured or complained; but, with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered, save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them, faded like the light upon the summer's evening.

The child who had been her little friend, came there, almost as soon as it was day, with an offering of dried flowers, which he begged them to lay upon her breast. He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her: saying, that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother all day long, when he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish; and, indeed, he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a lesson to them all.

Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once, except to her, or stirred from the bedside. But, when he saw her little favorite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done him good, left them alone together.

Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And, when the day came, on which they must remove her, in her earthly shape, from earthly eyes forever, he led him away, that he might not know when she was taken from him. They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed.

And now the bell, the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as a living voice, rung its remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy,—on crutches, in the pride of health and strength, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life, gathered round her. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing, grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old, the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead, in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave.

Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the newly fallen snow that covered it, whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under that porch, where she had sat when heaven, in its mercy, brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade.

Johann Gottfried von Herder, 1744-1803, an eminent German poet, preacher, and philosopher, was born in Mohrungen, and died in Weimar. His published works comprise sixty volumes. This selection is from his "Hebrew Poetry." ###

Man, born of woman,
Is of a few days,
And full of trouble;
He cometh forth as a flower, and is cut down;
He fleeth also as a shadow,
And continueth not.

Upon such dost thou open thine eye,
And bring me unto judgment with thee?
Among the impure is there none pure?
Not one.

Are his days so determined?
Hast thou numbered his months,
And set fast his bounds for him
Which he can never pass?
Turn then from him that he may rest,
And enjoy, as an hireling, his day.

The tree hath hope, if it be cut down,
It becometh green again,
And new shoots are put forth.
If even the root is old in the earth,
And its stock die in the ground,
From vapor of water it will bud,
And bring forth boughs as a young plant.

But man dieth, and his power is gone;
He is taken away, and where is he?

Till the waters waste from the sea,
Till the river faileth and is dry land,
Man lieth low, and riseth not again.
Till the heavens are old, he shall not awake,
Nor be aroused from his sleep.

Oh, that thou wouldest conceal me
In the realm of departed souls!
Hide me in secret, till thy wrath be past;
Appoint me then a new term,
And remember me again.
But alas! if a man die
Shall he live again?

So long, then, as my toil endureth,
Will I wait till a change come to me.
Thou wilt call me, and I shall answer;
Thou wilt pity the work of thy hands.
Though now thou numberest my steps,
Thou shalt then not watch for my sin.
My transgression will be sealed in a bag,
Thou wilt bind up and remove my iniquity.

Yet alas! the mountain falleth and is swallowed up,
The rock is removed out of its place,
The waters hollow out the stones,
The floods overflow the dust of the earth,
And thus, thou destroyest the hope of man.

Thou contendest with him, till he faileth,
Thou changest his countenance, and sendeth him away.
Though his sons become great and happy,
Yet he knoweth it not;
If they come to shame and dishonor,
He perceiveth it not.

Note.—Compare with the translation of the same as given in the ordinary version of the Bible. Job xiv.

Charles James Fox, 1749-1806, a famous English orator and statesman, was the son of Hon. Henry Fox, afterward Lord Holland; he was also a lineal descendant of Charles II. of England and of Henry IV, of France. He received his education at Westminster, Eton, and Oxford, but left the University without graduating. He was first elected to Parliament before he was twenty years old. During the American Revolution, he favored the colonies; later, he was a friend and fellow-partisan both with Burke and Wilberforce. Burke said of him, "He is the most brilliant and successful debater the world ever saw." In his later years, Mr. Fox was as remarkable for carelessness in dress and personal appearance, as he had been for the opposite in his youth. He possessed many pleasing traits of character, but his morals were not commendable; he was a gambler and a spendthrift. Yet he exercised a powerful influence on the politics of his times. This extract is from a speech delivered during a truce in the long war between England and France. ###

"But we must pause," says the honorable gentleman. What! must the bowels of Great Britain be torn out, her best blood spilt, her treasures wasted, that you may make an experiment? Put yourselves—Oh! that you would put yourselves on the field of battle, and learn to judge of the sort of horrors you excite. In former wars, a man might at least have some feeling, some interest, that served to balance in his mind the impressions which a scene of carnage and death must inflict.

But if a man were present now at the field of slaughter, and were to inquire for what they were fighting—"Fighting!", would be the answer; "they are not fighting; they are pausing." "Why is that man expiring? Why is that other writhing with agony? What means this implacable fury?" The answer must be, "You are quite wrong, sir, you deceive yourself,—they are not fighting,—do not disturb them,—they are merely pausing! This man is not expiring with agony,—that man is not dead,—he is only pausing! Bless you, sir, they are not angry with one another; they have now no cause of quarrel; but their country thinks that there should be a pause. All that you see is nothing like fighting,—there is no harm, nor cruelty, nor bloodshed in it; it is nothing more than a political pause. It is merely to try an experiment—to see whether Bonaparte will not behave himself better than heretofore; and, in the meantime, we have agreed to a pause, in pure friendship!"

And is this the way that you are to show yourselves the advocates of order? You take up a system calculated to uncivilize the world, to destroy order, to trample on religion, to stifle in the heart not merely the generosity of noble sentiment, but the affections of social nature; and in the prosecution of this system, you spread terror and devastation all around you.

Note.—In this lesson, the influence of a negative in determining the rising inflection, is noticeable. See Rule V, p. 24.

John Neal. 1793-1876, a brilliant but eccentric American writer, was born in Portland, Maine. He went into business, when quite young, in company with John Pierpont, the well-known poet. They soon failed, and Mr. Neal then turned his attention to the study of law. He practiced his profession somewhat, but devoted most of his time to literature. For a time he resided in England, where he wrote for "Blackwood's Magazine" and other periodicals. His writings were produced with great rapidity, and with a purposed disregard of what is known as "classical English." ###

In the academy I attended, elocution was taught in a way I shall never forget—never! We had a yearly exhibition, and the favorites of the preceptor were allowed to speak a piece; and a pretty time they had of it. Somehow I was never a favorite with any of my teachers after the first two or three days; and, as I went barefooted, I dare say it was thought unseemly, or perhaps cruel, to expose me upon the platform. And then, as I had no particular aptitude for public speaking, and no relish for what was called oratory, it was never my luck to be called up.

Among my schoolmates, however, was one—a very amiable, shy boy—to whom was assigned, at the first exhibition I attended, that passage in Pope's Homer beginning with,

"Aurora, now, fair daughter of the dawn!"

This the poor boy gave with so much emphasis and discretion, that, to me, it sounded like "O roarer!" and I was wicked enough, out of sheer envy, I dare say, to call him "O roarer!"—a nickname which clung to him for a long while, though no human being ever deserved it less; for in speech and action both, he was quiet, reserved, and sensitive.

My next experience in elocution was still more disheartening, so that I never had a chance of showing what I was capable of in that way till I set up for myself. Master Moody, my next instructor, was thought to have uncommon qualifications for teaching oratory. He was a large, handsome, heavy man, over six feet high; and having understood that the first, second, and third prerequisite in oratory was action, the boys he put in training were encouraged to most vehement and obstreperous manifestations. Let me give an example, and one that weighed heavily on my conscience for many years after the poor man passed away.

Among his pupils were two boys, brothers, who were thought highly gifted in elocution. The master, who was evidently of that opinion, had a habit of parading them on all occasions before visitors and strangers; though one bad lost his upper front teeth and lisped badly, and the other had the voice of a penny trumpet. Week after week these boys went through the quarrel of Brutus and Cassius, for the benefit of myself and others, to see if their example would not provoke us to a generous competition for all the honors.

How it operated on the other boys in after life I can not say; but the effect on me was decidedly unwholesome—discouraging, indeed,—until I was old enough to judge for myself, and to carry into operation a system of my own.

On coming to the passage,—

  "Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;
   Dash him to pieces!"—

the elder of the boys gave it after the following fashion: "Be ready, godths, with all your thunderbolths,—dath him in pietheth!"—bringing his right fist down into his left palm with all his strength, and his lifted foot upon the platform, which was built like a sounding-board, so that the master himself, who had suggested the action and obliged the poor boy to rehearse it over and over again, appeared to be utterly carried away by the magnificent demonstration; while to me—so deficient was I in rhetorical taste—it sounded like a crash of broken crockery, intermingled with chicken peeps.

I never got over it; and to this day can not endure stamping, nor even tapping of the foot, nor clapping the hands together, nor thumping the table for illustration; having an idea that such noises are not oratory, and that untranslatable sounds are not language.

My next essay was of a somewhat different kind. I took the field in person, being in my nineteenth year, well proportioned, and already beginning to have a sincere relish for poetry, if not for declamation. I had always been a great reader; and in the course of my foraging depredations I had met with "The Mariner's Dream" and "The Lake of the Dismal Swamp," both of which I had committed to memory before I knew it.

And one day, happening to be alone with my sister, and newly rigged out in a student's gown, such as the lads at Brunswick sported when they came to show off among their old companions, I proposed to astonish her by rehearsing these two poems in appropriate costume. Being very proud of her brother, and very obliging, she consented at once,—upon condition that our dear mother, who had never seen anything of the sort, should be invited to make one of the audience.

On the whole, I rather think that I succeeded in astonishing both. I well remember their looks of amazement—for they had never seen anything better or worse in all their lives, and were no judges of acting—as I swept to and fro in that magnificent robe, with outstretched arms and uplifted eyes, when I came to passages like the following, where an apostrophe was called for:

  "And near him the she wolf stirred the brake,
    And the copper snake breathed in his ear,
  Till he, starting, cried, from his dream awake,
    'Oh, when shall I see the dusky lake,
    And the white canoe of my dear'!'"

Or like this:

  "On beds of green sea flowers thy limbs shall be laid;
  Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow,
  Of thy fair yellow locks, threads of amber be made,
  And every part suit to thy mansion below;"—

throwing up my arms, and throwing them out in every possible direction as the spirit moved me, or the sentiment prompted; for I always encouraged my limbs and features to think for themselves, and to act for themselves, and never predetermined, never forethought, a gesture nor an intonation in my life; and should as soon think of counterfeiting another's look or step or voice, or of modulating my own by a pitch pipe (as the ancient orators did, with whom oratory was acting elocution, a branch of the dramatic art), as of adopting or imitating the gestures and tones of the most celebrated rhetorician I ever saw.

The result was rather encouraging. My mother and sister were both satisfied. At any rate, they said nothing to the contrary. Being only in my nineteenth year, what might I not be able to accomplish after a little more experience!

How little did I think, while rehearsing before my mother and sister, that anything serious would ever come of it, or that I was laying the foundations of character for life, or that I was beginning what I should not be able to finish within the next forty or fifty years following. Yet so it was. I had broken the ice without knowing it. These things were but the foreshadowing of what happened long afterward.

Notes.—Brunswick, Maine, is the seat of Bowdoin College.

"The Mariner's Dream" is a poem by 'William Dimond.

"The Lake of the Dismal Swamp" is by Thomas Moore.

