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CINCINNATif •*• ■_ ' ^ ^ .-. 
HUBBARD AND EDMANdJET yi; ^,y.,y.r,^^,^ 

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^ 1833. , ' 



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CINCINNATI^* *. __ • - ? r\ 
HUBBARD AND EDMAND^r y^^^ o^v.y.5^j»,^ 

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^.-1833. ,• 




R 1911 L 

tend, aecordmg to Act of CongnssS; m the year 1831; by Ebenkzek 
Bailbt, in the Qeik's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 


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• •• •• • •• 



Ilu mtmet ofAmeriean tnitert art in tmall eapUalt, 

Lenon. Fifs. 

1. On Elocution and Reading N. A. Rsyibw. 9 

2. Education of Females Stort. 11 

6. Contrasted Soliloquies Jatu Taylar, 17 

10. Character of a wise and amiable Woman Frsemav. 96 

12. Scenery at the Notch of the White Mountains .... Dwioht. 29 

13. " The Fashion of this World passeth away" Fixrpoitt. 33 

14. The same, concluded Ibid. 37 

19. Instability of Character Maan, 45 

20. The same, concluded Ihid, 47 

21. Stability of Character Rid. 49 

23. The Village Grave-Tard Osxbvwood. 53 

25. The Wife Inyiiro. 60 

26. The same, concluded Ibid. 64 

29. The Mountain of Miseries Addisfm. 73 

30. The same, concluded ''^^tf ^ 

31. Advantages of a Taste for the Beauties of Nature • . PerdomT 77 

35. Groyemment of the Temper Mrs, Chapone, 83 

36. Peeybhness Ibid. 86 

S7. Obstinacy Ibid, 88 

41. ArtofPleasing Chesteifidd, 94 

42. Politeness Miss TaUbot, 96 

43. Confessions of a bashfiil Man Anonymous, 97 

44. Intemperate Love of Praise Blair, 101 

47. Descnption of the Custom of Whitewashing .... HoPKiNsoif. 109 

48. On considering both Sides of a Question Beaumont, 113 

51. Influence of Christianity in elevuting the Character of 

Females Carter. 118 

52. Letter on Watering-places .' Mrs, BarbavM. 120 

53. The same, concluded Rid, 123 

55. Character and Decay of the North American Indians. . . Story. 129 

69. Portrait of a worldly-minded Woman Frexmav. 137 

60. Portrait of a selfish Woman Ibid, 140 

62. Extracts from << A Father's Legacy*' Grsgary, 146 

63. The same, concluded •••%.••••• ibid. 148 

65. A Family Scene .T. MasFoMsr, 153 

G&, The same, concluded Ibid, 156 

GI, Local Associations Orii* VS^-^ 

• »*. -■. 
N' /..-.■ 


Lesson. Pags 

70. Influence of the Female Character Thacher. 164 

72. On the relative Value of Good Sense and Beauty in the 

Female Sex Literary Gazette. 171 

78. A Solid and a Superficial Education contrasted . . . Ruhnken. 180 

80. On Discretion Addison. 188 

81. Advanta^foe of a weQ-oultiTated Mind Bigland. 191 

85. Candor, m estimating^the Attainments of others . Freeman. 198 

86. The Profession of a Woman Miss Beecher. 201 

90. On Respect for Ancestors Quinct. 210 

91. Character of the Puritans • Stort. 210 

92. The Coming of the Pilgrims • . . ^ Sullivan. 214 

93. Lady Arabella Johnson Stort. 216 

98. Effects of the laititatioiis and Example of the first 

Settlers of New England Quinct. 226 

99. New England Mrs. Child. 228 

100. Conclusion of a Discourse, in Commemoration of the 

first Settlement of Salem, Mass Stort. 229 

105. Childhood • JV. Jlf . Magazine. 239 

106. The same, concluded Ibid. 242 

^ 107. Dialogue : Mr. and Mrs. Bolingbroke Miss Ed^ewortk. 245 

108. Th^ Burning of Moscow • > Ldbavme. 247 

109. The same, concluded Ibid. 250 

HO. View of Mont Blanc at Sunset Griscom. 253 

117. C<mipari8on of Watches Miss Edgeworth. 260 

118. Female Economy Haniuih More. 262 

119. Maternal Influence Mrs. Sigournet. 263 

ISO. Primitive Tea-Parties in New York Irving. 265 

123. Baneful Effects of Intemperance Spragux. 270 

125. The Uncalled Avenger Ixmdon Museum. 275 

128. Extract &om '' Suggestions on Education" • Miss Beecher. 282 

129. Female Accomplisnments Hannah Mare. 284 

132. Conclusion of a Discourse in Commemoration of the 

Jjt^ Lives of Adams and Jefferson •••• Webster. 991 

139L Education a Life Business Francis. 393 

137. Lilias Grieve '. WUson. 299 

138. The sa^e, concluded Ibid. 303 

139. Hopes and Fears of Parents Francis. 306 

142. Western Emigration .^ Everett. 315 

143. The God of Xfniversal Nature Chalmers. 316 

146. Dignity and Excellence of the Poetical Art .... CHAHHiNe. S2i 

147. Popular Institutions favorable to Intellectual Improve- 

ment Everett. 327 

153. The moral Principles of the BiUe of universal Applica- 

tioir Watland. 336 

158. An Incident in the early History of America Scott. 2M5 

163. Fashionable Follies Flint's Western Reviet. . j 

169. Grandeur of Astronomical Science N. A. Review. 373 

170. Escape from a Panther Cooper. 376 

174. Indolence and Intellectual Dissipation Wirt. 389 

176. The Tigw'f Cave Edinburgh Literary Journal. 393 

177. Tbe^ame, conclu^ Ibid. 396 



LeswNi. ftft 

3. Breathings of Spring Mrs, H§maiu. 12 

4. The Winged Wonhippenki* Spraoux. 14 

5. Select Paragraphs 16 

inbow .. 

6. Christian Hymn of Triumph MUman. 32 

7. TotheRainbow • CampbeU. 90 

• shltnan. 

9. Consolations of Religion to the Poor Pxkciyal. 34 

11. Scene of Filial Affection Skakgpmre. SKI 

15. Passing Away Min Jewmmry, 40 

16. The Death of the Flowers Bktaitt. 41 

17. The Autumn Evening Pbabodt. 42 

. 18. Autumn Woods BaTAirr. 43 

,22. The First Wanderer «« \ . JiBtt Jwtbwry, 52 

24. Consumption.^.. Psrciyal. 58 

27. Elysiunw Mn, Hemans, 67 

28. Better Moments Willis. 70 

32. The Common Lot Moniganury, 79 « 

33. ^The Deserted Wife V Psbcital. 80 

34. The Last MaiT'. Campbell, 81 V 

38. Eyening Prayer at a Girl's School Mrs, Hemam, 90 

39. Seasons of Prayer Ware. 91 

40. Solitude ^ Byron, 93 

45. God's First Temples Brtaht. 104 

46. Morning Hymn Milton. 107 

49 The Flifi^t of Xerxes .*-. MitsJewOury. 115 

50. PairingTime anticipated Cowper. 116 

54 The Tear of Penitence Moore. 125 

56. Melancholy Fate of the Indians Spraoux. 132 

57. Concluding Lines of the "Fsdlof the Indian" ..McLsllak. 135 

58. Death-Song^ofOutalissi Camphell, 136 

61. Fancy and Philosophy contrasted Beattie. 142 

64. To a liOg of Wood upon the Fire ^, Kew Monthly Magazine, 151 

68. To Seneca Lake Pxrciyal. 162 

69. Lake Superior Goodrich. 163 

71. A Scene in a priyate Mad-House Lewis, 169 

73. Maternal Affection Mrs. Hemans, 173 

74. Napoleon at Rest Pixrpont. 174 * 

75. The Warrior Anonymous, 175 

76. War Porteus. 177 

77. The Battle of Blenheim Soutkey. 178 

79. Conyersationrv-.- Cowper, 186 

82. The Vulture of the Alps Anonymous, 194 

83. Song of the Stars Brtant. 196 

84. Domestic Love Croly. 197 

87. Curiosity Spraoux. 203 

88. The Love of Country and of Home Montgomery. 206 

89. Colusibus in Chains Miss Jewsbury, 207 

94. The Pilgrim Fathers ^ Sprague. 218 

95. Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers MrsVuemans. 221 

96. Hymn Pierpont. 222 

97. The Western World Bryant. 223 

101. The Death of Moses •.., -^.. TayUtr. 233 

102. Sonnet on the Entrance of the American Vfo^fdA . . « , . OoU. *%& 

103. Marco Bo2zari* •IUixil^iil, 'SGJt 


Lenoo. Pag« 

104. Reflections of a Belle N. E. Wiiklt Rstiew. ^8 

111. To the Stars Croly. 254 

112. Sabbath Morning Orahame. 255 

113. The Evening Clond WOson, 257 

114. Twilight Halleck. 257 

115. Perpetual Adoration • Moore. 259 

116. Music of Nature • Pierpont. 260 

121. The Recluse ». BeatUe. 267 

122. Farewell to the Dead Mrs, Hemans, 269 

124. Nighty-4L Field of Battle SheUey. 273 

126« Hjmn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny , . Coleridge. 278 

127. The Soldier's Widow Willis. 281 

180. To the Evening Wind Bryaft. 286 

131. To tha Ursa Major Ware. 287 

134. Parrhasius Willis. 295 

135. The Soul's Defiance Anonymous. 298 

136. Sonnet to the South Wind ..Bryant. 299 

140. Scene from Hadad Hillhouse. 308 

141. Immortality Dana. 313 

144. Bomo Byron. 319 

145. Dialogue : Rienzi and Angelo Miss Miiford. 320 

148. After a Tempests Bryant. 329 

149. TheRejeotea BayUy. 330 

150. Rhine Song of the German Soldiers Jtfr^. Remans. 332 

151. The Isles of Greece Byron. 333 

152. Liberty to Athens Percital. 335 

154. The Dea4 Mother: a Dialogue Anonymous. 340 

155. Burial of the Toung Mrs. Sioourney. 342 

156. On the Loss of Professor Fisher in the Albion .. Brain ard. 344 

157. The Sunday School Mrs. Sigourney. 344 

159. Trust in God Wordsioorth. 349 

160. The Patriot's Wish Sprague. 351 

161. Summer Noon • Wilcox. 353 

162. Summer Wind Bryant. 354 

164. I^KKshiel's Warning M CarripheU. 360 

165. Joan of Arc in B&ims Mrs. Hemans. 363 

166. Raphael's Account of the Creation Milton. 365 

167. Elegy written in a Country Church-Tard Gray. 367 

168. Dialogue: G osier and Tell Knowles. 371 

171. Order of Nature Pope. 381 

172. A Sister pleading for the Life of a Brother-. .... Shakspeare. 383 

173. The Passions ColUns. 386 

175. Darkness Byron. 391 

178. The Sword Miss LUndon. 399 

179. Address to the Deity Mrs. Barhmdd. 400 

160. God Bowring. 402 

161. Scene from " Ther Vespers of Palermo" Mrs. Hemans, 405 

182. Address to Light MiUon. 4Snf 


Addison, Joseph 29, 90, 80. 

Alison, A 19,30,31. 

Anonymous . .43, 75, 83, 135, 154. 

Bazbanld, Mrs. AnnaL. 53,53,179. 
Baylej, Thomas Hajnes . . . 149. 

Beattie, James .5, 61, 121. 

Beaumont 48. 

Beecher, Miss Catherine £. . .86, 


Bigland 81. 

Blair, Hu^ 44. 

Bowring, John 180. 

Brainard, Joh^ G. C 156. 

Bryant, William Cullen . . 16, 18, 

45, 83, 97, 130, 136, 148, 163. 
Byron, George Gordon . .40, 144, 

Xol, X7u. 

Camphell, Thomas . .7, 34, 58, 164. 

Carter, James G 51. 

Chalmers, Thomas 143. 

Channing, William Ellery . . 146. 
Chapone, Mrs. Hester . .^ 36, 37. 

Chesterfield 41. 

ChUd,Mrs 99. 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor . . .136. 

Collins, William 173. 

Cooper 170. 

Cowper, William 50, 79. 

Croly, George 84, 111. 

Dana, Richard H 141. 

Dwight, Timothy 12. 

Ed^eworth, Miss Maria. .107, 117. 
Edinburgh Literary Journal . . 176, 

Everett, Edward 142, 147. 



Ferrier, Miss 65, 66. 

Flint, Timothy ,.,,: 163. 

Francis, Convers • T. . . • 133^ 199. 
Freeman, James . • 10, 59, 60, 85. 

Gait .AUBL^ 

Gay, John «'••••&• 

Goodrich, Samuel G. • • ^ • • • • .69. 

Grahame, James • • • • .113. 

Gray, Thomas 107. 

Greenwood, F. W. P 83. • 

Gregory, John 63, 63. 

Grisoom, John 110. 

Halleck, Fitz Greene . . .103, 114. 
Hemans, Mrs. Felicia . .3, 37, 38, 
73, 95, 122, 150, 165, 181. 

Hillhouse, James A 140. 

Hopkinson, Francis 47, 

Irving, Washington . .25, 36, 130. 

Jewsbury, Miss Maria Jane . . 15, 
22, 49, 89. 

Enowles, James Sheridan . . .168. 

Labaume 108, 109^ii> 

Landon, Miss L. E 178. 

Lewis, M. G 71. 

Literary Gazette 73. 

London Museum 135 

McLellan, Isaac, Jr 57. 

Milman, Henry Hart • « .B . 

Milton, )ohik 41^A^^\^^ 


Mitford, Miss Mary Russell . . 145. 

Montgomery, James 32, 88. 

Moore, Thomas 54, 115. 

More,Hanmih 118,129. 

Mew England Reyiew 104. 

Nbw Monthly Magazine . .64, 105, 

North American Reyiew • .1, 169. 

Otis, Harrison Gray 67. 

Peabody, W. B. 17. 

PerciviQ, J. 6. . . 9, 24, 33, 68, 152. 

Percival, Thomas 31. 

Fierpont, John. .13,14,74,96,116. 

Pbpe, Alexander 171. 

Porteus •...• 76. 

Qninoy, Josiah 90, 98. 

Roffers, Samuel 5. 

Ruhnken • 78. 

Scott, Sir Walter ^....158. 


Shakspeare, William ... .11, 172. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe 124. 

Sigoumey, Mrs. Lydia H. . . 119, 

155, 157. 

Southey , Robert 77. 

Spragtte, Charles . • 4, 56, 87, 94. 

1^,160. ' » ' » 

Story, Joseph . . 2, 55, 91, 93, 100. 
SuUiyan, William 92. 

Talbot, Miss 42. 

Taylor, Miss Jane 6. 

Taylor, John S 101. 

Thacher, S. C 70. 

Thomson, James 5. 

Ware, Henry, J 39,131. 

Wayland, Francis, Jr 153. 

Webster, Daniel 132. 

Wilcox, Carlos 161. 

Willis, Nathaniel P. . .28, 127, 134. 

Wilson, John 113, 137, 138. 

Wirt,Wimam 174. 

Wordsworth, William 159. 

Young, Edward •••••6. 



& 'f 

>,''■■ » 

< ' ■ 




Ott Elocution and Reading, — N A Rbyobw 

The business of training our youth in elocution must be 
commenced in childhood. The first school is the nursery 
There, at least, may be formed a distinct articulaticm, if IM 
is the first requisite for good speaking. How rarely m;A» 
fi>und in perfection among our orators I Words, says one, 
referring to articulation, should " be delivered out firom the 
lips, as beautiful coins, newly issued fi'onl the mint ; dee^rfy 
and accurately impressed, perfectly filched, 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, in any wise, to 
answer to this beautifiil description ! And the common faults 
in articulation, it should be remembered, take their rise firom 
the very nursery. But let us refer to other particulars. 

Grace in eloquence— in the pulpit, at the bar— cannot be 
separated firom grace in the ordinary manners, in private life, 
in the social circle, in the family. It cannot well be superin- 
duced upon all the other acquisitions of youth, any more 
than that nameless, but invaluable quality, called good 
breeding. You may, therefore, begin the work of forming 
the orator with your child ; not merely by teaching him to 
declaim, but, what is of much more consequence, by observ- 
ing 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, *' Just return, and enter this room 
again," or, '' Present me that book in a different maaaes " ot^ 


" Put yourself into 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 ;" and it is 
by suffering them to be perrerted, that we lay the foundation 
for invincible awkwardness in later life. 

We go, next, to the schools for children. It ought to be a 
leading object, in these schools, to teach the art of reading. 
It ought to occupy three-fold 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. 

We had rather have a child, even of the other sex, return to 
(A from school a flrst-rate reader, than a flrst-rate performer 
on the piano-forte. We should feel that we had a far better 
pledge for the intelligence and talent of our child. 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 speak- 
ers. We speak of perfection in this art ; and it is something, 
we must say in defence 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 redding voice ; let us 
see years devoted to this accomplishment, and then we should 
be prepared to stand the comparison. 

It is, indeed, a most intellectual accomplishment. So is 
music, too, in its perfection. We do . by no means under- 
value this noble and most delightful art ; to which Socrates 
applied himself, even in his old age. But one recommenda- 
tion of the art of reading is, that it requires a constant 
exercise of mind. It demands continual and close reflec- 
tion and thought, and the finest discrimination of thought. 
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 cannot be a perfect reader without 



Education of Females, — Stort. 

If Christianity may be s^ to have given a permanent 
elevation to woman, as an intellectual and moral being, it is 
as tnie that the present age, above all others, has given play 
to her genius, and taught us to reverence its influence. It 
was the fashion of other times, to treat the literary acquire- 
ments of the sex as starched pedantry, or vain pretension ; 
to stigmatize them as inconsistent with those domestic affec- 
tions and virtues, which constitute the charm of society. We 
had abundant homilies read upon their amiable weaJ^nesses 
and sentimental delicacy, upon their timid gentleness and 
submissive dependence ; as if to taste the fruit of knowledge 
were a deadly sin, and ignorance were the sole guardian of 
kmocence. Their whole lives were '' sicklied o'er with the 
pale cast of thought ;" and concealment of intellectual power 
was often resorted to, to escape the dangerous imputation of 
masculine strength. 

/ In the higher walks of life, the satirbt was not without 
color for the suggestion, that it was 

" A youth of foUy, an old age of cards 3^' 

and that, dsewhere, " most women had no character at all,"* . 
beyond that of purity and devotion to their families. Ad- 
mirable as are these qualities, it seemed an abuse of the gifts 
of Providence, to deny to mothers the power of instructing 
their children, to wives the privilege of sharing the intellec- 
tual pursuits of their husbands, to sisters and daughters the 
delight of ministering knowledge in the fireside circle, to 
youth and beauty the charm of refined sense, to age and 
infirmity the consolation of studies, which elevate the soul 
^d gladden the listless hours of despondency 

These things have, in a great measure, passed away The 
prejudices, which dishonored the sex, have yielded to the 
influence of truth. By slow but sure advances, education 
has extended itself through all ranks pf female society 
There is no longer any dread lest the Qulture ot ^civ&ikCA 


should foster that masculine boldness or restless indepea- 
dence, which alarms by its sallies, or wounds by its 
inconsistencies. We hare seen that here, as every where 
else, knowledge is favorable to human virtue and human 
happiness; that the refinement of literature adds lustre to 
the devotion of piety ; that tri^ learning, like true taste, is 
modest and unostentatious ; thfi grace of manners receives a 
higher polish from the discipline of the schools ; that eulti* 
vated genius sheds a cheering light over domestic dutie», and 
its very sparkles, like those of the diamond, attest at once it9 
power and its purity. 

There is not a rank of female society, however high, 
which does not now pay homage to literature, or that would 
not blush even at the suspicion of that ignorance, which, a 
half century ago, was neither uncommon nor discreditable. 
There b not a parent, whose pri^e may not glow at the 
thought^ that his daughter's happiness is, in a great measure, 
within her own command, whether she keeps the cool, 
sequestered vale of life, or visits the busy walks of fashion. 

A new path is thus opened for female exertion, to alleviate 
the pressure of misfortune, without any supposed sacri&ce of 
dignity or modesty. Man no longer aspires to an exclusive 
dominion in authorship. He has rivals or allies in almost 
every department of knowledge ; and they are to be found 
among those, whose elegance of manners and blamelessness 
of life command his respect, as much as their taleats excite 
his admiration. 


Breathings of Spring. — ^Mrs. Hemans. 

What wak'st thou, Spring? — Sweet voices in the woods. 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute ; 

Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes. 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flutCi 

Whose tone seems breathing mournfiilness or glee. 
Even as our hearts may be. 


And the leaves greet thee» Spring ! — the joyous lecves^ 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade. 

Where each young spray a rosy flush receives. 
When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade. 

And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters — they, too, hear thy call. 
Spring, the awakener I thou hast burst their sleep 1 

Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep, 

Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers. 

Then from the dust hast set that glory free. 
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours. 

And penciling the wood-anemone : 
Silent they seem ; yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring — 
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs T 

Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing, 
Restorer of forgotten harmonies I 

Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art : 
What wak'st thou in the heart ? 


Too much, oh I there too much ! — ^we know not well 
Wherefore it should be thus, yet, roused by thee. 

What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep ceU, 
Gash for the faces we no more may see ! 

How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that never more, 

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, 
Past words of welcome to our household door, v 

And vanished smiles^- and sounds of parted feet^* 
Spring ! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees. 
Why, why reviv'st thou these? 


Vain longings for the dead I — ^why come they back 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms f 

Oh I is it not, that from thine earthly track 
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs t 

Yes, gentle Spring ; no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there ! 


The Winged Worshippers, — C. Sprague. 
[Addreswd to two Swallowi, that flew into Church during Divine Serrice ] 

QLy, guiltless pair. 
What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? 

Ye have no need of prayer. 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 

Why perch ye here. 
Where mortals to their Maker bend ? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend ? 

Ye never knew ^il. 

The crimes for which we come to weep : 

Penance is not for you, 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 

To you 'tis given 
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing, 
Faf , fj|r above, o'er lakes and lands. 

And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 


Of, if ye stay 
To note the consecrated hour. 

Teach me the airy way, 
And let me try your envi^ power. 

Above the crowd. 
On upward wings could I l^ut fly, 

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

'Twere heaven indeed, 
Through fieJI/ds of trackless light to soar. 

On nacre's charms to feed^ 
And nature's own great Qod adore. 



Memory. — ^Rogers. 

Hail, Memory, hail ! In thy exhaustless mine, 
From age to age, unnumbered treasures shine I 
Thought, and her shado\7y brood, thy call obey. 
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway I 
Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone, — 
The only pleasures we can call our own. 
Lighter than air, Hbpe's summer-visions die 
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky ; 
If but a beam of sober Reason play, ^ 

Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away. 
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, 
Snatch the rich^ relics of a well-spent hour ? 
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight. 
Pour round her path a stream of living light. 
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 
Where Virtue triumphs, and'her sons are bleaaed. 


True Dignity, — Beattie. 


Vain man, is gr^deur given to gay attire ? 

Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid ; — 
To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire ? 

It is thy weakness that requires their aid ; — 

To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid ? 
They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm ; — 

To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade ? 
Behold the victor vanquished by the worm ! 
Behold what deeds of wo the locusts can perform I 

True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind 
Virtue has raised above the things below ; 

Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resigned. 

Shrinks not, though fortune aim her deadliest blow. 

Beauty, — Gay. 

What is the blooming tincture of the skin 
To peace of mind and harmony within ? 
What the bright sparkling of the finest eye 
To the soft soothing of a calm reply ? 
Can comeliness of form, or shape, or air. 
With comeliness of words or deeds compare ? 
No . — ^those at first the unwary heart may ^ain ; 
But these, these only, can the heart retaiy. 

Indolence, — Thoms^on. 

Their only labor was to kill the ^me ; 

And labor dire it is, and weary wo. 
• They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme ; 
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go. 
Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow : 
This soon too rude an exercise they find ; 

Straight on their couch their limbs again they throw, 
Where, hours on hours, they, sighing, lie reclined. 
And court the vapory god, sofl-breathing in the wind. 


Chang€4 — ^FouNCk 

Look nature through ; 'tis revolution all : 
All change ; no death. Day follows night, and night 
The dying day ; stars rise, and set, and rise ; 
Earth takes the example. See, the Summer, gay 
With her green chaplet and ambrosial flowers. 
Droops into pallid Autumn : Winter, gray. 
Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm. 
Blows Autumn, and his golden fruits, away ; — ^ 
Then melts into the Spring. Soft Spring, with breath 
Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, 
Recalls the first. Ail, to re-flourish, fades ; 
As in a wheel, all sinks to re-ascend — 
Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. 

Contrasted SoUhquies. — Janb Taylor. 

** Alas !" exclaimed a silver-headed sage, " how narrow 
u the utmost extent of human science! — ^how ciroum* 
scribed the sphere of intellectual exertion! I have spent 
nty life in acquiring knowledge ; but how little do I know I 
The farther I attempt to penetrate the secrets of nature, the 
more I am bewildered and benighted. Beyond a certain 
Ihnit, all is but confusion or conjecture ; so that the advan- 
tage of the learned over the ignorant, consists greatly in 
h.\ing ascertained how little is to be known. 

" It is true that I can measure the sun, and compute the 
distances of the planets ; I can calculate their periodical 
movements, and even ascertain the laws by which they per- 
form their sublime revolutions; but with regard to their 
construction, and the beings which inhabit them, what do I 
hflfw more than the clown ? 

" Delighting to examine the economy of nature in our own 
world, I have analyzed the elements ; and have gi|mi.uaxii«a 
2 • m. ^ 

1% ybuKo tADiEa* class book. 

to their component parts. An(tyet, should I not he as much 
at a loss to explain the hurning of fire, or to account for the 
liquid quality of water, as the vulgar, who use and enjoy 
them "WilSiout thought or examination ? 

'' I remark that all 'bodies, unsupported, fall to the groohd ; 
and I am taught to account for this by the law of gravital^n. 
But what have I gained here more than a term.? Does it 
convey to my mind any idea of the nature of that mysteribus 
and invisible chain, which draws all things to a common 
centre ? I observe the effect, I give a name to the cause ; 
but cis^ 1 explain or comprehend it ? 

*' Pursuing the track of the naturalist, I have learned to 
distinguish the animal^ vegetdbh and mineral kingdoms ; and 
to divide these into their distinct tribes and families: but 
can I tell, after all this toil, whence a single blade of grass 
derives its vitality? Could the most minute researches 
enable me to discover the exquisite pencil, that paints and 
fi:ing(9s the flower of the field ? Have I ever detected the 
secret, that gives their brilliant dye to the ruby and the em- 
erald, or the art that enamels the delicate shell ? 

" I observe the sagacity of animals ; I call it instinct, and 
^i^culate upon its various degrees of approximation to the 
reason of man. But, after all, I know as little of the cogi- 
tations of the brute, as he does of mine. When I see a flight 
of hirds overhead, performing their evolutions, or steering 
their course to some distant settlement, their signat$ and 
cries are as unintelligible to me, as are the learned languages 
to the unlettered rustic : I understand as little of their policy 
and laws, as they do of Blackstone's Commentaries. 

''But, leaving the material creation, my thoughts have 
often ascended to loftier subjects, and indulged in mettxphys' 
ical speculation. And here, while I easily perceive in myselt 
the two distinct qualities of matter and mind, I am baiffied 
in every attempt to comprehend their mutual dependence 
and mysterious connexion. When my hand moves in obedi- 
ence to my will, have I the most distant conception of the 
manner in which the volition is either communicated or 
understood ? Thus, in the exercise of one of the most sim- 
ple and ordinary actions, I am perplexed and confounded, if 
I attemvto account for it. 


" Agaiti, how many years of ttiy life were devoted to the 
acquisition of those languages, by the means of which I 
might explore the records of remote ages, and become fiunil- 
iar with the learning and literature of other times! And 
what have I gathered from these, but the mortifying fiict, that 
man has ever been struggling with his own impotence, and 
vainly endeavoring to overleap the bounds which limit his 
anxious inquiries ? 

" Alas ! then, what have I gained by my laborious re- 
searches, but an humbling conviction of my weakness and 
ignorance ? How little has man, -at his best estate, of which 
to boast ! What folly in him to glory in his contracted pow- 
ers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions I" 

"Well," exclaimed a young lady, just returned from 
schbol, *' my education is at last finished I — ^indeed, it would 
be strange, if, after five years' hard application, any thing 
were left incomplete. Happily, that is all over now ; and I 
have nothing to do, but to exercise my various accomplish- 

'' Let me see ! — As to French, I am mistress of that, and 
speak it, if possible, with more fluency than English. ItaUan 
I can read with ease, and pronounce very well ; as well, at 
least, as any of my nriends ; and that is all one need wish for 
in Italian. Music I have learned till I am perfectly sick of 
it. But, now that we have a grand piano, it will be delight- 
ful to play when we have company ; I must still continue to 
practise a little ; — the only thing, I think, that I need now 
improve myself in. And then there are my Italian songs ! 
which every body allows I sing with taste ; and as it is what 
so few people can pretend to, I am particularly glad that 
I can. 

" My drawings are universally admired, — especially the 
shells and flowers, which are beautiful, certainly : besides 
this, I have a decided taste in all kinds of fancy ornaments. 
And then my dancing and waltzing, -^in which our master 
himself owned that he could take me no farther ; — just the 
figure for it, certainly ; it would be unpardonable if I did 
not excel. 


" As to common things, geography, and history, znd poetry, 
and philosophy, — ^thank my stars, I have got througli them 
all ! so that I may consider myself not only perfectly accom- 
plished, but also thoroughly well informed.— Well, to be sure^ 
how much I have fagged through ! — ^the only wonder is, that 
one head can contain it all i" 

To ihe Rainhow, — Campbell. 

Triumphal arch, that filFst the sky 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud philosophy 
To teach me what thou art» 

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given. 
For happy spirits to alight 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all, that optics teach, unfold 

Thy form to please me so. 
As when I dreamed of gems and gold. 

Hid in thy radiant bow ? 

When Science from Creation's fkce 
Enchantment's veil withdraws. 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws ! 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams. 
But wo^ds of the Most High, 

Have told why first thy robe of beams 
Waa w^T^n in the sky. 


When, o'er the green, ondeluged earth. 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shme. 

How came the world's gray fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred signt 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 

O'er mountains yet untrod, 
Each mother held aloft her child 

To bless the bow of God* 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, 
The first-made anthem rang, 

On earth, delivered fi'om the deqp, 
And the first poet sang. 

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 
Unraptured greet thy beam : 

Theme of primeval prophecy. 
Be still the poet's theme ! 

The earth to thee her incense yields^ 
The lark thy welcome sings. 

When, glittering in the fireshened fields, 
The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle, cast 
O'er mountain, tower and town. 

Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fi-esh in yon horizon dark. 
As young, thy beauties seem. 

As when the eagle from the ark. 
First sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page. 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span. 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age, VV 
That first spoke peace to man. 

■ ■ ■ •• - . 

Sa YOUNG LADIES' C^ASS BOOK. , V v«.v**'t • 

LESSON VIII. ^^ :": 

• .••-"■ 
Christian Hymn of Triun^h ;-^Jrom '' J%e Mariyr of A!ih 

Sing to the Lord ! let harp, and lute, and voice. 
Up to the expanding gates of heaven rejoice, 

While the bright martyrs to their rest are borne ! ' • 
Sing to the Lord ! their blood-stained course is run. 
And every head its diadem hath won, , . . 

Rich as the purple of the summer mom — • 

Sing the triumphant champions of their God, 
While burn their mounting feet along -their sky-ward road* 


Sing to tEe Lord I for her, in beauty's prime, 
S&atched from this wintry earth's ungenial clime. 

In the eternal spring of paradise to bloom ; 
For her the wodd displayed its brightest treasure. 
And the airs panted with the songs of pleasure. 

Before earth's throne she chose the lowly tomb, 
The vale of tears with willing footsteps trod, 
Bearing her cross with thee, incarnate Son of God 

Sing to the Lord I it is not shed in vain, 

The blood of mart3rrs ! from its freshening rain 

High springs the church, like some fount-shadowing palfn^ 

* The nations croivjd beneath its branching shade, ■'"' \\ 

- Of its green leaves aive kingly diadems made, * t '* # 

And, wrapt within its deep, embosoming calm,- ^ i '• * 

Earth shrinks to slumber like the breezeless deep, . . .- 

And war's tempestuous vultures fold their wings and 'sleep 

' . ■-.••. 

•. . 
Sing to the Lord I no more the angels fly — 

Far in the bosom of the stainless sky — 

The sound of fierce, liceptious sacrifice. 
From shrin'd alcove and stately pedestal, 
The marble gods in cumbrous ruin fall ; . '■ 

Headless, in dust, the aw^ of nations lies ; 
/. Jove's thunder crumbles in his mouldering hand. 
And mute as sepulchres the hymnless temple jitand. ^ 




Sing to the Lord 1 from damp, prophetic cave 
No more the loose-haired Sybils burst 'and rave; 

Nor watch the augurs pale the wandering bird * 
No more on hill or in the murky wood. 
Mid frantic shout and dissonant music rude. 

In human tones are wailing victims heard; 
Nor fathers, by the reeking altar stone, 
Cowl their dark heads to escape their children's dying groan. 

Sing to the Lord ! no more the dead are laid 
In cold despair beneath the cypress shade. 

To sleep the eternal sleep, that knows no mom : 
There, eager still to burst death's brazen bands. 
The angel of the resurrection stands ; ' 

While, on its own immortal pinions borne, 
Fdlowing the breaker of the imprisoning tomb. 
Forth springs the exulting soul, and shakes away its gloom. 

Sing to the Lord ! the desert rocks break out, 

And the thronged cities in one gladdening shout,— 
The farthest shores by pilgrim step exjdored ; 

Spread all your wings, ye winds, and waft around. 

Even to the starry cope's pale waning bound, 
f Earth's universal homage to the Lord ; 
' Lift up thine head, imperial capitol. 

Proud on thy height to see the bannered cross unroU. 

Sing to the Lord I when time itself shall cease, 
And final Ruin's desolating peace 

Enwrap this wide and restless world of man ; 
When the Judge rides upon the enthroning wind. 
And o'er all generations of mankind . 

Eternal Vengeance waves itd winnowing fan ; 
To vast infinity's remotest space, 
While ages run their everlasting race, 
ShaU all the beatific hosts prolong. 
Wide as the glory of the Lamb, the Lamb's triumphant 0Oiig. 


1 > 

Consolations of Religion to the Poor, — J. G. Perciyal. 

There is a mourner, and her heart is broken ; 

She is a widow ; she is old and poor ; 
Her only hope is in that sacred token 

Of peaceful happiness when life is' o'er ; 

She asks mx wealth nor pleasure, begs no more 
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight 

Of her Redeemer.. Sceptics,) would you pour 
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight 
Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms, and charms her being's night? 

She lives in her affections ; for the grave 
H^ closed upon her husband, children ; all 

Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save 
Her treasured jewels : though her views are small^ 
Though she has never mounted high, to fall, 

And writhe in her debasement, — ^yet the spring 
Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall 

Her unperverted palate, but will bring 
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. 

Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave 

Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er 
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave. 

The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore 

Of matted grass and flowers, — so softly pour 
The breathings of her bosom, when she prays. 

Low-bowed, before her Maker : then no more 
She muses on the griefs of former days ; 
Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays. 

And faith can see a new world, and the eyes 
Of saints look pity on her : Death will come — 

A few short moments over, and the prize 
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb 


Becomes her fondest pillow; all Us gloom 
Is scattered. What a meeting there will be 

To her and all she loved here ! and the bloom 
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee : 
Theirs is the health which lasts through all etemi^. 


Character of a wise and amiable Woman. — Frsekan: 

The woman, whom I would exhibit to your view, possesses, 
a sound understanding. She is virtuous, not from impulse, 
instinct, and a childish simplicity ; for she knows that evil 
exists, as well as good ; but she abhors the former, and reso- 
lutely chooses the latter. As she has carefully weighed the. 
nature and consequences of her actions, her moral principles 
are fixed ; and she has deliberately formed a plan of life, to 
which she conscientiously adheres. Her character is her 
own ; her knowledge and virtues are -original, and are not 
the faint copies of another character. Convinced that ths 
duty of every human being, consists in performing well the 
part, which is assigned by divine Providence, she directs her 
principal attention to this object ; and, whether as a wife, a 
mother, or the head of a family, she is always diligent and 

She is exempt from affectation, the folly of little minds. 
Far from her heart is the desire of acquiring a reputation, 
or of rendering herself interesting, by imbecilities and im- 
perfections. Thus she is delicate, but not timid : she has too 
much good sense, ever to be afraid where there is no danger ; 
and she leaves the affectation of terror to women, who, from 
the want of a correct education, are ignorant of what is truly 
becoming. She is still farther removed from the affectation 
of sensibility ; she has sympathy and tears for the calamities 
of her friends; but there is no artificial whining on her 
tongue; nor does she ever manifest more grief than she 
I leally feels. 
I In so enlightened an understanding, humility api^ai&mVlk>. 



peculiar grace. Every wise woman must be humble ; be- 
cause every yfme woman must know, that no human being 
has anythiil^ to be proud of. The gifts, which she possesses, 
she has received ; she cannot therefore glory in them, as if 
they were of her own creation. There is no ostentation in 
any part of her behavior : she does not affect to conceal her 
virtues and talents, but she never ambitiously displays them. 
She is stiU more pleasingly adorned with the graces of mild- 
ness and gentleness. 

Her manners are placid, the tones of her voice are sweet, 
and her eye benignant ; because her heart is meek and kind. 
From the combination of these virtues arises that general 
efibct, which is denominated loveliness, — a quality which 
renders her the object of the complacence of all her friends, 
and the delight of every one who approaches her. Believing 
that she was bom, not for herself only, but for others, she 
endeavors to communicate happiness to all who are around 
her ; in particular, to her intimate connexions. 

Her children, those immortal beings, who are committed 
to her care, that they may be formed to knowledge and vir- 
tue, are the principal objects of her attention. She sows in 
their minds the seeds of piety and goodness ; she waters 
them with the dew of heavenly instruction ; and she eradi- 
cates every weed of evil, as soon as it appears. Thus does 
she benefit the church, her country, and the world, by train- 
ing up sincere Christians, useful citizens, and good men. It 
is scarcely necessary to observe, that, with so benevolent a 
heart, she remembers the poor, and that she affords them, 
not only pity, but substantial relief 

As she is a wise woman, who is npt afraid to exercise her 
understanding, her experience and observation soon convince 
her, that the world, though it abounds with many pleasures, 
is not an unmixed state of enjoyment. Whilst, therefore, she 
is careful to bring no misfortunes on herself by imprudence, 
folly, and extravagance, she looks with a calm and steady eye 
on the unavoidable afflictions through which she is doomed 
to pass; and she arms her mind with fortitude, that she may 
endure, with resolution and cheerfulness, the severest trials. 


. When sickBess and distress at last come, she submits to 
them with patience and resignation. A peevish comj^aint 
does not escape from her lips ; nor does she once mormmr 
because the hand of her heavenly Father lies heavy upon 
her. ^ She is, if possible, more serene, more mild, more 
gentle, on the bed of disease, than she was in the seasons of 
health and felicity. So affectionate is she to her surrounding 
friends, and so grateful for the attentions which they pay to 
her, that they almost forget that she suffers any pain. 

The love of God crowns all her virtues : religion is deejay 
fixed in her heart ; but here, as in all her behavior, she is 
without parade. Her piety is sincere and ardent, but humble 
and retired. •••••• ^ mind, 

in which strength and gentleness are thus united, may be 
compared to the soft light of the moon, which shines with the 
perpetual rays of the sun. We are, at first view, ready to 
imagine that it is more lovely than great, more charming 
than dignified; but we soon become convinced, that it is 
filled with true wisdom, and endowed with noble porpoaes. 


Scene of Filial Affection, — Lear^ CordeUa and Pkysidan^r^ 


Cor, O MT dear father ! Restoration hang 
Her medicine on my lips, and let this kiss 
Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters 
Have in thy revere^ice made^ — 
Had you not been their father, these white flakes 
Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face 
To be exposed against the warring winds ? 
To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder t 
hi the most terrible and nimble stroke 
Of quick, cross lightning? My enemy's dog. 


ftbd'ti^ he had bit roe, dhould have stood that night 

Agdnst my fire : and wast thou fain, poor father, 

*^6 hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn. 

In shoil ahd musty straw ? Alack, alack ! 

^B wonder, that thy life and wits, at once, 

fiad tiot ccmclnded. — Ah ! he wakes ; speak to him. 

P%ys. Madaih, do you ; 'tis fittest. 

^Cbr. How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty 

Lear. Tou do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave ; 
^JKiou bH k soul in bliss, but I am bouiAi 
XJp6ii a wheel of fire, that mine own tears 
th BctSi like inolten lead. 

Gbr, Sir, do you know ine ? 

Xreior. You are a spirit, I kiKOw ; when did you die ? 
- Ow. Still, still far >Bnde— 

fliys. He's scarce awake ; let him alone awhile. 

tiear. Where have 1 been ? where am I ? fair daylight 1 
I'm migbtily abused ; 1 should even die with pity 
To see another tliui^. \ know not what to say ; 
I will not swear these are my hands : let's see — 
I feel this pin prick : would I were assured 
Of jny condition. 

Cor. Oh ! look upon me, sir. 
And hold your hand in benediction o'er me — 
Nay, you must not kneel. 

Lear. P-ray, do not mock me ; 
I am a very foolish, fond old man. 
Fourscore and upward ; and, to deal plainly, 
I fbar I am not in my perfect mind. 
Methinks I should know you, and know thin man ; 
Yet I am doubtful : for I'm mainly ignorant 
What place this is ; and all the skill I have 
Remembers not these garments ; nay, I know not 
Where I did lodge last night. Pray, do not mock me; 
For, as I am a man, I think this lady 
To be my child Cordelia. 

€br. And so I am ; I am. — 

Lear. Be your tears wet ? yes ; I pray you, weep not. 
If you hate poison for me, I will drink it 


I know 70U do not love me ; for your nsteni 
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. 
You have some cause ; they have not. 

Cor, No cause, no cause. 

Ijtar, Am I in France % 

Cor. In your own kingdom, sir. 

Lear. Do not abuse me. 

Phys. Be comforted, good madam ; — 
Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more 
Till farther settling. 

Cor. Wiirt please your highness walk t 

Lear. You must bear with me ; 
Pray you now forget and forgive ; 
I <am old and fo<^ish. 


Scenery at the Notch of the White Mountains. — ^Dwight. 

The Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appfopri- 
ated to a very narrow defile, extending two miles in length 
between two huge cliffs, apparently rent asunder by some 
vast convulsion of nature. This convulsion was, in my own 
view, that of the deluge. There are here, and throughout 
New England, no eminent proofs of volcanic violence, nor 
any strong exhibitions of the power of earthquakes. Nor 
has history recorded any earthquake or volcano, in other 
countries, of sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of 
this place. The objects rent asunder are too great, the ruin 
is too vast and too complete, to have been accomplished by 
these agents. The change appears to have been effected 
when the surface of the earth extensively subsided ; when 
countries and continents assumed a new face ; and a general 
commotion of the elements produced a disruption of somb 
mountams, and merged others beneath the common level of 
desolation. Nothing less than this will account for the sun- 
dering 0/ a long range of great rockft, ox i^VSofet f]li ^«l 

8* 1 


mountains ; or for the existing evidences of the immense 
force, by which the rupture was effected. 

The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks, stand- 
ing perpendicularly, at the distance of twenty-two feet from 
each other; one about twenty feet in height, the other about 
twelve. Half of the space is occupied by a brook which 
is the head stream of the Saco; the other half, by the 
road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of 
fragments, partly blorwn out of the road, and partly thrown 
down by some great convulsion. 

When we ent^ed the Notch, we were struck with the 
wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The 
scale, on which all the objects in view were formed, was the 
scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged in a 
manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by a 
hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular man- 
ner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. 
Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary 
with a moss which seemed the .product of ages, speedily 
rose to a mountainous height. Before us, the view widened 
fast to the south-east. Behind us, it closed almost instanta- 
neously, and presented nothing to the eye but an impassable 
^barrier of mountains. 

About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we 
saw, in foil view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the 
world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about eight 
hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the distance 
from us of about twp miles. The stream ran over a series 
of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken 
as to preserve the appearance of a uniform current, and yet 
80 far disturbed as to be perfectly white. The sun shone 
with the clearest splendor, from a station in the heavens the 
most advantageous to our prospect ; and the cascade glittered 
down the vast steep, like a stream of burnished silver. 

At the distance of three quarters of a mile from the en- 
trance, we passed a brook, known, in this region, by the 
same of the Jlume ; from the strong resemblance to that 
object, exhibited by the channel, which it has worn, for a 
oonsi^able length, in a bed of rocks ; the sides being per- 
pendicular to the bottom. This elegant piece of water we 


detetmined to exfunitt^ farther; imdy alighting from oar 
horses, we walked up the aedivitj perhaps a furkmg. The 
iftream ML from a height of two hmidred and finrty, or two 
hmidred and fifty feet over three precipices; the second 
receding a small distance fi^m the front of the first, and the 
tlnrd firom that of the second. Down the first and second it 
fi^ in a single corrent ; and down the third in three, which 
nnited their stream^, at the bottom, in a fine basin, formed, 
by the hand of Nature, in the rocks immediately beneath ns. 
It is impossible for a Inrook of this size to be modelled into 
more diversified or more delightfiil forms ; or for a cascade 
to descend over precipices more hi^ily fitted to finish its 

ThQ cliffs, together with a level at their foot, fiimished a 
considerable opening, sarromided by the forest. The sun- 
beams, penetrating through the trees, painted here a great 
variety of fine images of light, and edged an equally numer- 
ous and diversified collection of shadows ; both dancing on 
the waters, and alternately silvering and obscuring their 
course. Purer water was never seen. Exclusively of its 
murmurs, the world around us was solemn and silent. Every 
^ng assumed the character of enchantment ; and, had I 
been educated in the Chrecian mythology, I should scarcely 
have been surprised to find an assemblage of Dryads, Naiads 
and Oreades, sporting on the little plain below our feet 
The parity of this water was discernible, not only by its 
limpid appearance, and its taste, but from several other cir- 
cumstances. Its course is wholly over h^rd granite; and 
the rocks and the stones, in its bed and at its side, instead 
of being covered with adventitious substances, were washed 
perfectly clean ; and, by their neat appearance, added not a 
little to the beauty of the scenery. 

From this spot the mountains speedily began to open with 
increased majesty ; and, in several instances, rose to a per- 
pendicular height little less than a mile. The bosom of both 
ranges was overspread, in all the inferior regions, by a 
mixture of evergreens with trees, whose leaves are deciduous. 
The annual fidiage had been already changed by the frost. 
Of the effects of this change it is, perhaps, impossiUe for an 


inhabitant of Great Britain to form an adequate conceptid&y 
without visiting an American forest. 

In this country, it is often among the most splendid beaiP. 
ties of nature. All the leaves of trees, which are not 
evergreens, are, by the first severe fi-ost, changed from their 
verdure, towards the perfection of that color, which they are 
capable of ultimately assuming, through yellow, orange and 
red, to a pretty deep brown. As the frost affects different 
trees, and different leaves of the same tree, in very different 
degrees, a vast multitude of tinctures is commonly found on 
those of a single tree, and always on those of a grove or 
forest. These colors also, in all their varieties, are generally 
full ; and, in many instances, are among the most exquisite, 
which are found in the regions of nature. Different sorts of 
trees are susceptible of different degrees of this beauty. 
Among them, the maple is preeminently distinguished by 
the prodigious varieties, the finished beauty, and the intense 
lustre of its hues ; varying through all the dyes between a 
rich green and the most perfect crimson, or, more definitely, 
the red of the prismatic image. , 

I have remarked, that the annual foliage on these moun- 
tains, had been already changed by the frosty Of course, 
the darkness of the evergreens was finely illumined by the 
brilliant yellow of the birch, the beech and the cherry, and 
the more brilliant orange and crimson of the maple. The 
effect of this universal diffusion of gay and splendid light, 
was, to render the preponderating deep green more solemn. 
The mind, encircled by this scenery, irresistibly remembered, 
that the light was the light of decay, autumnal and melan- 
choly. The dark was the gloom of evening, approximating 
to night. Over the whole, the azure of the sky cast a jioep, 
misty blue ; blending, towards the summit, every other hue, 
and predominating ovei- all. 

' As the eye ascended these steeps, the light decayed, and 
gradually ceased. On the inferior summits rose crowns of 
conical firs and spruces. On the superior eminences, the 
trees, growing less and less, yielded to the chilling atmos- 
phere, and marked the limit of forest vegetation. A,bove, 
the surface was covered with a mass of shrubs, terminatp 


hg, at a stiU higher elevation, in a Bfarond of dark-colored 


As we passed onward, throogh this singular valley, occa- 
nonal torrents, formed by the rains and dissolving snows, at 
the close of winter, had left behind them, in many places, 
perpetual monuments of their progress, in perpendicular, 
narrow and irregular paths, of immense length, where they 
bad washed the precipices naked and white, from the sum- 
mit of the mountain to the base. Wide and deep chasms 
also met the eye, both on the summits and the sides ; and 
strongly impressed the imagination with the thought, that a 
band of immeasurable power had rent asunder the solid 
rocks, and tumbled them into the subjacent valley. Over 
all, hoary ciiSs, rising with proud supremacy, frowned awful- 
ly on the world below, and finished the landscape. 

By our side, the Saco was alternately visible and lost, and 
increased, almost at every step, by the junction of tributary 
streams. Its course was a perpetual cascade ; and, with its 
Rightly murmurs, fiirnished the only contrast to the scenery 
ttound us. 

LESSON xra. 

" The Fashion of this World passeth away.^^ — ^Piebpont. 

The earth, and all that dwell upon the face of it, speak a 
language that is in mournful and melancholy accordance 
with that of an aposUe-^" The fashion of this world passeth 
)iway." A testimony, thus concurrent, is solemn, and we 
cannot distrust it. It is eloqtient, and we cannot but feel it. 
We are wise if we open our eyes and our ears to the evi- 
dence, which nature gives to the truths of revelation, and 
labor that we may impress distinctly and deeply upon our 
minds the moral lessons, which that evidence is calculated to 

The mournful, but gentle voice of Autumn, invites us forth, 

that we may see, for ourselves, how the fashion of this world 

'» passing aw&j, in regard to the dress in ^\d,c\v SX ^ V^^V) 


presented itself to our view. The gardens and the groves,— 
how are they changed ! The deep verdure of their leaves 
is gone. The many-colored woodland, which, but a few 
weeks since, was arrayed in a uniform and lively green, now 
presents a gaudier show indeed, but one of which all the 
hues are sickly, and are all but the various forms of death. 
In the garden, the brown and naked stalk has succeeded to 
the broad blossoms of summer, as they had, but lately, to the 
young leaves and swelling buds of spring. The orchards, 
that, but a few short months ago, were white with promise, 
and that loaded with perfume the very winds th^ visited 
them, are now resigning their faded leaves and their mel- 
low fruit. 

The wayfaring man, who contemplates these changes, that 
present themselves to his eye, in Nature's dress, cannot be 
insensible that her voice has also changed. To his ear there 
is something more religious in the whisper. of the winds, 
something more awful in their roar ; and even the waters of 
the brook have changed their tone, and go by him with a 
Jiollower murmur. And how soon shall all these things be 
changed again ! The course of the stream shall be checked. 
{ts voice shall be stifled by the snows, in which the earth shall 
wrap herself, during her long and renovating sleep of winter. 

In these respects the fashion* of the world passeth away, 
we will not say with every year, but with each successive 
season of every year. Their general effect is moral and 
highly salutary. In them all we hear a voice, which speaks 
to us what we may not, and what we cannot, speak to one 
another. They are full of the gentle, but faithful admo- 
nitions of a parental Providence, who would remind us by 
the changes, which we so often see going on around us, that 
" we, too, shall all be changed." Yet these are changes in 
the fashion of this world, which, from their very frequency, 
lose a part of their effect. The fashions which pass away 
with the departing seasons, we know, will be brought back 
again, when the same seasons return; and those scenes, 
which we know will be again presented, we believe that we 
shall live to witness and enjoy. 

But there are alterations in the fashion of the world, 
which time is more slow in producing, and which, when we 


witness them, are more striking, more melanclioly, and of 
more abiding influence. Who will doubt this? for who has 
not felt it ? and who is he that has ever felt, and has now 
forgotten it? Surely not you, my friend, who, by the ap- 
pointments of an overruling Providence, have been compelled 
to spend your days as a stranger and a pilgrim in the earth. 
Did you, in your young manhood, leave your home among 
the hills, the scenes and the companions of your youthful 
sports, or of your earliest toils? Were you long strug- 
gling with a wayward fortune, in distant lands, or in seas 
that rolled under the line, or that encircled the poles in their 
cold embrace ? Did sickness humble the pride of your man- 
hood, or did care whiten your tempk^befbre the time ? 

How oflen, in your wanderings, dl^he peaceful image of 
your home present itself to your mind! How oflen did you 
visit that sacred spot, in your dreams by night 1 and how 
faithfiil to your last impressions was the garb in which, when 
you were far away, your long forsaken home arrayed itself! 
The fields and the forests that were around it, underwent no 
change in their appearance to your imagination. The trees, 
that had given you fruit or shade, continued to give the same 
fruks and the same shade to the inmates of your paternal 
dwelling; and even in those objects of filial or fraternal 
affection, no change appeared to have been wrought by time, 
during your long absence. 

But when, at length, you return, how different is the scene, 
that comes before you in its melancholy reality, from that 
which you lefl in your youth, and of which a faithful picture 
has been carried near to your heart, in all your wanderings ! 
Those who were once your neighbors and school-fellows, and 
whom you meet, as you come near to your father's house, 
either you do not(recognize,\or you are grieved that they do 
not recogni ze*';you. 

The woods, which clothed the hills around, and in which 
you had oflen indulged the vague, but delicious anticipations 
of ctiildhood, have been cleared away ; and the stream that 
once dashed through them, breaking their religious silence 
by its evening hymn, and whitening, as it rushed through 
their shade, " to meet the sun upon the upland lawn," now 
creeps faintly along its contracted channel, thiougyv &fe\dA 


that have been stripped of their golden harvest, and through 
pastures embrowned by a scorching sun. The fruit treen 
are decayed. The shade trees have been uprooted by % 
storm, or their hollow trunks and dry boughs remain, ven^ 
able, but mournful witnesses to the truth, that the feshion of 
this world passeth away. 

More melancholy still arc the witnesses that meet you as 
you enter your father's house. She, on whose bosom you 
hung*in your infancy, and whom you had hoped once more 
to embrace, has long been sleeping in the dark and narrow 
house. Your father's form, how changed! Of the locks 
that clustered around his brow, how few remain ! and those 
few, how thin ! how white ! His full toned and manly voico 
has lost its strength, 4Ui trembles as he inquires if this is 
indeed his son. The sister, whom you lefl a child, is now a 
wife, and a mother ; the wife of one whom you never knew^ 
one who looks upon you as a stranger, and one towards 
whom it is impossible for you to kindle up a brother's love, 
now that you have found so little in the scenes of your child* 
hood, to satisfy the affectionate anticipations with which yon 
returned to them. 

While you are contemplating these melancholy changes, 
and the chill of disappointment is going through your heart, 
the feeling comes upon you, in all its bitterness, that tlie 
mournful ravages, which time has wrought upon the scenes 
and the objects of your attachment, will not, and cannot be 
repaired by time, in any of his future rounds. Returning 
years can furnish you with no proper objects for the fresh 
and glowing affections of youth ; and even if those objects 
could be furnished, it is too late, now, for you to feel for 
them the correspondent affection. The song of your moun-! 
tain-stream can never more soothe your ear. The grove that 
you loved shall invite you to meditation and to worship no 
more. Another may, indeed, spring up in its place ; but you 
shall not live to see it. It may shade your grave ; but your 
heart shall never feel its charm. 

Your affections are robbed of 'the treasures, to which they 
clung so closely and so long, and that forever. The earth, 
where it had appeared most lovely, is changed. The things 
that were nearest to your heart, have changed with it. Th« 


Qiduoii in which the world was arrayed, when it took hoM 
m you "vi^h the strongest attachment, has passed away ; its 
mysterioas power to charm yon has fled ; all its holiest en- 
chaatments are broken, and yon fed that nothing remaiBB 
«8 it was, but the abiding outline of its surface— 4ts Talleys, 
where the still waters find their way, and the stem risage 
of its everlastiag hills. 

The same, — concluded. 

Norn does the fashion of the world pass away, in regard 
to the ever-varying appearances of its exterior alone, its veg- 
etable productions, that flourish and fade with every year, or 
those that endure for ages beyond the utmost limit of animal 
life. It is, indeed, an eloquent commentary upon the apostle's 
remark, to see the oak, that shaded one generation of men 
after another, even before it had attained its maturity, and, 
in the fulness of its strength, had stretched forth its giant 
arms over many succeeding generations, yield to decay at 
last, and fall, of its own weight, afler having gloried in its 
strength for centuries. 

It is an eloquent commentary, to see the fashion of those 
things passing uway, in which the proudest efforts of human 
skill or human power have been displayed ; to see the curi^ 
ous traveller inquiring and searching upon the banks of the 
Euphrates for the site of ancient Babylon, or measuring the 
huge masses of rock, that composed the temple of the sun 
at Palmyra, or digging in the valley of the Nile, to bring to 
light the stupendous relics of ancient architecture, that have, 
for thousands of years, been buried in the sands of «the 

It is even an eloquent exposition of the apostle's remark, 
to see the towers that were raised by the power of feudal 
princes, and the abbeys and cathedrals that were the scenes 
)f monastic devotion, now that they are crumbling and fall- 
ing away, their tottering walls curtained with i\y, ana. \3tA 



bird of night, the only tenant of those forsaken abodes of a 
ftern despotism, and of a still more stern superstition. 

But not the products of the earth, nor yet the works of 
man, alone change and pass away. In many particulars, the 
great mass of earth itself is liable to change, and has been 
moulded into different forms. Hills have been sunk beneath 
the depths of the sea, and the depths of the . sea, in their 
turn, have been laid bare, or thrown up into stupendous 
mountains. Of most of these wonderful changes, it is true, 
history gives us no account. But that they have occurred, 
the deep places of the earth, its hardest rocks, its gigantic 
hills, alike bear witness. 

Many of us have seen, with our own eyes, those creatures, 
that were once passing " through the paths of the seas," 
taken from their marble beds in the mountain's bosom, hun- 
dreds of miles from those bars and doors, within which the 
sea is now shut up, and by which its proud waves are now 
stayed : we cannot qvlj forever stayed ; for the regions of the 
earth, that, by one mighty convulsion, have been rescued 
from the deep, may, by other mighty convulsions, be given 
back to its dominion ; and those rich plains, that are now the 
theatre of vegetative life and beauty, may, in time, be sunk 
under the weltering deep, as other fertile plains have been 
before them. 

In a moral, not less than in a physical sense, the fashion 
of this world passeth away. The passions of mankind, it is 
true, remain the same in their general character ; but in 
different ages and nations, under different systems of morals, 
philosophy and religion, they are subjected to a very different 
discipline, and are directed towards different objects. But, 
if we except his general moral nature, what is there in man, 
in which the caorices of fashion are not continually dis- 
played ? 

If, then, the beauties of the year are so fading, and its 
bounties so soon perish ; if the loveliest scenes of nature 
lose their power to charm, and a few revolving years break 
the spell, that binds us to those whom we love best ; if the 
▼ery figure of the earth is changed by its own convulsions ; 


if the forms of human government, and the monuments of 

human power and skill, cannot endure ; if nothing on ** the 

earth beneath, or the waters under the earth," preserves its 

form unchanged, what t5 there that remains forever the same f 

What is 'there, ,over which autumnal winds and wintry 

frosts have no power? what, that does not pass away, 

while we are contending with wayward fortune, or struggling 

with calamity ? what, that is proof against the fluctuations 

of human opinion, and the might of ocean's waves, and the 

convulsions, by which mountains are heaved up from the 

abyss, or thrown from their deep foundations ? 

It is the God by whom these mighty works are done ; by 
whose hand this great globe was first moulded, and has ever 
smce been fashioned according to his will. " Hast thou not 
known, hast thou not heard, that the Everlasting Qod, Jeho- 
vah, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither 
is weary V* 

To him, then, we can go, and to him let us go, in a filial 
assurance that there is no variableness in him. Though the- 
glories of the year fade, though our young affections are 
blighted, and our expectations from this world are disap^ 
pointed, we know that he has the power to make all these 
melancholy scenes of salutary influence, and conducive tc 
"the soul's eternal health." Though the opinions of the 
world, and our own opinions in respect to him, may change^ 
there is no change in the love with which he regards and 
forever embraces us. God passeth not away, nor do his 
laws. Those laws require, that we, and all that is around 
us, should change and pass away. Those laws govern us, 
and will do so forever. They bind us to our highest good. 
Then let us yield them a prompt and a perpetual obedience. 

" The Creator of the ends of the earth fainteth not, neither 
is weary." Nor does that faith in him grow weary, which 
he demands and deserves from us ; faith in his wisdom to 
guide and govern us, faith in his gracious promises io crown 
our efibrts, in his service, with a reward that is glorious and 
enduring. Though " the mountain falling cometh to naught," 
though the solid globe be shaken in its course, the hand that 
heaved the mountains to the heavens, and upholds them 
there, and that curbs the earth in its bright caieei/\a ^xXaxAt 


cd to uphold all, who cast themselves upon it with the prayer 
thai they may be protected, and with the belief that they 

Passing away, — Maria J. Jewsburt. 

I ASKED the stars, in the pomp of night, 
Gflding its blackness with crowns of light. 
Bright with beauty, and girt with power. 
Whether eternity were not their dower ; 
And dirg8-lik« music stole from their spheres,. 
BtariBg this message to mortal ears : — 

^ We have no light that hath not been given ; 
We have no strength but shall soon be riven ; 
We have no power wherein man may trust; 
Like hun are we, things of time and dust ; 
And the legend we blazon with beam and ray, 
Aad the song of our silence, is — ' Passing away/ 

^ We shall fade in our beauty, the fair and bright. 
Like lamps that have served for a festal night ; 
We shall fall from our spheres, the old and strong. 
Like rose-leaves swept by the breeze along ; 
^Hie worshipped as gods in the olden day,. 
We ihall be like a vain dream — ^Passing away." 

From thfe stars of heaven, and the flowers of earth. 
From tiie pageant of power, and the voice of mirth,. 
Fron Jie mists of mom on the mountain's brow, 
From chUdhood's song, and affection's vow, — 
From all, save that o'er which soul bears sway, 
Breadies but one record — ^ Passing away.' 

' Passing away,' sing the breeze and riU, - 
Am they sweep on their course by vale and hiU 



Through the varying scenes of each earthly clime, 
Tis the lesson of nature, the voice of time ; 
And man at last, like his fathers gray, 
Writes in his own dust — * Passing away.' 

. .* • • •. 


The Death of the Flowers. — Bryant. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and 

Heaped in the hollows of the groi^e, the withered leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through aU the 

gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately 

sprung and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood 1 
Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain 
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 
And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the 

plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland^ 

glade and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such dayn 
will come, 
\ To coll the squirrel and the bee from out theii wvutAt Wms^^ 



When the somid of drappiag nuts is heard, though all the 

trees are still. 
And twinkle in the smoky light the watera of the rill, 
The south wind seibiohes for the flowers, whose fragrance iatc 

he bore. 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the strf^p^no more. 

And-'then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died. 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : 
In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf. 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; 
Tet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gen^ tod so beautifiil, should perish with the flowers. 

LESSON xvn. 


The Autumn Evening, — ^Peabodt. 

Behou) the western evening light ! 

It melts in deepening gloom : 
So calmly Christians sink away. 

Descending to the tomb. 

The winds breathe low, the withering leaf 
Scarce whispers from the tree : 

So gently flows the parting breath. 
When good men cease to be. 

How beautiful on all the hills 

The crimson light is shed ! 
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives 

To mourners round his bed. 

How mildly, on the wandering cloud, 

The sunset beam is cast 1 
TPis like the memory lefl behind. 

When loved ones breathe their last. 


And now, above the dewS'Of mghi. 

The yellow star appears : 
SofaiA springs in the hearts d thoeo 

Whose eyes are bathed in tears. 

But soon the morning's happier 

Its glories shall restore ; 
And eydidsy that are sealed in death. 

Shall ape, to dose no more. 

LESSON xvra. 

Auhann Woods. — ^Bryant. 

Ebm, in the northern gale, 
The summer tresses of the trees are gone. 
The woods of autumn, all around our Tale, 

Have put their glory on. 

The mountains that infold, 
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round. 
Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold, 

That guard the enchanted ground. 

I roam the woods that crown 
The upland, where the mingled splendors glow,— 
Where the gay company of trees look down 

On the green fields below. j 

i^ My steps are not alone 
In these bright walks ; the sweet south-west, at play. 
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown 
Along the winding way. 

And far in heaven, the while. 
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here. 
Poors out on the fair earth his quiet smile, — 

The sweetest of the yeai. 


Where now the solemn shade, — 
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet^ — 
So grateful, when the noon of summer made 

The valleys sick with heat ? 

Let in through aU the trees 
Come the strange rays ; the forest depths are bright ; 
Their sunivy-colored foliage, in the breeze. 

Twinkles, like beams of light. 

The rivulet, late unseen^ 
Where, bickering through the shrubs, its waters run. 
Shines with the image of its golden screen, 

And glimmerings of the sun. 

Beneath yon crimson tree. 
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame. 
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy. 

Her blush of maiden shame. 

O Autumn, why so soon 
Deipart the hues that make thy forests glad, — 
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon. 

And leave thee wild and sad ? 

Ah ! 'twere a lot too blest 
Forever in thy colored shades to stray, 
Amidst the kisses of the soft south-west 

To rove and dream for aye ; 

And leave the vain, low strife 
> That makes men mad — ^the tug for wealth and power, 
The passions and the cares that wither life 
And waste its little hour. . 


Instability of Character, — AsAUOit, 

Wherever we turn our eyes upon the world, we meet 
with men^ who seem never to have formed to themselves any 
fixed plan, either of intellectual or moral pursuit, and who 
safer themselves to be led by no other principles than those 
of constitutional humor or casual caprice. Even with ex- 
cellent powers of understanding, they are ever changing 
their studies and their designs ; attracted by what is new in 
knowledge, rather than by what is useful, and seemingly 
niHMmscious of any other ends of science or of learning, 
than to amuse the passing hour. They are, still more fre- 
quently, inconstant and unstable in their affections ; perpet- 
ually changing their connexions, their companions and their 
fr^dshqps, and vidating often the finest, as well as the most 
saered ties of life, less firom violence of passion, than fit>m 
mere levity and fickleness of mind. Their time, their tal- 
ents, their advantages, whether of power Or of wealth, are all 
consumed rather than employed; and life, at last, often 
doses upon them, before they are conscious either ibr what 
it was given, or what will be required. ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

The necessities of nature, whatever the idle and the que»> 
idous may think, are ever fi'iendly to human character, and 
almost unavoidably produce some degree of steadiness of 
purpose, and energy of pursuit. They, whose labor is, * 
every day, to provide for the day that is passing, have an 
object firom which they are not permitted to deviate, which 
summons their powers into continual activity, and which, > 
msensibly gives to their general character the same features 
of steadiness and of energy. Even in the middle conditions 
of life, among those who. In the various professions and oo- 
cupations which cultivated society creates, are providing for 
themselves and for their families, this character of instability 
is seldom found. The virtuous and important purpose they 
have in view, — the habits of foresight and activity which are 
demanded,— the rivalship with their fellow pandidatea fci 
profit or finr praise^ — all tend to form them to some EUoii^gilbk 




and energy of mind, and, whatever may be the other fail- 
ings to which they are exposed, at least to save them from 
caprice) and instability. 

It is among those, to whom fortune and education have 
given every means to improve, and every power to bless hu- 
manity, that this character of weakness is, unhappily, most 
frequently to be found. They, who, in their early years, 
have never felt the necessities of life,— rto whom " to-morrow 
has always been as to-day, and yet more abundant," — and 
who see themselves, at once, in possession of all that other 
men are struggling to acquire, — are raised above the influence 
of those motives which animate the activity of the generality 
of men. The pressure is removed, which usually hardens 
the human character into any degree of consistence and 

It may be right in others, they think, to labor ; — ^it is right 
in them to enjoy. Others are bound to direct all their talents 
to one purpose or end; — ^they are happily free from the 
thraldom, — and the whole circle of human pleasures and 
pursuits is thrown open to them, in which they may range 
at will. It may be honorable in humbler men, they imagine, 
to devote themselves to the sober path of duty. In them, on 
the contrary, it is honorable to avail themselves of the advan- 
tages, which nature has given them ; and, in a gay exemption 
from all serious pursuits, to exhibit to a lower world the 
envied privilege of their rank. 

Amid such impressions, the first foundations of this fatal 
weakness of character are laid. While neither necessity nor 
duty seems as yet to compel them to form /any settled plans of 
pursuit or of conduct, they naturally yield themselves to the 
more pleasing guidance of imagination ; and the character 
of their understanding soon marks the incompetence of the 
guide. The regular paths of science seem too laborious and 
too tedious for their attempt. They satisfy themselves, 
therefore, with the acquisition of some loose and superficial 
knowledge. The sober details of business seem beneath 
their regard, and can always be devolved upon some inferior 
or friend ; and even in the acquisitions which are made, it is 
the new, the splendid, or the fashionable, that is ' sought, in- 
stead of the solid or the useful. The habits of levity and 

II ' ■ 


caprice, thus too naturally begun, gain insensibly a progres* 
sive influence over their minds; and thus youth, and the 
irrecoverable years of youth, are often passed, not in vice, 
perhaps, but in frivolous amusements, or, what is worse than 
these, in frivolous and unmanly pursuits. 

The same, — concluded. 

This disposition of mind unfits men, in a singular manner, 
for the performance of their parts in social life. Whatever 
may be the opinions of youth, life cannot proceed far without 
bringing with it many serious duties to all ; — scenes, where 
labor, perseverance and self-denial must be exerted, and 
where the character is brought to a severe and unsparing 
trial. For these scenes of trial, the men of the unstable 
character, we are considering, are, unhappily, little fitted. 
They want all the habits of thought and of activity, which 
are requisite for honor and success. It is '' an armor which 
they .have not proved ;" and they thus enter upon the eventful 
field of life, with all its private and public duties, unarmed 
for the Tude struggle, which is every where prepared for 

They begin then, perhaps, to lament the levity and 
thoughtlessness of their former days ; but youth and all its 
invaluable hours are gone ; habits have acquired dominion ; 
— others are passing them in the road of fame and honor ; — 
and, shrinking from a contest in which they no longer dare 
hope for success, they finally retire to hide their disgrace in 
mdolence and obscurity. From this melancholy period, the 
character sinks every day more deeply down into insignifi- 
cance and uselessness. The poor remainder of life is given 
to frivolous pursuits or capricious amusements ; and, not 
unfrequently, their gray hairs are disgraced, by vainly imi- 
tating the follies and the levities of youth. 

It is with still more fatal consequences that this dis^svlvow 
ii attended, in respect to morai excell^ce. In a vfOi\d ^>\c>Bi 


as this, in which the beneficence of the Almighty hath 
6pened so many sources of enjoyment, it requires, in every 
situation, the steady employment of faith and of fortitude to 
withstand their assault ; and no discipline can ever lead to 
honor and to virtue, but that which inspires resolution, and 
habituates to self-command. In this respect, too, the men of 
this unstable character come singularly unprepared for the 
combat. The scenes, in which they have been engaged, 
have nurtured no firmness or energy of mind. No great 
objects of pursuit have opened upon them, which might ani- 
mate voluntary exertion ; and, what is perhaps of more con- 
sequence, in the same proportion, in which the active powers 
of their minds have been unemployed, their passive sensibilities 
to pleasure have been increased. 

To dispositions thus diseased-, the simple pleasures, and 
the sober tranquillities of domestic virtue, are ill adapted. 
Their habits have accustomed them to freedom of pursuit, 
and variety of indulgence ; and they tire, in the midst of 
happiness, merely from the sameness of possession. Qthei 
amusements are looked for ; — gayer associates are soon found; 
— and vice, ever in the rear of folly, begins, by unmarked 
steps, to take final possession of the heart. It is at this fatal 
period, that the sad effects of this disposition upon the hap- 
piness of social life begin to display themselves ; and that all 
the sacred duties of domestic life are sometimes seen to be 
sacrificed without remorse. 

It is almost unnecessary, I feel, to add, that this instability 
of character is equally fatal to human happiness. If it be 
in such vices as have been described, that the charactei 
finally ends, it were a treachery to nature and to virtue, to 
speak of happiness along with them. Even upon the most 
favorable supposition, though nothing more than weakness 
and indolence should be the result, there are still considera- 
tions which it is hard to bear. Every man has some sense 
of what God and the world require of him ; — some consciouSi 
ness, however indistinct, of the purposes for which the might} 
advantages of nature and fortune were given : and to every 
man, time, as it passes, has a voice which no mortal heart 
can forget. It seems to ask us what we have done, and 
what we are doing; and, in every periodical return, it leaves^ 


inevitably, ''that bitterness of joy which the heart akme 

It is painful to us all, we know, to lie down at night, and 
think that the duties of the day have not been done. It is 
more painful to close the year, and to think that it has been 
wasted in idleness and folly. But what, alas 1 must be the 
feelings of those, who lie down at last upon the bed of death, 
and look back upon their past lives with no remembrances 
of goodness 1 who can recall only riches wasted, and power 
abased, and talents misemployed, — and see that grave open- 
ing to receive them, upon which no tear will be shed, and no 
memorial of virtue raised ! 

Let it then be remembered, even in the midst of youth and 
of prosperity, that life hath its duties as well as its pleasures ; 
and that no situation can exempt the Christian from the ob- 
ligations of labor and of exertion. Let it be remembered, 
that weakness is ever the parent of vice ; and that it is in the 
genial hours of youth, that all those habits of thought and of 
conduct are acquired, which determine the happiness or the 
misery of future days. Let it, lastly, be remembered, that 
all the honors of time and of eternity belong only to wisdom 
and perseverance. 


Stability of Character, — Alison. 

Stability of character is, in all pursuits, the surest foun- 
dation of success. It is a common error of the indolent and 
the imprudent, to< attribute the success of others to some 
peculiar talents, or original superiority of mind, which is not 
to be found in the generality of men. Of the falseness of 
this opinion, the slightest observation of human life may sat- 
isfy us. The difference of talents, indeed, and the varieties 
of <Higinal character, may produce a difference in the aims 
and in the designs of men ; and superior minds will naturallji^ 
form to themselves superior objects of ambition. But the / 
attainment of these ends, the accomplishment o{ l\ve^% 4^ 



signs, is, in all cases, the consequence of one means alone,— 
that of steadfastness and perseverance in pursuit. . 

" It is the hand of the diligent,'' saith the wise man, '^ that 
maketh rich.'' It is the same diligence, when directed to 
other ends, that maketh great. Every thing which we see 
with admiration in the world around us, or of which we read 
with delight in the annals of history, — the acquisitions of 
knowledge, the discoveries of science, the powers of art, the 
glories of arms, the dignities of private, or the splendors of 
public virtue, — all have sprung from the same fountain of mind, 
from that steady but unseen perseverance, which has been 
exerted in their pursuit. The possession of genius alone, is, 
alas ! no certain herald of success ; and how many melan- 
choly instances has the world afforded to us all, of how little 
avail mere natural talents are to the prosperity of their 
possessors, and of the' frequency with which they have led 
to ruin and disgrace, when unaccompanied with firmness and 
energy of mind ! 