Thomas Gray, 1716-1771, is often spoken of as "the author of the Elegy,"—this simple yet highly finished and beautiful poem being by far the best known of an his writings. It was finished in 1749,—seven years from the time it was commenced. Probably no short poem in the language ever deserved or received more praise. Gray was born in London; his father possessed property, but was indolent and selfish; his mother was a successful woman of business, and supported her son in college from her own earnings. The poet was educated at Eton and Cambridge; at the latter place, he resided for several years after his return from a continental tour, begun in 1739. He was small and delicate in person, refined and precise in dress and manners, and shy and retiring in disposition. He was an accomplished scholar in many fields of learning, but left comparatively little finished work in any department. He declined the honor of poet laureate; but, in 1769, was appointed Professor of History at Cambridge. ###

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
  The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
  And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
  And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
  The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
  Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade,
  Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
  The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
  The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
  No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
  Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
  Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
  Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
  How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
  Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
  The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
  And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike, the inevitable hour:
  The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
  If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise;
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
  The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
  Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,
  Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot is laid
  Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
  Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
  Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
  And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
  The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
  And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
  The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest,
  Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,
  The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
  And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor, circumscribed alone
  Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne.
  And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
  To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,
  With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
  Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,
  They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones, from insult to protect,
  Some frail memorial still, erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
  Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,
  The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
  That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
  This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
  Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
  Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
  E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,
  Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
  Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,—

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
  "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing, with hasty step, the dews away,
  To meet the sun upon the upland lawn:

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
  That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
  And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
  Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now, drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
  Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

"One morn, I missed him on the customed hill,
  Along the heath, and near his favorite tree:
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
  Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array
  Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:—
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
  'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
  A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
  And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty and his soul sincere,
  Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear;
  He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
  Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
  The bosom of his Father, and his God.

[Illustration: Man on horseback riding past a church-yard (graveyard).
The sky is cloudy; the church steeple stands in the background.]

Notes.—John Hampden (b. 1594, d. 1643) was noted for his resolute resistance to the forced loans and unjust taxes imposed by Charles I. on England. He took part in the contest between King and Parliament, and was killed in a skirmish.

John Milton. See biographical notice, page 312.

Oliver Cromwell (b. 1599, d. 1658) was the leading character in the Great Rebellion in England. He was Lord Protector the last five years of his life, and in many respects the ablest ruler that England ever had.

Talent is something, but tact is everything. Talent is serious, sober, grave, and respectable: tact is all that, and more too. It is not a sixth sense, but it is the life of all the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch; it is the interpreter of all riddles, the surmounter of all difficulties, the remover of all obstacles. It is useful in all places, and at all times; it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man into the world; it is useful in society, for it shows him his way through the world.

Talent is power, tact is skill; talent is weight, tact is momentum; talent knows what to do, tact knows how to do it; talent makes a man respectable, tact will make him respected; talent is wealth, tact is ready money. For all the practical purposes, tact carries it against talent ten to one.

Take them to the theater, and put them against each other on the stage, and talent shall produce you a tragedy that shall scarcely live long enough to be condemned, while tact keeps the house in a roar, night after night, with its successful farces. There is no want of dramatic talent, there is no want of dramatic tact; but they are seldom together: so we have successful pieces which are not respectable, and respectable pieces which are not successful.

Take them to the bar, and let them shake their learned curls at each other in legal rivalry; talent sees its way clearly, but tact is first at its journey's end. Talent has many a compliment from the bench, but tact touches fees. Talent makes the world wonder that it gets on no faster, tact arouses astonishment that it gets on so fast. And the secret is, that it has no weight to carry; it makes no false steps; it hits the right nail on the head; it loses no time; it takes all hints; and, by keeping its eye on the weathercock, is ready to take advantage of every wind that blows.

Take them into the church: talent has always something worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of hearers; talent may obtain a living, tact will make one; talent gets a good name, tact a great one; talent convinces, tact converts; talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from the profession.

Take them to court: talent feels its weight, tact finds its way; talent commands, tact is obeyed; talent is honored with approbation, and tact is blessed by preferment. Place them in the senate: talent has the ear of the house, but tact wins its heart, and has its votes; talent is fit for employment, but tact is fitted for it. It has a knack of slipping into place with a sweet silence and glibness of movement, as a billiard ball insinuates itself into the pocket.

It seems to know everything, without learning anything. It has served an extemporary apprenticeship; it wants no drilling; it never ranks in the awkward squad; it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side. It puts on no look of wondrous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place as dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the pianoforte. It has all the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius.

Patrick Henry, 1730-1799, was born in Hanover County, Virginia, He received instruction in Latin and mathematics from his father, but seemed to develop a greater fondness for hunting, fishing, and playing the fiddle than for study. Twice he was set up in business, and twice failed before he was twenty-four. He was then admitted to the bar after six weeks' study of the law. He got no business at first in his profession, but lived with his father-in-law. His wonderful powers of oratory first showed themselves in a celebrated case which he argued in Hanover Courthouse, his own father being the presiding magistrate. He began very awkwardly, but soon rose to a surprising height of eloquence, won his case against great odds, and was carried off in triumph by the delighted spectators. His fame was now established; business flowed in, and he was soon elected to the Virginia Legislature. He was a delegate to the Congress of 1774, and in 1775 made the prophetic speech of which the following selection is a portion. It was his own motion that the "colony be immediately put in a state of defense." During the Revolution he was, for several years, Governor of Virginia. In 1788 he earnestly opposed the adoption of the Federal Constitution. When he died, he left a large family and an ample fortune. In person, Mr. Henry was tall and rather awkward, with a face stern and grave. When he spoke on great occasions, his awkwardness forsook him, his face lighted up, and his eyes flashed with a wonderful fire. In his life, he was good-humored, honest, and temperate. His patriotism was of the noblest type; and few men in those stormy times did better service for their country than he. ###

It is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those, who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past; and, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the house? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not: it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves, how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves. These are the implements of war and subjugation,— the last arguments to which kings resort.

I ask, gentlemen, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us into submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, she has none. They are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? We have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light in which it was capable; but it has been all in vain.

Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, deceive ourselves longer. We have done everything that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves at the foot of the throne, and implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical bands of the ministry and parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications disregarded; and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the throne.

In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free; if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending; if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained—we must fight! I repeat it, we must fight! An appeal to arms and the God of Hosts, is all that is left us.

They tell us that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? We are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power.

Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable; and; let it come! I repeat it, let it come!

It is in vain to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry peace, peace; but there is no peace. The war is actually begun. The next gale that sweeps from the north, will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death.

Notes.—Observe, in this lesson, the all-controlling power of emphasis in determining the falling inflection. The words "see," "hear," and "my," in the first paragraph, the word "that" in the second, and "spurned" and "contempt" in the fourth paragraph, are examples of this. Let the reader remember that a high degree of emphasis is sometimes expressed by a whisper; also, that emphasis is often expressed by a pause.

It will be well to read in this connection some good history of the opening scenes of the Revolution.

Joseph Rodman Drake. 1795-1820, was born in New York City. His father died when he was very young, and his early life was a struggle with poverty. He studied medicine, and took his degree when he was about twenty years old. From a child, he showed remarkable poetical powers, having made rhymes at the early age of five. Most of his published writings were produced during a period of less than two years. "The Culprit Fay" and the "American Flag" are best known. In disposition, Mr. Drake was gentle and kindly; and, on the occasion of his death, his intimate friend, Fitz-Greene Halleck, expressed his character in the well-known couplet:

   "None knew thee but to love thee,
   Nor named thee but to praise."
###

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 baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.

Majestic monarch of the cloud!
  Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest trumpings loud,
And see the lightning lances driven,
  When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder drum of heaven;—
Child of the sun! to thee 't is given
  To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
   The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high!
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on,
Ere yet the lifeblood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn,
And, as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
And when the cannon mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,
And gory sabers rise and fall,
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall sink beneath
Each gallant arm, that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean's wave
Thy 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,
  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!
  Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
  And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

Debt is of the very highest antiquity. The first debt in the history of man is the debt of nature, and the first instinct is to put off the payment of it to the last moment. Many persons, it will be observed, following the natural procedure, would die before they would pay their debts.

Society is composed of two classes, debtors and creditors. The creditor class has been erroneously supposed the more enviable. Never was there a greater misconception; and the hold it yet maintains upon opinion is a remarkable example of the obstinacy of error, notwithstanding the plainest lessons of experience. The debtor has the sympathies of mankind. He is seldom spoken of but with expressions of tenderness and compassion—"the poor debtor!"—and "the unfortunate debtor!" On the other hand, "harsh" and "hard-hearted" are the epithets allotted to the creditor. Who ever heard the "poor creditor," the "unfortunate creditor" spoken of? No, the creditor never becomes the object of pity, unless he passes into the debtor class. A creditor may be ruined by the poor debtor, but it is not until he becomes unable to pay his own debts, that he begins to be compassionated.

A debtor is a man of mark. Many eyes are fixed upon him; many have interest in his well-being; his movements are of concern; he can not disappear unheeded; his name is in many mouths; his name is upon many books; he is a man of note—of promissory note; he fills the speculation of many minds; men conjecture about him, wonder about him,—wonder and conjecture whether he will pay. He is a man of consequence, for many are running after him. His door is thronged with duns. He is inquired after every hour of the day. Judges hear of him and know him. Every meal he swallows, every coat he puts upon his back, every dollar he borrows, appears before the country in some formal document. Compare his notoriety with the obscure lot of the creditor,—of the man who has nothing but claims on the world; a landlord, or fundholder, or some such disagreeable, hard character.

The man who pays his way is unknown in his neighborhood. You ask the milkman at his door, and he can not tell his name. You ask the butcher where Mr. Payall lives, and he tells you he knows no such name, for it is not in his books. You shall ask the baker, and he will tell you there is no such person in the neighborhood. People that have his money fast in their pockets, have no thought of his person or appellation. His house only is known. No. 31 is good pay. No. 31 is ready money. Not a scrap of paper is ever made out for No. 31. It is an anonymous house; its owner pays his way to obscurity. No one knows anything about him, or heeds his movements. If a carriage be seen at his door, the neighborhood is not full of concern lest he be going to run away. If a package be removed from his house, a score of boys are not employed to watch whether it be carried to the pawnbroker. Mr. Payall fills no place in the public mind; no one has any hopes or fears about him.

The creditor always figures in the fancy as a sour, single man, with grizzled hair, a scowling countenance, and a peremptory air, who lives in a dark apartment, with musty deeds about him, and an iron safe, as impenetrable as his heart, grabbing together what he does not enjoy, and what there is no one about him to enjoy. The debtor, on the other hand, is always pictured with a wife and six fair-haired daughters, bound together in affection and misery, full of sensibility, and suffering without a fault. The creditor, it is never doubted, thrives without a merit. He has no wife and children to pity. No one ever thinks it desirable that he should have the means of living. He is a brute for insisting that he must receive, in order to pay. It is not in the imagination of man to conceive that his creditor has demands upon him which must be satisfied, and that he must do to others as others must do to him. A creditor is a personification of exaction. He is supposed to be always taking in, and never giving out.

People idly fancy that the possession of riches is desirable. What blindness! Spend and regale. Save a shilling and you lay it by for a thief. The prudent men are the men that live beyond their means. Happen what may, they are safe. They have taken time by the forelock. They have anticipated fortune. "The wealthy fool, with gold in store," has only denied himself so much enjoyment, which another will seize at his expense. Look at these people in a panic. See who are the fools then. You know them by their long faces. You may say, as one of them goes by in an agony of apprehension, "There is a stupid fellow who fancied himself rich, because he had fifty thousand dollars in bank." The history of the last ten years has taught the moral, "spend and regale." Whatever is laid up beyond the present hour, is put in jeopardy. There is no certainty but in instant enjoyment. Look at schoolboys sharing a plum cake. The knowing ones eat, as for a race; but a stupid fellow saves his portion; just nibbles a bit, and "keeps the rest for another time." Most provident blockhead! The others, when they have gobbled up their shares, set upon him, plunder him, and thrash him for crying out.

Before the terms "depreciation," "suspension," and "going into liquidation," were heard, there might have been some reason in the practice of "laying up;" but now it denotes the darkest blindness. The prudent men of the present time, are the men in debt. The tendency being to sacrifice creditors to debtors, and the debtor party acquiring daily new strength, everyone is in haste to get into the favored class. In any case, the debtor is safe. He has put his enjoyments behind him; they are safe; no turns of fortune can disturb them. The substance he has eaten up, is irrecoverable. The future can not trouble his past. He has nothing to apprehend. He has anticipated more than fortune would ever have granted him. He has tricked fortune; and his creditors—bah! who feels for creditors? What are creditors? Landlords; a pitiless and unpitiable tribe; all griping extortioners! What would become of the world of debtors, if it did not steal a march upon this rapacious class?

Hester Lynch Thrale. 1739—1821, owes her celebrity almost wholly to her long intimacy with Dr. Samuel Johnson. This continued for twenty years, during which Johnson spent much time in her family. She was born in Caernarvonshire, Wales; her first husband was a wealthy brewer, by whom she had several children. In 1784, she married an Italian teacher of music named Piozzi. Her writings are quite numerous; the best known of her books is the "Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson;" but nothing she ever wrote is so well known as the "Three Warnings." ###

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'T was therefore said by ancient sages,
  That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
  The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbor Dodson's wedding day,
Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room;
And looking grave, "You must," says he,
"Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."
"With you! and quit my Susan's side?
With you!" the hapless bridegroom cried:
"Young as I am, 't is monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared."

What more he urged, I have not heard;
  His reasons could not well be stronger:
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
  And left to live a little longer.
Yet, calling up a serious look,
His hourglass trembled while he spoke:
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have
Before you're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
  And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But, when I call again this way,
  Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wisely, and how well,
It boots not that the Muse should tell;
He plowed, he sowed, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
  Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He passed his hours in peace.
But, while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track, content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,
  Brought on his eightieth year.

And now, one night, in musing mood,
  As all alone he sate,
  The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.
Half-killed with wonder and surprise,
"So soon returned!" old Dodson cries.
"So soon d' ye call it?" Death replies:
"Surely! my friend, you're but in jest;
  Since I was here before,
'T is six and thirty years at least,
  And you are now fourscore."
"So much the worse!" the clown rejoined;
"To spare the aged would be kind:
Besides, you promised me three warnings,
Which I have looked for nights and mornings!"

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best,
I seldom am a welcome guest;
But do n't be captious, friend; at least,
I little thought that you'd be able
To stump about your farm and stable;
Your years have run to a great length,
Yet still you seem to have your strength."

"Hold!" says the farmer, "not so fast!
I have been lame, these four years past."
"And no great wonder," Death replies,
"However, you still keep your eyes;
And surely, sir, to see one's friends,
For legs and arms would make amends."
"Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might,
But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking story, faith;
But there's some comfort still," says Death;
"Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news."
"There's none," cries he, "and if there were,
I've grown so deaf, I could not hear."

"Nay, then," the specter stern rejoined,
  "These are unpardonable yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
  You've had your three sufficient warnings,
So, come along; no more we'll part."
He said, and touched him with his dart:
And now old Dodson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate—so ends my tale.

Lyman Beecher, 1775-1863, a famous congregational minister of New England, was born in New Haven, graduated from Yale College in 1797, and studied theology with Dr. Timothy Dwight. His first settlement was at East Hampton, L. I., at a salary of three hundred dollars per year. He was pastor of the church in Litchfield, Ct., from 1810 till 1826, when he removed to Boston, and took charge of the Hanover Street Church. In the religious controversies of the time, Dr. Beecher was one of the most prominent characters. From 1832 to 1842, he was President of Lane Theological Seminary, in the suburbs of Cincinnati. He then returned to Boston, where he spent most of the closing years of his long and active life. His death occurred in Brooklyn, N. Y. As a theologian, preacher, and advocate of education, temperance, and missions, Dr. Beecher occupied a very prominent place for nearly half a century. He left a large family of sons and two daughters, who are well known as among the most eminent preachers and authors in America. ###

We are called upon to cherish with high veneration and grateful recollections, the memory of our fathers. Both the ties of nature and the dictates of policy demand this. And surely no nation had ever less occasion to be ashamed of its ancestry, or more occasion for gratulation in that respect; for while most nations trace their origin to barbarians, the foundations of our nation were laid by civilized men, by Christians. Many of them were men of distinguished families, of powerful talents, of great learning and of preeminent wisdom, of decision of character, and of most inflexible integrity. And yet not unfrequently they have been treated as if they had no virtues; while their sins and follies have been sedulously immortalized in satirical anecdote.

The influence of such treatment of our fathers is too manifest. It creates and lets loose upon their institutions, the vandal spirit of innovation and overthrow; for after the memory of our father shall have been rendered contemptible, who will appreciate and sustain their institutions? "The memory of our fathers" should be the watchword of liberty throughout the land; for, imperfect as they were, the world before had not seen their like, nor will it soon, we fear, behold their like again. Such models of moral excellence, such apostles of civil and religious liberty, such shades of the illustrious dead looking down upon their descendants with approbation or reproof, according as they follow or depart from the good way, constitute a censorship inferior only to the eye of God; and to ridicule them is national suicide.

The doctrines of our fathers have been represented as gloomy, superstitious, severe, irrational, and of a licentious tendency. But when other systems shall have produced a piety as devoted, a morality as pure, a patriotism as disinterested, and a state of society as happy, as have prevailed where their doctrines have been most prevalent, it may be in season to seek an answer to this objection.

The persecutions instituted by our fathers have been the occasion of ceaseless obloquy upon their fair fame. And truly, it was a fault of no ordinary magnitude, that sometimes they did persecute. But let him whose ancestors were not ten times more guilty, cast the first stone, and the ashes of our fathers will no more be disturbed. Theirs was the fault of the age, and it will be easy to show that no class of men had, at that time, approximated so nearly to just apprehensions of religious liberty; and that it is to them that the world is now indebted for the more just and definite views which now prevail.

The superstition and bigotry of our fathers are themes on which some of their descendants, themselves far enough from superstition, if not from bigotry, have delighted to dwell. But when we look abroad, and behold the condition of the world, compared with the condition of New England, we may justly exclaim, "Would to God that the ancestors of all the nations had been not only almost, but altogether such bigots as our fathers were."

Dryden knew more of man in his general nature, and Pope in his local manners. The notions of Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation, those of Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, more certainty in that of Pope. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied, that of Pope cautious and uniform. Dryden obeys the motions of his own mind; Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of composition. Dryden's page is a natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exuberance of abundant vegetation; Pope's is the velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and leveled by the roller. If the flights of Dryden are higher, Pope continues longer on the wing. If, of Dryden's fire, the blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and Pope with perpetual delight. —Samuel Johnson.

Note.—A fine example of antithesis. See p. 26.

Is then the dreadful measure of your cruelty not yet complete? Battle! against whom? Against a king, in whose mild bosom your atrocious injuries, even yet, have not excited hate; but who, insulted or victorious, still sues for peace. Against a people, who never wronged the living being their Creator formed; a people, who received you as cherished guests, with eager hospitality and confiding kindness. Generously and freely did they share with you their comforts, their treasures, and their homes; you repaid them by fraud, oppression, and dishonor.

Pizarro, hear me! Hear me, chieftains! And thou, All-powerful! whose thunder can shiver into sand the adamantine rock, whose lightnings can pierce the core of the riven and quaking earth, oh let thy power give effect to thy servant's words, as thy Spirit gives courage to his will! Do not, I implore you, chieftains,—do not, I implore, you, renew the foul barbarities your insatiate avarice has inflicted on this wretched, unoffending race. But hush, my sighs! fall not, ye drops of useless sorrow! heart-breaking anguish, choke not my utterance. —E. B. Sheridan.

Note.—Examples of series. See p. 28.

John Ruskin, 1819 —-, is a distinguished English art critic and author.
From 1869 to 1884, he was Professor of the Fine Arts at Oxford University.
His writings are very numerous, and are noted for their eloquent and
brilliant style.
###

About the river of human life there is a wintry wind, though a heavenly sunshine; the iris colors its agitation, the frost fixes upon its repose. Let us beware that our rest become not the rest of stones, which, so long as they are tempest-tossed and thunderstricken, maintain their majesty; but when the stream is silent and the storm passed, suffer the grass to cover them, and are plowed into the dust.

Sir Humphry Davy, 1778-1829, was an eminent chemist of England. He made many important chemical discoveries, and was the inventor of the miner's safety lamp. ###

Time is almost a human word, and Change entirely a human idea; in the system of nature, we should rather say progress than change. The sun appears to sink in the ocean in darkness, but it rises in another hemisphere; the ruins of a city fall, but they are often used to form more magnificent structures: even when they are destroyed so as to produce only dust, Nature asserts her empire over them; and the vegetable world rises in constant youth, in a period of annual successions, by the labors of man—providing food, vitality, and beauty—upon the wrecks of monuments which were raised for the purposes of glory, but which are now applied to objects of utility.

William Ellery Channing, 1780-1842, was a distinguished clergyman and orator. He took a leading part in the public affairs of his day, and wrote and lectured eloquently on several topics. ###

It is not true that the poet paints a life which does not exist. He only extracts and concentrates, as it were, life's ethereal essence, arrests and condenses its volatile fragrance, brings together its scattered beauties, and prolongs its more refined but evanescent joys; and in this he does well, for it is good to feel that life is not wholly usurped by cares for subsistence and physical gratifications, but admits, in measures which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and delights worthy of a higher being.

William Howitt, 1795-1879, was an English author. He published many books, and was associated with his wife, Mary Howitt, in the publication of many others. ###

There is a charm connected with mountains, so powerful that the merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their magnificent features, kindles the imagination, and carries the spirit at once into the bosom of their enchanted regions. How the mind is filled with their vast solitude! How the inward eye is fixed on their silent, their sublime, their everlasting peaks! How our hearts bound to the music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle of their gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts! How inspiriting are the odors that breathe from the upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary and solemn pine! How beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as over a vast, inimitable picture!