This stability of character is the surest promise of honor. 
it supposes, indeed, all the qualities of mind that are regarded 
by the world with respect ; and which constitute the honora- 
ble and dignified in human character. It supposes that 
profound sense of duty, which we every where look for as 
the foundation of virtue, and for the want of which no other 
attainments can ever compensate.^ It supposes a chastened 
and regulated imagination, which looks ever to " the things 
that are excellent," and which is incapable of being diverted 
from their pursuit, either by the intoxications of prosperous, 
or the depressions of adverse fortune. It supposes, still 
more, a firm and intrepid heart, which neither pleasure has 
been able to seduce, nor indolence to enervate, nor danger to 
intimidate ; and which, in many a scene of trial, and under 
many severities of discipline, has hardened itself at last into 
the firmness and consistency of virtue. 

A character of this kind can never be looked upon without 
admiration ; and, wherever we meet it, whether amid the 
splendors of prosperity, or the severities of adversity, we feel 
ourselves disposed to pay it a pure and an unbidden homage. 
The display of wild and unregulated talents may sometimes, 
indeed, excite a temporary admiration ; but it is the admira<* 


tion we pay to the useless glare of the meteor, which is 
extinguished while it is beheld ; while the sentiment we feel 
for the steady course of principled virtue, is the admiration 
with which we regard the majestic path of the sun, as he 
slowly pursues his way, to give light and life to nature. 

This stability of character is, in another view, the surest 
foundation of happiness. There are, doubtless, many ways 
in which our happiness is dependent upon the conduct and 
the sentiments of others ; but the great and perennial source 
of every man's happiness is in his own bosom, — in that 
secret fountain of the heart, from which the " waters of joy 
or of bitterness" perpetually flow. 

It is from this source, the man of steadfast and persevering 
virtue derives his peculiar happiness ; and the slightest 
recurrence to our own experience can tell us both its nature 
and its degree. It is pleasing, we all know, to review the 
day that is past, and to think that its duties have been done ; 
to think that the purpose, with which we rose, has been 
accomplished ; that, in the busy scene which surrounds us, 
we hav^ done our part, and that no temptation has been able 
to subdue our firmness and our resolution. Such are the 
sentiments with which, in every year of life, and still more 
in that solemn moment when life is drawing to its close, the 
man of persevering virtue is able to review the time that is 
past. It lies before him, as it were, in order and regularity ; 
and, while he travels over again the various stages of his 
progress, memory restores to him many images to soothe and 
to animate his heart. The days of trial are past ; the hard- 
ships he has suffered, the labors he has undergone, are 
remembered no more ; but his good deeds remain, and from 
the grave of time seem to rise up again to bless him, and to 
fspesk to him of peace and hope. 

Such are, then, the consequences of firmness and stability 
of character ; and such the rewards ^which he may look for, 
who, solemnly devoting himself to the discharge of the 
duties of that station or condition which Providence has 
assigned him, pursues them with steady and undeviating 
labor. It is the character which unites all that * is valuable 
or noble in human life, the tranquillity of conscience^ iha 
honors of wisdom, and the dignity of virtue. 


The first Wanderer, — Maria J. Jewsburt. 

Creation's heir ! — the fir/st, the last, 

That knew the world his own ; — 
Yet stood he, mj^ his kingdom vast, 

A fugitive— o'erthrown ! 
Faded and frail his glorious fbnn. 

And changed his soul within, 
Whilst Fear and Sonow, Strife and Storm^ 

Told the dark secret — Sin ! 

Unaided and alone on earth, 

He bade the heavens give ear ; — 
But every star that sang his birth, 

Kept silence in its sphere : 
He saw, round Eden's distant steep. 

Angelic legions s^ay ;— 
Alas ! he knew them sent to keep 

Hiis guiltv foot away. 

Then, reckless, turned he to his own,*^ 

The world before him spread ; — 
But Nature's was an altered tone, 

A^d breamed rehire fy^d dread : 
Fierce thunder-peal, asd rocking gale, 

Answpred the storm-swept sea. 
Whilst crashing forests joined the wail ; 

And all saii— " Cursed for thee." 

This, spoke the lion's prowling roar, 

And this, the victim's cry ; 
This, written in defenceless gore. 

Forever met his eye :•' 
And nM alone each sterner power 

Proclaimed just Heaven's decree,— 
The fiided leaf, the dying flower. 

Alike said— " Cursed for thee," 


Though mortal, doomed to many a length 

Of life's now narrow span, 
Sons rose around in pride and strength ;— « 

They, too, proclaimed the ban. 
"]Cwas heard, amid their hostile spears. 

Seen, in the murderer's doom, 
Breathed, from the widow's silent tears. 

Felt, in the infant's tomb. 


Ask not the wanderer's after-fate, 

His being, birth, or name, — 
Enough that all have shared his state, 

That man is still the same. 
Still brier and thorn his life o'ergrow. 

Still strives his soul within ; 
Whilst C^e, and Pain, and Sorrow show 

The same dajk secret-r^m. 

The Village Grave-Yard. — Greenwood. 

In the beginning of the fine month of October, I was 
travelling, with a friend, in one of our Northern States, on a 
ltour.5Df recreation and pleasure. We were tired of the city, 
its noise, its smoke, and its unmeaning dissipation ; and, with 
the feelings of emancipated prisoners, we had been breathing, 
for a few weeks, the perfume of the vales, and the elastic 
atmosphere of the uplands. Some minutes before the sun- 
set of a most lovely day, we entered a neat little village, 
whose tapering spire we had caught sight of, at intervals, an 
hour before, as our road made an unexpected turn, or led us 
to the top of a hill. Having no motive to urge a farther 
progress, and being unwilling to ride in an unknown country 
after night-fall, we stopped at the inn, and determined to 
lodge there. 

Leaving my companion to arrange our accommodations * 
with the landlord, I strolled on towards the meel\ti^-\vav3a!^* 
5 » 


Its situation had attracted my notice. There was much more 
taste and beauty in it than is common. It did not stand, as 
I have seen some meeting-houses stand, in th»mo6t frequent- 
ed part of the village, blockaded by wagons and horses, with 
a court-house before it, an engine-house behind it, a store- 
house under it, and a tavern on each side ; it stood away 
from all these things, as it ought, and was placed on a q[)ot 
of gently rising ground, a short distance from the main road, 
at the end of a green lane, and so near to a grove of oaks 
and walnuts, that one of the foremost and largest trees 
brushed against the pulpit window. On the left, and lower 
down, there was a fertile meadow, through which a deac 
brook wound its course, fell over a rock, and then hid itself 
in the thickest part of the grove. A little to the right of the 
meeting-house was the grave-yard. 

I never shun a grave-yard. The thoughtful melancholy, 
which it inspires, is grateful, rather than disagreeable to me. 
It gives me no pain to tread on the green roof of that dark 
mansion, whose chambers I must occupy so soon; and I 
often wa;ider, from choice, to a place where there is neithec 
solitude nor society. Something human is therQ ; but the folly, 
the bustle, the vanities, the pretensions, the competitions, the 
pride of humanity, are gone. Men are there; but their 
passions are hushed, and their spirits are still : — malevolence 
has lost its power of harming ; appetite is sated, ambition 
lies low, and lust is cold ; anger has done raving, all disputes 
are ended, all revelry is over ; the fellest animosity is dee^dy 
buried, and the most dangerous sins are safely confined by 
the thickly-piled clods of the valley ; vice is dumb and pow- 
erless, and virtue is waiting, in silence, for the trump of the 
archai^gel, and the voice of God. 

'i 1 never shun a grave-yard, and I entered this. There 
Were trees growing in it, here and there, though it was not 
regularly planted ; and I thought that it looked better than if 
it had been. The only paths were those, which had been 
worn by the slow feet of sorrow and sympathy, as they fel* 
lowed love and friendship to the grave : and this, too, was 
well ; for I dislike a smoothly rolled gravel-walk in a place- 
tike this. In a corner of the ground rose a gentle knoU, the 
top of which was covered by a clump of pinea. Here my 


walk ended ; I threw myself down on the slippery couch of 
withered pine leaves, which the breath of many winters had 
shaken from the boughs above, leaned my head upon my 
hand, and gave myself up to the feelings, which the j^ace 
and the time excited. 

The sun's edge had just touched the ' hazy outlines of the 
western hills ; it was the signal for the breeze to be hushed, 
and it was breathing like an expiring infant, softly, and at 
Aslant intervals, before it died away. The trees before me, 
as the wind passed over them, waved to and fro, and trailed 
their long branches across the tomb-stones, with a low^ 
moaiiing sound, which fell upon the ear like the voice of 
grief, and seemed to utter the conscious tribute of nature's 
sympathy, over the laist abode of mortal man. A low, con- 
fosed hum came from the village ; the brook was murmuring 
in the wood behind me ; and, lulled by all these soothing 
sounds, I fell asleep. 

But whether my eyes closed, or not, I am unable to say ; 
for the same scene appeared to be before them ; the same 
trees were waving, and not a green mound had changed 
its form. I was still ^contemplating the same trophies of the 
nnsparing victor, the same mementoes of human evanescence. 
Some were standing upright ; others were inclined to the 
ground; some were sunk so deeply in the earth, that their blue 
tops were just visible above the long grass which surrounded 
them; and others were spotted or covered with the thin 
yellow moss of the grave-yard. I was reading the inscriptions 
OD the stones which were nearest to me : they recorded the 
virtues of those who slept beneath them, and told the travel* 
ler that they hoped for a happy rising. 

Ah! said I — or I dreamed that I said so — ^this b the 
testimony of wounded hearts — the fond belief of that affec- 
tion, which remembers error and evil no longer ; but codtd 
the grave give up its dead-— could they, who have been brought 
to Aese cold, dark houses, go back again into the land of the 
living, and once more number the days which they had 
ipent there — how differently would they then spend them ! 
and when they came to die, how much firmer would be their 
1k^ ! and when they were again laid in the ground, how 
much more faithful would be the tales, which l\ve^ ^^SfiA 



Stones would teU over them I The epitaph of praise would be 
well deserved by their virtues, and the silence of partiality 
no longer required for their sins. 

I had scarcely spoken, when the ground began to tremble 
beneath me. Its motion, hardly perceptible at first, increased 
every moment in violence, and it soon heaved and struggled 
fearfully ; while in the short quiet, between shock and shock, 
I ^ heard such unearthly sounds, that the very blood in my 
heart felt cold ; subterraneous cries and groans issued from 
every part of the grave-yard, and these were mingled with a 
hollow, crashing noise, as if the mouldering bones were 
bursting from their coffins. 

Suddenly all these sounds stopped; the earth on each 
grave was thrown up ; and human figures, of every age, and 
clad in the garments of death, rose from the ground, and 
stood by the side of their grave-stones. Their arms were 
crossed upon their bosoms ; their countenances were deadly 
pale, and raised to heaven. The looks of the young children 
alone were placid and unconscious ; but over the features of 
all the rest, a shadow of unutterable meaning passed and 
repassed, as their eyes turned with terror from the open 
graves, and strained anxiously upward. Some appeared to 
be more calm than others ; and when they looked above, it 
was with an expression of more confidence, though not less 
humility ; but a convulsive shuddering was on the frames of 
all, and on their faces that same shadow of unutterable 
meaning.. While they stood thus, I perceived that their 
bloodless lips began to move ; and, though I heard no voice, 
I knew, by the motion of their lips, that the word would have 
been — Pardon ! 

But this did not continue long : they gradually became 
more fearless ; their features acquired the appearance of se- 
curity, and at last of indifierence ; the blood came to their 
lips ; the shuddering ceased, and the shadow passed away. 

And now the scene before me changed., The tombs and 
grave-stones had been turned, I knew not how, into dweU- 
iqgs ; and the grave-yard became a village. Every now and 
then, I caught a view of the same faces and forms, which I 
had seen before ; but other passions were traced upon their 
faces, and their forms were no J'^nger clad in the garments 


of death. The silence of their still prayer was succeeded 
by the sounds of labor, and society, and merriment. Some- 
times, I could see them meet tc^ether with inflamed features 
and angry words ; and sometimes I distinguished the outcry 
of violence, the oath of passion, and the blasphemy of sin. 
And yet there were a few, who would often come to the 
threshold of their dweUings, and lift their eyes to heaven, 
and utter the still prayer of pardon ; while others, passing by, 
would mock them. 

I was astonished and grieved, and was just going to ex- 
press my feelings, when I perceived, by my side, a beautiful 
and majestic form, taller and brighter than the sons of men, 
and it thus addressed me : '' Mortal, thou hast now seen the 
frailty of thy race, and learned that thy thoughts were vain. 
Even if men should be wakened from their cdd sleep, and 
raised from the grave, the world would still be ftill of entice- 
ment and trials ; appetite would solicit, and passion would 
bom, as strongly as before ; the imperfections of their nature 
would accompany their return, and the commerce of lifo 
would soon obliterate the recollection of death. It is only 
when this scene of things is exchanged for another, that new 
gifts will bestow new powers, that higher objects will banish 
bw desires, that the mind will be elevated by celestial con- 
verse, the soul be endued with immortal vigor, and man be 
prepared for the course of eternity." 

The angel then turned from me, and, with a voice which 
I hear even now, cried, " Back to your graves, ye frail ones ! 
and rise no more, till the elements are melted." Immediately 
a sound swept by me, like the rushing wind ; the dwellings 
shrunk back into their original forms, and I was left alone 
in the grave-yard, with nought but the silent stones and the 
whispering trees around me. 

The son had long been down; a- few of the largest stars 
were timidly beginning to shine, the bats had left their lurking 
places, my cheek was wet with the dew, and I was chilled by 
the breath of evening. I arose, and returned to the inn. 



Qmsumptian. — J. G. Perciyal. 

There is a sweetness in woman's decay, 
When the light of beauty is fading away, 
When the bright enchantment of youth is gome, 
And the tint that glowed, and the eye that shone. 
And darted around its glance of power, 
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower. 
That ever in PsBstum's garden blew. 
Or ever was steeped in fragrant dew, — 
When all, that was bright and faur, is flpd. 
But the loveliness lingering round the dead. 

Oh ! there is a sweetness in Beauty's close, 
Like the perfume scenting the withered rose ; 
For a nameless charm around her plays. 
And her eyes are kindled with hallowed rays. 
And a veil of spotless purity 
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye. 
Like a cloud, whereon the queen of night 
Has poured her softest tint of light ; 
And there is a blending of white and blue. 
Where the purple blood is melting through 
The snow of her pale and tender cheek ; 
And there are tones, that sweetly speak 
Of a spirit who longs for a purer day. 
And is ready to wing her flight away. 

In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling,- 
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing 
Its- silent steps through a flowery path, 
And all the endearments, that Pleasure hath. 
Are poured from her full, o'erflowing horn, 
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn, — 
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song. 
The maiden may trip in the dance along. 


And think of the passing moment, that lies, 
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes, 
And yield to the present, that charms around 
With all that is lovely in sight and sound, 
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit. 
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit, 
And the music that steals to the bospm's core, 
And the heart, in its fulness, flowing o'er 
With a few big drops, that are soon repressed ; 
For short is the stay of grief in her breast : — 
In this enlivened and gladsome hour, 
The spirit may burn with a brighter power ; 
But dearer the calm and quiet day, 
When the Heaven-sick soul is stealing away. 

And when her sun is low declining. 
And life wears out with no repining. 
And the whisper, that tells of early death. 
Is soil as the west wind's balmy breath. 
When it comes at the hour of still repose. 
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose ; ^ 

And the lip, that swelled with a living glow. 
Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow ; 
And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, 
But the hectic spot that flushes there, — 
When the tide of life from its secret dwelling. 
In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling. 
And giving a tinge to her icy lips, 
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips, 
As richly red, and as transient too, 
As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue, . 
That seem like a host of glory met 
To honor the sun at his golden set : — 
Oh! then, when the spirit is taking wing, 
How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling ! 

So fondly the panting camel flies. 
Where the glassy vapor cheats his eyes. 
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, 
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast. 


And though her dying voice be mute, 
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute^ 
And though the glow from her cheek be fled. 
And her pale lips coUl as the marble dead, 
Her eye still beams unwonted fires, 
With a woman's love and a saint's desires, 
And her last, fond, lingering look is given 
To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven, 
As if she would bear that love away 
To a purer ^orld and a brighter day. 


- jf 

"^^The Wife. — ^Washington Irving. 

I nkt^ often had occasion to remark the fortitude, wr 
which cwomen sustain the most overwhelming reverses < 
fortune. Those disasters, which break down the spirit of 
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all tl 
energies of the sofler sex, and give such intrepidity ai 
elevation to their character, that, at times, it approaches 
sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to beho 
a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness ai 
dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while trea 
ing the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in ment 
force to be the comforter and supporter •f her husband u 
der misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, tl 
bitterest blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful folia| 
about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, wh( 
the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling roui 
it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shatteri 
boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, th 
woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man i 
his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smittf 
with sudden calamity ; winding herself into the ruggod v 
cesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping boft* 
and binding up the broken heart. 


Ilras once congratnlating a friend, who had around him 
* a Uooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. 
"I can wish you no better lot/' said he, with enthusiasm, 
"than to have a wife and childrea.' ' If you are prosperous, 
there they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there 
they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed 
that a married man, falling into misfortune, is more apt to 
retrieve his situatioB-in the world than a single one; partly, 
•' because he is move tlimulated to exertion by the necessities 
I of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for 
sabsistence ; but chiefly, because his spirits arc soothed and 
relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect is kept 
alifc by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and 
humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of 
which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run 
to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and aban- 
doned ; and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted man- 
cion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been 
brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is 
tme, no fortune ; but that of my friend was ample, and he 
delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant 
pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies, 
that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. *'Her life," 
said be, ** shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced a harmo- 
nious combination : he was of a romantic, and somewhat 
serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often 
noticed the mute rapture, with which he would gaze upon her 
in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the 
delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would 
atill turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and ac- 
ceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form 
contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The fond, 
ecmfiding air, with which she looked up to him, seemed to 
can forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tender- 
nen, as if he doated on his lovely burthen for its very 
kel^>leMiiefi0. Never did a couple set forward, ou i\i& Qo^'^i^ 


path of early and well suited marriage, with a fairer pros 
of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to I 
embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had 
been married many months, when, by a succession of sue 
disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himsel: 
duced to almost penury. For a time, he kept his situatic 
himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, ai 
breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; 
what rendered it more insupportable was, the necessit; 
keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he c 
not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. 

She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, th? 
was. not well with him. She marked his altered looks anc 
fled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and v 
attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly po 
and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness ; 
she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The mor 
saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the tho 
that he was soon to make her wretched. A little w 
thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek ; 
song will die away from those lips ; the lustre of those 
will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, w 
now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down, 
mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me, one day, and related his w 
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I 
heard him through, I inquired, " Does your wife kno\« 
this ?" At the question, he burst into an agony of U 
" For God's sake !" cried he, " if you have any pity on 
don't mention my wife ; it is the thought of her that di 
me almost to madness !" 

" And why not ?" said I. " She must know it, soonc 
later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligc 
may break upon her in a more startling manner than if 
parted by yourself; for the accents of those we love so 
the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yoursel 
the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but 
endangering the only bond that can keep hearts togethc 
an unreserved comiDunity of thought and feeling. She 


HMO perceive, that something is secretly preying upon yoor 
mind ; and true love will not brook reserve : it feels under- 
valued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves 
lie concealed from it" 

"Oh ! but, my friend, to think what a blow I am to give to 

iH her future prospects ! how I am to strike her very soul to 

the earth, by teUing her that her husband is A beggar 1 that 

ihe is to forego all the elegances of life, all the pleasures of 

society, to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! 

to tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere, 

in which she might have continued to move in constant 

brightness — ^the light of every eye — ^the admiration of every 

heart ! — How can she bear poverty ? She has been brought 

op in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear 

neglect ? She has been the idol of society. Oh ! it will break 

her heart — it will break her heart !" 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for 
sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had 
nibsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resum- 
ed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation. 
It once, to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but 

" But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary 

ihe should know it, that you may take the steps proper to 

he alteration of your circumstances. You must change your 

(tyle of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his 

x>untenance, ** don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have 

lever placed your happiness in outward show ; you have yet 

Hends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you 

br being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not re- 

•piire a palace to be happy with Mary — " " I could be happy 

with her," cried he, convulsively, ** in a hovel ! — I could 

lodown with her into poverty and the dust! — I could — I 

twld — God bless her I— -God bless her !" cried he, bursting 

Btto a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and 

pttping him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be 

k same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride 

Hd triumph to her ; it will call forth all the latent energies 


proTe that she lores you for yourself. There is, in erery true 
woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant 
in the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, 
and beams and blazes, in the dark hour of adversity. No 
man knows what the wife of his bosom is— no man knows 
what a ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her 
through the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, 
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the 
excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to 
deal with ; and, following up the impression I had made, I 
finished by persuading him to go home, and unburthen his 
sad heart to his wife. 

Tke s(ime, — concluded. 

I MUST confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the, 
fortitude of one, whose whole life has been a round of pleas- ' 
ures ? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward- 
path of low humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and 
might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto 
revelled. Besides, ruin, in fashionable life, is accompanied 
by so many galling mortifications, to which, in other ranks, it 
is a stranger. In short, I could not meet Leslie, the next 
morning, without trepidation. He had made the disclosnre. 

"And how did she bear it?" 

"Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her 
mind ; for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if 
this was all, that had lately made ine unhappy. — ^Bnt, poor 
girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must 
undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract : 
she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. 
She feels, as yet, no privation : she suffers no loss of w> 
customed conveniences or elegances. When we coma 
practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its 
^^etty humiliations — then will be the real trial." 


" But/' said I« ** now that you have got over the severest 
task, — that of breaking it to her, — ^the sooner you let the world 
into the secret the better. The disclosure may be morti- 
tjfing ; but then it is a single misery, and soon over ; whereas 
fou otherwise sufier it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. 
It is not poverty, so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined 
man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty 
parse; the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come 
to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm 
poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie 
perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and, as to 
lus wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered 

Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the evening. 
He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small 
cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been 
busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establish- 
ment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. 
All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, 
excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely 
associated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little 
story. of their loves; for some of the sweetest moments of 
thnr courtship were those when he had leaned over that 
instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. 
I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry 

in a doatihg husband. 
He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 

been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings 

iiad become strongly interested in the progress of this family 

itory, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as we 

Wilked out, feU into a fit of gloomy musing. 
"Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from 

" And what of her V* asked I ; " has any thing happened to 


"Whatt" said he, darting an impatient glance; " is it noth- 
I i|to be reduced to thi^paltry situation? to be caged in q. 




miserable cottage ? to be obliged to toil almost in the menial 
concerns of her wretched habitation ?" 

" Has she, t^|en, repined at the change ?" 

*' Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
comfort !" 

" Admirable girl I" exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor, 
my friend ; you never were so rich : you never knew the 
boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that 


" Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage 
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is 
her first day of real experience : she has been introduced 
into an humble dwelling ; she has been employed all day in 
arranging its miserable equipments ; she has, for the first 
time, known the fatigues of domestic emplo3rment j she has, 
for the first time, looked around her on a home destitute of 
every thing elegant ; almost of every thing convenient ; and 
may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding 
over a prospect of fixture poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture, that I 
could not gainsay ; so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so 
thickly shaded by forest trees, as to give it a complete air of 
seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble 
enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet 
it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one 
end with a profusion of foliage;, a few trees threw their 
branches gracefully over it ; and I observed several pots of 
flowers, tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass- 
plot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath, 
that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we 
approached, we heard the sound of music. Leslie grasped 
jny arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice, 
singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little 
air, of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped fi»- 
ward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the 


grarel-walk. A bright, beautiM face glanced out at Ham 
window, and vanished ; a light footstep was heard, and Miiy 
came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rartl 
drv^ of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her file 
hair; afresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole counte- 
nance beamed with smiles. I had never seen her look 00 

"My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are 
come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; and 
fanning down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set 
oat a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and 
Tve been gathering some of the most delicious strawberrie*, 
for I know you are fond of them ; and we have such excel- 
lent cream, and every thing is so sweet and still here. — Oh 1" 
said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly 
in his face, " Oh ! we shall be so happy !" 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom; 
he folded his arms round her ; he kissed her again and again ; 
—he could not speak ; but the tears gushed into his eyes ; 
and he has oflen assured me, that though the world has since 
gone prosperously with him, and his life has indeed been a 
happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of miHre 
exquisite felicity 

Elysium, — Mrs. Hemans 

Fair wert thou, in the dreams 
Of ^elder time, thou land of glorious flowers. 
And summer-winds, and low-toned, silvery streams. 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers ! 

Where, as they passed, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 


Pair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, 
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, 
Tet soli, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains! — but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swdl of deep Eolian' sound went by. 
From fountain vpices in their secret glades. 
And low r^d-whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh ! 
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath. 
Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death ! 

And the traikparent sky 
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to t]ie strain 
Of harps that, midst the woods, made harmony 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreams and yearnings vain. 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the bewildering music of the earth. 

And who, wifh silent tread. 
Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel ? 
Who, called and severed from the countless dead, 
Amidst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell. 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale? 

They of the swbrd) whose praise. 
With the bright wine at nation's feasts, went round I 
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays. 
On the morn's wing, had sent their mighty sound, 

And, in all regions, found 
Their echoes midst the mountains ! — and become, 
In man's deep heart, as voices of his home I 


They of the dariog thought ! - f 

Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied , 
Wliose flight through stars, and seas, and depths^ had iMi|^ 
The soul's far birth-place — ^but without a guidal 

Sages and seers, who died^ 
And left the world their high mysterious dreamt, 
Born midst the olire-woods, by Grecian streima. 

But they, of whose abode^ 
Midst her green valleys, earth retained no traice. 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred flu^e, 

• A void and silent place 
In some sweet home ; — ^thou hadst no wreaths ton iX^ 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees! 

The peasant, at his door, 
Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were apraad. 
And songs on every wind ! — ^From thy bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head ; 

Thou wert for nobler dead I 
He heard the bounding steps which round him Uflp 
And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell I 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Shut up the woes and burning thoughts oi yearSi 
As in the ashes of an urn comprest ; 

— He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Game o'er his path, and whispered, ** Liberty V* 

Calm, on its ledf-strown bier. 
Unlike a gift of nature to decay. 
Too rose-like still, too beautifrd, too dear. 
The child at rest before its mother lay ; 

E'en so to pass away. 
With its bright smile !-— Elysium ! what wert ikim. 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's tMif t 


Thou hadst no home, green land, 
F(Hr the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
With life's first flowers just opening in her hand. 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown. 

Which in its clear eye shone. 
Like the spring's wakening ! — But that light was pastr 
— Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast t 

Not where thy soft winds played. 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! — 
Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade ! 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep. 

And bade man cease to weep I 
Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love ! 

For the most lo^ed are they. 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice 
In regal haUs ! the shades o'erhang their way ; 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice. 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ! — till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And the world knows not then, — 
Not then, nor ever, — ^what pure thoughts are fled ! 
Yet these are they, that, on the souls of men. 
Come back, when Night her folding veil hath spread, 

The long-remembered dead I 
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell — 
•—Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel I 4. 

LESSON xxvm. 

Better Moments.— Wujas. 

Ht mother's voice ! how oflen creep 
Its accents o'er my lonely hours I . 

Like healing sent on wings of sleep. 
Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 


i can forget her melting prayer. 

While leaping pulses madly fly ; 
But in the still, unbroken air. 

Her gentle tones come stealing by. 
And years, and sin, and manhood. Am, 
And leave me at my mother's knee. 

The book of nature, and the print 

Of beauty on the whispering sea. 
Give aye to me some lineament 

Of what I have been taught to be. 
My heart is harder, and perhaps 

My manliness hath drunk up tears, 
And there's a mildew in the lapse 

Of a few miserable years ; 
But nature's book is even yet 
With aU my mother's lessons writ. 

I have been out, at eventide. 

Beneath a moonlit sky of spring, 
When earth was garnished like a bride, 

And night had on her silver wing — 
When bursting leaves, and diamond grass. 

And waters leaping to the light, 
And all that make the pulses pass 

With wilder fleetness, thronged the night; 
When all was beauty — then have I, 

With friends on whom my love is flung. 
Like myrrh on winds of Araby, 

Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung. 

And, when the beauteous spirit there 

Flung over me its golden chain. 
My mother's voice came on the air. 

Like the light dropping of the rain, 
Showered on me from some silver star: 

Then, as on childhood's bended knee^ 
I've poured her low and fervent prayer 

That our eternity might be, 



To rise in heaven, like stars at night. 
And tread a living path of light. 

I have been on the dewy hills. 

When night was stealing from the dawn. 
And mist was on the waking rills, 

And tints were delicately drawn 
In the gray east, — ^when birds were waking,-- > 

With a slow murmur, in the trees, 
And melody by fits was breaking 

Upon the whisper of the breeze, — 
And this when I was forth, perchance, 
As a worn reveller from the dance ; — 

And when the sun sprang gloriously 
And freely up, and hill and river 

Were catching, upon wave and tree, 
Thersubtile arrows from his quiver, — 

I say, a voice has thrilled me then, 

vHeard on the still and rushing light, 
Or creeping from the silent glen. 

Like words from the departing night — ^ 
Hath stricken me, and I have pressed 

On the wet grassi my fevered brow, 
And, pouring forth the earliest, 

Fj^rst prayer, with which I learned to bow« 
Have felt my mother's spirit rush 

Upon ine, as in by-past years, 
And^ yielding to the blessed gush 

Of my ungovernable tears, 
Have risen up— 4he gay, the wild — 
As humble as a very child. 


The Mountain of Miseries. — ^ADMSoif. 

It ifl a celebrated thought of Spcrates, that, if all the 
iWfiMrtiinff of mankind were cast into a public stock, in 


fxder to be equally distributed among ifae whole species^ 
those who now think themselves the most unhappy, would 
prefer the share they are already i>0S8e8sed of, before t&at 
which would fall to them by such a division. 

As I was ruminating upon this remark, 1 insensibly felt 
asleep; when, on a sudden, methought there was a proclamap 
tion made by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his 
grie& and calamities, and throw them together in a hei^). 
There was a large plain appointed for this purpose. I took my 
stand in the centre of it, and saw, with a great deal of pleas- 
are, the whole human species marching one after another, 
and throwing down their several loads, which immediately 
grew up into a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above 
the clouds. 

There was a certain lady, of a thin, airy shape, who was 
Tery active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying 
glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a loose, flowing 
robe, embroidered with several figures of fiends and i^ctres^ 
that discovered themselves in a thousand chimerical shapes, 
as her garment hovered in the wind. There was something 
wild and distracted in her looks. Her name was Fancy. 
She led up every mortal to the appointed place, afler having 
very officiously assisted him in making up his pack, and lay- 
ing it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me, to 
see my fellow-creatures groaning under their respective 
burdens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of human 
calamities which lay before me. 

There were, however, several persons who gave me great 

diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in a 

fardel, very carefully concealed under an oLd embroidered 

' cloak, which, upon his throwing it into the heap, I discovered 

I to be poverty. Another, after a great deal of puffing, threw 

down his luggage, which, upon examining, I found to be his 


There were multitudes of lovers, saddled with very whimsi- 
cal burdens, composed of darts and flames ; but, what was 
^ery odd, though they sighed as if their hearts would break 
'mder these bundles of calamities, they could not persuade 
, tkemaelves to cast them into the heap, when they came up to 


it; but, after a few faint efforts, shook their heads, and 
marched away as heavy-laden as they came. I saw multi- 
tades of old women throw down their wrinkles, and several 
young ones strip themselves of a* tawny skin. There were 
very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty teeth. 
The truth of it is, I was surprised to see the greatest part of 
the mountain made up of bodily deformities. Observing one 
advancing towards the heap, with a larger cargo than ordinary 
upon his back, I found, upon his near approach, that it was 
only a natural hump, which he disposed of, with great joy of 
heart, among this collection of human miseries. 

There were likewise distempers of all sorts; though I 
could not but observe, that there were many more imaginary 
than real. One little packet I could not but take notice of, 
which was a complication of all the diseases incident to hu- 
man nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people : 
this was called the spleen. But what most of all surprised 
me, was, that there was not a single vice or folly thrown into 
the whole heap ; at which I was very much astonished, hav- 
ing concluded within myself, that every one would take this 
opportunity of getting rid of his passions, prejudices, and 

I took notice, in particular, of a very profligate fellow, who, 
I did not question, came loaded with his crimes ; but, upon 
searching into his bundle, I found, that, instead of throwing 
his guilt from him, he had only laid down his memory. . He 
was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away his 
modesty instead of his ignorance. 

When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their bur- 
dens, the phantom, which had been so busy on this occasion, 
seeing me an idle spectator of what had passed, approached 
towards me. I grew uneasy at her presence, when, of a 
sudden, she held her magnifying glass full before my eyes. 
I no sooner saw my face in it, but I was startled at the. short- 
ness of it, which now appeared to me in its utmost aggrava- 
tion. The immoderate breadth of the features made me 
very much out of humor with my own countenance^ upon 
which, I threw it from me like a mask. It happened, very 
luckily, that one who stood by me had, just before, thrown 


Ljwn his visage, which, it seems, was too long for him. It 
nras, indeed, extended to a most shameful length ; I beliefv 
the very chin was, modestly speaking, all long as my 
whole face. 

The same, — concluded. 

As we were regarding, very attentively, this confbsion of 
miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued a second proc- 
lamation, that every one was now at liberty to exchange his 
affliction, and to return to his habitation with any such other 
bundle as should be delivered to him. 

Upon this. Fancy began again to bestir herself, and, par- 
celling out the whole heap with incredible activity, recom- 
mended to every one his particular packet. The hurry and 

confusion, at this time, was not to be expressed It 

was pleasant enongh to see the several exchanges that were 
maae, for sickness against poverty, hunger against want of 
appetite, and care against pain. 

The female world were very busy among themselves in 
bartering for features : one was trucking a lock of gray hairs 
for a carbuncle, another was making over a short waist for a 
pair of roimd shoulders, and a third cheapening a bad face 
for a lost reputation ; but, on all these occasions, there was 
not one of them who did not think the new blemish, as soon 
as she had got it into her possession, much more disagreeable 
than the old one. I made the same observation on every 
other misfortune or calamity, which every one in ^the assem- 
bly brought upon himself in lieu of what he had parted with : 
whether it be that all the evils which befall us, are, in some 
measure, suited and proportioned to our strength, or that 
every evil becomes more supportable by our being accustom- 
ed to it, I shall not determine. 

I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend 
with a long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short 
fiice, but he made such a^grotesque figure ia \l)\\i^X,ui\ 


lpoke4 upon )uni» I copld not forbeai* laughing at roysell^ 
momufih ih^X I put my own face out of countenance. The 
pgor gen^^xnan was go aensible of the ridicule, that I found 
he was ashamed of what he had done : on the other side, I 
found that I myself had no great reason to triumph ; for, as 
I went to touch my forehead, I missed the place, and clapped 
my finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was ex- 
ceedingly prominent, J gsive it two or three unlucky knocks,, 
as I was playing my hand about my face, and aiming at some 
other part of it. 

I saw two other gentlemen by me,, who were in the same 
lidiculQn9 pircuipstanc^s. These had made a foolish swop 
l^tiye^n 9, coppte of thick bandy legs and two long trapsticks. 
Qne of these looked like a man walking i^n stilts, and was 
po lifted up into the air, above his ordinary height, that his 
head turned round with it ; while the other made such awk- 
^^^r4 QUrcl^9 fts he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew 
\qw to looye forward upon his new supporters. Observing 
Idm to be a pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck my cane in the 
ground, and told him I would lay him a bottle of wine, that 
lie did not ni^urch up to it, on a line that I drew for him, in 
ft qjuarter of ilq hour. 

The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who 
a^ad^ 4 m09t piteous sight, as they wandered up and down 
lOlder tbc| pressure of their several burdens. The whole plain 
was filled with murmurs and complaints, groans and kunent»> 
I ions. Jupiter, at length, taking compassion on the poor moi^ 
i lb, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with 
a design to give every one his own again. They discharged 
tftemsetyes with a great deal of pleasure : after which, the 
phantom, who had led them into such gross delusions, was 
commanded to disa^^ar. 

There was^sent, in her stead, a goddess of a quite different 
figure : her motions were steady and composed, and her a»* 
pect seriQUQ but cheerftil. Her name was Patience. She had 
no sooner placed herself by the Mount of Sorrows, but, what 
I thought very remarkable, the whole heap sunk to such a 
degree, that it did not appear a third part so big as it wai 
before. She afterwards returned every man his own propev 
calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most ooid 


iM)diou8 manner; he marched off with it contentedly, being 
ery well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice^ 
B to the kind of evils which fell to his lot. 

Besides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of 
bis vision, I learned from it never to repine at my own misfor- 
cmes, nor to envy the happiness of another ; since it is impos- 
Me for any man to form a right judgment of his neighbor's 
offerings : for which reason, also, I have determined never 
D think too lightly of another's complaints, but to regard the 
orrows of my fellow-creatures with sentimeixts of humanity 
nd compassion. 


Advantages of a Taste for the Beauties of Nature. — 


That perception and sensibility to beauty, which, when 
ultivated and improved, we term taste, is most general and 
miform with respect to those objects, which are not liable to 
ariation from accident, caprice, or fashion. The verdant 
iwn, the shady grove, the variegated landscape, the bound- 
ess ocean, and the' starry firmament, are contemplated with 
Measure by every beholder. But the emotions of different 
pectators, though similar in kind, differ widely in degree ; 
or, to relish with full delight the enchanting scenes ofnajnjf^- 
he mind must be uncorrupted by avarice^ -seiisuality, or am- 
otion ; quick in her sensibilities, elevated in her sentiments, 
md devout in her affections. 

If this enthusiasm were cherished by each individual, in 
that degree which is consistent with the indispensable duties 
of his station, the felicity of human life would be considera^ 
My augmented. From this source the refined and vivid 
pleasures of the imagination are almost entirely derived, 
"nie elegant arts owe their choicest beauties to a taste for the 
contemplation of nature. Painting and sculpture are ex- 
pTttB imitations of visible objects : and where would be th; 
, chirms of poetry, if divested of the imagery and eTD[\:ic^[^u^ 


nMBffkts which 9he borrows from rural scenes? Painters, 
statuaries and poets, therefore, are always ambitious to ac- 
knowledge themselves the pupils of nature ; and, as their 
skin increases, they grow more and more delighted with 
eTery view of the animal and vegetable world. 

The scenes of nature 'contribute powerfully to in^ire that 
serenity^ which heightens their beauties, and is necesstey to 
our full enjoyment of them. By a secret sympathy^ the soul 
catphes the harmony which sh^contemplates;jand the frame 
within assimilates itself to that without In this state of 
sweet composure, we become susceptible of virtuous impres- 
sions from almost every surrounding object The patient ox 
is viewed with generous complacency ; the guileless sheep, 
with pity ; and the playfril lamb, with emotions of tenderness 
and love. We rejoice with the horse in his liberty and ex- 
emption from toil, while he ranges at large through enamelled 
pastures. We are charmed with the songs of birds, soothed 
with the buzz of insects, and pleased with the sportive motion 
of fishes, because these are expressions of enjoyment ; and, 
having felt a common interest in the gratifications of inferior 
bf^ifigs, we shall be no longer indifferent to their sufferings, 
or, become wantonly instrumental in producing them. 

But the taste for natural beauty is subservient to higher 
pifrposes, than those which have been enumerated. The 
cultivation of it not only refines and humanizes, but dignifies 
ai)4:6x^ts the affections. It elevates them to the admiration 
and love of that Being, who is the Author of all that is fair, 
8u|)lime and good ip the creation. ( ScepticisnOand irreligion 
are hardly CCSpatible with the sensibility of heart, which 
arises from a just and lively relish of the wisdom, harmony 
and order subsisting in the world around us. Emotions of 
picity must spring up spontaneously in the bosom, that is in 
nnispn with all animated nature. Actuated by this beneficial 
and divine inspiratiop, man finds a fane in every grove ; and, 
glpwing with devout fervor, he joins his song to the universal 
chorus, or muses the praise of the Almighty in more express* 


LESSON xxxn. 

The Common Ijot^-NLomooMMaLY, 

Okcb, in the flight of ages past. 

There lived a man : — and who was hef— 
Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast. 

That man resembled thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth ; 

The land in which he died nnknowft : 
Hb name has perished from the earth ; 

This truth survives alone • — 

That joy and grief, and hope and fear, 
Alternate, triumphed in his breast ; 

His bliss and wo, — a smile, a tear : — • 
Oblivion hides the rest. 

The bounding ^ulse, the languid limb. 
The changing spirits' rise and fall,— 

We know that these were felt by him, 
Fix these are felt by all. 

He snflTered, — but his pangs are o'er ; 

Enjoyed,— but his delights are fled ; 
Had friends, — his friends are now no more ; 

And foes, — ^his foes are dead. 

He loved, — ^but whom he loved, the grave 
Hath lost in its unconscious womb : 

Oh ! she was fair ; but nought could save 
Her beauty from the tomb. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encountered all that trouMes thee : 
He was whatever thou hast been : 

He is what thou shalt be 


The rolling seasons, day and night, 

Sun, moon and stars, the earth and maiOy 

Erewhile his portion, life and light, 
To him exist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
That once their shades and glory threw. 

Have left in yonder silent sky 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race, 
Their ruins since the world began, 

Of him afford no other trace 

Than this, — there lived a man. 


The Deserted Wife, — J. G. Percival. 

He comes not. I have watched the moon go down, 

But yet he comes not. Once it was not so. 

He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow. 
The while he holds his riot in that town. 

Yet he will come and chide, and I shall weep ; 

And he will wake my infant from its sleep. 
To blend its feeble wailing with my tears. 

Oh ! how I love a mother's watch to keep 
Over those sleeping eyes, — that smile, which cheers 

My heart, though sunk in sorrow fixed and deep ! 

I had a husband once, who loved me. Now 
He ever wears a frown upon his brow. 

But yet I cannot hate. Oh ! there were hours. 
When I could hang forever on his eye, 
And Time, who stole with silent swiftness by, 

Strowed^ as he hurried on, his path with flowers. 


I loved him then — he loved me too. My heart 

Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile ; 
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart ; 
And though he often sting me with a dart, 

Yenomed and barbed, and waste, upon the vile. 
Caresses, which his babe and mine should share ; 
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear 

His madness ; and, should sickness come, and lay 
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then 

I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay. 

Until the penitent should weep, and say. 
How injured and how faithful I had been. 

The Last Man, — CAifpsELL. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom^ 

The Sun himself must die. 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality. 
I saw a vision in my sleep. 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of Time : 
I saw the last of human mould, 
That shall Creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime. 

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare. 

The Earth with age was wan; 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man. 
Some had expired in fight, — ^the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands, — 

In plague and famine some : 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
And ships were drifting, with the dead. 

To 8lu>res where all was dumb. 



Yet, prophetrlike, that lone one stood, 

Witht dauntless ivords and high. 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood^ 

/As if a storm passed by, 
Saying, " We're twins in death, proud Sun : 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, — 

*Tis Mercy bids thee go ; 
For thou, ten thousand thousand years. 
Hast seen the tide of human tears. 

That shall no longer flow. 

" What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill, 
And arts that made fire, flood and earthy 

The vassals of his will ; — 
Yet mourn not I thy parted sway. 
Thou dim, discrowned king of day ; 

For all those trophieci- arts 
And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, 
Healed not a passion or a pang. 

Entailed on human hearts. 

" Go, let Oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men. 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again : 
Its piteous pageants bring not back. 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe ; 
Stretched in Disease's shapes abhorred. 
Or mown in battle by the sword. 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

" E'en I am weary, in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire ; 
Test of all sumless agonies. 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips, that speak* thy dirge of death — 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 


To see thou shalt not boast : 
The eclipse of nature spreads my j>aU,- 
The majesty of Darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost. 

*' This spirit shall return to Him 

That gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark. 
No ; it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 

By Him recalled to breath. 
Who captive led Captivity, 
Who robbed the grave of Victory, 

And took the sting from Death. 

" Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up. 

On Nature's awful waste. 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — . 
Go, tell that night which hides thy face 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race. 

On Earth's sepulchral clod. 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his immortality. 

Or shake his trust in God." 



Government of the Temper, — Mrs. Chapone. 

The principal virtues or vices of a woman, must be of a 
private and domestic kind. Within the circle of her own 
family and dependents lies her sphere of action ; the scene 
Df almost all those tasks and trials, which must determine 
ber character and her fate, here and hereafter. Reflect, for 
I moment, liow much the happiness of her husband, children 
uid serrantfl, must depend on her temper, and you \\'v\\ ^.^ 


that the greatest good or evil, which she ever may have in 
her power to do, may arise firom her correcting or indulging 
its infirmities. • • • • 

It is true, we are not all equally happy in our dispositions; 
but human virtue consists in cherishing and cultivating every 
good inclination, and in checking and subduing every pro- 
pensity to evil. If you had been born with a bad temper, it 
might have been made a good one, at least with regard to its 
outward effects, by education, reason and principle; and, 
though you are so happy as to have a good one while young 
do not suppose it will always continue so, if you neglect to 
maintain a proper command over it. Power, sickness, dis* 
appointments, or worldly cares, may corrupt and imbitter 
the finest disposition, if they are not counteracted by reascm 
and religion. 

It is observed that every temper is inclined, in some degree, 
either to passion, peevishness, or. obstinacy. Many are so 
unfortunate as to be inclined to each of the three in turn : it 
is necessary, therefore, to watch the bent of our nature, and 
to apply the remedies proper for the infirmity to which we 
are most liable. With regard to the first, it is so injurious to 
society, and so odious in itself, especially in the female char- 
acter, that one would think shame alone would be sufficient 
to preserve a young woman from giving way to it ; for it is 
as unbecoming her character to be betrayed into ill-behavior 
by passion as by intoxication ; and she ought to be ashamed of 
the one as much as of the other. Gentleness, meekness and 
patience are peculiar distinctions ; and an enraged woman 
is one of the most disgusting sights in nature. 

It is plain, from experience, that the most passionate peo- 
ple can command themselves, when they have a motive su^ 
ficiently strong, such as the presence of those they fear, or 
to whom they particularly desire to recommend themselves. 
It is, therefore, no excuse to persons, whom you have injured 
by unkind reproaches and unjust aspersions, to tell them 
you were in a passion: the allowing yourself to speak tD 
them in a passion, is a proof of an insolent disrespect, which 
the meanest of your fellow-creatures would have a right to- 

When once you find yourself heated so far, as to desire to 



iftjwhal you know would be provoking and wounding lo 
UKyther, you should immediately resolve either to be silent, 
or to quit the room, rather than give utterance to any thing 
dictated by so bad an inclination. Be assured, you are then 
anfit to reason or to reprove, or to hear reason from others. 
It is, therefore, your part to retire from such an occasion to 
sin ; and wait till you are cool, before you presume to judge 
of what has passed. 

By accustoming yourself thus to conquer and disappoint 
your anger, you will, by degrees, find it grow weak and 
.manageable, so as to leave your reason at liberty. You will 
be able to restrain your tongue from evil, and your looks and 
gestures from all expressions of violence and ill-will. Pride, 
which produces so many evils in the human mind, is the 
great source of passion. Whoever cultivates in himself a 
proper humility, a due sense of his own faults and insui^ 
ficiencies, and a due respect for others, will find but small 
temptation to violent or unreasonable anger. 

In the case of real injuries, which justify and call for re- 
sentment, there is a noble and generous kind of anger, a 
proper and necessary part of our nature, which has nothing 
in it sinful or degrading. I would not wish you insensible 
to this ; for the person, who feels not an injury, must be inca- 
pable of being properly affected by benefits. With those 
who treat you ill, without provocation, you ought to maintain 
your own dignity. 

But, in order to do this, whilst you show a sense of their 
improper behavior, you must preserve calmnese, and even 
good-breeding; and thereby convince them of the impo- 
tence, as well as injustice, of their malice. You must 
also weigh every circumstance with candor and charity, and 
consider whether your showing the resentment deserved, 
may not produce ill consequences to innocent persons ; and 
whether it may not occasion the breach of some duty, or 
necessary connexion, to which you ought to sacrifice even 
ytrar just resentments. 

Above all things, take care that a particular offence to you 
does not make you unjust to the general character of the 
oQbnding person. Generous anger does not preclude esteem 
for whatever is really estimable, nor does it destroy good-\V^ 



to the person of its object; it even inspires the desii ' 
overcoming him by benefits, and wishes to inflict no c 
punishment, than the regret of having injured one who de- 
served his kindness ; it is always placable, and ready to be 
reconciled, as soon as the offender is convinced of his error ; 
nor can any subsequent injury provoke it to recur to past 
disobligations, which had been once forgiven. 

The consciousness of injured innocence naturaUy pro- 
duces dignity, and usually prevents excess of anger. Our 
passion is most unruly, when we are conscious of blame, and 
when we apprehend that we have laid ourselves open to con- 
tempt. Where we know we have been wrong, the least 
injustice in the degree of blame imputed to us, excites our 
bitterest resentment; but, where we know ourselves faultless, 
the sharpest accusation excites pity or contempt, rather than 

Peevishness. — Mrs. Chapone. 

Peevishness, though not so violent and fatal in its imme- 
diate effects, is still more unamiable than passion, and, if 
possible, more destructive of happiness, inasmuch as it 
operates more continually. Though the fretful man injures 
us less, he disgusts us more, than the passionate one ; be- 
cause he betrays a low and little mind, intent on trifles, and 
engrossed by a paltry self-love, which knows not how to bear 
the very apprehension of any inconvenience. 

It is self-love, then, which we must combat, when we find 
ourselves assaulted by this infirmity; and, by voluntarily 
enduring inconveniences, we shall habituate ourselves to bear 
them with ease and good-humor, when occasioned by others. 
Perhaps this is the best kind of religious mortification ; as the 
chief end of denying ourselves any innocent indulgences, 
must be to acquire a habit of command over our passions 
and inclinations, particularly such as are likely to lead us 
into evil. 



Another method of conquering this enemy, is to abstract 
our minds from that attention to trifling circumstances, which 
usually creates this uneasiness. Those, who are engaged in 
high and important pursuits, are very little afiected by small 
inconveniences. I would, therefore, wish your mind to have 
always some object in pursuit worthy of it, that it may not be 
(^engrosse^by such as are in themselves scarce worth a mo- 
ment's anxiety. 

It is chiefly in the decline of life, when amusements fail, 
and when the more importunate passions subside, that this 
infirmity is observed to grow upon us ; and perhaps it will 
seldom fail to do so, unless carefully watched, and counter- 
acted by reason. But though the aged and infirm are most 
liable to this evil, — and they alone are to be pitied for it, — yet 
we sometimes see the young, the healthy, and those who 
enjoy most outward blessings, inexcusably guilty of it. 

The smallest disappointment in pleasure, or difficulty in 
the most trifling employment, will put wilful young people out 
of temper ; and their very amusements frequently become 
sources of vexation and peevishness. How often have I seen 
a girl, preparing for a ball, or for some other public appear- 
ance, unable to satisfy her own vanity, fret over every orna- 
ment she put on, quarrel with her maid, with her clothes, her 
hair ; and, growing still more unlovely as she grew more cross, 
be ready to fight with her looking-glass, for not making her 
as handsome as she wished to be ! She did not consider, that 
the traces of this ill-humor on her countenance, would be a 
greater disadvantage to her appearance, than any defect in 
her dress ; or even than the plainest features enlivened by 
joy and good-humor. 

There is a degree of resignation necessary even to the 
enjoyment of pleasure ; we must be ready and willing to give 
up some part of what we could wish for, before we can enjoy 
that which is indulged to us. I have no doubt that she, who 
frets all the while she is dressing for an assembly, will sufler 
still greater uneasiness when she is there. The same craving, 
restless vanity will there endure a thousand mortifications, 
wluchy in the midst of seeming pleasure, will secretly corrode 
her heart ; whilst the meek and humble generally find more 
gratification than they expected, and return home ^ktvsed. 


and enlivened from every scene of amusement, thoogh they 
oould have stayed away from it with perfect ease and 

OhsHnacy, — ^Mrs. Chapone. 

SuLLENNEss, OT obstinacy, is, perhaps, a worse &nk of 
temper than either passion or peevishness ; and, if indulged, 
may end in the most fatal extremes of stubborn melancholy, 
malice and revenge. The resentment which, instead of be- 
ing expressed, is nursed in secret, and continually aggravated 
by the imagination, will, in time, become the ruling passion; 
and then how horrible must be his case, whose kind and 
pleasurable affections are all swallowed up by the tormenting 
as well as detestable sentiments of hatred and revenge I 

Brood not over a resentment, which, perhaps, was at first 
ill-grounded, and which is undoubtedly heightened by a 
heated imagination. But, when you have first subdued your 
own temper, so as to be able to speak calmly, reasonably and 
kindly, then expostulate with the person you su{^se to be in 
fiiult ; hear what she has to say ; and either reconcile your- 
self to her, or quiet your mind under the injury by the- 
principle of Christian charity. 

But if it should appear, that you yourself have been most 
to blame, or if you have been in an error, acknowledge it 
fairly and handsomely ; if you feel any reluctance to do so, 
be certain that it arises from pride, to conquer which is an 
absolute duty. '' A soft answer tumeth away wrath," and a 
generous confession oftentimes more than atones for the fault 
which requires it. Truth and justice demand, that we should 
acknowledge conviction as soon as we feel it, and not main- 
tain an erroneous opinion, or justify a wrong conduct, merely 
from the false shame of confessing our past ignorance. A 
false shame it undoubtedly is, and as impolitic as unjost, 
since your error is already seen by those who endeavor to set 
you right ; but your conviction, and the candor and generosi- 


tj of owning it freely, may still be an honor to you, and would 
greatly recommend you to the person with whom you disputed. 

Nothing is more endearing than such a confession ; and 
joa will find such a satisfaction in your own consciousness, 
and in the renewed tenderness and esteem you will gain fi'om 
the person concerned, that your task, for the future, will be 
made more easy, and your reluctance to be convinced will, 
on every occasion, grow less and less. 

The love of truth, and a real desire of improvement, ought 
to be the only motives of argumentation ; and, where these 
are sincere, no difficulty can be made of embracing the truth, 
as soon as it is perceived. But, in fact, people oflener dis- 
pute from vanity and pride, which make it a grievous 
mortification to allow that we are the wiser for what we have 
heard firom another. To receive advice, reproof and in- 
struction, properly, is the surest sign of a sincere and 
humble heart, and shows a greatness of mind, which 
commands our respect and reverence, while it appears so 
willingly to yield to us the superiority. ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

I know not whether that strange caprice^ that inequality 
of taste and behavior, so commonly ^attributed) to our sex, 
may be properly called a fault of temper ; as it seems not to 
be connected with, or arising from, our animal frame, but to 
be rather the fruit of our own self-indulgence, degenerating, 
by degrees, into such a wantonness of will as knows not how 
to please itself. 

When, instead of regulating our actions by reason and 
principle, we suffer ourselves to be guided by every slight 
and momentary impulse of inclination, we shall, doubtless, 
aj^ar so variable and inconstant, that nobody can guess, 
by our behavior to-day, what may be expected from us 
to-morrow ; nor can we ourselves tell whether what we de- 
lighted in a week ago, will now afford us the least degree of 
pleasure. It is in vain for others to attempt to please us ; 
we cannot please ourselves, though all we could wish for 
waits our choice. Thus does a capricious woman become 
"sick of herself, through very selfishness;^' and, when this 
is the case, it is easy to judge how sick others must be of her, 
and how contemptible and disgusting she must appear. This 
wretched state is the usual consequence of power and flattec^ 



LESSON xxxym. 

Evening Prayer ai a Girts SchooL — ^BfRS. HEMAm. 

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour; the quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 

A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads. 

With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, 

And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer. 

Gaze on, — ^'tis lovely ! childhood's lip and cheek 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought ; 

Gaze— -yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, 
Andnragile things, as but for sunshine wrought ? 

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky. 

What death must fashion for eternity. 

Oh ! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest. 
Lightly, when those pure-orisons^-are done, 

As birds, with slumber's honey-dew oppressed, 
Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun, — 

Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes ;— 

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled firings 
Of hope make n^elody where'er ye tread ; 

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 

Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, 

Is woman's tenderness — ^how soon her wo I 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep. 

And patient smiles to wear through sttfltoing's hour, 
And sumless riches, from Affection's deep, 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 
And to make idols, and to find them clay. 
And to bewail that worship— therefore pray. 


Her lot is on you — ^to be found, ontired, 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired. 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be Tain ;— '» 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 

And, oh ! to love through all things — ^therefore pray. 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time. 
With its' low murmuring sounds and silvery light. 

On through the dark days fading from their prime, 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. 

Earth will forsake— oh ! happy to have given 

The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven ! 


Seasons of Prayer, — H. Ware, Jr. 

To prayer ! to prayer ! — for the morning breaks, 
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. 
His light is on all, below and above — t 
The light of gladness, and life, and love. 
Oh ! then, on the breath of this early air. 
Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. 

Td prayer ! — for the glorious sun is gone. 
And the gathering darkness of night comes on. 
Like a curtain from (rod's kind hand it flows. 
To shade the couch where his children repose. 
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright, 
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night. 

To prayer ! — for the day that God has blest 
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. 
It speaks of creation's early bloom. 
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. 
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, 
And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours. 


There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes. 

For her new-born infant beside her lies. 

Oh I hour of bliss I when the heart overflows 

With rapture a mother only knows : — 

Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ; 

Let it swell up to Heaven for her precious care. 

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band^ 
Where the heart b pledged with the trembling hand. 
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell, 
As the bride bids parents and home farewell 1 
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair. 
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. 

Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, 
And pray for his soul, through him who died. 
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow : — 
Oh ! what are earth and its pleasures now ? 
And what shall assuage his dark despair, 
But the penitent cry of humble prayer ? 

Kneel down at the couch of departing faith. 

And hear the Jast words the believer saith. 

He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; 

There is peace in his eye, that upward bends ; 

There is peace in his calm, confiding air ; 

For his last thoughts are God's, — his last words, prayer. 

The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! — 
A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. 
It commends the spirit to God who gave ; 
It lifls the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ; 
It points to the glory where he shall reign. 
Who whispered, " Thy brother shall rise again/ 

The voice of prayer in the world of bliss ' — 
But gladder, purer than rose from this. 
The ransomed shout to their glorious King, 
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing; 


But a sinless and joyous song they raise, 
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. 

Awake ! awake ! and gird up thy strength. 
To join that holy band at length. 
To Him, who unceasing love displays. 
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise, 
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; 
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven. 

Solitude, — ^Btron. 

'Tis night, wlien meditation bids us feel . 

We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 

Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 

Who with the weight of years would wish to bend. 
When youth itself survives young love and joy ? 

Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend. 
Death hath but little lefr him to destroy ! 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy T 

Thus, bending o'er the vessel's laving side. 

To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, 

And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 

None are so desolate but something dear. 
Dearer than self, possesses or possessed 

A thought, and daims the homage of a tear — 
A flashing pang I of which the weary breast 
Would stilli albei^ in vain, the heavy heart divest. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. 

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell. 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been *, 


To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; — 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrdled* 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen. 

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 

Minions of splendor shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued. 

If we were not, would seem to smile the less. 
Of all -that flattered, followed, sought and sued ; — 
Thb is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! ^ 


Art of Phasing, — Chesterfield. 

The desire of being pleased is universal ; the desire of 
pleasing should be so too. It is included in that great and 
fundamental principle of morality, of doing to others what 
we wish they shoiUd do to us. There are, indeed, some 
moral duties of a much higher nature, but none of a more 
amiable ; and I do not hesitate to place it at the head of the 
minor virtues. 

The manner of conferring favors or benefits 'is, as to 
pleasing, almost as important as the matter itself. Take 
care, then, never to throw away the obligations, which, per- 
haps, you may have it in your power to confer upon others, by 
an air of insolent protection, or by a cold and comfortless 
manner, which stifles them in their birth. Humanity inclineB, 
religion requires, and our moral duties oblige us, as far as we 
are able^ to relieve the distresses and miseries of our feUow- 
creatures : but this is not all ; for a true, heartrfelt benevo- 
lence and tenderness w£.. prompt us to contribute what we 
can to their ease, their amusement, and their pleasure, as 


&r as innocently we may. Let us, then, noi only scatter 
benefits, but even strow flowers, for our fellow-travellers in 
the rugged ways of the world. 

There are some, and but too many in this country par- 
ticularly, who, without the least visible taint of ill-nature or 
malevolence, seem to be totally indifferent, and do not show 
the least desire to please ; as, on the other hand, they never 
designedly offend. Whether this proceeds from a lazy, neg- 
ligent and listless disposition, from a gloomy and melancholic 
nature, firom ill health, low spirits, or from a secret and sullen 
pride, arising fi'om the consciousness of their boasted liberty 
and independence, is hard to determine, considering the va- 
rious movements of the human heart, and the wonderful 
errors of the human head. But, be the cause what it will, 
that neutrality which is the effect of it, makes these people, 
as neutralities always do, despicable, and mere blanks in so- 
ciety. They would surely be roused from their indifference, if 
they would seriously consider the infinite utility of pleasing. 

The person who manifests a constant desire to please, 
places his perhaps small stock of merit at great interest. 
What vast returns, then, must real merit, when thus adorned, 
necessarily bring in ! 

Civility is the essential article toward pleasing, and is 
the result of good nature and good sense : but good-breeding 
IB the decoration, the lustre of civility, and only to bo acquired 
by a minute attention to good company. A good-natured 
ploughman may be intentionally as civil as the politest cour- 
tier ; but his manner oflcn degrades and vilifies the matter ; 
whereas, in good-breeding, the manner always adorns and 
dignifies the matter to such a degree, that I have oflen known 
It give currency to base coin. 

Civility is oflen attended by a ceremoniousness, which 
good-breeding «corrects, but will not quite abolish. A certain 
degree of ceremony is a necessary outwork of manners : 
it keeps the forward and petulant at a proper distance, and is 
t very small restraint to the sensible and to the well-bred 
pirt of the world. 




Politeness. — ^Miss Talbot. 

PouTENEss is the just medium between form and rudenees. 
It is the consequence of a benevolent nature, which al^irs 
itself to general acquaintance in an obliging, unconstrained 
civility, as it does to more particular ones in distinguished 
acts of kindness. This good nature must be directed by a 
justness of sense, and a quickness of discernment, that 
knows how to use every opportunity of exercising it, and to 
proportion the instances of it to^ every character and situation. 
It b a restraint laid by reasoiV'^d benevolence upon every 
irregularity of the temper, Jivhich, in obedience to them, is 
forced to accommodate itself even to the fantastic cares, 
which custom and fashion have established, if, by these 
means, it can procure, in any degree, the satisfaction or good 
opinion of. any part of mankind ; thus paying an obliging 
deference to their judgment, so far as it is not inconsistent 
with the higher obligations of virtue and religion. 

This must be accompanied with an elegance of taste, and 
a delicacy observant of the^'feast trifles, which tend to please 
or to oblige ; and, though its foundation must be rooted in the 
heart, it can scarce be perfect without a complete knowledge 
of the world. . In society, it is the medium that blends all 
different tempers into the most pleasing harmony ; while ii 
imposes silence on the loquacious, and inclines the most 
reserved to furnish their share of the conversation. It r^ 
pi esses the desire of shining alone, and increases the desire 
of being mutually agreeable. It takes off* the edge of raiUerj, 
and gives delicacy to wit. 

To superiors, it appears, in a respectful freedom. No 
gieatness can awe it into servility, and no intimacy can sink 
it into a regardless familiarity. To inferiors, it shows itself 
ill an unassuming good nature. Its aim is to raise them to 
you, not to let you down to them. It at once maintains tll0- 
dignity of your station, and exprefl|te the goodness of yoi 
heart. To equals, it is every ta^jk that is charming; 
studies their inclinations, prevents "their desires, attends 


eFery little exactness of behavior, and all the time appears 
perfectly disengaged and careless. 

Such and so amiable is true politeness ; by people of wrong 
heads and unworthy hearts disgraced in its two extremes ; 
and, by the generality of mankind, confined within the nar- 
row bounds of mere good breeding, which, in truth, is only 
one instance of it. 

There is a kind of; character, which does not, in the least, 
deserve to be reckoned polite, though it is exact in every 
punctilio of behavior ; such as would not, for the world, omit 
paying you the civility of a bow, or fail in -the, least circum- 
stance of decorum. But then these people do this merely 
for their own sake ; whether you arc pleased or embarrassed 
with it, is little of their care. They have performed their 
own parts, and are satisfied. 

Confessions of a hmhfal Man, — Anonymous. 

You must know, that, in my person, I am tall and thin, 
with a fair complexion, and light flaxen hair ; but of such 
extreme sensibility to shame, that, on the smallest subject of 
confusion, my blood all rushes into my cheeks!^|^aving been 
sent to the university, the consciousness of my unhappy fail- 
ing made me avoid society, and I became enamored of a 
college life. But from that peaceful retreat I was called by 
the deaths of my father and of a rich uncle, who lefl me a 
fortune of thirty thousand pounds. 

I now purchased an estate in the country ; and my com- 
pany was much courted by the surrounding families, es- 
pecially by such as had marriageable daughters. Though I 
wished to accept their offered friendship, I was forced 
repeatedly to excuse myself, under the pretence of not being 
^ite settled. Often, when I have rode or walked with 
fill iotention of returning their visits, my heart has failed 
■e u I approached their gates, and I have returned home- 
Ward, reserving to try again the next day. Deterhiined, 



however, at length, to conquer ray timidity, I accepted of an 
invitation to dine with one, whose open, easy manner, left 
me no room to doubt a cordial welcome. 

Sir Thomas Friendly, who lives about two miles distant, b 
a Baronet, with an estate joining to that I purchased. He 
has two sons and five daughters, all grown up, and living, 
with their mother and a maiden sister of Sir Thomas's, at 
Friendly Hall. Conscious of my unpolished gait, I have, 
for some time past, taken private lessons of a professor, who 
teaches " grown gentlemen to dance ;" and though I at first 
found wondrous difficulty in the art he taught, my knowledge 
of the mathematics was of prodigious use in teaching me the 
equilibrium of- my body, and the due adjustment of the centre 
of gravity to the five positions. — Having acquired the art of 
walking without tottering, and learned to make a bow, I 
boldly ventured to obey the Baronet's invitation to a family 
dinner, not doubting but my new acquirements would enable 
me to see the ladies with tolerable intrepidity ; but, alas ! how 
vain arc all the hopes of theory, when unsupported by habit- 
ual practice ! 

As I approached the house, a dinner bell alarmed my fears, 
lest I had spoiled the dinner by want of punctuality. Im- 
pressed with this idea, I blushed the deepest crimson, as my 
name was repeatedly announced by the several livery' ser- 
vants, who ushered me into the library, hardly knowing what 
or whom I saw. At my first entrance, I summoned all my 
fortitude, and made my new-learned bow to Lady Friendly; 
but, unfortunately, in bringing back my lefl foot to the third 
position, I trod upon the gouty toe of poor Sir Thomas, who 
had followed close at my heels, to be the nomenclator of the 
family. The confusion this occasioned in me is hardly to be 
conceived, since none but bashful men can judge of my dis- 
tress. The Baronet's politeness, by degrees, dissipated my 
concern ; and I was astonished to see how far good breeding 
rould enable him to suppress his feelings, and to appear with 
perfect ease aner so painful an accident. 

The cheerfulness of her ladyship, and the familiar chat of 
the young ladies, insensibly led me to throw off my reserve 
and sheepishness, till, at length, I ventured to join the convene 
sation, and even to start fresh subjects. The library beiof 


richly furnished with books in elegant biIlding^^, I conceived 
Sir Thomas to be a man of literature, and ventured to give 
mj opinion concerning the several editions of the Greek 
classics ; in which the Baronet's opinion exactly coincided 
with my own. 

To this subject I was led by observing an edition of Xen- 
ophon in sixteen volumes, which (as I had never before 
heard of such a thing) greatly excited my curiosity, and I 
rose up to examine what it could be. Sir Thomas saw what 
I was about, and, as I supposed, willing to save me trouble, 
rose to take down the book, which made me more eager to 
{Hrevent him, and, hastily laying my hand on the first volume, 
I pulled it forcibly ; but, lo ! instead of books, a board, which, 
by leather and gilding, had been made to look like sixteen 
volumes, came tumbling down, and unluckily pitched upon a 
Wedgewood inkstand on the table under it. In vain did Sir 
Thomas assure me there was no harm ; I saw the ink stream- 
ing from an inlaid table on the Turkey carpet, and, scarce 
knowing what I did, attempted to stop its progress with my 
cambric handkerchief. In the height of this confusion, we 
were informed that dinner was served up ; and I, with joy, 
perceived that the bell, which at first had so alarmed my 
fears, was only the half hour dinner bell. 

In walking through the hall, and suite of apartments, to 
the dining room, I had time to collect my scattered senses, 
and was desired to take my seat betwixt Lady Friendly and 
her eldest daughter at the table. Since the fall of the wood- 
en Xepophon, my face had been continually burning like a 
firebrand ; and I was just beginning to recover myself, and to 
fieel comfortably cool, when cm unlooked-for accident rekin- 
dled all my heat and blushes. Having set my plate of soup 
too near the edge of the table, in bowing to Miss Dinah, 
who politely complimented the pattern of my waistcoat, I 
tumbled the whole scalding contents into my lap. In spite 
of an immediate supply of napkins to wipe the surface of my 
ck>thes, my black silk dress was not stout enough to save me 
from the painfiil effects of this sudden fomentation ; and for 
fome minutes I seemed to be in a boiling caldron ; but, recol- 
ketiiig how Sir Thomas had disguised his torture when I 


trod- upon his toe, I firmly bore my pain in silence, amidst 
the stifled giggling of the ladies and the servants. 

I will not relate the several blunders which I made, during 
the first course, or the distress occasioned by my being desir- 
ed to carve a fowl, or help to various dishes that stood near 
me ; spilling a sauce-boat, and knocking down a salt-cellar : 
rather let me hasten to the second course, where fresh disas- 
ters overwhelmed me quite. 

I had a piece of rich, sweet pudding on my fork, when 
Miss Louisa Friendly begged to trouble me for a pigeon that 
stood near me. In my haste, scarce knowing what I did, I 
whipped the pudding into my mouth, hot as a burning coal. 
It was impossible to conceal my agony ; my eyes were starting 
from their sockets. At last, in spite of shame and resolution, 
I was obliged to drop the cause of torment on my plate. Sir 
Thomas and the ladies all compassionated my misfortune, and 
each advisoJ a different application. One recommended oil, 
another water , lint all agreed that wine was best for drawing 
out the fire ; and a glass of sherry was brought me from the 
sideboard, which I snatched up with eagerness : but, oh t 
how shall I tcU the sequel ? 

Whether the butler by accident mistook, or purposely design- 
ed to drive me mad, he gave me the strongest brandy, with 
which I filled my mouth, already flayed and blistered. To- 
tally unused to every kind of ardent spirits, with my tongue, 
throat and palate as raw as beef, what could I do ? I could 
not swallow ; and, clapping my hands upon my mouth, the 
Hquor squirted through my fingers like a fountain, over all 
the dishes ; and I was crushed by bursts of laughter from all 
quarters. In vain did Sir Thomas reprimand the servants, 
and Lady Friendly chide her daughters ; for the measure of 
my shame and their diversion was not yet complete. 

To relieve me from the intolerable state of perspiration 
which this accident had caused, without considering what I 
did, I wiped my face with that ill-fated handkerchief, which 
was still wet from the consequences of the fall of Xenophon, 
and covered all my features with streaks of ink in every di- 
rection. The Baronet himself could not support the shocky 
bat joined his lady in the general laugh ; while I spmiig 


ftom the table in despair, rushed out of the house, and ran 
home in an agony of confusion and disgrace, which the moal 
{XHgnant sense of guilt could not have excited. 

Intemperate Lave of Praise. — ^Blair. 

The intemperate love of praise not only weakens the true 
principles of probity, by substituting inferior motives in their 
stead, but frequently also impels men to actions which are 
directly criminal. It obliges them to follow the current of 
popular opinion, whithersoever it may carry them. They will 
be afraid to appear in their own form, or to utter their genu- 
ine sentiments. Their whole character will -become fictions, 
opinions will be assumed, speech and behavior modelled, and 
even the countenance formed, as prevailing taste exacts. 

From one who has submitted to such prostitution, for the 
sake of praise, you can no longer expect fidelity or attach- 
ment on any trying occasion. In private life, he will be a 
timorous and treacherous friend. In public conduct, he will 
be subtle and versatile ; ready to desert the cause which he 
had espoused, and to veer with every shifting wind of popu- 
lar fevor. In fine, all becomes unsound and hollow in that 
heart, where, instead of regard to the divine approbation, 
there reigns the sovereign desire of pleasing men. 

This passion, when it becomes predominant, most com- 
monly defeats its own end, and deprives men of the honor 
which they are so eager to gain. Without preserving liberty 
and independence, we can never command respect. That 
servility of spirit, which subjects us to the opinion of others, 
and renders us tributaries to the world for the sake of ap- 
plause, is what all mankind despise. They look up with 
reverence to one, who, unawed by their censures, acts ac- 
eording to his own sense of things, and follows the free im- 
pulae of an honorable mind. 

But him, who hangs totally on their judgment, they consid- 
■m MM tbeir vassal. They even enjoy a malignant ple^^xxi^ m 



humbling his vanity, and withholding that praise which he is 
seen to court By artifice and show, he may shine for a 
time in the public eye ; but it is only as long as he can sup- 
port the belief of acting from principle. When the inconsis- 
tencies, into which he falls, detect his character, his reputation 
passes away like thq pagean^of a day. No man ever obtained 
lasting fame, who did not, on several occasions, contradict 
the prejudices of popular opinion. 

There is no course of behavior, which will, at all times, 
please all men. That which pleases most generally, and 
which only commands durable praise, is religion and virtue* 
Sincere piety towards God, kind affection to men, and fidel- 
ity in the discharge of all the duties of life ; a conscience 
pure and undefiled ; a heart firm to justice and to truth, su- 
perior to jail terrors that would shake, and insensible of all 
pleasures that would betray it ; unconquerable by the <^qM>> 
sition of the world, and resigned to God alone ; these are 
the qualities which render a man truly respectable and great 

Such a character may, in evil times, incur unjust reproach. 
But the clouds, which envy or prejudice has gathered around 
it, will gradually disperse ; and its brightness will come forth, 
in the end, as the noon day. As soon as it is tHoroughly 
known, it finds a witness in every breast. It forces approbi^ 
tion, even from the most degenerate. The human heart is 
so formed as to be attuned, if we may use the expressiim, to 
its praise. In fact, it is this firm and inflexible virtue, thig 
determined regard to principle beyond all opinion, which has 
crowned the characters of such as now stand highest in the 
rolls of lasting fame. The truly illustrious are they, who did 
not court the praise of the world, but who performed the 
actions which deserve it. 

As an immoderate passion for human praise is dangerous 
to virtue, and unfavorable to true honor ; so it is destructive 
of self-enjoyment and inward peace. Regard to the praise 
of God, prescribes a simple and consistent tenor of conduct, 
which, in all situations, is the same ; which engages us in no 
perplexities, and requires no artful refinement. But he, who 
turns aside from the straight road of duty, in order to gain 
applause, involves himself in an intricate labyrinth. He will 
be often embarrassed concerning the course which he ouuht 


to hold. His mind will be always on the stretch. He will 
be obliged to listen with anxious attention to every whis- 
per of the popular voice. The demands of those masten, 
whom he has submitted to serve, will prove frequently con- 
tradictory and inconsistent. He has prepared a yoke for hig 
neck, which he must resolve to bear, how much soever it 
may gall him. 

The toils of virtue are honorable. The mind is supported 
under them by- the consciousness of acting a right and 
becoming part. But the labors to which he is doomed, who 
is enslaved to the desire of praise, are aggravated by reflec- 
tion both on the uncertainty of the recompense which he 
pursues, and on the debasement to which he submits. Con- 
science will, from time to time, remind him of the improper 
sacrifices which he has made, and of the forfeiture which he 
has incurred, of the praise of God for the sake of praise 
from men. Suppose him to receive all the rewards which the 
mistaken opinion of the world can bestow, its loudest ap- 
plause will oflen be unable to drown the upbraidings of an 
inward voice ; and if a man is reduced to be ashamed of 
himself, what avails it him to be caressed by others ? 

But, in truth, the reward towards which he looks, who pro- 
poses human praise as his ultimate object, will be always 
flying, like a shadow, before him. So capricious and unceiv 
tain, so fickle and mutable, is the favor of the multitude, that ^ 
it proves the most unsatisfactory of all pursuits in which men 
can be engaged. He, who sets his heart on it, is preparing 
for himself perpetual mortifications. If the greatest and 
best can seldom retain it long, we may easily believe, that 
from the vain and undeserving it will suddenly escape. 

There is no character but what, on some side, is vulnerable 
by censure. He who lifls himself up to the observation and 
cotice of the world, is, of all men, the least likely to avoid it; 
for he draws upon himself a thousand eyes, that will nar- 
rowly inspect him in every part. Every opportunity will be 
watched of bringing him down to the common level. His 
errors will be more divulged, and his infirmities more magni- 
fied, than those of others. In proportion to his eagerness 
fer praise, will be his sensibility to reproach. Nor is it r©- 
pioich alone that will wound him. He will be as muftk 


dejected by silence and neglect He puts himself under the 
power of every one to humble him, by withholding expected 
praise. Even when praise is bestowed, he is mortified by 
its being either faint or trite. He pines when his reputatioi] 
stagnates. The degree of applause, to which he has been 
accustomed, grows insipid ; and to be always praised from the 
same topics, becomes, at last, much the same wkh not being 
praised at all. 

All these chagrins and disquietudes are happily avoided b} 
him, who keeps so troublesome a passion within its due 
bounds ; who is more desirous of being truly worthy, tlian of 
being thought so ; who pursues the praise of the world witli 
manly temperance, and in subordination to the praise of Crod 
He is neither made giddy by the intoxicating vapor of ap 
plause, nor humbled and cast down by the unmerited attacks 
of' censure. Resting on a higher approbation, he enjoys 
himself, in peace, whether human praise stays with him, d 
flies away. 


God's First Temples. A Hymn^ — Bryant* 

The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shall, and lay the architrave. 
And spread the roof above them,— ere he framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthemsy — in the darkling wood, 
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down 
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplication. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influences. 
That, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven. 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once 
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 
His spirit with the thought of boundless Power 


AJkd inaccessible Majesty. Ah I why 

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglecl 

God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 

Only among the crowd, and under roo& 

That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at leift. 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood. 

Offer one hymn * *Hrice happy, if it find 

Acceptance in his ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these yenerable columns ; thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and; forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun . 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breesre, 
And shot towards heaven.^ Thei^century-living^crow, 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
Among their branches ; till, at last, they stood. 
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. Here are seen 
No traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks 
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes 
Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of thy fair works. But thou art here ; thou fiU'si 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
That run along the summits of these trees 
In music ; thou art in the cooler breath, 
That, from the inmost darkness of the place, 
Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground. 
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 

Here is continual worship ; nature, here. 
In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around. 
From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbi^ 
Wells sofUy forth, and visits the strong roots 
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
Of aU the good it does. Thou hast not left 
Thyself without a witness, in these shades. 


Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength and grace. 

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — 

By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem 

Almost annihilated — ^not a prince, 

In all the proud old world beyond the deep; 

E er wore his crown as loftily as he 

Wears the green corcmal of leaves, with which 

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower. 

With scented breath, and look so like a smile. 

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould. 

An emanation of the indwelling Life, 

A visible token of the upholding Love, 

That are the soul of this wide oniverse. 

My heart is awed within me^ when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
In silence, round me — ^the perpetual work e 

Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works, I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! aU grow old and die : but see, again. 
How, on the faltering footsteps of decay. 
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiftil youth — 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. Oh ! there is not lost 
One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, 
After the flight of untold centuries. 
The freshness of her far beginning lies. 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his arch enemy Death ; yea, seats himself 
Upon the sepulchre, and bloom^s and smiles. 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 

There have been holy men, who hid themselves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, an^ gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
The generation bom with Uiem, nor seemed 


Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them ; and there have been holy men, 

Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 

But let me often to these solitudes 

Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure 

My feeble virtue. Here, its enemies, 

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps, shrink. 

And tremble, and are still. 

' OGodI when thou 

Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 

The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 

With all the waters of the firmament. 

The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woodfl. 

And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call. 

Uprises the great deep, and throws himself 

Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities ; — who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by { 
Oh ! from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine ; nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad, unchained elements, to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty. 
And to the beautiful order of thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



Morning Hymn. — Milton. 

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
Almighty ! thiije this universal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair! Thyself how wondrous, then I 
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens, 
To us mvisibie, or dimly jseen 
In these thy lowest works : yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 


Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light. 
Angels ! for ye behold him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night. 
Circle his throne rejoicing. Ye in heaven : 
On earth, join, all ye creatures, ta extol,; 
Him first, him last, hun midst, and without end 1 

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night. 
If better thou belong not to the dawn, 
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere. 
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul. 
Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise 
In thy eternal course, both wben thou climb'st. 
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall 
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest 
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb, that flies ; 
And ye five other wandering fires, that move 
In mystic dance, not without song ; resound 
His praise, who out of darkness called up light. 

Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix. 
And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 
Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
Ye mists and exhalations, that now t'\^ 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray. 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
In honor to the world's great Author rise. 
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky. 
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers ,* 
Rising 0€ falling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, ye winds, that firom four quarters blow 
Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines. 
With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow, 
Melodiotti mormars, warbling tune his {vaise. 



ioiB voices, all ye living souls ! ye birds 
That, siaging, up to heaven's gate ascend. 
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
The earth, and fitately tread, or lowly creep, 
Witness if I be silent, raorn or even, 
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade. 
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praim. 
Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous stfll 
To give us only good : and if the night 
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed, 
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark! 

Description of the Custom of Whitewashing. — Hopkinson* 

When a young couple are about to enter into the matri- 
monial state, a never-failing article in the marriage treaty is, 
that the lady shall have and enjoy the free and unmolested 
exercise of the rights of whitewashing, with all its ceremoni- 
als, privileges and appurtenances. A young woman would 
forego the most advantageous connexion, and even disappoint 
the warmest wish of her heart, rather than resign the inval- 
uable right. You would wonder what this privilege of 
whitewashing is : — ^I will endeavor to give you some idea of 
the ceremony, as I have seen it performed. 

There is no season of the year, in which the lady may not 
claim lier privilege, if she pleases ; but the latter end of May 
is most generally fixed upon for the purpose. The attentive 
husband may judge, by certain prognostics, when the storm 
is nigh at hand. When the lady is unusually fretful, finds 
fault with the servants, is discontented with the children, and 
complains much of the filthiness of every thing about her — 
these are signs which ought not to be neglected ; yet the/ 
are not decisive, as they sometimes come on and go off again^ 
without producing any farther effect 



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

The husband gone, the ceremony begins. The walls are, 
in a few minutes, stripped of their furniture ; paintings, prints 
and looking-glasses lie in a huddled heap about the floors ; 
the curtains are torn from the testers, the beds crammed into 
the 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 and ragged 

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, 
spits and pots, and the fractured remains of rush-bottomed 
chairs. There, a closet has disgorged its contents — crackeo 
tumblers, broken wine-glasses, phials of forgotten physic 
papers of unknown powders, seeds and dried herbs, handful^ 
of old corks, tops of teapots, and stoppers of departed decan- 
ters ; — from the rag-hole in the garret to the rat-hole i/g the 
cellar, no place escapes unrummaged. 

This ceremony completed, and the house thoroughly evac« 
uated, the next operation is, to smear the walls and ceilings 
of every room and closet with brushes dipped in a solution of 
lime, called whitewash ; to pour buckets of water over every 
floor, and scratch all the partitions and wainscots with rough 
brushes wet with soap-suds, and dipped in stone-cutter'o 
sand. The windows by no means escape the general deluge. 
A servant scrambles out upon the penthouse, at the risk of 
her nock, and^ with a mug in her hand and a bucket within 


reach, she dashes away innumerable gallons of water agauut 
die glass panes, to the great annoyance of passengers in the 

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 ; bat, after a 
long argument, it was determined by the whole court, that 
the action would not lie, inasmuch as the defendant was in 
the exercise of a legal right, and not answerable for the con- 
sequences ; and so the poor gentleman was doubly nonsuited ; 
for he lost not only his suit of clothes, but his suit at law. 

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

For instance, a fine large engraving is laid flat upon the 
floor ;* smaller prints are piled upon it, and the superincumbent 
weight cracks the glasses of the lower -tier ; but this is of no 
consequence. A valuable picture is placed leaning against 
the sharp comer of a table ; others are made to lean against 
that, until the pressure of the whole, forces the corner of the 
table through the canvass 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 spoil the 
engraving ; no matter, if the glass is clean, and the frame 
shine, it us sufficient : the rest is not worthy of consideration. 
An able mathematician has made an accurate calculation, 
founded on long experience, and has discovered that the 
losses and destruction incident to two whitewashings, are 
equal to one removal, and three removals equal to one fire. 

The deaniiig firolic over, matters begin to resume ibi^s: 


piistioe appearance. The storm abates, and all would be 
wett again; but it is impossible that so great a conyulsion, 
in so small a (XHnmunity, should not produce some farther 
effects. For two or three weeks after the operation, the 
family are usually afflicted with sore throats or sore eyes, 
occasioned by the caustic quality c^ the lime, or with severe 
colds from the exhalations of wet flocnrs or damp walls. 

I knew a gentleman, who was fond of accounting finr every 
thing in a philosc^hical way. He considered this, which I 
have called a custom, as a real periodical disease, peculiar 
to the climate. His train of reasoning was ingenious and 
whimsical, but I am not at leisure to give yon the detaik 
The result was, that he found the distemper to be incurable ; 
bmt, after much study, he conceived he had discov^ed a 
method to divert the evil he could not subdue. For this pur- 
pose, he caused a small building, about twelve feet square, 
to be erected in his garden, and furnished with some ordi- 
nary chairs and tables ; and a few prints of the cheapest sort 
were hung against the walls. 

His hope was, that, when the whitewashing frenzy seized 
Ihe females of his family, they might repair to this apartment, 
and scrub and smear and scour to their hearts' content ; and 
80 q[)end the vic^ence of the disease in this outpost, while he 
enjoyed himself in quiet at head-quarters. But the experi- 
ment did not answer his expectation. It was impossiUe it 
iriiould ; since a principal part of the gratification consists in 
the lady's having an uncontrolled right to torment her hiuk 
band, at least once a year, and 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 phi> 
loficypher, which is, to cover the walls of the house with 
paper : this is generally dcme ; and, though it cannot abolish, 
it at least shortens, the period of female dominion. The 
piq[)er is decorated with flowers c^ various fancies, and made 
ao ornamental, that the women have admitted the iashioD 
without perceiving the design. 

There is also another alleviation of the husband's distress ; 
he generally has the privilege of a small room or closet fi>r 
his books and papers, the key of which he is allowed to keep. 
Tkb 18 oenndered as a privileged place, and stands like the 


land of Goshen amid the plagues of Egypt. But then he 

mast be extremely cautious, and ever on 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 all his books and papers to rights — to his iiltaf 

confusion, and sometimes'serious detriment. 


Importance of considering both Sides of a Question,-- - 

In the days of knight-errantry and paganism, one of the 
oM British princes set up a statue to the goddess of Victory, 
in a point where fpur roads met together. In her right hand 
she held a spear, and her left hand rested upon a shield ; the 
outside of this shield was of gold, and the inside of silver. 
On the former was inscribed, in the old British language, 
'* To the goddess ever favorable;" and on the other, "For 
^ur victories obtained successively over the Picts and other 
inhabitants of the northern islands." < 

It happened, one day, that two knights, completely armed, 
one in black armor, the other in white, arrived from opposite 
parts of the country at this statue, just about the same time ; 
and, as neither of them had seen it before, they stopped to 
read the inscription, and observe the excellence of its work- 

After contemplating it for some time, " This golden 
shield," — says the black knight — " Golden shield !" cried the 
white knight, who was as strictly observing the opposite side, 
" why, if I have my eyes, it is silver." — " I know nothing of 
your eyes," replied the black knight ; " but, if ever I saw a 
golden shield in my life, this is one." — "Yes," returned the 
white knight, smiling, " it is very probable, indeed, that they 
should expose a shield of gold in so public a place ^ \\v\&\ 
JO • 


For my part, I wonder even a silver one is not too strong a 
temptation for the devotion of some people who pass this 
way ; and it appears, by the date, that this has been here 
aboTe three years." 

The black knight could not bear the smile with which 
this was delivered, and grew so warm in the dispute, that it 
BOOB ended in a challenge : f hey both, therefore, turned their 
horses, and rode back so far as to have sufficient space for 
their career ; then, fixing their spears in their rests, they fiew 
at each other with the greatest fury and impetuosity. Their 
shock was so rude, and the blow on each side so effectual, 
that they both fell to the ground much wounded and bruised; 
and lay there for some time, as in a trance. 

A good Druid, who was travelling that way, found them 
kvthis condition. The Druids were the physicians of those 
times, as well as the pri<^;j" He had a sovereign balsam 
about him, which he had 'C^^osed himself; for he was very 
skiiful in all the plants that g '«3w in the fields or in the for- 
ests : he staunched their blood, applied his balsam to their 
wounds, and brought them, as it were, from death to life 
again. As soon as they were sufficiently recovered, he began 
to inquire into the occasion of their cfUarrel. *' Why, this 
man," cried the black knight, "will have it that yonder 
shield is silver." — ** And he will have it," replied the white 
knight, '' that it is gold." And then they told him aU the 
particulars of the affair. 

" Ah !" said the Druid with a sigh, " you are both of you, 
my brethren, in the right, and both of you in the wrong : 
had either of you given himself time to look at the opposite 
side of the shield, as well as that which first presented itself 
to view, all this passion and bloodshed might have been ayoid- 
ed : however, there is a very good lesson to be learned from 
the evils, that have befallen you on this occasion. Permit me, 
therefore, to entreat you never to enter into any dispute, for 
the future, till you have fairly considered both sides of the 


Tkt FHgld of Xerxe$4 — ^BiAmiA J. J b ww hi> i , 

I SAW him on the battle-eve, 

When like a king he bore him ; 
Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave. 

And prouder chiefe before him : 
The warrior, and the warrior's deeds-^ 
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds/^* 

No daunting thoughts came o'er him; 
He looked around him, and his eye 
Defiance flashed to earth and sky. 

He looked on ocean; its broad breast 

Was covered with his fleet ;— 
On tarth ; and saw firom east to west, 

His bannered millions meet ; — 
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast. 
Shook with the war^-cry of that host. 

The thunder of their feet I 
He heai^ the imperial echoes ring,—' 
He heard, and feU himself a king. 

I saw him next dUme : — ^nor camp, 

Nor chief, his steps attended ; 
Nor banner Uazed, nor courser's tramp 

With war-cries proudly blended. 
Be stood alone, whom Fortune high 
So lately seemed to deify ; 

i7e, who with Heaven contended, 
Fled like a fiigitive and slave 1 
Behind, — the foe ; — ^before, — the wave. 

He stood, — fleet, army, treasure, — gone,-— 

Alone and in despair ! 
But wave and wind swept ruthless on, 

For they were monarchs there ; 


And Xerxes, in a single bark, 

Where late his thousand ships were dark. 

Must all their fury dare :-^ 
What a revenge — a trophy, thjs — 
For thee, immortal Salamis ! 


Pairing Time anticipated, — Cowper. 

It chanced, upon a winter's day, 
But warm, and bright and calm as May, 
The birds, conceiving a design 
To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
In many an orchard, copse and grove, 
Assembled on affairs of love. 
And with much twitter and much chatter, 
Began to agitate the matter. 

At length, a bulfinch, who could boast 
More years and wisdom than the most, 
Entreated, opening wide his beak, 
A moment's liberty to speak ; 
And, silence publicly enjoined. 
Delivered briefly thus his mind : — 
" My friends, be cautious how ye treat 
The subject upon which we meet ; 
I fear we shall have winter yet." 

A finch, whose tongue knew no control, 
With golden wing and satin poll, 
A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried 
What marriage means, thus pert replied : — 

Methinks the gentleman," quoth she, 

Opposite in the apple-tree. 
By his good will, would keep us single 
Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, 



Or (which is likelier to befall) 

Till death exterminate us all. 

I marry without more ado : — ^ 

My dear Dick Redcap, what say yout" 

Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling. 
Turning short round, strutting and sidling. 
Attested, glad, his approbation 
Of an immediate conjugation. 
Their sentiments, so well expressed, . 
Influenced mightily the rest : 
All paired, and each pair built a nest 

But, though the bii'ds were thus in haste, 
The leaves came on not quite so fast ; 
And destiny, that sometimes bears 
An aspect stem on man's affairs, 
Not altogether smiled on theirs. 
The wind-— of late breathed gently forth— 
Now shifted east, and east by north ; 
Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know. 
Could shelter them from rain or snow ; 
Stepping into their nests, they paddled ; 
Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled : 
Soon, every father bird and mother 
Grew quarrelsome, and pecked each other. 
Parted without the least regret. 
Except that they had ever met, 
And learned in future to be wiser 
Than to neglect a good adviser. 


Misses, the tale that I relate 

This lesson seems to carry ;-' 
Choose not alone a proper mate. 

But proper time to marry. 



Influence of Christianity in elevating the Character of 

Females. — J. G. Carter. 

There is one topic, intimately connected with the intro- 
duction and decline of Christianity, and subsequently with 
Its revival in Europe, which the occasion strongly suggests, 
and which I cannot forbear briefly to touch upon. I aJlude 
to the new and more interesting character assumed by wo- 
man since those events. In the heathen world, and under 
the Jewish dispensation, she was the slave of man. Chris- 
tianity constituted her his companion. But as our religion 
gradually lost its power, in the dark ages, she sunk down 
again to her deep moral degradation. 

The age of chivalry, indeed, exalted her to be an object of 
adoration. But it was a profane adoration, not founded upon 
the respect due to a being of immortal hopes and destinies 
as well as man. This high character has been conceded to 
her at a later period, as she has slowly attained the rank (or- 
dained for her by Heaven. Although this change, in the 
relation of woman to man and to society, is both an evidence 
and a consequence of an improvement in the human condi- 
tion, yet now her character is a cause operating to produce a 
still greater improvement. And if there be any one cause, 
to which we may look with more confidence than to others, 
for hastening the approach of a more perfect state of society, 
that cause is the elevated character of woman, as dirolayed 
in the full developement of all her moral and intellectual 

The influence of the female character, is now felt and 
acknowledged in all the relations of her life. I speak not 
now of those distinguished women, who instruct their age 
through the public press ; nor of those, whose devout strains 
we take upon our lips when we worship ; but of a much 
larger class ; of those, whose influence is felt in the relations 
of neighbor, friend, daughter, wife, mother. Who waits at 
the couch of the sick, to administer tender charities while 
life lingers, or to perform the last acts of kindness when death 


s ? Where shall we look for those examples of friend- 
that most adorn our nature? those abiding friendships, 
1 trust even when betrayed, and survive all changes of 
le? Where shall we find the 'brightest illustrations of 
piety ? Have you ever seen a daughter, herself, perhaps, 

and helpless, watching the decline of an aged parent, 
lolding out, with heroic fortitude, to anticipate his wishes, 
minister to his wants, and to sustain his tottering stepfl 
i very borders of the grave ? 
t in no relation does woman exercise so deep an influ- 

both immediately and prospectively, as in that of rooth- 
Po her is committed the immortal treasure of the in&nt 
Upon her devolves the care of the first stages of that 
e of discipline, which is to form, of a being perhaps 
tost frail and helpless in the world, the fearless riifer of 
ited creation, and the devout adorer of its great Creator, 
uniles call into exercise the first affections that spring 

our hearts. She cherishes and expands the earliest 
) of our intellects. She breathes over us her deepest 
ions. She lifts our little hands, and teaches our little 
es to lisp in prayer. She watches over us, like a guar- 
uigel, and protects us through all our helpless years, 

we know not of her cares and her anxieties on our 
mt. She follows us into the world of men, and lives in 
nd blesses us, when she lives not otherwise upon the 

lat constitutes the centre of every home ? Whither do 
KHights turn, when our feet are weary with wandering, 
ur hearts sick with disappointment ? Where shall the 
t and forgetful husband go for sympathy, unalloyed and 
ut design, but to the bosom of her, who is ever ready 
waiting to share in his adversity or his prosperity ? And 
re be a tribunal, where the sins and the follies of a fro-> 
child may hope for pardon and forgiveness, this side 
n, that tribunal is the heart of a fond and devoted 


Letter on Waiering'Places, — ^Mrs. Barbaitld. 

I AM a country gentleman, and enj<^y an estate in Nortii- 
amptonshire, which formerly enabled its posaessOTs to tssmne 
some degree of consequence in the country ; but which, hi 
several generations, has been growing less, only beGame it 
has not grown bigger. I mean, that, though I have not yet 
been obliged to mortgage my land, or fell my timber, its re}- 
ative value is every day diminishing by the prodigious infloi 
of wealth, real and artificial, which, for some time past, hai 
been pouring into this kingdom. Hitherto, however, I Yacn 
found%iy income equal to my wants. It has enabled me l( 
inhabit a good house in town, for four months of the year, am 
to reside amongst my tenants and neighbors, for the remain 
ing eight, with credit and hospitality. 

I am, indeed, myself so fond of the country, and so aversi 
in my nature to every thing of hurry and bustle, that, if 1 
consulted only my own taste, I should never feel a wish ti 
leave the shelter of my own oaks in the dreariest season oi 
the year ; but I looked upon our annual visit to London as i 
proper compliance with the gayer disposition of my wife, ani 
the natural curiosity of the younger part of the fisunily^ Be 
sides, to say the truth, it had its advantages in avoiding i 
round of dinners and card-parties, which we must otherwisi 
have engaged in for the winter season, or have been brandei 
with the appellation of unsociable. 

Our journey gave me an opportunity of furnishing my stud; 
with some new books and prints, and my wife of gratifyinj 
her neighbors with some ornamental trifles, before thei 
value was sunk by becoming common, or of producing a 
her table or in her furniture some new-invented refinement o 
fashionable elegance. Our hall was the first that was lighten 
by an Argand lamp ; and I still remember how we were grat 
ified by the astonishment of our guests, when my wife, wit] 
an audible voice, called to the footman for the tongs to hel] 
to the asparagus with. We found it pleasant, too, to be en 
abled to talk of capital artists and favorite actors; and '. 


PMde the better figure in my pditical debates firom haying 
heard the most pq>ular speakers in the House; 

Once, too, to recruit my wife's spirits after a tedious con- 
finement, we passed a season at Bath. In this manner, ther^ 
fore, things went on very well in the main, till of late my 
fiimily have discovered that we lead a very dull kind of life, 
tnd that it is impossible to exist with comfort, or, indeed, to en- 
joy a toleraUe share of health, without spending good part of 
erery sommer at a watering-^lace. I held out as long as I 
cooUL One may be allowed to resist the plans of dissipation, 
but the plea of health cannot decently be withstood. 

It was soon discovered that my eldest daughter wanted 
bracing, and my wife had a bilious complaint, against which 
our fiunily physician declared that sea-bathing would be par- 
ticularly serviceable. Therefore, though it was my own pri- 
rate opinion, that my daughter's nerves might have been as 
wdl braced by morning rides upon the Northamptonshire 
hills, as by evening dances in the public rooms, and that my 
irife's bile would have been greatly lessened by compliance 
with her husband, I acquiesced ; and preparations were made 
for our journey. 

These, indeed, were but slight ; for the chief gratification 
proposed in this scheme was, an entire freedom from care and 
broL We should find every thing requisite in our lodgings ; 
it was of no consequence whether the rooms we should oc- 
ciqyy for a few months in the summer, were elegant or not ; 
the simplicity of a country life would be the more enjoyed by 
die little i^fts we should be put to ; and all necessaries would 
be provided in our lodgings. It was not, therefore, till after 
we had taken them, that we discovered how far ready-fur- 
aished lodgings were from affording every article in the cata- 
logue of necessaries. We did not, indeed, give them a very 
icmpulous examination ; for the place was so full, that, when 
we arrived, late at night, and tired with our journey, all the 
beds at the inn were taken up, and an easy-chair and a carpet 
were all the accommodations we could obtain for our repose. 

The next morning, therefore, we eagerly engaged the first 
lodgings we found vacant, and have ever since been disputing 
tboirt the terms, which, from the hurry, were not sufficiently 
iscertained ; and it is not even yet settled whether lYve WlVNi^ 



blue garret, which serves us as a powdering room, is ours of 
right or by favor. The want of all sorts of conveniences is 
a constant excuse for the want of all order and neatness, 
which is so visible in our apartment ; and we are continually 
lamenting that we are obliged to buy things of which we have 
such plenty at home. 

It is my misfortune that I can do nothing without all my 
little conveniences about me ; and, in-order to write a com- 
mon letter, I must have my study-table to lean my elbows on 
in sedentary luxury : you will judge, therefore, how little I am 
able to employ my leisure, when I tell you, that the only room 
they have been able to allot for my use is so filled and crowd- 
ed with my daughters' hat-boxes, band-boxes, and wig-boxes, 
that I can scarcely move about in it, and am at this moment 
writing upon a spare ti*unk for want of a table. 

I am, therefore, driven to saunter about with the rest of the 
party ; but, instead of the fine clumps of trees and waving 
fields of corn I have been accustomed to have before my eyes, 
I see nothing but a naked beach, almost without a tree, ex- 
posed by turns to the cutting eastern blast and the glare of a 
July sun, and covered with a sand equally painful to the eyes 
and to the feet. The ocean is, indeed, an object of un^ieak- 
able grandeur; but when it has been contemplated in a 
storm and in a calm, — when we have seen the sun rise out of 
its bosom, and the moon silver its extended surface, — ^its variety 
is exhausted, and the eye begins to require the softer and 
more interesting scenes of cultivated nature. 

My family have, indeed, been persuaded several times to en- 
joy the sea still more, by engaging in a little sailing-party ; 
but as, unfortunately, Northamptonshire)has not afforded them 
any opportunity of becoming seasonea sailors, these parties 
of pleasure are always attended with the most dreadful sick- 
ness. This, likewise, I am told, is very good for the constitu- 
tion : it may be so, for aught I know ; but I confess I am apt 
to imagine that taking an emetic at home would be equally 
salutary, and I am sure it would be more decent. 



The same, — canchided. 

1 HAVE endeavored to amuse myself with the company, 
bat without much success. It consists of a very few great 
people, who make a set by themselves, and think they are en- 
titled, by the freedom of a watering-place, to indulge them- 
selves in all manner of airs ; and the rest is a motley group 
of sharpers, merchants' clerks, idle men, and nervous women. 
I have been accustomed to be nice in my choice of acquaint- 
ance ; but the greater part of our connexions here are such 
as we should be ashamed to acknowledge any where else. 

As to the settled inhabitants of the place, all who do not 
enrich themselves by us, view us with dislike, because we 
raise the price of provisions ; and those who do, — ^which, in 
one way or other, comprehends all the lower class, — have lost 
erery trace of rural simplicity, and are versed in all arts of low 
camming and chicane. The spirit of greediness and rapacity 
18 no where so conspicuous as in lodging-houses. 

At our seat in the country, our domestic concerns went on 
as by clock-work ; a quarter of an hour in a week settled the 
hills, and few tradesmen wished, and none dared, to practise 
any iippoeition where all were known ; and the consequence 
of their different behavior must have been their being 
marked, for life, for encouragement or for distrust. But here 
the continual fluctuation of company takes away all regard to 
character ; the most respectable and ancient families have no 
influence any further than as they scatter their ready cash ; and 
neither gratitude nor respect is felt where there is no bond of 
mutual attachment besides the necessities of the present day. 
I should be happy if we had only to contend with this 
spint during our present excursion ; but the effect it has up- 
on servants is most pernicious. Our family used to be re- 
markable for having its domestics grow gray in its service ; 
bat this expedition has already corrupted them : two we have 
this evening parted with, and the rest have learned so much 
of the tricks of their station, that we shall be obliged to dis- 
eharge them as soon as we return home. 


In the country, I had been accustomed to do good to the 
poor : there are charities here too ; — ^we have joined in a sub- 
scription for a crazy poetess, and a raffle for ibe support of a 
sharper, who passes under the title of a German count 
Unfortunately, to balance these various e^q)ense8, this place, 
which happens to be a great resort of smugglers, affords daily 
opportunities of miJcing bargains. We drink spoiled teas, 
under the idea of their being cheap ; and the little room we 
have is made less by the reception of cargoes of India tafEetas, 
)hawl-muslins, and real chintzes. All my authorky heie 
would be exerted in vain ; for the buying of a bargain is a 
temptation which it is not in the nature of any woman to resist 

I am in hopes, however, the business may receive some 
check from an incident which happened a little time sinoe: 
an acquaintance of ours had his carriage seized by the cus- 
tom-house officers, on account of a piece of alk which one of 
his female cousins, without his knowledge, had stowed in it; 
and it was only released by its being proved, that what die 
had bought with so much satisfaction as contral]^d, was in 
reality the home-bred manufacture oLSpitalfields./ 

In this manner has the season passed away. I spend a 
great deal of money, and make no figure ; I am in the coun- 
try, and see nothing of country simplicity or country occup*- 
tions ; I am in an obscure village, and yet cannot stir oat 
without more observers than if I were walking in St James's 
Park ; I am cooped up in less room than my own dog-kennel, 
while my spacious halls are injured by standing empty ; and 
I am paying for tasteless, unripe fruit, while my own choice 
wall-fruit is rotting by bushels under the trees. 

In recompense for all this, we have the satisfaction of 
knowing that we occupy the very rooms which my lord — — 
had just quitted ; of picking up anecdotes, true or false, of 
people in high life; and of seizing the ridicule of every 
character that passes by us in the moving show-glass of the 
place, — a pastime which oflen affbrds us a good deal of 
mirth ; but which, I confess, I can never join in without re- 
flecting that what is our amusement b theirs likewise. 

As to the great ostensible object of our excursion, — health, 
— ^I am afraid we cannot boast of much improvement We 
have had a wet and cdd summer : and these houses, which 



tre either old tenements vamped up, or new ones^ slightly run 
up for the accommodation of bathers during the season, have 
more contrivances for letting in the cooling breezes than for 
keeping them out, — ^a circumstance which I should presume 
sagacious physicians do not always attend to, when they order 
patients from their own warm, compact, substantial houses, 
to take the air in country lodgings ; of which the best apart- 
ments, during the winter, have only been inhabited by the 
rats, and where the poverty of the landlord prevents him from 
laying out more in repairs, than will serve to give them a 
showy and attractive appearance. 

Be that as it may ; — ^the rooms we at present inhabit are so 
pervious to the breeze, that, in spite of all the ingenious ex- 
pedients of listing doors, pasting paper on the inside of cup- 
boards, laying sand-bags, puttying crevices, and condemning 
closet-doors, it has given me a severe touch of my old rheu- 
matism ; and all . my family are in one way or other affected 
with it : my eldest daughter, too, has got cold with her bath- 
ing, though the sea-water never gives any body cold ! 

In answer to these complaints, I am told by the good com- 
pany here, that I have staid too long in the same air, and 
that now I ought to take a trip to the continent, and spend 
the winter at Nice, which would complete the business. I 
am entirely of their (pinion, that it would c(»nplete the 


The Tear of Penitence; an Extract from "Paradise and 

the Peri" — ^T. Moore. 

Now, upon Sjrria's land of roses, 
Softly the light of eve reposes. 
And, like a glory, the broad sun 
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; 
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers. 

And whitens with eternal sleet. 
While summer, in a vale of flowers. 

Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 
11 ♦ 


To one, who looked from upper air 

O'er all the enchanted regions there. 

How beauteous must have been the glow. 

The life, the sparkling from below I 

Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks 

Of golden melons on their banks,^ — 

More golden where the sun-light fells ; 

Gaj lizards,^ glittering on the walls 

Of mined shrines, busy and bright 

As they were all alive with light ; 

And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 

Of pigeons settling 6n the rocks, 

With their rich, restless wings, that gleam 

Variously in the crimscm beam 

Of the warm west, as if inlaid 

With brilliants from the mine, or made 

Of tearless rainbows, such as span 

The unclouded skies of Peristan I 

And, then, the mingling sounds that ccNtne, 

Of shepherds' ancient reed, with hum 

Of the wild bees of Palestine, 

Banqueting through the flowery vales ; 
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, 

And woods so full of nightingales ! 

But' nought can charm the luckless Peri ; 
Het soul is sad, her wings are weary— ^ 
Joyless she sees the Sun look down 
On that great temple, once his own,* 
Whose lonely columns stsmd sublime, 

Flinging their shadows from on high. 
Like dials, which the wizard. Time, 

Had raised to count his ages by I 

Yet haply there may lie concealed. 

Beneath those chambers of the sun, 
Some amulet of gems, annealed 
In upper fires, some tablet sealed 
With die great name of Solomon, 

* The Temple of the Sunlit Balbec 


Which, spelled hj her illamined eyes^ 
May teach her where, beneath the moon, 
In earth or ocean, lies the boon, ^ 
The charm, that can restore, so soon. 

An erring i^it to the skies ! 

Cheered by this hope, she bends her thither; 

Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, 

Nor have the golden bowers of even. 
In the rich west, begui|.-to wither ; 
When, o'er the vale of (Balbec winging 

Slowly, she sees a child at play, 
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing. 

As rosy and as wild as they ; 
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, 
The beautiful blue damsel flies. 
That fluttered round the jasmine stems. 
Like winged flowers or flying gems ; 
And near the boy, who, tired with play. 
Now, nestling mid the roses, lay. 
She saw a wearied man diismount 

From his hot steed, and, on the brink 
Of a small imaret's rustic fount, 

Impatient, fling him down to drink. 

Then swift his haggard brow he turned 

To the fair child, who fearless sat. 
Though never yet hath day-beam burned 

Upon a brow more fierce than that, — 
Sullenly fierce— a mixture dire. 
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire I 
In which the Peri's eye could read 
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; 
The ruined maid, the shrine profaned. 
Oaths broken, and the threshold stained 
With blood ot guests ! there written, all. 
Black as the damning drops that fall 
From the denouncing angel's pen. 
Ere Mercy weeps them out again ! v 


Tet tranquil, now, that man of crime-*- 
As if the halmy evening time 
Softened his spirit — looked and lay. 
Watching the rosy infant's play : 
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance 
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance 

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, 
As torches, that have burned all night, 
Through some impure and godless rite, 

Encounter morning's glmous rays. 

But hark ! the vesper call to prayer. 
As slow the orb of day-light sets, 

Is rising sweetly on the air. 

From Syria's thousand minarets I 

The boy has started from the bed 

Of flowers, where he had laid his head. 

And down upon the fragrant sod 

Kneels, with his forehead to the south, 

Lisping the eternal name of (rod 

From Purity's own cherub mouth ; 

And looking, while his hands and eyes 

Are lifted to the glowing skies. 

Like a stray babe of Paradise, 

Just lighted iOn that flowery plain. 

And seeking for its home again ! 

Oh ! 'twas a sight — ^that heaven — ^that child— ^ 

A scene, which might have well beguiled 

Even haughty Eblis of > a sigh 

For glories lost, and peace gone by. 

And how felt Ae, the wretched man 
Reclining there — while memory ran 
O'er many a year of guilt and strife. 
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life. 
Nor found one sunny resting-place. 
Nor brought him back one branch of grace t 
** There was a time," he said, in mild, 
Heart-hombled tones, ''thou blessed child. 



When, young, and, haply, pure as thou, 
I looked and prayed like thee ; but now — " 
He hung his head ; each nobler aim, 

And hope, and feeling, which had slept 
From boyhood's hour, that instant came 

Fresh o'er him, and he wept— rhe wepi ! 

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! 

In whose benign, redeeming flow 
Is felt the first, the only sense 

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. 
• ••••• 

And now behold him kneeling there. 
By the child's side, in humble prayer. 
While the same sun-beam shines upon 
The guilty and the guiltless one. 
And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven 
The triumph of a soul forgiven. 


Character and Decay of the North American Indians,^-' 


Thsre is, in the fate of the unfortunate Indians, much to 
awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of 
oor judgment ,* much which may be urged to excuse their 
own atrocities ; much in their characters, which betrays us 
into an involuntary admiration. What can be more melan- 
eholy than their history ? By a law of their nature, they 
seem destined to a slow, but sure extinction. Every where, 
at the approach of the white man, they fade away. We 
hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered 
leaves of autumn, and they are gone forever. They pass 
mournfully by us, and they return no more^ 

Twa'eenturies:ago, the smoke of their wigwams and the 
fires of their councils, rose in every valley, firom Hudson's 
Bay to the farthest Fferida, firom the ocean to the M.i&<*^' 



and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the waivdance 
rung through the mountains and the glades. The thick ai^ 
rows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; 
and the hunter's trace, and the dark encampment, startled 
the wild beasts in their lairs. 

The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young li^ 
tened to the songs of other days. The mothers played with 
their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hc^iesof the 
future. The aged sat down ; but they wept not They 
should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great 
Spirit dwelt, in a home prepared for the brave beyond the 
western skies. Braver men never lived; truer men never 
drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sa- 
gacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. 
They shrunk from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. 

If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues 
also. They were true to their country, their friends and 
their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they 
forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidel- 
ity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, 
like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. But 
where are they? Where are the villages, and warriors, and - 
youth? the sachems- and the tribes? the hunters and 
their families? They have perished. They are consumed. 
The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. : 
No, — nor famine, nor war. There has been a mightier pow- ; 
er, a moral canker, which hath eaten into their heart-ccves ; : 
a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated; : 
a poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. i 

The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region, which ' 
they may now call their own. Already the last feeble ; 
remnants of the race are preparing for their journey beyond i! 
the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable Jiomes, the i 
aged, the helpless, the women and the warriors, " few and « 
faint, yet fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native f 
hearths. The smoke no longer curls round their lowly ^ 
cabins. They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The 
white man is upon their heels, for terror or despatch ; but 
they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their 
deserted villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves ^ 


' fiitliers. They shed no tears ; they utter no cries ; 
save no groans. 

re is something in their hearts, which passes spe^h. 
is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submis- 
at of hard necessity, which stifles both ; which chokes 
ranee ; which has no aim nor method. It is courage 
3d in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their 
I onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It 
lever be repassed by them, — no, never. Yet there 
t between us and them an impassable gulf They 
and feel, that there is for them still one remove farther, 
tant, nor unseen. It is to the general burial-ground 
r race. 

son as we may, it is impossible not to read, in such a 
luch that we know not how to interpret; much of 
ition to cruel deeds and deep resentments ; much of 
r for wrong and perfidy ; much of pity mingling with 
ition ; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past ; 
»f painful recollections ; much of dark foreboding. 
)sophy may tell us, that conquest in other cases has 
1 the conquered into its own bosom ; and thus, at no 
period, given them the common privileges of subjects ; 
t the red men are incapable of such an assimilation, 
ir very nature and character, they can neither unite 
Ives with civil institutions, nor with safety be allowed 
lin as distinct communities. 

',y may suggest, that their ferocious passions, their 
ident spirit, and their wandering life, disdain the 
Its of society ; that they will submit to superior force 
bile it chains them to the earth by its pressure. A 
less is essential to their habits and pursuits. They 
ither be tamed nor overawed. They subsist by war or 
r ; and the game of the forest is relinquished only for 
Jer game of man. Tha question, therefore, is neces- 
educed to the consideration, whether the country itself 
; abandoned by civilized man, or maintained by his 
IS the right of the strongest. 

ay be so ; perhaps, in the wisdom of Providence, it 
e so. I pretend not to comprehend, or solve, siich 
r difficulties. But neither philosophy nor policy can 


shut out tlie feelings of nature. Humanity must contin 
sigh at the constant sacrifices of this b<^, but wasting 
And Religion, if she may not blush at the deed, must, m 
sees the successive victims depart, ding to the altar wj 
dropping heart, and mourn over a destiny without hope 
without example. 


Melancholy Fate of the Indians, — C. Spragub. 

I VENERATE the pilgrim's cause, 
Tet for the red man dare to plead: 
We bow to Heaven's recorded laws. 
He turned to nature for a creed ; 
Beneath the pillared dome. 
We seek our God in prayer ; 
Through boundless woods he loved to roam. 
And the Great Spirit worshipped there ; 

But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt ; 

To one divinity with us he knelt — 

Freedom, the self-same freedom we adore. 

Bade him defend his violated shore. 

He saw the cloud, ordained to grow. 

And burst upon his hills in wo ; 

He saw his people withering by, 

Beneath the invader's evil eye ; 
Strange feet were trampling on his fathers' bones ; 

At midnight hour, he woke to gaze 

Upon his happy cabin's blaze, 
And listen to his children's dying groans. 

He saw, and, maddening at the sight. 

Gave his bold bosom to the fight ; 

To tiger rage his soul was driven; 

Mercy was not — nor sought nor given ; 

The pale man fi*om his lands must fly ; 

He would be free — or he would die. 


And was this savage? Say, 
Te ancient few, 
Who struggled throagh 
Toong freedom's trial-day, 
What first your sleeping wrath awoke t 
On your own shores war's larum broke : 
What turned to gall even kindred blood ? 
Round your own homes the oppressor stood : 
This every warm affection chilled, 
This every heart with vengeance thrilled. 
And strengthened every hand ; 
From mound to mound, 
The word went round — 
" Death for our native land !" 

Ye mothers, too, breathe ye no sigh. 
For them who thus could dare to die t 
Are all your own dark hours forgot. 

Of soul-sick suffering here, — 
Your pangs, as from yon mountain spot,* 
Death spoke in every boommg shot, 
That knelled upon your ear ? 
How oft that gloomy, glorious tale ye tell. 
As round your knees your children's children hang. 
Of them, the gallant ones, ye loved so well. 
Who to the conflict for their country sprang ! 
In pride, in all the pride of wo. 
Ye tell of them, the brave, laid low, 

Who for their birthplace bled ; 
In pride, the pride of triumph then, 
Ye tell of them, the matchless men, 
From whom the invaders fled. 

And ye, this holy place who throng. 
The annual theme to hear. 
And bid the exulting song 
Sound their great names from year to year ; 
Ye, who invoke the chisel's breathing grace. 
In marble majesty their forms to trace ; 

* Bunker Hill. 


Ye, who the sleeping rocks would raise, 
To guard their dust and speak their praise ; 

Ye, who, should some other band 
With hostile foot defile the land, 

Feel that ye, like them, would wake. 
Like them the yoke of bondage break, 
Nor leave a battle-blade undrawn. 
Though every hill a sepulchre should yawn — 
Say, have not ye one line for those, 

One brother-line to spare. 
Who rose but as your fathers rose. 

And dared as ye would dare ? 

Alas ! for them, — ^their day is o'er. 
Their fires are out. from hill and shore : 
No more for them the wild deer bounds ; 
The plough is on their hunting grounds ; 
The pale man's axe rings through their woods, 
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods. 

Their pleasant springs are dry ; 
Their children-^lobk ! by power oppressed, 
Beyond the mountains of the west, 

Their children go— to die. 

O doubly lost ! Oblivion's shadows close 

Around their triumphs and their woes. 

On other realms, whose suns have set, 

Reflected radiance lingers yet.; 

There, sage and bard have shed a light 

That never shall go down in night ; 

There, time-crowned columns stand on high. 

To tell of them who cannot die ; 

Even we, who then were nothing, kneel 
In homage there, and join earth's general peal. 
But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace. 
To save his own, or serve another race : 
With his frail breath his power has passed away ; 
His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay. 

Nor lofly pile, nor glowing page, 

Shall link him to a future age, 


Or give him with the past a rank : 
His heraldry is but a broken bow, 
His history but a tale of wrong and wo. 

His very name must be a blank. 

Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps ; 

O'er him no filial spirit weeps ; 
No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend. 
To bless his coming and embalm his end ; 
Even that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue,* - 
By foes alone his death-song must be sung ; 

No chronicles but theirs shall tell 
His mournful doom to future times ; 

May these upon his virtues dwell. 
And in his fate forget his crimes. 


Concluding Lines of the ** Fall of the Indian" — ^McLellan. 

Yet sometimes, in the gay and noisy street 
Of the great city, which usurps the place 
Of the small Indian village, one shall see 
Some miserable relic of that race. 
Whose sorely-tarnished fortunes we have sung ; — 
Yet how debased and fallen ! In his eye 
The flame of noble daring is gone out. 
And his brave face has lost its martial look. 
His eye rests on the earth, as if the grave 
* Were his sole hope, his last and only home. 
A poor, thin garb is wrapped about his frame, 
Whose sorry plight but mocks his ancient state ; 
And in the bleak and pitiless storm he walks 
With melancholy brow, and shivers as he goes. 
His pride is dead ; his courage is no more ; 
His name is but a by-word. All the tribes. 
Who called this mighty continent their own. 
Are homeless, friendless wanderers on eaxUil 



Death'Song of OutaUssi. — Cabifbeu.. 

"And I could weep,"^he Oneida chief 

His descant wildly thus begiin, — 
"^But that I may not stain with grief 

The death-song of my father's son. 
Or bow this head in wo ; 

For, by my wrongs and by my wrath, 

To-morrow, Areouski's breath, 

That fires yon heaven with storms of death. 
Shall light us to the foe : 

And we shall share, my Christian boy. 

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! 

" But thee, my flower, whose breath was given 

By milder/geni^' o'er the deep. 
The spirits of the white man's heaven 

Forbid not thee to weep : 
Nor will the Christian host. 

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve 

To see thee, on the battle's eve. 

Lamenting, take a mournful leave 
Of her who loved thee most : 

She was the rainbow to thy sight. 

Thy sun — ^thy heaven—of lost delight. 

" To-morrow, let us do or die ! 

But when the bolt of death is hurled, 
Ah ! whither then with thee to fly ? 

Shall Outalissi roam the worlds 
Seek we thy once-loved home ? 

The hand is gone that cropped its flowers : 

Unheard the clock repeats its hours ; 

Cold is the hearth within those bowers ; 
And should we thither roam, 

Its echoes, and its empty tread, 

'Would soui|d?Hke voices from the dead. 


*' Or shall we cross yon mountains blue. 

Whose streams my kindred nation qaaflfed, 
And by my side, in battle true, 

A thousand warriors drew the shaft t 
Ah ! there, in desolation cold, 

The desert serpent dwells alone. 

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering boiWi 

And stones themselves, to ruin grown. 
Like me are death-like old. 

Then seek we not their camp ; for there 

The silence dwells of my despair. 

" But hark I the trump ! — to-morrow, thou 

In glory's fifes shalt dry thy tears : 
Even from the land of shadows now 

My father's awful ghost appears. 
Amidst the clouds that round us roll : 

He bids my soul for battle thirst, — 

He bids me dry the last, the first. 

The only tears, that ever burst 
From Outalissi's soul ; 

Because I may not stain with grief 

The death-song of an Indian chief." 

! V-. 


Portrait of a worldly-minded Woman, — ^Freeman: 

A WOMAN has spent her youth without the practice of any 
saarkable virtue, or the commission of any thing which 
I flagrantly wrong ; and she is now united with a man, 
hose moral endowments are not more distinguished than 
)r own; but who is industrious, rich and prosperous, 
gainst the connexion she had no objection ; and it is what 
it friends entirely approved. His standing in life is respec- 
ble ; and they both pass along without scandal, but without 
ich approbation of their own consciences, and without any 
id applause from others ; for the love of the wot\d \a \!iafe 


principle, which predominates in their bosoms ; and the world 
never highly praises its own votaries. 

She is not absolutely destitute of the external appearance 
of religion ; for she constantly attends church in the ailer- 
noon, unless she is detained by her guests ; and in the morn- 
ing, unless she is kept at home by a slight indisposition, or 
unfavorable weather, which, she supposes, happen more fre- 
quently on Sundays than other days ; and which, it must be 
confessed, are several degrees less inconvenient and less un- 
pleasant, than similar causes, which prevent her from going 
to a party of pleasure. This, however, is the end of her 
religion, such as it is ; for when she is at church/ she does 
not think herself under obligations to attend to what is pass* 
ing there, and to join in the worship of her Maker. 

She cannot, with propriety, be called a woman professing 
godliness ; for she makes no public profession of love to her . 
Savior : she does only wliat is customary ; and she would do 
still less, if the omission was decorous. Of domestic religion, 
there is not even a semblance. As her husband does not 
think proper to pray with his family, so she does not think 
proper to pray with her children, or to instruct them in the 
doctrines and duties of Christianity. On the gospel, however, 
no ridicule nor contempt is cast ; and twice or thrice in a 
year, thanks are given to God at her table, — that is, when a 
minister of religion is one of her guests. 

No time being consumed in devotion, much is left for the 
care of her house, to which she attends with worldly discre- 
tion. JEIer husband is industrious in acquiring wealth ; and 
she is equally industrious in spending it in such a manner 
as to keep up a genteel appearance. She is prudent in 
managing her ufTairs, and suffers nothing to be wasted 
through thoughtlessness. In a word, she is a reasonable 
economist ; and there is a loud call, though she is affluent, 
that she should be so, as her expenses are necessarily great. 
But she is an economist, not for the indigent, but for her- 
self; not that she may increase her means of doing good, 
but that she may adorn her person, and the persons of her 
children, with gold, and pearls, and costly array ; not that she 
may make a feast for the poor, the maimed, the lame, and 
the blind, but that she may make a dinner or a supper for 


her parents, and the object of general admiration. Of religion 
she has some aj^arance, for she not only goes to church, 
but she attends there frequently and with pleasure. In truth, 
nothing, except a well-acted play or interesting novel, affisrds 
her so much delight, as a discourse, which is elegantly com* 
posed, and eloquently delivered, and which sparkles with 
brilliant metaphors and original similes. 

She is, in particular, charmed with sweet-toned, pathetic 
sermons, which fill her eyes with tears, and her bosom with 
soft emotions ; but for those plain discourses, which probe 
the human heart, which point out the danger of prosperity, 
and inculcate the necessity of self^enial and humility, she 
has very little relish. Humility, in particular, that grace 
which is so essential in the character of a true Christian, la 
a virtue to which she is a stranger. She entertains an exalt- 
ed idea of her own dignity, and esteems nothing in this 
world so important, so suUime, so celestial, as a beautiful and 
accomplished young woman. But though she is not hum- 
ble, yet she has somewhat of the appearance of humility ; fer 
she is modest in her thoughts, and "delicate in her manners: 

Religion with her is a matter of taste, but not of action. 
She makes judicious observations on the sermons which she 
hears, and on the prayers, as far as they are the subjects of 
criticism ; but she neither prays with her heart, nor does she 
receive with meekness into her heart the engrailed word. 
Of godliness she has not yet made a profession ; for this is a 
business which belongs to the old and the wretched, and not 
to the young and the cheerful. Her behavior in her family 
and in society, however, may in general be said to be without 
reproach. As she receives the homage , of every one who 
approaches her, she is careful- to return respect; and there is 
no want in her of that condescension, which is consistent 
with a high degree of self-complacence. 

Of candor she possesses, if not a liberal, yet not an un- 
usual portion. She never calumniates any one ; and if she 
sometimes makes herself merry with the foibles of her ab- 
sent firiends, her wit is without malice, and is designed only to 
excite the mirth of the present company. In effect she loves, 
or at least thinks that she loves, her friends with uncommon 
ardor ; and her private letters to .them are remote with thff 


warmest expressions of affection, with the most generous and 
disinterested sentiments. 

For charity she entertains a fond regard. Charity, that 
divine nymph, which descends from the skies, with an eye 
beamhig with benignity, a cheek glowing with compassion, a 
ibot light as a zephyr silently stepping near the couch of an- 
guish, and a soft hand gently opened for the solace of the 
daughters of wo ; charity, which she cannot figuratively de- 
scribe, without literally describing the loveliness of her own 
face, and the graces of her own person ; charity is so charm*- 
ing a form, that no mind, she thinks, can contemplate her 
without delightful emotions. Her refined taste in benevo- 
. lence, and the books which she has read, teach her highly to 
value this godlike virtue ; and she impatiently longs for an 
opportunity of displaying her liberality in such a magnificent 
style, as to overwhelm with gratitude the object of her bounty. 

But the sufferer, whom she has imaged in her mind, is as 
elegant as herself; and though poor, yet without any of the 
mean concomitants of poverty. For the real poor, who daily 
pass before her eyes, who are gross and vulgar, rude in their 
speech, base in their sentiments, and squalid in their gar- 
ments, she has little sympathy. Farthings would comfort 
them, but she gives them nothing ; for her ambition is to 
pour handfuls of guineas into the lap of poor Maria, a lovely 
and unfortunate girl, who would thank her in pathetic and 
polished language. Thus she passes her youth, praising and 
affecting benevolence, but without the actual performance of 
good works ; and, should not her heart in season be touched 
with piety and Christian charity, when she liters the c<h>}u^ 
gal state, she sinks into the cold and selfish matron. 


Fancy and Philosophy contrasted, — ^Beattie. 

I CANNOT blame thy choice, the sage replied. 

For soft and smooth are fancy^s flowery ways ; 
And yet, even there, if lefl without a guide. 
The young adventurer unsafely playB. 


her parents, and the object of general admiration. Of religion 
she has some appearance, for she not only goes to church, 
but she attends there frequently and with pleasure. In truth, 
nothing, except a well-acted play or interesting novel, affisrds 
her so much delight, as a discourse, which is elegantly com* 
posed, and eloquently delivered, and which sparkles with 
brilliant metaphors and original similes. 

She is, in particular, charmed with sweet-toned, pathetic 
sermons, which fill her eyes with tears, and her bosom with 
soft emotions ; but for those plain discourses, which probe 
the human heart, which point out the danger of prosperity, 
and inculcate the necessity of self-denial and humility, she 
has very little relish. Humility, in particular, that grace 
which is so essential in the character of a true Christian, ia 
a virtue to which she is a stranger. She entertains an exalt- 
ed idea of her own dignity, and esteems nothing in this 
world so important, so sublime, so celestial, as a beautiful and 
accomplished young woman. But though she is not hum- 
ble, yet she has somewhat of the appearance of humility ; fer 
she is modest in her thoughts, and delicate in her manners; 

Religion with her is a matter of taste, but not of action. 
She makes judicious observations on the sermons which she 
hears, and on the prayers, as far as they are the subjects of 
criticism ; but she neither prays with her heart, nor does she 
receive with meekness into her heart the engrailed word. 
Of godliness she has not yet made a profession ; for this is a 
business which belongs to the old and the wretched, and not 
to the young and the cheerful. Her behavior in her family 
and in society, however, may in general be said to be without 
reproach. As she receives the homage, of every one who 
approaches her, she is careful* to return respect; and there is 
no want in her of that condescension, which is consistent 
with a high degree of self-complacence. 

Of candor she possesses, if not a liberal, yet not an un- 
usual portion. She never calumniates any one ; and if she 
sometimes makes herself merry with the foibles of her ab- 
sent firiends, her wit is without malice, and is designed only to 
excite the mirth of the present company. In effect she loves, 
or at least thinks that she loves, her fi'iends with uncommon 
ardor ; and her private letters to them are replete with \\a 


wannest expressions of affection, with the most generous and 
disinterested sentiments. 

For charity she entertains a fond regard. Charity, that 
dirine nymph, which descends from the skies, with an eye 
beamhig with benignity, a cheek glowing with compassion, a 
ibot light as a zephyr silently stepping near the couch of an- 
guish, and a soft hand gently opened for the solace of the 
daughters of wo ; charity, which she cannot figuratively de- 
scribe, without literally describing the loveliness of her own 
face, and the graces of her own person ; charity is so charnN 
ing a form, that no mind, she thinks, can contemplate her 
without delightful emotions. Her refined taste in benevo- 
lence, and the books which she has read, teach her highly to 
value this godlike virtue ; and she impatiently longs for an 
opportunity of displaying her liberality in such a magnificent 
style, as to overwhelm with gratitude the object of her bounty. 

But the sufferer, whom she has imaged in her mind, is as 
elegant as herself; and though poor, yet without any of the 
mean concomitants of poverty. For the real poor, who daily 
pass before her eyes, who are gross and vulgar, rude in their 
speech, base in their sentiments, and squalid in their gar- 
ments, she has little sjrmpathy. Farthings would comfort 
them, but she gives them nothing ; for her ambition is to 
pour handfuls of guineas into the lap of poor Maria, a love^ 
and unfortunate girl, who would thank her in pathetic and 
polished language. Thus she passes her youth, praising and 
afiecting benevolence, but without the actual performance of 
good works ; and, should not her heart in season be touched 
with piety and Christian charity, when she enters the ccmio- 
gal state, she sinks into the cold and selfish matron. 

Fancy and Philosophy contrcisted, — ^Beattie. 

I CANNOT blame thy choice, the sage replied. 
For aofi and smooth are fancy^s flowery ways ; 

And yet, even there, if lefl without a guide. 
The young adventurer unsafely plays. 


Eyes, dazzled long by fiction's g«ttdy rays, 
±n modest truth no light nor beauty find : 

And who, my child, would trust the meteor blaze. 
That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind. 
More dark and helpless far, than if it ne'er had shined f 

Fancj(%neryates^while it soothes the heart, 

And while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight ; 
To joy each heightening charm it can impart, 

But wraps the hour of wo in tenfold night : 

And often, where no real ills affright. 
Its visionary fiends, an endless train. 

Assail with equal or superior might. 
And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain, 
And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain. 

And yet, alas ! the real ills of life 

Claim the full vigor of a mind prepared. 
Prepared for patient, long, laborious strife. 

Its guide experience, and truth its guard. 

We fare on earth as other men have fared : 
Were they successful ? Let not us despair.. 

Was disappointment oft their sole reward ? 
Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare 
How they have borne the load ourselves are doomed to bear. 

Bat, now, let other themes our care engage ; 

For, lo ! with modest, yet majestic grace. 
To curb imagination's lawless rage. 

And firom within the cherished heart to brace, 

Philosophy appears. The gloomy race, 
By indolence and moping fancy bred — 

Fear, discontent, solicitude — give place, 
And hope and courage brighten in their stead. 
While on the kindling soul her vital beams are shed 

Then waken firom long lethargy to life 
The seeds of happiness and powers of thought ,' 

Then jarring appetites forego their strife, 
A strife by ignoraoce to loadness wrought 


Pleasure by savage man is dearly bought 
With fell revenge, lust that defies control, 

With gluttony and death. The mind mitaught 
Is a dark waste, where fiends and tempests howl ; 
As PhosbuB to the world, is science to the soul. 

And reason, now, through number, time and space. 

Darts the keen lustre of her serious eye, 
And learns, from facts compared, the laws to trace. 

Whose long progression leads to Deity. 

Can mortal strength presume to soar so high? 
Can mortal sight, so oft bedimmed with tears. 

Such glory bear? — for, lo! the shadows fly 
From nature's face ; confusion disappears. 
And order charms the eye, and harmony the earf^ 
• •••••* 

Many a long-lingering year, in lonely isle^ 

Stunned with the eternal turbulence of waves, 
Lo I with dim eyes, that never learned to smile. 

And trembling hands, the famished native craves 

Of Heaven his wretched fare : shivering in caves. 
Or scorched on rocks, he pines from day to day ; 

But science gives the word ; and, lo I he braves 
The surge and tempest, lighted by her ray. 
And lo a happier land wafls merrily away. 

And even where nature loads the teeming plain 

With the full pomp of vegetable store. 
Her bounty, unimproved, is deadly bane : 

Dark woods and rankling wilds, from shore to shore 

Stretch their enormous gloom ; which, to explore. 
Even fancy trembles in her sprightliest mood ; 

For tljere each eyeball gleams with lust of gore. 

Nestles each murderous and each monstrous brood ; 

Plague lurks m every shade, and steams from every flood. 

'Twas fi-om philosophy man learned to tame 
The soil, by plenty to intemperance fed. 

Lo ! from the echoing axe and thundering flame. 
Poison, and.plagne, and yelling rage «ro fled. - 


The waters, bursting from their dimy bed. 
Bring health and melody to every vale : 

And from the breezy main and mountaifit's bead^ 
Ceres and Flora, to the sunny dale, 
To fan their glowing charms, invite the fluttering f^Hf^ 

What dire necessities, on every hand, 

Our art, our strength, our fortitude, require! 
Of foes intestine wbf t a numerous band 

Against this little throb of life conspire ! 

Yet science can elude their fatal ire 
Awhile, and turn aside death's levelled dart. 

Soothe the sharp pang, allay the fever's fire, 
And brace the nerves once more, and cheer the heart. 
And yet a few soil nights and balmy days impart 

Nor less to regulate man's moral frame 

Science exerts her ail-composing sway. 
Flutters thy breast with fear, or pants fi>r fame. 

Or pines, to inddence and spleen a prey, 

Or avarice, a fiend more fierce than they t 
Flee to the shades of Academus' grove, 

Where cares molest not ; discord melts away 
In harmony, and the pure passions prove 
How sweet the words of truth, breathed from the lipsoflore. 

What cannot art and industry perform, 

When science plans the(progressJof their toil t 
They smile at penury, disease and storm. 

And oceans from their mighty mounds recoil. 

When tyrants scourge, or demagogues embroil 
A land, or when the rabble's headlong r^^ge 

Order transforms to anarchy and spoil. 
Deep-versed in man, the{ philosophic, sage 
Prepafres, witl^lenienll hand, their phrensy to acNNiage. 

'Tis he alone, whose comprehensive mind, 

From situation, temper, soil and clime 
Eiq>lored, a nation's various powers can bind, 

And various orders^ in one form sublime 


Of policy, that, midst the wrecks of time^ 
Secure shall lift its head on high, nor fear 

The assault of foreign or domestic crime ; 
While public faith, and public love sincere, 
And industry and law, maintain their sway severe* 


Extracts from " A Father's Legacy to his DaMighters"'^ 


There are many circumstances in your situation, that pe 
culiarly require the supports of religion, to enable you to ac 
in them with spirit and propriety. Your whole life is often 
life of suffering. You cannpt plunge into business, or diss 
pate yourselves in pleasure and riot, as men too often d( 
when under the pressure of misfortunes. You must bes 
your sorrows in silence, unknown and unpitied. You mui 
often put on a face of serenity and cheerfulness, when yoi 
hearts are torn with anguish, or sinking in despair. The 
your only resource is in the consolations of religion- 
Be punctual in the stated performance of your private dev< 
tions, morning and evening. If you have any sensibility ( 
imagination, this will establish such an intercourse betwee 
you andv the Supreme Being, as will be of infinite consi 
quence to you in life. It will communicate an habitu 
cheerfulness to your tempers, give a firmness and steadine; 
to your virtue, and enable you to go through all the viciss 
tudes of human life with propriety and dignity. 

Cultivate an enlarged charity for all mankind, howevt 
they may differ from you in their religious opinions. Thi 
difference may probably arise from causes in which you ha 
no share, and from which you can derive no merit. 

The best effect of your religion will be a diffusive humanii 
to all in distress. Set apart a certain proportion of your ii 
come as sacred to charitable purposes. But in this, as we 
as in the practice of every other duty, carefully avoid ostei 
tation. Vanity is always defeating her own purposes. Fane 


Uob; that unmeaning simper, which smiles on all alike. 
This arises, either from^ an affectation of softness, or from 
perfect insipidity. 

Let me recommend to your attention, that elegance, which 
is not so much a quality itself, as the high polish of every 
other. It is what diffuses an ineffable grace over every look, 
every motion, every sentence you utter. It gives that charm 
to beauty, without which it generally fails to please. It is 
partly a personal quality, in which respect it is the gift 
of nature ; but I speak of it, principally, as a quality of the 
mind. In a word, it is the perfection of taste in life and 
manners,— every virtue and every excellency in their most 
graceful and amiable forms. 

You may, perhaps, think that I want to throw every spark 
of nature out of your composition, and to make you entirely 
artificial. Far from it. I wish you to possess the most per- 
fect simplicity of heart and manners. I think you may 
possess dignity without pride, affability without meanness, 
and simple elegance without affectation. 

I would particularly recommend to you those exercises, 
that oblige you to be much abroad in the open air, such as 
walking, and riding on horseback. These will give vigor to 
your constitutions, and a bloom to your complexions. An 
attention to your health is a duty you owe to yourselves and 
to your friends. Bad health seldom fails to have an influ- 
ence on the spirits and temper. - The finest geniuses, the 
most delicate minds, have very frequently a correspondent 
delicacy of bodily constitution, which they are too apt to 
neglect. Their luxury lies in reading and late hours, equal 
enemies to health and beauty. 

The domestic economy of a family is entirely a woman's 
province, and fdrnishes a variety of subjects for the exertion 
both of good sense and good taste. If you ever come to 
have the charge of a family, it ought to engage much of your 
time and attention ; nor can you be excused from this by any 
extent of fortune, though, with a narrow one, the ruin that 
follows the neglect of it may be more immediate. 

Do not confine your attention to dress to your public ap- 
pearances. Accustom yourselves to an habitual neatness ; so 
that, in the most careless undress, in your most unguarded 


"^t IS the most dangerous talent you caa possess. It 
must be guarded with great discretion and good nature, oth* 
ttWise it win create you many enemies. Wit is perfectly 
eonfsisteni with softness abd delicacy ; yet they are seldom 
feund united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who 
pcsteess it^ T>ecome intoxicated^ and lose aH self<^ommand. 

^umotjls a different quality. It will make your company 
inuch soTicited ; but be cautious how you indulge it. It is 
oVten a great eniemy to dehcacy, and a still greater one to 
dignity OjT character. It may sometimes gain you applause^ 
Mt Wfll hev^r procure you respect 

LESSON i;xrn. 

TAe same, — concluded, 

JfewAxk of detraction, especially where your own sex are 
concerned. You are generally accused of being particulariy 
addicted to this vice — I think, unjustly. Men are fully as 
gUihy of it, whefn their interests interfere. As your interests 
more frequently clash, and as your feelings are quicker than 
MH, your temptations to it are more frequent. For this 
t^^faton, ble particularly tend^ of the reputation of your own 
sifeXy especially when they iHl^^en to rival you in oar regards. 

^ We look on this as the strongest proof of dignity and true 
g^aluess of mtnd. 

Havte a sacred regard to truth. Lying is a mean and de9> 
picable vice. I liave known some women of excellent parts^ 
Who were so much addicted to it, that they could not be 
thisted in the relatioin of any story, especially 'if it cdntained 
any thing of the marvellous, or if they themselves were the 

' heroines of the tale. This weakness did not proceed from a 
bad heart, hut was merely the effect of vanity, or an unbridled 
imagination. 1 do not JMUII: to censure that lively embellish- 
ment of a 'humorous stoifnil^ch is only intended to promote 
innocent mirth. 

There is a certain gentleness of spirit and manners ex- 
tremely engaging in your sex ; not that indiscriminate atten- 




tioB, that unmeaning simper, which smiles on all alike. 
This arises^ either from an affectation of softness, or from 
perfect insipidity. 

Let me recommend to your attention, that elegance, which 
is not so much a quality itself, as the high polish of every 
other. It is what diffuses an ineffable grace over every look, 
every motion, every sentence you utter. It gives that charm 
to beauty, without which it generally fails to please. It is 
partly a personal quality, in which respect it is the gift 
of nature ; but I speak of it, principally, as a quality of the 
miad. In a word, it is the perfection of taste in life and 
manners,— -every virtue and every excellency in their most 
graceful and amiable forms. 

You may, perhaps, think that I want to throw every spark 
of nature out of your composition, and to make you entirely 
artificial. Far from it. I wish you to possess the most per- 
fect simplicity of heart and manners. I think you may 
possess dignity without pride, affability without meanness, 
and simple elegance without affectation. 

I would particularly recommend to you those exercises, 
that oblige you to be much abroad in the open air, such as 
walking, and riding on horseback. These will give vigor to 
your constitutions, and a bloom to your complexions. An 
attention to your health is a duty you owe to yourselves and 
to your friends. Bad health seldom fails to have an influx 
ence on the spirits and temper. - The finest geniuses, the 
most delicate minds, have very frequently a correspondent 
delicacy of bodily constitution, which they are too apt to 
neglect. Their luxury lies in reading and late hours, equal 
eQemies to health and beauty. 

The domestic economy of a family is entirely a woman's 
province, and furnishes a variety of subjects for the exertion 
both of good sense and good taste. If you ever come to 
have the charge of a family, it ought to engage much of your 
time and attention ; nor can you be excused from this by any 
extent of fortune, though, with a narrow one, the ruin that 
foUowB the neglect of it may be more immediate. 

Do not confine your attention to dress to your public ap- 
pearances. Accustom yourselves to an habitual neatness ; so 
that, in the most careless undress, in your most unguaxded 

13 • 


hom, you may have no reason to be ashamed of your ap 
pearance. You will not easily believe how much we consider 
your dress as expressive of your characters. Vanity, levityy 
slovMiliness, folly, appear through it. An elegant simplicity 
is an equal proof of taste and delicacy. 

In dancing, the principal points you are to attend to^ are 
ease 4uid grace. I would have you dance with spirit : but 
never allow yourselves to be so far transported with mirth, as 
to forget the delicacy of your sex. Many a girl, dancing in 
the gaiety and innocence of her heart, is thought to discovet 
a ^rit she little dreams of 

In the choice of your friends, have your principal regard 
to goodness of heart and fidelity. If they also possess taste 
and genius, that will make them still more agreeable an^ 
nqefol companions* You have particular reason to place 
confidence in those, who have shown affection for you in youi 
early days, when you were incapable of making them anj 
return. This is an obligation for which you cannot be UA 

If you have the good fortune to meet with any who de 
serve the name of friends, unbosom yourself to them witi 
the most unsuspicious confidence. It is one of the wcM-ki'i 
maxims, never to tnist any person with a secret, the discover] 
of which could give you any pain ; but it is the maxim of { 
little mind and a cold heart, unless where it is the effect of 
frequent disappointments and bad usage. An open temjper 
if restrained but by tolerable prudence, will make you, on the 
whole, much happier than a reserved, suspicious one, althougl 
you may sometimes suffer by it. Coldness and distrust arc 
but the too certain consequences of age and experience ; bu 
they are unjdeasant feelings, and need not be anticipatec 
before their time. 

But, however open you may be in talking of your own af 
&irs, never disclose the secrets of one friend to another 
These are private deposits, which do not belong to you, noi 
kave you any right to make use of them. 



7^ a Log qf Wood upon the Flre^ — ^Nsw Mohthlt 


Poor Loo ! I cannot hear thee sigh, 
And groan, and hiss, and see thee die. 

To warm a poet. 
Without evincing thy success. 
And, as thou wanest less and less. 
Inditing a farewell address. 

To let thee know it. 

Peeping from earth, a bud unveiled, « 

Some husky bourn or dingle hailed 

Thy natal hour. 
While infant winds around thee blew. 
And thou wert fed with silver dew. 
And tender sun-beams, oozing through 

Thy leaiy bower. 

Earth, water, air, thy growth prepared ; 
And if perchance some robin, scared 

From neighboring ftnanor, , 
Perched on thy crest, it rocked in air. 
Making his ruddy feathers flare 
In the sun's ray, as if they were 

A fairy/ banner. 

Or if some nightingale impressed 
Against thy branching top her breast. 

Heaving with passion. 
And, in the leafy nights of June, 
Outpoured her sorrows to the moon, 
Thy trembling stem thou didst attune 

To each vibration. 


Thou grew'st a goodly tree, with shoots 
Fanning the sky, and earth-bound roots 

So grappled under, 
That thou, whom perching birds could swing. 
And zephyrs rock with lightest wing, 
From thy firm trunk, unmoved, didst fling 

Tempest and thunder. 

How oft thy lofty summits won 
Mom's virgin smile, and hailed the sun 

With rustling motion, — 
How oft, in silent depths of night. 
When the moon sailed in cloudless light. 
Thou hast stood awe-struck at the sight. 

In hushed devotion, — 

'Twere vain to ask ; for, doomed to fall. 
The day appointed for us all 

O'er thee impended : 
The hatchet, with remorseless blow. 
First laid thee in the forest low. 
Then cut thee into logs, and so 

Thy course was ended. 

But not thine use ; for moral rules, 
Worth all the wisdom of the schools. 

Thou may'st bequeath me ; 
Bidding me cherish those who live 
Above me, and, the more I thrive, 
A wider shade and shelter give 

To those beneath me. 

So when, at last. Death lays me low, 
I may resign, as calm as thou, 

My hold terrestrial ; 
Like thine ray latter end be found 
Diffusing light and warmth around. 
And like thy smoke my spirit bound 

To realms celestid. 


A Family Scene. — ^Miss Ferrier. 

The first appearance of the itiolm was highly prepossessing. 
It was a large, handsome-looking house, situated in a well- 
wooded park, by the side of a broad, placid river ; and an air 
of seclusion and stillness reigned all around, which impressed 
the mind with images of peace and repose. The interior of 
the house was no less promising. There was a spacious hall, 
and a handsome staircase, with all appliances to boot ; but, 
as the party af^roached the drawing-room, all the luxurious 
iskdoLetkce of thought, inspired by the tranquillity of the 
scenery, was quickly dispelled by the discordant sounds 
which issued fi'om thence ; and, when the door was thrown 
<^n, the footman in vain attempted to announce the visiters. 

In the middle of the room all the chairs were collected, to 
form a coach and horses for the Masters and Misses Fairbairn. 
One unruly-looking urchin sat in front, cracking a long whip 
with all his might ; another acted as guard behind, and blew 
a shrill trumpet with all his strength ; while a third, iu a 
night-cap and flannel lappet, who had somewhat the air of 
having quarrelled with the rest of the party, paraded up and 
down, in solitary majesty, beating a drum. On a sofa sat 
Mrs. Fairbairn, a soft, fair, genteel-looking woman, with a 
crying child about three years old at her side, tearing 
paper into shreds, seemingly for the delight of littering the 
carpet, which was already strowed with headless dolls, tailless 
horses, and wheelless carts. As she rose to receive her vis- 
iters, it began to scream. 

"I'm not going away, Charlotte, love,— don't be frightened," 
said the fond mother, v^th a look of ineffable pleasure. 

**You shan't get up," screamed Charlotte, seizing her 
mother's gown fiercely, to detain her. 

** My darling, you'll surely let me go to speak to uncle-— 
good undey who brings you pretty things, you know ;" but, 
daring this colloquy, uncle and the ladies had made their way 
to the entfaffalled mother, and the bustle of a meeting anfl 
iateodaotioii was got oter. The footman obtained c\iiSu^ 




with some difficulty, and placed them as close to the mist 
of the house as possible, aware that, otherwise, it would 
be easy to carry on even question and answer amid the 
mult that reigned. 

** You find us rather noisy, I am afraid," said Mrs. F 
bairn with a smile, and in a manner which evidently mc 
the reverse ; '* but this is Saturday, and the children are 
in such spirits, and they won't stay away fi-qm me. Hei 
my dear, don't crack your whip gfuite so loud, ^here's a g 
boy — that's a new whip his papa brought him from Lond 
and he's so proud of it ! WiDmm, my darling, don't 
think your drum must be tired now ? If I were you I wc 
give it a rest. Alexander, your trumpet makes rather 
much noise : one of these ladies has a headache ; wait 
you go out — ^there's my good boy, — and then you'll blo' 
at the cows and the sheep, you know, and frighten thei 
Oh ! how you will frighten them with it !" 

" No, I'll not blow it at the cows ; I'll blow it at the hor 
because then they'll think 'tis the mail-coach." , And he 
running off, when Henry jumped down from the coach-bc 

" No, but you shan't frighten them with your trumpet, 
I shall firighten them with my whip. Mamma, aren't boi 
best frightened with a whip ?" — and a struggle ensued. 

" Well, don't fight, my dears, and you shall both fi^igli 
them," cried their mamma. 

" No, I'm determined he shan't frighten them ; I shall 
it," cried both together, as they rushed out of the room, 
the drummer was preparing to folio v. 