George Arnold, 1834—1865, was born in New York City. He never attended school, but was educated at home, by his parents. His literary career occupied a period of about twelve years. In this time he wrote stories, essays, criticisms in art and literature, poems, sketches, etc., for several periodicals. Two volumes of his poems have been published since his death. ###

'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,
  Tall, and slender, and sallow, and dry;
His form was bent, and his gait was slow,
And his long, thin hair was white as snow,
  But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye:
And he sang every night as he went to bed,
  "Let us be happy down here below;
The living should live, though the dead be dead,"
  Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He taught the scholars the Rule of Three,
  Reading, and writing, and history too;
He took the little ones on his knee,
For a kind old heart in his breast had he,
  And the wants of the littlest child he knew.
"Learn while you're young," he often said,
  "There is much to enjoy down here below;
Life for the living, and rest for the dead!"
  Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

With the stupidest boys, he was kind and cool,
  Speaking only in gentlest tones;
The rod was scarcely known in his school—
Whipping to him was a barbarous rule,
  And too hard work for his poor old bones;
Besides it was painful, he sometimes said:
  "We should make life pleasant down here below—
The living need charity more than the dead,"
  Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane,
  With roses and woodbine over the door;
His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain,
But a spirit of comfort there held reign,
  And made him forget he was old and poor.
"I need so little," he often said;
  "And my friends and relatives here below
Won't litigate over me when I am dead,"
  Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

But the pleasantest times he had of all,
  Were the sociable hours he used to pass,
With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall,
Making an unceremonious call,
  Over a pipe and a friendly glass:
This was the finest pleasure, he said,
  Of the many he tasted here below:
"Who has no cronies had better be dead,"
  Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

The jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face
  Melted all over in sunshiny smiles;
He stirred his glass with an old-school grace,
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace,
  Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles.
"I'm a pretty old man," he gently said,
  "I've lingered a long time here below;
But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled!"
  Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air
  Every night, when the sun went down;
And the soft wind played in his silvery hair,
Leaving its tenderest kisses there,
  On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown;
And feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said:
  " 'T is it glorious world down here below;
Why wait for happiness till we are dead?"
  Said this jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He sat at his door one midsummer night,
  After the sun had sunk in the west,
And the lingering beams of golden light
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright,
  While the odorous night winds whispered, "Rest!"
Gently, gently, he bowed his head;
  There were angels waiting for him, I know;
He was sure of his happiness, living or dead,
  This jolly old pedagogue, long ago!

Shortly after the schoolmaster had arranged the forms and taken his seat behind his desk, a small white-headed boy with a sunburnt face appeared at the door, and, stopping there to make a rustic bow, came in and took his seat upon one of the forms. He then put an open book, astonishingly dog's-eared, upon his knees, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, began counting the marbles with which they were filled; displaying, in the expression of his face, a remarkable capacity of totally abstracting his mind from the spelling on which his eyes were fixed.

Soon afterward, another white-headed little boy came straggling in, and after him, a red-headed lad, and then one with a flaxen poll, until the forms were occupied by a dozen boys, or thereabouts, with heads of every color but gray, and ranging in their ages from four years old to fourteen years or more; for the legs of the youngest were a long way from the floor, when he sat upon the form; and the eldest was a heavy, good-tempered fellow, about half a head taller than the schoolmaster.

At the top of the first form—the post of honor in the school—was the vacant place of the little sick scholar; and, at the head of the row of pegs, on which those who wore hats or caps were wont to hang them, one was empty. No boy attempted to violate the sanctity of seat or peg, but many a one looked from the empty spaces to the schoolmaster, and whispered to his idle neighbor, behind his hand.

Then began the hum of conning over lessons and getting them by heart, the whispered jest and stealthy game, and all the noise and drawl of school; and in the midst of the din, sat the poor schoolmaster, vainly attempting to fix his mind upon the duties of the day, and to forget his little sick friend. But the tedium of his office reminded him more strongly of the willing scholar, and his thoughts were rambling from his pupils—it was plain.

None knew this better than the idlest boys, who, growing bolder with impunity, waxed louder and more daring; playing "odd or even" under the master's eye; eating apples openly and without rebuke; pinching each other in sport or malice, without the least reserve; and cutting their initials in the very legs of his desk. The puzzled dunce, who stood beside it to say his lesson "off the book," looked no longer at the ceiling for forgotten words, but drew closer to the master's elbow, and boldly cast his eye upon the page; the wag of the little troop squinted and made grimaces (at the smallest boy, of course), holding no book before his face, and his approving companions knew no constraint in their delight. If the master did chance to rouse himself, and seem alive to what was going on, the noise subsided for a moment, and no eye met his but wore a studious and deeply humble look; but the instant he relapsed again, it broke out afresh, and ten times louder than before.

Oh! how some of those idle fellows longed to be outside, and how they looked at the open door and window, as if they half meditated rushing violently out, plunging into the woods, and being wild boys and savages from that time forth. What rebellious thoughts of the cool river, and some shady bathing place, beneath willow trees with branches dipping in the water, kept tempting and urging that sturdy boy, who, with his shirt collar unbuttoned, and flung back as far as it could go, sat fanning his flushed face with a spelling book, wishing himself a whale, or a minnow, or a fly, or anything but a boy at school, on that hot, broiling day.

Heat! ask that other boy, whose seat being nearest to the door, gave him opportunities of gliding out into the garden, and driving his companions to madness, by dipping his face into the bucket of the well, and then rolling on the grass,—ask him if there was ever such a day as that, when even the bees were diving deep down into the cups of the flowers, and stopping there, as if they had made up their minds to retire from business, and be manufacturers of honey no more. The day was made for laziness, and lying on one's back in green places, and staring at the sky, till its brightness forced the gazer to shut his eyes and go to sleep. And was this a time to be poring over musty books in a dark room, slighted by the very sun itself? Monstrous!

The lessons over, writing time began. This was a more quiet time; for the master would come and look over the writer's shoulder, and mildly tell him to observe how such a letter was turned up, in such a copy on the wall, which had been written by their sick companion, and bid him take it as a model. Then he would stop and tell them what the sick child had said last night, and how he had longed to be among them once again; and such was the poor schoolmaster's gentle and affectionate manner, that the boys seemed quite remorseful that they had worried him so much, and were absolutely quiet; eating no apples, cutting no names, and making no grimaces for full two minutes afterward.

"I think, boys," said the schoolmaster, when the clock struck twelve, "that I shall give you an extra half holiday this afternoon." At this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the tall boy, raised a great shout, in the midst of which the master was seen to speak, but could not be heard. As he held up his hand, however, in token of his wish that they should be silent, they were considerate enough to leave off, as soon as the longest-winded among them were quite out of breath. "You must promise me, first," said the schoolmaster, "that you'll not be noisy, or at least, if you are, that you'll go away first, out of the village, I mean. I'm sure you would n't disturb your old playmate and companion."

There was a general murmur (and perhaps a very sincere one, for they were but boys) in the negative; and the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely as any of them, called those about him to witness, that he had only shouted in a whisper. "Then pray do n't forget, there's my dear scholars," said the schoolmaster, "what I have asked you, and do it as a favor to me. Be as happy as you can, and do n't be unmindful that you are blessed with health. Good-by, all."

"Thank 'ee, sir," and "Good-by, sir," were said a great many times in a great variety of voices, and the boys went out very slowly and softly. But there was the sun shining and there were birds singing, as the sun only shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half holidays; there were the trees waving to all free boys to climb, and nestle among their leafy branches; the hay, entreating them to come and scatter it to the pure air; the green corn, gently beckoning toward wood and stream; the smooth ground, rendered smoother still by blending lights and shadows, inviting to runs and leaps, and long walks, nobody knows whither. It was more than boy could bear, and with a joyous whoop, the whole cluster took to their heels, and spread themselves about, shouting and laughing as they went. " 'T is natural, thank Heaven!" said the poor schoolmaster, looking after them, "I am very glad they did n't mind me."

Toward night, the schoolmaster walked over to the cottage where his little friend lay sick. Knocking gently at the cottage door, it was opened without loss of time. He entered a room where a group of women were gathered about one who was wringing her hands and crying bitterly. "O dame!" said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, "is it so bad as this?" Without replying, she pointed to another room, which the schoolmaster immediately entered; and there lay his little friend, half-dressed, stretched upon a bed.

He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of heaven, not of earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and, stooping over the pillow whispered his name. The boy sprung up, stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted arms around his neck, crying, that he was his dear, kind friend. "I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows," said the poor schoolmaster. "You remember my garden, Henry?" whispered the old man, anxious to rouse him, for dullness seemed gathering upon the child, "and how pleasant it used to be in the evening time? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, very soon now, won't you?"

The boy smiled faintly—so very, very faintly—and put his hand upon his friend's gray head. He moved his lips too, but no voice came from them,— no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices, borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window. "What's that?" said the sick child, opening his eyes. "The boys at play, upon the green." He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. "Shall I do it?" said the schoolmaster. "Please wave it at the window," was the faint reply. "Tie it to the lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of me, and look this way."

He raised his head and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate, and book, and other boyish property, upon the table in the room. And then he laid him softly down once more, and again clasped his little arms around the old man's neck. The two old friends and companions—for such they were, though they were man and child—held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face to the wall and fell asleep.

* * * * * * * * *

The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.

From "The Old Curiosity Shop," by Dickens.

William Cullen Bryant, 1794-1878, was the son of Peter Bryant, a physician of Cummington, Massachusetts. Amid the beautiful scenery of this remote country town, the poet was born; and here he passed his early youth. At the age of sixteen, Bryant entered Williams College, but was honorably dismissed at the end of two years. He then entered on the study of law, and was admitted to the bar at the age of twenty-one. He practiced his profession, with much success, for about nine years. In 1826, he removed to New York, and became connected with the "Evening Post," a connection which continued to the time of his death. For more than thirty of the last years of his life, Mr. Bryant made his home near Roslyn, Long Island, where he occupied an "old-time mansion," which he bought, fitted up, and surrounded in accordance with his excellent rural taste. A poem of his, written at the age of ten years, was published in the "County Gazette," and two poems of considerable length were published in book form, when the author was only fourteen. "Thanatopsis," perhaps the best known of all his poems, was written when he was but nineteen. But, notwithstanding his precocity, his powers continued to a remarkable age. His, excellent translations of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey," together with some of his best poems, were accomplished after the poet, had passed the age of seventy. Mr. Bryant visited Europe several times; and, in 1849, he continued his travels into Egypt and Syria. Abroad, he was received with many marks of distinction; and he added much to his extensive knowledge by studying the literature of the countries he visited.

All his poems exhibit a peculiar love, and a careful study, of nature; and his language, both in prose and poetry, is always chaste, elegant, and correct. His mind was well-balanced; and his personal character was one to be admired, loved, and imitated. ###

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,
  On the lake below thy gentle eyes;
The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,
  And dark and silent the water lies;
And out of that frozen mist the snow
In wavering flakes begins to flow;
                    Flake after flake
They sink in the dark and silent lake.

See how in a living swarm they come
 From the chambers beyond that misty veil;
Some hover in air awhile, and some
 Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.
All, dropping swiftly, or settling slow,
Meet, and are still in the depths below;
                    Flake after flake
Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

Here delicate snow stars, out of the cloud,
  Come floating downward in airy play,
Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd
  That whiten by night the Milky Way;
There broader and burlier masses fall;
The sullen water buries them all,—
                      Flake after flake,—
All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

And some, as on tender wings they glide
  From their chilly birth cloud, dim and gray.
Are joined in their fall, and, side by side,
  Come clinging along their unsteady way;
As friend with friend, or husband with wife,
Makes hand in hand the passage of life;
                       Each mated flake
Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste
  Stream down the snows, till the air is white,
As, myriads by myriads madly chased,
  They fling themselves from their shadowy height.
The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,
What speed they make, with their grave so nigh;
                 Flake after flake
To lie in the dark and silent lake.

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear;
  They turn to me in sorrowful thought;
Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear,
  Who were for a time, and now are not;
Like these fair children of cloud and frost,
That glisten a moment an then are lost,
                   Flake after flake,—
All lost in the dark and silent lake.

Yet look again, for the clouds divide;
  A gleam of blue on the water lies;
And far away, on the mountain side,
  A sunbeam falls from the opening skies.
But the hurrying host that flew between
The cloud and the water no more is seen;
                  Flake after flake
At rest in the dark and silent lake.

Charles Phillips, 1787-1859, an eminent barrister and orator, was born in Sligo, Ireland, and died in London. He gained much of his reputation as an advocate in criminal cases. In his youth he published some verses; later in life he became the author of several works, chiefly of biography. ###

He is fallen! We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, which towered among us like some ancient ruin, whose power terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne a sceptered hermit, wrapt in the solitude of his own originality. A mind, bold, independent, and decisive; a will, despotic in its dictates; an energy that distanced expedition; and a conscience, pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outlines of this extraordinary character—the most extraordinary, perhaps, that in the annals of this world ever rose, or reigned, or fell.

Flung into life in the midst of a revolution that quickened every energy of a people who acknowledged no superior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity. With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed into the lists where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed themselves, and competition fled from him, as from the glance of destiny.

He knew no motive but interest; acknowledged no criterion but success; he worshiped no God but ambition; and, with an eastern devotion, he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not profess, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate: in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the crescent; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the cross; the orphan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the Republic; and, with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and the tribune, he reared the throne of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the Pope; a pretended patriot, he impoverished the country; and in the name of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the Caesars.

The whole continent trembled at beholding the audacity of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. Skepticism bowed to the prodigies of his performance; romance assumed the air of history; nor was there aught too incredible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the visions of antiquity became commonplace in his contemplation: kings were his people; nations were his outposts; and he disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabinets, as if they were the titular dignitaries of the chessboard! Amid all these changes, he stood immutable as adamant. It mattered little whether in the field, or in the drawing-room; with the mob, or the levee; wearing the Jacobin bonnet, or the iron crown; banishing a Braganza, or espousing a Hapsburg; dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of Russia, or contemplating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic he was still the same military despot.

In this wonderful combination, his affectations of literature must not be omitted. The jailer of the press, he affected the patronage of letters; the proscriber of books, he encouraged philosophy; the persecutor of authors, and the murderer of printers, he yet pretended to the protection of learning; the assassin of Palm, the silencer of De Stael, and the denouncer of Kotzebue, he was the friend of David, the benefactor of De Lille, and sent his academic prize to the philosopher of England.

Such a medley of contradictions, and, at the same time, such an individual consistency, were never united in the same character. A royalist, a republican, and an emperor; a Mohammedan, a Catholic, and a patron of the synagogue; a subaltern and a sovereign; a traitor and a tyrant; a Christian and an infidel; he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, inflexible original; the same mysterious, incomprehensible self; the man without a model, and without a shadow.

NOTES.—St. Louis (b. 1215, d. 1270), a wise and pious king of France, known as Louis IX. Napoleon was appointed to the Military School at Brienne, by Louis XVI. Brutus, Lucius Junius, abolished the royal office at Rome (509 B. C.), and ruled as consul for two years.

Jacobin Bonnet.—The Jacobins were a powerful political club during the first French Revolution. A peculiar bonnet or hat was their badge. Braganza, the name of the royal family of Portugal. Maria of Portugal, and her father, Charles IV. of Spain, were both expelled by Napoleon. Hapsburg, the name of the royal family of Austria. Napoleon's second wife was Maria Louisa, the daughter of the Emperor. Czar.—The treaty of Tilsit was agreed to between Bonaparte and the Czar Alexander on the river Memel. Leipsic.—Napoleon was defeated by the allied forces, in October, 1813, at this city.

Palm, a German publisher, shot, in 1806, by order of Napoleon, for publishing a pamphlet against him. De Stael (pro. De Stal), a celebrated French authoress, banished from Paris, in 1802, by Napoleon. Kotzebue, an eminent German dramatist. David, the leading historical painter of his times in France. De Lille, an eminent French poet and professor.

John Pierpont, 1785-1866, was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, and graduated from Yale College in 1804. The next four years he spent as a private tutor in the family of Col. William Allston, of South Carolina. On his return, he studied law in the law school of his native town. He entered upon practice, but soon left the law for mercantile pursuits, in which he was unsuccessful. Having studied theology at Cambridge, in 1819 he was ordained pastor of the Hollis Street Unitarian Church, in Boston, where he continued nearly twenty years. He afterwards preached four years for a church in Troy, New York, and then removed to Medford, Massachusetts. At the age of seventy-six, he became chaplain of a Massachusetts regiment; but, on account of infirmity, war soon obliged to give up the position. Mr. Pierpont published a series of school readers, which enjoyed a well-deserved popularity for many years.

His poetry is smooth, musical, and vigorous. Most of his pieces were written for special occasions. ###

His falchion flashed along the Nile;
  His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
  His eagle flag unrolled,—and froze.
Here sleeps he now, alone! Not one
  Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave,
Bends o'er his dust;—nor wife nor son
  Has ever seen or sought his grave.

Behind this seagirt rock! the star,
  That led him on from crown to crown,
Has sunk; and nations from afar
  Gazed as it faded and went down.
High is his couch;—the ocean flood,
  Far, far below, by storms is curled;
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
  A stormy and unstable world.

Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud,
  That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
  That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.
Pause here! The far-off world, at last,
  Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones,
And to the earth its miters cast,
  Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark! comes there from the pyramids,
  And from Siberian wastes of snow,
And Europe's hills, a voice that bids
  The world he awed to mourn him? No:
The only, the perpetual dirge
  That's heard there is the sea bird's cry,—
The mournful murmur of the surge,—
  The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.

NOTE.—Seagirt rock, the island of St. Helena, is in the Atlantic Ocean, nearly midway between Africa and South America. Napoleon was confined on this island six years; until 1821, when he died and was buried there. In 1841, his remains were removed to Paris.

Charles Sumner. 1811-1874, was born in Boston. He studied at the Latin school in his native city, graduated from Harvard University at the age of nineteen, studied law at the same institution, and was admitted to practice in 1834. He at once took a prominent position in his profession, lectured to the law classes at Cambridge for several successive years, wrote and edited several standard law books, and might have had a professorship in the law school, had he desired it. In his famous address on "The True Grandeur of Nations," delivered July 4, 1815, before the municipal authorities of Boston, he took strong grounds against war among nations. In 1851 he was elected to the United States Senate and continued in that position till his death. As a jurist, as a statesman, as an orator, and as a profound and scholarly writer, Mr. Sumner stands high in the estimation of his countrymen. In physical appearance, Mr. Sumner was grand and imposing; men often turned to gaze after him, as he passed along the streets of his native city. ###

I need not dwell now on the waste and cruelty of war. These stare us wildly in the face, like lurid meteor lights, as we travel the page of history. We see the desolation and death that pursue its demoniac footsteps. We look upon sacked towns, upon ravaged territories, upon violated homes; we behold all the sweet charities of life changed to wormwood and gall. Our soul is penetrated by the sharp moan of mothers, sisters, and daughters—of fathers, brothers, and sons, who, in the bitterness of their bereavement, refuse to be comforted. Our eyes rest at last upon one of these fair fields, where Nature, in her abundance, spreads her cloth of gold, spacious and apt for the entertainment of mighty multitudes—or perhaps, from the curious subtlety of its position, like the carpet in the Arabian tale, seeming to contract so as to be covered by a few only, or to dilate so as to receive an innumerable host. Here, under a bright sun, such as shone at Austerlitz or Buena Vista—amidst the peaceful harmonies of nature—on the Sabbath of peace—we behold bands of brothers, children of a common Father, heirs to a common happiness, struggling together in the deadly fight, with the madness of fallen spirits, seeking with murderous weapons the lives of brothers who have never injured them or their kindred. The havoc rages. The ground is soaked with their commingling blood. The air is rent by their commingling cries. Horse and rider are stretched together on the earth. More revolting than the mangled victims, than the gashed limbs, than the lifeless trunks, than the spattering brains, are the lawless passions which sweep, tempest-like, through the fiendish tumult.

Horror-struck, we ask, wherefore this hateful contest? The melancholy, but truthful answer comes, that this is the established method of determining justice between nations!

The scene changes. Far away on the distant pathway of the ocean two ships approach each other, with white canvas broadly spread to receive the flying gales. They are proudly built. All of human art has been lavished in their graceful proportions, and in their well compacted sides, while they look in their dimensions like floating happy islands on the sea. A numerous crew, with costly appliances of comfort, hives in their secure shelter. Surely these two travelers shall meet in joy and friendship; the flag at the masthead shall give the signal of friendship; the happy sailors shall cluster in the rigging, and even on the yardarms, to look each other in the face, while the exhilarating voices of both crews shall mingle in accents of gladness uncontrollable. It is not so. Not as brothers, not as friends, not as wayfarers of the common ocean, do they come together; but as enemies.

The gentle vessels now bristle fiercely with death-dealing instruments. On their spacious decks, aloft on all their masts, flashes the deadly musketry. From their sides spout cataracts of flame, amidst the pealing thunders of a fatal artillery. They, who had escaped "the dreadful touch of merchant-marring rocks"—who had sped on their long and solitary way unharmed by wind or wave—whom the hurricane had spared—in whose favor storms and seas had intermitted their immitigable war—now at last fall by the hand of each other. The same spectacle of horror greets us from both ships. On their decks, reddened with blood, the murderers of St. Bartholomew and of the Sicilian Vespers, with the fires of Smithfield, seem to break forth anew, and to concentrate their rage. Each has now become a swimming Golgotha. At length, these vessels—such pageants of the sea—once so stately—so proudly built—but now rudely shattered by cannon balls—with shivered mast's and ragged sails—exist only as unmanageable wrecks, weltering on the uncertain waves, whose temporary lull of peace is now their only safety. In amazement at this strange, unnatural contest—away from country and home—where there is no country or home to defend—we ask again, wherefore this dismal duel? Again the melancholy but truthful answer promptly comes, that this is the established method of determining justice between nations.

NOTES.—Austerlitz, a small town in Austria, seventy miles north from Vienna. It is noted as the site of a battle, in December, 1805, between the allied Austrian and Russian armies, and the French under Napoleon. The latter were victorious. Buena Vista, a small hamlet in eastern Mexico, where, in 1847, five thousand Americans, under Gen. Taylor, defeated twenty thousand Mexicans, under Gen. Santa Anna.

Dreadful touch.—Quoted from Merchant of Venice, Act III, Scene II.

St. Bartholomew.—A terrible massacre took place in France, on St. Bartholomew's day, August 24, 1572. It has been estimated that twenty thousand persons perished.

Sicilian Vespers, a revolt and uprising against the French in Sicily,
March 30, 1282, at the hour of vespers.

Smithfield, a portion of London noted as a place for execution during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

Sir Robert Walpole, 1676-1745, was educated at Eton and Cambridge. He entered Parliament in 1700, and soon became a good debater and skillful tactician. He was prime minister of Great Britain from 1721 to 1742, in the reigns of George I. and George II. He was an able statesman; but has been accused of employing corruption or bribery on a large scale, to control Parliament and accomplish his purposes. ###

I was unwilling to interrupt the course of this debate, while it was carried on with calmness and decency, by men who do not suffer the ardor of opposition to cloud their reason, or transport them to such expressions as the dignity of this assembly does not admit.