*' William, my darling, don't you go after these naug 
boys ; you know they're always very bad to you. You ki 
they wouldn't let you into their coach with your druj 
Here William began to cry. — " Well, never mind, you s 
have a coach of your own — a much finer coach than the 
I wouldn't go in to their ugly, dirty coach ; and you s! 
have — " Here something of a consolatory nature was w 
pared ; William was comforted, and even prevailed upon 
relinquish his drum for his mamma's ivory work-box, the c 
tents of which were soon scattered on the fkx>r. 

''These boys are gone without their hats," cried II 
TwISftirn, in a tone of distress. ** Eliza, my dear, pull 


bell for Sally to get the boys' hats." Sally being despatched 
with the hats, something like a calm ensued, in the absence 
of him of the whip and the trumpet ; but as it will be of 
short duration, it is necessary to take advaiitdgc of it in im- 
proving the introduction into an acquaintance with the Fair- 
baim family. 

Mrs. Fairbairn was one of those ladies, who, from the time 
she became a mother, ceased to be any thing else. All the 
duties, pleasures, charities and decencies of life, were hence- 
forth concentrated in that one grand characteristic; every 
object in life was henccfortli viewed tlirou^h that single me- 
dium. Her own mother was no longer her mother ; she was 
the grandmamma of her dear infants : her brothers and sisters 
were mere uncles and aunts ; and even hor husband ceased 
to be thought of as her husband, from the time lie became a 

He was no longer the being who had claims on her time, 
her thoughts, her talents, her afTections ; he was simply Mr. 
Fairbairn, the noun masculine of Mrs. Fairbairn, and the 
father of her children. Happily for Mr. Fairbairn, he was 
not a person of very nice feelings, or refined taste ; and al- 
though, at first, he did feel a little unpleasantly, when he saw 
how much his children were preferred to himself, yet, in time, 
he became accustomed to it, — then came to look upon Mrs. 
Fairbairn as the most exemplary of mothers, — and, finally, 
resolved himself into the father of a very fine family, of which 
Mrs. Fairbairn was the mother. 

In all this there was more of selfish egotism, and animal 
instinct, than of rational affection, or Christian principle ; 
bat both parents piqued themselves upon their fondness for 
their offspring, as if it were a feeling peculiar to themselves, 
and not one they shared in common with the lowest and 
weakest of their species. Like them, too, it was upon the 
hoiies of their children that they lavished their chief care 
and tenderness;- for, as to the immortal interests of their 
soab, or the cultivation of their minds, or the improvement 
of their tempers, these were but little attended to, at least in 
oomparison with their health and personal appearance. 

Alaa ! if there ** be not a gem so precious as the human 
■only'' hour olten do these gems seem as pearb cast bcSoc^ 


like these in France ; these are porridge and milk legs, are 
they not, Bobby ?" 

But Bobby continued to |chew the cud of his own thumb 
in solemn silence. 

" Will you speak to me, Bobby ?" said Miss Bell, bent upon 
being amiable and agreeable ; but still Bobby was mute. 

** We think this little fellow rather long of speaking"," said 
Mr. Fairbairn ; ** we allege that his legs have run away with 
his tongue." 

" How old is he ?" asked the major. 

*^ He is only nineteen months and ten days," answered bis 
mother ; " so he has not lost much time ; but I would rather 
see a child fat and thriving, than have it very forward." 

"No comparison!" was here uttered in a breath* by the 
major and Miss Bell. 

" There's a great difference in children in their time of 
speaking," said the mamma. " Alexander didn't speak till he 
was two and a quarter ; and Henry, again, had a great many 
little words before he was seventeen months ; and Eliza and 
Charlotte both said " mamma" as plain as I do, at a year ; but 
girls always speak sooner than boys : as for William Pitt and 
Andrew Waddell, the twins, they both suffered so much from 
their teething, that they were longer of speaking than they 
would otherwise have been ; indeed, I never saw an infant 
suffer so much as Andrew W.addell did." 

A movement was here made by the visiters to depart. 

" Oh ! you mustn't go without seeing the baby," cried Mrs. 
Fairbairn. ** Mr. Fairbairn, will you pull the bell twice for 
baby ?" 

The bell was twice rung, but no baby answered the sum- 

" She must be asleep," said Mrs. Fairbairn ; " but I wiD 

take you up to the nursery, and you will see her in her cra- 
dle." And Mrs. Fairbairn led the way to the nursery, and 
opened the shutter, and uncovered the cradle, and displayed 
the baby. 

" Just five months — uncommon fine child — ^the image of 
Mr. Fairbairn — fat little thing — neat little hands — sweet little 
;iouth — ^pretty little nose — nice little toee," were as usotl 
whispered over iu • > - ' 


Miss St. Clair flattered herself the exhibition was now 
orer, and was again taking leave, when, to her dismay, the 
squires of the whip and the trumpet rushed in, proclaiming 
that it was pouring of rain. To leave the house was impos- 
sible ; and, as it was getting late, there was nothing for it but 
staying dinner. 

The children of this happy family always dined at table, 
and their food and manner of eating were the only subjects 
of conversation. Alexander did not like mashed potatoes — 
and Andrew Waddell could not eat broth — and Eliza could 
live upon fish — and William Pitt took too much small beer 
— and Henry ate as much meat as his papa — and all these 
peculiarities had descended to them from some one or other 
of their ancestors. The dinner was simple, on account of 
the children ; and there was no dessert, as Bobby did not 
agree with fruit. But to make amends, Eliza's sampler was 
shown, and Henry and Alexander's copy-lxx)ks were handed 
round the table, and Andrew Waddell stood up and repeated 
** My name is Norval,'' from beginning to end, and William 
Pitt was prevailed upon to sing the whole of ** God save the 
King," in a little squeaking, meally voice, and was bravoed 
and applauded as though he had been Braham himself. 

To paint a scene in itself so tiresome is, doubtless, but a 
poor amusement to my reader, who must often have endured 
similar persecution. For who has not suffered from the ob- 
trusive fondness of parents for their offspring 1 and who has 
not felt what it was to be called upon, in the course of a 
morning visit, to enter into all the joys and the sorrows of the 
nursery, and to take a lively interest in all the feats and pe- 
culiarities of the family ? Shakspeare's anathema against 
- those who hated music, is scarcely too strong to be applied to 
those who dislike children. There is much enjoyment, 
sometimes, in making acquaintance with the little beings ; 
much delight in hearing their artless and unsophisticated 
prattle, and something not unpleasing even in witnessing 
their little freaks and wayward humors ; but when a tiresome 
mother, instead of allowing the company to notice her child, 
torments every one to death in forcing or coaxing her child 
to notice the company, the charm is gone, and we experience 
only disgust. 


Local Associations. — H. G. Ons. 

There are none, who have paid even a superficial atten- 
tion to the process of their perceptions, who are not conscious 
that a prolific source of intellectual pleasures and pains, is 
found in our faculty of associating the remembrance of char- 
acters and events, which have most interested our affections 
and passions, with the spot whereon the former have lived 
and the latter have occurred. It is to the magic of this local 
influence, that we are indebted for the charm, which recalls 
the sports and pastimes of our childhood, the joyous days of 
youth, when \buoyant)spir its invested all surrounding objects 
with the color of the rose. 

It is this, which brings before us, as we look back through 
the vista of riper years, past enjoyments and afflictions, as- 
piring hopes and bitter disappointments, the temptations we 
have encountered, the snares which have entangled us, the 
dangers we have escaped, the fidelity or treachery of fri^ids. 
It is this, which enables us to surround ourselves with the 
images of those, who were associates in the scehes we {con- 
template^ and to hold sweet converse with the spirits of the 
departed, whom we have loved or honored in the j^aces 
which shall know them no more. 

But the potency of these local associations, is not fimited 
to the sphere of our personal experience. We are qualified 
by it to derive gratification from what we have heard and 
read of other times, to bring forth forgotten treasures fifom 
the recesses of memory, and recreate fancy in the fields of 
unagination. The regions, which have been famed in sacred 
or fabulous history ; the mountains, plains, isles, rivers, cele- 
brated in the classic page ; the seas, traversed by the discov- 
erers of new if orlds ; the fields, in which empires have been 
lost and won, — are scenes of enchantment for the visiter, who 
indulges the trains of perception which either rush unbidden 
on his mind, or are courted by its voluntary eflbrts. This 
fiusulty it is, which, united with a disposition to use it to aid- 
vantage, alone gives dignity to the passion for visitiiig^foreigB 


countries ; and distinguishes the philosopher, who moralizes 
on the turf that covers the mouldering dust of ambition, val- 
or, or patriotism, from the fashionable vagabond, who flutters 
among the flowers, which bloom over their graves. 

Among all the objects of mental association, ancient build- 
ings and ruins affect us with the deepest and most vivid 
emotions. They were the works of beings like ourselves. 
While a mist, impervious to mortal view, hangs over the 
future, all our fond imaginings of the things, which "eye 
hath not seen nor ear heard,'' in the eternity to come, are 
inevitably associated with the men, the events and things, 
wl^ich have 'gone to join the eternity that is past. 

When imagination has in vain essayed to rise beyond the 
stars, which '* proclaim the story of their birth," inquisitive 
to know the occupations and condition of the sages and he- 
roes, whom we hope to join in a higher empyrean, she drops 
her weary wing, and is compelled to alight among the frag- 
ments of '* gorgeous palaces aiid cloud-capped towers," which 
cover their human ruins, and, by aid of these localities, to 
ruminate upon their virtues and their faults, on their deeds 
in the cabinet and in the field, and upon the revolutions of the 
successive ages in which they lived. • To this propensity may 
be traced the/sublimated j feelings of the man, who, familiar 
¥rith the stories of Sesostris, the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies, 
surveys the pyramids, not merely as stupendous fabrics of 
mechanical skill, but as monuments of the pride and am- 
bitious folly of kings, and of the debasement and oppression 
of the wretched myriads, by whose labors they were raised 
to the skies. To this must be referred the awe and contrition, 
which solemnize and melt the heart of the Christian, who 
looks into the holy sepulchre, and believes he sees the place 
where the Lord was laid. 

From this originate the musings of the scholar, who, amid 
the ruins of the Parthenon and the Acropolis, transports his 
imagination to the age of Pericles and Phidi^ ; — ^the reflec- 
tions of all, not dead to sentiment, who descend to the sub- 
terranean habitations of Pompeii — handle the utensils that 
once ministered to the wants, and the ornaments subservient 

lo the loxary, of a polished city — behold the rut of wheels 
11 • 


upon the pavement hidden for ages fix>m hnman sight— -and 
realize the awful hour, when the ham of industry and the 
song of joy, the wailing of the infant, and the/gaiTulity\>f 
age, were suddenly and forever silenced by the nery deluge, 
which buried the city, until accident and industry, after the 
lapse of nearly eighteen centuries, revealed its ruins to the 
curiosity and cupidity of the passing age. 

To Seneca Lake, — J. G. Perciyal. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail^ 

And round his breast the ripples Weak^ 
As down he bears before Uie gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 

The dipping paddle echoes far. 
And flashes in the moonlight gleam^ 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along thy pebbly shore. 
As blows the north-wind, heave their foam^ 

And curl around the dashing oar, 
As late the boatman hies him iKMOoe. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of mantling blue 
Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
A sheet of silver spreads below. 

And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snoWi 

YOimo LADI7J3' CLASS BOOK. ' 10f , 

On thj fair bosom, silver lake, 

Oh ! I could ever sweep the oar, 
When early birds at morning wake. 

And evening tells us toil is o'er. / 

Jjcikt Superior. — S. G. Goodrich. 

Father of lakes, thy waters bend 
Beyond the eagle's utmost view. 

When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send 
Back to the sky its world of blue. 

Boundless and deep the forests weave 
Their twilight shade thy borders o'er. 

And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave 
Their rugged forms along thy shore. 

Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, 
With listening ear in sadness broods, 

Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves. 

Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. 

Nor can the light canoes, that glide 
Across thy breast like things of air. 

Chase from thy lone and level tide. 
The spell of stillness reigning there. 

Yet round this waste of wood and wave. 
Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives, 

That, breathing o'er each rock and cave. 
To all a wild, strange aspect gives. 

The thunder-riven oak, that flings 
Its grisly arms athwart the sky, 

A sudden, startling image brings 
To the lone traveller's kindled eye. 


The gnail'd and braided boughs, that show 
Their dim forms in the forest shade, 

Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw 
Fantastic horrors through the glade. 

The very echoes, round this shore. 

Have caught a strange and^gibbering^ne 

For they have told the war-whoop o'er. 
Till the wild chorus is their own. 

Wave of the wilderness, adi^ ; 

Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods ; 
Roll on, thou element of blue, 

And fill these awful solitudes. 

Thou hast no tale to tell of man ; — 
God is thy theme. Ye sounding eaves. 

Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan 
Deems as a bubble all your waves. 




. Influence of the Female Character, — Thacher.' 

The influence of woman on the intellectual character 
of the community, may not seem so great and obvious, as 
upon its civilization and manners. One reasdh i^, tfa^t hith- 
erto such influence has seldom been exerted- in the most 
direct way of gaining celebrity — the writing of books.. Li 
our own age, indeed, this has almost ceased to be the case ; 
and, if we should inquire for those persons, whose writings, 
for the last half century, have produced the most practical and 
enduring eflects, prejudice itself must confess, that the name 
of more than one illustrious woman would adorn the cata- 

That the society and influence of woman have often^ 
ptompted and refined the efibrts of genius, may be granted 
by the most ze^us advocate for the superiority of our 


But whatever may be thought of the influence of the aex, in 
these particulars, there is one point of view, in which it is 
undeniably great and important. 

The mother of your children is necessarily their first instruo- 
ter. It is her task to watch over and assist their dawning fac- 
ulties in their first expansion. And can it be of light impor- 
tance in what manner this task is performed ? Will it have no 
influence on the fiiture mental character of the child, whetlt- 
er the first lights, which enter its understanding, are received 
from wisdom or jfolly ? Are there no bad mental liabits, no 
lasting biases, no dangerous associations, no deep-seated pre* 
jadices, which can be communicated from the mother, the 
fondest object of the afiection and veneration of the child ? 

In fine, do the opinions of the age take no direction and no 
coloring firom the modes of thinking, which prevail among 
one half of the minds that exist on earth ? Unless you are 
willing to say, that an incalculably great amount of mental 
power is utterly wasted and thrown away ; or else, with a 
Turkish arrogance and brutality, to deny Uiat woman shares 
with you in the possession of a reasoning and immortal mind ; 
you must acknowledge the vast importance of the influence, 
which the female sex exerts on the intellectual character of 
the community. 

But it is in its moral effects on the mind and the heart of 
man, that the influence of woman is most powerful and im- 
portant. In the diversity of tastes, habits, inclina^ons and 
porsoits of the two sexes, is found a most beneficent provision 
fbt controlling the force and extravagance of human passions. 
The objects which most strongly seize and stimulate the 
mind of man, rarely act, at the same time and with equal 
power, on the mind of woman. 

While he delights in enterprise and action, and the exer* 
cise of the stronger energies of the soul, she is led to engage 
in calmer pursuits, and seek for gentler enjoyments. While 
be is sununoned into the' wide and busy theatre of a conten- 
tioas world, where the love of power and the love of gain, 
in all their innumerable forms, occupy and tyrannize over the 
•only she is walking in a more peaceful sphere ; and though 
I my not' that these passions are always unfelt by her, yet 
thqr lead her to the pursuit of very different objects. The 


current, if it draws its waters in both from the same source, 
moves with her not only in a narrower stream, and less im- 
petuous tide, but sets also in a different direction. Hence it 
is, that the influence of the society of woman, is, almost always, 
to soften the violence of those impulses, which would other- 
wise act with so constant and fatal an influence on the soul 
of man. 

The domestic fireside is the great guardian of society 
against the excesses of human passions. When man, afler 
his intercourse with the world, — where, alas ! he finds so much 
to inflame him with a feverous anxiety for we^th and dis- 
tinction, — ^retires, at evening, to the bosom of his family, he 
finds there a repose for his tormenting cares. He finds 
something to hiring him back to human sympathies. The 
tenderness of his wife, and the caresses of his children, intro- 
duce a new train of softer thoughts and gentler feelings. 
He is reminded of what constitutes the real felicity of man , 
and, while his h^:art expands itself to the influence of the 
simple and intimate delights of the domestic circle, the de- 
mons of avarice and ambition, if not (exorcised) firbm his 
breast, at least for a time,, relax their gra^.' How deplorable 
would be the consequence, if all these werb reversed ; and 
woman, instead of checking the violence of these passions, 
were to employ her blandishments and charms to add fuel to 
their rage ! How much wider would become the empire of 
guilt ! What a portentous and intolerable amount would be 
added to the sum of the crimes and miseries of the human 

But the influence of the female character, on the virtue of 
man, is not seen merely in restraining and softening the vio- 
lence of human passions. To her is mainly committed the 
task of pouring into the opening mind of infancy its first im- 
pressions of duty, and of stamping on its susceptible heart 
the first image of its God. Who will not confess the influ- 
ence of a mother in forming the heart of a child? What 
man is there, who cannot trace the origin of many of the best 
maxims of his life to the lips of her who gave him birth? 
How wide, how. lasting, how sacred is that part of wmnan's 
influence! Who that thinks of it, who that ascribes any 
moral effect to education, who that believes that any good 


may be produced, or any evil prevented by it, can need any 
arguments to prove the importance of the character and 
capacity of her, who gives its earliest bias to the infant 

There is yet another mode, by which woman may exert a 
powerful influence on the virtue of a community. It rests 
with her, in a preeminent degree, to give tone and elevation 
to the mwal character of the age, by deciding the degree of 
virtue, that shall be necessary to afford a passport to her so- 
ciety. The extent of this influence has, perhaps, never been 
fully tried ; and, if the character of our sex is not better, it 
is to be confessed that it is, in no trifling degree, to be ascrib- 
ed to the fault of yours. If all the favor of woman were 
given only to the good ; if it were known that the charms 
and attractions of beauty, and wisdom, and wit, were reserved 
only for the pure ; if, in one word, something of a similar 
rigor were exerted to exclude the profligate and abandoned 
of our sex from your society, as is shown to those, who have 
fallen from virtue in your own, — how much would be done 
to reenforce the motives to moral purity among us, and im- 
press, on the minds of all, a reverence for the sanctity and 
obligations of virtue ! 

The influence of woman on the moral sentiments of soci- 
ety, is intimately connected with her influence on its religious 
character ; for religion and a pure and elevated morality, roust 
ever stand in the relation to each other of effect and cause. 
The heart of woman is formed for the abode of Christian 
truth ; and for reasons alike honorable to her character and 
to that of the gospel. From the nature of Christianity, this 
must be so. The foundation of evangelical religion is laid 
in a deep and constant sense of the presence, providence and 
influence of an invisible Spirit, who claims the adoration, 
reverence, gratitude and love of his creatures. By man, 
busied as he is in the cares, and absorbed in tlie pursuits, of 
the world, this great truth is, alas ! too oflen and too easily 
forgotten and disregarded ; while woman, less engrossed by oc- 
cupation, more ** at leisure to be good,'' led oflen by her duties 
to retireaient, at a distance from many temptations, and en- 
dued with an imagination more easily excited and raised than 


man's, is better prepared to admit and cherish, and be bS- 
fected by, this solemn and glorious acknowledgment of a 

Again; the gospel reveals to us a Savior, invested with 
little of that brilliant and dazzling glory, with which con- 
quest and success would array him in the eyes of proud and 
aspiring man ; but rather as a meek and magnanimous s\x^ 
ferer, clothed in all the mild and passive graces, all the 
sympathy with human wo, all the compassion for human 
frailty, all the benevolent interest in human welfare, which 
the heart of woman is formed to love ; together with all that 
solemn and supernatural dignity, which the heart of woman 
is formed peculiarly to feel and to reverence. To obey the 
commands, and aspire to imitate the peculiar virtues, of such 
a being, must always be more natural and. easy for her than 
for man. 

So, too, it is with that future life which the gospel unveils, 
where all that is dark and doubtful^in this shall be explained ; 
where penitence shall be forgiven, and faith and virtue ac- 
cepted ; where the tear of sorrow shall be dried, the wounded 
bosom of bereavement be healed ; where love and joy shall 
be unclouded and immortal. To these high and holy visions 
of faith I trust that man is not always insensible ; but the 
superior sensibility of woman, as it makes her feel, more 
deeply, the emptiness and wants of human existence here, so 
it makes her welcome, with more deep and ardent emotions, 
the glad tidings of salvation, the thought of communion with 
God, the hope of the purity, happiness and peace of another 
and a better world. 

In this peculiar susceptibility of religion in the female 
character, who does not discern a proof of the benignant 
care of Heaven of the best interest of man ? How wise it 
is, that she, whose instructions and example must have so 
powerful an influence on the infant mind, should be formC" 
to own and cherish the most sublime and important of 
truths ! The vestal flame of piety, lighted up by Heaven i^ 
the breast of woman, diffuses its light and warmth over tb^ 
world ; — and dark would Be the world, if it should ever ^ 
extinguished and lost. 


A Scene in a private Mad-House. — M. G. Leths. 

Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my wo ! 

She is not mad who kneels to thee ; 
For what I'm now, too well I know. 

And what I was, and what should be. 
I'll rave no more in proud despair ; 

My language shall be mild, though sad : 
But yet I'll firmly, truly swear, 

I am not mad ; I am not mad. 

My tyrant husband forged the tale. 

Which chains me in this dismal cell ; 
My fate unknown my friends bewail ; 

Oh ! jailer, haste that fate to tell ; 
Oh ! haste my father's heart to cheer : 
. His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad 
To know, though kept a captive here, 

I am not mad ; I am not mad. 

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; 

He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; 
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see — 

'Tis gone, and all is gloom again. 
Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light ! 

Life, all thy comforts once I had ; 
Tet here I'm chained, this fireezing night. 

Although not mad ; no, no, not mad. 

'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain; 

What ! I, — the child of rank and wealth, — 
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain. 

Bereft of freedom, friends and health? 
Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled. 

Which never more my heart must glad. 
How aches my heart, how bums my bead ; ** 

But 'tis not mad ; no, 'tis not mad. 


Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, 

A mother's face, a mother's tongue t 
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss. 

Nor round her neck how fast you climg; 
Nor how with me you sued to stay ; 

Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; 
Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away ; 

They'll make me mad ; they'll make me mid. 

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! 
None ever bore a lovelier child : 

And art thou now for ever gonet 
And must I never see thee more. 

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? 
I mil be free ! unbar the door ! 

I am not mad ; I am not mad. 

Oh ! hark ! what mean those yells and cries t 

His chain some furious madman breaks; 
He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ; 

Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes. 
Help ! help ! — He's gone ! — Oh ! fearful wo, 

Such screams to hear, such sights to see I 
My brain, my brain, — ^I know, I know, 

I am not mad, but soon shall be. 

Yes, soon ; — for, lo you ! — while I speak— 

Mark how yon Demon's eye-balls glare ! 
He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek, 

He whirls a serpent high in air. 
Horror ! — the reptile strikes his tooth 

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; 
Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; — I feel the truth ; 

Your task is done ! — Fm mad ' I*m mad! • 



Jn ike relaHve Value of Good Sense and Beaidy in the 
Female Sex, — Literary Gazette. 

Notwithstanding the lessons of moralists, and the dec- 
matioiis of philosophers, it cannot be denied that all man- 
nd have a natural love, and even respect, for external 
(auty. In vain do they represent it as a thing of no value 
itself, as a frail and perishable flower ; in vain do they ex- 
uist all the depths of argument, all the stories of fancy, to 
ove the worthlessness of this amiable gift of nature. How- 
'er persuasive their reasonings may appear, and however 
e may, for a time, fancy ourselves convinced by them, we 
ive in our breasts a certain instinct, which never fails to 
11 us, that all is not satisfactory ; and though we may not be 
)le to prove that they are wrong, we feel a conviction that 
is impossible they should be right 

They are certainly right in blaming those, who are ren- 
)red vain by the possession of beauty, since vanity is, at all 
ones, a fault : but there is a great di^rence between being 
tin of a thing, and being happy that we have it ; and that 
Miatv, however little merit a woman can claim to herself for 
, is really a quality which she may reasonably rejoice to pos- 
asy demands, I think, no very labored proof. Every one nat- 
rally wishes to please. To this end we know how important 
is, that the first impression we produce should be favorable. 
Now, this first impression is commonly produced through the 
edium of the eye ; and this is frequently so powerful as to 
Nsist, for a long time, the opposing evidence of subsequent 
Mservation. Let a man of even the soundest judgment be 
"esented to two women, equally strangers to him, but the one 
Ltremely handsome, the other without any remarkable ad- 
intages of person, and he will, without deliberation, attach 
imself first to the former. All men seem in this to be 
^tuated by the same principle as Socrates, who used to say, 
tat when he saw a beautifhl person, he always expected to 
» it animated by a beautiful soul. 
The ladies, however, oflen fall into Ibe faXil «ct<n ^ Vob^^ 


agining that a fine person is, in our eyes, superior to everjr 
other accomplishment ; and those, who are so happy as to be 
endowed with it, rely, with vam confidence, on its irresistible 
power to retain hearts as well as to subdue them. Hence 
the lavish care bestowed on the improvement of exterior and 
perishable charms, and the neglect of solid and durable 
excellence ; hence the long list of arts that administer to 
vanity and folly, the countless train of glittering accomplish- 
ments, and the scanty catalogue of truly valuable acquire- 
ments, which compose, for the most part, the modem system 
of fashionable female education. Yet so far is beauty from 
being, in our eyes, an excuse for the want of a cultivated 
mind, that the women who are blessed with it, have, in real- 
ity , a much harder task to perform, than those of their sex 
who are not so distinguished. Even our self-love here takes 
part against them ; we feel ashamed of having suffered our- 
selves to be caught like children, by mere outside, and 
perhaps even fall into the contrary extreme. 

Could " the statue thdt enchants the world," — the Venus 
de Medicis, — at the prayer of some new Pygmalion, become 
suddenly animated, how disappointed would he be, if she 
were not endowed with a soul answerable to the inimitable 
perfection of her heavenly form? Thus it is with a fine 
woman, whose only accomplishment is external excellence. 
She may dazzle for a time ; but when a man has onee 
thought, " What a pity that such a masterpiece should be but 
a walking statue T' her empire is at an end. 

On the other hand, when a woman, the plainness of whose 
features prevented our noticing her at first, is found, npon 
nearer acquaintance, to be possessed of the more solid and 
valuable perfections of the mind, the pleasure we feel in being 
so agreeably undeceived, makes her appear to still greater 
advantage : and as the mind of man, when left to itself, is 
naturally an enemy to all injustice, we, even unknown to 
ourselves, strive to repair the wrong we have involuntarily 
done her, by a double portion of attention and regard. 

If these observations be founded in truth, it will appear that, 

though a woman with a cultivated mind may justly hope to 

please^ without even any superior advantages of person^ the 

lorelieBt creature that ever came from the hand of her Grea- 


tor can hope only for a transitory empire, anleM she unite 
wilh her heanty the more durable charm of intellectual ex- 

The hrated child of nature, who combines in herself these 
united perfections, may be justly considered as the master- 
piece of the creation ; as the most perfect image of the Dinn- 
ity here below. Man, the proud lord of the creation, bows 
iRdllingly his haughty neck beneath her gentle rule. Ex- 
alted, tender, beneficent, is the love that she inspires. Even 
time himself shall respect the all-powerful magic of her 
beauty. Her charms may fade, but they shall never wither; 
and memory still, in the evening of life, hanging with fond 
aflfection over the Uanched rose, shall view, through the vale 
of lapsed years, the tender bud, the dawning promise, whose 
beaaties once Unshed before the beams of the monunf 



Maiemai Affection, — Mrs. Hemans. 

Lots ! love ! — there are sofi smiles and gentle words. 
And there are faces, skilful to put on 
The loc^ we trust in, — and 'tis mockery all ! — 
A faithless mist, a desert-vapor, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled I There is none. 
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, 
Watohing his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks. 
The bright, glad creature springmg in his path. 
But as the heir of hb great name, the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength, ere long. 
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love ! 
This is num's love ! — ^What marvel ? You ne'er made 
Yoor breast the pUlow of his infiemcy, 


IM rouMQ LADIE8' fxjoa woam^. 

While te Um ftdneai of yoor heart's glad hemviiifi 
His fcir cheek rose and feU, and his bright hair 
Waved sofUy to your breath ! You ne'er kept watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set. 
And mom, all dazaling, as in triumph, broke 
On yonr dim, weary eye; not yours the fiMse 
Which, eariy faded throogh fond care for him. 
Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's li^t. 
Was there to greet his wakening I You ne'er smooths 
ffis couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest. 
Caught his least whiq[>er, when his voice from yours 
Had learned soft utterance ; pressed your lip to his. 
When fever parched it ; hushed his wayward cries, 
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 
Nb<t these are vonum's tasks ! — ^In these her youth, 
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, 
Steal from her all unmarked. 

Napoleon at Rest. — ^Pierpobtt. 

His fklchion flashed akmg 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 tlin sea-girt rock, the star, 

That led him on from crown to crown^ 

Has sunk ; and nations from afar 
Gazed as it faded and went down. 


Hi^h is his couch ; — the ocean flood. 

Far, far below, by storms is carled ; 
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 throoity 

And to the earth its mitres cast. 
Lies powerless now beneath these stones. 

Har^ ! 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 I — ^No : 

The only, the perpetual dirge 

That's heard here, b the sea-bird's cry,— 
The moumfril murmur of the surge, — 

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 

The Warrior, — Anontmoot. 

A GALLANT foHu is psssiug by ; 

The plume bends o'er his lordly brow ; 
A thousand tongues have raised on high 

Hb song of triumph now : 
Young knees are bending round his way, 
Adid age makes bare his locks of gray. 


Fair forms have lent their gladdest smile, 
White hands hare waved the conqueror od. 

And flowers have decked his path the while. 
By gentle fingers strown. 

Soft tones have cheered him, and the brow 

Of beauty beams uncovered now. 

The bard has waked the song for him, 
And poured his boldest numbers forth ; 

The wine-cup, sparkling to the brim. 
Adds phrensy to the mirth ; 

And every tongue, and every eye. 

Does homage to the passer by. 

The gallant steed treads proudly on ; 

His foot falls firmly now, as when. 
In strife, that iron heel went down. 

Upon the hearts of men, 
And, foremost in the ranks of strife. 
Trod out the last dim spark of life. 

Dream they of these, the glad and gay. 
That bend around the conqueror's path t— - 

The horrors of the conflict day. 
The gloomy field of death. 

The ghastly stain, the severed head. 

The raven stooping o'er the dead ! 

Dark thoughts, and fearful ! yet they bring 
No terrors to the triumph hour. 

Nor stay the reckless worshipping 
Of blended crime and power. 

The fair of form, the mild of mood. 

Do honor to the man of blood. 

Men, Christians, pause ! The air ye breathe 

Is poisoned by your idol now ; 
And will you turn to him, and wreath 

Your chaplets round his brow 1 


Nay, call his darkest deeds sublime. 
And smile assent to giant crime t 

Forbid it, Heaven I — ^A voice bath goae 

In mildness and in meekness forth. 
Hushing, before its ulvery tone, 

The stormy things of earth, 
And whispering sweetly through the gkxMn 
An earnest of the peace to come. 


War. — PoRTEus. 

'TwAS man himself 

Brought Death into the world ;.and man hinsdf 

Gave keenness to his darts, quickened his ptee^ 

And multiplied destruction on mankind. 

First Envy, eldest born of Hell, imbrued 

Her hands in blood, and taught the sons of mm 

To make a death, which nature never made. 

And God abhorred ; with violence rude to break 

The thread of life, ere half its length was ran. 

And rob a wretched brother of his being. 

With joy Ambition saw, and soon imjuroved 

The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough, 

By subtle fraud, to snatch a single life—' 

Puny impiety ! whole kingdoms fell 

To sate the lust of power ; more horrid still. 

The foulest stain and scandal of our nature 

Became its boast. — One murder made a villaiii, 

Millions a hero. — ^Princes were privileged 

To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime. 

Ah ! why will kings forget that they are men ? 

And men that they are brethren ? Why delight 

In human sacrifice 1 Why burst the ties 

Of nature, that should knit their souls together 

In one soft bond of amity and love t 

Yet still, they breathe destruction, sttU go on 


Inhumanly ingenious to find out 

New pains for life, new terrors for the granre. 

Artificers of death ! Still monarchs dream 

Of universal empire growing up 

From universal ruin. Blast the design. 

Great God of hosts, nor let thy creatures ftll 

Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine I 

ne Battle of jB2eitA«tm.— -Southbt. 

It was a summer evening, — 

Old Kaspar's work was done. 
And he, before his cottage door. 

Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him qwrted, on the gfeen. 
His little grand-child, Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round. 

Which he, beside the rivulet, 
In playing there, had found : 

He came to ask what he had found. 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head. 

And, with a natural sigh, 
'* 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he^ 
" Who fell in tl*e great victory. 

** I find them in the garden, for 

There's many here about ; 
And often, when I go to plough. 

The ploughshare turns them out ; 
For many thousand men," said he, 
** Were dain in the great victory." 


**Now tell U8 what 'twas all about—" 

Young Peter kin he cries, 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes — 
** Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they killed each other for.** 

** It was the English," Kaspar cried, 

" Who put the French to rout; 
But what they killed each other for, 

I could not well make out : 
But every body said," quoth he, 
'* That 'twas a famous victory. 


" My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by : 
They burned his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly ; 
tSo with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

** With fire and sword the country round 
Was wasted far and wide, *" 

And many a hapless mother then. 
And many an infant, died ; 

But things like these, you know, must be 

At every famous victory. 

*'They say it was a shocking sight. 

After the field was won ; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rottinpr in the sp.n ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
Afler a famous victory. 

** Great praise the duke of Marlb'ro' won. 

And our good prince Eugene." 
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" 

Said little Wilhelmine. 


" Nay, nay, my litde girl," quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

" And every body praised the duke 
Who such a fight did win." 

" But what good came of it at lastt" 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

** Why, that I cannot tell," said he ; 

" But 'twas a famous victory " 


2%e 8tudff of History ; or a Solid and a Superficial E 
cation contrasted. — From Ruhnken. 

Teacher, I hear that you have made great progress 
history, and that you have at home a very able in«tructi 
m It 

Pupil. Yes, that is the case ; our governess knows 
history ; and I have profited much from her instruction. 

T. But what have you learned ? Tell me. 

P. All history. 

7*. But what b all history ? 

P. (Hesitating.) All history ? Why it is — ^it is — ^wh« 
in books. 

T. Well, I have here many books on history, as Here 
tus, Livy, Tacitus and others; I suppose you know tfa 

P. No, I do not; but I know the facts related in histi 

31 I dare say you do ; I see, however, that, out of y 
knowledge of all history, we must deduct a knowledge of 
authors who have written it. But perhaps that goven 
of yHurs has informed you who Homer, Hesiod, Plato i 
the other poets and philosophers were ? 

P. I don't think she has ; for, if she had, I should h 
v^membered it. 


T. Well, we must then make ene farther deduction from 
your knowledge of cM history; and that is, the history of the 
poets and philosophers. 

P> Why, I said just now that I did not learn those 
things ; I learned matters of fact and events. 

T, But those things^ as you call them, were men : howev- 
er, I now understand you ; the knowledge you aa|iiir«d was 
a knowledge of things, but not of men ; as, fur iiitttancc, you 
learned that the city of Rome was built, but you did not learn 
any thing of the men that built it. 

P. True, true. (As if repeating by rate.) Rome was 
beih by Romulus and Remus, twin brothers, the sous of 
Rhea Sylvia and Mars; they were exposed, while infants, by 
king Amulius, and afterwards a shepherd brought them up 
and educated them — 

T, Enough, enough, my good little friesd; you have 
shown me now what you understand by the history of men 
and things. But, pray, tell me what other men and things 
yoa were instructed in ; for instance, tell me who and what 
Sylla was. 

P. He was a tyrant of Rome. 

71 Was the term tyrant the name of an officer 7 

P. Indeed, I do not know ; but Sylla is certainly called, 
in history, a tyrant.^ 

T, But did you Aot learn that he was dictator? and what 
the authority and duties of that officer were ? and the au- 
thority of the consuls, tribunes of the people, and other 
magistrates among the Romans? 

P. No, I did not; for those things are hard, and are 
Bot so entertaining as great exploits, and would have taken, 
op too much time. 

T, As to that, you will perhaps be better able to judge 
hereafter. Well, then, from your knowledge of aU history, 
ve roust strike off all kn6wledge of the offices of the Ro- 
nan magistrates. 

P. Ah! but we took more pleasure in reading about 
llfs and exploits. 

W*- Well, did you ever hear of Carthage and the wars 
carried on against her ? 



T, Tell me, then, which party was victOTioua. 

P, The Romans. 

T. But were they victorious at the beginning t 

P, Oh, no; [fis if repeating hy rote] they were 
in fi>ur battles, by Hannibal ; at Ticinum, Trebia, the 
ymene lake, and Canns. 

T. Did your governess tell you the causes of th 
feats of the Romans 1 

P. No, she did not tell us the^eauses, but the ma 

T, Perhaps you understand yourself the causes y 
Romans finally retrieved their affairs ? 

P. To be sure I do ; the cause was their bravery 

T. But were they not brave also at the begini 
those wars ? 

P. Certainly they were. 

T. Then their bravery was the cause of their bei 
qoered and being conquerors ? 

P. Why — ^why — I don't know as to that ; but I 
never was asked such hard questions before. 

T, Well, well ; I will ask you something easier, 
be supposed that the Romans would have come off vi< 
in that war, if the powerful sovereigns of that age had 
their forces with the Carthaginians ? 

P. ( With an air of surprise.) What sovereigns 

T, Why, do you not know, that in that age the 

in Macedonia, Asia, Syria and B^ypt, all those p 

i kings who were the successors of Alexander the Grei 

P, Oh, yes, I know that ; but we used to* take \ 
history in another chapter. I never thought of theii 
at the time of the second Punic war. 

T. Do you not perceive, then, that their mutual 
was the cause why they did not unite their forces in 
Carthaginians to oppose the Romans, in coq^uc 
which, those same kings were afterwards conquered, 
one, by the Romans ? 

P, I perceive it now, since you have told/roe of 
X derivo i^ueh gratification from your reraaHt. 

T. ftbisdeedtrue, thatthepercoptioiifcf theec 


things is not only gratifying, but useful. However, we must 
still go on to make farther deductions from your stock of all 
histary ; we must deduct the knowledge of causes, 

P, I cannot deny that, to be sure ; but I am positive 
that, with the exceptions you have now made, we learned 
every thing else in history. 

T. Well, tell me about some of the other things that 
you learned ; tell me what is the beginning of history. 
r P. The creation of the world. 

T. But I meant to ask you about men, and the affairs of 

P. {As if repeating by rote,) The first human beings 
were Adam and Eve, whom God created on the sixth day, 
after his own image, and placed in paradise, firom which they 
were afterwards expelled, and — 

T, Don^t go any farther, I beg of you ; I see you have 
got some little book well by heart : but tell me now, gener- 
ally, about what men and things, subsequent to those, were 
you instructed by your governess ? 

P. About the posterity of Adam, the patriarchs before 
and after the flood, and all about the Jewish nation^ to the 
time of their overthrow. 

T, But what makes you think that those thb^ yon 
learned are true ? ' ir^^- ., 

P. Because they are delivered to us by divine inspiration 
in the Holy Scriptures. 

T. But did you find the Roman history, and other things 
that you have learned, all in the Holy Scriptures! 

P. Certainly not. \^ 

T, But yet you believe them ? 

P. Believe them ! why not? They are related in other 
books that are worthy of credit. 

T. Pray, what books are those ? 

P. • Chir governess had two.; itne, a small book, that we 
learned to recite ; the other, a large work, in several volnmef, 
from which she sometimes read to us. 

1^^. But were the authors of those books witnesses of the 
Mots which they relate ? 

, P, Oh, no ; they lived either in our day, or within the 
kMmorjF of oar fathers. 


T. Where did thej get their kaowledge of the 
meDtiotied in their books ? 
T ' P. From other hooks that are worthy of credit. 

P. Do you know those other books! 

JP. No, I do not. 

T. How can yoo venfare, then, lo assert that tkoac 
kre warthy of ttedil, when you do not know theai t 

P. I bdieve #hat o«r gofereess tells us. 

T. Pray bow many yean old are youT 

P. r iftecii. 

T. Upon my word ! Toa are now almost grown % 
Jmr goternesB still treats you like a liale child I 

>. Ilo# 80 f 

9^ Why, hediuse slie teaches you history just as 
stories to little children. But do you think the histo 
IMwheA ydu i» true f or b it a matter of indiflference 1 
Whether yoo tre hmtrUcted in the truth or in fabtesT 

P. Itideed, SI Is ftur from being indifiwent to me ; 
am sure that every thing she teaches us is true. 

9FI W^R,. if you know that to be the case, then yoi 
itliow the manner itt which you distinguish Irutk iroa 

JP. 9kf, 1 cuinot say that; hut I b^eve what the g 
CM tdh us, because she is a woman of truth. 

SP. I^t ^ee how incoBsisteUt you are! One while j 
you know these things ; dien you say you da not knofc 
theh, agnSti^ you say you beHeve^Ui your governess I 

P. I canUbt Umwer you so easily as I can h^ ; fi 
somehow or other^ asks me in an easier way. 

T. Well, I win ask you something easier. What is 
ff d^igneiS to teH us, truth or fitdsehood? 

P. The truth, certainly. 

Ti Can any body, then,, either teach at be taught 1 
ptaplafy, without knowiug how to distibguish trutl 

p. Why— I don't know— 

71 Yott ddnH know ? Do you know this, then, w 
history is studied for the sake of any utility to be d 
from it! 

P. I suppose great utility is to be derived fitHn iU 


T, What are the advantages of it ? 

P. Indeed, I do not know. 

T, But did not your governess tell you that much of our 
knowledge is founded upon historical facts? and that we are 
enabled by history to understand better and more readily 
other parts of human knowledge ? and that it is particularly 
useful in furnishing examples for the government of life, both 
in private and in public? 

P. No, she did not tell us that ; bat I think what yoa 
tell me seems reasonable. 

7*. Well, then, answer me one question more : — if any 
man should go on heaping together money of every sort, and 
should pay no attention to see if his pieces of coin were 
good or bad, and should thus become possessed of much 
counterfeit money, would he not be under a very great dis- 
advantage, when it should become necessary to make use of 
his money, and he should find it to be counterfeit 1 

P, He certainly would. 

7*. Again ; we have just said that history is the founda- 
tion of knowledge : now, do you think it is of no consequence 
to a building, wliether its foundations are solid and firm, or 
weak and slender? ^ 

P. Most certainly, it is of great consequence. 

T. You see, by this time, my little friend, what sort of a 
foundation you have in the history that you have learned. 
You imagined that you understood all history ; you now see 
how many deductions must be made fi'om your knowledge. 
You have heard notfiing of the historians themselves ; nothing 
of the philosophers and poets ; nothing of magistrates and 
other officers ; and, as I perceive, nothing of various other 
things relating to peace and war, times and places ; nothing 
of causes ; and, in short, nothing respecting the manner of 
discerning truth from falsehood : now, when all these things 
are taken away from your stock of all khtoryy what is there 
remaining ? 

P. I now begin to understand, and I am sorry for the 
>r I have spent in my history — 

T, No, take courage ; for now you may promise yourself 
that you will know something, because you are sensible how 
much there is that you do not know *, a,ti&l\kaX^csvk^^S3x 

16 • 



seed of something more substantial and efficacioas, which 
shall qualify you for a more perfect knowledge of things and 
causes ; enable jou to jfudge of truth and falsehood ; and, in 
short, make you acquainted with the history of history it- 
self; that is, that yoo may know what writers have treated 
•f the subjects of history, and of what credit and snthorit} 
those writers are. 

P. Your remarks are very just ; and I beg of you to for 
nish me with some little book, from which I can^ learn al 
this in a short time. 

T. My young friend, I see you think that all these thing! 
can be learned from a little book, like that which you used U 
tecite to your governess. Now, I do not mean to say tha 
yoo ought fo br sorry lor yoisr own labor, or that of yea 
governess ; because what you have thus acquired and fixec 
in your memory, though a puerile exercise, will not be with 
out use ; but hekiceforward yon must exercise your judgment 
and pursue a liberal and exact course of study. This, how 
Bver, is not to be acquired at once, or by the use of an; 
litfle book, but by understanding the various books relatin| 
«o the subject, and by diligently attending on the instractioi 
of those, who teach history according to these principle*. 

Conversation, — Extract from Cowper. 

Though Nature weigh our talents, and dit^peuse 
To every man his' modicum K>f sense. 
And conversation, in its better part. 
May be esteemed a gift, and not an art, 
Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil, 
On culture and the sowing of the soil. 
Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse. 
But talking is not always to converse ; 
Not more distinct from harmony divine, 
Th6 constant creaking of a country sign. 

Ye powers, who rule the tongue, — [f such there are,— 
And make coUoqutal happiness your care. 

roma ladies' clam book. jty 

Ptasenre me from the thing I dread mtd 
A dod in Ae fcrai of a debate. 
Yociferaled logic kills me quite ; 
A ncMsy man is always in the right : 
I twirl my thumbs; fkll back into my ohair, 
Fix on the wainscot a distressfol stare, 
Andy wben I hope his blunders are all oat, 
Rqrfy discreetly— ^'^ To be sure— 410 doabt I" 

Dubius is such a scrupulous, good mai»«* 
Tes — ^you may catch him tripping, if yoa can 
He would not, with aCperemptoryjtone, 
Assert the nose upcm his face hw own ; 
V^ hentatioB admirably slow, 
He humUy hopes— fNresumefh— it may be sow > 
His evidence, if he were called by law 
To swear to some enormity he saw. 
For want of prominence and just relief. 
Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. 
Through constant dread of giving truth oflbnc^ 
He ties up all his hearers in sui^nse ; 
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not ; 
What he remembers seems to have forgot ; 
His sde qpinion, whatsoe'er befall. 
Centring, at last, in having none at all. 

A story, in which native humor reigns. 
Is often useful, always entertains : 
A graver fact, enlisted on your side. 
May furnish illustration, well applied ; 
But sedentary weavers of long tales 
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails, 
'^is the most(asinine)em;Joy on earth, 
/To hear them tell of parentage and birth, 
And echo conversations, dull and dry. 
Embellished with^'<' He said," and '' So said I." 
At every intfrview their route the same. 
The repetition makes attention lame : 
We bustle up, with unsuccessful speed. 
And, in the saddest part, cry, " Droll indeed !" 

I pity bashful n|en, who foel the pain 
Of bncied scorn and undeserved disdain. 


And bear the marks, npon a Uiishiiig face. 

Of needless shame, and self^mpoeed di a gr a ce. 

Onr sensibilities are so acate. 

The fear of being silent makes ns mote. 

Troe modesty is a discerning grace. 

And only blushes in the proper place ; 

But counterfeit b Mind, and skulks, through fear. 

Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed t* tppfear ; 

Humility the parent of the first, 

The last by ranity produced and nursed. 

The circle formed, we sit in silent state, 
like figures drawn upon a di^-plate ; 
" Tes, ma'am," and " No, ma'am," uttered softly, d 
ET'ry fire minutes, how the minutes go ; 
Each individual, snflG^ng a constraint- 
Poetry may, but colors cannot paint. 
As if in close committee on the sky. 
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ! 
And finds a changing clime a happy source 
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse! 
We next inquire, but softly, and by stealth, 
Like(iponservatorsW the public health. 
Of epidemic throats, if such there are. 
And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and caUunrl 

On ZHscretien. — Addison. 

I HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were lai< 
we should see but little difference between that of tl 
man and that of the fool. TherQ'are infinite reveries 
berless extravagances, and a ^perpetual train of vs 
which pass through both. The great difference is, tl 
first knows how to pick and coll his thoughts for convei 
by suppressing some and communicating others; \i 
the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words, 
sort of discretion, however, has no place in private coi 
tion between intimate firiends. On such occasioi 


wisest men Tery often talk like the weakest ; for, indeed, the 
talking with a friend is nothing else but thinking aloud. 

Tolly ha^, therefore, very justly exposed a precept deliver- 
ed hy some ancient writers, that a man should live with his 
enemy in soch a manner, as might leave him room to become 
hb friend ; and with his friend in such a manner, that if he 
became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. 
The first part of this rule, which regards our behavior 
towards an enemy, is, indeed, very reasonable, as wdl as 
very prudential ; but the latter part oi it, which regards our 
behavior towards a friend, savors more of cunning than of 
discretion, and would cut a man off from the greatest 
|4easiires of life, which are the freedoms of conversation 
with a bosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned 
into an enemy, and, as the son of Sirach calls him, " a be- 
wray«r of secrets," the world is just enough to accuse tl*e 
perfidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of 
ikfb person who confided in him. 

Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all 
tlie circumstances of action, and is like an under-agent of 
ftovidenoe, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns 
of life. 

There are many more shining qualities in the mind of 
ttan, bat Aere are none more usefiil than discretion ; it is this. 
Meed, which gives a value to all the rest, which sets them 
It work i9 th^ proper times and places, and turns them to 
the advantage of the person who is possessed of them« 
Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit, impertinence ; vir- 
tue itself kK>ks like weakness ; the best parts only qualify n 
nan to be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own 

Nor does discretion only make a man the master of his 
own paitSy but of other men's. The discreet man finds out 
(he ialeots of those he converses with, and knows how to 
ippiy them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into 
IMrtwuIar communities and divisions of men, we may observe 
that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor 
(he brave, who guides the conversation, and gives measures 
Id thie society. A man with great talents, but void of discre- 
iMiy is, like Fcrfyphemos in the faUe, strong and blind ; endued 


whh an irresistiUe force, which, fot wint of eighty is of ao 
aae to him. 

Though a man has all other perfections, and wants discre- 
tion, he will be of no great consequence in the world ; but 
if he has this single talent in perfection, and bat a common 
share of others, he may do what he (leases in his partienlv 
station of life. At the same time that I think discretion the 
most useful talent a man can be master of, I kx>k npon emi- 
ning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ongeneroai 

Discreti<Mi points out the noblest ends to os, and porsoes 
the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them. 
Cunning has only private, selfish aims, and sticks at iiothiBf 
which may make them succeed. Discretion has large wai 
extended views, and, like a well-ibrmed eye, commands i 
whole horizon. Cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that 
discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, 
but is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretioo, 
the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the 
person who possesses it Cunning, when it is once detected, 
loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about 
even those events which he might have done, had he passed 
only for a plain man. 

. Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to ns m 
all the duties of life : cunning is a kind of instinct, that only 
looks out afler our immediate interest and welfare. Discretioii 
is only found in men of strong sense and good understand- 
ings : cunning is often to be met with in brutes themsdves, 
and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. 
In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion, and may 
pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is oftea 
mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom. 

The cast of mind, which is natural to a discreet man, makes 
.him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his 
condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at 
present. He knows that the misery or happiness, which is 
reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality 
by being placed at so great a distanc^ from him. The objectB 
do not appear little to him because they are remote. He 
considers that those pleasures and pains whioh lie hid in' 


elemity, approach nearer to him every moment, and will be 
present with him in their fall weight and measure, as much 
as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this rery 

For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself that 
which is the [Nroper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate 
design of his being. He carries his thoughts to the end of 
every action, and considers the most distant as well as the 
most immediate effects of it. He supersedes every little 
prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if 
he does not find it consistent with his views of an hereafter. 
In a wordy his hopes are full of immortality, his schemes are 
large and glorious ; and his conduct is suitable to one, who 
knotvs his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper 

AdotnUages of a weH-adtivcUed Mind, — ^Bigland. 

It is not without reason that those, who have ta«ted the 
pleasures afforded by philosophy and literature, have lavished 
(qxm them the greatest eulogiums. The benefits they pro- 
duce are too many to enumerate, valuable beyond estimation, 
and various as the scenes of human life. The man who has 
a knowledge of the works of Grod, in the creation of the uni- 
rerse, and his providential government of the immense system 
of the material and intellectual world, can never be without 
a c<^ious fund of the most agreeable amusement. He can 
never be scditary ; for in the most lonely solitude he is not 
destitute of company and conversation : his own ideas are hi9 
companions, and he can always converse with his own 

How much. soever a person may be engaged in pleasures, 
or encumbered with business, he will certainly have some 
moments to spare for thought and reflection. No one, who 
has oboerved how heavily the vacuities of time hang up :; 
miadi nofaraiabod with imagea and m a oomt o insd to thjnj > 


will be at a loss to make a just estimate of the advantaget f^ 
possessing a copious stock of ideas, of which the combinatioil 
may take a multiplicity of forms, and may be Taried to ia- 
finity. \ 

Mental occupations are a pleasing relief from bodily exe^ -j 
tions, and that perpetual hurry and wearisome attentiOB, ' 
which, in most of the employments of life, must be given to 
objects which are no otherwise interesting than as they aie . 
necessary. The mind, in an hour of leisure, obtaining t ^ 
short vacation from the- perplexing cares of the world, finds, 
in its own contem[dations, a source of amusement, of solace 
and pleasure. The tiresome attention that must be given to ^ 
an infinite number of things, which, singly and sepaFatolf ^ 
taken, are of little moment, but collectively considered, fbrti ^ 
an important aggregate, requires to be sometimes relaxed bf . 
thoughts and reflections of a more general and extensiTS 
nature, and directed to objects of which the examination 
may open a more spacious field of exercise to the mind, giTS 
scope to its exertions, expand its ideas, present new combinft- 
tions, and exhibit to the intellectual eye, images new, varioiu, 
sublime, or beautiful. 

The time of action will not always continue. The young 
ought ever to have this consideration present to their mind, 
that they must grow old, unless prematurely cut off by sick- 
ness or accident. . They ought to contemplate the eertaii 
approach of age and decrepitude, and consider that all 
temporal happiness is of uncertain acquisition, mixed witk 
a variety of alloy, and, in whatever degree attained, only 
of a short and precarious duration. Every day brings some 
disappointment, some diminution of pleasure, or some frua- 
tration of hope ; and every moment brings us nearer to that 
period, when the present scenes shall recede from the vieWi 
and future prospects cannot be formed. 

This consideration displays, in a very interesting point of 
view, the beneficial effects of furnishing the mind with a stock 
of ideas that may amuse it in leisure, accompany it in soli- 
tude, dispel the gloom of melancholy, lighten the pressnrt T 
of misfortune, dissipate the vexations arising from baffled ^. 
{projects or disappointed hopes, and relieve tlie ttdhtm of * 


ud the world can no longer flatter and delude us with 
hs illasory hopes and promises. 

When life begins, like a distant landscape, gradually to 
disappear, the mind can receive no solace but from its own 
ideas and reflections. Philosophy and literature will then 
fanish us with an inexhaustible source of the most agreeable 
amuseiiionts, as religion will affi>rd its substantial consolation. 
A well-^pent yooth is the only sure foundation of a happy old 
age : no axiom of the mathematics is more true, or more 
earily^denionstrated. "^ 

Old age, like death, comes unexpectedly on the unthinking 
and onprepared, although its approach be visible, and its 
vriral oertun. Those who have, in the earlier part of life, 
Mgleeted to fhrnish their minds with ideas, to fortify them 
by contemplation, and regulate them by reflection, seeing the 
season of youth and vigor irrecoverably past, its pleasing 
scenes ainnihilated, and its brilliant prospects lefl far behind, 
without the possibility of return, and feeling, at the same 
time, the irresistible encroachments of age, with its disagree- 
able i^ipendages, are surprised and disconcerted by a change 
scarcely expected, or for which, at least, they had made no 
preparations. A person in this predicament, finding himself 
no longer capable of taking, as formerly, a part in the busy 
walks of life, of enjoying its active pleasures, and sharing its 
ardooos enterprises, becomes peevish and uneasy, troublesome 
to others, and burdensome to himself Destitute of the re- 
sources of philosophy, and a stranger to the amusing pursuits 
of literature, he is unacquainted with any agreeable method 
of filling up the vacuity lefl in his mind by his necessary 
recess from the active scenes of life. 

All this is the consequence of squandering away the days 
of yoath aind vigor without acquiring the habit of thinking. 
The period of human life, short as it is, is of sufficient length 
for the acquisition of a considerable ptock of useful and 
agreeable knowledge ; and the circumstances of the world 
ifli^d a superabundance of subjects for contemplation and 
UKplry. The various phenomena of the moral as well as 
physical world, the investigation of sciences, and the infor- 
mation communicated by literature, are calculated to attract 



attention, exercise thought, excite reflection, and repMibh 
the mind with an infinite variety of ideas. 

The man of letters, when compared with one that is illit- 
erate, exhibits nearly the same contrast as that which exists 
between a blind man and one that can see ; aind if we con- 
sider how much literature jenlarges the mind, and how 
much it multiplies, adjusts, rectifies and arranges the 
ideas, it may well be reckoned equivalent to an additional 
sense. It affords pleasures which wealth cannot procure, and 
which poverty cannot entirely take away. A well cultivated 
mind places its possessor beyond the reach of those trifling 
vexations and disquietudes, which continually ha/ass and 
perplex those who have no resources within themselves ; and, 
in some measure, elevates him above the smiles and firowm 
of fortune. 


The VuUure of the Alps, — Anonymous. 

I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through 

their vales, 
And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales. 
As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work. 

was o*er. 
They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard 

of more. 

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, 
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear : 
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous , 
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus : — 

" It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwrlls. 
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he siadils » * 
But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofly rocfe|> »'. ■ 
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the floiMu' 


"One eloiidlesfl Sabbath sammer morn, the sim wai riiiiig 

When, firom my children on the green, I heard a fearftil cry, 
Afl if 0oine awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, 
A cry, I hambly trust in Gk>d, I ne'er may hear again. 

"I hurried out to learn the cause ; but, overwhelmed with fright. 
The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied 

I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care ; 
But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through 

the air.. 

"Oh ! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye,— 
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry ; 
And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave. 
That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save ! 

" My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me. 
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free ; 
At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and 

screamed ! 
Until, upon the^ureisky, a lessening spot he seemed. 

The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he 

A mote upon the l^n's broad face he seemed unto my view ; 
Bat once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight, — 
'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. 

'^All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was 

ne'er forgot. 
When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot. 
From whence, upon a rugged crag the/cbamois never reached, 
He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached ! 

^'I clambered up that rugged cliff, — ^I could not stay away, — 
I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay ; 
A tattoed garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred ; 
The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head. 


" That dreary spot is pointed out to travelleni pasnng hf. 
Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh." 
And as I journeyed, the next mom, along my sunny way. 
The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay. ^ 


Song of the Stats, — ^Brtant. 

When the radiant morn of creation bro^^ 
And the world in the smile of Gk>d awoke. 
And the empty realms of darkness and death, 
Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath| 
And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame, 
From the void abyss, by myriads came. 
In the joy of youth, as they darted away. 
Through the widening wastes of is^ace to play. 
Their silver voices in chorus rung ; 
And this was the song the bright ones sung >«• 

" Away, away ! through the wide, wide sky,— 
The fair blue fields that before us lie, — 
Each sun, with the worlds that round us roll, 
Each planet, poised on her turning pole. 
With her isles of green, and her clouds of whi^. 
And her waters that lie like fluid light. 

" For the Source of glory uncovers his face, 
And the brightness overflows unbounded t^ce ; 
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides 
In onr ruddy air and our blooming sides. . 
Lo ! yonder the living splendors {day : 
Away, <m onr joyous path away ! 

** Look, look ! through our glittering ranks uht. 
In the infinite azure, star after star. 
How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly ptaat 
How the verdure runs o'er each roUing maai ■ 


And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. 

" And see, where the hrighter day-beams pour, 
Hpw the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; 
And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues, 
Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews ; 
And, 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, 
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round. 

" Away, away ! — ^in our blossoming bowers, 
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, — 
In the seas and fountains that shine with mom,— 
See, love is 'brooding, and life is bom, 
And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. 

" Glide on in your beauty, ye youthftd (spheres, 
To weave the dance that measures the years : 
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent 
To the farthest wall of the firmament, — 
The boundless visible smile of Him, 
To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim.'* ^ 

Domestic Love. — Croly. 

Domestic Love ! not in proud palace halls 

Is often seen thy beauty to abide ; 
Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls. 

That in the thickets of the woodbine hide ; 

With hum of bees around, and from the side 
Of woody hills some little bubbling spring. 

Shining along through banks with harebells dyed ; 
And many a bird, to warble on the wing. 
When mom her saffiron robe o'er heaven and earth dididifliii%. 


O love of loves I to thy white hand k given 

Of earthly ha^^iness the golden key ; 
Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even, 

When the Iwbes cling aronnd their father's knM ; 

And thine the voice that on the midnight sea 
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home, . 

Peofding the gloom with all he longs to see. 
Spirit ! I've built a shrine ; and thou hast come. 
And on its altar doeed— forever closed thy plume 1 


Candor, m utmaiing the Atitdntnents of otkars^ t eeoM- 

mauled, — Freeman. 

There are various causes, which lead us to think unfavor- 
ably of the abilities of each other. The most obvioua is 
envy. When the knowledge of another man obscures our 
own, gives him a preeminence above us, or is, in any way, 
inconsistent with our interest, we are inclined to depreciate 
it, not only by speaking against it, but even by thinking oi 
it unworthily. For we have suoh a command over our 
minds, that what we passionately wish to be true, we in thne 
come to believe. There are, however, other causes, less 
hateful than envy, from which the want of candor proceeds. 

As our knowledge is of different kinds, we are disposed to 
think uncandidly of the acquisitions . of other men. We 
know the value of the knowledge which is in our own mind ; 
we can perceive its uses ; we remember the pains which it 
cost us to obtain it ; but none of these things can we see 
without us. We suppose that what is performed easily by 
another, is not in itself difficult, though that ease may be the 
effect of previous labor. We are apt, therefore^ to under- 
value what we imagine can be done with so little eflEbil; and 
we are apt to judge uncandidly, if it is not done in the best 
manner possiUe. As our own knowledge is thus eoBceived 
to he the most difficult, so it is also imagined to be of the 
ipwiAistimpoftaiice. V?%to»oft«ayidii|i that the sriyiifiifiMM 


af other men are useless, and their exertions to obtain them 
improfitable. Of what benefit, we inqaire, can such things 
be to them or to the world 1 

The critic, who spends his time in the study of worda^ 
regards the diseenreries of the astronomer as of small value. 
''Of what use," says he, *' is it to determine whether the sun is 
greater or less than the earth ; or whether a planet has four 
moons or fivef' The astronomer, on the other hand, thinks 
the labors of the critic equally unprofitable, and that it is the 
idlest thing imaginable, to employ months and yetan in ascer- 
taining the genuine readings of an ancient author. The 
mathematician is a dull, laborious slave, in the eyes of the 
poet, whilst the poet appears to the mathematician a rhyming 
trifler. — ^These several studies are, however, of benefit to the 
world ; and the partial ideas, which we entertain respecting 
diem, are forbidden by Christian charity ; for they render us 
vain, prejudiced and nncandid. 

Another cause, which leads men to betray a want of cao^ 
dor in judging of the knowledge of their neighbors, is this, 
that their taste is superior to their abilities. It is difficult to 
attain perfection in any art or science ; but it is comparatively . 
easy to form an idea of it in our minds. We can know when 
ni\a8(OTa]i|}falls short of this perfection, though we ourselves 
cannot rise as high ; we can perceive his defects, though we 
are unable to mend them. In consequence of this cause, 
how few are allowed to be eminent in their profession I Upon 
how lew are we willing to bestow that applause, which b due 
to their abilities 1 

Even when a man of splendid genius and the most enlarged 
attainments, exhibits proofs of his knowledge and talents, we 
are ready to say, " He does well ; but certainly he ought to 
do better. Such an error ought to be avoided : such a 
branch of science is absolutely necessary, and ought to be 
pote eascd by him : of this point he is partially informed ; and 
of^that point he is totally ignorant." 

These, and sentiments of the like kind, are instances of a 
want of candor. In judging in this manner, we are governed 
bf prejudice, and do not make proper allowance for the dead 
weight, which soon brings to the ground even the wings of 
ui eagle. Fenaot mm^ than, to recommend to you to ^»fT^iiw 


eandor, when yoa think or speak of the knowledge and 
talents of yoor feUow men. Avoid, above all things, every 
species of envy. It is a base passion, which ought not to 
inhabit the breast of a Christian. The abilities of another 
man are not mean, merely because they stand in your wayj 
they are not inferior to yours, merely because you wish than 
to be so. 

Study also to obtain an acquaintance with human nature 
and with yourselves. A man who has a just idea of his own 
abilities, will not be uncandid. F<Mr thoij^h he will perceive 
that he knows a few things, yet he will also be sensiUe that 
he is ignorant in many things. Reflecting on the pains thit 
he has taken, to obtain the science of which he is possessed, 
he will be willing to acknowledge, that others may have ei- 
erted equal labor. As the knowledge with which he ii 
endowed a[^ars to him of great importance, he will be 
ready to confess, that their knowledge may ^^ar to them 
important ; and that it may, in fact, be full as impcnrtant. In 
fine, as he must be conscious of many defects in his own 
attainments, he will judge with candor of that want of pe^ 
fection, which he observes in them. 

A just idea of human nature destroys your prejudices, and 
renders you candid. For look at men ; and do you find many 
very foolish, or many very wise 1 What is called caamum 
sense deserves the title which is given to it ; for it is, in fact, 
common. Few men are totally ignorant, and few men have 
much knowledge. The acquisitions of men are of different 
kinds ; but their real value may be the same, as they may 
contribute equally to the benefit of society. 

Some persons are showy in their knowledge ; they have 
acquired the art of joining words aptly together ; but this art 
does not give them a right to judge unfavorably of the 
knowledge of others. For a man of splendid talents, an 
eloquent man, may not, after aU, be acquainted with more 
truths than an humble and reserved man, who lives and dies 
in obscurity. These considerations should teach us candor ; 
and they should deter us fix>m imputing ignorance and feUy 
to any one, who is not possessed of exactly the same kind of 
knowledge as ourselves. We are too ready to do this with- 
out sufficient grounds; but because a person qpeaks abfordly 


on a rabjecty with which he is not acquainted, it does not 
follow that he is not well informed in other subjects. 

Bat what/ contributes /more than any thing to render us 
candid in our opinions of the abilities of our f^low men, is 
an enlightened and improved understanding. ' They, who 
have only sipped at the fountain of science, are the least 
diqiNMed to be pleased, the most inclined to be critical and 
sefere, the roost ready to find fault, and the most acute in 
discoTering defects. ^ 

A man of enlarged knowledge is acquainted with the 
. difficnlties, which obstruct the path of science. He is sensi- 
ble, that though he has frequently attempted to excel, yet 
that he has seldom, perhaps never, been able to attain the 
end proposed. Convinced that every human mind is limited, 
and that the best instructed persons soon disclose all that 
diey know, he views with candid eyes those blanks of igno- 
rance, which occupy such large spaces in the souls of other 
men. A man of extensive abilities also knows how difficult 
it is, sometimes, to distinguish wisdom from iblly, what b 
genuine ikom what is spurious. As he cannot always detep- 
mine whether his own tongue is uttering good sense or not^ 
ha will candidly pardon the speaker whom he hears, and the 
friend with whom he converses, if he sometimes discoven 
that they are not wiser than himself. 


Tke Prrfesnan of a Woman. — Mma C. E. Bbechbe. 

It is to mothers amd to teachers, that the world is to look 
jRir the character, which is to be enstamped on each succeed- 
ing generation ; for it is to them that the great business of 
education is almost exclusively committed. And will it not 
wp^etct by examination, that neither mothers nor teachers 
have ever been properly educated for their profession ? What 
is the profession of a woman ? Is it not to form immortal 
minds, and to watc^, to nurse, and to rear the bodily system, 
ao fearffallj and wonderfully made, and xxpon liJbi^ <3R^t vdJI 


regulation of which, the health and well-being of the mind 
80 greatly depends 1 

But let most of our sex, upon whom these I arduous ) duties 
devolve, be asked, — " Have you ever devoted any time and 
study, in the course of your education, to a preparation' for 
these duties • Have you been taught any thing of the struc- 
ture, the nature and the laws of the body, which yon 
inhabit? Were you ever taught to understand the operation 
of diet, air, exercise and modes of dress upon the human 
frame ? Have the causes which are continually operating to 
prevent good health, and the modes by which it might be 
perfected and preserved, ever been made the subject of any 
instruction 1" 

Perhaps almost every voice would respond,— '' No ; we 
have attended to almost every thing more than to this; 
we have been taught more concerning the structure of the 
earth, the laws of the heavenly bodies, the habits and 
formation of plants, the philosophy of language, than 
concerning the structure of the human frame, and the laws, 
of health and reason." But is it not the business, the pro' 
fession of a woman, to guard the health and form the physi- 
cal habits of the young ? And is not the cradle of infimcy 
and the chamber of sickness sacred to woman alone ? And 
ought she not to know, at least, some of the general princi- 
ples of that perfect and wonderful piece of mechanism, 
committed to her preservation and care ? 

The restoration of health is the physician's profession, but 
the preservation of it (alls to other hands-; and it is believed 
that the time will come, when woman will be taught to 
understand something respecting the construction of the 
human frame ; the philosophical results which will naturally 
follow from restricted exercise, unhealthy modes of dress, 
improper diet, and many other causes, which are continually 
operating to destroy the health and life of the young. 

Again, let our sex be asked respecting the instruction they 
have received, m the course of their education, on that still 
more arduous and difficult department of their profession, 
which relates to the intellect and the moral susceptibilities, — 
" Have jou been taught the powers amd faculties of the ho- 
IDJU mind, and the laws b^ wYneYi \l U lefulated t Have 



yoa studied how to direct its seTeral faculties ; how to restore 
those that are overgrown, and strengthen and mature those 

i that are deficient t Have jou been taught the best modes of 
commiinicating knowledge, as well as of acquiring it ? Have 

\ you learned the best mode of correcting bad moral habits, 
and forming good ones ? Have you made it an object, to find 
how a selfish disposition may be made generous ; how a 
reserved temper may be made open and frank ; how pettish- 
ness mndCill-hamorjmay be changed to cheerfulness and 
kindness f Has any woman studio her profession in this 

It is feared the same answer must be returned, if not from 
all, at least from most of our sex : — " No ; we have acquired 
wisdom from the observation and experience of others, on 
almost all other subjects ; but the philosophy of the direction 
and control of the human mind, has not been an object of 
thought or study." And thus it appears, that, though it is 
woman's express business to rear the body and form the 
mind, there is scarcely any thing to which her attention has 
been leas directed. 


Curiosity, — C. Sprague. 

It came firom Heaven — its power archangels knew, 
When this fair globe first rounded to their view ; 
When the young sun revealed the glorious scene, 
Where oceans gathered, and where lands grew green ; 
When the dead dust in joyful myriads swarmed, 
And man, the clod, with God's own breath was warmed. 
It reigned in Eden — ^when that man first woke, 
Its kindling influence from his eyeballs spoke ; 
No roving childhood, no exploring youth. 
Led him along, till wonder chilled to truth ; 
Fall*formed at once, his subject world he trod, 
And gased i^n the labors of his God ; 


On all, by tonu, his chartered glaooe was cast. 
While each [ileaaed best, as each appeared the la^ ' 
But when She came, in nature's blameless pride, 
Bone of his bone, his heaven-anointed bride, 
All meaner objects faded from his sight. 
And sense tarqed gidd j with the new delight ; 
Those charmed his eje, bat this entranced his sold, 
'Another self, qneen-wonder of the whole! 
Rapt at the view, in ecstasy he stood. 
And, like his Maker, saw that all was good. 

It reigned in Ed«i — in that heavy hour 
When the arch-tempter sought our mother's bower. 
Its thrilling charm her yielding heart assailed, 
And even o'er dread Jehovah's word prevailed. 
There the fiiir tree in fatal beauty grew, 
And hung its mystic apples to her view : 
** Eat," breathed the fiend, beneath his serpent guise, 
" Ye shall know all things ; gather, and be wise I" 
Sweet on her ear the wily falsehood stole. 
And roused the ruling passion of her scml. 
" Ye shall become like God," — ^transcendent fate ! 
That God's command forgot, she plucked and ate ; 
Ate, and her partner lured to share the crime. 
Whose wo, the legend saith, must live through time. 
For this they shrank before the Avenger's face ; 
For this he drove them from the sacred place ; 
For this came down the universal lot, 
To weep, to wander, die, and be forgot. 

It came from Heaven — ^it reigned in Eden's shades^ 
It roves on earth — and every walk invades : 
Childhood and age alike its influence own ; 
It haunts the beggar's nook, the monarch's throne ; 
Hangs o'er the cradle, leans above the bier. 
Gazed on old Babel's tower — and lingers here. 

To all that's lofly, all that's low, it turns j 
With terror curdles, and with rapture bums; ■ 


Now feeli a teraph's throb, now, less than muk% 

A reptile tortures and a [^anet scans ; 

Now idly joins in life's poor, passing jars. 

Now shakes creation off, and soars beyond the stars. 

'Tis GmuosiTT — who hath not felt 
Its spirit, and before its altar knelt ? 
In the pleased infant see its power expand, 
When first the(c<^ral\fills his little hand ; 
Throned in his niotner's lap, it dries each tear. 
As her sweet legend falls upon his ear. 
Next it assails him in his top's stfange hum, 
Breathes in his whistle, echoes in his drum ; 
Each gilded toy, that doting love bestows. 
He longs to break, and every i^ring expose. 
Placed by your(hearth^ with what delight he pores 
Cer the bright pages of his pictured stores I 
How oft he steals upon your graver task, 
Of this to tell you, and of that to ask ! 
And, when the waning hour to-bedward bids. 
Though gentle sleep sit waiting on his lids. 
How winningly he pleads to gain you o'er. 
That he may read one little story more I 

Nor yet alone to toys and tales confined. 
It sits, dark brooding, o'er his embryo mind. 
Take him between your knees, peruse his face. 
While all you know, or think you know, you trace ; 
Tell him who spoke creation into birth, 
Arched the broad heavens, and spread the rolling earth ; 
Who formed a pathway for the obedient sun. 
And bade the seasons in their circles run ; 
Who filled the air, the forest and the flood. 
And gave man all, for comfort or for food ; 
Tell him they sprang at God's creating nod — 
He stops you short, with — ** Father, who made Grod Y* 

Thus, tl^ough life's stages, may we mark the power 
That masters man in every changing hour ; 


It tempts him, from the Uandishments of homey 
Mountains. to climb, and frozen seas to roam; 
By air-blown bubUesrbiioyed,^t bids him rise. 
And hang an atom in the vaulted dcies ; 
Lured by its charm, he sits and learns to trace 
The midnight wanderings of the orbs of qmoe ; 
Boldly he knocks at wisdom's inmost gate. 
With nature counsels, and communes with fate ; 
Below, above, o'er all he dares to rove, 
In all finds God, and finds that God all lore. 


The Love of Country amd of Home.-^-'MoKTQOutMr* 

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 emparadise the night ; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. 
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
The wealthiest isles, thejnost enchanting shores, 
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair. 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; 
In every clime, the magnet of his soul. 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that.pole: 
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace 
The heritage of nature's noblest race. 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,^^- 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
While, in his soUened looks, benignly blend 
The sire, the sou, the husband, father, friend. 


Hera womtn reigns ; the mother, daugliter, wUe, 
StrowB with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; 
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye. 
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
And fire-eide pleasures gambol at her feet 
Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be fcund t 
Art thou a man7-*a patriot! — look around ; 
Oh ! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam. 
That land tht countrt, and thai spot tht 

CohtmhMt in CSUmis. — ^Bliss M. J. Jswsbukt. 

'TwAS eve :— upon his chariot throne 
The sun sank lingering in the west ; 

But sea and sky were there alone, 
To hail him in this hour of rest ; 

Tet never shone his glorious light 

More calmly, gloriously bright 

Nor ekmds above, nor wajre below. 
Nor human sound, nor earthly air. 

Mingled with that o'erwhelming glow. 
Marred the deep peace reposing there ; 

The sea looked of the sky's fair mould. 

The sky, a sea of burning gold. 

Anon, a single ship, from far. 

Came sofUy gliding o'er the sea : 
Lovely and quiet as a star. 