I have hitherto deferred answering the gentleman, who declaimed against the bill with such fluency and rhetoric, and such vehemence of gesture; who charged the advocates for the expedients now proposed, with having no regard to any interests but their own, and with making laws only to consume paper, and threatened them with the defection of their adherents, and the loss of their influence, upon this new discovery of their folly and ignorance. Nor, do I now answer him for any other purpose than to remind him how little the clamor of rage and petulancy of invective contribute to the end for which this assembly is called together; how little the discovery of truth is promoted, and the security of the nation established, by pompous diction and theatrical emotion.

Formidable sounds and furious declamation, confident assertions and lofty periods, may affect the young and inexperienced; and perhaps the gentleman may have contracted his habits of oratory by conversing more with those of his own age than with such as have more opportunities of acquiring knowledge, and more successful methods of communicating their sentiments. If the heat of temper would permit him to attend to those whose age and long acquaintance with business give them an indisputable right to deference and superiority, he would learn in time to reason, rather than declaim; and to prefer justness of argument and an accurate knowledge of facts, to sounding epithets and splendid superlatives, which may disturb the imagination for a moment, but leave no lasting impression upon the mind. He would learn, that to accuse and prove are very different; and that reproaches, unsupported by evidence, affect only the character of him that utters them.

Excursions of fancy and flights of oratory are indeed pardonable in young men, but in no other; and it would surely contribute more, even to the purpose for which some gentlemen appear to speak (that of depreciating the conduct of the administration), to prove the inconveniences and injustice of this bill, than barely to assert them, with whatever magnificence of language, or appearance of zeal, honesty, or compassion.

William Pitt, 1708—1778, one of the ablest statesmen and orators of his time, was born in Cornwall, and educated at Eton and Oxford. He entered Parliament in 1735, and became a formidable opponent of the ministry of Sir Robert Walpole. He gained great reputation by his wise and vigorous management of military affairs in the last years of the reign of George II. He opposed the "Stamp Act" with great earnestness, as well as the course of the ministry in the early years of the American Revolution. In 1778, he rose from a sick bed to make his celebrated speech, in the House of Lords, in opposition to a motion to acknowledge the independence of America. At its close, he fell in an apoplectic fit, and was borne home to die in a few weeks afterward. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. Mr. Pitt possessed a fine personal presence and a powerful voice; he was very popular with the people, and is often called the "Great Commoner." He was created "Earl of Chatham" in 1766. ###

The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honorable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny; but content myself with hoping that I may be one of those whose follies cease with their youth, and not of that number who are ignorant in spite of experience. Whether youth can be imputed to a man as a reproach, I will not assume the province of determining; but surely age may become justly contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improvement, and vice appears to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch, who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that his gray hairs should secure him from insult. Much more is he to be abhorred, who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and become more wicked—with less temptation; who prostitutes himself for money which he can not enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his country.

But youth is not my only crime; I am accused of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarity of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments, and an adoption of the opinions and language of another man. In the first sense, the charge is too trifling to be confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned that it may be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language; and though, perhaps, I may have some ambition to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction or his mien, however matured by age, or modeled by experience.

But, if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behavior, imply that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain; nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity intrench themselves, nor shall anything but age restrain my resentment; age,—which always brings one privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious, without punishment!

But, with regard to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion that, if I had acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their censure: the heat that offended them was the ardor of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my country which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. I will exert my endeavors, at whatever hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever may protect him in his villainies, and whoever may partake of his plunder.

Henry Grattan, 1750-1820, an Irish orator and statesman, was born at Dublin, and graduated from Trinity College, in his native city. By his admiration of Mr. Pitt, the first Earl of Chatham, he was led to turn his attention to oratory. In personal appearance, he was unprepossessing; but his private character was without a blemish. ###

The secretary stood alone. Modern degeneracy had not reached him. Original and unaccommodating, the features of his character had the hardihood of antiquity. His august mind overawed majesty itself. No state chicanery, no narrow system of vicious politics, no idle contest for ministerial victories, sank him to the vulgar level of the great; but overbearing, persuasive, and impracticable, his object was England, his ambition was fame.

Without dividing, he destroyed party; without corrupting, he made a venal age unanimous. France sunk beneath him. With one hand he smote the house of Bourbon, and wielded in the other the democracy of England. The sight of his mind was infinite; and his schemes were to effect, not England, not the present age only, but Europe and posterity. Wonderful were the means by which those schemes were accomplished; always seasonable, always adequate, the suggestion of an understanding animated by ardor and enlightened by prophecy.

The ordinary feelings which make life amiable and indolent, were unknown to him. No domestic difficulties, no domestic weakness, reached him; but, aloof from the sordid occurrences of life, and unsullied by its intercourse, he came occasionally into our system, to counsel and decide. A character so exalted, so strenuous, so various, so authoritative, astonished a corrupt age, and the treasury trembled at the name of Pitt, through all classes of venality. Corruption imagined, indeed, that she had found defects in this statesman, and talked much of the inconsistency of his glory, and much of the ruin of his victories; but the history of his country, and the calamities of the enemy, answered and refuted her.

Nor were his political his only talents. His eloquence was an era in the senate; peculiar and spontaneous; familiarly expressing gigantic sentiments and instructive wisdom; not like the torrent of Demosthenes, or the splendid conflagration of Tully; it resembled sometimes the thunder, and sometimes the music of the spheres. He did not conduct the understanding through the painful subtilty of argumentation, nor was he ever on the rack of exertion; but rather lightened upon the subject, and reached the point by the flashings of the mind, which, like those of the eye, were felt, but could not be followed.

Upon the whole, there was in this man something that could create, subvert, or reform; an understanding, a spirit, and an eloquence, to summon mankind to society, or to break the bonds of slavery asunder, and to rule the wildness of free minds with unbounded authority; something that could establish or overwhelm empires, and strike a blow in the world that should resound through the universe.

NOTES.—Demosthenes (b. 385, d. 322, B. C.) was the son of a cutler at Athens, Greece. By diligent study and unremitting toil, he became the greatest orator that ever lived.

Tully, Marcus Tullius Cicero (b. 106, d. 43, B. C.), was the most remarkable of Roman orators. He held the highest office of the Republic.

Sir Walter Scott, 1771-1832, the great Scotch poet and novelist, was born in Edinburgh. Being a feeble child, he was sent to reside on his grandfather's estate in the south of Scotland. Here he spent several years, and gained much knowledge of the traditions of border warfare, as well as of the tales and ballads pertaining to it. He was also a great reader of romances in his youth. In 1779 be returned to Edinburgh, and became a pupil in the high school. Four years later, he entered the university; but in neither school nor college, was he distinguished for scholarship. In 1797 he was admitted to the practice of law,—a profession which he soon forsook for literature. His first poems appeared in 1802. The "Lay of the Last Minstrel" was published in 1805, "Marmion" in 1808, and "The Lady of the Lake" in 1810. Several poems of less power followed. In 1814 "Waverley," his first novel, made its appearance, but the author was unknown for some time. Numerous other novels followed with great rapidity, the author reaping a rich harvest both in fame and money. In 1811 he purchased an estate near the Tweed, to which he gave the name of Abbotsford. In enlarging his estate and building a costly house, he spent vast sums of money. This, together with the failure of his publishers in 1826, involved him very heavily in debt. But he set to work with almost superhuman effort to pay his debts by the labors of his pen. In about four years, he had paid more than $300,000; but the effort was too much for his strength, and hastened his death.

In person, Scott was tall, and apparently robust, except a slight lameness with which he was affected from childhood. He was kindly in disposition, hospitable in manner, fond of outdoor pursuits and of animals, especially dogs. He wrote with astonishing rapidity, and always in the early morning. At his death, he left two sons and two daughters. A magnificent monument to his memory has been erected in the city of his birth. The following selection is from "The Lady of the Lake." ###

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
  Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battlefields no more,
  Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
  Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
  Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of battlefields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
  Armor's clang, or war steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
  Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,
  At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
  Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
  While our slumb'rous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
  Bugles here shall sound reveille.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
  Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
  How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest; thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugle sounds reveille.

NOTES.—Pibroch (pro. pe'brok). This is a wild, irregular species of music, peculiar to the Highlands of Scotland. It is performed on a bagpipe, and adapted to excite or assuage passion, and particularly to rouse a martial spirit among troops going to battle.

Reveille (pro. re-val'ya) is an awakening call at daybreak. In the army it is usually sounded on the drum.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616, was born at Stratford-upon-Avon. By many (perhaps most) critics, Shakespeare is regarded as the greatest poet the world has ever produced; one calls him, "The most illustrious of the sons of men." And yet it is a curious fact that less is really known of his life and personal characteristics than is known of almost any other famous name in history. Over one hundred years ago, a writer said, "All that is known with any degree of certainty concerning Shakespeare is—that he was born at Stratford-upon-Avon—married and had children there—went to London, where he commenced acting, and wrote poems and plays—returned to Stratford, made his will, died, and was buried." All the research of the last one hundred years has added but very little to this meager record. He was married, very young, to Anne Hathaway, a woman eight years his senior; was joint proprietor of Blackfriar's Theater in 1589, and seems to have accumulated property, and retired three or four years before his death. He was buried in Stratford Church, where a monument has been erected to his memory; he also has a monument, in "Poet's Corner" of Westminster Abbey. His family soon became extinct. From all we can learn, he seems to have been highly respected and esteemed by his cotemporaries.

His works consist chiefly of plays and sonnets. His writings show an astonishing knowledge of human nature, expressed in language wonderful for its point and beauty. His style is chaste and pure, judged by the standard of his times, although expressions may sometimes be found that would not be considered proper in a modern writer. It has been argued by some that Shakespeare did not write the works imputed to him; but this theory seems to have little to support it. This extract is from King Henry V., Act III, Scene I. ###

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there 's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'er hang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To its full height! On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war proof!
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till even, fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument;
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war.

                       And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble luster in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot;
Follow your spirit: and, upon this charge,
Cry—"God for Harry, England, and St. George!"

NOTES.—Henry V. (1388-1422) was king of England for nine years. During this reign almost continuous war raged in France, to the throne of which Henry laid claim. The battle of Agincourt took place in his reign.

Fet is the old form of fetched.

Alexanders.—Alexander the Great (356-323 B. G) was king of Macedonia, and the celebrated conqueror of Persia, India, and the greater part of the world as then known.

Then Paul stood in the midst of Mars Hill, and said, Ye men of Athens! I perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious. For as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I found an altar with this inscription, To THE UNKNOWN GOD. Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you. God that made the world and all things therein (seeing that he is Lord of heaven and earth) dwelleth not in temples made with hands; neither is worshiped with men's hands, as though he needed anything, seeing he giveth to all life, and breath, and all things; and hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth, and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation; that they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him, though he be not far from everyone of us: for in him we live, and move, and have our being; as certain also of your own poets have said, For we are also his offspring. Forasmuch then as we are the offspring of God, we ought not to think that the Godhead is like unto gold, or silver, or stone, graven by art and man's device. And the times of this ignorance God winked at; but now commandeth all men everywhere to repent: because he hath appointed a day, in the which he will judge the world in righteousness by that Man whom he hath ordained; whereof he hath given assurance unto all men, in that he hath raised him from the dead. And when they heard of the resurrection of the dead, some mocked: and others said, We will hear thee again of this matter. So Paul departed from among them. Howbeit certain men clave unto him, and believed; among the which was Dionysius the Areopagite, and a woman named Damaris, and others with them.

—Bible.

NOTES.—At the time this oration was delivered (50 A. D.), Athens still held the place she had occupied for centuries, as the center of the enlightened and refined world.

Mars Hill, or the Areopagus, was an eminence in the city made famous as the place where the court, also called Areopagus, held its sittings,

Dionysius, surnamed Areopageita, from being a member of this court, was an eminent Greek scholar, who, after his conversion to Christianity by St. Paul, was installed, by the latter, as the first bishop of Athens, He afterwards suffered martyrdom.

   Oh! show me where is He,
   The high and holy One,
   To whom thou bend'st the knee,
   And prayest, "Thy will be done!"
   I hear thy song of praise,
   And lo! no form is near:
   Thine eyes I see thee raise,
   But where doth God appear?
Oh! teach me who is God, and where his glories shine,
That I may kneel and pray, and call thy Father mine.

   "Gaze on that arch above:
   The glittering vault admire.
   Who taught those orbs to move?
   Who lit their ceaseless fire?
   Who guides the moon to run
   In silence through the skies?
   Who bids that dawning sun
   In strength and beauty rise?
There view immensity! behold! my God is there:
The sun, the moon, the stars, his majesty declare.

   "See where the mountains rise:
   Where thundering torrents foam;
   Where, veiled in towering skies,
   The eagle makes his home:
   Where savage nature dwells,
   My God is present, too:
   Through all her wildest dells
   His footsteps I pursue:
He reared those giant cliffs, supplies that dashing stream,
Provides the daily food which stills the wild bird's scream.

   "Look on that world of waves,
   Where finny nations glide;
   Within whose deep, dark caves
   The ocean monsters hide:
   His power is sovereign there,
   To raise, to quell the storm;
   The depths his bounty share,
   Where sport the scaly swarm:
Tempests and calms obey the same almighty voice,
Which rules the earth and skies, and bids far worlds rejoice."
                                           —Joseph Hutton.

Thomas S. Grimke', 1786-1834, an eminent lawyer and scholar, was born in Charleston, South Carolina, graduated at Yale in 1807, and died of cholera near Columbus, Ohio. He descended from a Huguenot family that was exiled from France by the revocation of the edict of Nantes. He gained considerable reputation as a politician, but is best known as an advocate of peace, Sunday Schools, and the Bible. He was a man of deep feeling, earnest purpose, and pure life. Some of his views were very radical and very peculiar. He proposed sweeping reforms in English orthography[1], and disapproved of the classics and of pure mathematics in any scheme of general education. The following is an extract from an address delivered at a Sunday-school celebration. ###

[Transcriber's Footnote 1: Orthography: Spelling using established usage.]

It is but a few years since we beheld the most singular and memorable pageant in the annals of time. It was a pageant more sublime and affecting than the progress of Elizabeth through England after the defeat of the Armada; than the return of Francis I. from a Spanish prison to his own beautiful France; than the daring and rapid march of the conqueror at Austerlitz from Frejus to Paris. It was a pageant, indeed, rivaled only in the elements of the grand and the pathetic, by the journey of our own Washington through the different states. Need I say that I allude to the visit of Lafayette to America?

But Lafayette returned to the land of the dead, rather than of the living. How many who had fought with him in the war of '76, had died in arms, and lay buried in the grave of the soldier or the sailor! How many who had survived the perils of battle, on the land and the ocean, had expired on the deathbed of peace, in the arms of mother, sister, daughter, wife! Those. who survived to celebrate with him the jubilee of 1825, were stricken in years, and hoary-headed; many of them infirm in health; many the victims of poverty, or misfortune, or affliction. And, how venerable that patriotic company; how sublime their gathering through all the land; how joyful their welcome, how affecting their farewell to that beloved stranger!

But the pageant has fled, and the very materials that gave it such depths of interest are rapidly perishing: and a humble, perhaps a nameless grave, shall hold the last soldier of the Revolution. And shall they ever meet again? Shall the patriots and soldiers of '76, the "Immortal Band," as history styles them, meet again in the amaranthine bowers of spotless purity, of perfect bliss, of eternal glory? Shall theirs be the Christian's heaven, the kingdom of the Redeemer? The heathen points to his fabulous Elysium as the paradise of the soldier and the sage. But the Christian bows down with tears and sighs, for he knows that not many of the patriots, and statesmen, and warriors of Christian lands are the disciples of Jesus.

But we turn from Lafayette, the favorite of the old and the new world, to the peaceful benevolence, the unambitious achievements of Robert Raikes. Let us imagine him to have been still alive, and to have visited our land, to celebrate this day with us. No national ships would have been offered to bear him, a nation's guest, in the pride of the star-spangled banner, from the bright shores of the rising, to the brighter shores of the setting sun. No cannon would have hailed him in the stern language of the battlefield, the fortunate champion of Freedom, in Europe and America. No martial music would have welcomed him in notes of rapture, as they rolled along the Atlantic, and echoed through the valley of the Mississippi. No military procession would have heralded his way through crowded streets, thickset with the banner and the plume, the glittering saber and the polished bayonet. No cities would have called forth beauty and fashion, wealth and rank, to honor him in the ballroom and theater. No states would have escorted him from boundary to boundary, nor have sent their chief magistrate to do him homage. No national liberality would have allotted to him a nobleman's domain and princely treasure. No national gratitude would have hailed him in the capitol itself, the nation's guest, because the nation's benefactor; and have consecrated a battle ship, in memory of his wounds and his gallantry.

Not such would have been the reception of Robert Raikes, in the land of the Pilgrims and of Penn, of the Catholic, the Cavalier, and the Huguenot. And who does not rejoice that it would be impossible thus to welcome this primitive Christian, the founder of Sunday schools? His heralds would be the preachers of the Gospel, and the eminent in piety, benevolence, and zeal. His procession would number in its ranks the messengers of the Cross and the disciples of the Savior, Sunday-school teachers and white-robed scholars. The temples of the Most High would be the scenes of his triumph. Homage and gratitude to him, would be anthems of praise and thanksgiving to God.

Parents would honor him as more than a brother; children would reverence him as more than a father. The faltering words of age, the firm and sober voice of manhood, the silvery notes of youth, would bless him as a Christian patron. The wise and the good would acknowledge him everywhere as a national benefactor, as a patriot even to a land of strangers. He would have come a messenger of peace to a land of peace. No images of camps, and sieges, and battles; no agonies of the dying and the wounded; no shouts of victory, or processions of triumph, would mingle with the recollections of the multitude who welcomed him. They would mourn over no common dangers, trials, and calamities; for the road of duty has been to them the path of pleasantness, the way of peace. Their memory of the past would be rich in gratitude to God, and love to man; their enjoyment of the present would be a prelude to heavenly bliss; their prospects of the future, bright and glorious as faith and hope. * * *

Such was the reception of Lafayette, the warrior; such would be that of Robert Raikes, the Howard of the Christian church. And which is the nobler benefactor, patriot, and philanthropist? Mankind may admire and extol Lafayette more than the founder of the Sunday schools; but religion, philanthropy, and enlightened common sense must ever esteem Robert Raikes the superior of Lafayette. His are the virtues, the services, the sacrifices of a more enduring and exalted order of being. His counsels and triumphs belong less to time than to eternity.

The fame of Lafayette is of this world; the glory of Robert Raikes is of the Redeemer's everlasting kingdom. Lafayette lived chiefly for his own age, and chiefly for his and our country; but Robert Raikes has lived for all ages and all countries. Perhaps the historian and biographer may never interweave his name in the tapestry of national or individual renown. But the records of every single church honor him as a patron; the records of the universal Church, on earth as in heaven, bless him as a benefactor.

The time may come when the name of Lafayette will be forgotten; or when the star of his fame, no longer glittering in the zenith, shall be seen, pale and glimmering, on the verge of the horizon. But the name of Robert Raikes shall never be forgotten; and the lambent flame of his glory is that eternal fire which rushed down from heaven to devour the sacrifice of Elijah. Let mortals then admire and imitate Lafayette more than Robert Raikes. But the just made perfect, and the ministering spirits around the throne of God, have welcomed him as a fellow-servant of the same Lord; as a fellow-laborer in the same glorious cause of man's redemption; as a coheir of the same precious promises and eternal rewards.

NOTES.—Armada, the great fleet sent out in 1588, by Philip II. of Spain, for the conquest of England, was defeated in the Channel by the English and Dutch fleets. After the victory, Queen Elizabeth made a triumphal journey through the kingdom.

Francis I. (b. 1494, d. 1547), King of France, was taken prisoner at the battle of Pavia, and confined at Madrid, Spain, nearly a year. Austerlitz.—See Note on p. 150.

Lafayette (b. 1757, d. 1834), a French marquis, who served as major general in the Revolutionary War in America, which terminated in 1783. Lafayette revisited this country in 1824, and was received throughout the land with the greatest enthusiasm.

Robert Raikes (b. 1735, d. 1811), an English printer and philanthropist, noted as the founder of Sunday schools.

Howard, John (b. 1726, d. 1790), a celebrated English philanthropist, who spent much of his life in the endeavor to reform the condition of prisons in Europe.

Wolsey. Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
        This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
        The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
        And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
        The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
        And, when he thinks, good, easy man, full surely
        His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
        And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
        Like little, wanton boys that swim on bladders,
        This many summers in a sea of glory,
        But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
        At length broke under me, and now has left me,
        Weary and old with service, to the mercy
        Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
        Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
        I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
        Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
        There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
        That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
        More pangs and fears than wars or women have:
        And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
        Never to hope again.

Enter CROMWELL, and stands amazed.

Why, how now, Cromwell!

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.
Wol. What, amazed
      At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder,
      A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
      I am fall'n indeed.
Crom. How does your grace?
Wol. Why, well;
      Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
      I know myself now; and I fed within me
      A peace above all earthly dignities,
      A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
      I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,
      These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken
      A load would sink a navy!—too much honor:
      Oh, 't is a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen,
      Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!
Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.
Wol. I hope I have: I am able now, methinks,
      Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,
      To endure more miseries, and greater far,
      Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
      What news abroad?
Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,
      Is your displeasure with the king.
Wol. God bless him!
Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen
      Lord chancellor in your place.
Wol. That's somewhat sudden:
      But he's a learned man. May he continue
      Long in his highness' favor, and do justice
      For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones,
      When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
      May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em!
      What more?
Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,
      Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news indeed!
Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,
      Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
      This day was viewed in open as his queen,
      Going to chapel; and the voice is now
      Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O Cromwell,
      The king has gone beyond me: all my glories
      In that one woman I have lost forever:
      No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,
      Or gild again the noble troops that waited
      Upon my smiles. Go! get thee from me! Cromwell;
      I am a poor, fall'n man, unworthy now
      To be thy lord and master: seek the king;
      That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him
      What and how true thou art: he will advance thee;
      Some little memory of me will stir him—
      I know his noble nature—not to let
      Thy hopeful service perish, too: good Cromwell,
      Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
      For thine own future safety.
Crom. O my lord,
      Must I, then, leave you? Must I needs forego
      So good, so noble, and so true a master?
      Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
      With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
      The king shall have my service; but my prayers
      Forever and forever shall be yours.
Wol. Cromwell, I did not 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 more must be heard of, say, 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 his wreck, to rise in;
      A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
      Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
      Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
      By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
      The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?
      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, O Cromwell,
      Thou fall'st, a blessed martyr! 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. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
      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.
Crom. Good sir, have patience.
Wol. So I have. Farewell
      The hopes of court! my hopes in Heaven do dwell.