When its fair path is calm and free. 
Or like a bird with snow-white wing. 
Came on that glittering, gentle thing. 


fihe came witb' buoyant beauty crowned. 
And yet disturbed the scene's repoie ; 

For she, of all the objects round, 
Alone was linked to human woes ; 

She only, mid the glorious iq>an. 

Spoke of the world, — the world of man. 

And yet she bore from conquering feat. 
The brare, the joyous and the free, 

And many a nobler heart that beat 
With hopes as boundless as the sea ; 

One only felt his course was run, — 

He gazed upon the sinking sun. 

His the keen eye and stately form. 
And reason's majesty of brow ; 

Hii the firm soul, that danger's storm. 
When most it baffled, could not bow, — 

The soul that taught him now to wear 

His fetters with a kingly air. 

Tet was that mighty soul subdued 
By man's neglect and sorroif 's sway. 

As rocks, that have the storm withstood. 
May silent waters wear away. 

But the vexed spirit spurned its yoke ; 

He looked upon his chains, and spoke :-^ 

" Adopted land I Adopted land !-^ 
And these, then, are thy gifts for me. 

Who dared, where unknown seas expand. 
Seek realms and riches vast for thee ! 

Who made, without thy fostering power. 

An undivided world thy dower ! 

" O'er Spain yon glorious sun may set, 
And leave her native realm- awhile; 

May rise o'er other landsy-^iuid ^yet- 
Even there— on her (lolnihioo9 smile ; 


Be, when his daily course is nm, 
To l^pain a nerer-setting sun. 

" I served thee as a son would serre ; 

I loved thee with a father's love ; 
It ruled my thought, and strung my nmi% 

To raise thee other lands above. 
And, from a queen of earth, to be 
The single empress of the sea. 

** For thee my form is bowed and worn 
With midnight watches on the main ; 

For thee my soul hath calmly borne 
nis worse than sorrow, more than pain ; 

Through life, whate'er my lot may be, 

I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee. 

" Myfguerdon ?-V-*Tis a furrowed brow. 
Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears, 

And blighted hope, and broken vow. 
And poverty for coming years. 

And hate, with malice in her train : — 

What other guerdon ? — ^View my chain 1 

" Tet say not that I weep for gold ; 

No, let it be the robber's spoil ; 
Nor yet, that hate and malice bold 

Decry my triumph and my toil : — 
I weep but for my country's shame ; 
I weep but for her blackened fame. 

'* No more. — ^The sun-light leaves the sea ; 

Farewell, thou never-dying king ! 
Earth's clouds and changes change not thee ; 

And thou, — and thou, — ^grim, giant thing. 
Cause of my glory and my pain, — 
Farewell, unfathomable main I" 





On Resect for Ancestors, — CIuinct. 

Of all the affections of man, those which connect him 
with ancestry are among the most natural and gencsroos. 
They enlarge the sphere of his interests, multiply hiis mo- 
tives to virtue, and give intensity to his sense of duty to 
generations to come, by the perception of obligation ta those 
which are past. In whatever mode of existence man finds 
himself, be it savage or civilized, he perceives that be is 
indebted for the far greater part of his possessions and en- 
joyments, to events over which he had no control ; to indi- 
viduals, whose names, perhaps, never reached his ear; to 
sacrifices, in which he never shared; and to sikfiecingSy 
awakening in his bosom few and very transient sympat&ies. 

Cities and empires, not less than individuals, are chiefly 
indebted for their fortunes to circumstances and influences 
independent of the labors and wisdom of the passing genertr 
tion.' Is our *ot cast in a happy soil, beneath a favored sky, 
and under the shelter of me institutions ? Hovir teW of all 
these blessings do we owe to our own power, or our own 
prudence ! How few, on which we cannot discern tfte im- 
press of long past generations ! 

It is natural, that reflections of this kind should awaken 
curiosity concerning the men of past ages. It is suitable^ 
and characteristic of noble natures, to love to trace in Tener- 
ated institutions the evidences of ancestral worth and 
wisdom ; and to cherish that mingled sentiment of awe and 
admiration, which takes possession of the soul, m th^ pres- 
ence of ancient, deep-laid, and massy monuments of intel- 
lectual and moral power. 


Character of the Puritans.-^TORT. 

It is not in the power of the scoffer, or the skeptic, of the 
parasite, who fawns on courts, or the proselyte, who dotes ^ 


the infallibility of his own sect, to obflcure the real dignity of 
the character of the Puritans. We may lament their errors ; 
we may regret their prejudices ; we may pity their infirmities ; 
we may smile at the stress laid by them on petty observances 
and trifling forms. We may believe that their piety was 
mixed up with too much gloom and severity; that it was 
Bometimes darkened by superstition, and sometimes degraded 
by fanaticism ; that it shut out too much the innocent pleas* 
ores of life, and enforced too strictly a discipline, irksome, 
cheerless and oppressive ; that it was sometimes over rigid, 
when it might have been indulgent; stem, when it might 
have been affectionate ; pertinacious, when concession would 
have been just, as well as graceful ; and flashing with fiery 
zeal, when charity demanded moderation, and ensured peace. 

All this, and much mcNre, may be admitted, — for they were 
but men, frail, fallible men, — and yet leave behind solid 
claims upon tlie reverence and admiration of mankind. Of 
them it may be said, with as much truth as of any men, that 
have ever lived, that they acted up to their principles, and 
followed them out with an unfaltering firmness. They dis- 
played, at all times, a downright honesty of heart and purpose. 
In simplicity of life, in godly sincerity, in temperance, in 
humility and in patience, as well as in zeal, they seemed to 
belong to the apostolical age. 

Their wisdom, while it looked on this world, reached far 
beyond it in its aim and objects. They valued earthly par- 
suits no farther than they were consistent with religion. 
Amidst the temptations of human grandeur, they stood un* 
moved, unshaken, unseduced. Their scruples of conscience, 
if they sometimes betrayed them into difficulty, never betray- 
ed them into voluntary sin. They possessed a moral courage, 
which looked present dangers in the face, as though they were 
distant or doubtful, seeking no escape, and indulging no 

When, in defence of their faith, of what they deemed pure 
and nndefiled religion, we see them resign their property, 
their prefermentSy their friends and their homes ; when we 
see them submitting to banishment, and ignominy, and even 
to death ; when we see them in foreign lands, on inhospitable 
I, in the midst of sickness and famine, in desoiatioa 


and disaster, still true to themselvef;^ still confident itt Qod^B 
proTidetide, still submissive to his 'chastisements) stiB thankful 
for his blessings, still ready to exclaim, in the language of 
Scripture, "We are troubled on every side, yet not dis- 
tressed ; w« are perplexed, but not in despair ; persecuted, 
but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed;" when we 
is^ sftch things, where is the* man, whose soul does not meh 
within him at the sight ? Where shall examples be sought 
or found more full, to point out what Christianity is, and 
what it ought to accomplish ? 

What better origin could we desire, than from men of 
characters like these ? Men, to whom conscience was every 
thing, and worldly prosperity nothing. Men, whose thoughts 
belonged to eternity rather than to time. Men, who, in the 
near prospect of their sacrifices, could say, as our forefathers 
did say, " When we are in our graves, it will be all one, 
whether we have lived in plenty or in penury ; whether we 
have died in a bed of down, or locks of straw. Only this is 
the advantage of the mean condition, that it is a mobs 
FREEDOM TO DIE. And the less comfort any haVe iQ the 
things of this world, the more liberty they have to lay up 
treasure in heaven." Men, who, in answer to the objection, 
urged by the anxiety of friendship, that they might perish by 
the way, or by hunger or the sword, could answer, as our 
forefathers did, *' We may trust God's providence for tb^lw 
things. Either he will keep these evils fi'om iis, or will 
dispose them for our good, and enable us to bear them." 
Men, who, in still later days, in their appeal for protection to 
the throne, could say, with pathetic truth and simplicity, as 
our forefathers did, " That we might enjoy divine worship 
without human mixtures, without offence to God, man, oar 
own consciences, with leave, but not mthaut tears, we departed 
from our country, kindred, and fathers' houses into this Pat- 
mos ; in illation whereunto we do not say, Our garments are 
become old, by reason of the very long journey, but that, 
ourselves, who came away in our strength, are, by reason of 
long absence, many of us become gray-headed, and some of 
ns stooping for age." 

If these be not the sentiments of lofly virtue ; if they 
breathe not the genuine spirit of Christianity ; if they speak 


not high approaches towards moral perfection ; if they 
not an enduring sublimity ; then, indeed, have I ill read the 
human heart ; then,, indeed, have I strangely mistaken the 
inspirations of religion. If men like these can be passed 
by with indifference, because they wore not the princely 
lobes, or the sacred lawn, because they shone not in courts, 
nor feasted in fashionable circles ; then, indeed, is Christiail 
glory a Tain shadow, and human Tirtue a dream, about whiek 
we disqaiet onrselves in vain. 

But it is not so— it is not so. There are those around me^ 
whose hearts beat high, and whose lips grow eloquent, when 
the remembrance of such ancestors comes over their thoughts ; 
when they read in their deeds, not the empty forms, but th^ 
eawnoe €^ holy liring and holy dying. Time was, when the 
exploits of war, the heroes of many battles, the conquerors 
of miilkms, the men who waded through slaughter to thrones, 
the kings whose footsteps were darkened with Mood, and 
the seeptred oppressors of the earth, were alone deemed 
worthy themes for the poet and the orator, for the song of 
the minstrel, and the hosannas of the multitude. Time was, 
when feats of arms, and tournaments, and crusades, and the 
Ugh array of chivalry, and the pride of royal banners waving 
for victory, engrossed all minds. 

Time was, when the ministers of the altar sat down by the 
flde of the tyrant, and numbered his victims, and stimulated 
luB persecutions, and screened the instruments of his crimes ; 
and there was praise, and glory, and revehry, for these 
tilings. Murder and [rapine,; burning cities and desolated 
plains, if they were at the bidding of royal or baronial 
feuds, led on by the courtier or the clan, were matters of 
public boast, the delight of courts, and the treasured pleasure 
of the fireside tales. But these times have passed away. 
Christianity has resumed her meek and holy reign. The 
Paritans have not lived in vain. The simple piety of the 
pilgrims of New England casts into shade this false glitter, 
which dazzled and betrayed men into the worship of their 


The Coming of ike Pilgrims*— W. Sullitan. 

Herb begins that rast w^emess, which no ciriHzed man 
kas beheld; Whithei does it extend, and what is contained 
within its unmeasored limits 1 Through what thousands of 
years has it undergone no change, but in the silent moTO- 
ments of renovation and decay? To how many vernal 
seasons has it unfolded its leaves ; — to how many aatumnal 
frosts has it jrielded its verdure 1 This unvaried solitude I 
What has disturbed ks tranquillity, through uncounted ages, 
but the rising of the winds^ or the' rending of the stoimst 
What sounds have echoed through its deep recesses,, but those 
of craving and of rage from the beasts which it shelters, or 
the war-song and the. war-whoop )pf its sullen, smileless mas- 
ters f Man, social, inventive, improving man, — his footstep, 
his handiwork, are nowhere discerned. The beings, who 
wear his form^ have added nothing to knowledge, through aD 
their generations. Like the game which they pursue, they 
are the same now, which their progenitors were when theb 
race began. 

These distant and widely separated columns of taookt^ 
that throw their graceful forms towards the sky, indicate no 
social, no domestic abodes. The snows have descended, to 
cover the fallen foliage of the departed year; the winds paai, 
with a mournlul- sound, through the leafless branches-; the 
Indian has retired to his dark dwelling ; and the tenants of 
the forest have hidden themselves in the earth, to esciqw the 
search of winter. 

This ocean, that spreads out before us ! — ^how many of it» 
mountain waves rise up between us and the abodes of civil- 
ized men I Its surges break and echo on this lonely shore, 
as they did when the storms first waked them from thdr 

* Extracted from a Discourse delivered at Plymouth, Dec. 22, l&b. — ^la tha 
reflections quoted above, the author goes back, in imaginati<ni, to the tint 
when New England was first settled, and '' stands upon the shore which the ^ 
grims were ^proadung." 


deep, without having brought, or carried, any work of human 
hands, unless it be the frai4 canoe, urged on by hunger or 
revenge. How appalling is this solitude of the wildeniera \ 
how cheerless this wide waste of waters, on which nothing 
moves 1 

A new object rises to our view ! It is that proud result of 
Imman senius, which finds its way where it leaves no trace 
cf itself, yet connects the severed continents of the globe. 
It is full of human beings of a complexion unknown in this 
frr distant cliroe. They come from a world skilled in the 
social arts. Are they adventurers, thirsting for gain, or 
seeking, in thebe unexplored regions, new gifts for the 
treasury of science ? Their boats are filled ; they touch the 
land. They are followed by tender females, and more tende* 
oflbpring ; such beings as a wild desert never before received. 
They commence the making of habitations. They disem- 
bark their goods. 

Have they abandoned their returning ship? Are they to 
e&eoanter, in their frail tenements, the winter's tempest and 
the accumuiating snows T Do they know, that these dark 
forests,' through which even the winds come not without 
dismal and terrifying sound, is the home of the savage, whose 
first prompting is to destroy that he may rob ? Do they know 
that disease must be the inmate of their dwellings in their 
aatried exposure? If the savage, if disease, selects no 
Tictims, will famine stay its merciless hand ? Do they know 
liow slowly the forest yields to human . industry ? Do they 
realize how long, how lonesome, how perilous it will be to 
their little group, before want can be supplied and security 
obtnined? Can they have come, voluntarily, to encounter 
9II these unavoidable evils? Have they given up their native 
laad, their precious homes, their kind friends, their kindred, 
the comfort and the fellowship of civilized and polished life T 
Ifltbis the evidence of affectionate solicitude of husbands, of 
iBxious tenderness of parents, or the sad measure of distem- 
pered minds? Wherefore are they come? What did they 
niffer, what did they fear, what do they expect, or hope, that 
they have chosen exile here, and to become the watchful 
flcighbof of the treacherous Indian ? 


They gather themselves together, and assume the posture 
of humble devotion. They pour forth the senthnents of 
praia^y of hope, of unshaken confidence. They cast them- 
selves, theit wives, their children, into the arms of that 
beneficent Parent, who is present in the wilderness no less 
than the crowded city. It is to Him that they look for 
support amidst the wants of nature, lor shelter against 
the storm, for protection against the savage^ for relief ia 

LESSON xcm. 

Lady ArabeHa JohnsoM, — Btory. 

The lady Arabella Johnson, a daughter of the earl of 
Lincoln, accompanied her husband in the embarkation under 
Winthrop ; and, in honor of her, the admiral ship, on that 
occasion, was called by her name. She died in a very short 
time after her arrival, and lies buried near the neighboring 
shore. No stone, or other memorial, indicates the ei^act place ; 
but tradition has preserved it with a holy reverence. Tbe 
remembrance of her excellence is yet fresh in all our 
thoughts ; and many a heart still kindles with admiration of 
her virtues ; and many a bosom heaves with sighs at her 
untimely end. 

What, indeed, could be more touching than the fate of 
such a woman ? What example more striking than hers, of 
uncompromising . affection and piety ? Born in the lap of 
ease, and surrounded by affluence ; with every prospect which 
could make hope gay, and fortune desirable ; accustomed to 
the splendors of a court, and the scarcely less splendid hos- 
pitalities of her ancestral home; she was yet content to 
quit, what has, not inaptly, been termed '' this paradise of 
plenty and j^asure," for " a wilderness of wants,'' and, with 
a fortitude superior to the delicacies pf her rank and sex, to 
trust herself to an unknown ooean and a distant «Uaate» 


di«t she might partake, with her husband, the pore and 
flpnitoal worship of God. 

To the honor, to the eternal honor of her sex, be it said, that, 
in the path of dnij, no sacrifice is with them too high or too 
dear. Nothing is with them impossible, but to shrink from 
what love, honor, innocence, religion, requires. The voice 
of pleasure or of power may pass bj unheeded ; but the 
vmce of affliction never. The chamber of the mck, the 
pillow of the dying, the vigils of the dead, the altars of re- 
ligion, never missed the presence or the sympathies of woman. 
Timid though she be, and so delicate that the wnds of 
beaven may not too roughly visit her, on such occasions she 
loses all tense of danger, and assumes a preternatural cour- 
age, which knows not, and fears not consequences. Then 
she di^ays that undaunted spirit, which neither courts 
difficulties, nor evades them ; that resignation, which utters 
neither murmur nor regret ; and that patience in suffering, 
which seems victorious even over death itself. 

The lady Arabella perished in this noble undertaking, of 
which she seemed the ministering angel ; and her death 
ipread universal gloom throughout the colony. Her husband 
was overwhdraed with grief at the unexpected event, and 
florvived her but a single month. Governor Winthrop has 
pronounced his eulogy in one short sentence : — " He was a 
lioly man, and wise, and died in sweet peace,'* 

He was truly the idol of the people ; and the spot selected 
bj himself for his own sepulture became consecrated in their 
eyes ; so that many left it as a dying request, that they might 
he buried by his side. Their request prevailed ; and the 
Chapel burying-ground in Boston, which contains his re- 
mains, became, from that time, appropriated to the repose of 
the dead. Perhaps the best tribute to this excellent pair is, 
that time, which, with so unsparing a hand, consigns states- 
men, and heroes, and even sages, to oblivion, has embalmed 
the menKwy of their worth, and preserved it among the 
cbmcest of New England relics. It can scarcely be forgot- 
tm, bat wkh the annals of our country. 




T%e Pilgrim Fathers, — C. Spragve. 

BsHOLD I they come — those sainted fonnsy 
Unshaken through the strife of storms ; 
Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down, 
And earth puts on its rudest frown ; 
But colder, ruder was the hand, 
Thajt drove them from their own fair land,— - 
Their own fair land, refinement's chosen seat. 
Art's tr5phied dwelling, learning's green retreat; 
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned. 
For all, but gentle charity, renowned. 

With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart. 
Even from that land they dared to part. 

And burst each tender tie ; 
Haunts,, where their sunny youth was passed^ 
Homes, where they fondly hoped at last. 

In peaceful age, to die; 
Friends, kindred, comfort, all they ^umed*-*' 

Their fathers' hallowed graves. 
And to a world of darkness turned, 

Beyond a world of waves. 

But not alone, not all unblessed. 
The exile sought a place of rest ; 
One dared with him to burst the knot. 
That bound her to her native spot ; 
Her low, sweet voice in comfort spoke. 
As round their bark the billows broke ; 
She, through the midnight watch, was there. 
With him to bend her knees in prayer ; 
She trod the shore with girded heart. 
Through good and ill to claim her part; 
In life, in death, with him to seal 
Her kindred love, her kindred zeal. 


They come — that coming who shall telll 
The eye may weep, the heart may swells 
But the poor tongue in vain essays 
A fitting note for them to raise« 
We hear the after-shout, that rings 
For them who smote the power of kingB— 
The swelling triumph all would share ; 
But who the dark defeat would dare, 
And boldly meet the wrath and wo. 
That wait the unsuccessful blow f .. 

It were an envied fate, we deem, 
To live a land's recorded theme. 

When we are in the tomb : 
We, too, might yield the joys of home, 
And waves of winter darkness roam, 

And tread a shore of gloom, — 
Knew we, those waves, through coming 
Should roll our names to every clime ; 
Fek we, that millions on that shore 
Should stand, our memory to adore : 
. But no glad vision burst in light 
Upon th« pilgrims' aching sight ; 
Their hearts no proud hereafler swelled ; 
Deep shadows vailed the way they held ; 
The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, 
Their monument, a grave without a name. 

Tet, strong in weakness, there they stand. 

On yonder ice-bound rock. 
Stern and resolved, that faithful band. 

To meet fate's rudest shock. 
Though anguish rends the father's breast. 
For them, his dearest and his best. 

With hjm the waste who trod — 
Though tears, that freeze, the mother sheds 
Upon her children's houseless heads— 

The Christian turns to Godl 


In griUMhl Itdoration wm, 

Upon 4^ barren hfitiis they bow. 

What Umgwi of joy e'er woke such pnytar. 

Am bursts in desei^ation there 7 . 

What arm Of strength e'er wrought such power. 

As wdl^ lb ciotm that feeUe hour? 
There into lift i^ ili&ttt empire springs I 

There fall» ^ iron from the soul; 

There liberty's ytmng accents rdl 
Up to the Ridg of kii^t 

To fair creation's farthest bound, 

That thrilling ««rMmQttis yet Mial) toimd i 

The dreaming IMlioiifi bhall awake. 
And to their centre ennh'd 6LA kingdodad ^ake. 
Pontiff md priiioe, your #way 
Must cftti^lj» from that d^y-; 

Before the loftieir thh>ne of Heaven, 

'Vhft inmd is raiied, the pledge is giv^en— ^ 
One monarch to bbey^ one creed to own,-— 
That monarch, iSod^-Uhat creed, his WiN?d tk>M. 

Spread out ealth'ii holiest records here. 
Of days and dftbds to reverence dear; 
A zeal liksethit what ^us legends teHt 
Oh kingdomi? buih 
in bioo4 and guilt. 
The worshippM« of vidgar triumph dwii^ ; 
But what exploit with theirs shall page, 

T(Qm» to&t to bless their kind,-^ 
Who left their natkm and their agd, 
Man's iqMiit to unbind f 
Who boundless seas pAssed o'er. 
And Mxll}rihet^ in every pathj 
Famine, and frosty ahd heathen wrath. 
To dedicate « sbore^ 
Where pinj^e nMi train might bt«athe tbeir Ki#, 
And seek their Maker with «!n unsbakned bibw{ 
Where liberty's glad race might pioudfy eooM^ 
And set i^ there an everlasting home! 


Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, — Mbb. HaiiAifi. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stem and rock-bound coast. 
And the woods, against a stormy sky, 

Their giant branches tost ; 

And the heavy night hang dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. < 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came, — 
Not with the roll of the stirring drumSy 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear; 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom. 

With their hjrmns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea ; 
And the soanding(aisles x>f the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The- ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam. 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared 

This was their welcome home I 

There were men with hoary hair, 

Amidst that pilgrim-band : 
Why had they come to wither there 

Away from their childhood's land 1 ; \ 

19 • :- 


There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's tr«th ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
• dtod^e fiefc!|r heart ^ yotilb. 

What sought they ttas afar t^— 

Bright jewels of die mine T 
The wealth of s^as f the spfuSa ofwdkt^ 

They sought a £uth'« pure «hnii«. 

Ay^-call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod : 
They haveMb'wutained what there ih^j found--* 

Freedom to w^rehip CUmI ! 


Hymnfw the sed<mdX!eniennial Celebration of the Settle 
of Charlestown, Mass. — ^Pierpont. 

Two HUNDRED YEARS ! — ^two huDdfcd years I— 
How tnufobxtf hwnan power and piMe, 

What glorious hdpi^, what gloomy feara, 
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! — 

The red man, ait his horrid rite, 

SiHft Iqr the ^»s at night's cold noon, 

His bark canoe, its track of light 
Left on the wave beneath the moon, — 

His dancfe, his yeU, his-^kmncil-fire, 

The akar wbsre his victim lay, 
His death-song, and his ftineral pyre, — 

That still, strong tide hath borne away. 

And that pale pilgrim band is gone, 

That, on this shore, with trembling tiodt 
^ Ready to faint, yet beuring on 
The ark of fireedom and of God. 


And war — tfast^ naoe^ o'er ocean came, 
A»d thimdered loud from yonder hiU, 

And wnw^ ito fiwi in sheets of flame. 
To blast that ark — its stmrm is 

Ghie^<1sachem^^sagey bards, heroes, seers. 
That Ufo in story and in song. 

Time, for the last two hondred years, 
Has raised, and shown, and swept aloiig* 

Tis like a dream when one awakes — 
This vision oi the scenes of old : 

'Tis^ike the moon when morning breaks, 
'Tis like a 4ale round watch-fires told. 

Then what are we ! — then what are we ! 

Tes, when two hundred years have rolled 
O'er oar green graves, our names shall be 

A morning dream, a tale that's told. 

God of oor fathers, — in whose sight 
The thousand years, that sweep away 

Man, and the traces of his might, 
Are bat 4he break and close of day,— 

Grant as that love of tnith sublime. 
That love of goodness and of thee. 

Which makes thy children, in all time. 
To share thine own eternity. 

LESSON xcvn. 

Tke Western Worlds— Brtaht. 

Late, from this western shore, that morning chased" 
The deep and ancient night, that threw its shrood 

Cer the green land of groves, the beautifiil waste, 
Nune^^of fiiil stiBams, and lifter up of frond. 


Sky-minglid^ mountains, that overlook the doad. 
Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, 

Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were k>ad 
Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer 
Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near. 

And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay 

Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim, 
And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay 

Young group of grassy islands born of him, 

And, crowding nigh, or in the distance dim. 
Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring 

The commerce of the world ; — with tawny limb, 
And belt and beads in sunlight glistening. 
The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing. 

Then, all this joyful paradise around. 

And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay 

Cooled by the; interminably wood, that frowned 
O'er mound and vale, wnere never summer ray 
Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way 

Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild ; 
Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay, 

Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild. 
Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled. 

There stood the Indiafi hamlet, there the lake 

Spread its blue sheet, that flashed with many an oar, 

Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake. 
And the deer drank : as the light gale flew o'er, 
The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore ; 

And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair, 
A look of glad and innocent beauty wore. 

And peace was on the earth and in the air. 
The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there — 

Not unavenged : the foeman, from the wood, 
Beheld the deed, and, when the midnight shade 

Was stillest,' gorged his battle-axe with blood : - 

All died— -the wailing babe— the shrieking 


And in the flood of fire, that scathed the glade, 
The roofs went down ; but deep the silence grew, 

When on the dewj woods the day-beam played : 
No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed and blue, 
ind ever, by their lake, lay moored the light canoe. 

Look now abroad : another race has filled 

These populous borders ; wide the wood recedes. 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled ; 

The land is fiill of harvests and green meads ; 

Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds, 
Shine, disembowered, and give to sun and breeze 

Their virgin waters ; the full region leads 
New colonies forth, that toward the western seas 
Ipread, like a rapid flame, among the autumnal trees. 

Here the firee spirit of mankind, at length, 

Throws its last fetters off*; and who shall place 
A limit to the giant's unchained strength. 

Or curb his swiftness in the forward race. 

Far, like the cmnet's way through infinite vpace, 
Stretches the long untravelled path of light 

Into the depths of ages : we may trace. 
Afar, the brightening glory of its flight, 
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. 

Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, 

And writhes in shackles ; strong the arms that chain 
To earth her struggling multitude of states. 

She, too, is strong, and might not chafe in vain 

Against them, but shake off* the vampyre train 
That batten on her blood, and break their net. 

Tes, she shall look on brighter days, and gain 
The meed. of worthier deeds ; the moment set 
To rescue, and raise up, draws near — ^but is not yet. 

But tiKm, my country, thoa shalt never fall, 
But with ihj chilthen : thy maternal care. 

Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all,—* 
These are thy fetters : seas and stormy air 


Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where. 
Among thy gallant sons, that guard thee well, 

Thou laugh' St at enemies : who shall then declare 
The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell 
How happy, in thy 1^, the sons of men shall dwell t 


Effects of the, Institutions and Example of the first Settl 

of New England, — Quincy. 

If we cast our eyes on the cities and great towns of N 
England, with what wonder should we behold, did not 
miliarity render the phenomenon almost unnoticed, m^ 
combined in great multitudes, possessing freedom and i 
consciousness of strength, — the comparative physical po\ 
of the ruler less than that of a cobweb across a lion's pa 
— yet orderly, obedient, and respectful to authority ; a peo{ 
but no populace ; every class in reality existing, which 
general law of society acknowledges, except one, — and I 
exception characterizing the whole country ! The soil 
New England is trodden by no slave. In our streets, in < 
assemblies, in the halls of election and legislation, men 
every rank and condition meet, and unite or divide on otl 
principles, and are actuated by other motives, than th 
growing out of such distinctions. The fears and jealousi 
which, in other countries, separate classes of men, and mi 
them hostile to each other, have here no influence, or . a v 
limited one. 

Each individual, of whatever condition, has' the conscio 
ness of living under known laws, which secure equal rigl 
and guaranty to each whatever portion of the goods of 1 
be it great or small, chance, or talent, or industry may h 
bestowed. All perceive that the honors and rewards of 
ciety, are open equally to the fair competition of all ; that 
distinctions of wealth, or of power, are not fixed in famili 
that whatever of this nature exists to-day, may be chan 
to-morrow, or, in a coming generation, be absolutely rever: 


Common principles, interests, hopes and afifections, are the 
result of universal education. Such are the consequences 
of the equality of rights, and of the provisions for the general 
fliffbsion of knowledge and {he distribution of intestate 
estates, established by the laws framed by the earliest emi- 
grants to New England. 

If, from our cities, we turn to survey the wide expanse of 
the interior, how do the effects of the institutions and exam- 
ple of our early ancestors appear, in all the local comfort and 
accommodation, which mark the general condition of the 
i^hole country; — unobtrusive, indeed, bat substantial; in 
lothing splendid, but in every thing sufficient and satisfacto- 
7. Indications of active talent and practical energy, exist 
svery where. With a soil comparatively little luxuriant, and 
n great proportion either rock, or hill, or sand, the skill and 
ndustry of man are seen triumphing over the obstacles of 
lature ; making the rock the guardian of the field ; moulding 
he granite, as though it were clay ; leading cultivation to 
be hill-top, and spreading over the arid plain hitherto un- 
mown and unanticipated harvests. 

The lofty mansion of the prosperous adjoins the lowly 
Iwelling of the husbandman ; their respective inmates are in 
he daily interchange of civility, sympathy and respect. 
Enterprise and skill, which once held chief affinity with the 
)eean or the sea-board, now begin to delight the interior, 
lannting our rivers, where the music of the waterfall, with 
KKwers more attractive than those of the fabled harp of Or* 
>hea8, collects around it intellectual man and material nature. 
Towns and cities, civilized and happy communities, rise, like 
nfaalations, on rocks and in forests, till the deep and far->re- 
loanding voice of the neighboring torrent is itself lost and 
imhedrd, amid the predominating noise of successful and 
cejoicing labor. 

What lessons has New England, in every period of her 
Idstory,. given to the world! What lessons do her condition 
Uid example still give! How unprecedented^Nyet how prac- 
tical! How simple, yet how powerful! She has proved, 
that all the variety of Christian sects may live together in 
krmony, under a government, which allows equal privileges 
to all,— exclusive preeminence to none She has prov^d^ 


that ignorance among the multitude ifl not necessary to order, 
but that the surest basis of perfect order is the informatm 
of the people. She has proved the old maxim, that " No goVi* 
emment, except a despotism, with a standing army, can snlh 
flist where the people have arms," is false. • • • • 

Such are the true glories of the institutions of oar fiuhen; 
such thtf-natural fruits of that patience in toil, that frugality i 
ef disposkioik, that temperance of habit, that general diAiskMi j 
of knowledge, and that sense of religions responsibility, »> i 
e«ilcated by the precepts, and exhibited in the example, of i 
ei^ry generation of our ancestors. \ 

New England, — ^Mrs. Child. 

I NBTER view the thriving villages of New England, idii^ 
speak so forcibly to the heart, of happiness and p r o Bp er i ty, 
without feeling a glow of national pride, as I say, " This is 
my own, my native land." A long train of associations is 
connected with her picturesque rivers, as they repose in their 
peaceful loveliness, — the broad and sparkling mirror of the 
heavens, — and with the cultivated- en virons;of her busy cities, 
which seem every where blushing into a perfect Eden of fruit 
and flowers. The remembrance of what we have beea, 
comes rushing on the heart in powerful and happy contrast 

In most nations, the path of antiquity is shrouded in dark* 
ness, rendered more visible by the wild, fantastic light of 
fable ; but with us, the vista of time is luminous to its r^ 
motest point. Each succeeding year has lefl its footsteps 
distinct upon the soil, and the cold dew of our chilling dawn 
is still visible beneath the mid-day sun. Two centuries, only, 
have elapsed, since our most beautiful villages reposed in the 
undisturbed grandeur of nature ; when the scenes now reft* 
dered classic by literary associations, or resounding with tha 
din of commerce, echoed nought but the sound of the hantv, 
or the fleet tread of the wild deer. €k>d was here in his 
holy temple, and the whole earth kept silence before him ! 


te te voMe of prayer was soon to be heard in the desert 
Tte Wtti whichy for ages beyond the memory of man, had 
gued <m the strange, fearful worship of the Great Spirit of 
tkd wiMemess, was soon to shed its splendor upon the altars 
•f the lifing God. That light, which had arisen amid the 
dtrknefls of £urq[)e, stretched its long luminous track across 
the Atlantio, till the summits of the western world became 
tiiigad with its iHrightness. During many long, long ages of 
glooai and oormption, it seemed as if the pure flame of 
mligioii was erery where quenched in Uood ; — 4>ut the watch- 
M vestal had kept the sacred flame still burning deeply and 
fenrently. Men, stem and unyielding, brought it hither in 
their own bosom, and, amid desolation and poverty, they kin- 
dled it on the shrine of Jehovah. 

In this enlightened and liberal age, it is perhaps too fash- 
ionable to look back upon those early sufferers in the cause 
«f the reformation, as a band of dark, discontented bigots. 
llTitliout doubt, there were many broad, deep shadows m 
tkeir characters ; but there was, likewise, bold and powerful 
light The peculiarities of their situation occasioned most 
«f their fiiults, and atoned for them. They were struck off 
6om a learned, opulent and powerful nation, under circum- 
ttanoee which goaded and lacerated them almost to ferocity ; 
—and no wond^ that men, who fled from oppression in their 
(Hm country, to all the hardships of a remote and dreary 
(mtince, abould have exhibited a deep mixture of exclusive, 
liitter and morose passions.^ 


(Im e b uian of a Discourse, delivered Sept. 18/A, 1828, in 
QnmumoraHen of the first Settlement of Sakm, Mass. — 


Wmmn we reflect on what has been, and is, how is it poe- 
Ale not to feel a profound sense of the responsibleness of 
this rqmblic to all future agesl What vast motives presa 


upon us for lolly efforts! What brilliant prospects innt 
our enthusiasm! What solemn warnings at once demand 
our vigilance, and moderate our confidence ! ' 

The old world has already revealed to us, in its unseale 
books, the beginning and end of all its own marvellou 
struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece 
'' the land of scholars and the nurse of arms," where siste 
republics in fair processions chanted the praises of libert 
and the gods, — where and what is she ? For two thousan 
years, the oppressor has bound her to the earth. Her art 
are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are ba 
the barracks of a ruthless soldiery ; the fragments of he 
columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruin 
She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her soni 
were united at Thermopyls and Marathon ; and the tide of 
her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was con- 
quered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of hei 
own people. The man of Macedonia did not the work of 
destruction. It was already done by her own corruptions, 
banishments and dissensions. 

Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising 
and setting sun, — where and what is she ? The eternal city 
yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her de- 
cline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as in 
the composure of death. The malaria has but travelled in 
the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen cen- 
turies have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal 
disease was upon her vitals, before Caesar had crossed the 
Rubicon. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns, the swarms 
of the North, completed only what was already begun at 
home. Romans betrayed Rome. The legions were bought 
and sold, but the people offered the tribute money. 

And where are the republics of modern times, which clus- 
tered round immortal Italy ? Venice and Genoa exist but in 
name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the brave and 
peaceful Swiss in their native fastnesses ; but the guarantee 
of their freedom is in their weakness, and not in their 
strength. The mountains are not easily crossed, and the 
valleys are not easily retained. When the invader comes, he 
moves like an avalanche, carrying destruction in his path. 


The peasantry sinks before him. The country is too poor S>r 
plunder, and too rough for valuable conquest. Nature pre- 
sents her eternal barriers, on every side, to check the wanton- 
ness of ambition ; and Switzerland remains with her simple 
institutions, a military road to fairer climates, scarcely worth 
a permanent possession, and protected by the jealousy of her 

We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last; 
experiment of self-government by the people. We have 
began it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. 
. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has never been 
checked by the oppressions of tyranny. ^ Our constitutions 
have never been enfeebled by the vices or luxuries of the old 
world. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning; 
simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government and 
self-respect The Atlantic rolls between us and any forni'> 
daWe foe. ^■ 

Within our ovm territory, stretching through many degrees 
of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many prod- 
acts, and many means of independence. The government 
is mild. The press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge 
leaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect 
(^ success could be presented ? What means more adequate 
to accomplish the sublime end ? What more is necessary , 
than for the people to preserve what they themselves have 

Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. 
It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes 
of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of 
Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France, and the 
W lands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of 
Germany and the North, and, moving onward to the South, 
has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. 

Can it be that America, under such circumstances, can 
betray herself! that she is to be added to the catalogue of 
republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is, " They were, 
bat they are not !" Forbid it, my countrymen ; forbid it, 

I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors. 


by the dear ashes which repose m this preckms aofl, by i 
you are, and all you hope to be ; resist eveiy project of di 
tmion, resist every encroachment upon your liberties, resj 
every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother yo 
public schools, or extinguish your system of public i 

I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails 
woman; the love of your offispring; teach thefti, as th< 
climb your knees, or lean on your bosoms, the Uessings < 
Uberty. Swear them at the altar, as with th^lr baptism 
vows, to be true to their country, and never to fi)rget or k 
sake her. 

I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons yi 
ate, whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be ti 
short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppressio 
Death never comes too soon, if necessary in defence < 
the liberties of your country. 

I call upon you, old men, lor your counsels, and yoi 
prayers, and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs | 
down in sorrow to the grave, with the recollection, that y< 
have lived in tain. May not your last sun sink in the wc 
Upon a nation of slaves. 

No; — I read in the destiny of my country fiuf better hopt 
far brighter visions. We, who are now assem)4ed here, m«i 
soon be gathered to the congregation of other days, ^the till 
of our departure is at hand, to make way for our childrMi iqn 
tiie tiieatre of life. May God &q[>eed them and theirs. M 
he, who, at the distance of another century, shall stand hei 
to celebrate this day, still lode round upon a free, happy ai 
Virtuous people. May he have reascm to exult as wed 
Hay he, with all the enthusiasm of truth, as well as of poetr 
etelaim that here is still his country, 

" Zealooiy yet modest ; ionocettt, though fiee $ 
Patient of toil 5 serene amidst alarms } 
liindble in faith} invincible in anns." 

rcKma ladies' class book. 

The Death of Moses. — John S. Taylor. 

On Nebo's hill the patriarch stood^ 

Who led the pilgrim bands 
Of Israel through the foaming waveSi 

And o'er the desert sands. 

How beauteous is the scene that spreads 

Before him far and wide, 
Beyond the fair and fated bourn 

Of Jordan's glorious tide ! 

Stretched forth in varied loveliness^ 

The land of promise smiled, 
Like Eden in its wondrous bloom, 

Magnificent and wild. 

He looked o'er Gilead's pleasant land, 

A land of fruit and flowers. 
And verdure of the softest green, 

That drinks the summer showers. 

He saw fair Ephraim's fertile fields 
Laugh with their golden store, 

And, far beyond, the deep blue wave 
Bathed Judah's lovely shore. 

The southern landscape led his glance 

O'er plains and valleys wide. 
And hills with spreading cedars crowned, 

And cities in their pride. 

There Zoar's walls are dimly seen, 

And Jericho's far towers 
Gleam through the morning's purple mist, 

Among their palmy boWiers. 

20 ♦ 


Is it the son, the moming son, 
That shines so foil and bright, 

Pooring on Nebo's lonely hill 
A ilood of iiring lightf 

No— dim and earthly is the glow 
Of momiaf's loveliest ray, 

And didl the ckradless beams of nooiip 
To that celestial day, . 

Is it an angel's voice that breathes 
Divine enchantment there. 

As floating on his viewless wings 
He charms the balmy air t 

a greater, hdier power. 
That makes the scene rejoice ; 
Thy glory, Ood, is in that light,-^ 
Thy spirit, in that voice! 

The patriarch hears, and lowly bends. 

Adoring his high will. 
Who spoke in lightnings from the doods 

Of Sinai's awful hill. 

Now flash his eyes with brighter fires 

E'er yet their light depart ; 
And thns the voice of prc^hecy 

Speaks to his trembling heart :— 

" The land, which I have sworn to Umb 

To Abraham's chosen race, 
Thine eyes behdd ; but not &x thee 

That earthly resting-place." 

With sod of Mih the patriarch heard 

The awful words, and lay 
A time entranced, until that voice 

In music died away ;— - 


Then raised his head,^-one look he gave 
Towards Jordan's palmy shore ; 

Fixed was that look, and glazed that eye. 
Which turned to earth no more* 

A beauteous glow was on his fiu>&— - 
Death flung not there its gloom ; 

On Nebo's hill the- patriarch found 
His glory and his doom. 

He sleeps in Moab's silent Tale, 

Beneath the dewy sod, 
Without a stone to mark his grave, 

Who led the hosts of God. 

Let marble o'er earth's conquerors rise^ 
And mock the mouldering grave ; 

His monument is that blest Book, 
Which opens but to save. _ ^ . 


Smnet an the Entrance of the American Woods^-^AhT, 

What solemn spirit doth-inhabit here I 

What sacred oracle hath here a home ! 
What dread unknown thrills through the heart in fear. 

And moves to worship in this forest-dome ! 
Ye storied fanes, in whose recesses dim 

The mitred priesthood hath their altars built, 
. Aisles ^Id and awful, where the choral hymn 

Bears the rapt soul beyond the sphere of guilt. 
Stoop your proud arches, and your c<^umns bend, 

Tour tombs and moilumental trophies hide ; 
The high, umbrageous vaults, that here extend. 

Mock the brief limits of your sculptured pride. 
Stranger forlorn, by fortune hither cast, 
Dtr'at thou the genius brave, — the ancient and the vastt 


LESSON era. 

Marco ■ JBozxotis.^+Halleck. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour. 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power. 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams, his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring; 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood 

On old Platsea's dSy ; 
And now there iM'eathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires, who conquered there. 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on — ^the Turk awoke — 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
<' To arms ! they come 1 the Greek ! the Greek l** 
He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 

* Bozzaris was the Epaminondas of Modern Greece. H« iW in M tl) 
upon the Tarkish camp, at Laspi, the site of the ancieiit Plihw, 
1833, and expired in the moment of victory. His last 
die fir liberty, is a pleasure, and not a pain/' 


As lightnings from the mountain doud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
. Bozzaris cheer his band : 
" Strike ! till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike I for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike !. for the green graves of your sires; 
God-^— and yoiir native land !' 


They fought, like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile,' when rang their proud hurrah. 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
CUmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death I 

Cotne to the mother when she feels, 
For the first time, her first bom's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals. 
That close the pestilence, ar« broke. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in Consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm. 

With banquet-song, and dance, and 
Andjthou art terrible : the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier. 
And all we know, or dream, or. fear, 

Of agony, are thine. ' 

But to the hero^ when his sword 

Has won the battle for the firee. 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
And ID ittt hollow tones are heard 

TU«ttil»0f millions yet to be. 

*• . • 

• .-f ■ ■ 


h -b -•/ 


Bozzaris, with the storied brave, 

Greece nurtured in' her glory's time, 
Rest thee — ^there is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 

We tell thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame' 
One of the few, the immortal names^ 

That were not bom to die. 


Reflections of a BeUe. — N. E. Weekly Review. 

I'm weary of the crowded ball ; I'm weary of the miglh, 
Which never lifts itself above the grosser things of earth ; 
I'm weary of the flatterer's tone : its music is no more, 
And eye and' lip may answer not its meaning as before; 
I'm weary of the heartless throng— of being deemed as one, 
Whose spirit kindles only in the blaze of fashioii!s sun. 

I speak in very bitterness, for I have deeply felt 
The mockery of the hoUow shrine at which my spirit kneh; 
Mine is the requiem of years, in reckless folly passed. 
The wail above departed hopes, on a frail venture cast, 
The vain regret, that steals above the wreck of squanderod 

Like the sighing of the autumn wind above the fa^ed flowers'. 

Oh ! it is worse than mockery to list the flatterer's tone. 
To lend a ready ear to thoughts the cheek must blush to own,-* 
To hear the red lip whispered of, and the flowing curl and eyo 
Made constant themes of eulogy, extravagant and high,-— 
And the charm of person worshipped, in a homage offered not 
To the perfect charm of virtue, and the majesty of ihaagltA* 

Away ! I will not fetter thus the spirit God bath given. 
Nor stoop the pinion back to earth that beareth up to heaWA; 


I will not bow a tameless heart to fashion's iron rule, 
Nor welcome, with a smile, alike the gifted and the fool : 
No— let the throng pass coldly on ; a treasured few may find 
The charm of person doubly dear beneath the light of mind 

Childhood, — N, M. MAOiiziNE. 

He most be/ incorrigibly' unamiable, who is not a little im- 
proved by becoming a father. Some there are, however, 
who know not how to appreciate the blessings with which 
Providence has filled their quiver ; who receive with coldness 
a son's greeting or a daughter's kiss; who have principle 
enough properly to feed, and clothe, and educate their chil- 
dren, to labor for their support and provision, but possess not 
the affection which turns duty into delight ; who are sur- 
roanded with blossoms, but know not the art of extracting 
their exquisite sweets. How different is the effect of true 
parental love, where nature, duty, habit and feeling combine 
to constitute an affection the purest, the deepest and the 
Btrongesty the most enduring, the least exacting of any of 
which the human heart is capable ! 

The selfirii bachelor may shudder, when he thinks of the 
ooDseqaences of a family ; he may picture to himself littered 
nxms and injured furniture, imagine the noise and confusion, 
the expense and the cares, from which he is luckily free ; 
img himself in his solitude, and pity his unfortunate neighbor, 
who has half a dozen squalling children to torment and im- 
porerisb him. 

The unfortunate neighbor, however, returns the compli- 
nent with interest, sighs over the loneliness of the wealthy 
bachelor, and can never see, without feelings of regret, 
loonui where no stray plaything tells of the occasional 
piMence of a4!|hild,-gardens where no tiny foot-mark reminds 
llini of his treasures at home. He has listened to his heart, 
md learned from it a precious secret; he knows how to 
cpQfert noise Into harmony, expense into self-gratification^ 


and trouble into amusement ; and he re^s, in one da/a in* 
tercourse with his family, a harvest of love and enjoymeot 
rich enough to repay years of toil and care. He listem 
eagerly on hi^ threshold for the boisterous greeting he is 8ur9 
to receive, feels refreshed by the mere pattering sound of the 
darlings' feet, as they hurry to receive his kiss, and cures, by 
a noisy game at romps, the weariness and head-ache which 
he gained in his intercourse with men. . 

But it is not only to their parents and near connexions, that ^ 
children are interesting and delightful ; they are general fs- ; 
vorites, and their caresses are slighted by none but the < 
strange, the affected, or the morose. I have, indeed, hetrd 
a fine lady declare that she preferred a puppy oaf a kitten Uk 
a child ; and I wondered she had not sense enough to conceal 
her want of womanly feeling : and I know another fair siD»* 
pleton, who considers it beneath her to notice those from \ 
whom no intellectual improvement can be derived, forgetting 
that we have hearts to cultivate as well as heads. But these 
are extraordinary exceptions to general rules, as uncommon 
and disgusting as a beard on a lady's chin, or a pipe in her 

Even men may condescend to sport with children with* 
out fear of contempt ; and for those who like to shelter 
themselves under authority, and cannot venture to be wise -~ 
and happy their own way, we have plenty of splendid exan^ I 
pies, ancient and modern, living and dead, to adduce, which :' 
may sanction a love for these pigmy playthings.. Statesmen ■ 
have romped with them, orators told them stories, conquerors J 
submitted to their blows, judges, divines and philosophers 
listened to their prattle, and joined in their sports. 

Spoiled children are, however, excepted from this partiali- - 

ty ; every one joins in visiting the faults of others upon their 

heads, and hating these unfortunate victims of their parents* 

folly. They must be bribed to good behavior, like many of 

their elders; they insist upon fingering your watch, and 

spoiling what they do not understand, like numbers of the 

patrons of literature and the arts ; they will sometimes cry 

w the moon, as absurdly as Alexander for more worlds ; and 

^hen they are angry, they have no mercy for cups and 

Queers. They are as unreasonable, impatient, selfish. eSf 


aeting and whimsical, as grovm-up men and women, and 
only want the yarnish of politeness and mask of hypocrisy 
to complete the likeness. 

Another description of children, deservedly unpopular, is 
the OYer-educated and super-excellent, who despise dolls and 
drums, and, ready only for instruction, have no wish for a holi- 
day, no fancy for a fairy tale. They appear to have a natural 
taste for pedantry and precision ; their wisdom never indulges 
in a nap, at least before company ; they have learned the 
Pestalozzi system, and weary you- with questions ; they re- 
quire you to prove every thing you assert, and are always on 
the watch to detect you in a verbal inaccuracy, or a slight 
mistake in a date. 

But, notwithstanding Che infinite pains taken to spoil na- 
ture's lovely works, there is a principle of resistance, which 
allows of only partial success ; and numbers of sweet children 
exist, to delight, and soothe, and divert us, when we are 
wearied or fretted by grown-up people, and to justify all that 
has been said or written of the charms of childhood. Per- 
haps only women, their natural n arses and faithful protec- 
tresses, can thoroughly appreciate the attractions of the first 
few qionths of human existence. The recumbent position, 
the fragile limbs, thev lethargic tastes, and ungrateful indif- 
ference to notice, of a very young Infant, render it uninterest- 
ing to most gentlemen, except its father ; and he is generally 
afraid to touch it, for fear of breaking its neok. But even 
in this state, mothers, grandmothers, aunts and nurses assure 
you, that strong indications of sense and genius may be dis- 
cerned in the little animal ; and I have known a clatter of 
surprise and joy excited through a whole family, and matter 
affi)rded for twenty long letters and innumerable animated 
conversation^ by some marvellous demonstration of intellect 
in a creature In long clothes, who could not hold its head 

But as soon as the baby has acquired firmness and liveliness ; 
as soon as it smiles at a familiar face, and stares at a strange 
one; as soon as it employs its hands and eyes in constant ex- 
peditions of discovery, and crows, and leaps, from the excess 
of animal contentment, — it becomes an object of indefinable 
^ powerful interest, to whi»h all the sympathies of out u>s^ 


ture attach us, — an object at once of curiosity and tendeN 
ness, interesting as it is in its helplessness and innocence, 
doubly interesting from its prospects and destiny ; interesting 
to a philosopher, doubly interesting to a Christian. 

Who has not occasionally, when fondling an infant, felt 
oppressed by the weight of mystery which hangs over ito 
fate f • Perhaps we hold in our arms an angel, kept but for i 
few months from the heaven in which it is to spend the rest 
of an immortal existence ; perhaps we see the germ of all 
that is hideous and hateful in our nature. Thus looked 
and thus sported, thus calmly slumbered and sweetly smiled, 
the monsters of our race in their days of infancy. Where 
are the marks to distinguish a Nero from a Trajan, an Abd 
from a Cain ? But it is not in this spirit that it is eithff 
wise or happy to 'contemplate )any thing. Better is it — ^wheo 
we behold the energy and animation of young children, 
their warm affections, their ready, unsuspicious confidence, 
their wild, unwearied glee, their mirth so easily excited, their 
love so easily won — to enjoy, unrestrained, the pleasantnetf 
of life's morning ; that morning so bright and joyous, which 
seems to "justify the ways of God to men," and to'teach us 
that Nature intended us to be happy, and usually gains her i 
end till we are old enough to discover how we may defeat it 


The same, — concluded. 

Little girls are my favorites. Boys, though sufficiently in- 
teresting and amusing, are apt to be infected, jMf soon as thef 
assume the manly garb, with a little of that %asculine yif^ 
lence and obstinacy, which, when they grow up, they will cd 
spirit and firmness ; and they lose, earlier in life, that docilitji 
tenderness, and ignorance of evil, which are their sisters' pe- 
culiar charms. ^In all the range of visible creation, there ii 
no object to me so attractive and delightful, as a lovely, i«* 
telligent, gentle little girl of eight or nine years old. Thii 
is the point at which may be witnessed the greatest impfove- 




Aent of intellect compatible with that lily-like purity of 
nind, to which taint is incomprehensible, danger unsus- 
pected, and which wants not only the vocabulary^ but the 
TO'y idea of sin. 

Even the best and purest of women would shrink from 
displaying her heart to our gase, while lovely childhood al- 
k>ws us to read its very thought and fancy. Its sincerity, 
indeed, is occasionally very inconvenient ; and let that person 
be quite sure that he has nothing remarkably odd, ugly or 
disagreeable about his appearance, who ventures to ask a child 
what it thinks of him. Amidst the frowns and blushes of 
the family, amidst a thousand efforts to prevent or to drown 
the answer, truth, in all the horrors of nakedness, will gen- 
erally appear in the surprised assembly; and he who has 
hitherto thought, in spite of his mirror, that his eyes had 
merely a slight and not unpleasing cast, will now learn, for 
the first time, that " every body says he has a terrible squint.*' 
I cannot approve of the modem practice of dressing little 
girls in exact accordance with the prevailing fashion, with 
scrupulous imitation of their ciders. When I look at a child, 
I do not wish to feel doubtful whether it is not an unfor- 
tunate dwarf, who is standing before me, attired in a costume 
suited to its age. Extreme simplicity of attire, and a dress 
sacred to themselves only, are most fitted to these " fresh fe- 
male buds ;" and it vexes me to see them disguised in the 
fashions of the day, or practising the graces and courtesies 
of maturer life. Will there not be years enough, from thir- 
teen to seventy, ft>r ornamenting or disfiguring the person at 
the fiat of French milliners ; for checking laughter and forc- 
ing smiles; for reducing all varieties of intellect, all grada- 
tions of feeling, to one uniform tint ? Is there not already 
a sufficient spimeness in the aspect and tone of polished life ? 
Oh, leave children as they are, to relieve, by their " wild 
freshness," our elegant insipidity ; leave their '' hair loosely 
flowing, robes as free," to refresh the eyes that love sim- 
plicity ; and (eave their eagerness, their warmth, their unre- 
flecting sincerity, their unschooled expressions of joy or 
regret, to amuse and delight us, when we are a little tired 
by the politeness, the caution, the wisdom and the coldness 
>f the grown-up world. 


Children may teach us one blessed, one enviable art, — the 
art of being easily happy. Kind nature has given to them 
that useful power of accommodation to circumstances, which 
/compensatesyfor sp many external disadvantages ; and it is 
only by injudicious management that it is lost. Give him 
but a moderate portion of tclod and kindness, and the peas- 
ant's child is happier than the duke's ; free from artificiti . 
wants, unsatcd by indulgence, all nature ministers to his [ 
pleasures ; he can carve out felicity from a bit of hazel twig, j 
or fish for it successfully in a puddle. > . 

He must have been singularly unfortunate in childhood, or | 
singularly the reverse in afler-life, who does not look back upon \ 
its scenes, its sports ^and pleasures, with fond regret The . 
wisest and happiest of us may occasionally detect this feeling 
in our bosoms. There is something unreasonably dear to the !| 
man in the recollection of the follies^ the whims, the petty . 
cares and exaggerated delights of his childhood. Perhaps 
he is engaged in schemes of soaring ambition ; but he fancies, 
sometimes, that there was once a greater charm in flying a 
kite. Perhaps, afler many a hard lesson, he has acquired 
a power of discernment, and spirit of caution, which defies ^ 
deception ; but he now and then wishes hi the boyish eon- . - 
fidence, which venerated every old beggar, and wept at eveij 
tale of wo. 

He who feels thus, cannot contemplate, unmoved, the joys | 
and sports of childhood ; and he gazes, perhaps, on the care- 
free brow and rapture-beaming countenance, with the melan- 
choly and awe which the lovely victims of consumption in- 
spire, when, unconscious of danger, they talk cheerfiilly of the 
fiiture. He feels that, he is in possession of a mysterioas .- 
secret, of which happy children have no suspicion. He knows 
what the life is, on which they are about to enter ; and he is 
sure that, whether it smiles or frowns upon them, its iMightest j 
glances will Imb cold and dull, compared 'with those under } 
which they are now basking. 



ve : Mr, and Mrs. BoUngbroke. — Mias Edoeworth. 

JBoUngbroke, I wish I knew what was the matter 
e this morning. Why do you keep the newspaper all 
self, my dear? • 

BoUngbroJce, Here it is for you, my dear : I have 

B. I humbly thank you !br giving it to me when 
ve done with it — I hate stale news. Is there any 
d the paper t for I cannot be at the trouble of hunt- 

JB. Tes, my dear ; there are the marriages of two of 


B. Who? Who? 

B, Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin 

. B. Mrs. Nettleby ! Lord ! But why did you tell me ? 
B. Because you asked me, my dear. 
. B, Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read 
'agraph one's self. One loses all the pleasure of the 
e by being told. Well, whose was the other marriage? 
B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you ; I will leave 
2 pleasure of the surprise. 

. JB. But you see I cannot find it. How provoking 
B, my dear ! Do pray tell it me. 
B, Our friend, Mr. Granby. 

. B. Mr. Granby ! Dear ! Why did not you make 
ess? I should have guessed him directly. But why 
I call him our friend ? I am sure he is no friend of 
nor ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you may 
iber, the very first day t saw him. I am sure he is no 
of mine. 

B. I* am sorry for it, my dear ; but I hope you will go 
le Mrs. Granby. 
K B. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she ? 

B. Miss Cooke. 


Jfri. B. Cooke ! But there are so many Cookes — Can't ^ 
you distinguish her any way ? Has she no Christian namef ^ 

Mr. B. Emma, I think — Tea, Emma. 

Mn. B. Emma Cooke ! — ^No ; — it cannot be my frieid > 
Emma Cooke ; for I am sore she was cat out f^ an <4d nuid. ^ 

Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cotont for agood wife. 

Jfri. B. May be so-— I am sure I'll never go to see her. f 
Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of her? » 

Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I only ^ 
saw her two or three times before she was married. 

Mrs. B. Then, my dear, how could yon decide that she ^ 
was cut out for a good wife ? I am sure you could not judge ^ 
of her by seeing her only two or three times, and before she 
was married. 

Mr. B. Indeed, my lore, that is a very just obflerratioiL 

Mrs. B. I understand that compliment perfectly, and '^ 
thank you for it, my dear. I must own I can 4^ear any thmg 
better than irony. i. 

Mr. B. Irony ! my dear, I was perfectly in earnest 

Mrs. B. Yes, yes ; in earnest — bo I perceive — I mijf ' 
naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings are quick - 
enough ; I comprehend you too well. Yes — ^it is impossible - 
to judge of a woman before marriage, or to guess what sort 
of a wife she will make. I presume you speak firom expeci- 
ence ; you hare been disappointed yourself, and rep^it yov 

Mr. B. My dear, what did I say that was like this ? UpoB 
my word, I meant no such thing. I really was not thinkiflf 
of you in the least. 

Mrs. B. No— you never think of me now. I can eaail| 
believe that you were not thinking of me in the least. 

Mr. B. But I said that, only to prove to you that I goqU 
not be thinking ill of you, my dear. \ 

Mrs. B. But I would rather that you thought ill of nM» ^ 
than that you did not think of me at all. \ 

Mr. B. Well, my dear, I will even think ill of yoo, if ; 
that will please you. j 

Mrs. B. Do you laugh at me ? When it comes to this, I 'y 
am wretched indeed. Never man laughed at the woman he \^ 
loved. As long as you had the slightest remains of k>ve for 


me, 3roa could not make me an object of derision : ridicule 
and loFe are incompatible ; absolutely incompatible. Well, 
I have done my best, my very best, to make you happy, but 
in vain. I see I am not cut out to be a good wife. Happy, 
hi^py Mrs. Granby ! 

Mr. B, Happy, I hope sincerely, that she will be with 
my friend ; but my happiness must depend on you, my love ; 
10, for my sake, if not for your own, be composed, and do 
Bot torment yourself with such fancies. 

J^s, B. I do wonder whether this Mrs. Granby is really 
that Miss Emma Cooke. I'll go and see her directly; see 
ber I must 

1&. jB. I am heartily glad of it, my dear ; for I am sure 
I visit to his wife will give my friend Granby real pleasure. 

Mrs. B. I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give him 
ileasore or you either ; but to satisfy my own — curiosity. 

like Burning of Moscow. — ^Labaums. 

On the fifteenth of September, 1812, our corps left the 
iiiage where it had encamped, at an early hour, and marched 
o Moscow^; As we approached the city, we saw that it had 
M walls, and that a simple parapet of earth was the only 
rork, which cohstitoted the outer enclosure. Nothing indi- 
*Mfid that the town was inhabited ; and the road by which 
«e arrived was so deserted, that we saw neither Russian nor 
T'rench soldiers. No cry, no noise was heard in the midst 
»f this awful solitude. We pursued our march, a prey to the 
itmost anxiety ; and that anxiety was redoubled, when we 
lerceived a thick smoke, which arose, in the form of a col- 
imn, from the centre of the town. 

On the following morning, the most heart-rending scene, 
'hich my imagination had ever conceived, far surpassing the 
tddest story in ancient or modern history, presented itself 

my eyes. A great part of the population of Moscow, 
rrified at oar arrival, had concealed themselves in cellars or 


secret recesses of their houses. As the fire spread around, 
we saw them rushing in despair from their various/ asylums.) * 
They uttered no imprecation ; they breathed no complaint: ^ 
fear had rendered them dumb: and hastily snatching up ^ 
their most precious effects, they fled before the flames. i. 

Others, of greater sensibility, and actuated by the genuine . 
feelings of nature, saved only their parents, or their infants, i 
who were closely clasped in their arms. They were followed * 
by their other children, running as fast as their little strength ! 
would permit, and, with all the wildness of childish terror, t 
vociferating the beloved name of mother. The old people, : 
borne down by grief more than by age, had not sufficient i 
power to follow their families, and expired near the houses in ; 
which they were born. The streets, the public places, and ; 
particularly the churches, were filled with these unhappy i 
people, who, lying on the remains of their property, suffered ;; 
even without a murmur. No cry, no complaint was heard. » 
Both the conqueror and the conquered were equally harden- '. 
ed ; the one by excess of fortune, the other* by excess of : 
misery. I 

The fire, whose ravages could not be restrained, soon i 
reached the finest parts of the city. Those palaces, whicl) ; 
we had admired for the beauty of their architecture, and the j. 
elegance of their furniture, were enveloped in the flames, j- 
Their magnificent fronts, ornamented with bass-reliefs and [ 
statues, fell, with a dreadful crash, on the firagments of the pil- 
lars which had supported them. The churches, though covered 
with iron and lead, were likewise destroyed, and with them 
those beautiful steeples, which we had seen, the night before, 
resplendent with gold and silver. The hospitals, too, whici* ^ 
contained more than twelve thousand wounded, soon began _a 
to burn. This offered a dreadful and harrowing spectacle. ^ 
Almost all these poor wretches perished. A few, who still _ 
lingered, were seen crawling, half burnt, amongst the smoking y 
ruins; and others, groaning under heaps of dead bodiee, > 
endeavored, in vain, to extricate themselves from the horrible ^ 
destruction which surrounded them. ,^ 

How shall I describe the confusion and tumult, when pe^ .^ 
mission was granted to pillage this immense city I Soldiers 
sutlers and galley-slaves eagerly ran through the streets 





penetrating into the deserted palaces, and carrying away 
every*tliing which could gratify their avarice. Some covered 
themselves with stufis richly worked with gold and silks; 
some were enveloped in beautiful and costly furs ; and even 
the galley-slaves concealed their rags under the most splen- 
did habits of the ^urt The rest crowded into the cellars, 
and, IcKTcing open the doors, drank to excess the most luscious 
wines, and carried off an immense booty. 

This horrible pillage was not confined to the deserted 
houses alone, but extended to those which were inhabited ; 
ud soon the eagerness and wantonness of the plunderers 
caused devastations, which almost equalled those occasioned 
by the conflagration. Every asylum was violated by the 
licentious troops. They wbo had officers in their houses 
flattered themselves that they should escape the general ca- 
lamity. Vain illusion I The advancing fire soon destroyed all 
their hopes. 

Towards evening, when Napoleon no longer thought him- 
self safe in the city, the ruin of which seemed inevitable, he 
left the Kremlin, and established himself with his suite in 
the castle of Peterskoe. When I saw him pass by, I could 
not behold without abhorrence the chief of a barbarous ex- 
pedition, who evidently endeavored to escape the decided 
testimony of public indignation, by seeking the darkest road. 
He sought it, however, in vain. On every side, the flames 
seemed to pursue him ; and their horrible and mournful glare, 
flashing on his guilty head, reminded me of the torches c^ 
Eoroenides pursuing the destined victims of the Furies. 

The generals, likewise, received orders to quit Moscow. 
Licentiousness th^ became unbounded. The soldiers, no 
longer restrained by the presence of their chiefs, committed 
every kind of excess. No retreat was safe, no place 8uf> 
ficiently sacred to afford protection against their rapacity. 
Nothing more fully excited their avarice than the church of 
St Michael, the sepulchre of the Russian emperors. An 
erroneous tradition had propagated the belief that it contain- 
ed immense riches. Some grenadiers presently entered it, 
and descended with torches into the vast subterranean vaults, 
to disturb the peace and silence of the tombs. But instead 
of treasures, they found only stone coffins, covered widi pink 


velvet, and bearing thin silver {^ates, on which were em 
graved the names of the czars, and the dates of theit birtl 
and decease. 

With all the excesses of plunder, they mingled the meit 
degrading and horriUe debauchery. Neither nobility €f 
blood, nor the innocence of youth, nor t^ tears of beaa^ 
were respected. The licentiousness was cruel and boundleai; 
but it was inevitable in a savage war, in which sixteen difo : 
ent nations, c^^xiaite in their manners and their language^ 
thought themselves at liberty to conmiit every crime* 


I 7^ same, — concluded, 

PEBTETRATsn by SO many calamities, I hoped that tbe 
shades of night would cast a veil over the dreadfiil scenfr; 
but they contnbuted, on the contrary, to render the conflt' 
gration more terrible. The violence of the flames, whifik 
extended from north to south, and were strangely agitatedly 
the wind, produced the most awful appearance on a akf 
which was darkened by the thickest smoke. Frequently wtf 
seen the glare of the burning torches, which the incendiaritf 
were hurling, from the tops of the highest towers, <m tbotf 
parts of the city which had yet escaped destruction, vd 
which resembled, at a distance, so many passing meteors. 

Nothing could equal the anguish which absorbed evetf 
feeling heart, and which was increased, in the dead of ths 
night, by the cries of the miserable victims who were savags* 
ly murdered, or by the screams of the young females, whs 
fled for protection to their weeping mothers. To the* 
dreadful groans and heart-rending cries, which every mo* 
ment broke upon the ear, were added the bowlings of th0 
dogs, which, chained to the doors of the palaces, accord]^ i 
to the custom at Moscow, could not escape from • the fil^ ' 
which surrounded them. 

Overpowered with regret and with terror, I flattered mj* 
self that sleep would for a while release me firom tfaeii 


rerolting scenes ; but the most frightful reci^ections crowded 
spon me, and all the horrors, of the day again passed in re- 
Hew. My wearied senses seemed, at last, sinking into 
r^KMie, when the light of a near and dreadful conflagration, 
liercing into my room, suddenly awoke me. I thought that 
Dy chamber was § prey to the flames. It was no idle dream ; 
Of, when I approached the window, I saw that our quarters 
rere on fire, and that the house in which I lodged was in 
he utmost danger. Sparks were thickly falling in our yard 
nd on the wooden roofs of our stables. 

I ran quickly to my landlord and his family. Perceiving 
beir danger, they had already quitted their, habitation, and 
ad retired to a subterranean vault, which afforded them 
K)re security. I found them, with their servants, all assem- 
led there ; nor could I prevail on them to leave it, for they 
readed our soldiers more than the fire. The father was 
itting on the threshold of the vault, and appeared desirous 
f first exposing himself to the calamities which threatened 
is family. Two of his daughters, pale, with dishevelled 
air, and whose tears added to their beauty, disputed with 
im the honor of the sacrifice. It was not without violence 
lat I could snatch them from the building, under which they 
rould otherwise soon have been buried. When these un- 
lappy creatures again saw the light, theyc contemplated with 
adiflference the loss of all their property, and were only 
stonished that they were still alive. 

Desiroos of terminating the recital of this horrible catas- 
R^he, for which history wants expressions, and poetry has 
10 colors, I shall pass over in silence many circumstances 
wvdting to humanity, and merely describe the dreadful conr 
haioo, which arose in our army when the fire had reached 
0very part of Moscow, and the whole city was become one 
bimense flame. 

The different streets could no longer be distinguished, 
md the places, on which the houses had stood, were marked 
only by confused piles of stones, calcined and black. The 
^d, blowing with violence, howled mournfully, and over- 
whelmed us with ashes, with burning fragments, and even 
*ith the iron plates which covered the palace. On whatever 
iMie we turned, we saw only ruins and flames. The ^t^ 


nged as if it were fanned by some invisible power. Th» U 
most extensive ranges of buildings seemed to kindle, to boni, hi 
and to disi^ppear in an instant. - to 

As we agaii/traversed,>the streets of Moscow, we ezperi- m 
enced the most heart-rending sensations, at perceiving thit n 
no vestige remained of those noble hotels, at which we hiA k 
formerly been established. They were entirely demolished, » 
and[ their ruins, still smoking, exhaled a vapor which, filliojp i 
the whole atmosphere, and forming the densest clouds, either je 
totally obscured the sun, or gave to his disk a red and bloody t 
appearance. The outline of the streets was no longer to be » 
distinguished. The stone palaces were the only buil&ing» ■ 
which preserved any traces of their former magnificence* ^ 
Standing alone amidst piles of ruins, and blackened with . 
smoke, these wrecks of a city, so newly built, resembled . 
some of the venerable remains of antiquity. 

Each one endeavored to find quarters for himself; bat 
rarely could we meet with houses which joined together; 
and, to shelter a few companies, we were obliged to occupy a 
vast tract of land, which only offered a few habitations, scat- ^ 
tered here and there. Some of the churches, composed of j 
less combustible materials than the other buildings, had their \ 
roofs entire, and were transformed into barracks and stables. ^ 
The hymns and holy melodies, which had once resounded | 
vvithin these sacred walls, now gave place to the neighing of 
horses, and the horrible blasphemies dT the sddiers. 

Although the population of Moscow had almost diBappea^ 
ed, there still remained some of those unfortunate beingif 
whom misery had accustomed to look on all occurrences with 
indifference. Most of them had become the menial servantt 
<^ their spoilers, and thought themselves most happy if thef 
were permitted to share any loathsome food which the acAdkn 

Many of the Moscovites, who had been concealed in the 
neighboring forests, perceiving that the conflagration had 
ceased, and believing that they had nothing more to fear» 
had reentered the city. Some of them sought in ?ftin for. 
their houses, the very sites of which could scarcely be discovr 
er«;d ; others would fain have taken refuge in the sanctuai|: 
of their God ; but it had been profiuted. The public walks 




eoted a rerolting spectacle. The gtovnd was 
■red with dead bodies ; and fipom many of the halMwM 
B were suspended the carcasses of incendiaries* 
I the midst of these horrors were seen many ofthemi- 
umfee inhabiCanto, who, destitote of eyerfvasylmn^weM 
^etiaag the charred planks, to constmct a cabbi in smne 
equented place, or ravaged garden. Having: nothing' to 
they eagcdy dug the earth, to find the roots of those veg- 
ies which the soldiers had gathered ; ot, wandering among 
rains, they diligently searched among the cinders Hk any 
which the fire had not entirely conswned. Pale^ emi^ 
id, and almost naked, the very slowness of their walk 
Hncad the excess of their sufferings. 

Vuw of Mmt Blanc ai Smuet. — GFttiscoM. 

^B arrived, before sundown, at the village of St. Martin, 
re we were to stay for the night. The evening being< 
irkably fine, we crossed the Arv6 on a beautifiil- bridge^ 
walked over to Salenche, a very connderable village, qp» 
e to St. Martin, and ascended a hill to view the effect of 
lun's declining light upon Mont Blanc. The scene was* 
' grand. The broad range of the mountain was fully 
re OS, of a pure and almost glowing white*, apparently ia 
ery base ; and which, contrasted with the brown tints of 
adjoining mountains, greatly heightened the novelty of 
scene. We could scarcely avoid the conclusion, that this 
pile of snow was very near us ; and yet its base was not 
dian fifteen, and its summit, probably, more than twenty 
3 firom the place where we stood. 

he varying rays of light, produced by reflecticm firom the 
\ passing, as the sun's rays declined, fiK)m a brilliant 
9 through purple and pink, and ending in the gentle 
, which the snow gives after the sun has set, affi>rded an 
Mtion in optics upon a scale of grandeur, which no other 


region in the world could probably excel. Never, in my life, 
have my feelings been so powerfidly affected by mere scenery 
as they were in this day's excursion. The excitement, though 
attended by sensations awfully impressive, is, nevertheless, so 
finely attempered by the glow of novelty, incessantly mingled 
with astonishment and admiration, as to produce, on the 
whole, a feast of delight. 

. A few years ago, I stood upon Table Rock, and j^aced my 
cane in the descending flood of Niagara. Its tremendous 
roar almost entirely precluded conversation with the friend at 
my side ; while its whirlwind of mist and foam filled the air 
to a great distance around me. The rainbow sported in its 
bosom ; the gulf below exhibited the wild fury <^ an im- 
mense boiling caldron ; while the 'rapids above, for the space 
of nearly a mile, appeared like a mountain of billows, chafing 
and dashing against each other with thundering impetuosity, 
in their eager strife to gain the precipice, and take the awful 

In contemplating; this scene, my imagination and my heart 
were filled with sublime and tender emotions. ^ The soul 
seemed to be brought a step nearer to tibe presence of that 
incomprehensible Being, whose spirit dwelt in every feature 
of the cataract, and directed all its amazing energies. Yet, 
in the scenery of this day, there was more oi a pervading 
sense of awfiil and unlimited grandeur ; mountain piled upon 
mountain, in endless continuity, throughout the whole extent, 
and crowned by the brightest effulgence of an evening sun, 
upon the everlasting snows of the highest pinnacle of Europe. 

To the 8i€ws, — Croly 

Ye stars, bright legions, that, before all time. 
Camped on yon plains of sapphire, — what shaU- tell 

Your burning myriads, but the eye of Him 
Who bade through heaven your golden chariota wheel f 


/ Yet who, earthborn, can see your hosts, nor feel 
Immortal impolses — ^Eternity? \ 

What wonder if the overwrought soul should reel 
With its own weight of thought, and the wild eye 
See fate within your tracks of sleepless glory lie f 

For ye behold the Mightiest. — From that steep, 

What ages haTe ye worshipped round your King t 
Te heard hb trumpet sounding o'er the sleep 

Of ^sarth ; ye heard the morning angels sing. 

Upon that orb, now o'er me quivering, 
The gaze of Adam fixed firom Paradise; 

The wanderers of the deluge saw it spring 
Above the mountain surge, and hailed its rise. 
Lighting their lonely track with Hope's celestial dyea. 

On Calvary shot down that purple eye, 
When, but the soldier and the sacrifice. 

All were departed — Mount of Agony ! 
But Time's broad pinion, ere the giant dies. 
Shall cloud your dome : — ^ye fruitage of the skies. 

Your vineyard shall be shaken. From your urn. 
Censers of heaven, no more shall glory rise. 

Your incense to the throne. The heavens shall bum 1 
For all your pomps are dust, and shall to dust return ' 


Sabbath Morning, 

How still the morning of the hallowed day ! 
Uute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. 
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers. 
That yester-mom bloomed, waving in the breeze. 
Sounds, the most faint, attract the ear, — ^the bum 
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew. 


The ^^Kstant' Meating, midway op the hill. 
Calmnesfl sits throned on yon immonng ekmd. 
To htm who wanders o'er the upland leas. 
The Moelibfrd's note comes raettower firom the dale ; 
And sweeter ftom the i^ the gladsome lark 
Warbles with heaven-tuned song ; the kitting brook 
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; 
While,* from ypni lowly roof, whose curling sbk^ 
O'ermounts tiK mist^ is heard, at intervals^ 
The voioe* ef pjafcns^— 4he sim;^ song of praise. 

With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods: 
The dizzyiag mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din 
Hath ceastfi ; Idt, idl around is quietness, 
Less4earM, on this ^ay, the limpingvluure 
Stops, and looks back, and stops,, and looks on man^ 
Her deadliest foe^ The toil-worn hovse, set- free, 
Unheedful of. the: pasture, roams-' at large ; 
And as his stiff, unwieldy: bulk he ^n^. 
His iron-iannedihQo& gleam in the morning say. 

Butoye^-man the day of rest enjoys. 
Hail, SahiMitb ! thee I ha^l, thep^wr man'a day. 
On^odier days, >tlie>man of tml is doomed 
To eat^hia j^fless' bread lonely, — the .groiuid 
Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold 
And summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree ; 
But on this day, embosomed in his home. 
He shares the frugal .meal with those he loves ; 
With those he loves, he shares the heart-felt joy 
Of giving thankdio God, — ^not thanks of form^ 
A word and a grimace ; but reverently. 
With covered feoe, .and upward, earnest eye. 

HiU,>Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day : 
The pale mechanic, now has leave to breathe 
The mormng air, pure from the city's smoke ; 
While,' wandmng' slowly up the river's. side, 
He meditates* on Hkn,* whose power he marks. 
In each green tiree*lhat proudly spreads the bongb^ 


As in the/tiny\dew-bent flowers that bloom 
Aroond its roots; and while he thus surreys. 
With elevated joy, each rural charm, 
He hopes, — yet fears presumption in the hope,«- 
That hearen may be one Sabbath without end. 

LESSON cxm. 

The Evemng Ckmd: a Sotmei. — WiLioir. 

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting 

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 traveller 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 gates of heaven ; 
Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies. 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 

Twilight, — Hope, — Hallsck. 

There is an evening twilight of the heart. 
When its vrild passion waves are lulled to rest. 

And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart. 
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west 


'Tib with a nameless feeling of regret 
We gaze upon them as they melt away. 

And fondly would we bid them linger yet ; 
But Hope 18 roond us, with her ang^ lay. 

Hailing afar some hairier moonlight hour ; 

Dear are her whiq[>er8 stiU, though lost their early pow 

In youth, the cheek was crimsoned with her glow ; 

Her smile was loveliest then ; her roaiin song 
Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo 

Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. 
Life's little world of Miss was newly bom ; 

We knew not, cared not, it was bcHU to die. 
Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn. 

With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its Mue, 
Like our own sorrows then — as fleeting and as few. 

And manhood felt her sway, too ; on the eye, 

Hitff realized, her early dreams burst bright ; 
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, — - 

Its days of joy, ks vigils of delight^ 
Aikd though, at times, might lower the thunderHstorm, 

And the red lightnings threaten, still the air 
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form. 

The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 
Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen. 
Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer gi 

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress. 

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now 
That angel'smile of tranquil loveliness, 

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow — 
That smile shall brighten the dim evening star, 

That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart 
Till the faint light of life is fled afar. 

And hushed the last deep beating of the heart, — 
The meteor-bearer of our parting l»reath, 
A moon-beam in the midnight ck>ud of death. 


PerpehuU iidbrolMii.— Moobb. 

Thb turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; 
:My temple, Lord, that arch of thine ; 
My censer's breath th^ mountain airs, 
<And silent thoughts my only prayers. 

My ehmr shall be the moonlight waves. 
When murmoring homeward to their caves; 
Or, when the stillness of the sea, 
Eifon more than music, breathes of thee. 

ril seek, by day, some glade unknown. 
All light a^ silence, like thy throne ; 
And the pale stars shall be, at night. 
The only eyes that watch my rite. 

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, 
Shall be my pure and shining book. 
Where I sh(dl read, in words of flame. 
The glories of thy wondrous name. 

ril read thy anger in the rack, 

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ; 

Thy mercy, in the azure hue 

Of sunny brightness, breaking through. 

There's nothing bright, above, below. 
From flowers that bloom, to stars that glow. 
But in its light my soul can see 
Some feature of thy Deity ! 

There's nothing dark, below, above, 
But in its gloom I trace thy love ; 
And meekly wait that moment, when 
Thy touch shall turn all bright again. 



Music of Nature. — ^Pierport. 

In what rich harmony, what polished lays. 
Should man address thy throne, when Nature pays 
Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky ! 
Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why. 
The fountain's gush, the long-resounding shore, 
The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar^ 
The rustling leaf, in autumn's fading woods, • 
The w^intry storm, the rush of vernal floods, 
The summer bower, by cooling breezes fanned. 
The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spanned. 
The streamlet, gurgling through its rocky glen. 
The long grass, sighing o'er the graves of men, 
The bird that crests yon dew-bespangled tree, 
Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his descant free, 
The scorching bolt, that, from thine armory hurled. 
Burns its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world ; 
All these are music to Religion's ear : — 
Music, thy hand awakes, for man to hear. 


CompcaHson of WatcJies^, — Miss Edgeworth. 

When Griselda thought that her husband had long enough 
enjoyed his new e^dstence, and that there was danger of hii 
forgetting the taste of sorrow, she changed her tone. — One 
day, when he had not returned home exactly at the appointed 
minute, she received him with a frown ; such as would have 
made even Mars himself recoil, if Mars could have beheld 
such a frown upon the brow of his Venus. 

" Dinner has been kept waiting for you this hour, my dear." 
'* I ami very sorry for it ; but why did you wait, my deart 
I am really yery sorry I am so late, but" (looking at his walich^ 
' ' »> is only half past six by me " J 


; is seyen by me." 

ey presented their watches to each other ; he in an 
retical, she in a r^roachful, attitude, 
rather think you are too fast, my dear/' said the gen- 
Q. - 

am very sure you are too slow, my dear/' said the lady, 
[y watch never loses a minute in the fi>ur-and«lwenty 
/' said he. 

[or mine a second/' said she. 

hav9 reason to believe I am right, my love/' said the 
nd, mildly. 

.eason !" exclaimed the wife, astonished. '* What rea- 
in you possibly have to believe you are right, when I 
m I am morally certain you are wrong; my love." 
[y only reason for doubting it is, that I set my watch 
i sun to-day." 

'he sun must be wrong then," cried the lady, hastily^ — 
. need not laugh ; for I know what I am saying ; the 
ion, the declination, must be allowed for, in computing 
h the clock. Now you know perfectly well what I 
, though you will not explain it for me, because you are 
ious I am in the right." 

iTeU, my dear, if you are conscious of it, that is suP* 
We will not dispute any more about such a trifle, 
ley bringing up dinner ?" 

* tiiey know that you are come in ; but I am sure I ean- 
Q whether they do or not — ^Pray, my dear Mrs. Nettle- 
:ried the lady, turning to a female friend, and still 
g her watch in hand, "what o'clock is it by yout 
I is nobody in the world hates disputing about trifles so 
as I do ; but I own I do love to convince people that I 
the right." 

I. Nettleby's watch had st(^^)ed. How provoking I Vex 
having no immediate means of convincing pec^le that 
as in the right, our heroine consoled herself by pro- 
ig to criminate her husband, not in this particular 
ce, where he pleaded guilty, but upon the genial 
3 of being always late for dinner, which he strenuoudy 
sre is something in the species of rej^roaeh^ which 


lils are coiriinually present ; she is OTerwnelmed 
_ht, and ia perpetually bcHpeaking your pity for 
p, and your praise for her eiurliona; iho is afraid 
how much she ia' harassed. She is not sat- 
jat the machine mofes harmoniously, nnlesa she is 
^posing every secret spring to observation. Lit- 
lal operations engross her whole sonl; 
nse, having provided for their probable 
ifpiaids against the inconvenienceH, without being 
by the casual obstructions, which they offer to 
,4cheme. Subordinate expenses, and inconsider- 
jnla, should not swallow up that attention, 
bestowed on regulating the general scale of 
iting and reducing an gvergrown establistv- 
'ming radical and growing excesses. 


^ Ittfiuaue.-r-M.R9. Sigournbt. 

as great power in the establishmeDt 
b, which ultimately stamp the character for 
Under itB jurisdiction, the Protean forms of 
A detected and eradicated. It ia insepara- 
dUbeing of woman, that she be disinterested, 
ntynuth and beaoty, she may inhale incense 
e nrUI come for nectar and ambrosia 
mortals. Then the essence of her 
e found (a consist in imparting it. 
I iotrencli herself in solitary indif*erence, her 
i over her, from sources where it is 
Tincing her that tbe true excellence of her 
tr rather than to monopolize felicity. When 
Klhat her prescribed sphere mingles, with its 
CBS, season.i of de^ endurance, anxieties which 
'. can participate, and sorrows for which earth 
y, we would samettly incite those, who gi\d b&x 


■ I 
advances thus triumpliantly from particulars to gemxtkf i ' 

peculiarly offensive to every reasonable and susceptible minid; fie 

and there is something in the general charge of being alwtjfi 

late for dinner, which the punctuality of man's nature caniMt 

easily endure, especially if he be hungry. We should faim" 

bly advise our female friends to forbear exposing a husbaad*! 

patience to this trial, or, at least, to temper it with nraeh 

fondness, else mischief will infallibly ensue. 

LESSON cxvni. fe 

Female Economy. — ^Hannah More. ^ ^ 

Ladies, whose natural vanity has been aggravated by i , 
false education, may look down on economy as a vulgar at- 
tainment, unworthy of the attention of a highly cultivated 
intellect ; but this is the false estimate of a shallow mind. 
Economy, such as a woman of fortune is called on to prac- 
tise, is not merely the petty detail of small daily expenses, \ 
the shabby curtailments and stinted parsimony of a little 
mind, operating on little concerns ; but it is the exercise of 
a sound judgment, exerted in the comprehensive outline of 
order, of arrangement, of distribution, of regulations, by 
which, alone, well governed societies, great and small, sabsiBt 
She, who has the best regulated mind, will, other t|)iiigB 
being equal, have the best regulated family. 

As, in the superintendence of the universe, wisdom is seen 
in its effects ; and as, in the visible works of Providence, 
that, which goes on with such beautiful regularity, is the 
result, not of chance, but of design ; so that management, 
which seems the most easy, is commonly the consequence of 
the best concerted plan ; and a well concerted plan is seldom 
the offspring of an ordinary mind. A sound econcMoay is a 
sound understanding brought into action; it is calcuiatian 
realized ; it is the doctrine of proportion reduced to practice; 
it is foreseeing consequences, and guarding against them; 
it is expecting contingencies, and being prepared for them. 

The difference is, that, to a narrow-minded, vulgar eoono* 


le details are continually present ; she is oTerwnelnied 
r weighty and is perpetually bespeaking your pity for 
>r8, and your praise for her exertions ; she is afraid 
I not see how much she it( harassed.; She is not sat- 
that the machine moves harmoniously, unless she is 
ally exposing every secret spring to obsenration. Lit- 
nts and trivial operations engross her whole soul; 
woman of sense, having provided for their probable 
nee, guards against the inconveniences, without being 
«rted by the casual obstructions, which they offer to 
leral scheme. Subordinate expenses, and inconsider- 
itrenchments, should not swallow up that attention, 
is better bestowed on regulating the general scale of 
Q, correcting and reducing an overgrown establish- 
md reforming radical and growing excesses. 


Matemailnfiuence.-T^MRn, Sigourney. 

EBTic education has great power in the establishment 
se habits, which ultimately stamp the character for 
•r evil. Under its jurisdiction, the Protean forms of 
less are best detected and eradicated. It is insepara- 
m the well-being of woman, that she be disinterested, 
height of youth and beauty, she may inhale incense 
Mldess ; but a time will come for nectar and ambrosia 
1 to the food of mortals. Then the essence of her 
ess, will be found to consist in imparting it. 
[id seek to intrench herself in solitary indifference, her 
dependence comes over her, from sources where it is 
xpected, convincing her that the true excellence of her 
, is to confer rather than to monopolize felicity. When 
collect that her prescribed sphere mingles, with its 
brightness, seasons of deep endurance, anxieties which 
sr heart can participate, and sorrows for which earth 
remedy, we would earnestly incite those, who gird her 


advances thus triumpliantly from particulars to generak, 
peculiarly offensive to every reasonable and susceptible mind ; 
and there is something in the general charge of being alw^rs 
late for dinner, which the punctuality of man's nature casnot 
easily endure, especially if he be hungry. We should faim* 
bly advise our female friends to forbear exposing a husbaed's 
patience to this trial, or, at least, to temper it with mueh 
fondness, else mischief will infallibly ensue. 

LESSON cxvni. 

Female Economy. — ^Hannah More. 

Ladies, whose natural vanity has been aggravated by t 
false education, may look down on economy as a vulgar at- 
tainment, unworthy of the attention of a highly cultivated 
intellect ; but this is the false estimate of a shallow mind. 
Economy, such as a woman of fortune is called on to prac- 
tise, is not merely the petty detail of small daily expenses, 
the shabby curtailments and stinted parsimony of a little 
mind, operating on little concerns ; but it is the exercise of 
a sound judgment, exerted in the comprehensive outline of 
order, of arrangement, of distribution, of regulations, by 
which, alone, well governed societies, great and small, subsist. 
She, who has the best regulated mind, will, other tbiogs 
being equal, have the best regulated family. 

As, in the superintendence of the universe, wisdom is seen 
in its effects ; and as, in the visible works of Providence, 
that, which goes on with such beautiful regularity, is the 
result, not of chance, but of design ; so that management, 
which seems the most easy, is commonly the consequence of 
the best concerted plan ; and a well concerted plan is seldom 
the offspring of an ordinary mind. A sound economy is a 
sound understanding brought into action; it is calculation 
realized ; it is the doctrine of proportion reduced to practice; 
it is foreseeing consequences, and guarding against them; 
it 18 expecting contingencies, and being prepared for them. 
The difference is, that, to a Tk^xrov-mmded^ vulgar eoono* 


auty the details are continually present ; she is OTerwnelmed 
by their weight, and is perpetually bespeaking your pity for 
kmr labors, and your praise for her exertions ; she is afraid 
fM will not see how much she iai harassed. She is not sat- 
isfied, that the machine moves harmoniously, unless she is 
IMHrpetually exposing every secret spring to observation. Lit- 
4f. events and trivial operations engross her whole soul; 
while a woman of sense, having provided for their probable 
recurrence, guards against the inconveniences, without bemg 
disconcerted by the casual obstructions, which they offer to 
her general scheme. Subordinate expenses, and inconsider« 
able retrenchments, should not swallow up that attention, 
which is better bestowed on regulating the general scale of 
expense, correcting and reducing an overgrown establish- 
ment,- «nd reforming radical and growing excesses. 

Maternal Infiucnce,-:— Mrs, Sigournet. 

Domestic education has great power in the establishment 
of those habits, which ultimately stamp the character for 
good or evil. Under its jurisdiction, the Protean forms of 
sdfishness are best detected and eradicated. It is insepara- 
ble from the well-being of woman, that she be disinterested. 
In the height of youth and beauty, she may inhale incense 
as a goddess ; but a time will come for nectar and ambrosia 
to yield to the food of mortals. Then the essence of her 
happiness, will be found to consist in imparting it. 

If. shd seek to intrench herself in solitary indifference, her 
native dq[>endence comes over her, from sources where it is 
least expected, convincing her that the true excellence of her 
nature, is to confer rather than to monopolize felicity. When 
we recollect that her prescribed sphere mingles, with its 
purest brightness, seasons of deep endurance, anxieties which 
no other heart can participate, and sorrows for which earth 
has no remedy, we would earnestly incite thoae,Nv\v<cv^\\dVk&\ 


apple-pies, or saucers foil of preserved peaches and p( 
'bat h was always sure to boast an enormoas dish of bal 
sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and called doughn 
— a delicioos kind of cake, at present scarce known in 
city, excepting in genuine Dutch families. 

The tea was senred out of a majestic delft teapot, c 
mented with paintings of fat little Dutch diepherds 
shepherdesses tending pigs — ^with boats sailing in the air, 
houses built in the clouds, and sundry other ingenious D 
fantasies. The beaux distinguished themselves by i 
adroitness in replenishing this pot, from a huge copper 
kettle, which would have made the pigmy/macaronie 
these degenerate days sweat merely to look at it. 
sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid beside < 
cup ; and the company alternately nibbled and sipped ' 
great decorum, until an improvement was introduced I 
shrewd and economic old lady, — ^which was, to suspen 
large lump directly over the tea-table, by a string from 
ceiling, so that it could be swung from mouth to mouth. 

At these primitive tea-parties, the utmost propriety 
dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor coquett 
no gambling of old ladies, nor hoyden chattering and rom] 
of young ones — no self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gei 
men, with their brains in their pockets, nor amusing cone 
ai)d monkey divertiscments, of smart, young gentlemen, y 
no brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies ses 
themselves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, and 1 
their own woollen stockings ; nor ever opened their lips, 
cepting to say, "Yes, sir," or " Yes, madam," to any ques 
that was asked them ; behaving, in all things, like det 
well educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of tl 
tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contem 
tion of the blue and white tiles, with which the fire-pli 
were decorated. 

The parties broke up without noise and without conius 
They were carried home by their own carriages, that u 
say, by the vehicles nature had provided them, excepi 
such of the wealthy as could afibrd to keep a wagon. ^ 
gentlemen gallantly attended their fair ones to their res] 
live abodes, and took leave of them at the door. 


The Recluse, — Beattie. 

The gusts of appetite, the clouds of care, 

And storms of disappointment all o'erpast. 
Henceforth no earthly hope with heaven shall share 

This heart, where peace serenely shines at last. 

And if for me no treasure be amassed, 
And if no future age shall hear my name, 

I lurk the more secure, from Fortune's blast, 
And with more leisure feed this pious flame. 
Whose rapture far transcends the fairest hopes of fame. 

The end and the reward of toil is rest. 

Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace. 
Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possessed, 
. Who ever felt his weight of wo decrease 1 
Ah ! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece, 
The lay, heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, 

The dust of O^hir, or the Tyrian fleece. 
All that art, fortune, enterprise, can bring, 
If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride, the bosom wring? 

Let vanity adorn the marble tomb* 

With trophies, rhymes and scutcheons of renown, 
Li the deep dungeon of some Grothic dome. 

Where night and desolation ever firown ; 

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the dpwn^ 
Where a green, grassy turf is all I crave. 

With here and there a violet bestrown. 
Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave ; 
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grav<e. 

And thither let the village swain repair. 
And, light of heart, the village maiden gay. 

To deck with flowers her half-dishevelled hair. 
And celebrate the merry morn of May. 


There let the shepherd's pipe, th^lire-JongMaj 
Fill all the grove with lore's bewitehing wo ; 

And when mild evening comes in mantle gray. 
Let not the blooming band make baste to go ; 
No ghost nor spell mj long and last abode shall know. 

For though I fl j to eec^ie from Fortone's rage. 
And bear the scars of envy, spite and soom, 

Tet with mankind no horrid war I wage, 

Tet with no impious sjdeen m j breast is torn : 
For virtue lost, and ruined man, I momni. 

O man, creation's pride, Heaven's darling chiki. 
Whom Nature's best, divinest gifts adorn. 

Why from thy Borne are truth and joy exiled. 
And all thy favorite haunts with blood and tears defiled? 

Along yon glittering sky what glory streams ! 

What majesty attends night's lovely queen I 
Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams; 

And mountains rise, and oceans roll between. 

And all ccm^ire to beautify the scene. 
But, in the mental world, what chaos drear I 

What forms of mournful, loathsome, frnious imen ! 
Oh ! when shall that eternal mom af^ar. 
These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to deart 

O thou, at whose creative smile, yon heaven, 
In all the pomp of beauty, life and light. 

Rose from the abyss ; when dwk Gonfaskm, driwwi 
Down, down the bottomless profound of night. 
Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing sight I 

Oh ! glance on these sad shades one pitying ray 
To blast the fiury of oppressive might, — 

Melt the ihard heart to love and mercy's sway. 
And cheer the wandering soul, and light him gn the way. 


TartweU to the Dead.-^MRB. Hsmari 

Come near ! — ere yet the dust 
Soil the blight paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your brother, and embrace him now, 

In still and solemn trust : 
Come near !-M>nce more let kindred lips be pressed 
On his cold cheek ; then bear him to his rest. 

Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, even where most it shone, 

Gladdening its hearth and race ? 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impressed-^ 
Come near 1 and bear the beautiful to rest. 

Ye weep, and it is well ; 
For tears befit earth's partings. — ^Yesterday 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay. 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er he moved — the welcome and the blessed—* 
Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest. 

Look yet on him, whose eye 
Meets yours no more in sadness or in mirth I 
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth. 

The beings born to die ? 
But not where death has power may love be blesBed*— 
Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest. 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again ? 
The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain, 

The lovely must depart ! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best? — 
Come near! and bear the early-called to rest 


Look on him ! is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase t 
Too still and sad the smile upon his face ; 

Yet that, even that, must fade 1 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest- 
Come near 1 and bear the mental to his 

His voice of mirth hath ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives your vain embrsee. 

At the gay bridal feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast-— 
Come near ! weep o'er him I bear him to his 

Tet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirit's light is quenched 1 — for him the past 
Is sealed. He may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away 1 
All is not here of our beloved and blessedr— 
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest. 

LESSON cxxra. 

Baneful Effects of Intemperance upon DomesHe 

C. Sprague. 

■ ,'■*'■■ \ r > 

' Tre common calamities of life may be endmed. Fovertf, 
sickness, and even death, may be met; but there is thift 
which, while it brings all these with it, is wmwB llisn aO 
these together. When the husband and father forgets ths 
duties he once delighted to fulfil, and, by slow degrees, be- 
comes the creature of intemperance, there enters into Ui 
house the sorrow that rends the spirit, that cannot be aiktri- 
ated, that will not be comforted. 

It is here, above all, where she, who has ventured every 
thing, feels that every thing is lost. Woman, silent-soflbriagi 
devoted woman, here bends to her direst afflicticMi. The 
measure of her wo is, in truth, full, whose hasbaad is ft 


linuikard. Who shall protect her, when he is her insulter, 
tl^ op^essor? What shall delight her, when she shrinks 
i'om the sight of his face, and trembles at the sound of his 
^Qice ? The hearth is indeed dark, that he has made deso- 
ate. TJbere, through the dull midnight hour, her griefs are 
irhispered to herself; her bruised heart bleeds in secret 
nbere, whila the cruel author of her distress is drowned in 
istant re¥elry, she holds her solitary vigil, waiting, yet 
reading his return, that will only wring from her, by his 
nkindness, tears even more scalding than those she sheds 
Fer hip transgression. 

To fling a deeper gloom across the present, memory turns 
ack, and broods upon the past. Like the recollection to 
le sun-stricken pilgrim, of the cool spring that he drank at 
I the morning, the joys of other days come over her, as if 
aly to oaock her parched and weary spirit. She recalls the 
rdent lover, whose graces won her from the home of her 
ifancy ; the enraptured father, who bent with such delight 
^es his new-born children ; and she asks if this can really 
e A«; this sunken being, who has now nothing for her but 
[le sot's disgusting brutality — nothing for those abashed and 
rembling children, but the opt's disgusting example ! 

Can we wonder, that, amid these agonizing moments, the 
ender cords of violated affection should snap asunder? that 
he scorned and deserted wife should confess, '' there is no 
dling like that which kills the heart ?y that, though it would 
lave been hard for her to kiss, for the last time, the cold lips 
if her dead husband, and lay his body forever in the dust, it 
I harder to behold him so debasing life, that even his 
ABth would be greeted in mercy 1 Had he died in the 
fte ^ hia goodness, bequeathing to his family the inherit- 
nee of an untarnished name, the example of virtues that 
lioold blossom for his sons and daughters from the tomb— 
iQUgh she would have wept bitterly indeed, the tears of 
rirf would not have been also the tears of shame. But to 
shold him fallen away from the station he once adorned^ 
^graded from eminence to ignominy — at home, turning his 
celling to darkness, and its holy endearments to mockery — 
»ro^, thrust from the companionship of the worthy, a self* 


branded outlaw — ^this is the wo that the wife feels is more 
dreadful than death,— ^that she mourns over as w<ffBe thao 
widowhood. J 

There is jet another picture behind, from the exhibition 
of which I would willingly be spared. I have ventured tc 
point to those, who daily force themselves before the w<N:ld 
but there is one whom the world does not know of— wb( 
hides herself from prying eyes, even in the innermost sanctn 
ary of the domestic temple. Shall I dare to rend the vei 
that hangs between, and draw her forth? — ^the priestea 
dying amid her unholy rites — the sacrificer and the sacrifice' 

We ^compassjsea and land, we brave danger and death, t< 
snatch the poor victim of heathen superstition fixMn tlu 
burning pile — and it is well ; . but shall we not also save th( 
lovely ones of our own household, from imnK^ating on tkii 
foul altar, not alone the perishing body, but all the worshippec 
graces of her sex — the glorious attributes of hallowed wo 

Imagination's gloomiest reverie never conceived of a more 
revolting object, than that of a wife and mother defiling, in 
her own person, the fairest work of her God, and setting at 
nought the holy engagements for which he created her. Hei 
husband — who shall heighten his joys, and dissipate hifl 
cares, and alleviate his sorrows t She, who has robbed him 
of all joy, who is the source of his deepest care, who lives 
his sharpest sorrow? These are, indeed, the wife's delights; 
but they are not hers. Her children — ^who shall watch over 
their budding virtues, and pluck up the young weeds of pas- 
sion and vice ? She, in whose own bosom every thing bean^ 
tiful has withered, every thing vile grows rankt ,■ Who shall 
teach them to bend their little knees in devotion, and repeat 
their Savior's prayer against " temptation V , She, who is 
herself temptation's fettered slave? These are teuly the 
mother's labors ; but they are not hers. Connubial k>ve and 
maternal tenderness bloom no longer for her. A worm has 
gnawed into her heart, that dies only with its |H:ey— the 
worm intemperance. 


Night,— a Field of Bo^ie.— Shelley. 

How beautiful this night ! The balmiest sigh^ 
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in Evening's ear, 
Were discord to the speaking quietude, 
That wri^ this moveless .scene. Heaven's ebon vault, 
Studded with stars unutterably bright, 
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls. 
Seems like a canopy, which love had spread 
To curtain the sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, 
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 
Ton darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, 
' So stainless, that their white and glittering spires 
Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castled steep, 
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower 
So idly, that rapt Fancy deemeth it 
A metaphor of peace ; — all form a scene. 
Where musing Solitude might love to lift 
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; 
Where Silence, undisturbed, might watch alone. 
So cold, so bright, so still I 

The orb oi day. 
In southern climes, o'er ocean's waveless field. 
Sinks sweetly smiling : not the faintest breath 
Stef^a o'er the unruffled deep ; the clouds of eve 
Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day ; 
And Vesper's image oa the western main 
Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes : 
Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, 
Roll o'er the blackened waters ; the deep roar 
Of distant thunder mutters awfully ; 
Tempest unfolds its pinions o'er the gloom 
That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend, 
With all his winds and lightnings, tracks his prey ; 
The torn deep yawns — ^the vessel finds a grave 
Beneath its jagged gulf 


Ah ! whence yon glare 
That (ires the arch of heaven ? — that dark red smoke 
Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are qoenched 
In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow 
Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round ! 
Hark to that roar, whose swift an^dCafenin^peals, 
In countless echoes, through the mountains ring, 
Startling pale Midnight on her starry throne! 
Now swells the intermingling din ; the jar. 
Frequent and frightful, of the bursting bomb ; 
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shoot, 
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men 
Inebriate with rage ! Loud, and more loud. 
The discord grows^ till pale Death shuts the scene, 
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws 
His cold and bloody shroud. Of all the men, 
Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there. 
In proud and vigorous health— of all the hearts. 
That beat with anxious life at sunset there — 
How few survive ! how few are beating now ! 
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm 
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause ; 
Save when the frantic wail of widowed love 
Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan 
With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay 
Wrapt round its struggling powers. 

The gray mom 
Dawns on the mournful scene ; the sulphurous smoke 
Before the icy wind slow rolls away, 
And the bright beams of frosty morning dance 
Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood. 
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms. 
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments 
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful path 
Of the ootsallying victors ; far behind. 
Black ashes note where their proud city stood. 
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen — 
Each tree which guards its darkness from the day, 
^teJWaves o'er a warrior's tomb, .j 



The UkcaUed Avenger, — ^Londok Musxuif. 

HB retani of the victorkms Riusian anny, which had 
tuered Finland, was attended with a circnmatance which, 
true, has at all times been nsual in the train of large 
es, but which naturally took place to a much greater 
at, in these high northern latitudes, where the hand of 
has so imperfectly subdued the original saTragentes of 
K>il. Whole droves of famished bears and wolves f(^w- 
le troops, on their return to the south, to feed on the 
ice prey afforded by the carcasses of the artillery and 
;age horses that dropped on the road. In consequence 
lis, the province of Esthonia, to which several regiments 
sted their march, was so overrun with these animals, as 
tly to endanger the safety ot travellers. 
{ a single circle of the government, no less than forty per- 
, of different ages, were enumerated, who ha4 been devour- 
luring the winter by these ravenous beasts. It became 
irdous to venture alone and unarmed into the uninhabited 
i of the country ; nevertheless, an Esthonian country- 
lan boldly undertook a journey to a distant relation, not 
without any male companion, but with three children, 
youngest of which was still an infant. A light sledge, 
rn by one horse, received the little party ; the way was 
Dw, but well beaten ; the snow, on each dide, deep and 
issable ; and to turn back, without danger of sticking 
not to be thought of 

he first half of the journey was passed without accident 
road now ran along the skirts of a pine forest, when the 
iller suddenly perceived a suspicious noise behind her. 
ing back a look of alarm, she saw a troop of wolves 
ing along the road, the number of which her fears hin- 
d her from estimating. To escape by flight is her first 
ght ; and, with unsparing whip, she urges into a gallop 
lorse, which itself snuffs the danger. Soon a couple of 
itrongest and most hungry of the beasts appear at her 
and seem disposed to stop the way* Though their in- 


tentioii seems to be only to attack the horse, yet the safety 
both of the mother and of the children, depends on the prai- 
enration of the animal. The danger raises its value; it 
seems entitled to claim for its presenratioo an extraordinary 

As the mariner throws orerboard his richest treasures to 
appease the raging waves, so here has neceasi^ reached a 
height, at which the emotions of the heart are dumb beiwe 
the dark commands of instinct; the latter alone sofEera the 
unhappy woman to act in this distress. She seises her second 
child, whose bodily infirmities have often made it an object 
of anxious care, whose cry even now ofiends her ear, and 
threatens to whet the appetite of the Uood-thirsty monsters- 
she seizes it with an involuntary motion, and, before the 
mother is conscious of what she is doing, it is cast oot, — and 
—enough of the hwrid tale 1 

The last cry of the victim still sounded in her ear, when 
she discovered that the troop, which had remained some 
minutes behind, again closely pressed on the sledge. The 
anguish of her soul increases, for again tbe murder^Mreathing 
forms are at her side. Pressing the infant to her heaving 
bosom, she casts a look on her boy, four years old, who 
crowds closer and closer to her knee : — *' But, dear mother, 
I am good, am not I ? You will not throw me into the snow, 
like the bawler V — " And yet ! and yet !" cried the wretohed 
woman, in the wild tumult of despair — '' thoa art good, but 
Grod is merciful ! — ^Away !" — The dreadful deed was done. 
To escape the furies that raged within her, the woman ex« 
erted herself, with powerless lash, to accelerate the galk^ of 
the exhausted horse. 

With the thick and gloomy forest before and behind her, 
and the nearer and nearer tramping of her ravenous pursu- 
ers, she almost sinks under her anguish ; only the recollection 
of the infant that she holds in her arms-— only the desire to 
save it, occupies her heart, and with difficulty enables it to 
bear up. She did not venture to look behind her. All at 
once, two rough paws are laid on her shoulders, and the 
wide-open, bloody jaws of an enormous wolf, hung over her 
head. It is the most ravenous beast of the troop, whieh^ 
having partly missed its leap at the sledge, is dragged, along 


with it, in Tain seeking with its hinder legs for a resting 
j^aee, to enable it to get wholly on to the frail vehicle. 
The weight of the body of the monster draws the woman 
backwards — ^her arms rise with the child : half torn from her, 
half abandoned, it becomes the prey of the ravening beast, 
which hastily carries it off into the forest. Exhausted, stun- 
ned, senseless, she drops the reins, and continues her journey, 
ignorant whether she is delivered from her pursuers. 

Meantime the forest grows thinner, and an insulated fiurm- 
bonse, to which a side roads leads, aj^ars at a moderate 
distance. The horse, led to itself, follows this new path : 
it enters through an open gate ; panting and foaming, it 
itands still ; and amidst a circle of persons, who crowd round 
with guod-natnred surprise, the unhappy woman recovers 
from her stupefaction, to throw herself, with a loud scream 
of anguish and horror, into the arms of the nearest human 
being, who appears to her as a guardian angel. All leave 
their work — the mistress of the house the kitchen, the 
thresher the born, the eldest son of the family, with his axe 
in his hand, the wood which he has just cicfl — ^to assist the 
onfortonate woman ; and, with a mixture of curiosity and 
pity, to learn, by a hundred inquiries, the circumstances of 
ber singular appearance. Refreshed by whatever can be 
procured at the moment, the stranger gradually recovers the 
power of speech, and ability to give an intelligible account 
of the dreadful trial which she has undergone. 

The insensibility, with which fear and distress had steeled 
ber heart, begins to disappear ; but new terrors seize her ; 
the dry eye seeks in vain a tear ; she is on the brink of 
boundless misery. But her narrative had also excited con- 
flicting feelings in the bosoms of her auditors ; though pity, 
commiseration, dismay and abhorrence, imposed alike on all 
the same involuntary silence. One, only, unable to com- 
mand the overpowering emotions of his heart, advanced 
before the rest ; it was the young man with the axe : his 
cheeks were pale with affright ; his wildly-rolling eyes flashed 
ill-omened fire. ** What !" he exclaimed ; " three children — 
thy own children I the sickly innocent, the imploring boy, 
the infont suckling, all cast out by the mother to be devoured 
by the wolves ! — Woman, thou art unworthy to live !" And, 



at the same instant, the uplifted steel descends, with resistless 
force, on the skall of the wretched woman, who falls dead at 
his feet. The perpetrator then calmly wipes the blood off 
the murderous axe, and returns to his work. 

The dreadful tale speedily came to the knowledge of the 
magistrates, who caused the uncalled avenger to be arrested 
and brought to trial. He was, of course, sentenced to the 
punishment ordained by the laws; but the sentence still 
wanted the sanction of the emperor. Alexander caused all 
the circumstances of this crime, so extraordinary in the mo- 
tives in which it originated, to be reported to him, in the 
most careful and detailed manner. Here, or nowhere, he 
thought himself called on to exercise the godlike privilege of 
mercy, by commuting the sentence, passed on the criminal, 
into a condemnation to labor not very severe. 


Hymn before SufMise, in the Vale qf Ckamouny,^*-CoixanKi^ 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course '? — so long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc I 
The Arve and Arveiron, at thy base, 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Ibrm^ 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
How silently ! Around thee and above. 
Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black. 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 
As with a wedge ! But, when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 
Thy habitation from eternity. 

dread and silent mount I I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer* 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 



Tety like some sweet, beguiling melody, 
So sweety we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with mj thoughts- 
Tea, with my life, and life's own secret joy,— 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
As in her natoral ibrm, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul I Not only passive praise 
Thou owest ; not alone these sweUing tears. 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou, first and chief, sole sovereign'of the vale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink, — 
Companion of the morning star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald, wakel O wake! and utter praise! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth fit)m night and utter death. 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. 
Forever shattered, and the same forever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy^ 
Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded — and the silence came — 
" Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest V 

Te ice-falls ! ye, that, from the mountam's brow^ 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — • 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice^ 


And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! alent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full moont Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with linng flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your fiset ? — 
'* God !" let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer; and let the ice-plains echo, ** God !" 
*' God !'' sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like fibonds f 
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow. 
And, in their perilous fall, shall thunder, " €rod !" 

Ye living flowers, that skirt the' eternal fi'ost! 
Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-stonn ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth '* God !" and fill the hills with praise I 

Thou, too, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pmnting peaks. 
Oil from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pore serenei 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breasi — 
Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thou 
That, — as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward firom thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes sufiused with tears,— 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
To rise before me, — rise, O ever rise ! 
Rise, like a cloud of incense, firom the earth. 
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills. 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch, tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
" Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God." 


The SokUer^s Widow^^Wujjm. 

Wo! for my Tine-elad homel 
That it should ever be so dark to me, 
With-its bright threshed, and its whiiqpering treol 

That I should ever come. 
Fearing the kmely echo of a tread, 
Beneath the rootoee of my glorious dead I 

Lead on, my orphan boy ; 
Thy home is not so desolate to thee. 
And the low shiver in the linden tree 

May bring to thee a joy ; 
But, oh ! how dark is the bright home before thee. 
To her who with a joyous s[nrit bore thee ! 

Lead <m ; for thou art now 
My sde remaining helper. God hath spoken, 
And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken ; 

And I have seen his brow, 
The forehead of my upright one and just, 
Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust. 

He will not meet thee there. 
Who blessed thee at the eventide, my son ; 
And when the shadows of the night steal on, 

He will not call to prayer. 
The lips that melted, giving thee to God, 
Are in the icy keeping of the sod ! 

Ay, my own boy, thy sire 
Is with the sleepers of the valley cast, 
And the proud glory of my life hath past, 

With his high glance of fire. 
Wo! that the linden and the vine should bloom. 
And a just man be gathered to the tomb ! , 


Yoima LAoasB' cuusa book. 

Why, bear them proudly, boy, — 
It is the sword he girded to his 
It is the helm he wore in victory ; 

And shall we have no joy ? ir 

. For thy green vales, O Switzerland, he died ; k 

I will forget my sorrow— 4n my pride ! -s 



Extract from ** Suggestions on EducatumJ*'~^ ^ 

Miss C. £. Bbsgher. a 


Woman has be^n but little aware of the high iiicitieaieiiti, i 
that should stimulate to the cultivation of her noblest powers, i 
The world is no longer to be governed by physieal foroe, bat 
by the influence which mind exerts over mind* How aie 
the great springs of action, in the political world, put in mo- 
tion ? Oflen by tlie secret workings of a single mind, that 
in retirement plans its schemes, and comes forth to eiecute 
them only by presenting motives of prejudice, pasiimi, Betf> 
interest or pride, to operate on other minds. 

Now, the world is chiefly governed by motives that men 
are ashamed to own. When do we find mankind ac^knowl- 
edging, that their efforts m political life are the offspring of 
pride, and the de«ire of self-aggrandizement 1 And yet who 
hesitates to believe that this is true ? 

But there t^ a class of motives, that men are not only will- 
ing, but proud to own. Man does not willingly yield to 
force ; he is ashamed t^ own he can yield to fear ; hB will 
not acknowledge his motives of pride, prejudice, or passioD. 
But none are unwilling to own they can be governed by 
reason ; even the worst will* boast of being regulated by con- 
science ; and where is the perscm who is tt^amed to own 
the influence of the kind and generous emotions of the 

Here, then, is the only lawful field for the ambition of our 
sex. Woman, in all her relations, is bound to " honor and 
obey" those, on whom she depends for protection and sajqKVt; 


nor does the truly feminine mind desire to exceed this limita- 
tion of Heaven. But where the dictates of authority may 
never control, the voice of reason and affection may ever 
^onvinpe and persuade ; and while others govern by motives, 
Jiat mankind are ashamed to own, the dominion of woman 
nay be based on influence, that the heart is proud to ac- 

And if it is indeed the truth, that reason and conscience 
;uide to the only path of happiness, and if aflfection will gain 
a hold on these powerful principles, which can be attained 
no other way, what high and holy motives are presented to 
woman for cultivating her noblest powers ! The develop- 
ment of the reasoning faculties, the fascinations of a purified 
imagination, the charms of a cultivated taste, the quick per- 
ceptions of an active mind, the power of exhibiting truth 
ind reason, by perspicuous and animated conversation and 
writing, — all these can be employed by woman as much as by 
man. And with these attainable facilities for gaining influ- 
ence, woman has already received, from the hand of her 
Maker, those warm affections and quick susceptibilities, 
which can most surely gain the empire of the heart 

Woman has never wakened to her highest destinies and 
holiest hopes. She has yet to learn the purifying and blessed 
influence, she may gain and maintain over the intellect and 
affectioDs of the human mind. Though she may not teach 
from the portico, nor thunder from the forum, in her secret 
retirements she' may form and send forth the sages that shall 
govern and renovate the world. Though she may not gird 
herself for bloody conflict, nor sound the trumpet of war, 
she may inwrap herself in the panoply of Heaven, and send 
the thrill of benevolence through a thousand youthful hearts. 
Though she may not enter the lists in legal collision, nor 
sharpen her intellect amid the passions and conflicts of men, 
she may teach the law of kindness, and hush up the discords 
and conflicts of life. Though she may not be clothed as the 
ambassador of Heaven, nor minister at the altar of God, 
as a secret angel of mercy, she may teach its will, and cause 
to ascend the humble, but most accepted sacrifice. 

It is believed that the time is coming, when educated 

f84 rouyo ladies' class bocik. 

females will not be satisfied with the present objects of their 
low ambition. When a woman now leares the inmiediate 
bosiness of her own education, how often, how generally, dc 
we find her sinking down into almost useless inactiTitj! Tc 
enjqj the social circle, to accomplish a little sewing, a litdi 
reading, a little domestic dutj, to while away her honrs ii 
•elf^indolgence, or to enjoy the pleasures of domestic life,— 
these are the highest objects at which many a woman of ele 
rated mind and accomplished education aims. And wha 
does she find of sufikient interest or importance to caU fiirtl 
her cultivated energies and warm affections t 

But when the cuhivation and development of the immor 
tal mind shall be presented to woman as her especial an( 
delightfiil duty, and that, too, whatever be her relations u 
life ; when, by example, and by experience, she shall han 
learned her power over the intellect and the afllectk>ns ; whei 
the enthusiasm, (hat wakens energy and interest in all othei 
professions, shall animate in this ; then we shall not find wo 
man returning fi'om the precincts of learning and wisdom 
merely to pass lightly away the bright hours of her maturing 
youth. We shall not so often find her seeking the ligbi 
device, to embroider on muslin and lace ; but we shall sec 
her, with the delighted glow of benevolence, seeking fm 
immortal minds, whereon she may fasten durable and hdj 
impressions, that shall never be efikced nor wear away. ., 


Female Accomplishments, — Hannah More. 

A TouNo lady may excel in speaking French and Italian; 
may repeat a few passages firom a volume of extracts ; play 
like a professor, and sing like a siren^ have her dressing-room 
decorated with her own drawing, tables, stands, flower-pots, 
screens and cabinets ; nay, she may dance like Semprcmia 
herself, and yet we shall insist, that she may have been very 


badly educated. I am far from meaning to set no valae 
nfhatever on any or all of these qualifications ; they are all 
of them elegant, and many of them properly tend to the 
perfecting of a polite education. These things, in their 
measure and degree, may be done ; but there are others, 
which should not be left undone. Many things are beconling, 
bat ** one thing is needful." Besides, as the world seems to 
be fully apprized of the value of whatever tends to embdlish 
life, there is less occasion here to insist on its importance. 

But, though a well-bred young lady may lawfully Mam. 
most of die fashionable arts ; yet, let me ask, does it seem to 
be the true end of education, to make women of fbskion, 
dancers, singers, players, painters, actresses, sculptors, gild- 
ers, vamishers, engravers and embroiderers? Most men 
are commonly destined to some profession, and their vinds 
are consequently turned each to its respective object Would 
it not be straage, if they were called out to exercise their 
profession, or to set up their trade, with only a litde general 
knowledge of the trades and professions of all other men, 
and witboQl any previous definite application to their own 
peculiar calling f 

The profession of ladies, to which the bent of their in- 
struction should be turned, is that of daughters, wives, moth- 
ers, and mistresses of families. They should be, therefore, 
trained with a view to these several conditions, and be fur- 
nished with a stock of ideas, and principles, and qualifications, 
and habits, ready to be applied and appropriated, as occasion 
may demand, to each of these respective situations. For 
though the urts, which merely embellish life, must claim ad 
miration ; yet, when a man of sense comes to marry, it is a 
companion whom he wants, and not an artist It is not 
merely a creature who can paint, and play, and sing, and 
draw, and dress, and dance ; it is a being who can comfort 
and counsel him ; one who can reason, and reflect, and feel, 
and judge, and discourse, and discriminate ; one who can 
assist hind in his affairs, lighten*his cares, soothe his sorrows, 
purify his joys, strengthen his princq[>les, and educate his 


To tke Evening Wind. — ^Bryant. 

BrauT, thai breathest throogh my lattice, thoa 
That cooH'Bt the twilight of the sultry day. 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at phiy. 

Riding all day the wild Uue wares till now. 

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spnuf. 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea I 

Nor I alone— a thousand bosoms round 

Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 
And languid forms rise up, and(pulse9) bound 

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound. 

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, 
God's Messing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Ck>, rock the little wood-bird in his nest. 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 

The wide old wood from his majestic rest. 
Summoning from the innumerable boughs 

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 

The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 

And ^twixt the overshadowing Immches and the grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep. 

And dry the moistened curts that overspread 

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; 

And they, who stand about the sick man's bed, 
ShaU joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And sofUy part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, gratefril to his burning brow. ' 


Go— bat the circle of eternal change, 
That is the life of nature, shall restore, 

With soonds and scents from all thy mighty range. 
Thee to thj Inrth^ace of the deep once more; 

Sweet odors in the searair, sweet and strange. 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; 

And, listening to thy mormur, he shall deem 

He hears the rustling leaf and running straam. 


To ike Ursa Mt^or.-^^. Win, Jb. 

With what a stately and majestic step 
That glorious constellation of the north 
Treads its eternal circle ! going forth 
Its princely way amongst the stars in slow 
And silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail! 
I joy to see thee, on thy glowing path. 
Walk, like some stout and girded giant — stem. 
Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot 
Disdains to loiter on its destined way. 
The otheir tribes forsake their midnight track. 
And rest their weary orbs beneath the wave ; 
But thou dost never close thy burning eye, 
Nor stay thy steadfast step. But on, still oo. 
While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds 
Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds. 
The near horizon tempts to rest in vain. 
Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit 
Thy long-appointed watch ; but, sleepless still. 
Dost guard the fixed light of the universe. 
And bid the north forever know its place. 

Ages have witnessed thy devoted trust. 
Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons ef God 
Sent forth Uiat. shout of joy which rang throogh heaTen, 


And echoed from the outer epheres that bound 

The inimitable uiii?erse, thy Toice 

Join^ the high chorus ; from thy radiant orbs 

The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise. 

Who thus had cast another sparkling gem, 

Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd 

Of splendors that enrich his firmament 

As thou art now^ so wast thou then the same. 

Ages have rolled their course, and time grown gray; 
The earth has gathered to h^r womb again. 
And yet again, the myriads, that were bom 
Of her, uncounted, unremembered tribes. 
The seas have changed their beds ; the eternal hills 
Have stooped with age ; the solid c<mtinent8 
Have lefl their banks ; and man's imperial works — 
The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had flung 
Their haughty honors in the face of heaven. 
As if immortal — ^have been swept away — 
Shattered and mouldering, buried and forgot 
But time has shed no dimness on thy fimit^ 
Nor touched the firmness of thy tread ; yonth, strength 
And beauty still are thine— as clear, as bright, 
As when the almighty Former sent thee forth^ 
Beautiful offspring of his curious skill. 
To watch eidrth's northern beacon, uid proclaim 
The eternal chorus of eternal Love. 

I w<mder as I gaze. That stream of light, 
Undimmed, unquenched, — just as I see it now, — 
Has issued from those dazzling points, through years 
That go back far into eternity. 
Exhaustless flood ! forever spent, renewed 
Forever 1 Yea, and those refulgent drops. 
Which now descend upon my lifled eye. 
Left their far fountain twice three years ago. 
While those winged particles, whose speed outstrips 
The flight of thought, were on their wify, the earth 
Ck)mpas8ed its tedious circuit round and round. 
And, in the extremes of annual change, 4>6heUI 


Six antumiM fade, six eprings renew their bioora. 

So far from earth those mighty erba refdve ! 

So .vast the void through which their beatna deeeesd ! 

Yea, glorious lamps of Oed, He may have ipaadbdi, 
Your ancient flames, and bid etema3 nifffat 
Rest on your spheres ; and yet no tidings rea^k 
This distant planet. Messengers still come 
Laden with your far fire, and we may seem 
To see your lights still burning ; while their blase 
But hides the black wteck of extinguisfaed realmt^ 
Where anarchy and darkness long have reigned. 

Yet what is this, wMch to the astonislied mind 
Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought 
Confounds t A span, a point, in those domains 
Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars 
Dwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight 
Embraces all at once ; yet each from eaiii 
Recedes as far as each of them fpom eartlL 
And every star from every other bums 
No less remote* From the profound of heaven, 
Untravelled even in thought, keen, piercing raya 
Dart through the void, revealing to the sense 
Systems and worlds unnumbered. Take the giaas 
And search the skies. The <^ning skies pour 'down 
Upon your gaze thick showers of i^arkling fire-— 
Stars, crowded, thronged, in regions so remote, 
That their swifi beams — the swiftest things that 
Have dravelled centuries on their flight to earth. 
Earth, sun, and nearer constellations, what 
Are ye, amid this infinite extent 
And multitude of God's most infinite works ! 

And these are suns! — vast, oentrd, living flfes. 
Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds 
That wait as satellites upon their power, 
And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soal. 
And meditate the wonder 1 Countless sans 
Kaze round thee, leading forth their cooitlese woilda. 


Worlds, in whose bosoms Imng things rejoice. 
And drink the bliss of being from the fount 
Of all-pervading Love. What mind can know. 
What tongue can utter, all their multitudes I 
Thus numberless in numberless abodes 1 
Known but to thee, blessed Father 1 Thine they 
Thy children and thy care ; and none overlooked 
Of thee ! — no, not the humblest soul that dwells 
Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course 
Amid the giant glories of the sky, 
Like the mean mote that dances in the beam 
Amongst the mirrored lamps, which fling 
Their wasteful splendor from the palace wall. 
None, none escape the kindness of thy care; 
All. compasse4 underneath thy spacious wing. 
Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand. 

Tell me, ye splendid orbs, as, from your throne, 
Te mark the rolling provinces that own 
Your sway — what beings fill those bright abodes ? 
How formed, how gifled ? what their powers, their state, 
Their hap^nness, their wisdom ? Do they bear 
The stamp of human nature ? Or has G^ 
Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms 
And nK>re celestial minds ? Does Innocence 
Still wear her native and untainted bloom 1 
Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad. 
And sowed corruption in those fairy bowers 1 . 
Has War trod o'er them with hb foot of fire ? 
And Slavery forged his chains? and Wrath and Hate, 
And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust, 
Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth, 
And scattered wo where Heaven had planted joy ? 
Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen 
And uncorrupt 1 existence one long joy. 
Without disease upon the frame, or sin 
Upon the heart, or weariness of life — 
Hope never quenched, and age unknown. 
And death unfeared ; while fresh and fadeless youth 
Qlomn in the light from God's near throne of lovet > 


Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair ! 
Speak, speak 1 the mysteries of those living woMm 
Unfold !—^No language ? Everlasting light. 
And everlasting silence ? — Yet the eye 
May read and understand. The hand of God 
Has written legibly what man may know-;- 
!Fhe glow of the Maker. There it shineSy 
Ineffable, unchangeable ; and man. 
Bound to the surface of this pigmy giobe, 
May know and ask no more. In other dajrs,- 
When death shall give the encumbered spirit wingi, 
Its range shall be extended ; it shall roam, 
Perchance,' amongst those vast, mysterious spheres. 
Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each 
Familiar with its children— rleam their laws. 
And share Uieir state, and study and adore 
The infinite varieties of bliss 
And beauty, by the Hand of Power divine 
Lavished on all its works. Eternity 
Shall thus roll on with ever fresh delight ; 
No pause oi pleasure or improvement ; world 
On world still opening to the instructed mind 
An unexhausted universe, and time 
But adding to its glories ; while the soul. 
Advancing ever to the Source of light 
And all perfection, lives, adores and reigns 
In cloudless knowledge, purity and bliss. ^ 

■n » 

LESSON cxxxn. 

9nchisian of a Discourse in Commemoration of the laves 
and Services^ of John Adams and Thomas Jeffianon^ deSv* 
ered in Faneuil HaH, Boston, Aug, 2, 1826. — Websteb.* 

This lovely land, this glorious liberty, these benign insti- 
tions, the dear purchase of our fathers, are ours ; ours to 
ijoy, ours to preserve, ours to transmit. Generations past, 
^d generations to come, hold us rei^nsible lor this saored 


trust. Our fathefs, §nm behind, admomsb us, wiUi theur 
anxious, pBtemal voicM ; posltrity calls •ut to tfs from the 
bosom of the ioliire; tbe world turns hither its 8<^itoa9 
•yes ; — all, all conjure us to act wisefy and faithfulfy in the 
relation whidi ive snstainL We can nerer, mdeed, pay the 
debt which is upoa us ; hvA by Tirtue,^ by morality, by re- 
ligion, by ihm oakivatioB of every good principle and every 
good habit, we may hope to rajoy the blessing, through our 
day, and to leave it unimpaired to our childreni. 

Let us feel deeply bow much, of what we are and of what 
we poipM, we owe to this liberty, and these institutions of 
government. Nature has, indeed,, given us a so^ which 
yields buunto ous^ ta> the hanifo of industry ; the mighty and 
fruitful ocean ie b^re us, and the skies over our heads shed 
health and vigor. But what are lands, and seas, and skies, 
to civilized man, without society, without knowledge, without 
morals, without religious culture? and how can these be ' 
enjoyed, in all their extent, and all their excellence, but 
under the protection ef wise institutions and n free govern ; 
mentt '? 

There is not one ef ns, there is not one of us here present, } 
who does not, at this moment, and at every moment, expe | 
rience, in his own condition, and in the condition of those « 
most near wod dear ta him, the influence and tiie benefits 
of this liberty, and these instkutions. Let us, then, ac- 
knowledge the fatessing ; let us feel it deeply and powerfully; 
let us cherish a strong affection for it, and reserve to maintain ^ 
and perpetuate it. The blood of our fathers, — let it not 
have been shed in vain ; the great hope of posterity, — let it 
not be blasted. 

The striking attitude, too, in which we stand to the world 
around us, cannot be altogether omitted here. Neither indi- 
vidualsnor nations oan perform their part well,, until thej ] 
nnderstand and feel its importance, and comprehend and i 
JiHtly appreciate all the duties belonging to it. It is not to j 
inflate national vanity, nor to swell a light and empty feeling i 
of ■elfwportanoe ; but it is that we may judge justly of our \ 
eituation, and c^ our own duties, that I earnestly urge thi^ \ 
oonsideration of our position, and our character^ among Htfi ; 
Mtbne of tlift etrthL 



It cannot be denied, but by those who would dispute 
punst the sun, that with America, and in America, a new 
a commences in human affairs. This era is distinguished 
f free representative governments, by entire religious 
)erty, by improved systems of national intercourse, by a 
iwly awakened and an unconquerable spirit of free inquiry, 
id by a diffusion of knowledge through the community, 
ich as has been before altogether unknown and unheard o£ 
merica^ America, our country, our own dear and native 
nd, is inseparably connected, fast bound up, in fortune and 
^ fate, with these great interests. If they fall, we fall with 
em; if they stand, it will be because we have upholden 

Let us contemplate, then, this connexion, which binds the 
osperity of others to our own ; and let us manfully dis- 
large all the duties which it imposes. If we cherish the vir- 
es and the principles of our fathers. Heaven will assist 
to carry on the work of human liberty and human hap- 
less. ' Auspicious omens cheer us. Great examples are 
fore us. Our own firmament now shines brightly upon our 
,th. Washington is in the clear upper sky. These other 
irs have now joined the American constellation; they 
rcle round their centre, and the heavens beam with new 
(ht. Beneath this illumination, let us walk the course of 
e, and, at its close, devoutly commend our beloved country, 
e common parent of us all^ to the Divine Benignity. 


Education a Life-Btisiness. — Francis. 

When young men, and especially young ladies, have com- 
eted their course of instruction at the schools, how often 
> we hear it said, that they have finished their education ! 
nd it would really seem, as if this expression were under- 
ood to be literally and exactly true. But it is a great 
ror. The whole process, if it has been well and wisely 
Miducted, has only served to enable the young fo go on with 

work of cdocatiar tlieaiflvhvs, when they are released 
liK ■ ■JtiaiiMt of papilafe. — lo pot into their poBseenon 
of pnriftln g their taste, of c of iec ti ng and settling 
, of coftiTatinf the powers of reasoning and imag* 
of strengthening and enlarging their habits of 
thonght, — in short, of devasing and refining their wbde 
asental and moral namre. 

The edocation, which is gradoallr gathered amidst tbe 
realiiies of life, in the discharge of dail j duties, and in tbe 
^fdieation of knowledge and principles! to the oUigatkms 
and wants of oor situation, is one of an exalted kind, for 
which all the training of earlj dars is bat preparatory. Such 
an edncation, it is manifest, most be a life-bdsiness ; it can 
nefer oome to a dose, while opportnnities and means are 
possessed. I believe, we are not aware of the mischief^ that 
may be and has been done to the yoong, by giring them the 
impression, that when the period of school discipline ceases, 
they have completed the cnhiTation of their minds, and their 
preparation fer the engagements of Hfe. 

What most be the elBfect of socb an impression, at a time 
when the passions are usually growing into full strength, and 
the reason is unpractised to separate good from evil, — when 
temptations, the most numerous and alluring, are crowding 
around the opening path of mature life, — when the dreams 
of hope have just taken a definite form, sufficient to be cher- 
ished with even more than the fondness of childhood, — and 
when the world beckons on the youthful adventurer, with all 
the solicitations of pleasure and ambition ! . Then, if ever, 
is the time not to st<^ the work of guarding and improving 
the mind and the princi[^s, but to carry it on with more vig- 
or and a keener sense of its importance. 

Education finished ! Why, we might as well talk of good- 
ness, or wisdom, or religion being finished. Especially will 
Ms appear to be true, when we extend our views farther, 
tnd consider that the whole of life is but an education for 
eternity ; that our existence here is but a state of pupDage, in 
which we are to acquire characters and habits that will rise 
with us from the grave, and be our joy or our shame hereafter. 
The mighty mind of a Newton was but in its childhood here 
on earth ; for the successive stages of man's existence, are 


dflngned to be so many successive stages of advancement 
and improvement. The education of the moral and inteUec- 
toal agent begins in infancy, and goes on through(8ub0equent y 
degrees, till it is carried out and perfected in the upper world. 
At each portion of the grand progress, some error, or vice, 
or lolly, may be dropped ; and the soul may grow wiser, and 
stronger^ and purer, as she travels on, till she becomes meet 
to receive the stainless spirit of light and truth, and acquires 
a foil affinity for the heavenly wisdom of the better world. 

Parrkasiui, — ^Wnxia. 

^ * 

"Ptufaashis, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian captiTes Philip 
of Macedon broo^ home to sell* bcMigfat one very old man ; and, vrhen he had 
Km at his housey.put him to death with extreme tMtore and tonneiit, the bet- 
kr, by his example, to express the pains and passions of his PkWBetheiis, 
whom he was thm about to pamt." — Burton** AruU. of Mel, ' 

The golden light into the painter's room 
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole 
From the dark pictures radiantly forth. 
And, in the soft and dewy atmosphere. 
Like forms and landscapes magical, they lay. 
The walls were hung with armor, and about. 
In the dim corners, stood the sculptured forms 
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, 
And from the casement soberly away 
Fell the grotesque, long shadows, full and true, 
And, like a veil of filmy mellowness. 
The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. 

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 
Up<m his canvass. There Prometheus lay. 
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus, 
The vulture at his vitals, and the links 
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; 
And, as the painter'd mind felt through the dim, 
Ript inystery, uid plucked the shadows wild 


Forth with its reaching fancy, and with form 
And c<^or clad them, his fine, earnest eye 
Flashed with a passionate fire,'and the qoick curl 
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip. 
Were like the winged god's, iHeathing from his flight 

'' Bring me the captive now ! 
My hand feeb skilful, and the shadows lift 
From my waked spirit airily and swift ; 

And I could paint the bow 
Upon the bended heavens, around me play 
Colors of such divinity to-day. 

" Ha ! bind him on his back ! 
Look! as Prometheus in my picture here — 
Quick— or he faints! — stand with the cordial near! 

Now bend him to the rack ! 
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh I 
And tear agape that healing wound afiresh ! 

" So — ^let him writhe ! How long ^ j. 
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencu, now! 
What a fine agony works, upon his brow! 

Ha ! gray-haired, and so strong ! 
How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! 
Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan I 

" * Pity' thee ! So I do ! 
I pity the dumb victim at the altar ; 
But does the robed priest for his pity falter t 

I'd rack thee, though I knew 
A thousand lives were perishing in thine : 
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine t 

" ' Hereafter !' Ay, hereafter ! 
A whip to keep a coward to his track ! 
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back 

To check the skeptic's laughter ? 
Come from the grave to-morrow, with that Bt<»y, 
And I may take some softer path to glory. 


" No, no, M man ; we die 
en as the flowers, and we shall breathe away 
ur life upon the chance wind, e'en as they :• 

Strain well thy fainting eye ; 
3r, when that bloodshot quivering is o^er, 
he light of heaven will never reach thee more. 

** Tet there's a deathless name, — 
spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, 
nd, like a steadfast planet, mount and bum ; 

And though its crown of flame 
onsumed my brain to ashes as it won me, 
f all the fiery stars ! I'd pluck it on me. 

** Ay, though it bid me rifle 
y heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst ; 
hough every life-strung nerve be maddened first ; 

Though it should bid me stifle 
he yearning in my throat fer my sweet child, 
ad taunt its motW till my brain went wild ;— 

<< All, I would do it all, 
K>ner than die, like a dull worm, to rot ; 
hrust foully in the earth to be forgot 

O heavens I but I appal 
3ur heart, old man! forgive — Ha! on your lives, 
3t him not faint ! — ^rack him till he revives I 

** Vain, vain ; give o'er ! His eye 
lazes apace. He does not feel you now — 
and back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow. 

Gods ! if he do not die 
It for one moment — one — ^till I eclipse 
mception with the scorn of those calm lips t 

** Shivering I Hark ! he mutters 
rokenly now — that was a difficult breath — 
Qother ? Wilt thou never come, O Death t 

Look ! how his temple flutters I 
his heart still '? Aha ! lifl up his head ! 
e shudders — gasps — Jove help him — w>— W^ 4^%&*^ 


7%e SouVs Defiance,* — Anontmoub. 

I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm, 

That beat against my breast, 
'' Rage on ! thou may'st destroy this form, 

And lay it low at rest ; 
But still the spirit, that now brooks 

Thy tempest, raging high. 
Undaunted, on its fury looks 

With steadfast eye." 

I said to Penury's meagre train, 
" Come on ! your threats I brave ; 

My last, po<^ life-drop you may drain. 
And crush me to the grave ; 

Yet still the spirit, that endures, 
Shall mock your force the while. 

And meet each cold, cold grasp of youra 
With bitter smile." 

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 

'' Pass on ! I heed you not ; 
Ye may pursue' me till my form 

And being are forgot ; . . 
Yet still the spirit, which you see 

Undaunted by your wiles, 
Draws from its own nobility 

Its high-born smiles." 

I said to Friendship'ii menaced)bk>w, 
'' Strike deep ! my heart shall bear ; 

Thou canst but add one bitter wo 
To those already there ; 

* This poem was written many years ago, by a lady, and written fron 
perience and feeling. There is a very remaricable grandeur and power i 
sentiments, sustamed, as they are, by an energy of expression well suiti 
the qpirit's undaunted defiance of misfortune. — Ed. Common-place Bet 


Tet still the spirit, that sustains 

This last severe distress. 
Shall smile upon its keenest pains^ 
And scorn redress." 

I said to Death's uplifted dart, 
'' Aim sure ! oh, why delay ? 

Thou wilt not find a fearful heart— ^ 
A weak, reluctant prey ; 

For still the spirit, firm and jGree, 
Triumphant in the last dismay, 

Wrapt in its own eternity. 

Shall smiling pass away.' 

Sonnet to the South Wind. — Bryant. 


Ar, thou art welcome — heaven's delicious breath—* 
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf. 
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief. 

And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 

Wind of the sunny South, oh, long delay 
In the gay woods and in the golden air, — 
Like to a good old age, released from care. 

Journeying, in long serenity, away. 

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 
'Might wear out life, like thee, mid bowers and brooks. 
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, 

And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 
And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass. 
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 


Lilias Grieve, — Wiiaos, 

There were fear and melancholy in all the glens and Ttl- 
feys that lay stT©tching around, or down u^ii Bx. VLvrf % 


Lock ; for it was tke tiaw of rdigioQS penecatkn. Mtt 

asveet cotUge stood mrteaafgd on tbe kiU-sde and in tl 
hoOofv: aoflse had fek the fire, and been coamiaed ; andvi 
lent hands had torn off the tnrf roof from the green shealii 
of the shephnd. In the wide and deep silence and solitai 
neas of the raoontains, it seemed as if hnman life were near 
extinct. CaTems and clefts, in which the fin had kennelle 
were now the shelfeer of Christian aonk; and when a kne 
figure crept steadinglj from one hiding-place to another, oo 
▼isit of lore to some hunted brother in feith, the cioi 
would horer orer him, and the hawk shriek at hnman sl^ 
now rare in the desert. 

When the babe was bom, there might be none near to ba 
tize it ; or the minister, driren from his kirk, perhaps, ponn 
the sacramental water upon its face, from some pool in thegle 
whose rocks guarded the persecuted family from the opptc 
sor. Bridals now were unfiequent, and in the solemn sadne 
of loTe. Many died before their time, of minds sunken, ai 
of broken hearts. White hair was on heads long befiire thi 
were old ; and the silrer locks of ancient men were oftf 
ruefblly soiled in the dust, and stained with their mvtyn 

But this is the dark ade of the picture ; fi>r, eren : 
their cares, were these people happy. Their children wei 
with them, even like the wild ^wers that blossomed i 
about the entrances of tbeir dens. And when the Toice ( 
psalms rose up fit>m tbe profound silence of the soUtai 
place of rocks, tbe ear of God was open, and they knew th; 
their prayers and praises were heard in heaven. If a ehil 
was bom, it belonged unto the faithful ; if an old man diet 
it was in the religion of his forefathers. The hidden powei 
of their souls were brought forth into the hg^i, and the 
knew the strength that was in them for these days of tria 
The thoughtless became sedate ; the wild were tamed ; tl 
unfeeling made compassionate ; hard hearts were softener 
and the wicked saw the error of their ways. 

All deep passion purifies and strengthens the soul ; and e 
was it now. Now was shown and put to the proof, the sten 
austere, impenetrable strength of men, that would neithi 
bend nor break ; the calm, serene determination of matrom 
who, with meek eyes and unblanched cheeka| met the acov 


of the jnurderer,-— the silent beauty of maidens, who with 
nniles receiTed their death, — and the mysterious coura^ of 
chfldren, who, in the inspiration of innocent and spotless 
natnre, kneeled down among the dew drops on the green 
sward, and died fearlessly by their parents' sides. Arrested 
were they at their work, or in their play ; and, with no other 
bandage over their eyes, but haply some clustering ringlet of 
their aonny hair, did many a sweet creature of twelve sum- 
men, ask just to be allowed to say her prayers,. and then go, 
mia{q;Mdled, from her cottage door to the breast of her Re- 

In those days had old Samuel Grieve and his spouse suf^ 
fared sorely for their faith. But they left not their own 
house — ^willing to die there, or to be slaughtered, whenever 
God should so appoint. They were now childless ; but a 
little granddaughter, about ten years old, lived with them, and 
she was an orphan. The thought of death was so familiar 
to her, that, although sometimes it gave a slight quaking 
throb to her heart in its glee, yet it scarcely impaired the 
natoral joyftdness of her girlhood ; and often, unconsciously, 
after the gravest or the saddest talk with her old parents, 
would she glide off, with a lightsome step, a blithe face, and 
a voice humming sweetly some cheerful tune. The old 
people looked often upon her in her happiness, till their dim 
eyes filled with tears ; while the grandmother said, " If this 
nest were to be destroyed, at last, and our heads in the mould, 
who would feed this young bird in the wild, and where would 
she find shelter in which to fauld her bonnie wings 1" 

lilias Grieve was the shepherdess of a small flock, among 
the green pasturage at the head of St. Mary's Loch, and up 
the hill-side, and over into some of the little neighboring 
j^ens. Sometimes she sat in that beautiful church-yard, with 
her sheep lying scattered around her upon the quiet graves, 
where, on still, sunny days, she could see their shadows in 
the water in the loch, and herself sitting close to the low 
walls of the house of God. She had no one to speak to, but 
her Bible to read ; and, day after day, the rising sun beheld 
her in growing beauty, and innocence that could not fade, 
hqipy and silent as a fairy upon the knowe, with the blue 
heaveiui over her head, and the blue lake smiling at her feeU 



" My fairy*' was the name she bore by the cottage fire, 
where the old people were gladdened by her glee, and turned 
away from all melancholy thoughts. And it was a name that 
suited sweet Lilias well ; for she was clothed in a garb of 
green, and often, in her joy, the green, graceful plants that 
grow among the hills, were wreathed round her hair. So 
was she dressed one Sabbath day, watching her flock at a 
considerable distance from home, and singing to herself a 
psalm in the solitary moor ; when, in a moment, a party of 
soldiers were upon a mount on the opposite side of a* narrow 

Lilias was invisible as a green linnet upon the grass ; but 
her sweet voice had betrayed her, and then one of the sol- 
diers caught the wild gleam of her eyes ; and, as she sprung 
frightened to her feet, he called out, " A roe ! a roe ! See how 
she bounds along the bent !" and the ruffian took aim at the 
child with his musket, half in sport, half in ferocity. Lilias 
kept a[^aring and disappearing, while she flew, as on wings, 
across a piece of black heathery moss, full of pits and hollows; 
— and still the soldier kept his musket at its aim. His com- 
rades called to him to hold his hand, and not shoot a poor 
little innocent child ; but he at length fired, and the bullet 
was heard to whiz past her fern-crowned head, and to strike 
a bank which she was about to ascend. The child paused 
for a moment, and looked back, and then bounded away over 
the smooth turf; till, like a cushat; she dropped into a little 
birchen glen, and disappeared. Nof a sound of her feet was 
heard ; she seemed to have sunk into the ground ; and the 
soldier stood, without any effort to follow her, gazing through 
the smoke towards the spot where she had vanished. 

A sudden superstition assailed the hearts of the party, as 
they sat down together upon a hedge of stone. " Saw you 
her face. Riddle, as my ball went whizzing past her ear! 
If she be not one of those hill fairies, she had been dead as 
a herring ; but I believe the bullet glanced off her yellow 
hair as against a buckler." *' It was the act of a gallows- 
rogue to fire upon the creature, fairy or not fairy ; and yoo 
deserve the weight of this hand — the hand of an Englishman 
— you brute, for your cruelty." And up rose the speaker to 
put his threat into execution,' when the other retreated some 


distance, and began to load his musket ; but the En^shman 
ran upon him, and, with a Cumberland gripe and trip, laid 
bim upon the hard ground with a force that drove the 
iMreath out of his body, and left him stunned, and almost 
insensible. • • • • 

The fallen ruffian now rose somewhat humbled, and sul- 
lenly sat down among the rest. " Why," quoth Allan Sleigh, 
" I wager you a week's pay, you don't yenture fifty yards, 
without your musket, down yonder shingle, where the fairy 
disappeared ;" and, the wager being accepted, the hal^ 
drunken fellow rushed on towards the head of the glen, and 
was heard crashing away through the shrubs. In a few min- 
utes he returned, declaring, with an oath, that he had seen her 
at the mouth of a cave, where no human foot could reach, stand- 
ing with her hair all on fire, and an angry countenance ; and 
that he had tumbled backwards into the burn, and been nearly 
drowned. ** Drowned 1" cried Allan Sleigh. ** Ay, drowned ; 
why not 1 A hundred yards down that bit glen, the pools are 
as black as pitch, and the water roars like thunder : drowned ! 
why not, you English son of a deer-stealer 1" ** Why not ? 
because, who was ever drowned, that was born to be hanged V 
And that jest caused universal laughter, as it is always sure 
to do, often as it may be repeated, in a company of ruf* 
fians ; such is felt to be its perfect truth and unanswerable 


The scone y-^H^onchided. 

.After an hour's quarrelling, and gibing, and mutiny, 
this disorderly band of soldiers proceeded on their way down 
into the head of Yarrow, and there saw, in the solitude, the 
house of Samuel Grieve. Thither they proceeded to get 
some refreshment, and ripe for any outrage that any occasion 
might suggest. The old man and his wife, hearing a tumult 
ai many voices and many feet, cfame out, and were immedi- 
ately saJuted with many opprobrious epithets. The hut was 


0oon rifled of any nnall aitides of wemmg a p parel ; md 
Samael, wHlioat emoCkmy set before them whatever p w ma o ns 
be had— batter, cheese, bread and milk — and hoped thej 
would not be too hard upon old peqiie, who were de aireoa of 
dying, as they had lived, in peace. Thankfbl were diey 
both, in their parental hearfa, that their litde Liliw was among 
the hills ; and the M man tmsled, that if she letnmed 
before the sddiers were g<me, she would see, finom name dis- 
tance, their muskets on the green belbre the door, and hide 
herself among the brakens. 

The soldiers devoured their repast with many oatliB, aad 
much hideous and obscene language, which it was me 
against the old man's isoul to hear in his own hot; hot he 
said nothing, for that would have been wilfully to aaerifiee 
his life. At last, one of the party ordered him to return 
thanks, in words impious and full of blai^hemy ; which Sam- ' 
nel calmly refused to do, beseeching them, at the s^me time, 
fbr the sake of their own souls, not so to oflend their great 
and bountiful Preserver. '' Confound the M canting Core- 
nanter ; I will prick him with my bayonet, if he won't say 
grace !" and the blood trickled down the dd man's ehmk, 
fh>m a slight wound on his forehead. 

The sight of it seemed to awaken the dormant hkoi- , 
thirstiness in the tiger heart of the soldier, who now wwott, 
if the old man did not instantly repeat the words afier him, 
he would shoot him dead. And, as if cruelty were conta- 
gious, almost the whole party agreed that the demand was 
but reasonable, and that the old hypocritical knave must 
preach or perish. '' Here is a great musty Bible," cried one 
of them. ** If he won't speak, I will gag him, with a ven- 
geance. Here, old Mr. Peden thg prophet, let me cram a 
few chapters of St. Luke down your maw. St. Luke was a 
physician, I believe. Well, here is a dose of him. Open 
your jaws." And, with these words, he tore a handful of 
leaves oot of the Bible, and advanced towards the old maii| 
from whose Ikce his terrified wife was now wiping off the 

Samuel Grieve was nearly fourscore ; but his sinews mate 
not yet relaxed, and, in his younger days, he had been a man 
of great strength. When, therefore, the sddier grasped hill 


"bf the neck, the Bense of receiving an indignity firom such a 
dave made his blood boil^ and, as if his youth had been re- 
newed, the gray-headed man, with one blow, felled the 
ruffian to the floor. 

That blow sealed his doom. There was a fierce tumult 
and yelling of wrathful voices, and Samuel Grieve was led out 
to die. He had witnessed such butchery of others, and felt 
that the hour of his martyrdom was come. *' As thou did^t 
reprove Simon Peter in the garden, when he smote the high 
priest's servant, and saidst, ' The cup which my Father hath 
given me, shall I not drink it V so now, O my Redeemer, 
do thou pardon me, thy frail and erring follower, and enable 
me to drink this cup!" With these words, the old man 
knelt down unbidden, and, after one solemn look to heaven, 
<}losed his eyes, and folded his hands across his breast. 