Shakespeare.—Henry VIII, Act iii, Scene ii.

NOTES.—Wolsey, Cardinal Thomas (b. 1471, d. 1530), was for several years the favored minister or Henry VIII. of England. He acquired great wealth and power. In 1522, he was one of the candidates for the Papal Throne. In 1529, he was disgraced at the English court and arrested.

Cromwell, Thomas (b. 1490, d. 1540), was Wolsey's servant, After Wolsey's death, he became secretary to Henry VIII., and towards the close of his life was made Earl of Essex.

John P. Kennedy, 1796-1870. This gentleman, eminent in American politics and literature, was born in Baltimore, graduated at the College of Baltimore, and died in the same city. He served several years in the Legislature of his native state, and three terms in the United States House of Representatives. He was Secretary of the Navy during a part of President Fillmore's administration, and was active in sending out the famous Japan expedition, and Dr. Kane's expedition in search of Sir John Franklin. Mr. Kennedy wrote several novels, as well as political and other papers. His writings are marked by ease and freshness, The following extract is from "Swallow Barn," a series of sketches of early Virginia. ###

From the house at Swallow Barn there is to be seen, at no great distance, a clump of trees, and in the midst of these a humble building is discernible, that seems to court the shade in which it is modestly embowered. It is an old structure built of logs. Its figure is a cube, with a roof rising from all sides to a point, and surmounted by a wooden weathercock, which somewhat resembles a fish and somewhat a fowl.

This little edifice is a rustic shrine devoted to Cadmus, and is under the dominion of parson Chub. He is a plump, rosy old gentleman, rather short and thickset, with the blood vessels meandering over his face like rivulets,—a pair of prominent blue eyes, and a head of silky hair not unlike the covering of a white spaniel. He may be said to be a man of jolly dimensions, with an evident taste for good living, sometimes sloven in his attire, for his coat—which is not of the newest—is decorated with sundry spots that are scattered over it in constellations. Besides this, he wears an immense cravat, which, as it is wreathed around his short neck, forms a bowl beneath his chin, and—as Ned says—gives the parson's head the appearance of that of John the Baptist upon a charger, as it is sometimes represented in the children's picture books. His beard is grizzled with silver stubble, which the parson reaps about twice a week—if the weather be fair.

Mr. Chub is a philosopher after the order of Socrates. He was an emigrant from the Emerald Isle, where he suffered much tribulation in the disturbances, as they are mildly called, of his much-enduring country. But the old gentleman has weathered the storm without losing a jot of that broad, healthy benevolence with which Nature has enveloped his heart, and whose ensign she has hoisted in his face. The early part of his life had been easy and prosperous, until the rebellion of 1798 stimulated his republicanism into a fever, and drove the full-blooded hero headlong into a quarrel, and put him, in spite of his peaceful profession, to standing by his pike in behalf of his principles. By this unhappy boiling over of the caldron of his valor, he fell under the ban of the ministers, and tested his share of government mercy. His house was burnt over his head, his horses and hounds (for, by all accounts, he was a perfect Actaeon) were "confiscate to the state," and he was forced to fly. This brought him to America in no very compromising mood with royalty.

Here his fortunes appear to have been various, and he was tossed to and fro by the battledoor of fate, until he found a snug harbor at Swallow Barn; where, some years ago, he sat down in that quiet repose which a worried and badgered patriot is best fitted to enjoy.

He is a good scholar, and, having confined his readings entirely to the learning of the ancients, his republicanism is somewhat after the Grecian mold. He has never read any politics of later date than the time of the Emperor Constantine, not even a newspaper,—so that he may be said to have been contemporary with AEschines rather than Lord Castlereagh—until that eventful epoch of his life when his blazing rooftree awakened him from his anachronistical dream. This notable interruption, however, gave him but a feeble insight into the moderns, and he soon relapsed to Thucydides and Livy, with some such glimmerings of the American Revolution upon his remembrance as most readers have of the exploits of the first Brutus.

The old gentleman had a learned passion for folios. He had been a long time urging Meriwether to make some additions to his collections of literature, and descanted upon the value of some of the ancient authors as foundations, both moral and physical, to the library. Frank gave way to the argument, partly to gratify the parson, and partly from the proposition itself having a smack that touched his fancy. The matter was therefore committed entirely to Mr. Chub, who forthwith set out on a voyage of exploration to the north. I believe he got as far as Boston. He certainly contrived to execute his commission with a curious felicity. Some famous Elzevirs were picked up, and many other antiques that nobody but Mr. Chub would ever think of opening.

The cargo arrived at Swallow Burn in the dead of winter. During the interval between the parson's return from his expedition and the coming of the books, the reverend little schoolmaster was in a remarkably unquiet state of body, which almost prevented him from sleeping: and it is said that the sight of the long-expected treasures had the happiest effect upon him. There was ample accommodation for this new acquisition of ancient wisdom provided before its arrival, and Mr. Chub now spent a whole week in arranging the volumes on their proper shelves, having, as report affirms, altered the arrangement at least seven times during that period. Everybody wondered what the old gentleman was at, all this time; but it was discovered afterwards, that he was endeavoring to effect a distribution of the works according to a minute division of human science, which entirely failed, owing to the unlucky accident of several of his departments being without any volumes.

After this matter was settled, he regularly spent his evenings in the library. Frank Meriwether was hardly behind the parson in this fancy, and took, for a short time, to abstruse reading. They both consequently deserted the little family circle every evening after tea, and might have continued to do so all the winter but for a discovery made by Hazard.

Ned had seldom joined the two votaries of science in their philosophical retirement, and it was whispered in the family that the parson was giving Frank a quiet course of lectures in the ancient philosophy, for Meriwether was known to talk a great deal, about that time, of the old and new Academicians. But it happened upon one dreary winter night, during a tremendous snowstorm, which was banging the shutters and doors of the house so as to keep up a continual uproar, that Ned, having waited in the parlor for the philosophers until midnight, set out to invade their retreat—not doubting that he should find them deep in study. When he entered the library, both candles were burning in their sockets, with long, untrimmed wicks; the fire was reduced to its last embers, and, in an armchair on one side of the table, the parson was discovered in a sound sleep over Jeremy Taylor's "Ductor Dubitantium," whilst Frank, in another chair on the opposite side, was snoring over a folio edition of Montaigne. And upon the table stood a small stone pitcher, containing a residuum of whisky punch, now grown cold. Frank started up in great consternation upon hearing Ned's footstep beside him, and, from that time, almost entirely deserted the library. Mr. Chub, however, was not so easily drawn away from the career of his humor, and still shows his hankering after his leather-coated friends.

NOTES.—Cadmus is said to have taught the Greeks the use of the alphabet.

Socrates (b. 469, d. 399 B. C.), a noted Athenian philosopher. Rebellion.—In 1798, the Irish organized and rose against the English rule. The rebellion was suppressed.

Actaeon [Ak-te'on], a fabled Greek hunter, who was changed into a stag.

Constantine, the Great (b. 272, d, 337), the first Christian emperor of Rome. He was an able general and wise legislator, In 328, he removed his capital to Byzantium, which he named Constantinople. AEschines [es'ke-nez] (b. 389, d. 314 B. C.), an Athenian orator, the rival of Demosthenes. Castlereagh, Lord (b. 1769, d. 1822), a British statesman. He was in power, and prominent in the suppression of the Rebellion. Brutus, see p. 145.

Elzevirs [el'ze-virs], the name of a family of Dutch printers noted for the beauty of their workmanship. They lived from 1540 to 1680.

Academicians.-The Old Academy was founded by Plato, at Athens, about 380
B. C. The New, by Carneades, about two hundred years later.

Jeremy Taylor (b. 1613, d. 1667), an English bishop and writer. His Ductor
Dubitantium, or "Rule of Conscience," was one of his chief works.

Montaigne, Michel (b. 1533, d. 1592), was a celebrated French writer of peculiar characteristics. He owes his reputation entirely to his "Essais."

Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array
  To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
  And Douglas gave a guide.

The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:
"Though something I might plain," he said,
  "Of cold respect to stranger guest,
  Sent hither by your king's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I staid,
  Part we in friendship from your land,
  And, noble Earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his 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 castles are my king's alone,
  From turret to foundation stone;
  The hand of Douglas is his own;
    And never shall, in friendly grasp,
    The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire;
  And—"This to me!" he said,—
"An 't were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
  To cleave the Douglas' head!
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 thy pitch of pride,
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
  I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
And if thou said'st I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
  Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"

On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age.
Fierce he broke forth,—"And dar'st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
  The Douglas in his hall?
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms,—what, warder, ho!
  Let the portcullis fall."
Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need,—
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reached his band
He halts, and turns with clenched hand, [1]
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.

[Transcriber's Note 1: clenched, pronounced "clench-ed".]

"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"
But soon he reined his fury's pace:
"A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood;
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
"Bold he can speak, and fairly ride;
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.
                                   —Walter Scott.

[Illustration: A man in armor on a galloping horse; he is waving a clenched fist at a group behind a closed iron gate to a castle.]

NOTES:—In the poem from which this extract is taken, Marmion is represented as an embassador sent by Henry VIII., king of England, to James IV., king of Scotland, with whom he was at war. Having finished his mission to James, Marmion was intrusted to the protection and hospitality of Douglas, one of the Scottish nobles. Douglas entertained him, treated him with the respect due to his office and to the honor of his sovereign, yet he despised his private character. Marmion perceived this, and took umbrage at it, though he attempted to repress his resentment, and desired to part in peace. Under these circumstances the scene, as described in this sketch, takes place.

Tantallon is the name of the Douglas castle at Bothwell, Scotland.

Adelaide Anne Procter, 1825-1864, was the daughter of Bryan Waller Procter, known in literature as "Barry Cornwall." She is the author of several volumes of poetry, and was a contributor to "Good Words," "All the Year Round," and other London periodicals. Her works have been republished in America. ###

Do not crouch to-day, and worship
  The dead Past, whose life is fled
Hush your voice in tender reverence;
  Crowned he lies, but cold and dead:
For the Present reigns, our monarch,
  With an added weight of hours;
Honor her, for she is mighty!
  Honor her, for she is ours!

See the shadows of his heroes
  Girt around her cloudy throne;
Every day the ranks are strengthened
  By great hearts to him unknown;
Noble things the great Past promised,
  Holy dreams, both strange and new;
But the Present shall fulfill them;
  What he promised, she shall do.

She inherits all his treasures,
  She is heir to all his fame,
And the light that lightens round her
  Is the luster of his name;
She is wise with all his wisdom,
  Living on his grave she stands,
On her brow she bears his laurels,
  And his harvest in her hands.

Coward, can she reign and conquer
  If we thus her glory dim?
Let us fight for her as nobly
  As our fathers fought for him.
God, who crowns the dying ages,
  Bids her rule, and us obey,
Bids us cast our lives before her,
  Bids us serve the great To-day.