His wife now came forward, and knelt down beside the old 
man. ''Let us die togetner, Samuel; but, oh! what will 
becoQie of our dear Lilias?" '' God tempers the wind to the 
shwn lamb," said her husband, opening not his eyes, but 
taking her hand into his : '' Sarah, be not afraid." '' O 
Samuel, I remember, at this moment, these words of Jesus, 
which you this morning read — * Forgive them, Father ; they 
know not what they do?* " " We are all sinners together," 
said Samuel, with a loud voice ; ** we two old gray-headed*^ 
people, on our knees, and about to die, both forgive you all, 
IS we hope ourselves to be forgiven. We are ready : be 
merciful, and do not mangle us. Sarah, be not afraid." 

It seemed that an angel was sent down from heaven to 
save the lives of these two old gray-headed folk. With hair 
floating in sunny light, and seemingly wreathed with flowers 
of heavenly azure ; with eyes beaming lustre, and yet stream- 
ing tears; with white arms extended in their beauty, and 
motion gentle and gliding as the sunshine when a cloud, is 
rolled away— came on, over the meadow before the hut, the 
same green-robed creature, that had startled the soldiers with 
her singing in the moor ; and, crying loudly, but still sweetly, 
"God sent me hither to save their lives," she fell down 
beside them as they knelt together ; and then, lifling up her 
head from the turf, fixed her beautiful face, instinct with 

26 • 


fear, love, liope, and the spirit of prayer, npm the eyw of die 
men about to shed that innocent Mood. 

They all stood heart-stricken ; and the execiitioiierB flong 
down their muskets upon the green sward. ** God Uefli joo, 
kind, good soldiers, for this!" exclaimed the child, now 
weeping and sobbing with joy. " Ay, ay, you will be hmppj 
to-night, when you lie down to sleq>. If yon have any Ihtk 
daughters or sisters like me, God will love them for yoor 
mercy to us, and nothing, til! yoo return home, will hurt i 
hair of their heads. Oh ! I see now that sddiers are not m 
cruel as we say !" ** Lilias, your grandfather qieaks unto yon; 
his last words are — ^Leave us, leave us ; for they are going lo 
put us to death. Soldiers, kill not this little child, or the 
waters of the loch will rise up and drown the Bona of pe^ 
dition. Lilias, give us each a kiss, and then go into the 

The soldiers conversed together for a few minutes, and 
seemed*now like men themselves condemned to die. Shame 
and remorse, for their coward cruelty, smote them to the 
core ; and they bade them that were still kneeling, to rise up 
and go their ways : then, forming themselves into regular 
order, one gave the word of command, and, marching off, 
they soon disappeared. The old man, his wife, and little 
Lilias, continued for some time on their knees in prayer, and 
then all three went into the hut ; the child between thetD, 
and a withered hand of each laid upon its beantiliil and iti 
fearless head. 


Hopes and Fetors of Parents. — ^Francis 

The hopes and fears, that cluster around the relation in 
which we stand to the young, are among the strcmgest aid 
Toosli^nfie feelings of the heart. By a spcmtaneous move- 
ment of the mind, we connect these objects of affisction with 
the future. We pass rapidly onward, in thought, from whftt 


ihtff an to what they may become. And the progreaa, whieh 
thus atretehes out before the imagination, ia^ in truth, a woiH 
deriU eeene. Mark the series of changes from early infancy 
to estaUished maturity, — from the simple feelings, the chevp 
y ie aau rea, the artless plans and purposes, the little joys and 
little disappointments of childhood, to the time when each 
one goes forth, as an indiridual agent, on his own path, and 
with hia own responsibleness, — and you will see how wide and 
likbfinite may be the range of conjecture on this subject. 

From the feeble beginnings of these early days, may come 
the roaa of strong frame, who bends himself to his daily task 
with imtifed endurance ; or the enterprising devotee to busi- 
IMBS, who plunges into the midst of the crowded cares of the 
world, and does his part to keep in ceaseless motion the vast 
machmery of active life ; or the enlightened schcJar, who 
traverses the fields of knowledge, to bring thence his contri- 
butions to the general treasury of improvement ; or the hardy 
■avigator, who rides upon the ocean waves, as it wefe in the 
chariot of his g^ry, and fearlessly throws himaelf into c<Hn- 
b«t with the storm ; or the statesman, who bears up, with an 
mwearied arm, the weight of a nation's welfare and a 
nation's rights. Amidst the success and defeat, the honor 
Ind Umb shame, the strengthening of virtue, and the growing 
ascendency of vice, which may find a place between the first 
and last points of such a progress, how many combinations 
may imagination make, in attempting to cast the destiny of 
a child ! 

The hopes and promises of coming time, are interwoven 
with all the serious and thoughtful affections of parents ; and 
some of the most precious interests of life, are involved in the 
calculation. And, generally, the vision, which thus floats 
before the mind, is a pleasant one. The propensity is to see 
good in the prospect, to gather around these *young germs of 
immortality, fair and bright anticipations. The everlastihg 
principle, which is implanted in every little breast, and which 
shall live when systems of worlds shall have been hushed in 
sQence, and when " the host of heaven " shall have feded 
away, we are prone to believe, will be an ever-increasing 
I^nciple of beauty and improvement We hajpe, at least, 
that the dark lines of guilt will never be traced on the cqpirit, 

; tkittiie tUhk 

tke voatliial bosoniy wiH 

and leadoi inflneoce of 

fril of their ttccon- 
Bdatiaos tamed 
tlie flMDi prove 
bf tke €MUi The Tianiis we 
prave as AocaUM 
wkick anctch aloBg tbe InriaoBy tnd 
are iqM« tke Banner not — ik e mi e n dj miwtakeHy ii 
tke detance. for its and pleasant land. Tke kopes, thit 
ioorisked ui all tkeir fireskneaB m tke ackool, or attkefiie- 
iide. naj he cimhed or blasted amidst tke atmg^eB and 
coodicts of manlmnd. Where expectatioD was kwiking fa 
a bright dereiopiiieiit of honorahfe and nselul talent, we 
find Dothinf bat the dall lerel of ordinary attain- 
The promise of poritT and improrementy which the 
if^^iiif of hie care, is ll^lsified amidst tke toUs and strivingB 
of later rears. lemindinf as of tke fancifid, boi Ijeantifiil 
notion entertained bj some of the ancient natinmi^ that the 
I^ht of the dawn was an nncreated being, which f^eaned 
from the throne of God, and returned thither when the ten 

Scene from HadatL — ^HnxHomOL 

Aa apartBcat in Amsaimm's boose. Natkah awl Tahar. 

NatkoM, Thou'rt left to-day, (would thoa wert ewer kft 
Of some that haunt thee !) therefore am I come 
To give thee counsel. — Child of sainted Miriam, 
Fear not to look upon me ; thou wilt hear 
The gentle roice of love, not stern moniticm. 
Commune with me as with a tender parent. 
Who cares for all thy wishes, hc^>es and fears, ^ 


Though prizing thy immortal gem aboye 
The transitory. 

Tamar. Have I not thus, ever ? 
Naik, But I would probe the tenderest of thy heart. 
Touch its disease, and give it strength again. 
And yet inflict no pain. 

Tarn, What means my lord? 

Naik, I know thee pure, and guileless as the dovv,— • 
The easier prey ; and thou art fair, to tempt 
The spoiler — nay, be noC alarmed, but speak 
Openly to me. I would ask thee, princess, 
U not displeasing, somewhat of the stranger. 
The Syrian, who aspires to David's line. 

Tarn. (AverUng ker eyes.) 
If I can answer — 

Nath. Maiden, need I ask, — 
I fear I need not,-^-is he dear to thee ? — 
'Tis well. But tell me, hast thou ever noted, 
Amidst his many shining qualities, 
Aught strange or singular ? — unlike to others f <— 
That caused thy wonder ?— even to thyself. 
Moved thee to* say, " How ! Wherefore's thisf 
Tarn. Never. 

Nath. Nothing that marked him frran the rest of men f*— 
Hereafter you shall know why thus I question. 

. Tarn* O yes, unlike he seems in many things; 
In knowledge, eloquence, high thoughts. 

Na^ Proud thoughts 
Thou mean'st 

Tarn, I'm but a young and simple maid ; 
' Bat, father, he, of all my ears have judged, 
b master of the loftiest, richest mind. 

Nath. How have I wronged him ! deeming him more apt 
Fbr intricate designs, and daring deeds. 
Than contemplation's solitary flights. 

Tam. Seer, his far-soaring thoughts ascend the stars. 
Pierce the unseen abyss, pervade, like light, 
The universe, and wing the infinite. 

Naik. {Fixing his eyes ttpon her,) 
What stores of love, and praise, and gratitude. 


He thence must bring to Him, whooe mighty hand 
Fashioned their glories, hung yon golden orbs 
Amidst his wondroas firmament ; who bids 
The daynspring know his place, and sheds firom all 
Sweet influences ; who bars the haughty sea. 
Binds fast his dreadfiil hail, but drops the dew 
Nightly upon his people ! How his soul, 
Returning firom its quest through earth and hearen. 
Must glow with huAy fervor !— Doth it, maiden t 

Tarn. Ah, father, fiither, were it so indeed, 
I were too happy. 

Nath. How 1 — ^Expound thy words. 

Tarn, Though he has trod tfae^nfinei|)of the woA 
Knows all its wonders, and almost has pierced 
The secrets of eternity, his heart 
Is melancholy, lone, discordant, save 
When love attunes it into happiness. 
He hafli not found, alas! the peace which dwells 
But with our fathers' God. 

Nath. And canst thou love 
One who loves not Jehovah ? 

Tom, Oh ! ask not. 

Nath, {JFWventfy.) 
My child, thou wouldst not wed an infidel 7 

Tarn. {In tears.) O no! O no! 

Nath, Why, then, this embassage ? Why doth ym 
Still urge the king? Why hast thou hearkened it? 

Tarn, There was a time when I had hopes, — ^when 
Seemed dawning in his mind, — and sometimes, still. 
Such heavenly glimpses shine, that my fond heart 
Refuses to forego the hope, at last. 
To number him with Israel. 

Nath, Beware ! 
Or thou'lt delude thy soul to ruin. Say, 
Doth he attend our holy ordinances'? 

Tom. He promises observance. ^ 

Nath, Two full years 
Hath he abode in Jewry. 

Tarn. Prophet, think 
How he was nurtured — in the faith of idols. — 


That impious worship long since he abjured 
By hb own native strength ; and now he looks 
Abroad through nature's works^ and yet must rise— 

Naih, Speaks he of Moses t 

Tarn. Familiar as thyself. 

NtUk. I think thou said'st he had surveyed the worid t 

Tarn. From Ethiopia to the farthest East, — 
Cities, and tribes, and nations. He can speak 
Of hundred-gated Thebes, towered Babylon, 
And mightier Nineveh, rast Palibothra, 
Serendibf anchored by the gates of morning. 
Renowned Benares, where the sages teach 
The mystery of the soul, and that famed seat 
Where fleets and warriors from Elishah's Isles 
Besieged the Beauty, where great Memnon fell ; — 
Of temples, groves, and superstitious caves. 
Filled with strange symbols of the Deity ; 
Of wondrous mountains, desert-circled seas. 
Isles of the ocean, lovely Paradises, 
Set, like unfading emeralds, in the deep. 

Nath, Yet manhood scarce confirms his cheek. 

Tarn. All this 
His thirst of knowledge has achieved — the wish 
To gather from the wise eternal truth. 

Nath, Not found, where he has sought it, and has led 
Thy wandering fancy. 

Tarn, Oh ! might I relate — 
But I bethink me, father, of a thing 
Like that you asked. Sometimes, when I'm alone^ 
Just ere his coming, I have heard a sound — 
A strange, mysterious, melancholy sound-*- 
Like music in the air. Anon he enters. 

Nath. Ha! is this oft? 

Tom. 'Tis not unfrequent. 

Naeh, Only 
When thou'rt alone 1 

Tarn, 1 have not heard it else. 

Nath. A sound like what ? 

T(tm, Like wild, sad music, father ; 
More moving than the lute or viol touched 

By skilfbl fingerft. Wtiling in tiie air» 

It seems arooBd me, and withdraws as wbea 

One looka and lingers for a last adieo. 

Natk. Just ere he enters t 

Tom. At his step it dies. 

NiM. Mark me. Thoa know'at ^tia held by rig^leoas 
That Hearen intimsts ns aU to watching spirits* 
Who ward us from the tempter. — ^This I deem 
Some intimation of an museen danger. 

Tatn, But whence ? 

Nath. Time may rereal : meanwhile, I warn thee, 
Trust not thyself alone with Hadad. 

Tarn. Father, — 

Nath, I lay not to his charge ; I know, in sooth. 
Little of him, (though I have sup|Jicated,) 
And would not wound thee with a dark suspicion ; 
But shun the peril thou art warned of; shun 
What looks like danger, though we haply err : 
Be not alone with him, I charge thee. 

Tarn. Seer, 
I will avoid it. 

Nath, All b ominous : 
The oracles are mute ; dreams warn no more; 
Urim and Thummim keep their glory hid ; 
My days are dark, my nights are visionless ; 
Jehovah hath forsaken, or, in wrath, 
Resigned us for a season. Times like these 
Are jubilee in hell. Fiends walk the earth. 
Misleading princes, tempting poor men's pillows. 
Supplying moody Hatred with the dagger. 
Lust with occasions, Treason with excuses. 
Lifting man's heart, like the rebellious waves, 
Against his Maker. Watch, and pray, and tremble ; 
So may the Highest overshadow thee ! 

[E^ NoA.] 

Tarn, His awful accents freeze my blood. — ^Alas 1 
How desolate, how dark my prospect lowers ! — 
O Hadad, is it thus those sunny days. 
Those sweet, deceptive hopes, must terminate. 


That impious worship long since he ahjnred 
By his own native strength ; and now he looks 
Abroad through nature's works^ and yet must rise— - 

Nath. Speaks he of Moses t 

Tom. Familiar as thyself. 

Naih, I think thou said'st he had surveyed the worid t 

Torn, From Ethiopia to the farthest East, — 
Cities, and tribes, and nations. He can speak 
Of hundred-gated Thebes, towered Babylon, 
And mightier Nineveh, vast Palibothra, 
Serendibf anchored by the gates of morning. 
Renowned Benares, where the sages teach 
The mystery of the soul, and that famed seat 
Where fleets and warriors from Elishah's Isles 
Besieged the Beauty, where great Memnon fell ; — 
Of temples, groves, and superstitious caves. 
Filled with strange symbols of the Deity ; 
Of wondrous mountains, desert-circled seas. 
Isles of the ocean, lovely Paradises, 
Set, like unfading emeralds, in the deep. 

Nath, Yet manhood scarce confirms his cheek. 

Tarn. All this 
His thirst of knowledge has achieved — ^the wish 
To gather from the wise eternal truth. 

Nath, Not found, where he has sought it, and has led 
Thy wandering fancy. 

7am. Oh ! might I relate — 
But I bethink me, father, of a thing 
Like that you asked. Sometimes, when I'm alone^ 
Just ere his coming, I have heard a sound-— 
A strange, mysterious, melancholy sound — 
Like music in the air. Anon he enters. 

Nath. Ha! is this oft? 

Tam, 'Tis not unfrequent 

Nath, Only 
When thou'rt alone ? 

Tam, I have not heard it else. 

Nath, A sound like what ? 

Tam, Like wild, sad music, father ; 
More moving than the lute or viol touched 


. And with our frames do perish all our loves ? 
Do those that took their root, and put forth buds, 
And their soil leaves unfolded, in the warmth 
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, 
Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers? 
Are thoughts and passions, that to the tongue giv'e npeec 
And make it send forth winn\pg harmonies, — 
That to the cheek do give its living glow, 
And vision in the eye the soul intense 
With that for which there is no utterance, — 
Are these the body's accidents ? — no more ? — 
To live in it, and, when that dies, go out 
Like the burnt taper's flame ? 

' O listen, man 1 
A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
^' Man, thou shalt never die !" . Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls : according harps. 
By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality : 
Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain. 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seaSy 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 
O listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
From all the air. 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 
'Tis floating midst Day^s setting glories ; Night, 
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : 
Night,^and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. ^. _. _ 



Western EmigraHon. — ^E. Everett. 

The march of our population westward, has been attended 
with consequences, in some degree, novel, in the history of 
the human mind. It is a fact, somewhat difficult of expla- 
nation, that the refinement of the ancient nations seemed 
almost wholly devoid of an elastic and expansive principle. 
The arts of Greece -were enchained to her islands and ^ her 
eoasts ; they did* not penetrate the interior. The language 
aiid literature of Athens were as unknown to the north of 
Pindus, at a distance of two hundred miles firom the capital 
of Grecian refinement, as they were in Scythia. Thrace, 
whose mountain tops may almost be seen firom the porch of 
the temple of Minerva at Sunium, was the proverbial abode 
of barbarism. Though the colonies of Greece were scatter- 
ed on the coasts of Italy, of France, of Spain, and of Africa, 
no extension of their population toward the interior took 
place ; and the arts did not penetrate beyond the walls of the 
cities where they were cultivated. 

How different is the picture of the diffusion of the arts and 
improvements of civilization, from the coast to the interior 
of America ! Population advances westward with a rapidity, 
which numbers may describe indeed, but cannot represent, 
with any vivacity, to the mind. The wilderness, which one 
year is impassable, is traversed the next by the caravans of 
the industrious emigrants,- who go to follow the setting sun, 
with the language, the institutions and the arts of civilized 
life. It is not the irruption of wild barbarians, come to visit 
the wrath of God on a degenerate empire ; it is not the in- 
road of disciplined banditti, marshalled by the intrigues of 
ministers and kings. It is the human family, led out to pos- 
sess its broad patrimony. 

The states and nations, which are springing up in the val- 
ey of the Missouri, are bound to us by the dearest ties of a 
<Unmon language, a common government, and a common 
leacent. Before New England can look with coldness on 
^ir rising myriads, she must forget that some of the best of 
^ own blood is beating in their veins ; that her hardy chil- 


dren, with their axes on their shoulders, have been li 
among the pioneers in this march of humanity ; that, 
as she is, she has become the mother of populous state 
What generous mind would sacrifice, to a selfish pr« 
tion of local preponderance, the delight of beholdin| 
ized nations rising up in the desert ; and the langua^ 
manners, the institutions, to which he has been reare 
ried with his household gods to the foot of the 
Mountains ! Who can forget that this extension of c 
ritorial limits, is the extension of the empire of all w 
dear ; of our laws, of our character, of the memory 
ancestors, of the great achievements in our history I ' 
ersoever the sons of the thirteen states shall wan< 
southern or western climes, they will send back their 
to the rocky shores, the battle fields, and the intrepid 
cUs of the Atlantic coast. These are placed beyoi 
reach of vicissitude. They have become, already, ma 
history, of poetry, of eloquence. 

The love where death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
Nor falsehood disavow. 

Divisions may spring up, ill blood arise, parties be i 
and interests may seem to clash ; but the great bonds 
nation are linked to what is passed. The deeds of th 
men, to whom this country owes its origin and growtl 
patrimony, I know, of whiAi its children will never < 
themselves As long as the Mississippi and the M 
shall flow, those men and those deeds will be remembc 
their banks. The sceptre of government may go w! 
wUl; but that of patriotic feeling can never depar 


The God of Universal Nature, — Chalbiers. 

To an eye which could spread itself over the whd 
▼erse, the mansion which accommodates our species 



Western Emigration, — ^E. Everett. 

The march of oar population westward, has been attended 
with consequences, in some degree, novel, in the history of 
the human mind. It is a fact, somewhat difficult of expla- 
nation, that the refinement of the ancient nations seemed 
almost wholly devoid of an elastic and expansive principle. 
The arts of Greece were enchained to her islands and ^ her 
coasts ; they did> not penetrate the interior. The language 
and literature of Athens were as unknown to the north of 
Pindus, at a distance of two hundred miles from the capital 
of Grecian refinement, as they were in Scythia. Thrace, 
whose mountain tops may almost be seen fi'om the porch of 
the temple of Minerva at Sunium, was the proverbial abode 
of barbarism. Though the colonies of Greece were scatter- 
ed on the coasts of Italy, of France, of Spain, and of Africa, 
no extension of their population toward the interior took 
place ; and the arts did not penetrate beyond the walls of the 
cities where they were cultivated. 

How different is the picture of the diffusion of the arts and 
improvements of civilization, from the coast to the interior 
of America ! Population advances westward with a rapidity, 
which numbers may describe indeed, but cannot represent, 
with any vivacity, to the mind. The wilderness, which one 
year is impassable, is, traversed the next by the caravans of 
the industrious emigrants, who go to follow the setting sun, 
with the language, the institutions and the arts of civilized 
life. It is not the irruption of wild barbarians, come to visit 
the wrath of God on a degenerate empire ; it is not the in- 
road of disciplined banditti, marshalled by the intrigues of 
ministers and kings. It is the human family, led out to pos- 
sess its broad patrimony. 

The states and nations, which are springing up in the val- 
ley of the Missouri, are bound to us by the dearest ties of a 
common language, a common government, and a common 
descent. Before New England can look with coldness on 
their rising myriads, she must forget that some of the best of 
her own blood is beating in their veins ; that her hardy chil- 


dren, with their axes on their shoulders, have been literally 
among the pioneers in this march of humanity ; that, young 
as she is, she has become the mother of populous states. 

What generous mind would sacrifice, to a selfish preserva- 
tion of local preponderance, the delight of beholding civil- 
ized nations rising up in the desert ; and the language, the 
manners, the institutions, to which he has been reared, car- 
ried with his household gods to the foot of the Rocky 
Mountains ! Who can forget that this extension of our ter- 
ritorial limits, is the extension of the empire of all we hold 
dear ; of our laws, of our character, of the memory of our 
ancestors, of the great achievements in our history I Whith- 
ersoever the sons of the thirteen states shall wander, to 
southern or western climes, they will send back their hearts 
to the rocky shores, the battle fields, and the intrepid coon^ 
oils of the Atlantic coast. These are placed beyond the 
reach of vicissitude. They have become, already, matter of 
history, of poetry, of eloquence. 

The love where death has set his seal. 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
Nor falsehood disavow. 

Divisions may spring up, ill blood arise, parties be formed, 
and interests may seem to clash ; but the great bonds of the 
nation are linked to what is passed. The deeds of the great 
men, to whom this country owes its origin and growth, are a 
patrimony, I know, of whiAi its children will never deprive 
themselves As long as the Mississippi and the Missouri 
shall flow, those men and those deeds will be remembered on 
their banks. The sceptre of government may go where it 
will; but that of patriotic feeling can never depart firom 


The God of Universal Nature. — Chalbiers. 

To an eye which could spread itself over the whole uni* 
verse, the mansion which accommodates our species might 


be io Tery nnall, as to lie wrapped in microscopical conceal- 
ment ; and, in reference to the only Being who possesses this 
oniyersal eye, well might we say, ** What is man, that thou 
art mindfbl of him, or the son of man, that thou shouldest 
deign to Tisit him V 

And, after all, though it be a mighty and difficalt concep- 
timi, yet who can question it? What is seen may be nothing 
to what is unseen ; for what is seen is limited by the range 
of our instruments, — ^what is unseen has no limit. Though 
all which the eye of man can take in, or his fancy can 
grasp 'at, were swept away, there might still remain as 
ample a field, over which the Divinity may expatiate, and 
which he may have peopled with innumerable worlds. If the 
wh<de visible creation were to disappear, it would leave a 
solitude behind it ; but to the infinite Mind, that can take in 
the whole system of nature, this solitude might be nothing, — 
a small, unoccupied point in that immensity which sur- 
rounds it, and which he may have filled with the wonders of 
his omnipotence. 

Though this earth were to be burned up, though the trum- 
pet of its dissolution were sounded, though yon sky were to 
pass away as a scroll, and every visible glory, which the 
finger of Divinity has inscribed on it, were to be put out for- 
ever, — an event so awful, to us and to every world in our 
vicinity ; by which so many suns would be extinguished, and 
80 many varied scenes of life anj^ of population, would rush 
into forgetfiilness, — what is it in the high scale of the Al- 
mighty's workmanship? A mere shred, which, though scat- 
tered into nothing, would leave the universe of God one 
entire scene of greatness and of majesty. Though this earth, 
and these heavens, were to disappear, th^re are other worlds 
which roll afar ; the light of other suns shines upon them ; 
and the sky which mantles them, is garnished with other 

Is it presumption to say, that the moral world extends to 
those distant and unknown regions? that they are occupied 
with people ? that the charities of home and of neighborhood 
flourish there ? that the praises of God are there lifted up, 
and his goodness rejoiced in ? that piety has its temples and 
its cf^rings? and the richness of the divine attributes^ is 



there felt and Kdinired by iotelligeDt wwshippen? And 
what is tbis world, ia tbe imtnensitj which teems with thent 
and what are they who occupy a1 

Tke universe at large would auifer as little, io its sfdeiidw 
and variety, by the destruction of our planet, aa the verdura 
and BubliuiB magnitude of a forest, would suffer by the fall of 
a single leaf. The leaf quivers on the branch which su^ 
porta it. It lies tU the mercy of tbe slightest accident A 
bteath of wind tears it from its stem, and it lights on On 
stream of water which passes underneath. In a moment, 
the life, which, we know by the/microacope^it teems with, 
is extinguished ; and an occurrence so insigDificant ia lbs 
eye of man, uid on the scale of his observation, carries 
in it, to the myriads which people this little leaf, an ereot u 
terrible and as deci:iive as the destruction of a world. 

Now, on the grand scale of the universe, we, the occi;^ 
crs of this ball — which performs its little round, among tbe 
suns and tbe systems that astronomy has unfolded — we may 
feel the same littleness and the same insecurity. We dit 
(er Gtom the leaf only in ilii» circumstance, that it wonid 
require the operation of greater elements to destroy us, Bol 
these elements eil^t : and. if lei loose npon us by the band of 
the Alinighiv, ihev would spread solitude, and silence, and 
death, iwer the domini.ins of tbe voHd. 

NiVK, it i$ this Uttleues^. snd this insecnri^, which make 
tbe pivMvtkm ol' the Almi^v w dear to us, and bring, with 
sueh emjdiasis. to tMTX yiitxif bosom, the holy lessons of 
humi'::!} a«i p-aii::!Cf, The God who sits above, uid 
j««!i« «j y.yrt tc'JKVitv liver all worlds, ia mindful of man; 
Uk^ -.K'Hif^ a O-i^ moment his energy is felt in tbe te- 
TAivrs^ l>?i«iiic<« of ctfuioB, we may feel the same Becnriiy 
ir. his ii.-w WfWW- as il" *re were the objects of bis undivided 

to bring our minds up to this mysteriov* 

ftot »uch is the incomprehenaible fact, that tbe 

whose eye is abroad over the whole unirertfi 

every blade of grass, and motion to everj 

blood which circulates through the veins of ib^ 

imal ; that, though his mind takes into its com* 

imioeiiBity and all its wonders, I =m a* 


much known to him as if I were the single object of his a^ 
tentiou ; that he marks all my thoughts ; that he gives birth 
to every feeling and every movement within me ; and that, 
with an exercise of power which I can neither describe nor 
comprehend, the same God, who sits in the highest heaven, 
and reigns over the glories of the firmament, is at my right 
hand, to give me every breath which I draw, and every com- 
fort which I enjoy. 

Rome, — ^Btron. 

O Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 

The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires, and control 

In their shut breasts their petty misery. 

What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 

O'er steps of broken thrones and temples ; ye, - 
Whose .agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

TheGNiobejof nations ! there she stands. 

Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo; 
An empty urn within her withered hands, 

Whose holy dust was scattered long ago ; 

The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 

Of their heroic dwellers. Dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber, through a marble wilderness? 
ftise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress ! 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride ; 

She saw her glories, star by star, expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride. 


Where the car climbed the capitol ; far and wide. 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 

Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, " Here was, or is "where all is doubly night? 

'Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 

The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 

The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away I 

Alas ! for Tully's voice and Virgil's lay, 
And Livy's pictured page ! but these shall be 

Her resurrection ; all beside— -decay. 
Alas ! for earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye, she bore when Rome was free I 

tJ^iahgue : — JRienzi and Angela. — Miss Mitpord. 

Rienzi. Friends, 
I come not hers to talk. Ye know too well 
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves ! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave ; — ^not such as, swept along 
By the full tide o(' power, the conqueror leads 
To crimson glory and undying fame ; 
But base, ignoble slaves — sUves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords, 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages — 
Strong in some hundred spearmen— only great 
In that strange spell, a name. Each hour, dark fraud, 
Or open'rapine^or protected murder, 
Cries out against them. But this very day. 
An honest man, my neighbor, — there he stands, — 
Was struck — struck like a dog — by one who wore. 


The badge of Ursini ; because, forsooth^ 

He tossed ndl high his ready cap in air, 

Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, 

At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men, 

And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not 

The stain away in blood 1 Such shames are oomnHML 

I have known deeper wrongs.. I, that speak to yDO, 

I had a brother once, a gracious boy. 

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, 

Of sweet and quiet joy ; there was the kx>k 

Of heaven upon his face, which limners girs 

To the beloved disciple. How I loved 

That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen yean. 

Brother at once and son ! He left my side, 

A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile 

Parting his innocent lips. In one short hoary 

The pretty, harmless boy was slain I I saw 

The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried ' 

For vengeance. — Rouse, ye Romans ! Rouse, ye sItVMl 

Have ye brave sons ? Look, in the next fierce brawl, 

To see them die. .Have ye fair daughters f Look 

To see them live, torn from your arms, distained. 

Dishonored ; and, if ye dare call for justice. 

Be answered by the lash. Yet this is Roiae, 

That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne 

Of beauty, ruled the world ! Yet we are RomaaiL 

Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman 

Was greater than a king ! And once, again,-^** 

Bear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 

Of either Brutus ! once again, I swear. 

The eternal city shall be free ; her sons 

Shall walk with princes. -^ 

Angela. {Entering,) What be ye. 
That thus, in stern and watchful mystery. 
Cluster beneath the vail of night, and sttll 
To hear a stranger's foot? 
Rie, Romans. 
Ang, And wherefore 
Meet ye, my countrymen t 
Ricn For freedom. 


Ang. Sorely 
Thou art Cola di Rienzi 1 

Rie. Ay, the voice— 
The traitor roice. 

Ang. I know thee by the words. 
Who, save thyself, in this bad age, when mas 
Lies prostrate like yon temple, dared conjoin 
The sounds of Rome and freedom t 

Rie. I shall teach 
The world to blend those words, as in the day» 
Before the Caesars. Thou shalt be the first 
To hail the union. I have seen thee hang 
On tales of the world's mistress, till thine eyes. 
Flooded with strong emotion, have let faU 
Big tear-drops on thy cheeks, and thy young hand 
Hath clenched thy maiden sword. Unsheath it now — 
Now, at thy country's call ! What, dost thou pause ? 
Is the flame quenched ? Dost falter ? Hence with thee t 
Pass on ! pass whilst thou may ! 

Af^. Hear me, Rienzi. 
Even BOW my spirit leaps up at the thought 
Of those brafve storied days — a treasury 
Of matchless visions, bright and glorified, 
' Paling the dim lights of this darkling world 
With the golden blaze of heaven, but past and gone,. 
As clouds of yesterday, as last night's dream. 

Rie, A dream ! Dost see yon phalanx, still and stem! 
A hundred leaders, each with such a band. 
So armed, so resdute, so fixed in will. 
Wait with suppressed impatience till they hear 
The great bell of the capitol, to spring 
At once aa their proud foes. Join them. 

Ang. My father ! 

Rie. Already he hath quitted Rome. 

Ang My kinsmen ! * 

Rie. We are too strong for contest Thou shalt 
No other change, within our peaceful streets. 
Than that of slaves to freemen ; such a change 
As is the silent step from night to day, 
From darkness into light We talk too long. 


Ang. Tet reason with them — ^wam them. 

jRte. And their answer 
Vill be the jail, the gibbet, or the axe— 
The keen retort of power. Why, I have reasoned ; 
And, but that I am held, amongst your great ones, 
Balf madman and half fool, these bones of mine 
Had whitened on yon wall. Warn them ! They met, 
At every step, dark warnings. The pure air, 
Where'er they passed, was heavy with the weight 
Of sullen silence ; friend met friend, nor smiled, 
Tin the last footfall of the tyrant's steed 
Had died upon the ear ; and, low and hoarse, 
Hatred came murmuring like the deep voice - 
Of the wind before the tempest 

Ang, I'll join ye ; 

\G%ve$ his hand to Rtenxi.'\ 
How shdl I swear ? 

RU, ( To the people.) Friends, comrades, countrymen 
I bring unhoped-for aid. Young Angelo, 
The immediate heir of the Colonna, craves 
To join your band. 

Ang. Hear me iswear 
By Rome, by freedom, by Rienzil Comrades, 
How have ye titled your deliverer t Consul, 
Dictator, emperor t 

Rie, No ; 
Those names have been so oflen steeped in Mood, 
So shamed by folly, so profaned by sin. 
The sound seems ominous. — I'll none of them. 
Call me the tribune of the people ; there 
My honoring duty lies. Hark — ^the bell, the bell I 
The knell of tyranny ! the mighty voice. 
That to the city and the plain, to earth. 
And listening heaven, proclaims the glorious tale 
Of Rome reborn, and freedom ! See, the clouds 
Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light 
Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars 
Look out on us, and smile. 


Dignity md Ruilknct of tke Poetical Art. — C^amning. 

Poetry seems to us the divines! of all irts ; for it is the 
breathing or expression of that principle or sentiment, which 
is deepest and sublimest in human nature ; we mean, of that 
thirst or aspiration, to which no mind is wholly a stranger, 
£>r something purer and lovelier, something more powerful, 
k>fty and thrilling, than ordinary and real life afifords. No 
doctrine is more common among Christians than that of 
man's immortality ; but it is not so generally understood, that 
the germs or principles of his whole future being are nou 
wrapped up in his soul, as the rudiments of the future. plant 
in the seed. As a necessary result of this constitution, the 
iKMil, possessed and moved by these mighty though infant en« 
ergiiis, ift perpetually stretching beyond what is present and 
visible, struggling against the bounds of its earthly prison- 
house, and seeking relief and joy in imaginings of unseen 
and ideal being. 

This view of our nature, which has never been fully de- 
veloped, and which goes farther towards explaining the con- 
tradictions of human life than all others, carries us to the 
very foundation and sources of poetry. He who cannot in- 
terpret, by his own consciousness, what we now have said, 
wants the true key to works of genius. He ha^ not penetrat- 
ed those sacred recesses of the soul, where poetry is bom 
and nourished, and inhales immortal vigor, and wings herself 
for her heaven-ward flight. In an intellectual nature, framed 
for progress and for higher modes of being, there must be 
creative energies, powers of original and ever-growing 
thought; and poetry is the form in which theae energies are 
chiefly manifested. 

It is the glorious prerogative of this art, that it " makes all 
things new" for the gratification of a divine instinct. It 
indeed finds its elements in what it actually sees and experi- 
ences, in the worlds of matter and mind ; but it combines 
and blends these into new forms, and according to new affin- 
ities ; breaks down, if we may so say, the distinctions and 


boonds of nature ; imparts to material objects life, and senti- 
ment, and emotion, and invests the mind with the powers 
and splendors of the outward creation ; describes the sur- 
rounding universe in the colors which the passions throw 
over ity and depicts the soul in those modes of repose or agi- 
tation, of tenderness or sublime emotion, which manifest its 
thirst for a more powerful and joyful existence. To a man 
of a literal and prosaic character, the mind may seem law- 
less in these workings ; but it observes higher laws than it 
transgresses — Che laws of the immortal intellect; it is trying 
and developing its best faculties ; and in the objects which it 
describes, or in the ^knotions which it awakens, anticipates 
those states of progressive power, splendor, beauty and hap- 
piness, for which it was created. 

We accordingly believe that poetry, far from injuring soci- 
ety, is one of the great instruments of its refinement and 
exaltation. It lifts the mind above ordinary life, gives it a 
respite fi'om depressing cares, and awakens the consciousness 
of its affinity with what is pure and noble. In its legitimate 
and highest efforts, it has the same tendency and aim with 
Christianity ; that is, to spiritualize our nature. True, poe- 
try has been made the instrument of vice, the pander of bad 
passions ; but when genius thus stoops, it dims its fires, and 
parts with much of its power ; and even when poetry is en^ 
slaved to licentiousness or misanthropy, she cannot wholly 
fivget her true vocation. Strains of pure feeling, touches of 
t^derness, images of innocent happiness, sympathies with 
Sii&ring virtue, bursts of scorn or indignation at the hoUow- 
ness of the world, passages true to our moral nature, often 
escape in an immoral work, and show us how hard it is for 
a gifted spirit to divorce itself wholly firom what is good. 

Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections. It 
delights in .the beauty and sublimity of the outward creation 
and of the soul. It indeed portrays, with terrible energy, 
the excesses of the passions ; but they are passions which 
show a mighty nature, which are full of power, which com- 
mand awe, and excite a deep, though shuddering sympathy. 
Its great tendency and purpose is, to carry the mind beyond 
and above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life ; 
to lift it into a purer element ; and to breathe into it mora 



profound and generous emotion. It reveals to ns the loveli- 
ness of nature ; brings back the freshness of early feeling; 
revives the relish of simple pleasures ; keeps nnquenched tfie 
enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being ; re- 
fines youthful love ; strengthens our interest in human nature 
by vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings ; 
spreads our sympathies over all classes of society ; knits us }rj 
new ties with universal being ; and, through the brightness of 
its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life. 

We are aware, that it is objected to poetry, that it gives 
wrong views and excites false expectations of life, peoples 
the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up' imagina* 
tion on the ruins of wisdom. That there, is a wisdom 
against which poetry wars, — the wisdom of the senses, which 
makes physical comfort and gratification the supreme good, 
and wealth the chief interest of life, — we do not deny ; nor do 
we deem it the least service which poetry renders to mankind, 
that it redeems them from the thraldom of this earthbom 

But, passing over this topic, we would observe, that the 
complaint against poetry, as abounding in illusion and decep- 
tion, is, in the main, groundless. In many poems there is 
more of truth, than in many histories and philosophic theories. 
The fictions of genius are often the vehicles of the sublimest 
verities ; and its flashes oflen open new regions of thought, 
and throw new light on the mysteries of our being. In 
poetry, when the letter is falsehood, the spirit is oflen pro- 
foundest wisdom. And if truth thus dwells in the boldest 
fictions of the poet, much more may it be expected in his de- 
lineations of life ; for the present life, which is th(e first stage 
of the immortal mind, abounds in the materials of poetry; 
and it is the high ofHce of the bard, to detect this divine 
element among the grosser labors and pleasures of our earthly 

The present life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame and 
finite. To the gifted eye, it abounds in the poetic. The 
affections which spread beyond ourselves, and stretch far into 
futurity ; the workings of mighty passions, which seem ta 
arm the soul with an almost superhuman energy ; the inno- 
^oat and irrepressible y>y of infancy ; the Uoorn^ and buoy- \ 


aacy, and dazzling hopes of youth , the throbbings of the 
heart, when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness 
too vast for earth ; woman, with her beauty, and grace, and 
gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth of affection, and 
Mushes of purity, and the tones and looks which only a 
mother's heart can inspire ; — these are all poetical. 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 es- 
sence ; 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 b 
good to feel that life is not wholly usurped by cares for sub- 
sijBtence, and physical gratifications, but admits, in measures 
which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and delights 
worthy of a higher being. 

This power of poetry to refine our views of life and hap- 
piness, is more and more needed as society advances. It b 
needed to withstand the encroachments of heartless and ar- 
tificial manners, which make civilization so tame and unin- 
teresting. It is needed to counteract the tendency of physi- 
cal science, which being now sought, not, as formerly, for 
intellectual gratification, but for multiplying bodily comforts^ 
Eequires a new development of imagination, taste and poetry, 
to preserve men firom sinking into an earthly, material, £pi^ 
cardan life. 


Popular Institutions favorable to intellectual Luprovemeni,"^ 

£L Ey£rett« 

Mental energy has been equally diffused by sterner level- 
ers than ever marched in the van of a revolution — ^the nature 
of man and the providence of God. Native character, 
strength^ and quickness of mind, are not of the number of 
distinctions and accomplishments, that human institutions 
can monopolize within a city's walls. In quiet times, they 
remain and perish in the obscurity, to which a false organiza- 
tion of society consigns them. In d&ngerous, convulsed^ aad 

trjin^^ tunes, diej apring' op m the fields, in the Tillage 
ietv, and oo the mountaiii tops, and teach the surprised 
im of homas law, diat bright ejes, skiHhl hands, qoic 
eeplioBs, finn pnrpeee, and fanre hearts^ are not the 
ate iQ^pot^grie of coorta. 

Our popofar i ns liCuti ons are ^Torable to inteDecta; 
p w wem ent, became their fcondation is in dear nature. 
do not cooagn the greater part of the social frame to ti 
tf and mortificatioo. The j send oat a rital nerve to 
member of die co mimi i ii ty, bj which its talent and { 
great or smaS, are brought into liring conjunction and i 
sgrmpathy widi the krod^red iati^ect of the nation ; and 
impr e sM OP oo every part vibrates, with dectric nq 
AioQgli the whole. They enc<Mirage nature to p6rfec 
work; they make education, the sooFs nutriment, c 
they bring up remote and sfariidung talent into the cfa 
field of Competition'; in a thousand ways, they provide i 
dience icMr fips, which nature has touched with persu; 
fbey pot a lyre into the hands of genius ; they bestow 
who deserve it, oi^ seek it, the only patronage worth hi 
the only patronage that ever struck out a spark of *' ce 
fire,"-^the patronage of fidr of^rtumty. 

This is a day of improved education ; new systei 
feAchmg are detised ; modes of instruction, choice of st 
adaptation of text-books, the whole machinery of n 
have been brought in our day under severe revision, 
were I to attempt to point out the most efficacious and 
prehensive improveuieiit in education, the engine, by ' 
the greatest portion of mind could be brought and 
tta^ ctdtinttion, ihe discipline which would reach fai 
sink deepest, and cause the word of instruction i 
i^Hread over the surface, like an artificial hue, carefull; 
6n» but to ptn^at^ to the heart and soul of its object 
Would b^ poptAnx inartitiitions. Give tlie people an obj< 
promoting education, and the best methods will infallil 
suggested by that instinctive ingenuity of our nature, ' 
^vides itieittts fbt great and precious ends. Give the | 
an object in pcromotrng education, and the worn hand 
bor WiH be o^iened to the last ferthing, that its children 
^7 iteitiu^ deiiied to it^f^ 



After a Tempest — Bryant. , 

The day had been a day of wind and storm ; — 
The wind was laid, the storm was overpassed. 

And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm, 
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last 
I stood upon the upland slope, and cast 

My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, 
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, 

And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, 
Tiih pleasant vales, scooped out, and villages between. 

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around. 

Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred. 
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, 

Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; 

For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard 
About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung 

And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward ; 
To the gray oak, the squirrel, chiding, clung, 
Lnd, chirping, from the ground the grasshopper npspmng. 

And from beneath the leaves^ that kept them dry. 

Flew many a glittering insect here and there, 
And darted up and down the butterfly. 

That seemed a living blossom of the air. 

The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
The violent rain had pent them ; in the way 

Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair ; 
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, 
nd 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at plaj. 

It was a scene of peace ; and, like a spell. 
Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 

Upon the motionless wood that clothed the dell, 
And precipice upspringing like a wall, 



And- glassy river, and white waterfall, 
And happy living things that trod the bright 

And beauteous scene ', while, far beyond them all. 
On many a lovely valley, out of sight. 
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft, golden light 

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 

/When o'er earth's continents, and isles between. 
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea. 
And married nations dwell in harmony ; 

When millions, crouching in the dust to one. 
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee. 

Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done. 

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers. 

And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast — 

The fair earth, that should only blush with flowen 
And ruddy fruits : but not for aye can last 
The storm ; and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past 

Lo I the clouds roll away — they break — they fly ; 
And, like the glorious light of summer, cast 

(Ver the wide landscape from the embracing sky. 
On all the peaceful world the smile of Heaven shall lie. 


The Rejected.— T. H. Bayley. 

Not have me I Not love me ! Oh, what have I said 1 
Sure never WiM lover so strangely misled. 
Rejected ! and just when I hoped to be blessed I 
You can't be in earnest ! It must be a jest. 

Remember — ^remember how oflen I've knelt. 
Explicitly telling you all that I felt. 
And talked about poison in accents so wild, 
**** very like torture^ you stai\«d — ^axvd ^T(v\lAid. 


ia¥e me ! Not love me ! Oh, what have I done ? 

atural nourishment did I not shun ? 

igure is wasted ; my spirits are lost ; 

my eyes are deep sunk^ like the eyes of a ghoft 

Bmber, remembet — ay, madam, you must— > 
e was exceedingly stout and robust ; 
e by your palfrey, I came at your cal], 
nightly went with you to banquet and balL 

lave me ! Not love me ! Rejected ! Relidsed ! 
never was lover so strangely ill used ! ^ 

ider my presents — I don't mean to boast-— 
madam, consider the money they cost I 

ember you've worn them ; and just can it be 
ike all my trinkets, and not to take me T 
don't throw them at me ! — ^You'll break—do not start— 
I't mean my gifts — but you mU break my heart ! 

lave me! Not love me ! Not go to the chohA! 
never was lover so left in the lurch ! 
»rain is distracted, my feelings are hurt ; 
nadam, don't tempt me to call you a flirt. 

ember my letters ; my passion they told ; 
all sorts of letters, save letters of gold ; 
amount of my notes, too — ^the notes that I penned, 
3ank notes — ^no, truly, I had none to send ! 

iiave me ! Not love me ! And is it, then, true 
opulent Age is the lover for yon ? 
ist rivalry's bloom I would strive — ^'tis too much 
ield to the terrors of rivalrjr's crutch. 

ember — ^remember I might call him out ; 
madam, you are not worth fighting about; 
wcHrd shall be stainless in blade and in hilt; 
ught you a jewel — ^I find you a jilt 



Jtttiie Song of the German Soldiers after Victory f- 

Mrs. Hebians. . 

'* At the first gleam of the river, they all hurst forth into the national -^ 
' Am Rheinf Am KhdnP They were two days passing o\&, and the ro* 
and the castle were ringing to the song the whole time ; for eadi band 
Bewed it while crossing \ and the Cossacks, with the dash, and the dang, i 
the roD of their stormy war-music, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, sw 
ed forth the chorus, ' Am Rhein! Am RheinP " 

Single Vo&e, 

It is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving ; 

I see the bright flood shine ; 
> Sing on the march, with every banner waving^ 

Sing, brothers I 'tis the Rhine ! 


The Rhine, the Rhine ! our own imperial river 1 

Be glory on thy track ! 
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver ; 

We bear thee freedom back. 

Single Voice. 

Hail I Hail ! My childhood knew thy rush of water, 

Even as my mother's song ; 
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, 

And heart and arm grew strong. 


Roll proudly on ! Brave blood is with thee sweeping, 

Poured out by sons of thine, 
When sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, 

Like thee, victorious Rhine I 

* The chonis of this song may serve as a good exercise for nimnltfi*^ 
mdiog. . 


IXngJe Voice, 

ome I Home I — thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting,- 

Thy path is by my home : 
ven now my children count the hoars, till meeting. 

O ransomed ones, I come ! 


0, tell the seas that chain shall bind thee never ; 

Sound on, by hearth and shrine ; 
ing through the hills that thou art free for ever ; 

Lift up thy voice, O Rhine I 

The Isles of Greece. — ^Btron. 

The isles of Greece I the isles of Greece I r 
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,— - 

Where grew the arts of war and peace,— 
Where Delos rose and Phosbus sprung ! 

Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 

But all, except their sun, is set 

The Scian and the Teian muse. 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds, which echo farther west 

Than your sires' '' Islands of the Blessed/* 

The mountains look on Marathon, 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And, musing there an hour alone^ 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; 

For, standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 


Ami when are tkej ! aad vlvre art dMHi, 

M T eo umu f ? Oa titr Toi rrh . m Atan 


ABd Muut tiiT IjTe, so lon^ dirine, 
Diegeaerate into haDds like mine T 

Tis aometkingy in the dearth of 6nie, 
Thoogh linked among a fettered race. 

To fed, at least, a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, soffose m j face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks, a Uosh — for Greece, a tear. 

Must we hot weep o'er days more blessed? 

Most we hot blo^t — Oar fathers Ued. 
Earth, render back, "fitHn oat thy breast, 

A remnant of oar Spartan dead ; 
Of the three hundred grant bat three. 
To make a new Thermopyls. 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Soand like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, *' Let one living head, 
But one, arise, — we come ! we come !" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain, in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine : 


Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet- 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone t 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

Yott have the letters Cadmus gave— 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
• •««••• 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king, who buys and sells. 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

Liberty to Athens, — J. G. Perciyal. 

The flag of freedom floats once more 

Around the lofly Parthenon ; 
It waves, as waved the palm of yore, 

In days departed long and gone ; 
As bright a glory, from the skies, 

Pours down its light around those towers, 
And once again the Greeks arise, 

As in their country's noblest hours ; 


Their swords are girt in virtue's caoae, 

Minerva's sacred hill is free — 
Oh I may she keep her equal laws, 

While man shall live, and time shall be. 

The pride of all her shrines went down ; 

The Goth, the Frank, the Turk had reft 
The laurel from her civic crown ; 

Her helm by many a sword was cleft : 
She lay among her ruins low — 

Where grew the palm, the cypress rose. 
And, crushed and bruised by many a blow. 

She cowered beneath her savage foes ; 
But now, again she springs from earth, 

Her loud, awakening trumpet speaks ; 
She rises in a brighter birth. 

And sounds redemption to the Greeks. 

It is the classic jubilee — 

Their servile years have rolled away \ 
The clouds that hovered o'er them flee, 

They hail the dawn of freedom's day ; • 
From Heaven the golden light descends, 

The times of old are on the wing, ^ 
And glory there her pinion bends, 

And beauty wakes a fairer spring ; 
The hills of Greece, her rocks, her waves. 

Are all in triumph's pomp arrayed ; 
A light that points their tyrants' graves. 

Plays round each bold Athenian's blade. 


The moral Principles of the Bible of universal AppUcaHon, 

— Wayland. 

We possess taste, which is gratified by our progress in the 

knowledge of the qualities and relations of things, which 

delights in the beautiful, and g\onf^% \tilVi<& v%&t; and^ also, a 


sonseieace, wUch if susceptible, of affections peeoliar to 
itKlfy upon the doing of right, or the C(»nmi8sion of wrong ; 
ind th^ afiections, so far as his history has been traced, 
bave more to do than any other with the happiness or misery 
of man. Taking these facts for granted, it is not difficult lo 
feretell what sort of intellectual and moral exhibitions will 
be most Videly disseminated, transforming the human char- 
acter and directing the human will. It is upon the suppo- 
sition, that we may thus judge what will, in a particular 
manner, a£Eect the human mind, that the whole science both 
of criticism and rhetoric is founded. 

I have said that taste is gratified by progress in knowledge 
of the qualities and relations of things, or by striking exhibi- 
tions of what is commonly called relative beauty. Hence 
the pleasure with which we contemplate a theorem of widely 
extended application in the sciences, or an invention of im- 
portant utility in the arts. Now, it is found that the material 
universe has been so created, as admirably to harmonize with 
this principle of our nature. The laws of matter are few, 
and comparatively simple ; but their relations are multiplied 
even to infinity. 

The law of gravitation may be easily explained to an 
ordinary man, or even to an intelligent child. But who 
can trace one half of its relations to things solid and 
fluid, things animate and inanimate ? to the very form of so- 
ciety itself? to this system, other systems? in fine, to the 
mighty masses of this material universe ? The mind delights 
to carry out such a principle to its ramified illustrations ; and 
hence it cherishes, as its peculiar treasve, a knowledge of 
these principles themselves. Thus was it, that the discovery 
of such a law gave the name of Newton to immortality ; re- 
duced to harmony the once apparently discordant movements 
of our planetary system ; taught us to predict the events of 
coming ages, and to explain what was before hidden, from the 
creation of the world. 

Now he, who will take the trouble to examine, will perceive, 
in the gospel of Jesus Christ, a system of ultimate truths in 
morals, in a very striking manner analogous to these elemen- 
tary laws of physics. In themselves, they are few, simple, 
and easily to be understood. Their relations, hoNV^N^t ^ ^^*ycl 



the other case, are infinite. The moral principle, by which ^ 
you can easily teach your little child to regulate her ccmdnct 
in the nursery, will furnish matter for the contem{dation iA 
statesmen and sages. It is the only principle on which the 
decisions of cabinets and courts can be founded, and is, of 
itself, sufficient to guide the diplomatist through all the 
mazes of the most intricate negotiation. 

Let any one who pleases make the experiment for himself 
Let him take one of the rules of human conduct, which the 
gospel prescribes ; and, having obtained a clear conception tS. 
it, just as it is revealed, let him carry it out in its unshrinking 
application to the doings and dealings of men. At first, if 
he be not accustomed to generalizations of this sort, he will 
find much that will stagger him ; and he, perhaps, will be 
ready hastily to decide that the ethics of the Bible were 
never intended for practice. But let him look a little longer, 
and meditate a little more intensely, and expand his views a 
little more widely, or become, either by experience or by 
years, a little older, and he will more and more wonder at 
the profoundness of wisdom, mnd the universality of applica- 
tion, of the principles of the gospel. With the most expanded 
views of society, he can go nowhere, where the Bible has not 
been before him. With the most penetrating sagacity, he 
can make no discovery, which the Bible had not long ago 
promulgated. He will find neither application which' inspira- 
tion did not foresee, nor exception against which it has not 

Now, with these universal moral principles the Bible is 
filled. At one time, you find them explicitly stated; at 
another, merely alluded to ; here, standing out in a precept; 
there, retiring behind a reflection ; now, enwrapped in the 
drapery of a parable ; then, giving tinge and coloring to a 
graphically drawn character. Its lessons of wisdom are thus 
adapted to readers of every age, and to every variety of in- 
tellectual culture. Hence, no book is adapted to be so uni- 
versally read as the Bible. No other precepts are of so 
extensive application, or are capable of guiding under so 
difficult circumstances. None other imbue the mind with a 
spirit of so deep forethought, and so expansive generalization. 
^f^ffence, there is no book which expands the intellect like the 


Bible It is the only book which oflfers a reasonable solution 
of the moral phenomena which are transpiring around us. 
Hence, there is the same sort of reason to believe that the 
precepts of the Bible will be read, and studied, and obeyed, 
as there is to believe that the system of Newton will finally 
prevail, and eventually banish from the languages of man 
the astronomical dreams of Vishnu or of Gaudama. 

There are, however, other exhibitions of taste, which 
present no less interesting illustrations of the adaptedness of 
the Bible to the nature of man. It is in the exercise of 
this faculty, that he delights in the beautiful, glories in the 
vast, and becomes susceptible of the tenderness of. the pa- 
thetic. I need not mention that these are among the most 
pleasing of our intellectual operations, nor that we eagerly 
search, in every direction, for the objects of their appro- 
priate gratification. 

To illustrate the sublimity and beauty of the Holy Scrip- 
tures, would, however, demand limits far more extensive than 
the present discussion will allow. I will, therefore, merely 
direct your attention to two considerations, which 1 select, 
not as the most striking, but as somewhat the most suscepti- 
ble of brevity of illustration. The first is the scriptural 
conceptions of character; the second, the scriptural views 
of fiiturity. 

It is to be remembered, that the Bible contains by far the 
oldest memorials of our race. Much of it was written by 
men, who had scarcely emerged from the pastoral state, and 
who had acquired but little of the knowledge, even then pos- 
sessed, either in the arts or the sciences. There was nothing 
in the circumstances in which they were placed, to give ele- 
vation to character, or beauty, or sublimity, to their concep- 
tions of it. And 'yet these conceptions are most strikingly 
diverse from every thing which we elsewhere behold in all 
the records of antiquity. 

The heroes of the pagan classics are, for the most part, 
either sycophants or ruffians, as they are swayed, alternately, 
by cunning or by passion. The objects of their enterprises 
are trifling and insignificant. Their narrative is valuable 
neither for moral instruction, nor yet for elevated views of 
human nature, in the individual or in society \ but fot Vrax«^9^ 


of eloquent feeling, and delineations of nature, every where 
the same, and always speaking the same language into the ; 
ear of genius. The world, in its moral progress, has kmg -^ 
since left behind it the ancient conceptions of distinguished - 
character. Who would now take for his model Achilles, or 
Hector, or Ulysses, or Agamemnon ? What mother would 
now relate their deeds to her children? How different a 
view is presented by the holy company of patriarchs ; Abra- 
ham, that beauteous model of an Eastern prince ; Moses, thtt 
wise legislator; David, the warrior poet; Daniel, the fiur- 
sighted premier ; ) and Nehemiah, the inflexible patriot. The 
world still looks up with reverence to these moral examples ; 
they are still as profitable models for contemj^ation as they 
were at the beginning. 

But if we would consider this subject in its strongest light, 
bring together scriptural and classical characters of the same 
age. Contrast the history of £n6as by Virgil, the most gifted 
and the most humane of the Roman poets, with that of St. 
Paul, as found in the Acts and the Epistles. Contrast the 
faithless, vindictive, gross, cowardly and superstitious free- 
booter, with the upright, meek, benevolent, sympathizing, and 
yet fearless and indomitable apostle. Or, if the thought be 
not profane, compare the roost splendid conceptions, either 
of ancient or modern times, with the chamcter of Jesos of 
Nazareth, as it is delineated in the Gospels. We say, then, 
that if we would gratify our taste with true conceptions of j 
elevated character, if we would satisfy that innate longing j 
within us after something better and more exalted than our '■ 
eyes rest upon on earth, it is to the Bible that wa shall be, by ;j 
the principles of our nature, irresistibly attracted. i 



Tke Dead Mather : — a Dialogue, — Anohtmous. 


JFaiher. Touch not thy mother, boy. Thou canst no* •] 

wake her. j f 

Child, Why, father 1 She still wakens at this hov. j ■] 


jP. Your mother's dead, my child. 
C. And what is dead ? 


If she he dead^ why, then, 'tis only sleeping ; 

For I am sure she sleeps. Come, mother ,^-ri8e :— 

Her hand is very cold 1 

F, Her heart is cold. 
Her limhs are bloodless ; would that mine were so I 

C If she would waken, she would soon be warm. 
Why is she wrapped in this thin sheet ? If I, 
This winter morning, were not covered better, 
I should be cold like her. 

jP. No, not like her : 
The fire might warm you, or thick clothes ; but her — 
Nothing can warm again ! 

C If I could wake her. 
She would smile on me, as she always does. 
And kiss me. — Mother, you have slept too long. — 
Her ^ce is pale ; and it would frighten me. 
But that I know she loves me. 

jP. Come, my child. 

C Once, when I sat upon her lap, I felt 
A beating at her side ; and then she said 
It was her heart that beat, and bade me feel 
For my own heart, and they both beat alike, 
Only mine was the quickest. And I feel 
My own heart yet ; but hers I cannot feel. 

jP. Child, child, you drive me mad. Come hence, I say. 

C Nay, father, be not angry ; let me stay here 
Till my mother wakens. 

F. I have told you. 
Your mother cannot wake — not in this world ; 
But in another she wiU wake for us. 
When we have slept like her, then we shall see her. 

C, Would it were night then. 

F. No, unhappy child ; 
Full many a night shall pass, ere thou canst sleep 
That last, long sleep. Thy father soon shall sleep it ; 
Then wilt thou be deserted upon earth : 
None will regard thee ; thou wilt soon forget 
That thou hadst natural ties, — an.orphan^ loi^, ^^ - 



Abandoned to the wiles of wicked msa. 
And women still more wicked. 

C. Fath^-, fktber, 
Why do you look so terribly upon me t 
Tou will not hurt me 1 

jP. Hurt thee, darling? no! 
Has sorrow^s violence so much of anger. 
That it should fright my boy ? Come, dearest, comep 

C. You are not angry, then? 

F, Too well I love you. 

C. All you have said I cannot now remember^ 
Nor what it meant, you terrified me so ; 
But this, I know, you told me, — ^I must sleep 
Before my mother wakens ; so, to-morrow — 
Oh ! father, that to-morrow were but come ! 


Burial cf the Young, — ^Mrs. SiaouRNBr. 

There was an open grave, and many an eye 
Looked down upon it. Slow the sable hearse 
Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare 
The young, unwearied form to that cold condb. 
Which age and sorrow render sweet to man. 
There seemed a sadness in the humid air, 
Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds 
Where slumber multitudes. 

There was a train 
Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom. 
And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came, 
And stood upon the brink of that dark pit, 
In pensive beauty, waiting the approach 
Of their companion. She was wont to fly, 
And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring, 
Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers^ 
And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she ctfne 
With movements ftsihkmjed \o tba dfie^^-toned bell^ 


She came with moaming sire, and sorrowing fHend, 
And tears of those, who at her mde were nursed 
By the same mother. 

Ah ! and one wite thet^. 
Who, ere the fading of the summer rose, 
Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But Death 
Arose between them. The pale lover watched 
So close her journey through the shadowy vale^ 
That almost to his heart the ice of death 
Entered from hers. There was a brilliant flush 
Of youth about her, and her kindling eye 
Poured such unearthly light, that hope would han^ 
Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropped 
Deep poison. Many a restless night she toiled 
For that slight breath which held her from the tomb. 
Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun 
Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast. 
Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light. 

Ofr, o'er the musings of her silent couch, 
Came visions of that matron form, which bent 
With nursing tenderness, to soothe and bless 
Her cradle dream : and her emaciate hand 
In trembling prayer she raised, that He, who saved 
The sainted mother, would redeem the child. 
Was the orison lost ? Whence, then, that peace 
So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved 
Earth and its pleasures ? Whence that angel smile. 
With which the allurements of a world so dear 
Were counted and resigned ? that eloquence. 
So fondly urging those, whose hearts were full 
Of sublunary happiness, to seek 
A better portion ? Whence that voice of joy, 
Which from the marble lip, in life's last strife. 
Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home ? — 
Cold reasoners, be convinced. And when ye stand 
Where that fair brow and those unfrosted locks 
Return to dust, — where the young sleeper waits 
The resurrection morn, — oh ! lift the heart 
In praise to Him who gave the victory. 


On the Loss of Proftssar Fisher in the AUnon. — ^BRAUfi 

The breath of air, that stirs the harp's soft string. 

Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm ; 
The drops of dew, exhaled from flowers of spring, 

Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form ; 
The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun, 

Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash ; 
And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on, 

Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash 
That wave and wind can muster, when the might 
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky, unite. 

So science whispered in thy charmed ear. 

And radiant learning beckoned thee away. 
The breeze was music to thee, and the clear 

Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. 
And they have wrecked thee ! — But there is a shore 

Where storms are hushed ; where tempests never rag 
Where angry skies, and blackening seas, no more, 

With gusty strength, their roaring warfare wage. 
By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod — 
Thy home is heaven, and thy friend is God. \ 

The Sunday School — ^Mrs. SigourmbY. 

Group after group are gathering ; — such as pressed 
Once to their Savior's arms, and gently laid 

Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast. 
Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade ;- 
Group after group glide on with noiseless tread. 

And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet. 
Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred. 

And holy words their ruby lips repeat. 
Oil with a chastened glance, va modulation sweet 


Tet 8onie there are, wpon whose childish brows 

Wan Poverty hath done the work of Care : 
Look up, ye sad ones ! — 'tis your Father's house^ 

Beneath whose consecrated dome you are ; 

•More gorgeous robes ye see, and tr^pings rarOi 
And watch the gaudier forms that gaily move, 

And deem, perchance, mistaken a« you are, 
The '' coat of many colors " proves His love, 
Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above. 

And ye, blessed laborers in this humble sphere. 

To deeds of saintlike charity inclined, 
Who, from your cells of meditation dear. 

Come forth to gird the weak, untutored mind. 

Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined 
Of grateful love, — one tear of contrite pain, — 

Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind 
The rest of earthly Sabbaths. Be your gain 
Ji Sabbath without end, mid yon celestial i^ain. 


Jbridgenartk^s Account of an Incident in the early History (^ 

America,* — Sm Waltbr Scott. 

Amongst my wanderings, the transatlantic settlemenls 
liave not escaped me ; more especially the country of New 
IBngland, into which our native land has shaken from her 
1^, as a drunkard flings from him his treasures, so much 
that is precious in the eyes of God and of his children. 
There, thousands of our best and most godly men — such 
whose righteousness might come between the Almighty and 
his wrath, and prevent the ruin of cities — are content to be 

* This narrative is found in ** Peveril of the Peak/' TM inddent occurred 
at Hadley^ Mass.^ — a village on the Connecticut river, about nhiety miles 
from Boston^ — September 1st, 1675. The mysterious stranger, who aj^ared 
so opportunely as a deliverer, was Gofie, the regicide. Whalley, another of 
the judges that condemned Charles I, was also concealed in the town of Had 
ley at the time. 


the inhabitants of the desert, rather encountering the unen- 
lightened savages, than stooping to extinguish, under the 
oppression practised in Britain, the light that is within their 
own minds. 

There I remained for a time, during the wars which the 
colony maintained with Philip, a great Indian chief, or sa- 
chem, as he was called, who seemed a messenger sent 
from Satan to buffet them. His cruelty was great ; his dis- 
simulation profound ; and the skill and promptitude with 
which he maintained a destructive and desultory warfare, in- 
flicted many dreadful calamities on the settlement. I was, by 
chance, at a small village in the woods, more than thirty 
miles from Boston, and in its situation exceedingly lonely, 
and surrounded with thickets. Nevertheless, there was no 
idea of any danger from the Indians at that time ; for men 
trusted to the protection of a considerable body of troops, 
who had taken the field for protection of the frontiers, Imd 
who lay, or were supposed to lie, betwixt the hamlet and the 
enemy's country. But they had to do with a foe, whom the 
devil himself had inspired at once with cunning and cruelty. 

It was on a Sabbath morning, when we had assembled to 
take sweet counsel together in the Lord's house. Our tem- 
ple was but constructed of unhewn logs; but when shall the 
chant of trained hirelings, or the sounding of tin and brass 
tubes amid the aisles of a minster, arise so sweetly to Heaven, 
as did the psalm in which we united at once our hearts and 
our voices! An excellent worthy, who now sleeps in the 
Lord, Nehemiah Solsgrace, long the companion of my pil- 
grimage, had just begun to wrestle in prayer, when a woman, 
with disordered looks and dishevelled hair, entered our chap- 
el in a distracted manner, screaming incessantly, "The 
Indians! The Indians!" 

In that land, no man dares separate himself from his de- 
fences ; and whether in the city or in the field, in the plough- 
ed land or the forest, men keep beside them their weapons, 
as did tk^ Jows at the rebuilding of the temple. So we 
sallied hr^, with our guns and pikes, and heard the whoq> 
of these incarnate devils, already in possession of a part of 
the town, and exercising their cruelty on the few whom 
weighty causes or indisposition had withheld from public wor^ 


flhip; Imd it was remarked as a judgment, that, upon that 
bloody Sabbath, Adrian Hanson, a Dutchman, a man well 
enough towards man, but whose mind was altogether given 
to worldly gain, was shot and scalped, as he was summing 
his weekly gains in his warehouse. 

In fine, there was much damage done ; and although our 
arrival and entrance into combat did in some sort put them 
back, yet, being surprised and confused, and having no ap- 
pointed leader of our band, the enemy shot hard at us, and 
had some advantage. It was pitiful to hear the screams of 
women and children, amid the report of guns and the whis- 
tling of bullets, mixed with the ferocious yells of these 
savages, which they term their war-whoop. Several houses 
in the upper part of the village were soon on fire ; and the 
roaring of the flames, and crackling of the great beams as 
they blazed, added to the horrible confusion; while the 
smoke, which the wind drove against us, gave farther advan- 
tage to the enemy, who fought, as it were, invisible, anJ 
under cover, whilst we fell fast by their unerring fire. 

In this state of confusion, and while we were about to 
adopt the desperate project of evacuating the village, and, 
placing the women and children in the centre, of attempting 
a retreat to the nearest settlement, it pleased Heaven to send 
us unexpected assistance.. A tall man, of a reverend ap- 
pearance, whom no one of us had ever seen before, suddenly 
was in the midst of us, as we hastily agitated the resolution 
c^ retreating. His garments were of the skin of the elk, 
and he wore sword, an4 carried gun. I never saw any thing 
more august than his features, overshadowed by locks of gray 
hair, which mingled with a long beard of the same color. 

** Men and brethren," he said, in a voice like that which 
turns back the flight, '* why sink your hearts 1 and why are 
ye thus disquieted? Fear ye that the God we serve will 
give you up to yonder heathen dogs ? Follow me, and you 
shall see, this day, that there is a captain in Israel!" He 
uttered a few brief but -distinct orders, in the tone of one 
who was accustomed to command ; and such was the influ- 
ence of his appearance, his mieit, his language, and his 
{Hresence of mind, that he was implicitly obeyed by men 
who had never seen him until that moment. We virex^ 


haatily divided, at his order, into two bodies ; one of wlnoh 
maintained the defence of the Tillage with more courife 
than ever, conyinced that the unknown was sent by God to 
our rescue. 

At his command, they assumed the best and most sheltered 
positions for exchanging their deadly fire with the Indians ; 
while, under cover of the smoke, the stranger sallied: from 
the town, at the head of the other division of the New Eng- 
land men, and, fetching a circuit, attacked the red wflrriors 
in the rear. The surprise, as is usual amongst savagea^had 
complete eflSsct; for they doubted not that they were assailed 
in their turn, and placed betwixt two hostile parties by the 
return of a detachment from the provincial army. The 
heathens fled in confusion, abandoning the half- won village, 
and leaving behind them such a number of their warriors, 
that the tribe hath never recovered its loss. 

Never shall I forget the figure of our venerable leader, 
when our men, and not they only, but the women and chil« 
dren of the village, rescued from the tomahawk and scalp- 
ing-knife, stood crowded around him, yet scarce venturing 
to approach his person, and more minded, perhaps, to wor- 
ship him as a descended angel, than to thank him as a 
Mow-mortal. "Not unto me be the glory," he said; "I 
am but an implement, frail as yourselves, in the han^of Him 
who is strong to deliver. Bring me a cup of water, that I 
may allay my parched throat, ere I assay the task o#^ offering 
(hanks where they are most due." I was nearest to him as he 
spoke, and I gave into his hand the water he requested. At 
that moment, we exchanged glances, and it seemed to me 
that I recognised a noble friend, whom I had long since 
deemed in glory ; but he gave me no time to speak, had 
speech been prudent. 

Sinking on his knees, and signing us to obey him, he 
poured forth a strong and energetic thanksgiving for the 
turning back of the battle, which, pronounced with a voice 
loud and clear as a war-trumpet, thrilled through the joints 
and marrow of the hearers. I have heard many an act of 
devotion in my life, had Heaven vouchsafed me grace to 
profit by them ; but such a prayer as this, uttered amidst the 
dead and the dying, with a rich tone of mingled triumph and 


tdoration was beyond them all ; it was like the song of the 
inq>ired prophetess, who dwelt beneath the palm-tree between 
Ramah and Bethel. He was silent ; and, for a brief space, 
we remained with our faces bent to the earth, no man dar- 
ing to lift his head. At length, we looked up ; but our deliv- 
erer was no longer amongst us ; nor was he ever again seen 
in the land which he had rescued. 


*TVw5f in God, — ^Wordsworth. 

How beautiful this dome of sky I 
And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 
At thy command, how awful ! Shall the soul, 
Human and rational, report of Thee 
Even less tjian these? — Be mute who will, who can, 
Yet I will praise Thee with impassioned voice : 
My lips, that may forget Thee in the crowd. 
Cannot forget Thee here ; where Thou hast built, 
For thy own glory, in the wilderness. 

Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine. 
In such a temple as we now behold 
Reared for thy presence : therefore am I bound 
To worship, here, — and everjrwhere, — as one 
Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, 
From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 
From unreflecting ignorance preserved. 
And from debasement rescued. — By thy grace 
The particle divine remained unquenched ; 
And, mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 
Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers. 
From Paradise transplanted. Wintry age 
Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart; 
And, if they wither, I am worse than dead ! 



Come labor, when the worn-out frame requires 
Perpetual sabbath ; come disease and want. 
And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 
But leave me unabated trust in Thee ; 
And let thy favor, to the end of life, 
Insiure me with ability to seek 
Repose and hope among eternal things, 
Father of heaven and earth, and I am rich, 
And will possess my portion in content. 

And what are things eternal ? — Powers depart. 
Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
And passions hold a fluctuating seat : 
But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, 
And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 
Duty exists ; — immutably survive, 
For our support, the measures and the forms. 
Which an abstract Intelligence supplies ; 
Whose kingdom is where time and space are not: 
Of other converse, which mind, soul and heart. 
Do, with united urgency, require, 
What more, that may not perish ? Thou, dread Source, 
Prime, sel^xisting Cause and End of all. 
That, in the scale of being, fill their place. 
Above our human region, or below. 
Set and sustained ; — Thou, — who didst wrap the doud 
Of infancy around us, that Thyself, 
Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
Might' St hold, on earth, communion undisturbed,-— 
Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep. 
Or from its death-like void, with punctual care. 
And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense. 
And reason's steadfast rule, — Thou, Thou alone. 
Art everlasting. 

This universe shall pass away — a frame 
Glorious I because the shadow of thy might, 
A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. 


b ! if the time must come, in which my feet 

more shall stray where meditation leads, 

J flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 
>yed haunts like these, the unimprisoned mind 
ay yet have scope to range among her own, 
er thoughts^ her images, her high desires. 

If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 
ill it may be allowed me to remember 
'hat visionary powers of eye and soul 

1 youth were mine ; when, stationed on the top 
f some huge hill, expectant, I beheld 

he sun rise up, from distant climes returned, 
arkness to chase, and sleep, and bring the day, 
is bounteous gift ! or saw him, tow'rds the deep 
ink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 
ttended ! Then my spirit was entranced 
''ith joy exalted to beatitude ; 
he measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 
nd holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light 
^ith pomp, with glory, with magnificence I 

The Patriot's Wish, — C. Spraoue. 

— ^Ye dwellers of this spot, 

e yours a noiseless and a guiltless lot. 
I plead not that ye bask 
In the rank beams of vulgar fame ; 

To light your steps I ask 
A purer and a holier flame, 
o bloated growth I supplicate for you, 
pining multitude, no pampered few ; 
'Tis not alone to coffer gold, 
Nor spreading borders to behold ; . 
'Tis not fast-swelling crowds to win. 
The refuse ranks of want and sin — 


This be the kind decree : 
Be ye by goodness crowned, 
Revered, though not renowned ; 
Poor, if Heaven will, but free ; 
Free from the tyrants of the hour, 
The clans of wealth, the clans of power^ 
The coarse, cold scorners of their God ; 
Free from the taint of sin, 
The leprosy that feeds within. 
And free, in mercy, from the bigot's rod. 

The sceptre's might, the crosier's pride. 

Ye do not fear ; 
No conquest Uade, in life-blood dyed. 

Drops terror here : 
Let there not lurk a subtler snare, 
For wisdom's footsteps to beware ; 
The shackle and the stake 

Our fathers fled ; 
Ne'er may their children wake 
A tbvler wrath, a deeper dread; 
Ne'er may the craft, that fears the flesh to bind, 
Lock its hard fetters on the mind ; 
duenched be the fiercer flame 
That kindles with a name ; 
The pilgrim's faith, the pilgrim's zeal, 
Let more than pilgrim kindness seal ; 
Be purity of life the test ; 
Leave to the heart, to Heaven, the rest. 

So, when our children turn the page. 
To ask what triumphs marked our age. 
What we achieved to challenge praise. 
Through the long line of future days. 

This let them read, and hence instruction draw ; 
** Here were the many blessed. 
Here found the virtues rest, 

Faith linked with love, and liberty with law ; 
Here industry to comfort led ; 
Her book of light here learning spread ; 


Here the wann heart of youth 
Was wooed to temperance and to truth ; 

Here hoary age was found. 
By wisdom and by reverence crowned.. 
No great, but guilty fame 
Here kindled pride, th^ should have kindled shame. 
These chose the better, happier part, 
That poured its sunlight o'er the heart, 
That crowned their homes with peace and health. 
And weighed Heaven's smile beyond earth's wealth ; 
Far from the thorny paths of strife 
They stood, a living lesson to their race, 

Rich in the charities of life, 
Man in his strength, and woman in her grace ; 
In purity and love their pilgrim road they trod, 
And, when they served their neighbor, felt they served 


Summer Noon. — ^Wilcox. 

A suLTRT noon, not in the summer's prime. 
When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom, 
But near its close, when vegetation stops, 
And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun, 
Soothes and ;enervates,> with its thousand charms. 
Its images of silence and of rest. 
The melancholy mind. The fields are still ; 
The husbandman has gone to his repast. 
And, that partaken, oh the coolest side 
Of his abode, reclines in sweet repose. 
Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stand. 
The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone, 
And panting quick. The fields, for harvest ripe, 
No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves. 
While with their motion, dim and btig|bl b^ toxiA^ 



The sunshine seems to move ; nor e'en a brealli 
Brashes aloqg the surface with a shade 
Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. 
The slender stalks their heavy, bended heads 
Support^ as motionless as oaks their tops. 

O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are stX ; 
E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung 
3j stems elastic, quiver at a breath, 
J^^st ip the general calm. The thistle down^ 
Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside 
Some shading object, in a silver shower 
Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow. 
Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends ; 
And where it lights, though on the steepest roof^ 
Qti .smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. 
White as a fleece, as dense, and as distinct 
From the resplendent sky, a single cloud 
On the soft bosom of the air becalmed. 
Drops a lone shadow, as distinct and still. 
On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side ; 
Or in the polished mirror of the lake. 
In which the deep reflected sky appears 
A calm, sublime immensity below. 


Summer Wind, — ^Bryant. 

It is a sultry day ; the sun has drank 
The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; 
There is no rusding in the lofty elm 
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint 
And interrupted murmur of the bee, 
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again 
Instantly on the wing. The plants around 
F«a1 the too potent fervors : Uie tall maize 


Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover drops 
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 
But far, in thec'fierce isunshine, tower the hills, 
With all their growth of woods, silent and stem, 
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light 
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, 
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven, — 
Their bases on the mountains — ^their white tofM 
Shining in the far ether, — ^fire the air 
With a reflected radiance, and make turn 
The gazer's eye away. 

For me, I lie 
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, 
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun. 
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind 
That still delays its coming. Why so slow, 
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air 1 
O come, and breathe upon the fainting earth 
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves 
He hears me ? See, on yonder woody ridge. 
The pine is bending his proud top, and now. 
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak 
Are tossmg their green boughs about. He cometi ! 
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves ! 
The deep, distressful silence of the scene 
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds 
And universal motion. 

He is come. 
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs. 
And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings 
Music of birds and rustling of young boughs, 
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice 
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs 
Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers, «. 
By the road-side and the borders of the brook. 
Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves * 
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew 
Were on them yet ; and silver waters break 
Into small waves, and sparkle as he comes. 


JF\ishionable FoUies* — Flint's Western Review. 

There are in the United States one hundred thousand 
young ladies, as Sir Ralph Abercrombie said of those of 
Scotland, ** the prettiest lassies in a' -the world" who know 
neither to toil nor spin, who are yet clothed like the lilies of 
the valley, — who thrum the piano, and, a few of the more 
dainty, the harp, — who walk, as the Bible says, softly, — who 
have read romances, and some of them seen the interior of 
theatres, — ^who have been admired at the examination of their 
high school, — who have wrought algebraic solutions on the 
black board, — who are, in short, the very roses of the gar- 
den, the attar of life, — who yet, — horresco rc/crcns,— can 
never expect to be married, or, if married, to live without 
— shall I speak, or forbear ? — ^putting their own lily hands 
to domestic drudgery. 

We go into the interior villages of our recent wooden 
country. The fair one sits down to clink the wires of the 
piano. We see the fingers displayed on the keys, which, we 
are sure, never prepared a dinner, nor made a garment 
for her robustious brothers. We traverse the streets of our 
own city, and the wires of the piano are thrummed in our 
ears from every considerable house. In cities and villages, 
from one extremity of the Union to the other, wherever there 
is a good house, and the doors and windows betoken the 
presence of the mild months, the ringing of the piano wires 
is almost as universal a sounds as the domestic hum of life 

We need not enter in person. Imagination sees the fair 
one, erect on her music stool, laced, and pinioned, and re- 
duced to a questionable class of entomology i^dinging)td the 
wires, as though she could, in some way, hammer out of 
them music, amusement and a husband. Look at her taper 
and cream-colored fingers. Is she a utilitarian ? Ask the 
fair one, when she has beaten all the music out of the keys, 
" Pretty fair one, canst talk to thy old and sick father, so as 
to beguile him out of the \\ead^c\\e ^wd T\v&vsima.tism ? Canst 



write a good and straight forward letter of business? Thou 
art a chemist, I remember, at the examination ; canst com- 
pound, prepare, and afterwards boil, or bake, a good pudding 7 
Canst make one of the hundred subordinate ornaments of 
thy fair person? In short, tell us thy use in existence, ex- 
cept to be contemplated, as a pretty picture ? And how long 
wiU any one be amused with the view of a picture, after 
karing surveyed it a dozen times, unless it have a mind, a 
heart, and, we may emphatically add, the perennial value of 

It is a sad and (lamentable truth, after all the incessant 
din we have heard of the march of mind, and the intermi- 
nably theories, inculcations and eulogies of education, that 
the present is an age of unbounded desire of display and no- 
toriety, of exhaustless and unquenchably burning ambition ; 
and not an age of calm, contented, ripe and useftil knowl- 
edge, for the sacred privacy of the parlor. Display, notoriety, 
sarface and splendor, — these are the first aims of the mothers ; 
and can we expect that the daughters will drink into a better 
q>irit? To play, sing, dress, glide down the dance, and gel 
a husband, is the lesson ; not to be qualified to render his 
home quiet, well-ordered and happy. 

'It is notorious, that there will soon be no intermediate 
class between those who toil and spin, and those whose 
dlaim to be ladies is founded on their being incapable of any 
value of utility. At present, we know of none, except thci 
E]ttle army of martyrs,/ ycIeptUchool-mistresses, and the stiD 
smaller corps of editorial and active blue-stockings. If it 
should be my lot to transmigrate back to earth, in the form 
pf a young man, my first homages in search of a wife would 
be paid to the thoughtful and pale-faced fair one, surrounded 
by her little, noisy, refractory subjects, drilling her soul to 
patience, and 1 3arning to drink of the cup of earthly disci- 
pline, and, more impressively than by a diousand sermons, 
tasting, the hi terness of our probationary course, in teaching 
the young idea how to shoot. Except, as aforesaid, school- 
mistresses an I blues, we believe, that all other damsels, 
dearly within the purview of the term Icuty, estimate the 
cleaniess of their title precisely in the ratio of their useless- 


Allow a young lady to have any hand in the adjustment < 
all the components of her dress, each of which has a contoi 
which only the fleeting fashion of the moment can settl< 
allow her time to receive morning visitants, and prepare i 
afternoon appointments and evening parties, and what tin 
has the dear one to spare, to be useful and do good? 1 
labor I Heaven forefend the use of the horrid term ! Tl 
simple state of the case is this. There is somewhere, in a 
this, an enormous miscalculation, an infinite mischief — a 
evil, as we shall attempt to show, not of transitory or min< 
importance, but fraught with misery and ruin, not only to tl 
fair ones themselves, but to society and the age. 
• We have not, we admit, the elements on which to has 
the calculation ; but we may assume, as we have, that thei 
are in the United States a hundred thousand young ladi< 
brought up to do nothing, except dress, and pursue amus< 
ment. Another hundred thousand learn music, dancing 
and what are called the fashionable accomplishments, 
has been said that '' revolutions never move backwards." 
is equally true of emulation of the fashion. The few opi 
lent, who can aflford to be good for nothing, preced* 
Another class presses as closely as they can upon their steps 
and the contagious mischief spreads downward, till the fon 
father, who lays every thing under contribution, to furnis 
the means for purchasing a piano, and hiring a music-mastc 
for his daughters, instead of being served, when he come 
in from the plough, by the ruined favorites for whom he hi 
sacrificed so much, finds that a servant must be hired fc 
the young ladies. 

Here is not the end of the mischief Every one knoii 
that mothers and daughters give the tone, and laws — moi 
unalterable than those of the Medes and Persians — to sc 
ciety. Here is the root of the matter, the spring of bittc 
waters. Here is the origin of the complaint of hard timei 
bankruptcies, greediness, avarice, and the horse-leech crj 
" Give, give I" Here is the reason why every man lives u 
to his income, and so many beyond it. Here is the reaso 
why the young trader, starting on credit, and calling himse 
a merchant, hires and furnishes such a house as if he real! 
was one, fails^ and gives to his creditors a beggarly accoui 


of empty boxes and misapplied sales. He has married a 
wife whose vanity and extravagance are fathomless^ and his 
ruin is explained. Hence the general and prevalent evil of 
the present times, extravagance — conscious shame of the 
thought of being industrious and useful. Hence the con- 
cealment, by so many thousand young ladies, (who have not 
yet been touched by the extreme of modern degeneracy, and 
who still occasionally apply their hands to domestic employ- 
fiient«) of these, their good deeds, with as much care as if 
they were crimes. Every body is ashamed not to be expen- 
sive and fashionable ; and every one seems equally ashamed 
of honest industry, * * * * 

I cannot conceive, that mere idlers, male or female, can 
have respect enough for themselves to be comfortable. I 
cannot imagine, that they should not carry about with them 
such a consciousness of being a blank in existence, as would 
be written on their forehead,' in the shrinking humiliation of 
perceiving, that the public eye had weighed them in the 
balance, and found them wanting. Novels and romances 
may say this or that about their ethereal beauties, their fine 
ladies tricked out to slaughter my lord A., and play Cupid's 
archery upon dandy B., and despatch Amarylis C. to his 
sonnets. I have no conception of a beautiful woman, or a 
fine man, in whose eye, in whose port, in whose whole ex- 
pression, this sentiment does not stand imbodied : — *' I am 
called by my Creator to duties^; I have employment on the 
earth ; my sterner, but more enduring pleasures are in dis- 
charging ray duties.'' 

Compare the sedate expression of this sentiment in the 
countenance of man or woman, when it is known to 
stand, as the index of character and the fact, with the 
superficial gaudiness of a simple, good for nothing belle, 
who disdains usefulness and employment, whose empire 
is a ball-room, and whose subjects dandies, as silly and as 
useless as herself. Who, of the two, has most attractions for 
a man of sense ? The one a help-mate, a fortune in herself, 
who can aid to procure one, if the husband has it not ,* who 
can soothe him under the loss of it, and, what is more, aid 
him to regain it ; and the other a painted butterfly, for orna- 
ment only during the vernal and sunny months of prosperity ; 


and then not becoming a chrysalis, an inert moth in adver 
but a croaking, repining, ill-tempered termagant, who 
oo\j recur to the days of her short-lived triumph, to imbi 
the misery, and poverty, and hc^lessness of a husband, v 
like herself, knows not to dig, and is ashamed to beg. 

We are obliged to avail of severe language in applica 
to a deep-rooted malady. J7e want words of power, 
need energetic and stern Vplications. No country < 
verged more rapidly towards extravagance and expense, 
a young republic, like ours, it is ominous of any thing 
good. Men of thought, and virtue, and exvunpYe, are ca 
upon to look tothis evil. Ye patrician families, that en 
and complain, and forebode the downfall of the republic, 1 
is the origin of your evils. Instead of training your soi 
waste his time, as an idle young gentleman at large, — ^insl 
of inculcating on your daughter, that the incessant tink 
of a harpsichord, or a scornful and lady-like toss of the h< 
or dexterity in waltzing, are the chief requisites to make 
way in life, — ^if you can find no better employment for th 
teach him the use of the grubbing hoe, and her to make 
garments for your servants. Train your son and daugj 
to an employment, to frugality, to hold the high front, an< 
walk the fearless step of independence, and sufficienc} 
themselves in any fortunes, any country, or any state 
things. By arts like these, the early Romans thri^ 
When your children have these possessions, you may 
down to the grave in peace, as regards their tempc 

Lochiefs Warning, — Campbell. 

Wizard, Lochiel ! Lochiel, beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight. 
And the clans of CuUoden are scattered in fight : 


They rallji they Meed, for their kingdom and crown ; 
Wo, wo to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the dain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war^ 
What steed to the desert flies firantic and far ? 
Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose .-bride shall await. 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning ; no rider is there; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led! 
Ohy weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden 1 that reeks with the blood of the brave. 

XfOcAie/. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer I 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadfiil appear. 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

Wbsard, Hal* laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision. to soonlFt 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn. 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth. 
From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the ncHthf 
Lo 1 the death-shot of foeman outspeeding, he rode 
Cooapanionless, bearing destruction abroad : 
Bat down let him stoop firom his havoc on high ! 
Ah 1 home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament castf 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin all dreadfully driven 
Prom his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 
Oh, crested Lochiel, the peerless in might, 
Mlioee banners arise on the battlements' height, 
Beaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to bum ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
Por the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood. 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 

Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my dao ^ 

theit swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one I 

They are true to the last of their blood and their Inreath, 

Andp like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. 



Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock I 
But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ; 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

WiTMrd, Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 
But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
Wi<ii the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 
Lo 1 anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 
Now, in darkness anil billows, he sweeps from my idght : 
Rise ! rise I ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 
Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors ; 
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 
But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where 1 
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn. 
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and tomt 
Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; 
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; ^ 
His death-bell is tolling. Oh ! mercy, dispel 
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs. 
And his bloodnstreaming nostril in agony swims. 
Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet, 
Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, 
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

LpchieL Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : 
Though ray perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore^ 
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 
Le«hiel, untainted by flight or by chains. 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
Shall^ victcMT, exult, or in death be laid low, - 
IfiiA ]»# back to the field, and his feet to the foe« ^ 


And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 

Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. ..^ 

Joan of Arc, in Kheims. — Mbb, HsiCANt. 

That was a joyous day in Rheims of old. 
When peal on peal of mighty music rolled 
Forth from her thronged cathedral ; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound. 
Chained to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listened at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within? — Within, the light 

Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing, 
Tinged with soil awfulness a stately sight, — 

The chivalry of France, their proud heads bowing 
In martial vassalage 1 — while, midst that ring, 
And shadowed by ancestral tombs, a king 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn 

Swelled out like rushing waters, and the day, 
With the sweet censer's misty breath, grew dim. 

As through long aisles it floated o'er the array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. 

But who, alone 
And unapproached, beside the altar-stone. 
With the white banner, forth, like sunshine, streammg. 
And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance gle vning, 
Silent and radiant stood ? — ^The helm was raised. 
And the fair face revealed, that upward gazed. 

Intensely worshipping, — a still, clear face. 
Youthful, but brightly solemn I Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, 

Yet glorified with inspiration's trace .; 

On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above. 
The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love, 
Seemed bending o'er her votaress. That slight fimn I 
Was that the leader through the battle storm T 


Had the soft light, in that adoring eye, 

Guided ^ Wtftior where the swords flashed high f 

'Twas so, even so I — and thou, the shepherd's child, 

Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 

Never before, and never since that hour. 

Hath woman, mantled with victorious power 

Stood forth as thou, beside the shrine, didst standi 

Holy amidst th^ knigbliiood of the land ! 

And, beautiful with joy and with renown. 

Lift thy white baaner o'er ^le olden crown. 

Ransomed for France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 
Now let the dome w^h trumpet notes be shaken, 
And bid the echoes of tte tombs awaken. 

And come thou foith, that Heaven's rejoicing sua 
May give thee ^dcome Irom thine own Uue skies, 

DiK^er of vidory ! A triumphant strain, 
A proud, rich stream of warlike melodies. 

Gushed througii the portals of the antique fane. 
And forth she came. Then rose a nation's sound. 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound. 
The wiiKf hears onward with the stcM'my cheer, 
Man ^ives to Glory on her high carreer ! 
Is there indeed such power t — far deeper dwells 
In one kind faous^udd voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flows forth ! The shouts, that filled 
The hollow heafren tempestuously, were stilled 
One moment; and, in that brief pause, the tone. 
As of « btpeeze that o'er her home had blown, 
8wok tfh Um br^it maid's heart. — ** Joanne !" — Who spoke 

Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew 
Under one roo^f — ** Joanne !" — Thai murmur broke 

With sounds of weq)ing forth ! — She turned — she kiiei^ 
Beside her, marked from all the thousands there. 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair. 
The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose jojl^ 
From his dark eye flashed im)udly ; and the boy, 
The youngest born, that ever loved her best : — 
*' Father 1 and ye, my brothers !" On the breast 



)f that gray sire she sank, and swiftly back, 

liven in an instant, to their native track 

ler free thoughts flowed. She saw die pomp no more— 

The plumes, the banners : to her cabin-door, 

iLnd to the fairy's fountain in the glade, 

^here her young sisters by her sidQ had played, 

iLnd to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 

lallowing the forest unto deep repose, 

ler spirit turned. The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time, by the bird, which dwelt 
iVliere o'er her father's roof the beech^eaves hung, 

Was in her heart — a music heard and felt, 
Winning her back to nature. She unbound 

The helm of many battles from her head, 
\nd, with her bright locks bowed to sweep the ground. 

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said, — 
* Bless me, my father, bless me 1 and with thee, 
To the still cabin and the beechen-tree. 
Let me return !'' 

Oh ! never did thine eye # 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! Too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant-name ; ' 
And, bought alone by gifts beyond all price, — 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home, with all its loves, — doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 

RaphaeFs Account of the Creation. — ^Miltojt. 

Heaven opened wide 

Her ever-during gates — harmonious sound — 
On golden hinges moving, to let forth 
The King of Glory, in his powerful Word 
^d Spirit, coming to create new worlds. 



On heavenly ground they stood ; and, from the shore. 
They viewed the vast, immeasurable abyss. 
Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild, 
Up from the bottom turned by furious winds 
And surging waves, as mountains to assault 
Heaven's height, and with the centre mix the pole. 

" Silence, ye troubled waves, and thou deep, peace P* 
Said then the omnific Word ; " your discord end f* 
Nor stayed, but, on the wings of cherubim 
Uplifled, in paternal glory rode 
Far into Chaos, and the world unborn ; 
For Chaos heard his voice : him all his train 
Followed in bright procession, to behold 
Creation, and the wonders of his might. 
Then stayed the fervid wheels, and in his hand 
He took the golden compasses, prepared 
In God's eternal store, to circumscribe 
This universe, and all created things : 
One foot he centred, and the other turned 
Round through the vast profundity obscure, 
And said, ** Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds. 
This be thy just circumference, O world 1" 
Thus God the heaven created, thus the earth. 
Matter unformed and void ; darkness profound 
Covered the abyss ; but on the watery calm 
His brooding wings the Spirit of God outspread, 
And vital virtue infused, and vital warmth 
Throughout the fluid mass : 

' then founded, then conglobed 
Like things to like, the rest to several place 
Disparted^ and between spun out the air ; 
And earth, seli-balanced, on her centre hung. 

" Let there be light," said God ; and forthwith light 
Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure. 
Sprung from the deep, and, from her native east. 
To journey through the airy gloom began, 
Sphered in a radiant cloud ; for yet the sun 


7aa not : she in a cloudy tabernacle 

ojourned the while. God saw the light was good 

jid light from darkness, by the hemisphere, 

^vided : light the day, and darkness night, 

[e named. Thus was the first day even and mom : 

For passed uncelebrated, nor unsung 

y the celestial chmrs, wlien orient light 

Izhaling first from darkness they beheld; 

irthday of heaven and earth : with joy and shoot 

*he hollow universal orb they filled, 

jid touched their g(Adtn harps, and, hymnaig, praiied 

rod and his works ; Creator him they sung, 

Soth when first evening was, and when first mom. 

Elegy tffritten in a Country Ckurch^ard. — Qkat* 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 

The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman 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 sdemn stillness holds. 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant fl>lds ; 

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 mouldering Ymuf^ 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 
The rude forefathers iX the hamlet deqp. 


Tbe breezy call of incense-breathing mcNm, 

The swaUoWy twittering from the straw-built shed. 

The cock's shrill danon, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them firom their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall bum. 
Or busy hoosewife ply her evening care ; 

No children nm to lii^ their sire's return^ 
Or dimb his knees the envied Idss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their »ckle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
HowsJ6cuiid')lid they drive their team afield 1 

HoW bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke t 

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 poOT. 

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 1 

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. 


Bat Knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repressed theur 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 ; 

Fidl many a flower is bom 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, gtultless 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 lo^^forbade :Ttior circumscribed alone 

Their growing Virtues, but their crimes confined;-* 
l^orb&de'fto 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 firom the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray : 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life. 
They kept the n<nseless tenor of their way. 

Tet, 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 uune, their years, spelled 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 : 
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries. 

Even 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 steps, 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, woful, wan, like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love 

** One mom I missed him on the accustomed 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 churchway path we saw him borne. 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

The Epitaph, 

EEere 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 — ^'twas all he wished — a 

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. 

Dialogue : — Geshr and TeU. — ^Knowlbs. 

Oeskr, Why speak'st thou not ? 

TeU For wonder. 

€fes. Wonder ? 

TeU, Yes. 
'^hat thou shouldst seem a man. 

Oes, What should I seem ? 

TeU. A monster ! 

Oes, Ha ! Beware — Think on thy chains. 

TeU. Though they were doubled, and did weigh me 
l^TOfitrate to earth, methinks I could rise up 
ISrect, with nothing but the honest pride 


Of telling thee, usurper, to the teeth, 
Thoa art a mooBter 1 Think upon my chains I 
Show me the link of them, which, could it q>eaky 
Would give its evidence against my word. 
Think on my chains ! Think on my chains I 
How came they on me ? 

Ots. Darest thou question me ? 

TeU, Darest thou not answer 7 

Oes. Do I hear? 

Tea. Thou dost. 

Oes, Beware my vengeance. 

TeU, Can it more than kill ? 

Oes, Enough — ^it can do that. 

TelL No— not enough : 
It cannot take away the grace of life. 
Its comeliness of look that virtue gives, 
Its port erect with consciousness of truth. 
Its rich attire of honorable deeds. 
Its fair report, that's rife on good men's tongues i 
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more 
Than it can pluclThis brightness from the sun. 
Or, with pollute4 fiuger, tarnish it. 

Oes, But it can make thee writhe 

Tell, It may. 

Oes, And groan. 

Tell, It may ; and I may cry, 
Go on, though it should make me groan again. 

Oes, Whence comest thou ? 

Ten, From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn 
What news from them ? 

Oes, Canst tell me any ? 

Tea. Ay : 
They watch no more the avalanche. 

Oes. Why sot 

Tett. Because they look for thee. The hurricane 
Comes unawares upon them ; from its bed 
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track* 

Oes. What do they then ? 

Tell, Thank HeaVen it is not thou ! 
Tboa hast perverted nature in them. The earth 


JbteaeakM her fruits to them, and is not thanked ; 

The banrest sun is constant, and they scarce 

Return his smile ; their flocks and herds increase. 

And they look on as men who count a loss ; 

They hear of thriving children bom to them. 

And never shake the teller by the hand ; 

\^[hile those they have, they see grow up and flourish, 

And think as little of caressing them, ' 

As they were things a deadly plague had smit. 

There's not a blessing Heaven vouchsafes them, but 

The thought of thee doth wither to a curse. 

As something they must lose, and richer were 

To lack. 

Cres. That's right ! I'd have them like their hills. 

That never smile, though wanton summer tempt 

Them e'er so much. 

TeU. But they do sometimes smile. 

Cr«5.. Ay! — ^when is that? 

TeH^ When they do talk of vengeance. 

Oes. Vengeance ? Dare 
They talk of that? 

TeU. Ay, and expect it, too. 

Ges, From whence ? 

TdL From Heaven ! 

Ges. From Heaven? 

TeU. And the true hands 
Are lifted up to it, on every hill, 
^or justice on thee. 


Chandeur of Astronomical Science. — N. A. Review. 

AsTRONOBiT is Certainly the boldest and most comprehen- 
sive of all our speculations. It is the science of the material 
diverse considered as a whole. Though employed upon 
Objects aj^arently withdrawn fit)m the sphere of human 
^tion and pursuit, it teaches us, nevertheless, that thesA 


4 •' 


objects materially affect, nay, constitute oar phjrsical 
The wide-spreading firmament, while it lifts itself above aS 
mortal things, exhibits to us that luminary, which is the light, 
and life, and glory of our world ; and, when this retires firom 
our view, it is lighted up with a thousand lesser fires, that never 
cease to bum, that never fail to take their accustomed places, 
and never rest fiom their slow, solemn, and noiseless march. 

Among the objects more immediately about us, all is vicis- 
situde and change. It is the destiny of terrestrial things to 
perpetuate themselves by succession. Plants arise out of 
the earth, flourish awhile, and decay, and their place is filled 
by others. Animals, also, have their periods of growth and 
decline. Even man is not exempt firom the general law. 
His exquisite firame, with all its fine organs, is soon reduced 
to its original elements, to be moulded again into new and 
humbler forms. Nations are, like individuals, privileged only 
with a more protracted existence. The firm earth itself, the 
theatre of all this change, partakes, in a degree, of the com- 
mon lot of its inhabitants; and the sea once heaved its 
waves, where now rolls a tide of wealth and population. 

Situated, as we are, in this fleeting, fluctuating state, it is 
consoling to be able to dwell upon an enduring scene ; to 
contemplate laws that are immutable, an order that has never 
been interrupted ; to fix, not the thoughts only, but the eye, 
upon objects that, afi;er the lapse of so many ages, and the 
fall of so many states, cities, human institutions, and monu- 
ments of art, continue to occupy the same places, to move 
with the same regularity, and to shine with the same pure, 
fresh, undiminished lustre. 

As the heavens are the most striking spectacle, that pre- 
sents itself to our contemplation, so there is no subject of 
philosophical inquiry; which has more engaged the attention 
of mankind. The history of astronomy carries us back to 
the earliest times, and introduces us to the languages and 
customs, the religion and poetry, the sciences and arts, the 
tastes, talents and peculiar genius, of the di^rent nations 
of the . earth. The ancient Atlantides and Ethiopians, the 
Egyptian priests, the magi of Persia, the shepherds of Chal- 
dea, the Bramins of India, the mandarins of China, the 
f^tenician navigators, the philosophers of Greece, and the 


wandering Arabs, have contributed to the general mass of 
knowledge and speculation upon this subject ; have added more 
(h: less to this vast structure, the common monument of the 
industry, invention, and intellectual resources of mankind. 

They, whose imaginations have wandered up to the sphere 
of the stars, like those who have visited unfrequented regions 
on the earth, have left there, as in a sort of album, some me- 
morial of themselves, and of the times in which they lived. 
The constellations are a faithful picture of the ruder stages 
of civilization. They ascend to times of which no other 
record exists, and are destined to remain when all others are 
lost Fragments of history, curious dates and documents 
relating to chronology, geography and languages, are here 
preserved in imperishable characters. The adventures of 
the gods and the inventions of men, the exploits of heroes 
and the fancies of poets, are here perpetually celebrated be- 
fore all nations. The seven stars and Orion present them- 
selves to us, as they appeared to Amos and Homer. Here are 
consecrated the lyre of Orpheus and the ship of the Argo- 
nauts, and, in the same firmament, the mariner's compass 
an3 the telescope of Herschel. 

We remark, farther, that astronomy is the most improved 
of all the branches of human knowledge, and that which 
does the greatest credit to the human understanding. We 
have in this obtained the object of our researches. We have 
solved the great problem proposed to us in the celestial mo- 
tions; and our solution is as simple and as grand as the 
Epectacle itself, and is in every respect worthy of so exalted 
a subject. It is not the astronomer only, who is thus satisfied ; 
but the proof is of a nature to carry conviction to the most 
illiterate and skeptical. Our knowledge, extending, tp the 
principles and laws which the Author of nature has chosen 
to impress upon his work, comprehends the future ; it resem- 
bles that which has been regarded as the exclusive attribute 
of supreme intelligence. We are thus enabled, not only to 
explain those unusual appearances in the heavens, which 
were formerly the occasion of sucl^ unworthy fears, but to 
forewarn men of their occurrence ; and, by predicting the 
time, place and circumstances of the phenomenon, to disarm 
it of its terror. 


There is, howerer, nothing, perhaps, so surprising in this 
SBience, as that it makes us acqaainted with methods, by 
which we can survey those bright fields <m which it is em- 
ployed, and apply our own fiuniliar measures to the paths 
which are th^e traced, and to the bodies that trace diem ; 
that we can estimate the form, and dimensions, and^nequdt- 
tie8,>of objects so immense, and so far removed nom tiie 
littler' scene of our labors. 

What would be the astonishment of an inhabitant of one 
of those bodies, of Jnpiter, for instance, to find that, by 
means of instruments of a few foet in length, and certain 
figures and characters, still smaller, all of our own invention, 
we had succeeded in determining the magnitude and weight 
of this great planet, the length of its days and nights, and the 
variety of its seasons, — that we had watched the motions of 
its moons, calculated their eclipses, and applied them to im- 
portant domestic purposes? What would be our astoni^ 
ment to learn that an insect, one of those, for instance, 
which serve sometimes to illuminate the waters of the ocean, 
though confined by the exercise of its proper organs, and 
locomotive > powers, to the sphere of a few inches, had, by 
artificial aids of its own contriving, been able to extend its 
Bfhere of observation to the huge monsters that move about 
it ; that it had even attempted, not altogether without success, 
to fathom the depth of the abyss, in which it occupies so 
inmgnificant a place, and to number the beings it contains! 


Escape from a Panther, — Cooper. 

Elizabbth Temple and Louisa had gained the summit- 
of the mountain, where they left the highway, and pur-^ 
sued their course, under the shade of the stately trees that^ 
crowned the eminence. The day was becoming warm ; and — 
the giris plunged more deeply into the forest, as they foun&- 
its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the excessive^ 
heat they had experienced ya their ascent. The conversation^ 

4, YOUNG LADIES' CLA89 B€X>K. 377 

as if by mutual consent, was entirely changed to the little 
incidents and scenes of their walk ; and every tall pine, and 
every shrub or flower, called forth some simple expression of 

In this manner they proceeded along the margin of the 
precipice, catching occasional glimpses of the placid Otsego, 
or pausing to listen to the rattling of wheels and the sounds 
of hammers, that rose from the valley, to minglb the signs of 
men with the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly 
startled, and exclaimed — *' Listen I there are the cries of a 
child on this mountain ! Is there a clearing near us ? or 
can some little one have strayed from its parents ?" 

'^ Such things frequently happen," returned Louisa. " Let 
U8 follow the sounds ; it may be a wanderer, starving on the 

U^^ b^ this consideration, the females pursued the low, 
molirnfur sounds, that proceeded from the forest, with quick 
an« impatient steps. More than once the ardent Elizabeth 
ws$ on the point of announcing that she saw the sufferer, 
wi^n Louisa caught her by the arm, and, pointing behind 
them^ cried — " Look at the dog !" 

The advanced age of Brave had long before deprived him 
of^his activity; and when his companions stopped to view 
th^ scenery, or to add to their bouquets, the mastiff would lay 
hi^ huge frame on the ground, and await their movements, 
with his eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill ao- 
cofded with the character of a protector. But when, aroused 
byjjthis cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the 
dojg with his eyes keenly set on some distant object, his head 
befit near the ground, and his hair actually rising on his 
hojAy, either through fright or anger. It was most probably 
th^ latter ; for he was growling in a low key, and occasionally 
showing his teeth, in a manner that would have terrified his 
mistress, had she not so well known his good qualities. 

i' Brave !" she said, " be quiet, Brave I what do you see, 
fe|ow ?" 

At the sounds of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, instead 
offing at all diminished, was very sensibly increased, ^e 
staked in front of the ladies, and seated himself at the feet 
of: his mistress, growling louder than before, and occasionally 

83 ♦ 



gbing vent to his ire by a short, surly barking. '* What does 
he see f* said Elizabeth ; " there most be some animal 19 

Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Temjde 
turned her head, and beheld Louisa, standing with her face 
whitened to the color of death, and her finger pointing up- 
ward, with a sort of flickering, convulsed motion. The 
quick eye of Elizabeth glanced in the direction indicated by 
her friend, where she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes of 
a female panther, fixed on them in horrid malignity, and 
threatening instant destruction. 

" Let us fly !" exclaimed Elizabeth, graspinjg the arm of 
Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow, and sunk 
lifeless to the earth. 

There was not a single feeling in the temper^unent of 
Elizabeth Temple, that could prompt her to desert a epoipan- 
ion in such an extremity; and she fell on her knees, by the 
side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing from the perscm of ;her 
firiend, with an instinctive readiness, such parts of her dress 
as might obstruct her respiration, and encouraging their qolj 
safeguard, the dog, at the same time, by the sounds of .her 

" Courage, Brave !" she cried — her own tones beginning to 
tremble — "courage, courage, good Brave !" 

A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been unseen, now 
appeared, dropping from the branches of a sapling, iiitX 
grew under the shade of the beech which held its dkm. 
This ignorant but vicious creature approached near to the <k>g, 
imitating the actions and sounds of its' parent, but exhibi^ng 
a strange mixture of the playfulness of a kitten with the' fcH 
rocity of its race. Standing on its hind legs, it would rend 
the bark of a tree with its fore paws, and play .all the antics 
of a cat, for a moment ; and then, by lashing itself with- its 
tail, growling, and scratching the earth, it would attempt 'the 
manifestations of anger that rendered its parent so terrific: 

All this time. Brave stood firm and undaunted, his s^ort 
tail erect, his body drawn backward on its haunches, and* his 
eyes following the movements of both dam and cub.* :'At 
every gambol played by the latter; it approached ni^i^. to 
l&e dog, the growling of the three becoming more horrid fi 



eHch moment, tmtil the yoanger beast, overleaping its inleadr 
ed' bound, fell directly before the mastiff. There was » 
MMnent of fearful cries and struggles ; but they ended almosl 
aB-*floon as commenced, by the cub appearing in- the air, 
hurled from the jaws of Brave, with a violence that sent il 
against a tree so forcibly as to render it completely senseless. 

Elizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her blood, was 
warming with the triumph of the dog, when she saw the 
Ibrm of the old panther in the air, springing twenty feet from 
iSlne branch of the beerh to the back of the mastiff. No 
words of ouFS can describe the fbry of the conflict that fol- 
lowed. It was a confused struggle on the dried leaves^ 
accompanied by loud and terrible cries, barks and growlsi 
Miss Temple continued, on her knees, bending over the form 
oi Louisa, her eyes fixed on the animals, with an interest so 
horrid, and yet so intense, that she almost forgot her own 
stake in the result. So rapid and vigorous were the bounds 
of the inhabitant of the forest, that its active frame seemed 
constantly in the air, while the dog nobly faced his foe, at 
each successive leap. When the panther lighted on the 
shoulders of the mastiff, which was its constant aim, old 
Brave, though torn with her talons, and stained with his own 
Mood, that already flowed from a dozen wounds, would shake 
off his furious foe, like a feather, and, rearing on his hind 
legs, rush to the fray again, with his jaws distended, and a 
dauntless eye. 

But age, and his pampered life, greatly disqualified the 
noble mastiff for such a struggle. In every thing but cour- 
age, he was only the vestige of what he had once been. A 
higher bound than ever raised the wary and furious beaet 
fkr beyond the reach of the dog — ^who was making a des- 
perate, but fruitless dash at her — from which she alighted, in 
a fkvorable position, on the back of her aged foe. For a 
cnngle moment, only, could the panther remain there, the 
great strength of the dog returning with a convulsive effort 
But Elizabeth saw, as Brave fastened his teeth in the side 
of his enemy, that the collar of brass around his neck, which 
had been glittering throughout the fray, was of the color of 
Moody and, directly, tliat his frame was sinking to the eardiy 
where it soon lay prostrate and helpless. Several miq^sJii 


effi>rt8 of the wild-cat to extricate herself from the jaws of 
the dog, followed ; but they were fruitless, until the mastiff 
turned on his back, his lips collapsed, and his teeth loosened : 
when the short convulsions and stillness that succeeded^ 
announced the death of poor Brave. 

EKzabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the beast 
There is said to be something in the front of the image of 
the Maker, that daunts the hearts of the inferior beings of 
his creation ; and it would seem that some such power, in 
the present instance, suspended the threatened blow. The 
eyes of the monster and the kneeling maiden met, for an 
instant, when the former stooped to examine her fallen foe ; 
next to scent her luckless cub. From the latter examination 
it turned, however, with its eyes apparently emitting flashes 
of fire, its tail lashing its sides furiously, and its claws pro« 
jecting for inches from its broad feet. 

Miss Temple did not, or could not, move. Her hands 
were clasped in the attitude of prayer ; but her- eyes were 
still drawn to her terrible enemy ; her cheeks were blanched 
to the whiteness of marble, and her lips were slightly sepa- 
rated with horror. The moment seemed now to have arrived 
for the fatal termination ; and the beautiful figure of Elizabeth 
was bowing meekly to the stroke, when a rustling of leaves 
from behind seemed rather to mock the organs, than to meet 
her ears. 

"Hist I hist!" said a low voice; " stoop lower, gall ; your 
bunnet hides the creater's head." 

It was rather the yielding of nature, than a compliance 
with this unexpected order, that caused the head of our her- 
oine to sink on her bosom ; when she heard the report of 
the rifle, the whizzing of the bullet, and the enraged cries of 
the beast, who was rolling over on the earth, biting its own 
flesh; and tearing the twigs and branches within its reach. 
At the next instant, the form of the Leather-stocking rushed 
by her ; and he called aloud — " Come in. Hector ; come in, 
you old fool ; 'tis a hard-lived animal, and may jump ag'in." 

Natty maintained his position in front of the maidens, 

most fearlessly, notwithstanding the violent bounds and 

I2ireatening aspect of the wounded panther, which gave sev- 

era/ indications of reiuniing atceniJ^ ^acA iotoQitYt until hk 


rifle was again loaded ; when he stepped up to the enraged 
tnimal, and, placing the mazzle close to its head, every 
spark of life was extinguished by the discharge. 


Order of Nahtre. — ^Pope. 

See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth, 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may go I 
Around, how wide ! how deep extend below I 
Vast chain of being, which fix>m Grod began, 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, 
Beast, bird, fish, insect — what no eye can see, 
No glass can reach — firom infinite to thee. 
From thee to nothing ! On superi<Mr powers 
Were we to press, infjsrior might on ours ; 
Or in the full creation leave a void. 
Where, one step broken, the jgreat scale's destroyed ; 
From nature's chain whatever link you strike. 
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 

And if each system in gradation roll. 
Alike essential to the amazing whole. 
The least confusion but in one, not all 
That system only, but the whole, must fall. 
Let earth, unbalanced, firom her orbit fly, 
Planets and suns rush lawless through the sky ; 
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, 
Being on being wrecked, and world on world. 
Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod. 
And nature tremble to the throne of God ! 
All this dread order break ? For whom ? Ytfi thee; 
Vile worm ! — O madness ! pride ! impiety I 

What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread. 
Or hand to toil, aspire to be the head ? 


What if the head, the eye, or ear, repined 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another in this general frame ; 
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains. 
The great directing Mind of all ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body nature is, and God the soul ; 
That changed through all, and yet in all the same. 
Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame ; 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent. 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part. 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart : 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns. 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
To him, no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects and equals all. 

Cease, then, nor Order Imperfection name : 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point *., this kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness. Heaven bestows on thee 
Submit ! — ^in this, or any other sphere. 
Secure to be as blessed as thou canst bear ; 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All nature is but art unknown to thee ; 
All ohance, direction, which thou canst not see » 
All discord, harmony not understood ; 
All partial evil, universal good : 
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite. 
One truth is clear — " Whatever is, is right.*' 



tier pleading for the Life of a condemned Brother,^ 


eUa. I AM a woful suitor to your honor ; 
but your honor hear me. 
'eh. Well ; what's your suit ? 

There is a vice that most I do abhor, 
lost desire should meet the blow of jiutice, 
lich I would not plead, but that I must. * . 
\ Well ; the matter ? 
>. I have a brother is condemned to die ; 
3seech you, let it be his fault, 
ot my brother. 

Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it f 
every fault's condemned ere it be done ; 
vere the very cipher of a function, 
d the faults, whose fine stands in record, 
Jt go by the actor. 
». O just but severe law ! • 
a brother, then ; — must he needs die ? 
•. Maiden, no remedy. 

'. Yes ; I do think that you might pardon him, 
either Heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. 
•. I will not do't. 
. But can you, if you would ? 
*. Look ; what I will not, that I cannot do. 

But might you do't, and do the world no wrong, 
our heart were touched with that remorse, 
le is to him ? 

'. He's sentenced ; 'tis too late. 
. Too late ? Why, no ; I, that do speak a word, 
dl it back again : well believe this, 
emony that to the great belongs, 
e king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
arshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
es them with one half so good a grace, 
rcy does. If he had been as you, 


And you as he, you would have slipt like him ; 
But he, like you, would not hare been* so stem. 

Ang, Pray you, begone. 

Jbab. I would to Heaven I had your potenoy. 
And you were Isabel ; should it then be thus f 
No ; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge, 
And what a prisoner. 

Ang, Your brother is a forfeit of the law. 
And you but waste your words 

Isab. Alas I alasl 
Why, all the souls that are, were forfeit once : 
And He, that might the 'vantage best have took, 
Found out the remedy. How would you be. 
If He, which is the top of judgment, should 
But judge you as you are ? Oh, think on that ; 
And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 
Uke man new made. 

Ang. Be you content, fair maid ; 
It is the law, not I, condemns your brother. 
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son. 
It should be thus with him ; he dies to-morrow. 

Is€ib. To-morrow ? oh ! that's sudden. Spare him, fl|Nure 
Good, good my lord, bethink you : 
Who is it that hath died for this offence X 
There's many hath committed it. 

Ang, The law hath not been dead, though it hath sl^t; 
Those many had not dared to do that evil. 
If the first man that did the edict infringe. 
Had answered for his deed. Now, 'tis awak<e 
Takes note of what is done ; and, like a prophet, 
Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils, 
Or new, or by remissness new-conceived, 
And so in progress to be hatched and born. 
Are now to have no successive degrees ; 
But ere they live, to end. 

Isab, Yet show some pity. 

Ang, I show it most of all, when I show justice ; 
For then I pity those I do not know. 
Which a dismissed offence wovild a^et ^all ; 


do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, 
i not to act another. Be satisfied ; 
brother dies to»morrow ; be content. 
lb. So you must be the first that gires this sentence ; 
he, that sufiers : oh ! 'tis excellent 
ave a giant's strength ; bat it is tjrrannous 

se it like a giant. Mercifiil Heaven ! 

1 rather with thy sharp and sulph'rous bolt 
test the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, 
1 the sofl myrtle : Oh, but man, proud man, 
sed in a little brief authority, 
ignorant of what he's most assured, 
i such fantastic tricks before high Heaven, 
lake the angels weep, 
cannot weigh our brother with yourself: 
t men may jest with saints, — 'tis wit in them ; 
in the less, foul profanation. 
. in the captain's but a choleric word, 
ih in the soldier is fiat blasphemy. 
tg. Why do you put these sayings upon me? 
lb. Because authority, though it err like others, 
I yet a kind of medicine in itself, 
. skins the vice o' the top : go to your bosom ; 
^k there, and ask your heart what it doth know 
.'s like my brother's fault ; if it confess 
tural guiltiness, such as is his 
t not sound a thought upon your tongue 
nst my brother's life. 
tg. She speaks, 'tis such sense, 
my sense bleeds with it. Fare you well. 
lb. Gentle my lord, turn back. 
ig, I will bethink me ; come again to-morrow. 
%b. Hark, how I'll bribe you : good my lord, turn back. 
tg. How ! bribe me ? 
lb. Ay, with such gifts, that Heaven shall share ^*^ 

with fond shekels of the tested gold, 
tones, whose rate is either rich or poor, 

incy values them ) but with true prayers, 


That shall be up at Heaven, and enter there, 
Ere sun-rise ; prayers from preserved souls, 
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate 
To nothing temporal. 

Ang. Well, come to-morrow. 

Jbab. Heaven keep your honor safe. 


The Passions. — An Ode. — Collins. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young. 
While yet in early Greece she sung. 
The passions oft, to hear her shell. 
Thronged around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting. 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting ; 
By turns, they felt the glowmg mind . 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined : 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round. 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard, apart. 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each — for madness ruled the hour — 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

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. 

Next Anger rushed : his eyes, on fire, 
In lightning owned his secret stings; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 
And swept with hurried hand the stnngs 



With woful measures, wan Despair 

Low, sullen sounds his ^ief beguiled-— 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air — 

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure ? 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 
Btill would her touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
She called on Echo still through all her song : 
And where her Sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. 

And longer had she sung ; but, with a firown, 

Revenge impatient rose. 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down. 

And, with a withering look. 

The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo ; 

And, ever and anon, he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat : 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, 

Dejected Pity, at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting firom his 
head. ^ 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state : 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed : 

And now it courted Love ; now, raving, called on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, *^ 

Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 



And, from her wild, sequestered seat, 
' In notes by distance made more sweet, 
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; 

And, dashing soil from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels joined the sound : 
Through glades and glooms, the mingled measores stole, 
Or, o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, • 

(Round a holy calm diffusing. 

Love of peace, and lonely musing,) 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But, oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 
When Cheerfulness — a nymph of healthiest hue— 

Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung !-— 

The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known. 
The oak-crowned sisters and their chaste-eyed queen, 
/ Satyrs /and sylvan boys were seen. 
Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear. 
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial :- 

He, with viny crown advancing. 
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, 
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. 
They would have thought who heard the strain. 
They saw in Tempi's vale her native maids, 

Amidst the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing : 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings. 

Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic round, 

(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,) 
And he, amidst his frolic play. 

As if he would the charming air repay. 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 



Indolence and Inteneeiual Dissipation, — ^Wirt. 

Wherever I see the natiye bloom of health and the gen* 
nine smile of content, I mark down the character as indos- 
Lrious and virtuous ; and I never yet failed to have the 
prepossession confirmed on inquiry. So, on the other hand, 
nrherever I see pale, repining and languid discontent, and 
bear complaints uttered against the hard lot of humanity, 
my first impression is, that the character firom whom they 
^MTOceed is indolent, or vicious, or both ; and I have not often 
had occasion to retract the opinion. 

There is, indeed, a class of characters, rather indolent 
than vicious, who are really to be pitied ; whose innocent 
uid captivating amusements, becoming at length their sole 
pursuits, tend only to whet their sensibility to misfortunes, 
fvhich they <" contribute ;to bring on ; and to form pictures of 
Life so highly aggravated, as to render life itself stale and flat. 

In this class of victims to a busy indolence, next to those 
v^ho devote their whole lives to the unprofitable business of 
vinriting works of imagination, are those who spend the 
inrhole of theirs in reading them. There are several men 
mid women of this description, in the circle of my acquaint- 
cmce ; persons, whose misfortune it is to be released firom the 
ealutary necessity of supporting themselves by their own 
exertions, and who vainly seek for happiness in intellectual 

Bianca is one of the finest girls in the whole round of my 
acquaintance, and is now one of the happiest. But when I 
£rst became acquainted with her, which was about three 
years ago, she was an object of pity : pale, emaciated, ner- 
vous and hysterical, at the early age of seventeen, the days 
liad already come, when she ^uld truly say, she had no 
pleasure in them. She confessed to me, that she had lain 
en her bed, day after day, for months together, reading, (Mr 
Tather devouring, with a kind of morbid appetite, every novel 
that she could lay her hands on — without any pause between 
Hiemi without any rumination, so that the incidents were all 



conglomerated and confounded in her memory. She had nol 
drawn from them all a single useful maxim for the conduct 
of life ; but, calculating on the fairy world, which her authors 
had depicted to her, she was reserving all her address and 
all her powers for incidents that would never occur, and 
<^iaracters that would never ^pear. 

I advised her immediately to change her plan of life ;. to 
take the whde charge of her mother's household upon herself; 
to adopt a system in the management of it, and adhere to it 
rigidly ; to regard it as her business exclusively, and make 
herself responsible for it ; and then, if she had time for it, 
to read authentic history, which would show her the world 
as it really was ; and not to read rapidly and superficially, 
with a view merely to feast on the novelty and variety of 
events, but deliberately and studiously, with her pen in her 
hand, and her note-book by her side, extracting, as she went 
along, not only every prominent event, with its date and eir* 
cumstances, but every elegant and judicious reflection of the 
author, so as to form a little book of practical wisdom for 
herself. She followed my advice, and, when I went to see 
her again, six months afterwards, Bianca had regained all 
the symmetry and beauty of her form ; the vernal roto 
bk>omed again on her cheeks, the starry radiance shot fixmi 
her eyes ; and, with a smile which came directly from her 
heart, and spoke her gratitude more exquisitely than woi^, 
she gave me her hand, and bade) me welcome. 

In short, the divine denunciation, that in the sweat of kii 
hraw man should ecam his foodj is guarantied so efieotuallyy 
that labor is indispensable to his peace. It is the part of • 
wisdom, to adapt ourselves to the state of being in which we 
are placed ; and, since here we find that business and indiu« 
try are as certainly the pledges of peace and virtue, as 
vacancy and indolence are of vice and sorrow, let every one 
do, what is easily in his power— create a business, even 
where fortune may have made it unnecessary, and pursue that 
business with all the ardor and perseverance of the direM 
necessity : so shall we see our country as far excelling others 
in health, contentment and virtue, as it now surpasses them 
IB liberty and tranquillity. 



Darkness. — Byron. 

I HAD a dream, which ns not A% dream. 

The bright sun was extin AiBhed, ^|^the stars 

Did wander darkling in thMtem; 

Rayless, and pathless, and we icy. 

SwuQg J^lind and blackening in thfSibonless air; 

Mom cfltrie, and went— and camdyiimd brought no day ; 

And men forgot their passions in the dread 

Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 

Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light : 

And they did live by watch-fires ; and the thrones, 

The palaces of crowned kings, the huts, 

The habitations of all things which dwell, — 

Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed. 
And men were gathered round their blazing homes 
Xo look once more into each other's face : 
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
Of the volcanoes and their mountain torch. 

A fearful hope was all the world contained : 
Forests were set on fire ; but, hour by hour, 
X^hey fell and faded, and the crackling trunks 
^Extinguished with a crash, and all was black. 
The brows of men, by the despairing light, 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon them. Some lay down, 
And hid their eyes, and wept ; and some did rest 
* ^eir chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
^n<J others hurried to and fro, and fed 
■*^^^^eir funeral piles with fuel, and looked up 
'^ith mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
^He pall of a past world ; and then again, 
'^ith curses, cast them down upon the dust, 
^nd gnashed their teeth and howled. The. wild birds shrieked, 
A*id, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
'^^d flap their useless wings : the wildest brutes 


Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawled 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food. 

And War, which for a moment was no more. 
Did glut himself again — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sat sullenly apart, 
Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
All earth was but one thought — and that was death. 
Immediate and inglorious ; and men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh : 
The meagre by the meagre were devoured ; 
Even dogs assailed their masters — all, save one 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds, and beasts, and famished men, at bay. 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food. 
But, with a piteous an(> perpetual moan, 
And a quick, desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answered not with a caress — he died. 

The crowd was famished by degrees ; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive. 
And they were enemies ; they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place. 
Where had been heaped a mass of holy things 
For an unholy usage ; they raked up. 
And, shivering, scraped, with their cold, skeleton hands. 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
Blew for a little life, and made a flame. 
Which was a mockery ; then they lifled up 
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
Each other's aspects — saw, and shrieked, and died — 
Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
Famine had written ^cnrf. The world was void; 
The populous and the powerful was a lUmp-^ 
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless 
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes and ocean, all stood still. 


rid nothing stirred within their silent depths ; 

lips, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea, 

nd their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropped^ 

hey slept on the abyss without a surge : 

he waves were dead ; the tides were in their grafe ; 

he moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 

he winds were withered in the stagnant air, 

nd the clouds perished ; Darkness had no need 

f aid firom them : she was the unirerse. 


%e Tiger's Cave : — An Adventure among the Mauniams ^f 
Quito, — Edinburgh Literary Jovksal, 

Translated from the Danish of Elm^uest, and the Qeraum of DORiira.] 

On leaving the Indian village, we continued to wind round 
iimborazo's wide base; but its snow-crowned head no 
iger shone above us in clear brilliancy, for a dense fog wte 
thering gradually around it Our guides looked anxioiMilir 
(vards it, and announced their apprehensions of a vidleiit 
nm. We soon found that their fears were well founded, 
lie thunder began to roll, and resounded through the monn- 
inous passes with the most terrific grandeur. Then came 
d vivid lightning ; flash following flash — above, aroiindy he- 
ath,— -every where a sea of fire. We sought a momentary 
elter in a cleft of the rocks, whilst one of oar guides 
fitened forward to seek a more secure fasyinm.^ In a short 
ne, he returned, and informed us that he had discovered a 
^cious cavern, which would afibrd us sufficient protection 
»m the elements. We proceeded thither iramediatelyy and, 
th great difficulty, and not a little danger, at last got 
:o it. 

When the storm had somewhat abated, our guides ventured 
t in order to ascertain if it were possible to continue our 
^ney. The cave in which we had taken refiige, was so 
tremely dark, that, if we moved a few paces finom the 
Luce, we could not see an inch before its ; atid we 


debating as ta the propriety of leaving it, even befiwe Urn 
Indians came back, when we suddenly heard a singulir 
groaning or growling m the farther end of the cavern, which 
instantly fixed all oar attention. Wharton and myself listen- 
ed anxiously ; but our daring and inconsiderate young friend 
Lincoln, together with my huntsman, crept about vpon their 
hands and knees, and endeavored to discover, by groping, 
from whence the sound proceeded. 

They had not advanced far into the cavern, before we heard 
them utter an exclamation of surprise ; and they returned to 
us, each carrying in his arms an animal singularly marked, 
and about the size of a cat, seemingly of great strength and 
power, and furnished with immense fangs. The eyes were 
of a green color ; strong claws were upon their feet ; and a 
blood-red tongue hung out of their mouths. Wharton had 
scarcely glanced at them', when he exclaimed in cfmstemation, 
" We have come into the den of a — " He was interrupted 
by a fearful cry of dismay from our guides, who came rushing 
precipitately towards us, calling out, "A tiger! a tiger!" 
and, at the same time, with extraordinary rapidity, they 
climbed up a cedar tree, which stood at the entrance of the 
cave, and hid themselves among the branches. * 

After the first sensation of horror and surprise, which ren- 
dered me motionless for a moment, had subsided, I grasped 
my fire-arms. Wharton had already regained his composure 
and self-possession ; and he called to us to assist him instant- 
ly in blocking up the mouth of the cave with an immense 
stone, which fortunately lay near it. The sense of approach- 
ing danger augmented our strength ; for we now distinctly 
heard the growl of the ferocious animal, and we were lost 
beyond redemption if he reached the entrance before we 
could get it closed. Ere this was done, we could distinctly 
see the tiger bounding towards the spot, and stocking in 
order to creep into his den by the narrow opening. At this 
fearful moment, our exertions were successful, and the great 
stone kept the wild beast at bay. 

There was a small open spa(5e, however, left between the 
top of the entrance and the stone, through which we could 
see the head of the animal, illuminated by his glowing eyes, 
wbicb be rolled glaring widi fox^ u^u \]ia. His frightful roar* 



)?9 too, penetrated to the depths of the cayern, and was 
nswered by the hoarse growling of the cubs. Our ferocious 
nemy attempted first to remove the stone with his powerful 
laws, and then to push it with his head firom its place ; and 
lese efforts, proving abortive, served only to increase his 
rath. He uttered a tremendous, heart-piercing howl, and 
is flaming eyes darted light into the darkness of our retreat. 

" Now is the time to fire at him," said Wharton, with his 
sual calmness ; " aim at his eyes ; the ball will go through 
is brain, and we shall then have a chance to get rid of him.'* 

Frank seized his double-barrelled gun, and Lincoln his 
istols. The former placed the muzzle within a few inches 
f the tiger, and Lincoln did the same. At Wharton's com- 
land, they both drew the triggers at the same moment ; 
ut no shot followed. The tiger, who seemed aware that the 
ash indicated an attack upon him, sprang growling firom 
16 entrance, but, feeling himself unhurt, immediately turned 
ack again, and stationed himself in his former place. The 
owder in both pieces was wet. 

" All is now over," said Wharton ; " we have only now to 
hoose whether we shall die of hunger, together with these 
nimals who are shut up along with us, or open the entrance 
3 the blood-thirsty monster without, and so make a quicker 
ad of the matter." 

So sayings he placed himself close beside the stone, which, 
>r the moment, defended us, and looked undauntedly upon 
he lightning eyes of the tiger. Lincoln raved, and Frank 
»ok a piece of strong cord fi'om his pocket, and hast- 
ned to the farther end of the cave ; I knew not with what 
lesign. We soon, however, heard a low, stifled groaning; 
nd the tiger, which had heard it also, became more restless 
nd disturbed than ever. He went backwards and forwards 
efore the entrance of the cave, in the most wild and impetu- 
us manner ; then stood still, and, stretching out his neck in 
\ie direction of the forest, broke forth into a deafening howl. 

Our two Indian guides took advantage of this opportunity, 
> discharge several arrows from the tree. He was struck 
lore than once ; but the light weapons bounded back harm- 
3SS firom his thick skin. At length, however, one of them 
truck him near the eye, and the arrow remained stiekuui; i& 


the wound. He now broke anew into the wildest fury, sprang 
at the tree, and tore it with his claws, as if he would have 
dragged it to the ground. But having, at length, succeeded- 
in getting rid of the arrow, he became more calm, and laid 
himself down, as before, in front of the cave. 

Frank now returned from the lower end of the den, and 
a glance showed us what he had been doing. In each hand, 
and dangling from the end of a string, were the two cubs. 
He had strangled them ; and, before we were aware what he 
intended, he threw them through the opening to the tiger. 
No sooner did the animal perceive them, than he gazed ear- 
nestly upon them, and began to examine them closely, turning 
them cautiously from side to side. As soon as he became 
aware that they were dead, he uttered so piercing a howl of 
sorrow, that we were obliged to put our hands to our ears. 


The same^ — concluded. 

The thunder had now ceased, and the storm had sunk to 
a gentle gale ; the songs of birds I were again heard in the 
neighboring forest, and the sunbeams sparkled in the drops 
that hung from the leaves. We saw, through the aperture, 
how all nature was reviving, after the wild war of elements, 
which had so recently taken place; but the contrast* only 
made our situation the more horrible. We were in a grave, 
from which there was no deliverance ; and a monster, worse 
than the fabled Cerberus, kept watch over us. The tiger 
had laid himself down beside his whelps. He was a beauti- 
ful animal, of great size and strength ; and his limbs, being 
stretched out at their full length, displayed his immense 
power of muscle. A double row of great teeth stood far 
enough apart to show his large red tongue, from which the 
white foam fell in large drops. All at once, another roar was 
heard at a distance, and the tiger immediately rose and an- 
swered it with a mournful howl. At the same instant, our 
IfidiMaa utt^ed a shriek, ivYiicVi tixaioxuckSAd that some new 


danger threatened us. A few moments confirmed our worst 
fears ; fer another tiger, not quite so large as the former, 
came rapidly towards the spot where we were. 

The howls which the tigress gave, when she had examined 

the bodies of her cubs, surpassed every thing of horrible that 

we had yet heard ; and the tiger mingled his mournful cries 

with hers. Suddenly her roaring was lowered to a hoarse 

growling, and we saw her anxiously stretch out her head, 

extend her wide and smoking nostrils, and look as if she were 

determined to discover immediately the murderers of her 

yonng. Her eyes quickly fell upon us, and she made a 

spring forward, with Jthe intention of penetrating to our place 

of refuge. Perhaps she might have been enabled, by her 

immense strength, to push away the stone, had we not, with 

all our united power, held it against her. When she found 

tliat all her efforts were fruitless, she approached the tiger, 

^^^ho lay stretched out beside his cubs, and he rose and joined 

ixi her hollow roarings. They stood together for a few mo- 

w:^ient8, as if in consultation, and then suddenly went off at a 

^^pid pac^,'^ftnd disappeared from our sight. Their howling 

^lied away in the distance, and then entirely ceased. 

Our Indians descended from their tree, and called upon us 
seize the only possibility of our yet saving ourselves, by in- 
fant flight ; for that the tigers had only gone round the height 
seek another inlet to the cave, with which they were, no 
oubt, acquainted. In the greatest haste the stone was push- 
^ aside, and we stepped forth fi'om what we had considered 
L living grave. We now heard once more the roaring of the 
^gers, though at a distance ; and, following the example of 
guides, we precipitately struck into a side path. From 
e number of roots and branches of trees, with which the 
^rm had strewed our way, and the slipperiness of the road, 
flight was slow and difficult. 
We had proceeded thus for about a quarter of an hour, 
'^^hen we found that our way led along the edge of a rocky 
^liff, with innumerable fissures. We had just entered upon 
^^, when suddenly the Indians, who were before us, uttered 
^ne of their piercing shrieks, and we immediately became 
^^are that the tigers were in pursuit of us. Urged bv 
^«q;4ur, we rushed towards one of the breaks, or gulfs, ip 





way, over which was thrown a bridge of reeds, that sprang 
ap and down at every step, and could be Irod with safety by 
the light foot of the Indians alone. Deep in the hollow be- 
low rushed an impetuous stream, and a thousand pointed 
and jagged rocks threatened destruction on every side. 

Lincoln, my huntsman, and myself, passed over the chasm 
in safety ; but Wharton was still in the middle of the waving 
bridge, and endeavoring to steady himself, when both the 
tigers were seen to issue from the adjoining forest ; and the 
moment they descried us, they bounded towards us with 
di^eadful roarings. Meanwhile, Wharton had nearly gained 
the safe side of the gulf, and we were all clambering up the 
rocky cliff except Lincoln, who remained at the reedy bridge 
to assist his friend to step upon firm ground. Wharton, 
though the ferocious animals were close upon him, never lost 
his courage or presence of mind. As soon as he had gained 
the edge of the cliff, he knelt down, and with his sword di- 
vided the fastenings by.which the bridge was attached to the 

He expected that an effectual barrier would thus be put to 
the farther progress of our pursuers ; but he was mistaken ; 
for he had scarcely accomplished his task, when the tigress, 
without a moment's pause, rnshed towards the chasm, and 
attempted to bound over it. It was a fearful sight to see the 
mighty animal suspended, for a moment, in the air, above 
the abyss ; but the scene passed like a flash of lightning. 
Her strength was not equal to the distance : she fell into the 
gulf, and, before she reached the bottom, she was torn into a 
thousand pieces bv the jagged points of the rocks. Her fate 
did not in the least dismay her companion ; he followed her 
with an immense spring, and reached the opposite side, but 
only with his fore claws i and thus he clung to the edge of 
the precipice, endeavoring to gain a footing. The Indians 
again uttered a wild shriek, as if all hope had been lost. 

But Wharton, who was nearest the edge of the rock, 
advanced courageously towards the tiger, and struck his 
sword into the animal's breast. Enraged beyond all measure, 
the wild beast collected all his strength, and, with a violent 
effort, fixing one of his hind legs upon the edge of the cliff, 
•^-^ seized Wharton by the thigh. That heroic^ man still pre- 


irt^unu L,AVit^' CLASS BOOK. 3g(^ 

Benred his fortitude ; he grasped the trunk of a tree with his 
left hand, to steady and support himself, while, with his right, 
he wrenched and violently turned the sword, that was still in 
the breast of the tiger. All this was the work of an instant 
The Indians, Frank and myself, hastened to his assistance ; 
but Lincoln, who was already at his side, had seized Whar- 
ton's gun, which lay near upon the ground, and struck so 
powerful a blow with the butt end upon the head of the tiger, 
that the animal, stunned and overpowered, let go his hold, 
and fell back into the abyss. 


The Sifford. — ^Miss Landoic. 

'TwAS the battle field ; *and the oM, pale moon 
Looked down on the dead and wing; 

And the wind passed o'er, with a%rge and a wail, 
Where the young and the brave were lying. 

With his father's sword in his red right hand. 

And the hostile dead around him, 
Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the grooad. 

And the grave's icy sleep had bound him. 

A reckless rover, ipid death and doom, 
Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking ; 

Careless he stepped where friend and foe 
Lay alike in their life-blood reeking. 

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword. 

The soldier paused beside it; 
He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength. 

But the grasp of the dead defied it , 

He loosed his hold, and his noble heart 
Took part with the dead before him ; 

And he honored the brave who died sword in hand. 
As with softened brow he leaned o'er him. 


• • ■* • 

** Jfi 8ol<jUer's death thou hast b(ddly died, 

4. BoJdier's grave won by it ; 
.^efore I would take that sword jGrom thine hand, 

j^y own Ufe's blood should dje it. 

'^ Thou abalt not be left for the carrion crow. 

Or the wolf to .batten o'er thee : 

» , • • . ■ '■ ■ • ' 

Or the coward insult the gallant dead, 
Who in Ujk had trembled before thee J' 

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earthy 
Where his warrior foe was sleeping ; 

And he laid him there, in honor and rest, 
With his swofil fai bis own brave keying. 

A4dres^ to th DeUy.-^^flBB. Barbauij^ 

God of iQ]^ life, and Author of my days. 
Permit my feeble voice tQ Hsp thy praise, 
And, ^ij^bUng, take upon a mortal tongue 
That halloWed name, to harps of seraphs suqg : 
Tet here the brightest seraphs could no more 
Than vail their facest^ tremble, and adore. 
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere^ 
Are equal all ; |br aU are noUiing here. 
All nature faints b^ji^ath the mighty name. 
Which nature's wQrks, through all their parts, proclaim. 
I feel that name my inmost thoughts control. 
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul : 
As by a Qf^ann» the waxes of grief subside ; 
Impetuous passion sto^ her headlong tid6. 
At thy felt presence all emotions cease. 
And my hushed spirit fin^s a sudden peace ; 
Till every worldly thought within me dies, 
And Cjardi's gay p&geanta vanish from my eyes ; 


Till all my sense is lost in infinite, 

And one vast object fills my aching sight 

But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke ; 
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; 
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain. 
And mingles with the dross of earth again. 
But he, our gracious Master, kind as just. 
Knowing our firame, remembers man is dost 
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, 
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined ; 
t Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim. 
And fans the smoking flax into a flaihe. 
His ears are open to the softest cry. 
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye ; 
He reads the language of a silent tear. 
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. 
Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ; 
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live ; 
From each terrestrial bondage set me free ; 
Still every wish that centres not in thee ; 
Bid my fond hopes, my vain diiquiets cease, 
And point my path to everlasting peace. 

If the sofl hand of winning Pleasure leads 
By living waters, and through flowery meads, 
When all is smiling, tranquil, and aiikene. 
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene,— 
Oh ! teach me to elude each latent nare. 
And whisper to my sliding heart, " dbvare I" 
With caution let me hear the Siren's^ice, 
And, doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice. 
If, firiendless, in a vale of tears I i^ay. 
Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way,-— 
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, 
And with strong confidence lay bold on thee ; 
With equal eye, my various lot receive. 
Resigned to die, or resolute to live ; 
Prepared to^kiss the sceptre or the rod. 
While God is seen in all, aad all in God. 


I rea4 his awful name, emblazoned high. 
With golden le'Uers, on the illumined sky ; 
Nor less the mystic characters I see 
Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree ? 
In every leaf, that trembles to the breeze, 
I hear the voice of Grod among the trees. 
With thee in shady solitudes I walk, 
With thee in busy, crowded cities talk ; 
In every creature own thy forming power. 
In each event thy providence adore : 
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul. 
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control.' 
Thus shall I rest unmoved by all alarms. 
Secure within the temple of thine arms, 
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, 
And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 
Then, when the last, the closing hour draws nigh. 
And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
When, trembling, on the doubtful edge of fate 
I stand, and stretch my view to either state •;-— 
Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
With decent triumph, and a look serene ; 
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high. 
And, having lived to thee, in thee to die. 


[Translate^^om the Rossiao of Derzhavui.] 

O Thou Eternal 6w ! whose presence bright 
All ^ace doth occiipy, all motion guide ; 

Unchanged through tone's all-devastating flight; 
Thou only God ! There is no God. b^side't 

Being above all beings! Mighty One ! 

Whom none can coiiipreheAd and none explore ; 

Who fill'st existence witfi Thyself alone : 
Embracing all, — supporting, — ruling o'er, — 
Being, whom we call OoDf-^and know no more. 


In its sublime research^ philosophy 

May measure out the ocean-deep ; may count 
7he sands^ or the sun's rays ; but, God ! for thee 

Tl^pre is no i9reig)it nor measure : — none can mount 
Up to thy mystjeries. ReasonSs brightest spark, 

Though kindled by thy light, in vain would trj 
To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 

And thought is lost, ere thought can spar so high^ 

Syeo, like past moments ifx eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First chaos, then existence. Lord, on thee 
Eternity had its foundation : all 

Sprung forth from thee— of light, joy, harmony. 
Sole (Origin ; — all life, all beauty thine. 

Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. 

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be, glorious I great » 

Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround ; '^ 

Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath. 
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound. 

And beautifiilly mingled life and death. 
As sparks mount upwards firom the fiery blaze. 

So suns, iure bohi, so worlds BfKmg forth from thac^; 
And, as tlie spangles in the sunny rays 

Shine round the silver snow, the p&geantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. 

A million torches, lighted by thy 

Wander unwearied through die UHe abyss : 
They own thy power, accomplish, thy command. 

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light! 

A glorious company of golden streams ? 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright? 

Suns iightiii^ systems with their joyous beams t 
But thou to thesQ art as the noon to night. 


Tes ; as a drop of water in the sea, 

All this magnificence in thee is lost : 
What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee ? 

And what am JT, then ? Heaven's unntunbered hoBty-* 
Though itiultiplied by myriads, and arrayed ' 

In all the glory of sublimest thought, — 
Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 

Against thy greatness ; is a cipher brought 

Against infinity ! Oh I what am I then ? — ^Noiig[ht ! 

Nought I But the effluence of thy light divine. 

Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too ; i 

Tes ; in my spirit doth thy spirit shine. 

As shines the sun-beam in a drop of dew. N«^ 

Nought ! But I live, and on hope's pinions fly«^ 1 
Eager, towards thy presence ; for in thee p. 

I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high^ '' 
Even to the throne of thy divinity. . . ^ i i 

I am, O God ; and surely thou must be ! ' ^ 


Thou art ! directing, guiding all, thou art ! "^ 

Direct my understanding, then, to thee ; N-* ^ 

Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart : 

Though but an atom midst immensity. 
Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand I 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth. 
On the last verge of mortal being stand. 

Close to the realms where angels have their birth^ ■ ■ >.^ 
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land I ^<<^ 

The chain of being^. complete in me; .( ^'"^ 

In me is matter'siw gradation lost, 
And the next step is spirit — ^Deity ! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust ! 
A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god ! 

Whence came I here, and how so marvellously 
Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! This clod 

Lives surely through some higher energy ; 

For, from itself alone, it could not be * ^ * * * 


Creator, yes; thy wisdom and thy word 

Created me ! Thou Source of life and good ! 

Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord I 

Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude. 

Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere. 
Even to its Source — ^to thee— its Author, there. 

O thoughts ineffable ! O visions blessed ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee, 
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, 

And waft its homage to thy Deity. 
God, thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar ; 

Thus seek thy presence. Being wise and good ; 
Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; 
And, when the tongue is eloquent no more, 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 


Scene from " The Vespers of Palermo .•** — Eribert and Con 

stance. — ^Mrs. Hemans. 

Chnstance. Will you not bear m^ ? — Ob ! that they wh 
Hourly forgiveness, they who do but live. 
While Mercy's voice, beyond the eternal stars. 
Wins the great Judge to listen, should |^ thus. 
In their vain exercise of pageant powet. 
Hard and relentless ! — Gentle brother, yet 
'Tis in your choice to imitate that Heaven, 
Whose noblest joy is pardon. 

jpribert, *Tis too late. 
You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads 
With eloquent melody ; — but they must die. 

Constance. What, die! — fin^ words? — for breath, whioh 
leaves no trace 


To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends, 

And is, being uttered, gone 1 — ^Why, 'twere enough. 

For such a venial fault, to be deprived 

One little day of man's free heritage, 

Heaven's warm and sunny light ! — Oh ! if you deem 

That evil harbors in their souls, at least 

Delay the stroke, till guilt, niade manifest, J * 

&hall bid stem Justice wake. 

Erihert. I am not one 
Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch 
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues 
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been 
Where power sits crowned and armed. — ^And mark me, •ister | 
To a distrustful nature, it might seem ' f 

Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead \ f 
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being ^ \ 

Suspicion holds no power. — And yet take note. 
— ^I have said, and they must die. 

Constcmce, Have you no fear ? 

Erihert. Of what ?— that heaven should fall ? / 

Constance, No ; but that earth 
Should arm in madness. Brother, I have seen ^ 

Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs, \ 

With suc^ deep hatred settled in their glance, y 

My heart hath died within me. 

Erihert, Am I then | 

To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, I 

A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look ? ^ ^ 

Constance, Oh ! looks are no illusions, when the s<yBL| 1 
Which may not speak in words, can find no way ^^ 

But theirs, to liberty I Have not these men v^^^ 

Brave sons, or noble brothers ? 

Erihert, Yes ; whose name 
It rests with me to make a word of fear, . ^ 

A sound forbidden middt the haunts of men. ^ 

Constance, But not forgotten ! — ^Ah ! beware, bewf^i)— 
Nay, look not sternly on me. — ^There is one 
Of that devoted band, who yet will need 
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, 
A very bo^, on whose unshaded cheek 


The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but now 
His mother left me, with a timid hope 
Just dawning in her breast ; — and I — ^I dared 
To foster its faint spark. — You smile ! — Oh ! then 
He will be saved I 

Ertbert. Nay, I but smiled to think 
What a fond fool is hope ! She may be taught 
To deem that the great sun will change his course 
To work her pleasure, or the tomb give oack 
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange ! 
Tet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus 
Have mocked the boy's sad mother — I have said. 
You should not thus have mocked her ! — ^Now,. farewell. 

Constance. Oh, brother ! hard of heart ! for deeds 
There must be fearful chastening, if, on high. 
Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell 
Yon desolate mother, that her fair youpg son ^ \^ 
Is thus to perish ! — Haply the dread tale 
May slay her too ; for Heaven is merciful. — 
'Twill be a bitter task ! 


Address to Light, — Milton. 

Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven first born. 
Or of the Eternal coeternal beam, P^ 

May I express thee unblamed? since God is light,^ 
And never but in unapproached light 
'Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, 
Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 
Or he^est thou rather, pure ethereal stream. 
Whose fountain who shall tell ? before the sun, 
Before the heavens thou wert, and, at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep, 
Won from the void and formless infinite. 



Thee I revisit skfe, 



And feel thy sovereign, vital lamp; but thou 

Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain 

To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 

So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs. 

Or dim suffusion veiled. Tet not the more 

Cease I to wander, where the muses haunt 

Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 

Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief 

Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneajbh, f 

That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, *:i ^^^,^ I 

Nightly I visit : nor sometimes forget jQ > 

Those other two, equalled with me in fate, ^ ^' 

So were I equalled with them in renown, •.^:^ ' 

Blind Thamjrris and blind Maeonides, 

And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets M, 

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 

Harmonious numbers ; as the wakefhl bird 

Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid. 

Tunes her nocturnal note. 

Thus with the y^ 
Seasons return ; but not to me returns r ^ ( ^ 

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn^,^^ 
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, ^N J^'^t 

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 1 

Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of meii 
Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair, - 
Presented with a universal blank 
Of nature's works, to me expunged and razed. 
And wisdom, at one entrance, quite shut out. 
So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 
Shine inward, and the mind, through all her powers^ 
Irradiate ; there plant eyes ; all mist from thence 
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
Of things invisible to mortal sight. 






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